“Tell former Shield-Captain Kranth that his life is now forfeit.”
Pyke smiled, recognising the voice of his interrogator, Drask.
“I hear you wanted to have a go at me with red-hot pincers,” he said.
“Ah, the chief graverobber, Pazzyk, allegedly. Yes, we find that glowing instruments are the fastest route to the truth …”
“Well, if it’s the truth yer after, here’s some for you—we’re not the enemy around these parts. And while I’m handing out free advice, avoid Peligar’s savoury stall in the Nightmarket—his rat bridies’ll give you a monstrous dose of the skrath!”
“Actually, on second thoughts,” said Drask, “there’s no need for you to pass on any messages—your life is forfeit, too.”
Some gut-level animal instinct made Pyke twist away and roll behind the cover of a water barrel. There was a tight cluster of metallic cracks as several feathered darts impacted the tiled area where he’d been crouching. When he peered out from behind the barrel a moment or two later, the parapet opposite was empty.
Time we made ourselves scarce, he thought, hurrying to join the others.
This building turned out to be closely adjoined to a lower, broader one and although there was no ladder there was a series of hand- and footholds in the stone, with one or two iron grab-handles sunk into the masonry. The roof below was flat and divided into squares, each with a trapdoor, a small garden box-plot and a washing line on two poles. Some had little glowing lamps hanging from the poles, others had small sheds built over the trapdoors. There was the occasional startled intake of breath or muttered curse as the four escapees hurried through.
From the eastern side a rope ladder dropped into a yard-wide gap between the flat-roofed building and an older one with gables. They climbed down to a ledge which gave them an easy crossing onto an upper-floor balcony that ran the full length of the house. At the other end was a small platform and a cunning sequence of protruding bricks sloping down to the shadows of an alleyway. Down at ground level the maze of streets that made up the lamplit Old Town was hazy with night-mist—above them, the maze of roofs was a pitch-black labyrinth which Pyke was glad to leave behind. Once or twice during their skulking overhead retreat, Pyke had glimpsed their former captors still in pursuit, but now, as they wound through the narrow, twisty streets, he started to believe that they were in the clear.
Vrass said they were near the edge of the Darvanu slums and that he knew of a disreputable alehouse in the basement of a sweatshop. Everyone was feeling worn out and hungry so they followed his lead to a set of narrow, smelly steps leading down and around the back court of a building set on a hillside. At last they reached their goal, a place known as the Two-Headed Dog. Inside it was warm, stuffy and reeking of sweat and smoke. They ordered tankards of beer, some bread and cheese, then found a secluded corner. Once the greater part of the edibles had been devoured, Pyke leaned forward, elbows on the scarred table.
“Okay, I’m guessing that the whole point of this scenario the Legacy has got us all rushing around in is to stop the Emperor getting hit with a dose of this blood-poison, yeah?” Heads nodded round the table. “We know where it came from, and who brought it into the city …”
“Can we be certain that this poison is somewhere in Granah?” said T’Moy.
Pyke frowned. “Well, we know that after the mad half-brother Abryl was executed, Sergeant Dalyak came back here and left a journal in his lockbooth, which someone else went to a lot of trouble to steal.”
“It would help if we knew who would want to make the Emperor go mad,” said Vrass, brushing crumbs from his snout.
Klane uttered a low laugh. “Kranth, my previous persona, knew quite a lot on that topic. A list of the Emperor’s adversaries would include half of the noble families, some of the wealthier merchants, a couple of the senior guildmasters, followers of Vondral …”
“That’s a church of some kind, isn’t it?” said Vrass.
T’Moy nodded. “About a quarter of the Barlig riderclans worship Vondral, but there is an unorthodox branch, the Vondral Diligents, who have been persecuting Shamaya followers, so the Emperor banned them from Granah and the precinct towns …”
“More memories from Trogian?” said Pyke.
“Yes,” said T’Moy. “Disturbing how readily available they are.”
A sombre mood had crept over the gathering, but Pyke was determined to lighten things.
“Just part of the deal,” he said with a dismissive gesture. “We use whatever skills and brainpower we’ve got to complete the Legacy’s twisty puzzle-story—which is why I think we should focus on the boxhouse break-in as a way of tackling the whole problem.”
“Did you and T’Moy recover any clues when you were there?” said Klane.
“We knew the looter, or looters, went straight for the journal,” Pyke said. “And we have these.”
From an inner pocket he took out the fingerless gloves and laid them on the table. The others leaned in closer for a better look in the meagre candlelight.
“Hmm,” said Klane. He prodded one of them, turned it over a couple of times and ran a fingertip across the backs. “Looks grubby and frayed, but the base material is finely woven wool and the stitched strengthening panels on the palm and inner surfaces of the fingers is a flexible but tough leather, something like goatskin.”
Pyke smiled. “These were custom-made.”
“Repaired, too.” Klane pointed out where gashes in the wool had been mended with fine stitching.
“So, a talented seamstress,” Pyke said. “Someone used to dealing with rogues and villains, someone who lives and plies her trade in the slummier part of town …”
T’Moy chuckled. “Where we happen to be.”
“Yeah, but anyone who has skills that are in demand will try to set up shop where the customers are.” Pyke gave a half-smile. “So where is Granah’s hub of criminality and shady characters? In the olden times it was called a rookery.”
A grinning Vrass waved a finger. “In Jarko District there’s a square of streets with a pretty dark reputation—the city watch calls it Dreg’s Den.”
“That sounds like the place,” said Pyke. “So, find our seamstress and see if she’ll tell us who she made these gloves for, and once we get a name we can go about finding out who he was working for, or at least talking to. That should lead us to whoever stole the journal.”
Everyone was in agreement so they decided to make their way to Dreg’s Den under cover of night rather than risk it during daylight. As they hurried through the backstreets and alleyways a series of brief but blustery showers fell, leaving the dark lanes slippery with muddy pools and the lamplit roads shining and wet. Following Vrass’s lead, as he strove to recall the way from Virl’s memories, they crossed over from the Darvanu slums into Jarko District by the small hours of the morning. Moving with stealth, they turned down an alley that Vrass was sure led to Dreg’s Den, only to round a corner and find the way blocked by a high wooden barricade. Vrass was baffled for a moment then slapped the side of his face and nodded.
“Virl only heard about this place,” he said. “He’d never actually been here. He was told about a road into the Den, Kalzor’s Walk, but thought that there had to be other ways in.”
“Huh, seems not,” Pyke muttered. “Which way to Kalzor’s Walk, then?”
It took another half-hour, splashing through wet streets in semi-darkness before they came to a spot where a stone bridge passed overhead, spanning a gully between the lower parts of Jarko District and a section up on higher ground. Across the street, steps led up the side of the bridge stonework—a lamp shone at the top, a cheery orange glow in the latest shower which, as they climbed, turned into a heavy downpour. By the time they got up onto the bridge, Pyke was drenched, every footstep a sodden squelch, not unlike everyone else.
They crossed the bridge, seeing no one else except an old man in an open, candle-lit hut, cooking a skillet of something unidentifiable on a brazier while a
cat sat patiently beside his stool. When T’Moy asked the way to the nearest pothouse he never so much as glanced up, but he did give them directions. Pyke smiled, certain that other unseen eyes were tracking their movements.
Roughly built, decrepit three- and four-storey buildings flanked the entrance to Dreg’s Den, dark silhouettes broken by lamplit windows. The old man’s directions led them to a reeking alley between two buildings; a rickety staircase creaked under every foot as they climbed to a platform at the rear of one of the houses. There, another set of steps led down, all the way to some kind of sub-basement door over which hung a sign—the Bloody Crown.
Inside, two smoky, low-ceilinged rooms were served by a bar in the middle and linked by a short passage. Tallow candles and rushlights provided pools of weak light—smoke from a couple of badly flued fires looked weirdly like mist curling and shifting through the pothouse. The four of them bought beakers of ale and spread out, wandering off to different tables, seeing who would talk freely and who might need a cup or two to loosen their tongues. The Bloody Crown, however, was only about a quarter full so they managed to run through all those capable and willing to talk in less than half an hour, after which they gathered at a table near the door—except for T’Moy who carried on listening to one whiskery old geezer who was employing vigorous hand gestures. When he finally left the greyhair, T’Moy slumped down at their table with a kind of glazed look in his eyes.
“Did he actually tell you anything worth knowing?” Pyke asked.
“No,” the Bargalil said. “But I did learn more than I could ever wish to know about pigeon catching.”
Pyke grinned. “You want to watch out for the professional gabsters, so let that be a lesson to you. What’s the next port of call?”
The next after-hours dive was round the corner and once again down in the basement. Blessed with the name the Bear’s Boot, it was a single large room with a long counter at the rear wall. It was fairly well lit with plentiful wall lamps and had large fires in two corners, each with a proper hood to stop the smoke wafting out. And there was a fight in progress when they arrived—five very drunk men were swinging punches, furniture legs and, in one case, a shoe, grunting and snarling and swearing, yet also managing to trip each other up while grappling, shoving and kicking, and all with a swaying, semi-stupefied lack of energy and speed. A casual passing observer might have thought that the fight was taking place underwater.
The barkeep and his tap-boys were watching and laughing from the counter but not for long. A certain amount of impromptu violent entertainment was always welcome, but it couldn’t be allowed to interrupt the business of parting the customers from their coin for too long. Three tap-boys dived in to break up the scuffle and eject those unwilling to peaceably buy more ale. As calm settled over the tavern and serious drinking resumed, Pyke and the others re-enacted the strategy they’d used at the Bloody Crown. The Bear’s Boot was more than half-full so Pyke was anticipating another gruelling session as they trawled the babble and chitchat of those willing to talk. But after about ten minutes spent buying ales for a table of street-sweepers, T’Moy sidled up and said,
“Got it, Captain!”
“Well, keep asking around—we’ll need a full list of possibles to work from.”
“No need, this is the one.” T’Moy crouched down next to Pyke’s stool. “I got talking with a neatly dressed old boy who turned out to be a thread-seller. Sells all kinds and colours of thread to all of Granah’s tailors, seamstresses, leatherworkers and others. He knows them all, and knows exactly who we’re looking for, a Mistress Flett. She lives over her own shop which is located back across the bridge, first corner on the left!”
Vrass had arrived just after T’Moy and heard most of what he said, speaking up as he finished.
“I was talking to a couple of slaters who were in some grog-dive in the lowers less than an hour ago, said there were a couple of Shylan going around, asking about seamstresses or tailors …”
“What has happened?” said Klane, last to rejoin the group.
“We heard a rumour that your former associates have been out in the pubs asking about seamstresses.” He glanced at Vrass. “And tailors, that right?”
Pyke rubbed at his stubbly cheek in irritation. “Tailors. They must have gone back to the boxhouse for a closer look at the body of our unknown thief. I’ll bet that his shabby workwear was more finely made than its appearance would suggest.”
“That sounds likely,” said Klane. “The Shylan Shields are meticulous and observant.”
“No time to lose, then.” Pyke stood and buttoned up his damp coat again. “Let’s get back over that bridge.”
Outside the rain had eased and the cold night air had that post-downpour freshness to it. They trudged and splashed their way back across the bridge, alert eyes watching openings and doorways to either side. Vrass was in the lead, following the directions he was given, with Pyke at his back, feeling edgy and somehow certain that this was too easy, too straightforward.
That bastard Legacy wouldn’t just give us the next piece of the puzzle or line of the riddle without making us work for it!
Vrass halted suddenly and backed up a few steps. “Shylans guarding the outside of a small shop across the road!” he whispered.
And there you have it!
Teeth gritted in a soundless snarl, Pyke grabbed them one by one and pulled them all back, pointing to the narrow mouth of an alley leading into the back courts of tall, crumbling tenement blocks. It was pitch-black beyond the entrance so Pyke had Vrass and T’Moy light up a couple of candle stubs (which he’d liberated from cold sconces in the bars they’d visited earlier). Few windows overlooking the rear enjoyed the luxury of glass panes, most having shutters instead, so silence and stealth were crucial. An eagle-eyed search revealed iron rungs in one wall and some minutes later they had made it up onto a slaterers’ platform that spanned the side of the roof from front to rear. Crouched up there in the shadowy heights, they had a perfect view of the street and the two guards flanking the doorway to a small shop.
After getting on for ten minutes crouching then kneeling on wet stone, with no change below and no other sounds to break the silence, Pyke found his patience wearing thin.
“I feel like going down there to make something happen,” he said.
“Hmm,” said Vrass. “It appears that we’re not the only ones in the audience, and she certainly seems to have settled down to wait.”
Puzzled, Pyke looked round to see Vrass pointing almost vertically down. Moving to join him, he peered over the edge of the parapet and saw that the upper floors of the adjacent frontage were set back from the ground floor a short distance, enough to create a long balcony. Potted bushes and small trees had been scattered along it, with a few tables and chairs. Directly below Pyke saw the glow of a lamp through bushy foliage and a crouched shape in a dress looking through the balcony ironwork at the guarded shop across the road.
“Good chance that’s our seamstress,” he said.
“How can you be sure?”
“Who else is likely to be spying on that particular shop from such a good hiding place? Apart from us?”
Klane seemed half convinced. “A likely deduction.”
“I would say very likely.” Pyke grinned as an impulse occurred to him. “I also think I should seize the opportunity and introduce myself.”
It was difficult to be sure in the gloom but it certainly felt as if three pairs of eyes were regarding him with astonishment. “Is that wise, Captain?” said T’Moy.
“If I can persuade her that we’ve a common enemy, she might be more inclined to help us—otherwise, we leave her be and where does that get us?”
There were murmurs of reluctant assent, after which Vrass helped Pyke find another set of slaters’ climbing rungs not far along the road-facing roof’s narrow catwalk. Pyke descended cautiously but near the bottom found himself coming down behind a leafy bush. The woman-in-hiding’s lamp was still visible, so he d
ecided to be bold. He climbed down the remaining rungs with no attempt at stealth, cleared his throat and hummed a little song. When he reached the balcony, leaves rustling all around him, he stepped out from behind the bush, grabbed a rickety wooden chair from a nearby table, positioned it over at the railing and sat down.
“Good evening,” he said, conversationally. “Bit of a damp night for taking in a display of street theatre, eh?”
No reply. The woman had dimmed her lamp during his noisy arrival but she hadn’t made a dash for it.
“You gotta admire those Shylan boys,” he went on. “They don’t care how many doors or heads they have to kick in to get what they’re after. Took some fierce running and dodging to give them the slip when we escaped their lair earlier today …”
That was when he felt the cold razor point of a dagger press into the side of his neck as a hand seized his collar from behind.
“My name’s Pyke, by the way …”
“Sit still and be quiet,” said a calm female voice. “Gods, your gabbling is worse than the tatter girls …”
“Heh, no problem, so long as you realise that I’m not your enemy.”
“Remains to be seen. And you said ‘we’ before.” The grip on his collar tightened. “Are there others like you nearby? Do they prattle away like you do?”
Pyke laughed. “No, they’re quite reserved and polite compared to me. But we are all looking for the same thing. And we need to find it before they do.”
“The same thing? Which would be what?”
“A book that was stolen from a boxhouse the day before yesterday.”
He felt the dagger point ease away some.
“Which boxhouse?”
“The Raskol, over near Ithlyr.”
There was a moment’s silence, then the dagger was back.
“How do you know what was taken? Are you with the city watch?”
Pyke toyed with various untruthful answers but decided to be as honest as he could.
“Actually, we were hired to break into the Raskol,” he said. “And to steal that same book from one of the lockbooths … but the book was gone and there was a body …”
Splintered Suns Page 24