“I guess I figured it would be a pretty place for him to rest.”
“It is, if you don’t mind the stench, and you’re alive.” The man nodded toward Owen. “He’s dead.”
“Yeah . . .” Edgar agreed. It still hurt to think of Owen that way. “He probably wouldn’t have cared about the view anyway . . .”
“Owen never struck me as being overly concerned about any kind of beauty not attached to a woman’s face and figure.”
“You knew him?”
“He used to work for me.”
“I didn’t know.”
“How could you?” The man stepped closer. “You don’t know who I am yet.”
“That’s true . . .” Shadows still hid all but the man’s piercing eyes. “Who are . . .?” Edgar hesitated. They were in the Necropolis, at night, during a rainstorm; did he really want to know the man’s identity?
“Who are you?”
“Bolodenko.”
Edgar blinked. Damn curiosity! He took a step back, stumbled in the muddy hole he’d been digging and fell on his butt.
“That’s not the worst reaction I’ve seen,” Bolodenko said. “Most people drop to their knees and start begging for mercy. Others just piss themselves.” He sniffed. “But you’ve already done that haven’t you?”
“I . . . I was dead . . . or rather . . . I mean I was . . . drugged . . .”
“I know all about that Edgar.”
“You do?”
“I have people who tell me things.”
“Oh.” Someone had talked to Bolodenko about him? He wasn’t sure if he should feel proud or scared about that. “Sure.”
“People told me Owen was dead.”
Edgar scowled. “They told you wrong.”
“Not usually.” He eyeballed Owen again. “And from the looks of it, I’m quite sure I’m not this time.”
“I mean, he ain’t just dead. He was murdered.”
“Oh? By whom?”
“Josephine Hewes. She shot him.”
Bolodenko’s icy gaze pinned Edgar to the ground. “That’s not what happened.”
“The hell it is! The bolt’s still in his chest!”
“It wasn’t murder.”
“How the hell would you know?”
“Not much happens in my city without me knowing about it.”
“Your city?”
Bolodenko gave him a curious look. “Are you implying it’s not?”
Edgar opened his mouth and shut it again. What the hell was he doing? Was he arguing with Bolodenko about how powerful Bolodenko was? Edgar winced. If Bolodenko wanted to call Belyne ‘his’ city, who was he to argue with him? Gods-damn it! He was starting to get the feeling his mother had been wrong about him. Maybe he wasn’t the smarter son.
“Owen pulled a knife on Josephine,” Bolodenko said. “She shot him before he could kill her.”
“No. That ain’t the way . . .”
Bolodenko pulled a knife from his belt. Edgar’s bladder suddenly seemed very full. He stopped talking and raised his hands in the air. The knife was big and long and nasty looking and on second glance, Edgar recognized it as Owen’s.
“The collectors didn’t take it when they loaded his body.” With a flick of his wrist, the knife spun out of Bolodenko’s hand and lodged blade-first in the cold mud between Edgar’s legs. Edgar stared down at it. Two inches higher and his bad night would have gotten so much worse.
“Time is money,” Bolodenko continued, “so let me make things clear for you. Besides working for me, your brother also worked for the Bloody Fists. He attacked Josephine first, she defended herself. End of story. Grieve for his death, if you must, but don’t blame Josephine for your loss.”
“Why are you telling me all this?”
“Because whether she knows it or not, Josephine is going to need your help.”
“With what? That crazy idea of hers of saving Lord Ian and stopping Lord Ragget?”
“Yes.”
“Why should I give a rat’s ass about what happens to a couple of lords?”
“Because I care, and you’d be doing me a big favor.” Bolodenko crouched in front of him, reached out and grabbed his chin. Their eyes met, and Edgar struggled to keep from looking away. “And I would owe you a favor in return. You understand how valuable those are, don’t you? An owed favor?”
Edgar swallowed hard. Usually it was the other way around. “I . . . do . . .”
“And?”
“I’ll . . . have to think about it . . .”
Bolodenko’s icy gaze bore through his skull and froze the rainwater dripping down the back of his neck. Edgar shivered. If he hadn’t already been sitting in the mud, he probably would have fallen over. What the hell had he just done? I’ll have to think about it?! The familiar string of words had slipped out before he could cram them back down his throat! Bolodenko released his chin and stood, towering over him. The silence stretched uncomfortably. Edgar thought he might just piss himself all over again.
“Well?” Bolodenko cocked his head to one side. “Had enough thinking time?”
“Yes. It’s just . . . I have a couple of questions . . .”
“I admire a man with balls. Don’t make me take yours.”
“No . . . of course not . . . it’s just I . . . I ain’t exactly flush with funds.”
“Your needs will be met.”
Edgar nodded. Maybe, just maybe, he might come out of this encounter not only alive, but better off than he started. Not many people could say the same about their dealings with Bolodenko.
“And I ain’t got any idea where Josephine is.”
“She’s hiding out at the Rose Theater right now, but she can’t stay there much longer. Eventually the royal wardens will think to search for her there. Go to her. Apologize for being an ass. Take her to the Walpole. Use the name Stronghold. They’ll give you a room.”
Edgar’s eyes widened. The Walpole was one of the swankiest hotels in the city. He glanced down at himself. “I ain’t exactly sure they’ll let me through the front doors looking like this.”
“The Rose will have something you can borrow. I’ll send a man over to the Walpole later with whatever else you might need, including your orders.”
“Orders?”
“You’re working for me now, Edgar.”
“Oh . . .” Edgar nodded. “I guess I ain’t used to working for nobody but myself . . .”
“Nonsense, you’ve worked for me before.”
“When?”
“We have a mutual friend.”
“We do?”
“The apothecary. You worked for him. He worked for me. You worked for me.”
“Oh . . .” Edgar’s mind raced. Josephine had interrupted his last heist. Crap!
As if reading his thoughts, Bolodenko said, “Don’t worry about failing to complete that last job. I got someone else to steal the campornil.”
“Had I known . . . I would have . . .”
Bolodenko made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “You thought you were doing the right thing helping Josephine.”
“Yes. Exactly . . . Speaking of campornil, you ain’t by chance got any on you right now?”
“Why?”
Edgar lifted his shirt. The blood-stained fabric pulled painfully away from the gash under his armpit. Bolodenko bent and examined the wound.
“I’ve seen worse.” He placed a heavy hand on Edgar’s head and began muttering a series of foreign words. Edgar froze. What the hell was Bolodenko doing? Praying? Casting a spell? He’d never heard anything like it before.
“That should close up by the time you get to the Walpole.”
A bizarre tingling sensation grew out of Edgar’s core and expanded into his extremities. Fatigue and pain melted away and he found he could breathe deeply again.
“What the hell did you do?”
Bolodenko gave a nonchalant shrug. “Nothing much. A trifle bit of magic . . .”
Edgar laughed.
“Wha
t do you find so funny?”
“I . . .” He shook his head. “I ain’t sure I should say . . .”
For a long moment, Bolodenko did nothing but stare at him. It was impossible to tell from his blank expression what he was thinking, but then he cocked his head to one side and the faintest hint of a smile touched his lips.
“I understand your hesitancy. You’ve heard stories about me and my stone-faced men,” Bolodenko said. “Perhaps Josephine told you about what we did to her father. It wasn’t personal. It was business. Once he paid off his debt, we didn’t trouble him again. Now sometimes, people do stupid things and I’m forced to react. The stronger the message I send, the fewer messages I need to send. But that doesn’t mean I’m always cruel and brutal. Sometimes I’m kind and generous. I do whatever is necessary to achieve my goals.”
“I thought you only killed people . . .” Again, the string of words was out before Edgar could stop them. What was it about Bolodenko that made him so . . . chatty?
“I think you should only kill a man when you can profit from his death,” Bolodenko said. “The same holds true for letting a man live.”
“Are you talking about me?”
Bolodenko shrugged. “I mean any man who can perform a task for me. In this case, I do mean you. Do this task well and you will be richly rewarded.”
Edgar nodded. No one had to discuss what failure would result in.
“There’s one last thing before you go.”
Edgar stood and picked up his shovel. “Bury Owen?”
“No. My men will take care of him for you,” Bolodenko said. “It’s about Lipscombe.”
Edgar immediately felt his face grow hot with rage.
“He’s setting sail for Euclacia later today,” Bolodenko continued. “I need for him to stay alive.”
“But he raped Josephine!”
“I know. He’s a vile man and maybe someday he’ll be punished for his crimes, but I need him to stay alive for now.”
“But . . .”
Bolodenko loomed over him. “I said he needs to stay alive.”
Edgar shrank back. “Fine, I won’t kill him. But I ain’t sure Josephine will go along with that.”
“You’ll just have to keep her away from him.”
“How?”
“That’s up to you.”
“That’s easier said than done. She can be stubborn when she has a mind for it.”
“I can be deadly when I have a mind for it.”
Edgar grimaced.
“Now be off with you,” Bolodenko said with a wave of his hand. “And I’d suggest you avoid Little Ryerton. I’ve been told there are some riots breaking out in that district ever since the announcement.”
“What announcement?”
“You don’t know?”
Edgar shook his head.
“Lord Ian has been arrested for killing King Henrik.”
Edgar blinked. “Wait . . . you want me to help Josephine help the man whose been arrested for killing the king?”
“You summed that up perfectly.”
“But he’ll be held in the royal dungeon. What’re we supposed to do? Break him out?”
“Precisely.” Bolodenko slapped him hard across the back. “You catch on quick. Now run along and do as you’re told, and we’ll get along just fine.”
Bolodenko watched the young man drive away. He’d been saddened to hear of his demise before and was gladdened to discover he was still in fact very much alive. Overall, Edgar was an accomplished thief albeit on a small-scale, so his loss would have impacted him only minimally . . .
However, he hated losing an asset, no matter how insignificant.
He snapped his fingers and a pair of stone-faced men appeared from out of the darkness. Trago and Como. Identical in every way except for the expressions chiseled into their granite façades. It had been reported back to him time again that Trago’s perpetual scowl and Como’s eternal smirk were both equally unnerving to those whom they . . . visited.
Trago picked up Owen’s body. Como picked up the discarded shovel.
“Freeze the body. Sell the shovel,” he said.
Trago and Como nodded.
He hated losing an asset, no matter how insignificant.
chapter 29
With Tyran’s help, and by the light of his lantern, Wynston guided the small rowboat toward the far shore. They had traveled downstream for nearly an hour and the current was getting stronger. The young servants had taken turns hanging onto the sides, but now that they were heading toward shore, they swam freely, eager to be on dry land again. Wynston was eager too. He had never enjoyed traveling by boat, but thankfully he did not suffer the all-consuming fear of water that their new scullion had. If escaping with Tyran hadn’t been his only concern, he might have taken the time to chase after the poor young man and try to talk some sense into him.
But as terrible as it sounded, scullions could be replaced. Tyran could not.
The heir to the Yordician throne, but more importantly, Ian’s son, needed to be protected, even if it was from the royal guard! When the warning note from Bolodenko had first arrived, he’d almost dismissed it out of hand, but something about the message had rung true. Pair that with the recent troubling events, and Wynston had decided to error on the side of caution, however, by the time he had gathered everyone together, the king’s men had already arrived at the door.
He only hoped fleeing the estate had been the right course of action.
The little boat ran aground, scraping against rocks and jolted to an abrupt stop. Wynston raised his lantern. The dim light illuminated only a small portion of the shoreline. He knew the cavern here was much wider than it was tall, and his weak light would not penetrate far into the thick shadows. The air was cool and moist and filled with the pungent stench of waste. Many of the western estates’ lavatories emptied into this underground river and eventually it joined with the Annachie River which ran along the southern border of the city. It was rumored that a bored nobleman with a swift horse, an unclogged drain and a boat could relieve himself, ride down to the docks, set sail, and meet up again with his floating business just outside the southeast harbor walls.
Wynston had never attempted to verify the rumor. There were just some things about Belyne a foreigner accepted. And then there were some things a foreigner endured.
Scores of people suddenly appeared at the edge of his dim light. Dark eyes, brown, gray, black, all belonging to his Gyunwarian countrymen stared back at him. Men, women and children, the huddled masses of displaced families. Cautiously, a few of the brave souls approached, shielding their eyes, curious to see who had entered their shadowy domain. Wynston greeted them with a kind word and a nod. Being poor and homeless and of the wrong nationality topside often lent to being found murdered in a ditch or stolen away in the middle of the night. Safety was found by leaving the harsh streets above and coming to ‘Lower Ryerton’ as it had been dubbed by some of its first inhabitants. The wide cavern had become the last home for many of the wretched, those too poor to survive above ground and too weak to return to Gyunwar.
“Wynston, what brings you down here?” one of the men addressed him directly. He was a tall, balding Gyunwarian with wide intelligent eyes and ink stains on his fingers. “Did you bring us more food? Candles? Fresh water?”
“No William, not this time, I’m sorry,” Wynston replied. He stepped out of the little boat and offered Alysea a hand. “There was little enough time for our own escape.”
“Escape?” another voice piped up. “Escape from what?”
Wynston knew all eyes were on him now. Especially Tyran’s. The boy had pestered him for most of the trip, repeatedly asking him the same questions. Why were they running away? Why were the royal wardens breaking down the front door? Where were they going? He could be just as persistently stubborn as his father. He’d told Tyran to be patient, he’d eventually get his answers, but patience was not the boy’s strongest attribute.
“T
he tax man,” Wynston replied offhandedly.
A loud roar of laughter intermixed with a low grumble erupted around the cavern. Quite a few had fled to Lower Ryerton for just that same reason. Momentarily sidestepping a difficult conversation, Wynston turned back to offer Gertrude his hand. She stubbornly refused it, and jumped out of the boat, defying what anyone watching would have thought was possible for a woman her age.
“As long as I’ve got my legs, I’ll do the work myself,” she muttered, casting a cold look in his direction. She sniffed the air and her pruned face wrinkled in distaste. “Show me to the cook fire, someone is burning rats.”
Wynston moved to help the men pull the boats out of the water, but he was intercepted by Tyran.
“Tell me the truth,” the boy whispered.
Wynston gestured for him to remain silent. Most of the cavern-dwellers, realizing the boats carried no extra food or water, shuffled away. A contradiction to his earlier excuse would only capture their attention and draw them back again. Wynston was hoping to avoid that, hoping for a few hours of uninterrupted sleep before they continued to the Annachie and beyond.
“I know we’re not avoiding the tax collectors,” Tyran said. “What happened? Where is my father? Where’s mother?”
Wynston recognized the look in Tyran’s eyes. It was the same expression Ian got when he was worried.
“I know you know more than you’re saying,” Tyran continued. “Is it about the duel with Lord Orrington tomorrow or the meeting my father had with Lord Ragget earlier today?”
Wynston shook his head. Perhaps he shouldn’t have taught him the art of eavesdropping. “What did I tell you about spying on me?”
Tyran crossed his arms. “Not to.”
“Was that the only lesson you didn’t learn well?”
Tyran nearly cracked a smile. “I just . . .”
A loud splash interrupted him. Everyone turned toward the water. A handful of lanterns flickered to life and their wielders played their narrow beams over the wide river. The brackish surface rippled, and a slender figure emerged, clawing at the air, gasping, shouting.
“Mort is that you?” William called out.
“Yeah, that’s him,” another voice muttered. “Damn fool. You mark my words, if he keeps dropping straight into the river like that from up top he’s gonna break his neck.”
Stolen Justice Page 16