“A murderer?”

“That’s what they say down south. Story goes, him and his lovely young assistant disappeared one night, and all they found the next morning was a wagon splattered in blood.”

“Interesting.” Jacinda opened her notebook and began scribbling. “Do you know Mr. Taresque personally?”

Emerlie gave a sly wink over her shoulder. “We don’t talk much. But he knows how to stick a dagger, I’ll give him that.”

“Is that supposed to be a euphemism?”

The girl spun around. “A what, now?”

“Are you implying that you’ve bedded this murderous knife thrower?” Jacinda held her pen poised over the page expectantly.

Emerlie sneered. “You calling me a liar?”

“I’m not calling you anything. But I have a reputation for printing the truth, not wishful thinking.”

“It’s not wishful!”

Jacinda sighed and closed her notebook. “The only thing the knife thrower’s ever stuck you with was a mouthful of disappointment.” The look of outrage on Emerlie’s face was enough to make Jacinda giggle behind her glove.

“Find him yourself, then, cow!”

The girl flounced away, her tiny top hat bobbing over pin-curled blond hair, leaving Jacinda alone before a clockwork bird in the space between two wagons. Jacinda coughed down the rest of her giggles. Even if Emerlie was the reticule of gossip in the caravan, gently flattering half-truths out of the little ninny would have been immensely annoying, compared with going directly to the source. And now she had a lead on the sort of juicy story every journalist dreamed of nailing.

Jacinda glanced up at the awkwardly dancing bird. As she ducked to move past it and into the tented space beyond, the machine’s head shot around, blocking her way. Shoving it did nothing to discourage it, and no matter which way she moved, it wouldn’t let her pass. When a small syringe appeared in its beak, she decided she’d had enough and removed a small metal device from the bag at her belt.

“That’s enough out of you.”

Holding the gadget as close to the bird as she dared, she pushed a red button, and a blue spark arced to the bird’s copper body and raced over its surface like a wave devouring sand. The thing went still, a slender curl of smoke rising from its eye. Tucking the disruptor back into her bag and rucking up her skirt, she slid under the bird’s now-still neck and entered the circle beyond the wagons. Useful things, disruptors.

Laughter, murmurs, and the occasional thunk carried from under the patchwork tent. Not wanting to encroach on what was clearly a personal space, Jacinda sent Brutus back to her wagon and kept to the circle of weak sunlight just beyond the tent’s shadow, skirting the wagons as she navigated around the spaces set up for practice or work. The strong man nodded to her warily, a two-headed Bludman leered at her, and the lizard boy raised an appreciative eye from where he snoozed in a lone sunbeam that fell through a rip in the tent. She nodded politely but didn’t stop to begin her interviews. She was too avid to reach the source of the repetitive thunking noise. All she knew about this Marco Taresque was that he was a knife thrower, a possible murderer, and someone with whom Emerlie desperately wanted to be physically linked, and that combination intrigued her in more ways than one.

When she walked up, the subject of her inquiry was pulling a bouquet of knives from a scarred wooden target painted in rings of red and white. She had a moment to study him before he noticed her, and she realized immediately why Emerlie had been so very keen. Marco Taresque was a damn fine specimen of a man, dark and angular and as sharp as his knives, with thick, wavy hair that trailed down his back like brambles, making him seem half wild. She couldn’t help staring, willing him to face her while still enjoying the elegant but powerful movement of his shoulders and arms as he unconsciously went through his routine.

Like most men, he wore a white shirt that had seen better days, but the sleeves were more fitted, while the collar was uncharacteristically loose, especially when so many Bludmen were near to hand. He wasn’t wearing a coat, which was expected for such an unusually warm day. But his midnight-blue waistcoat was of a cut she’d never seen before, thick and tight, with boning similar to that of a lady’s corset and lacing up the back. It sharpened the lines of an already sharp man, setting off the wideness of his shoulders and the way his shirt stretched across well-muscled arms. As he pulled the knives from the wood, he slid them one by one into invisible slots in his vest, where their black handles disappeared against the velvety fabric. She counted twelve, six on each side, before the target was cleared. The daggerman spun around, saw her watching, and froze.

Feeling the full strength of his violet eyes, she froze, too. For a moment, they stood that way, and Jacinda was wildly aware that he could have reached down and stuck her with every knife in his vest before she could spin and run away. She felt like the target, like a solid thing, painted and waiting to be pierced. Despite a leather corset designed to repel attacks, she had never felt so vulnerable, not in seven years of traveling the most removed, dangerous cities of Sang. She imagined a black dagger flipping end over end, as quick as a bird, to strike her directly in the heart with a wooden thunk.

And then he smiled, a quick, wry thing that was gone instantly, replaced by a dark scowl.

“I should have known you’d find me.”

His voice was gravelly but musical, with an accent at once unfamiliar and enticing, and his eyes settled on the notebook and pen held, limp, in her hands. She dipped her head in acknowledgment but not acquiescence.

“You’ve heard of me, then, Mr. Taresque?”

Looking down, he ran a hand through his hair. He walked toward her, every step deliberate, boots crunching on dead grass already trampled. As he passed close enough for her to feel the air stir from his sleeve, he said, “No. But I know your type. You’re not the first. You’ll not be the last.”

He kept walking, and as she’d promised to obey Criminy’s rules, she had no choice but to watch him go. His snug-fitting trousers had fine pinstripes that disappeared into high black boots. The man bristled with so many knives she wasn’t sure how he sat without cutting himself to ribbons.

In her years first as a student, then as a journalist’s assistant, then, most recently, as a solitary adventurer, she’d met thousands of men. Heroes, villains, brigands, jackals, shamans, monsters, soldiers, weak-chinned milksops, and even uncivilized madmen. But the strange push and pull of Marco Taresque was a first for her. Aloof but magnetic. Wild but carefully contained. Dangerous to a fault but in no way overtly threatening. Dark but oh so appealing. As soon as her feet caught up with her heart, she was following at his heels, pen and notebook in hand, hoping Criminy didn’t have spies lurking about.

“Mr. Taresque, would you be willing to tell me your story?”

He didn’t turn. Didn’t break stride. Said nothing.

“It’s not just you, of course. I didn’t come here to find you personally. I’m writing a book on the caravan. With Criminy Stain’s blessing.”

Again, no response. Just steady, confident, angry steps, faster and faster so that she was almost jogging to keep up. She was starting to feel desperate and resorted to a journalist’s last resort: accusation.

“I’ve heard that you’re dangerous. That there was blood everywhere.”

He had reached the clockwork bird she’d recently deactivated. A begoggled artificer and a woman in a frumpy coat were fussing with the wires in an open compartment, arguing over the cause of the automaton’s malfunction as he held a screwdriver and she held a book. Without a word, Marco took two fast steps, planted a boot on the man’s back, and catapulted himself over the bird.

“Dammit, man! These are fragile instruments,” the artificer growled, but Marco ignored him and kept walking.

“Oh, Henry. That’s your best vest,” the woman said, fussing at the bootprint.

Jacinda tried to get around the pair and the collection of tools, books, and wires arrayed on the ground, but there was no clear path, unless she went over, which even she wouldn’t risk in such voluminous skirts.

“Are you hiding something, Marco Taresque?” she shouted at his rapidly disappearing back.

He stopped and turned, hands on hips bristling with knives. Did she imagine the smile tugging at his lips?

“Of course I am!” he shouted back.

And then he was gone.

.4.

“So what do you know about Marco Taresque?”

The three girls around the table giggled behind their hands, telling Jacinda exactly what she wanted to know: he’d had absolutely nothing to do with any of them.

“He just showed up one night,” the bearded girl breathed, woolly cheeks in her gloved hands. “Materialized out of the smoke like he was part of the fire.”

“Everything was smoky that night, Abi. He just happened to walk out at exactly the right moment.” Demi rolled her eyes. “And honestly, he showed up that afternoon. Marched across the moor like anyone else who’s vaguely suicidal. You just didn’t see him because you were asleep in your wagon. It was far less dramatic then.” But the girl’s eyes went misty anyway, betraying her feelings about the mysterious stranger.

“Master Crim said he’s dangerous, and that’s good enough for me.” Cherie shook her blond curls, her mouth in a prim line. “Honestly, he looks like a wastrel. Like he did what the papers say he did.”

“Oh, he was in the papers?” Jacinda asked.

Abi leaned close, her beard wagging excitedly and dipping into her oatmeal. “Master Stain don’t like us to read about the cities, but the audience drops a paper every now and then. There was a drawing, and there’s a price on his head.”

“Down south, they call him the Deadly Daggerman,” Cherie whispered.

“I’d like to see that story. Do you have it still?”

Demi blushed. “Crim found us with it and took it away. Said it was just another case of a money-grubbing journalist making a sensation out of hearsay and ruining a man’s life in the process.” She raised her eyebrows and stared at Jacinda as if daring her to continue the line of questioning.