Page 48 of The Space Between Stars

“Cheers, eah?” Niklaus said.

The man shut the flap without response.

Need was a primal, desperate thing. Niklaus couldn’t wait for the space of a blink it would have taken to break a tab into thirds before pressing a whole one against his tongue. He cinched the bag tight and stuffed it into his pocket.

Wind sifted the sand at his feet, and Niklaus’s mind sifted the thoughts he tried to keep it from. Latouda followed him like the clouds followed the breeze. This was what she had wanted—to create his dependence. To ease his spiraling self-doubt, she’d said. To widen his creative veins, she’d said. To turn him against his higher mind, she hadn’t said. To make him her pawn. Hers.

He was still hers. And now, he would probably die hers.

Niklaus looked behind him. The merchants’ quarter of the encampment was especially crowded tonight; the rally had kept many up past highmoon when they might have otherwise found their tents. Crowds were good. The more people there were, the less people tended to see. Nobody would notice how desperate he was. How animalistic. How far against the good human nature he’d proclaimed “did, in fact, exist” he’d acted.

Except the mute.

An unmoving pillar among those passing shadows, the man watched him, blatantly and without the grace to look away when Niklaus turned to face him. He knew, now, the extent of their codependence. Perhaps he had all along. Dex was beside him, oblivious, running his mouth about the matches.

As Niklaus made his way back into the main merchants’ row, the duo fell into step behind him. He stopped at the closest tailor and purchased the largest tunic and sirwal they had to offer.

“Here.” He thrust the clothing into the mute’s hands. “No need to thank me. I’m doing everyone a favor.”

“It’s coming. Consider this a bonus.”

On second thought, a ‘thank-you’ might have been nice. “When I swing through the storage wagons on my way back tonight.” Niklaus had since had misgivings about the whole ordeal. Should it be discovered, giving a restricted man access to Aetech’s defensive plates would have legal ramifications when they returned to Seraphinden.

Not a question.

Niklaus raised a finger. “No. I’m going to celebrate.” He was in no mind to miss the present opportunity to seek information. A crowded merchant quarter was an ideal cover for asking questions. And now that he was beginning to feel human again—better, even—the idea of turning in for sleep was far beyond him.

Not to celebrate, but chaperone.

“Suit yourself.”

Dozens of vendors peddled every commodity a man could spend his meager stipend on. Niklaus tested the waters of purchasing items he’d been restricted from—paper and quill. Recruitment paperwork was required for any purchase; he was refused. A forgery might have been possible, but for one problem: the Red Wing issued papers in red ink. Red ink was contraband, outside of official circles. If someone had it here, it would be at least as expensive as the moss.

As Niklaus made his way through the merchants’ row, testing leniencies, he chatted up each vendor. Asked how they’d come into the recruitment. About their homes. About their businesses.

None had served more than two recruitments. It was as contrived as Chaos could make a situation—which was to say that it was absolutely contrived. These men were not nationalists; they were Thyatira’s. Niklaus didn’t let his swelling tension show as he went about his errands, whistling and greeting anyone who laid eyes on him. The mute and the boy dragged their feet behind him all the while.

A pavilion had been staged beside a dozen barrels with taps set into their bellies. A dozen more empty barrels had been set in the sands beneath it, impromptu tables. This was a place Niklaus could slip into like a salmon into fast water. As he did, the effects of the moss tab heightened. The world eased into placing one foot in front of another. Talking to one person, then the next.

Now that he was here, not scrubbing dishes, it all felt possible: exposing Thyatira. He might be a soldier to his vices. He might be a coward. But once he held on to an idea, he wouldn’t let go for anything. He would become the single problem that Thyatira wouldn’t be able to solve.

The stars moved across the sky, and the night darkened. An hour passed, then another. Twenty conversations later, Niklaus had learned nothing beyond how to tie a half-dozen different knots from an over-enthusiastic ex-dockhand. Nothing of Thyatira. Everyone in the recruitment was a Groundling, firm in the belief that they had three options: work for Thyatira, work for the Shadewalker, or starve in the streets. What sane man wouldn’t opt to join Thyatira? Thyatira was a Groundling icon. A revolutionary… With no past to stand upon, Niklaus’s inner skeptic whispered. A man who had your reputation marred when you suggested he might not be Nelfinden.

He sounded like a lunatic, even to himself. But all revolutions started as whispered words—ludicrous musings—before they made their way through lips.

The mute and Dex leaned against a barrel, watching him. Dex ought to have retired by this point; nothing kept him tethered to Niklaus. But he seemed especially keen on playing the part of noisy shadow to the mute. Niklaus couldn’t blame him. What Azadonian boy wouldn’t want to stick to the largest person who wouldn’t throw things at him?

Niklaus ordered a round of drinks and moved over to the pair, plopping the wooden mugs before them. “A solid cheers is in order.”

Dex raised his mug and hesitantly clacked it against Niklaus’s. The mute took a pointed sip from the canteen at his waist. How charming.

Niklaus turned to Dex. “So… ah.” Might as well make use of the resources at hand. “What are you doing in the Red Wing?”

Dex looked for a moment like he wasn’t sure if Niklaus was talking to him. Then he wrinkled his nose. Niklaus remembered that he’d already asked the boy that same question when they first met.