#being reckless

“You’re late, Mercar.”

Saadrah slid on to the narrow balcony—a largely decorative thing accessible only by window and barely big enough for the three potted plants that already took up most of the space—and folded herself into the shadows beside the surly templar. “Would it help if I brought you kebabs?” she asked, holding out her paper-wrapped peace offering.

Tarquin glared sidelong at her, but reluctantly held out one hand and accepted the parcel to give it a begrudgingly appreciative sniff. “The yogurt sauce?”

“With the pear slaw.”

He harrumphed. “You’re still late.”

Saadrah shrugged and leaned against the wall as Tarquin started to chew, and quietly took stock of her gear. Astaarit and Itwasit—her obsidian-bladed broadsword and shortsword, their names a private joke between her and her older brother—secure at her hips. All her knives in place, her grenades, her healing potions. Everything honed and ready to go. As always.

“What’s the word?” she murmured after a while, glancing out across the flat roofs and stacked buildings of the warehouses around them. Not far from the docks, not far from the last dead drop they’d received word through.

“Word is you got away with being showy on the last job,” Tarquin grumbled.

“It’s called improvising.”

“It’s reckless, is what it is.”

“You’re just grumpy because it worked.”

His scowl could have summoned storm clouds all by itself. Saadrah knew the feeling. She wasn’t exactly thrilled to be working this one with him either. They could be civil enough, especially back in the hideout where nothing was at stake except their ability to keep from sniping at each other, and they could put aside their differences as needed to help out the Shadow Dragons, even pick up lunch for each other, but that didn’t mean they were about to become bosom buddies.

It wasn’t like she looked for ways to shake up the jobs the Shadows gave her. Most of the time she even stuck to plan. When the plan was a good one.

Not every plan was a good one.

Not that “stick in the mire” Tarquin agreed. He played his responsibilities by the book, and if Saadrah were pressed on the matter she would admit—probably under duress, but that wasn’t the point—that Tarquin was good at what he did. He got the job done.

It’s just that she did too.

Which was probably why they’d been tapped to work this one together.

“Okay, but seriously. The job?” She tried to stretch out one of her long legs, but there wasn’t enough room.

Tarquin huffed, his “things are already going wrong” face in full force. “Velis didn’t report in. Nothing at the drop.”

“That’s not good.”

“Understatement.”

She propped her elbows on her knees. “Okay, so, not a deal-breaker.”

Tarquin tucked away the paper and skewers from his meal and carefully wiped sauce from his fingertips before replacing his gloves. “There’s also an awful lot of movement for a warehouse, even one with this many different trades.” He took a second to check his sword and shield—lyrium-free; his way of going incognito, not using proper templar equipment—and his potion pouch. “A lot of different faces coming and going, but the ones coming are rarely the ones going. More guards, too.”

Saadrah frowned. “Problematic. We’ll have to be more careful if there’s a crowd.”

He grunted. “And there’s a high-ranking magister on site.”

Saadrah winced.

Tarquin’s mouth thinned into a hard line. “Octavian Valecarus. Recognized him from a visit he paid to the Chantry last week. Petitioning for a stay on the slave reforms.”

“Of course.”

“He brought a handful of his friends, too.”

“What are you getting at, Quin?”

He frowned at the nickname, which was the whole point. She didn’t like him dodging around the issue like some kind of tavern dancer. It didn’t suit him.

“There’s a bigger Venatori presence here than expected.” He pulled himself to his feet and headed for the window access, giving her room to stand and try to shake the pins and needles from her limbs. “We need to retreat and rethink this plan.”

She stumbled halfway through the window behind him. “Excuse me? We know they’ve got slaves here. Velis said they were collecting them for some ritual.” She pulled herself free of the casement and rose to her full height, nearly a whole head taller than him. “If we retreat, they die.”

He glared up at her, unfazed and unimpressed. “I agree, it’s unjust.”

She snorted.

“But we need to look at the bigger picture here.”

“Your ‘bigger picture’ is a load of vashedan.”

His mouth pinched. “There are only two of us. Who knows how many Venatori are in there?” He gestured broadly toward the window, toward the warehouse beyond.

“Yes, two of us. A templar and an assassin who knows mages.” She waved her hand between them, indicating his sword, her blades and bow. “We can still pull this off.”

He rolled his eyes and turned on his heel, and started marching smartly for the roof access. “No. We watch. We gather information.” The ladder rungs squeaked beneath his boots. “And we report back to the Shadow Dragons.”

“But—”

“No.”

She grumbled and scaled up after him.

He found another vantage point—in the shade of a rooftop cistern, not far from the beams they would have used to infiltrate the warehouse—and settled in. Saadrah tucked in beside him, hood carefully pulled up over her horns, skin prickling with the storm of emotions that roiled inside her, and took several long breaths to steady herself, like her mother had taught her. Purge the distraction. Open the senses. Take in everything, make it hers, preserve it to write down later.

From this angle it was a little easier to see across the warehouse grounds. Attached docks, currently empty of ships, stacked high with barrels.

Don’t think about the slaves.

Livestock yards, adjacent to the docks, for both cattle and people, though the slave trade had been in a sort of legal limbo for at least a decade. Holding pens. Storage sheds. A maze of wooden walls to funnel living things about.

You can’t do anything to help them without Tarquin.

A slaughterhouse and something Velis had called a cannery, experimental, for preserving food, or so the report had said. Saadrah didn’t pretend to understand it, but she’d been amused at the footnote that mentioned the idea probably came from the Qun. Because of course it did. Always advancing the quality of life when they weren’t ruining it.

Put yourself aside and focus on the job. The new job, not the one you were prepared to do.

A sluiceway below the warehouse, not visible from where they sat, but it had been on Velis’s rudimentary map of the area. For carrying off excess water into the catacombs and sewers and lower waterways of the city. For hiding the bodies of sacrificial victims, for washing away the unused blood.

Don’t think. Just be.

And whatever lay below that. Unknown, because Velis hadn’t reported back.

She ground her teeth together.

Tarquin glanced up when she surged to her feet, his brows knitted together in warning. “Mercar....”

“I’m just going for a walk. A little extra reconnaissance.”

“If you—”

“Just around the perimeter. To get a sense of things.” She held up her empty hands.

“Don’t deviate from the plan.”

She waved him off and headed for the beam that crossed the alley.

Even among the warehouses of Minrathous, the buildings towered on top of each other, stacked tightly, like conspirators whispering their heretical secrets. The jagged architecture certainly looked impressive, imposing, but it also served to give someone who liked to climb and prowl like a hunting cat—someone like Saadrah—the perfect alternate route around when they wanted to avoid the streets.

Or slip into a suspicious warehouse.

She kept to her word, by keeping to the perimeter, but the perimeter wasn’t just Tarquin’s side of the street. And luckily for her, the Venatori didn’t want nosy neighbors discovering their activities, which meant the buildings immediately adjacent to the warehouse were empty. All the better for snooping along and scoping things out.

No one ever looked up.

She skirted along the cannery side of the grounds, feet whisper-quiet on carved stone, shadows masking her features. Her pale armor blended in with the pale walls behind her, and long years of practice kept her movements smooth, gliding, precise. Within moments, she had a better view of the holding pens, of the back side of the slaughterhouse, even an angle on the sluiceway itself.

A muscle jumped in her jaw as she gritted her teeth, and her neck felt tight with the strain of keeping the rest of her body relaxed.

Slaves.

Marched into the holding pens in rows bound together with rope—quieter than chains—like animals. Most of them elves, though there were a few humans scattered throughout. She spotted Velis.

She spotted children.

Her head buzzed. Spots in her vision.

Somehow, she made it back to Tarquin’s rooftop. Hands gripping the hilts of her blades, tight enough for the leather of her gloves to creak, tight enough for her grey-skinned knuckles to look almost white.

“What did you see?” Tarquin asked, an edge of concern in his voice. For the job, no doubt. For her willingness to cooperate.

“Exactly what we expected,” she gritted out, cinching her hood tighter around her head, tucking her scarf up to conceal her lower face. “Sacrifices.” She checked her blades, secure in their sheaths. Her bow, her quiver, her pouches. “If we don’t stop them.”

“Mercar...” he warned. “Don’t you do this.”

“You get the slaves,” she hissed, sizing up the jump she would have to make to reach the warehouse’s nearest upper-level ledge. “I’ll handle the Venatori.”