This time I had no problem spotting the cause. Baylen charged into the room, screeching in a high-pitched and incoherent voice that reminded me of someone pounding on an empty, steel shipping drum. Maurice-the-dirt-mage trailed behind him, looking uncomfortable, his black coat unbuttoned and the thin mustache quivering.

  Baylen’s ridiculously large gun bounced in his holster. His jacket was gone and his cheeks were red with exertion or drink.

  “You crudmucking voidgrub,” he yelled. “Burning crudmucker.”

  I took a casual step away from the bar, giving myself room to move, and cast Baylen a curious look, my head tilted slightly to the side, gracing it with my best impression of a calm and quizzical smile. Inside, I was all ice. Time had no meaning. There was no future, no past, only an eternal now. Part of me studied that reaction, worried. Another part studied Baylen.

  I could see the incorrectly buttoned gray shirt, top buttonhole gaping empty. I could see the flush of his neck, the rolled-up sleeves, the way the monstrous gun strained against the leather locking strap that kept it secure in his holster.

  I could kill him now, trigger all my wards with a word and a gesture, burn the entire cave down and to the void with everything. Already, I felt the heat on my skin, tasted the ash on my tongue.

  Somewhere in my mind, trapped behind the ice, a voice was shouting that this wouldn’t help the hatchling.

  Baylen’s nostrils flared, thick, black hairs protruding from them. I felt the weight of the Hurmer over my shoulder, the foil on my hip. I could kill them both.

  I needed to find out where the hatchling was.

  Baylen howled and swung a meaty fist at my head, instantly unbalanced in the low gravity. I ducked, a cracked, ice-cold part of me watching myself duck, and planted a shoulder in his midriff, letting his weight roll over me, swinging him in a low arc toward the bar.

  He connected with a thud like a thousand kilos of raw flesh dropped from orbit. The ice in my head shattered and time resumed its normal flow. Maurice-the-dirt-mage was charging forward, waving his arms, tiny orange flames jumping over his hand.

  In one swift motion, I yanked the bottle from my pocket and threw it in his face.

  It hit with a resounding smack, jerking his head back and to the side. His feet kept moving forward, and he pitched over, tumbling in slow motion in the low gravity, almost making it full circle before hitting the floor. He left a trail of blood droplets in the air.

  Baylen stirred, tried to get up, and I grabbed one of the steel bar stools, lifting it over my head.

  It jerked in my hand. Moments later, my ears were assaulted by the crack of hypersonic gunfire, a short burst from a low-caliber weapon.

  Four men had entered. Three were dressed in black, reinforced street uniforms, ceramic plates clearly visible beneath layers of rip-stop weave. The fourth wore a horrible blue-and-yellow patterned shirt. It looked like someone had done a painting while high on bluegrubs.

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  Each man carried identical Volvent Lights, compact submachine guns that fired high-velocity, five millimeter bullets. The V-Light was a shortened assault rifle used for breaching actions and combat in enclosed spaces, two fifty-round flush magazines strapped to the top. The chemical-powered rounds weren’t as powerful as my electrostatic Hurmer, but good against unarmored opponents and very effective in close quarters. My mageshield would stop bullets - for a while. Of course, a gunfight now would get Tomlin, his ma, and Hao killed outright. V-Lights were excellent in spray-and-pray mode, a favorite tactic of thugs everywhere.

  “Stand down, son,” the lead thug said. He was big, both tall and large. He was also the one who’d put a few holes in my bar stool, filling the air with the pungent stench of nitroglycerine. The similarity to Baylen was, if not striking, then at least present.

  So this was Da Baylen, the feared owner of the Jackson Consortium. Also, the holder of a submachine gun, which he apparently knew how to use. Of the three thugs behind him, two had gone down on one knee, keeping me covered with their V-Lights, their fingers on the triggers. The third was making his way to the side, giving them two angles of fire. So let’s mark the team effort as competent.

  “Put down the chair, son,” said Da Baylen. He jerked his nose slightly upward, but his eyes and gun were steady on me.

  I obeyed, making sure to step back from his son as well. The fact that it took Ma Tomlin out of Da Baylen’s direct line of fire, through me, was a complete coincidence. I took an extra step back, scraping my hip in the granite bar, just to make sure.

  Of course, if they wanted to kill us, they could.

  “Get him,” said Da Baylen, and I tensed, thinking he meant me.

  Instead, one of his goons walked up and grabbed Baylen by the arm, hauling him up. Young Baylen swayed, and a mighty lump was already turning purple by his right eye. If he didn’t suffer from a nice concussion tomorrow, I didn’t know Jack about hand-to-hand combat. I hoped it would be accompanied by significant puking, too.

  One of the Baylen goons gave Maurice a light kick in the ribs. The dirt mage growled something, trying to get to his feet. The goon didn’t help him. No love lost, there. Good to know.

  The entire group started making their way out of the mine-run-cum-inn.

  “Hey,” I yelled after them, “you’ve got something of mine.”

  Baylen jerked away from his supporting goon, flailing his arms as he reached for the goon's gun. The ice slammed back into my mind, and I sank to one knee, pulling on the Hurmer’s carry strap.

  Before I could bring it to bear, Maurice stepped up, trying to stare Baylen down by pure will. Baylen gave him a good shove that toppled him over the side of a table, lifting his coat and ripping his black shirt open, giving me a look at Maurice's pale skin.

  Maurice-the-dirt-mage had a Syndicate tattoo.

  It sprawled across his side, a three-spoked wheel framing an eye and a star. I didn’t recognize the clan, but the wheel was enough.

  My ice started to splinter. The Syndicate had my hatchling. If they didn’t know the value of a live wyrm, it wouldn’t take long for them to figure it out. After that, our lives would be pretty much forfeit, and likely the lives of everyone on Jackson.

  My Hurmer was still on my back, my foil in its sheath. I might trigger a fire ward, but it would fill the room, burning Hao and the Tomlins, possibly me as well. I started pulling on my Hurmer’s carry strap, shifting it around my body.

  The two goons aiming their guns at me tensed.

  It’s a small thing, a narrowing of the eyes, a rising of the shoulders, the mind preparing to kill.

  Some people don’t have it. Those you want to ambush because in a straight-out fight, they’ll get you every time. They’re all ice, all the time.

  The goons weren’t cold killers. But neither was I. They’d gun me down before I got the Hurmer up.

  Maurice and the third goon were helping Baylen out, Da Baylen trailing them.

  I didn’t shoot them, didn’t self-destruct my wards. I was halfway sane again, and I don’t take pleasure in killing.

  And there was something wrong with this entire situation.