Page 47

Patrick walked ahead, his coat billowing out behind him. “It’s amazin’ how much time and resources can be made available when you no longer work for Belavere City.”

I followed hurriedly, trying to keep pace to hear him. It had been a long time since the first strikes at the mines, at the mills, the factories, the docks, but some labor had resumed under the pressure of the Artisan government. Only where there wasn’t a choice. Towns already impoverished could not afford to go without the capital’s support for long. “You held your strike?”

“We did,” Patrick said easily. “Been a long time since we turned over a single dime to Tanner. We’re completely independent.”

I skirted puddles at the last moment, sputtering, “But how? How have you—”

“Survived?” Patrick offered. “Without the House of Lords blowin’ us to pieces, you mean.”

I pressed my lips together. It was exactly what I meant.

He sniffed knowingly. “You won’t speak ill of ’em,” he noted. “Suppose I wouldn’t, either, if they’d fed me from their silver cutlery and dressed me in silk.”

I ignored the gibe. “How?”

“Oh, just some luck,” he said, drawing a pocket watch from his coat. He glanced at it and said no more.

A few residents still remained on the streets. They seemed familiar with Patrick, nodding or making way for him as he passed. Those who looked at me averted their eyes quickly. I imagined I resembled a beggar of sorts, but I cared very little. I had forgotten the dirty clothes sticking to my skin, the ache of my legs. My neck craned as I tried to discern more of the buildings and their strange facades. “What do the pipes carry?”

“Gas,” he said. “Water.”

I shook my head in wonder. “Simple Crafters, you said.”

He only nodded.

“What of your police?” I asked, for every town had government-instated police. “Or the Scribblers?”

“We’re a small town, miss. We’ve only ever had the one Scribbler. A handful of police.”

“And you aren’t worried someone will recognize me? That they might turn me in to authorities? There’s a price on my head, Mr. Colson.”

“Patrick,” he corrected. “And no, I’m not worried.”

“No.” I grimaced. “Because you run this town.”

A huff of mirth escaped his lips. He clicked his tongue as he looked over at me with those unnaturally clear crystal-blue eyes. “No onerunsus. You don’t listen much, do you?”

He crossed the street then, whistling to Isaiah. He walked purposefullytoward a tall, teetering building, its many windows alight. The sign hanging above the door readCOLSON & SONS. Patrons spilled out onto the street, wobbling as they walked. A cat slipped through the swinging door and disappeared inside. Above, floors of windows wavered higher than the other town houses.

I panted as I reached Patrick’s side again. Lord, but my head pounded. “Surely you’re not an innkeeper as well as a gangster?”

He caught the door as it swung open once more, two women holding fast to each other stumbling out. He waited for them to pass, then said to me, “In you get.”

I scowled, then peered beyond him. A tall, polished counter stretched along one side, lined with occupied stools. A man in a peaked cap spat thickly into a waiting bucket at his feet. Round tables crowded the floor, bustling with yet more patrons and their drinks. The volume was like a blast of hot air. Laughter, shouting, music—a piano. A man stood atop a wooden chair and tried to tap dance but abruptly fell sideways.

Isaiah suddenly appeared at my thigh, panting for attention.

“On your bed, Isaiah,” Patrick said firmly, and the great dog lumbered off to a waiting nest of blankets by the wall. “Nina, go on in.”

My nose wrinkled. “I’m not a dog.” But I strode into the fray regardless. I thought I heard him inhale sharply as I passed.

The noise grew impossibly louder.

“Oh ho!” came a throaty call. A man alighted his stool awkwardly, spilling half his pint on the floor as he did so. He had a pockmarked face and hair sprouting from his jaw in uneven patches. He was before me in two large strides. “And who’ve we here?”

He smelled of sweat and grease. The black smeared on his gums explained the watery look in his eyes.Bluff, I thought. The bad sort. I remembered the look from Scurry, where the men would trade for and swallow a dose of it before their shift in the mines. They went down the shafts smiling and bleary-eyed, then came back with shaking hands, dry tongues, and a penchant for throwing bottles.

I backed away a step.