A Fool of Sorts

by Taylor O'Connell

  Valla smirked. Then drank long and loud, whipping her mouth when she’d finished.

  Sal took a sip. “I’ll needs savor this one. Your barboy took me for a copper.”

  “Willus?”

  “If that’s the name of the horse behind the bar, I’d say yeah, that’s the one.”

  “Must have taken a liking to you. He usually takes them for a silver.” Valla reached into her pocket and flicked him a copper krom.

  Sal smiled, tucked the coin into his pocket, and chugged his ale the way Valla had. He set it on the table, opened his mouth to speak, and was cut short by a grunt and a nod from Valla. Sal hesitated, but the arch of an eyebrow from Valla got him to his feet. Taking Valla’s mug with him, Sal returned to the bar.

  “Two more,” Sal called out to Willus. This time, the barman snapped to attention. He took Sal’s mugs, refilled them, and placed them on the bar without comment. “This one’s for you,” Sal said, slapping the copper on the bar and taking the mugs.

  When he returned to Valla, she was seated back at her table, a foot tapping as though he’d kept her waiting. “You took long enough at the bar with Willus,” Valla said with mock scorn. “Flirting, were you?”

  Sal set the mugs of ale on the table and took the seat next to her.

  “Now, Salvatori, there is something I have wanted to discuss. Our friend Vincenzo tells me you were arrested. How is it a day and a half later I find you here in my establishment and not in a crow-cage?”

  Sal cleared his throat and repeated the question, buying time to think about how he wanted to answer. “Vinny was mistaken. I can see why he may have thought things happened that way, but I assure you, nothing could be farther from the truth. In fact, I’d be happy to lay out the order of events, but I would doubt if you are interested in hearing the story. It is not nearly so droll as Vinny made it seem, I’m certain.”

  Valla leaned back in her chair and casually reached for her mug. “By all means, do tell.”

  Sal took a long drink of his ale, a flat yellow substance that was too thin, by far, for his taste. Though, one could expect nothing less than poor fare from such an alehouse. Men did not come to the Rusted Anchor for the drink and fodder.

  “Ay, well, Vinny and I decided to run a small-time job that quickly went awry.”

  “Bit rusty after your holiday, are you?”

  “Wasn’t on my account that things went wrong, but that’s hardly the point. It went wrong, and we found ourselves in a little rooftop chase with the City Watch. Vinny and I split up, and I wound up falling through a roof.”

  “You fell through a roof?”

  “Yeah, also not the point. Look, I fell through the roof, and when I hit the table, the steel caps burst in, hounds at the lead, and with all the commotion they caused attacking the homeowners, I managed to slip past without a scratch. Now, I assume if Vinny told you he saw me arrested, it was the man that lived in the shoddy hovel I crashed through. If it weren’t for him going at those hounds with a long sword, I never would have made it out.”

  Sal swallowed, and Valla’s eyes narrowed.

  “The man from the house you fell into was arrested?”

  Sal shrugged. “I’d have to assume. Didn’t see it for myself, did I? I was too busy getting the hell out of there.”

  “And you think Vincenzo mistook this man for you?”

  “I’d have to think he did, but I haven’t had a chance to talk with Vinny since that night.”

  “And you weren’t arrested by the City Watch?”

  “If I’d been arrested, I’d be in a crow-cage, wouldn’t I? But I’m not, I’m sitting here with you, drinking ale and telling stories.”

  “That is hard evidence to contradict. It seems one of us will need to speak with Vincenzo about spreading tales when he would do best to keep his mouth shut.”

  Sal took a drink, averting his eyes from Valla’s shrewd stare.

  “Well then, seeing as you’re here with me, and not stuffed inside a crow-cage, I would like to make a proposition. I’d like you to join my crew. If you’re back on the job, that is.”

  “Why, Valla dear, I’m honored that you should think so highly of me. But I suppose it depends on what sort of work you have in mind?”

  “Well, you’ll be second-story more often than not. However, I have been in need of a good cat’s paw for the bigger jobs.” And there it was, the cat’s paw. He’d been worried she would bring it up. “You know how hard it can be to find a decent cat’s paw, and you fit the bill far better than most.”

  “Not so well as you,” Sal said, winking, and hoping she didn’t see the beads of sweat forming on his brow.

  Valla smiled, but not the way a blushing maiden smiled, rather, like a cat smiled at a mouse. “Cat’s paw is a piece, not a player. You know well pieces don’t pull the strings, I need to be where I can coordinate. These days, I play point, but you, Salvatori, you could be my cat’s paw.”

  “So, now Luca’s gone you’ve gone and started yourself a crew?” With Luca out of the picture, it was only natural that Valla had taken charge. She’d always been demanding and had no trouble shouting orders. But Sal wasn’t certain he liked the idea of her playing as puppet master. Then again, he’d put up with Luca, how much worse could Valla be?

  “Luca was a rat,” Valla said. “He has nothing to do with me starting my crew. I was made on my own. My crew is Commission-sanctioned because of me, not that rat fuck Luca.”

  “I didn’t mean anything by it, Val. Luca has just been on my mind. I never did learn who his backer was for that kidnapping job.”

  Valla shrugged. “I never knew who Luca’s backers were either. That was for Luca to know, and Luca alone. If you’re curious about what he was up to before the end, might be I have something of Luca’s you’d be interested in.”

  “Oh, and what might that be?” Sal asked, his curiosity peaked.

  “You’ll see,” Valla said. “I’ll bring it with me the next time we meet. But first, I’ll have an answer from you. What do you say, in or out?”

  “I make a decent watcher, that’s true, but cat’s paw—I’m no killer, Val.”

  “No killer?” Valla laughed. “I wonder what a killer looks like to your eyes.”

  “I would say that Kalfi born, Dellan, fit the bill nicely.”

  “Dellan.” Valla nodded. “Dellan was a killer, born and raised for wet work. Though, I seem to recall a rumor about a certain someone who killed Dellan. Burned a hole right through him, if you can believe it.”

  “Way I heard it, the Lord that is Light struck the demon down.”

  “A demon, was he? I thought he was only a Vordin, but what do I know? Tell me, Salvatori, how did you put the hole in him? Flash-oil? Black powder?” Valla gave him a searching look. “No, must have been something a Talent cooked up, something rather nasty.”

  Sal shrugged.

  “Not going to say?” Valla asked with a frown. “Suppose it will out in time. But by any means, you killed him, and if you killed Dellan, what then, does that make you?”

  Sal didn’t know how to answer her. What did that make him? Was he a hero having slain that monster or just another kind of monster himself? “I’ll want fifteen off the take,” Sal said boldly.

  “You’ll get five.”

  Sal sighed and took a drink of his ale.

  “It’s agreed then?” Valla asked. “I have my cat’s paw on summons?”

  “It’s agreed,” Sal confirmed.

  Valla saluted with her mug and chugged what remained of her ale. Standing, she led Sal to a dicing table.

  When Sal finally staggered out from the Rusted Anchor, the sun had nearly set. He had wanted to speak with Vinny before the day had ended, but he was supposed to be back within the gates of Knöldrus Abbey before sundown. It was a long walk from the Toe to the abbey gates, and with little time, he would needs run some of the ways. Sal felt it would be both advantageous and wise if he were to smoke the remainder of his rolled tobacco leaf in order
to calm his mind and allow him to focus on the task at hand. He returned to the alley he’d used before and finished off the remainder of his rolled leaf.

  Heart hammering, lungs burning, legs weak, mouth dry, feet sore, stomach sick, Sal ran on. By the time he’d reached the South Market, he had wanted to collapse, but fueled by alcohol and skeev, he was able to push past mere corporeal limitations.

  The sun sank beneath the horizon as he reached Beggar’s Lane, and Sal knew, despairingly, that he wasn’t going to make it in time. He was going to break the curfew on his first night, and there was nothing he could do about it. He’d as well head for Gold Gate and make a run for it, rather than stick around and await his punishment. His uncle was right, Sal was a God’s damned fool. His stomach felt sick, and his throat began to tighten at the thought of what they would do to him if he was caught running. He put a hand to his throat and felt—the locket.

  Sal cursed. He really was a God’s damned fool. Reaching into his jerkin pocket, Sal crushed a pinch of skeev between his thumb and forefinger, grabbed hold of the locket, and focused his will.

  He burst forth like a flash of lightning, bouncing from rooftop to rooftop as he raced the setting sun.

  The gates of Knöldrus Abbey came into view. Sal leaped from the rooftop and rode the lightning until his feet hit the ground at a run. The gates were still open. Sal was going to make it.

  Sal kicked into top speed, but before he was within earshot of the monks on sentry duty, the gate closed with a resounding thud.

  Sal cursed and slowed his pace. He continued on until the gate was within an arms breadth. He called to the monks but received no response. Cursing, he began to pound on the gate with his fist, he yelled out for someone, anyone to open up, and still, he received no response.

  “Lady’s bloody tits!” Sal cursed, kicking the gate. He grabbed hold of the locket.

  “A tad upset, are we?”

  Sal whirled around. The mousy monk, Phillip, approached at a leisurely pace. He sported a cocksure smile that somewhat clashed with his dun brown robes and tonsured pate, and in his hand, he held a peach, a strange fruit for him to have this time of year.

  “You’re too late,” Sal said. “Gates been closed, and no one is answering. There’s no way in.”

  “No way in?” said Philip in a mocking tone. “But whatever shall we do?”

  Sal knew what he had planned to do, but he couldn’t very well use the locket in front of Philip.

  Philp took a bite of the peach, juice ran down his chin and dripped to the collar of his robe. Then, he moved on down the road, following along the abbey wall in the direction of the Tamber.

  Sal followed, deciding whether it was better to take his chances to get inside the abbey or if he should simply put it down for a lost cause and run now while he still could.

  Philip dragged his fingers along the stone wall of the abbey as they walked, and to Sal, it seemed an eternity before the monk stopped at the decrepit guard tower that was built into the abbey wall. The tower post was unmanned. Philip withdrew a skeleton key from the pocket of his robes and unlocked the tower door.

  Sal felt a twinge of sadness, a memory of that tower, a memory of Bartley.

  It seemed the tower door had been repaired since his youth, new support beams spanned the walls, and the top half of the stairway had been mended. Though, it seemed the tower remained roofless, as the moonlight shone through the open top. Sal followed the monk inside and up the winding stairwell that led out atop the wall. They followed the parapet in the direction of the Tamber before reaching a wooden ladder propped abbey-side.

  Philip finished his peach, tossed the pit off the wall, and descended the ladder.

  It occurred to Sal once more how strange it was that Philip had a peach, after all, where did one even get a peach in Dijvois that time of year?

  Before Sal had a chance to ask Philip that very question, the monk spoke. “You’ll want to tell your guard that you were with the abbot.”

  Sal nodded. “Thank you.”

  Philip winked and headed in the direction of the cloisters.

  Sal made his way across the abbey yard. When he reached the guesthouse, he found two robed monks standing sentry outside the door. “You’re late,” said the shorter of the two.

  “Yes well, been with the abbot, haven’t I.”

  “The abbot?” said the big one.

  “Ay, where else would I have been? Now, it’s been a long day, and I would appreciate if I could get in and get some shuteye.”

  The monks shared a look and parted for Sal.

  “My apologies,” said the shorter monk as Sal passed.

  Once within, Sal breathed deep, feeling the full effects of his run finally sinking in. He slipped out of his boots and outer garments, placed the leaves, tinder, and caps on the bedside table, and climbed into the bed. He laid his head on the feather pillow and closed his eyes.

  II

  The Choice

  The Lord that is Light showed mankind the Way. It was man who fell from favor, man who lost the Way. For the Light will never leave a true believers heart, but harbor deeper within.

  —Uthrid Stormbreaker

  At times, I wonder if I’m a bad man. Then I remember, there are no good men.

  —Luca Vrana

  9

  The Card Game

  INTERLUDE, SEVEN YEARS EARLIER

  The new moon rose as the sun dropped beneath the horizon. A clear sky, blanketed with stars, allowed for easy visibility. Sal and Bartley had made their way down to the Shoe early, a full hour before evenfall.

  “You’re sure it’s tonight?” Bartley asked in a whisper.

  “Would we be sitting here waiting if I wasn’t?” Sal asked.

  “Sorry, I was just wondering is all.”

  “The game doesn’t start until a full hour after evenfall.”

  “An hour after—Why in Sacrull’s hell did we get here so early?”

  “First rule of the game, always get there early. The last thing you want is someone getting the jump on you.”

  The little Yahdrish scoffed. “No one has ever gotten the jump on me.”

  Sal doubted that to be the case. Bartley seemed to be the kind of person that stepped before looking. “Just be grateful we’re not sitting in snow,” Sal said.

  Within half an hour, familiar faces began to show for the card game. Important men, high rollers, one and all. But to Sal, they were no more than marks, pigeons for the poaching. Most arrived in town coaches, others by foot, while one man—some Lord by the look of him—had his skiff moored bayside.

  “I don’t understand,” said Bartley. “Some of these men look gentle-born. What would they be doing this far south?”

  “They’re here for something they can’t get on their side of town,” Sal said. “And we’re here to give that to them. In truth, we will only be taking our fair due, our compensation for delivering the rush that they’re after.”

  “I’m not sure I understand what you mean,” Bartley said. “What exactly will we be giving them?”

  “You don’t need to worry so much about what you’ll be giving so much as what you’ll be taking.”

  Bartley slipped on his mask. It was the sort of mask a child wore on the day of End. The masks had been Bartley’s idea. A good idea, as it wouldn’t do for either of them to be recognized on this job. For himself, Bartley had gotten a gray wolf, and for Sal, a red fox.

  “Not yet,” Sal said. “You’ll want to wait until we’re a bit closer to put that thing on.”

  “Is that everyone?” Bartley asked.

  “We’re missing one or two, but this will as good as suit our purpose. You’ve got the snap-powder?”

  Bartley held up a small sack roughly the size of a coin purse. A shit-eating grin spread across his Yahdrish face.

  “Right, then, let’s move.”

  They slipped through the alley behind the Rusted Anchor, their boots scuffing along the cobbles, wool brushing soft linen with a m
uted swish, swish. They ducked beneath the window sill, Sal’s heart thundering in his chest. He looked to the Yahdrish and nodded, and in unison, they donned their masks.

  10

  The Orchard

  Sal woke in the guesthouse feather bed, groggy, sick, and with a crust of sleep in his eyes. He felt far from refreshed, and yet, he could sleep no longer with the sun blaring through the window. It seemed the monks of Knöldrus Abbey didn’t believe in curtains, and since the sun rose that morning, it had shone its light directly into Sal’s face.

  Sal rubbed at his eyes. He felt sick to himself for what had happened the night before, for the way he’d allowed himself to slip right back into the skeev. Apart from the magic, no good had come from the drug before. It was a difficult decision. Give up the drug, and the magic that came with it, or keep what he had, at the cost of all else.

  A difficult decision, but one he seemed to have already made. He didn’t know what he expected to happen this go around. It was only a matter of time before the drug consumed him once more, took over his mind and his body until he was willing to give up everything just for a taste.

  Worst of all, he was supposed to be helping Lilliana find and eradicate the source of the stuff.

  He looked to the bedside table where he’d left the caps along with the leaves, the length of wicking and the shard of flint. Guilt swept through him like a cold wind. His self-control was pitiful, even more than his betrayal to Lilliana.

  He’d kicked the stuff, never wanted to use it again so long as he lived, and now it was all for not. A fortnight of struggling, of pushing the thoughts of skeev from his mind, and in the end, he had given in, wasted all his effort to the contrary.

  The worst part of it was how little he seemed to care. Even as the thought of using the skeev sickened him, Sal wanted nothing more than to smoke a cap. He climbed out of bed, stretched his arms above his head, and yawned. He was about to reach for the roll of tobacco leaves when suddenly, there was a knock at the door.