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  Author’s Note

  This edition includes the prequel short story Backlash, though there is no recommended reading order. Some may wish to learn how Cyriana came to be in her current predicament first, while others might rather discover gradually in the same manner as her friends. The order is therefore one of reader preference. Neither work is a mandatory requisite for the other.

  Also by Ian Blackport

  Swift Reprisal

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  Chapter 1

  Philosophers and orators tell us lesser mortals not to let past decisions define our future. Accept old choices with dignity, they claim. If only that ever worked. How can I forget my mistakes when no one else is willing to do the same?

  Jacamar the Younger, Tome and Scroll Unbound

  288 Black Ruin, Year of the Promise Withdrawn

  330 Black Ruin, Year of the Uncertain Prospect

  17 Vallasir

  Footfalls thumped against slicked ceramic and Cyriana Faesen scrambled over a ledge. Bracing bare fingers on metal, she hauled herself beyond a sloping roof and clambered higher. Leather soles slipped beneath her, struggling to find traction atop tiles moistened by a late afternoon rainfall. Pounding strides echoed from her pursuer and Cyriana devoted a moment to the morbid thought of iron sliding into her spine.

  She rounded a chimney belching soot, squinting her eyes against the sun’s twilight glare. Scuffing steps sounded and she whirled at the noise, sighting a figure bathed in shadows. Pain swelled through Cyriana as a bony shoulder crashed into her chest and snatched breath from scalding lungs. She blinked watery eyes, glimpsing a balled fist hurtling at her face. Cyriana’s head smacked into masonry and bloodied saliva splattered onto her chin.

  A gloved hand clenched her wrist and wrenched the limb, spilling Cyriana’s dagger from slackening fingers. Iron clattered atop tiles and a leather boot kicked it aside. A metal knife tip jabbed her chest, piercing the burgundy jerkin she wore and compelling Cyriana to tread backward. Hot breath washed over her skin while hazy vision focused on a familiar face.

  “Hello Arora. Learning to hunt in packs like wolves, are we? Good choice for a role model; dogs are more cunning than you. Better hygiene from what I can tell, too.”

  Lips parted to reveal chipped teeth and the woman shoved a forearm into Cyriana’s throat, forcing her against rutted bricks. “Dogs chase other dogs and I hunt you. Seems everyone’s sniffing out a bitch tonight.”

  Cyriana glanced sideward at Raesh while he sauntered closer twirling a dagger in one hand. She winked and noted one mottled pink blemish streaking over a nose dripping with sweat. “That new scar you’ve collected does nothing to diminish your beauty, big fella. Don’t let anyone tell you different. I know how sensitive you are about these things.”

  “A damned foolish thing to do, coming back to the city,” Arora uttered. “So unlike you.”

  “I missed seeing my friends’ smiling faces.”

  Raesh uplifted his clenched fist and touched a dagger to her flushed cheek. “By all means, feel smug knowing the bounty insists you still be breathing.” Cold iron pricked soft flesh and a warm trickle slid to her jawbone. “You wouldn’t be gloating otherwise, I can promise you that.”

  “My good fortune Destiran wants to torture me first, I suppose. I’ll be sure to extend my thanks to him should we ever chance to meet again.”

  “He’s waiting for you in his estate right now,” affirmed Arora. “A place you’re intimately familiar with, I believe.”

  “Rumors and nothing more,” Cyriana countered. “I don’t know where Destiran hears these foolish notions.”

  Raesh slid the flat of his dagger along her chin. “Of course the contract only demands you be among the living. It says nothing about being whole. A swift snip into your tongue would save my ears considerable suffering.”

  “Let’s not be hasty. Destiran tends to brood at the best of times. You wouldn’t want to piss him off because you spoiled his fun.”

  “He understands some contracts are a messy business,” Arora asserted. “And he’s rather tired of listening to your excuses and pathetic attempts at flattering him. You aren’t half as charming as you think. One less waggling tongue might even cheer his spirits.”

  “We’ve brought arrogant pricks back to him in rough shape.” Raesh grinned and ran a calloused forefinger down Cyriana’s cheek. “Long as they’re still drawing breath he isn’t fussy. He’s only unforgiving to people like you.”

  “This is all a misunderstanding,” Cyriana claimed. “I wasn’t even in his manor that night.”

  “The time for running your mouth passed a while back. Shouldn’t have skipped town. Makes a gal look all manner of guilty.”

  “He put a godsdamned bounty on my head. What the hell else was I supposed to do?”

  “Own up to the fact you’re a lying, burgling piece of shit,” uttered Arora. “And the game’s done.”

  “Means my life is, too. Hardly a swap I’m keen on making.” Cyriana squirmed against the forearm digging into her throat. “Nope, I think I’ll stick with denial. It’s more my style.”

  “You’ll sing a different tune when Destiran gets his hooks into you,” Raesh declared. “And that isn’t a clever metaphor.”

  Arora snagged a wad of Cyriana’s clothing and yanked her into a stagger. “Mumble prayers to whatever thieving god you worship. No one else gives a damn about helping you.”

  Cyriana tumbled onto her stomach with a grunt and whacked clammy palms against the rooftop. A painted tile wobbled beneath her fingers. “Wouldn’t be the first time I needed to help myself.”

  She hammered one boot into Arora’s ankle, ripped loose ceramic free and bounded upright. Raesh slashed with a dagger and Cyriana walloped the tile against his face, spewing shattered clay fragments skyward. He collapsed clutching at spraying blood while Cyriana drove her kneecap into Arora’s chin. Scooping a discarded dagger in one hand, Cyriana sprinted and lunged across the narrow gap onto one neighboring structure. She glimpsed a door sited two roofs distant and hurdled over alleys, gritting her teeth through fiery muscle spasms.

  Cyriana smashed her shoulder into a wooden barrier, tearing flimsy hinges from the frame. Oak showered her clothing and she plummeted down steps atop a fractured door. Cyriana stood on trembling legs, stumbled with broken shards underfoot and ran through the confined bedchamber to an adjoining staircase.

  Screaming obscenities greeted her noisy descent into a clothier shop. She rounded a coatrack holding tailored jackets and crashed into one fashionable patron. The spluttering noble buckled against a table housing damask garments and lost his balance, toppling furniture in a jumbled mess. Cyriana leaped over upended wood draped in fabrics and raced for the yawning entryway while a haberdasher brandishing his cane swiped at her head.

  “Sorry!” she hollered, hastening onto a crowded boulevard. Startled cries sounded as she elbowed and squirmed her way through the throng. Cyriana darted beneath a marble arch and wended between columns lining a portico straight into some boring lecture. Bearded philosophers sipping tea grumbled displeasure at her interruption and bellowed outrage when she swooped lower and nicked a sweet tart from one flowery plate.

  Cyriana crammed the dessert into her mouth and scrambled through snaking passageways. Ragged breaths hacked from a gaping mouth ringed in custard as she placed her hand against one brick wall. Cyriana knelt on moist cobblestones coughing and loosened her grip on the stolen knife. She tucked the blade into a rawhide belt and ruffled her tunic to hide its worn leather grip. Closing her eyes, she leaned against the wall and wiped a sweaty brow with one hand. Shadows claimed stretches beyond the humid all
ey under a darkening sky while the orange of twilight faded. Time’s passing meant nothing to her, measured only in quieting streets and encroaching gloom.

  When the last gasp of sunlight died she slipped from the passage and traveled along intersecting roadways. Lamplighters shuffled down glowing thoroughfares, ignoring Cyriana as she wandered with a hand brushing against the concealed dagger. She had no patience for subtlety and did not bother to hide the fact she carried a weapon. Any twit with half a brain would recognize she was not unarmed. Her posture might discourage the more timid threats, leaving only deadly bounty hunters to worry about. A regular evening these days. Casting wary eyes over her shoulder, she entered one quiet tavern opposite a deserted crossroads.

  Lanterns ringed wooden columns and flames crackled within a stone fireplace caked in soot. Cyriana journeyed between empty chairs and claimed a vacant table nestled against one wall. A drying puddle on its surface reflected dull firelight. She massaged her temple and waited for the serving girl to approach. Chestnut brown strands spilled from a frazzled ponytail loosely held together with ribbons.

  “Doesn’t look like you’ve had a pleasant day.”

  “You don’t know the half of it,” responded Cyriana.

  “Came to the right place for soothing your troubles. Have a mind for a drink?”

  “I’ve a mind for many, but let’s see what my funds have to say about the notion.” She reached into a pocket, closed her fingers around coins and clattered three folles atop the table. “Bring me whatever alcohol this much bronze will fetch.”

  The serving girl shoved metal into a grungy hand and scowled. “I hope you’re not overly concerned with taste.”

  “All I’m concerned with is fast becoming less clear-headed, so scamper off in search of a way to make that happen and I won’t hold grudges.”

  Stained fabric lifted in a shrug and she moseyed past barren tables. Cyriana propped one boot on a neighboring chair and inhaled the aroma from bubbling stew. What a bloody mess returning to Asdor City turned out to be. She thought enough time had elapsed since the incident with Destiran, but the man nurtured simmering resentment like nothing Cyriana had ever known. The city might be too dangerous for her to continue operating. Relocating elsewhere seemed to once again be in her immediate future.

  She tucked one unruly strand of curly red hair behind an ear and eyed occupants within the tavern. Few patrons shared the establishment with her, and none returned her stare. None even appeared to register Cyriana’s presence, which settled her suspicious mind. Destiran was a mistrustful man and likely neglected to share his bounty beyond the pathetic pets he kept employed. Assumptions caused deaths though, and Cyriana would never lower her guard believing no other hunters sought to fulfill the contract.

  Soon after the serving girl arrived carrying a clay mug housing an unknown, pungent rum. “Should be able to top you off when you’re finished with that one,” she remarked. “It only cost a follis and seven coppers. I could’ve brought you something better, but from the way you look I reckoned two mugs of shitty booze was better than only one mug of mostly shitty booze.”

  “I like how you think.”

  “Wave when you’re in the mood for another round.”

  “Don’t go far,” Cyriana replied, swigging a hearty gulp. The crap burned her throat in the manner she hoped it would.

  Lantern light dimmed as a man stepped alongside the table and lingered. Cyriana lowered one hand within reach of her dagger and lifted an unwelcoming gaze. Dark eyes leered down at her from beyond a sharp nose jutting forward like an outstretched rapier. Rivers of silver thread traced across a brocade doublet dyed green and fastened with ivory buttons. One gloved hand rubbed a shaven jaw the color of dull copper while the other gestured to an unoccupied chair. “Mind if I join you, my friend?”

  “I do, as it happens. Find another woman to woo. I’m too content with my solitude to entertain some prying arsehole.”

  “Think I might claim this seat regardless.”

  Cyriana breathed a sigh and shoved herself away from the furnishing. “Enjoy the table.”

  “A shame.” The stranger settled into a chair and smirked yellowing teeth. “I’d heard Cyriana Faesen was a charming woman.”

  She halted with both palms resting on the table. “Excuse me?”

  “I’ll admit I’m disappointed with our exchange. Given your reputation, I thought you’d be more amenable to hearing what I offer.”

  “And what might that be?”

  “For starters, another round on my coin. Something considerably more refined than whatever swill it is you’re guzzling.” The man tugged felt gloves from his dusky fingers and placed them on the wooden surface. “If nothing else comes of our discussion, at least you’ll have bilked me for finer booze than you can evidently afford at present.”

  Cyriana touched one subtle hand to a leather grip extending from her belt and returned to the seat. “You might know my name, but that doesn’t mean you understand a damn thing about me.”

  “I assure you I’m not making assumptions. On the contrary, I know a great deal.”

  Cyriana noticed the server return and stifled a response. The young girl opened thin lips to speak but a raised palm from the mysterious man hushed her. Hazel eyes widened when the stranger grabbed her hand and deposited silver coinage in local Asdori currency.

  “What will you have to drink, m’lord?”

  “I am no lord,” he said. “My companion and I will both have chilled Athelian Ale.”

  “At once, sir.”

  “And, my dear? Have our drinks served in pewter, not clay.”

  “If it pleases you, sir.”

  He watched the girl depart and grinned at Cyriana. “A little generosity with silver and everyone treats me as though I’m royalty.”

  “I’m only going to offer you this warning once. If you have a posse waiting to ambush me, I’m lunging straight for your throat. I don’t care if I wind up dead, I will end your life before any allies reach you. Most chaps wouldn’t consider that a reasonable exchange.”

  “I suppose your paranoia is excusable, given the generous bounty posted for your head. Present company excluded, I happen to be alone. I am not unarmed, however. That would be moronic and I believe you agree with the sentiment. Though if I wanted to kill you I would have done so while you recovered your strength in that alley outside.”

  “You’re a long way from home, Shiylan. If you want to see your scalding desert again, tread lightly. You have a name?”

  “Several, depending on where I find myself and who inquires. For now you can call me Rope.”

  “How bland and enigmatic. What makes you believe you know anything about me?”

  “I represent an enthusiastic collector of antiquities, you might say. Your audacity is becoming known in certain less reputable circles and thus my master desired a word. He therefore had a trusted agent shadowing you until we were able to make contact. As you may have learned over the years, nothing is unattainable to those with ample resources.”

  “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather try to start this conversation on a different footing?” Cyriana inquired. “It irks me to know I’m being watched. And I’m not above punching a stranger in the face.”

  “For which I can’t blame you. Though given all the facts, perhaps gratitude might serve you better than animosity.”

  “And you claimed to not be presumptive.”

  “Bounty hunters are pursuing you at this moment. Or rather, someone holding an uncanny resemblance to you. I believe she’s scampering over rooftops across the city as we speak, leading your pursuers on a merry chase. Eventually she’ll merely disappear and your hunters will be left trying to sniff out a trail where one does not exist. Thus we have all the time I desire for civil dialogue.” Rope uplifted his palms and smiled. “As I said, my friend. Those with money.”

  “That’s a considerable expense wasted all to secure a chitchat. Tell me, Twine, is my worth valued so highly?”
>
  “My master believes it is, so here I am.” He smiled as the serving girl settled pewter tankards on the table and offered his thanks. “A man inclined to the curious might wonder what you did to make this Destiran fellow so perturbed. The bounty is uncommonly large for a lone person.”

  “I stole from him.”

  “Unsurprising, I suppose. I presume most aren’t foolish enough to do such a thing?”

  Cyriana drummed her fingertips atop notched wood. “What do you want from me? I have little interest in any other niceties and I have a feeling the ale will taste bitter in your presence if you continue wasting my time.”

  “If you insist. My master wishes to hire your services for a job. There’s an artifact he covets and he desires that you be the one to retrieve it for him.”

  “Does he now? What inspired this strange confidence in me, a woman neither you nor he have ever met?”

  He raised a tankard to his lips and sipped the drink. “My master has invested a considerable expense in learning who you are. We’ve had suspicions you were the one responsible for brazen thefts in Elarenth and Lorentarth. The truth was difficult to determine until we happened upon a skilled fence you frequent. He was rather unaccommodating before metal loosened his tongue.”

  “For your sake I hope you mean coins.”

  “I do, indeed. I’m not a savage so long as silver does the job, and I’ve found its allure is more effective than threatening.”

  “Are you expecting me to play the patsy and believe every word you speak? I have no way to verify whether you’re telling me the truth. The blood of my friend could be on your hands and I’d never know.”

  “Reasonable to surmise, though only on the surface. If I murdered your fence chum, news would filter through the dastardly circles you call home in weeks, before my task will be finished. A fiendish lie risks you abandoning me a month from now when the game is already in play. I’d likely forfeit a considerable investment and lose the best chance I have at fulfilling my role. If you’re still not convinced, by all means ask around. Employ those contacts you’ve cultivated over the years and learn about my honesty.”