The aftermath of Christophe’s raid blurred together for Quentin. After the Warlords retreated it was time to gather their wounded and dead and for the entire street to come back out and survey the damage. Even longer after that, the Watch showed up. This was where Quentin expected to be arrested yet again, but it never happened. Instead the gladiators, now sans their masks and armor, helped pick up the pieces and clean up.

So many dead Shades in one bad fight. They went from two weeks of no real casualties to losing a third of them in one go, all thanks to directly facing Christophe. It hurt worse than the handful of wounds Quentin took in the battle, already healed and dealt with. The clean up made it easier, gave everyone something to focus on while they processed the rage and grief.

Jonas was a godsend. Despite nearly dying at the end, he led the efforts to get help for the wounded and even talked to the Watch for the rest of them. Quentin watched from a distance, numb and screaming inside at the same time. The teen had a friendly, guileless face even when twisted in pain and grief. He looked so godsdamned young, and yet he was as seasoned a fighter as any of them. He had a future in leadership, if Quentin didn’t get him killed first.

Eventually Quentin helped move the bodies of their fallen and clean them up some, waiting for priests of the Darkstar to show up and take them away to be cleaned further and prepared for funeral rites and cremation. On and on it went, Quentin hardly registering when the sun set and he could see the damage better. Razia dragged him back inside soon after that, and he ate as much as he could stand and slept hard.

The next day, Razia dragged him to the bath for a soak and silence. Together they just rested in the hot water, neither saying much, just enjoying each other’s company for the first real time in a couple of weeks. Another thing for Quentin to feel guilty over. It was almost a relief when Cicero’s messenger came.

“He said Cicero needs to speak with you two,” Lucy said, standing in the entrance of the bathroom.

“Tell him we’ll be there in just a few minutes,” said Razia. Lucy nodded and left. She turned to Quentin, cupping his cheek in one hand. “Are you good for a meeting? If you need a break, time to grieve or think, we can probably put it off until later today, at least.

Quentin shook his head. “No. There’s no point. We need to face up with this sooner or later. I’m okay.”

“If you’re sure…”

They found the messenger being interrogated by Isa.

“And how do we know this isn’t a trap by the Warlords to get them? Do you think we’re stupid?” Isa folded her arms over her chest.

The messenger sighed. Quentin thought it was a good question but Razia came to his rescue. “I’ve seen him before. Could be a traitor, but more likely he really is one of Cicero’s messenger bitches.”

“Yep. That’s me,” the messenger said with no life in his voice. “Can we get moving already? Shit’s looking bad and he needs your help. If you’d rather I go back to him and explain you were too suspicious to answer a summons, then…”

“He’d understand, given how bad yesterday was,” Razia shot back. Quentin put his hand on her arm.

“We’ll go. But I’m not being disarmed for anything, not even Cicero.”

The messenger nodded. “You might be one of the only people Cicero trusts right now.”

Well, if that wasn’t a bad sign, Quentin didn’t know what was. The messenger led them through a winding path northeast, switching streets and taking multiple corners. Quentin assumed it was meant to throw off any potential tails, but didn’t care to ask. The sooner they got this over with, the better.

They eventually arrived at a nondescript house in one of the most average neighborhoods in town. No guards stood outside, but movement by the windows told Quentin they weren’t alone. The messenger knocked on the door, a precise pattern of quick raps with a couple of hard beats. The door opened and the messenger motioned with his head for them to enter. Taking a second to look at each other, Quentin and Razia went into what felt like a trap.

It wasn’t a trap. That much was clear when they made it inside. A dangerous looking man went to frisk them, but Quentin held out a hand. “No. We’re armed, we’re staying armed. Either Cicero wants to see us or he doesn’t.”

“Fine. One wrong move…”

“Yeah yeah, just let us through,” Razia shoved past him, Quentin just a step behind her.

Cicero sat there, looking rough. Quentin couldn’t see much of his usual detached amusement and composure. He looked nervous, tired, and upset. That wasn’t nearly as much of a surprise as who sat with him.

“Omar?” Quentin stopped dead in his tracks. The Supreme Arbiter was across the table from Cicero, looking just as troubled and tired. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Same as you, I suspect,” said Omar, standing. He held out his hand. Quentin shook it numbly. “The street war is a massive concern, and the Warlords just upped the stakes dramatically. I’m here to look for a solution to keep peace in our streets.”

“I can’t believe you work with him,” Quentin said, shaking his head. “I thought you were one hundred percent committed to law and order.”

“He is,” Cicero said, sighing. “It’s called harm reduction, Quintius. You can’t stop all crime and vice, but you can limit it and direct it if you’re careful. It’s not about elimination, it’s about making it manageable for everyone in the city to live their lives in relative safety. And after yesterday’s dual attacks, it was time to call in some help.”

“Dual attacks?” Razia’s face dropped. “You were hit too.”

“Yes.” Cicero stroked his beard, practically pulling the hair out. “While Christophe hit the Boulevard and your business, Piro paid me a personal visit. He…burned down my headquarters and murdered a lot of very important, high profile people. Including the magistrate and his wife, the head of the Gold Scarab Bank, a senator and his husband, and a high ranking priest of the Pierced Heart.”

The news nearly bowled Quentin over. “Then why not go after him directly then? There’s no way he can survive that kind of heat coming down on him, can he?”

Omar grimaced. “I think you understand by now the law is not as straightforward as most assume. There are cracks certain people can fall into that make it harder to pursue, even in situations like this.”

“What do you mean?” asked Quentin.

“Piro’s got a lot of powerful friends,” Razia said. “It’s how he’s operated for this long without someone legit shutting him down. He makes friends with all the major players in the south and offers them bribes and protection from his antics while also making it clear that if their support withdraws, so does his care. Standard racket stuff, but he’s good at it.

“That’s why he and Christophe are so effective together. Christophe handles the stuff on the street while Piro handles things behind the scenes. When Piro hits the street, it means they’re serious and are out for blood. As Mr. Cicero found out. I know our relentless attacks have annoyed them, but I didn’t expect him to strike at you directly.”

“I took out a number of his spies and may have poisoned a few of his lieutenants,” said Cicero with a small smile. “It’s not about what I’ve done to him so much as what he hopes to do by attacking me. He’s trying his best to make me look bad. He’s been very good at it the past while, and -- “

A bang at the front door made them all look up. A guard yelled and then came the sounds of brief, pitched fighting. Quentin pulled out his knife in time for the first assailant to break through to the living room. His eyes darted around wildly, landing on Quentin and Razia. He made his choice and charged Razia, sword raised high.

Quentin tackled him to the ground before he could get there. He raised up just enough to drive his knife into the assassin’s neck, but more men burst into the room. One of them, a lean, sharp looking man in approaching middle age, went for Cicero.

Cicero stood up and opened his mouth, just in time to be run through with the man’s sword. He gasped, grasping his killer’s shoulders for support. “Matheson…you fool…”

“No, you’re the fool, Cicero,” he hissed as more of his men came into the room. “Didn’t see this coming, huh? You’re weak and out of touch and --” Quentin launched himself at the man. They went tumbling to the ground, sword coming out of Cicero’s gut and clattering to the ground. His men let out a cry behind him but Quentin took him out just as fast as he did the other.

They pulled him off and then it was Quentin’s turn to be run through. He gasped, the world going cold and empty before the sword retracted. He was already healing it by the time he hit the ground.

“Boss? Boss!?” One of them called out. “Oh shit. Fuck. You…”

Quentin looked up to see Omar standing in front of Razia, a grim look on his face. It was the look of a man who didn’t expect to survive this. “Please stop this, you have no idea who I am,” Omar tried.

“Sure I do,” the man who stabbed Quentin sneered. “An eyewitness.” He and his partner advanced. That’s when Quentin made his move.

He grabbed Matheson’s sword and continued the stabbing chain, grabbing the man by his forehead before he drove the sword through his back. That left one more person, who looked at Quentin as if he should be dead. Fair enough, he supposed. Quentin pulled the sword out and pointed it at him.

“You could always surrender.”

The man took exception to that. He swung at Quentin, who just leaned out of the way and slashed back, slicing a deep line in his stomach. The final attacker fell to the ground, clutching his guts and gasping. Quentin put him out of his misery.

“Wait here,” he told Omar and Razia. His pulse pounded with the sudden violence, all of his senses on high alert. He went back to the entrance to find the guards stationed there dead. As were the guards in front of the building, with the door wide open. A quick peek out the door and the street was completely clear. A small but unfortunately effective assault team.

When Quentin came back, there were five dead bodies, one of them the person supposed to help them out of this mess. He dropped the sword and buried his face in his hands, groaning.

“Are you okay, Quentin?” Razia asked, coming up to him and touching the spot where the sword split his tunic. The skin was mostly smoothed over, a bit scabby.

“I’m fine. You two?”

“Fine,” said Razia.

Omar swallowed hard, looking around. “None of us are fine,” he said.

“Are you hurt?” Quentin pressed.

The Supreme Arbiter shook his head. “Do you two have any idea what this means? That was Matthias Matheson, leader of one of Cicero’s most trusted crews. If they were willing to betray him, then that meant they had the support of some of Cicero’s top advisors. We need to get out of here. Now.”

Quentin nodded. “Alright. Stay behind me.”

The three of them left the house, carefully looking around before winding their way back the way they came, more or less. Rather than going back to the Garden, Omar led them to the northeast Watchtower. Quentin and Razia shared a look but said nothing as he brought them in past all the coppers and silvers watching them with interest.

“Supreme Arbiter!” The woman working the front stood up, turning pale.

“Ignore us, just here to use a private room,” he said without breaking his stride. The private room was just around the corner, and had a table and several chairs. He collapsed into one, and Quentin and Razia took chairs opposite him.

“So,” he began, staring at the table. “I think that now would be a decent time to consider leaving town, if I were either of you two. I do not make this suggestion lightly, as I know this is your home and there are a lot of people relying on you. Things are about to get very, very bad in Orchrisus.”

“We’ve dealt some real blows to the Warlords,” said Quentin. “I don’t know how many of them we’ve killed, but enough to make them desperate enough to make a big play like this. That must mean something.”

“It’s not the Warlords we need to worry about,” Razia said quietly. She looked about as troubled as Omar. “It’s Cicero’s former men. He was the only one keeping everyone together. He ran things not because he was the most powerful or the richest, but because he made himself a lynchpin. Without him to balance things out, there’s going to be a power vacuum, and war. More war.”

“Yes,” said Omar, rubbing his eyes. “Everyone with ambition is going to step up and try to declare themselves king. More than that is the contingency Cicero had. In the event of his death, a number of things are set to happen. Some people will be assassinated, others have their secrets revealed.”

“Assassinations sound a lot worse,” Quentin said.

Razia laughed. It was a desperate, we’re-so-fucked kind of laugh. “His specialty was information. His contingency is releasing all his blackmail material so that people turn on each other. Can’t enjoy being king if everyone’s murdering everyone else. Even if they don’t target us, we’re likely to be entirely on our own against the Warlords.”

Quentin’s stomach dropped. He had no illusions over their chance of victory alone. Gods, he didn’t even know if he still had a gang after yesterday. How many people would fear for their lives or be bitter after the death of a friend and leave? And if gangs from the north blamed him and Razia for the violence…everyone was in danger. Not just him and Razia but Lucy, Isa, Samantha, and everyone else.

“Fuck.”

“Fuck,” Razia agreed. “We might…We might consider leaving,” she said, sounding so very small.

His blood turned to ice. As soon as Razia said it, everything in Quentin screamed for him to say no. This was their home, dammit. They fought so long and hard to get the Moonlit Garden up and running, and there were too many people relying on them to leave. Maybe it was the revelation that dying really wasn’t the end that emboldened him, but he slammed his fist down on the table.

“We’re not going anywhere,” he said. “We haven’t lost yet. We’ve got stuff we’re working on to handle this. After yesterday, there’s no way Piro and Christophe are going to make an appearance north again. This kind of big play, they’re relying on the infighting to take us out. What if it doesn’t?”

Omar cleared his throat. He looked old then, much older than his fifty something years. “You must consider how many people are going to blame this entire war and this attack and Cicero’s assassination on you two. Some of them might be too busy dealing with old grudges, but I guarantee you an attempt on your lives. It’s only a question of when.”

Everything they said made sense. It didn’t matter. After all of this effort, the idea of just giving up was… “No,” said Quentin. “I’m not leaving. You two can if you like, but I like my home and I’m not going anywhere. If people come for me or ours I will cut them all down. Even if it takes me forever. What kind of help was Cicero expecting out of you?”

Razia turned to face Omar. “Yeah,” she said. “I know you’re powerful, but don’t you need to keep some distance so you’re not obviously corrupt?”

Omar’s face twisted into rage. The first time Quentin could ever recall seeing him angry. “I am not corrupt,” he hissed. “Everything I do is for the stability of Orchrisus and her people. Most of the time that means working with the law and keeping order. Sometimes it means dirtying your hands so things don’t get worse or out of control. Do you have any idea what it takes to try to manage the world’s largest city?”

“No,” said Quentin, the answer pulled from him against his will. He shook his head, “I don’t think you’re corrupt. I know what it takes to run the Garden and keep it safe. I can only imagine it’s worse on that scale. Razia didn’t mean anything by it.” He shot her a warning look. She nodded begrudgingly.

“Fine,” Omar said, forcing himself to calm down. “To answer your question, I can manage the Watch. I have been managing the Watch. As far as the Northeast and Southeast Watchtowers are concerned, the Shades’ masks are a sign of someone to be ignored. It can’t and won’t last forever, especially when violence gets worse, but you’ve been shielded up until now.

“More importantly, I think we can move ahead of this. Believe it or not, you were one of the few people Cicero wasn’t worried about, Quentin. I can get you some shards if I can move quickly. What you do with those is your business, but that and keeping the Watch from breaking down your door and dragging you in are a start. I’m going to have my hands full managing the violence. So here’s what you two can do for me.

“You need to lay low for a bit. Live your lives, but no more raids. No offensive actions of any kind. You need to stay put, shore up your defenses, and try your absolute best to not die or attract the attention of some of those who might resent you for your quick ascension in Cicero’s graces.”

“We’ll…try,” Razia said, sounding like she was forcing it.

Omar chuckled. “You cannot lie to me, Ms. Rashid. Do or don’t, it’s on the two of you. I’ll do what I can but if you can’t keep yourselves in check then you really are on your own.”

“We won’t go south,” Quentin promised. “Anything we do will stay north of the bridge.”

“That’s acceptable.” Omar stood up. “I have a lot to do. I assume you two can show yourselves home safely.” With a respectful nod to each of them, Omar left.

“We can’t just do nothing,” Razia said.

“I know,” Quentin replied. “And we’ll do what we can, but we won’t go south. You and Isa’s are working on the plan, right?”

“Yes,” said Razia. “We’ve got most of the details worked out. I…I can’t believe Cicero’s dead,” she said.

He’d been trying not to think about it too hard. “We’ll be okay,” he said, taking her hand in his. “I won’t let anything happen to us. No matter what.”