well for Gwyn, but Christian didn’t believe in fairy-tale endings, especially not when the prince liked to beat the maid bloody. Beneath his anger lay hurt; how could Maura have left so abruptly, without even leaving him word?
“Lazarus?” Gwyn asked anxiously. “Are you angry with me?”
He looked down at her and felt his rage melt away. Gwyn would spend all her days down here, living on her back. For a moment Christian wished he could help her too, just as he had always longed to help Maura, take the child topside and find her a better life. But what was the point in saving one child if he could not save them all?
“I’m not angry with you,” he told Gwyn, patting her shoulder. “No one should ever be angry with you.”
The girl smiled brightly, but Christian didn’t notice, for he had already moved onward in his head. The titled lord he had finished on the third level had given him some information, but not enough. Christian had made his life by violence, but he did not have the cruelty to be a good torturer, and in the end he had been able to do little more than threaten. Offering to spare the man’s life had been more effective. The clown tattoo, Latimer had said, was a sign, almost a password, among a club of noble nonces who operated throughout New London. But Latimer was not Maura’s special client; he liked adolescent boys. The man relayed this information matter-of-factly, without a hint of shame, and Christian had suddenly understood the great danger of this so-called club: it gave the nonces normalcy. Latimer saw nothing wrong in his behavior; he was only worried that others would find out. Once the man had told all he knew, Christian had killed him without hesitation.
He turned back to the common room, where Mrs. Evans and Arliss were still battling it out. Maura’s client was a noble, had to be. But there were hundreds of nobles in the Tearling; even Christian knew that. In a better world, there would be a prince indeed, some man on a white horse to find Maura and take her away from all this. But Christian was the closest thing Maura had to a hero, and all he had to work with was the tattoo.
“You’ll never deal in the Alley again,” Mrs. Evans spat. “When I’m done with you, you won’t be able to move so much as a single ounce.”
“You may be right,” Arliss replied wearily. “But we’re done here.”
He signaled his two bodyguards. Numbly, Christian observed that the bodyguards wore heavy leather belts beneath their cloaks, that each belt seemed to be nothing but weapons: knives and swords and other handles that were difficult to identify. Theirs was a world of weapons, and Christian had never been meant for such things. And now, as Arliss turned to leave, Christian found himself looking speculatively at the dealer . . . not a cold speculation, but one fueled by rage. Her special client took her away, Gwyn had said, but that wasn’t really true, was it? Morphia had taken Maura away. Morphia had made her so eager to get topside, and when the fairy-tale prince had blacked her eye and swollen her jaw, morphia had soothed her injuries, made her willing to go back again. And now the man who dealt the morphia stood right in front of Christian, less than ten feet away. Arliss’s gaze met his, and in the second before the older man’s eyes widened in alarm, Christian saw something terrible: Arliss was truly sorry for the damage he had done, for the dead girl behind him.
“That won’t save you,” Christian whispered. “Not from me.”
Arliss drew breath to shout, but it was too late; Christian had already moved, lightning-quick, and grabbed a handle from the belt of the nearest bodyguard. The weapon, whatever it was, did not come easily; Christian gave a mighty yank and heard the rip of leather stitching, and then it was in his hand, unrestrained. He wondered if fighting dogs felt this way, when they finally slipped a muzzle and sank a mouthful of dripping fangs into the handler’s leg.
Something I can wield.
He felt the bodyguards coming for him and ducked away, bending and diving around them to come up on the far side with a clear shot at their backs. He went in low, swinging with all his force at the blue-clad man in the center, and as the head of the weapon