Blood of the City

by Robin D. Laws

This could go on all day.

  "What was your business with Khonderian?" Luma asked.

  "That name is naught but a distant wisp of fading recollection."

  She faked a strike; he didn't fall for it. "Set aside your perfumed words, poet."

  "It reflects ill on you, to say ‘poet' like it's an insult." He faked a strike; she didn't fall for it.

  "I saw him pay you off in Bridgeward, on the street of taverns. What for?"

  "Surely you've mistaken me for another gnome of equal handsomeness."

  White light filled the lobby. Luma glanced back to see what had changed, at the same time anticipating and deflecting an expected blow. She caught the gnome's rapier in the crook of her sickle and twisted it from his hand.

  Workmen had opened one of the large entry doors to toss out the still-smoking rug. Luma decided on a stratagem. She shouted with inarticulate, feigned bloodlust and came at the gnome with apparent recklessness. Noole sidestepped her; she pretended to trip and fall into the wall, her sickle lodging in its flocked surface.

  If the gnome turned out to be more interested in finishing her than in escaping, this would prove a terrible error.

  But Luma was right: he took the opportunity not to strike at her, but to scoop up his rapier and sprint for the open doors.

  This gave her the time and distance she needed to call on another of the city's boons. She attuned herself to the crunch of pebbles and grains of sand underfoot. She called to bits of gravel strewn on rooftops and trapped in their eaves. Through the citysong she plucked stones from the soles of boots. All of these she gathered together in an enfolding, spiraling wind.

  As Noole reached the threshold, a thick hail of stone and gravel did too. It struck him in the chest and face, sending him back on his heels. Stunned, he tottered and fell. Luma, who was already running, jumped on him, a foot on his emptied sword-hand and the curve of her sickle around his throat.

  "I can kill you, or buy you a drink," she said. "Which will it be?"

  He twitched his mustache at her. "It's not yet noon. So I'll stick to ale."

  The daytime house manager, kitted in a uniform of rich green and velvet, hovered warily nearby. Luma handed him Noole's sword, daggers, and throwing knives. "You're going to hold on to these while the gentleman and I repair for private conversation," she told the manager, who gulped in frightened assent. She removed Noole's ensorceled rings, which substituted for armor, and handed those over, too.

  To her surprise, she found no burglar's kit on his person. From his way of fighting, she'd pegged him as a footpad. Judging from his accoutrements, the gnome was instead a swordsman—plain, though hardly simple.

  "We'll return for these shortly," she told the manager. "If all goes well." Later she'd return to the tavern where her chase had wreaked havoc and arrange for payment of damages. For the moment, she escorted Noole across the plaza to a rival establishment, the Sock and Buskin. Around a central table, actors half-heartedly recited lines, committing them to memory.

  Noole winced. "Not The Inconstant Nymph again! What a chestnut!" He cupped his hand theatrically to the side of his mouth and shouted, "Stage something new for once!"

  The eldest of the actors, who held himself with an impresario's authority, stood up. "Cleave to your sonnets, hack!"

  Noole wandered toward their table. "You're not playing Donatio, surely. That part is thirty years too young for you."

  The impresario threw Noole the tines. Luma took Noole by the arm and led him to a corner table.

  Luma took the bench, leaving Noole the chair, where his back would be exposed to the room. The gnome settled in. "A hail of stones. Never seen that one before."

  "Need I repeat the question?"

  "You're not the one they say murdered old Khonderian, are you?"

  Luma felt herself bridle.

  Noole's eyes glittered. "You are, you are. Well, I daresay you don't seem the murdering type. Else you'd have opened my throat too."

  The barmaid, whose blasé demeanor and overly painted face led Luma to think of her as a disappointed ex-actress, ambled to their table.

  "I'll have a pint of Old Asmodeus, and so will she," said Noole. "And your cured meat plate, and your cheese plate, and shall we say the pickle assortment?" He cracked his fingers together.

  "No drink for me," said Luma.

  "Have you had the Old Asmodeus?" Noole asked.

  "No."

  "Then she'll take the half-pint and at least taste it," Noole told the barmaid, who shuffled off.

  Luma leaned in. "I suppose I should ask if you killed Khonderian."

  "Me? Why would I?"

  "What was he paying you for?"

  Noole sighed. "The life of a versifier can be at times a chancy one. Yet for all its material deprivations, I am blessed with the chance to ascend and descend the social ladder. Oft times in the same afternoon. Along the way, one picks up scraps—sometimes a fine duck rillette, sometimes a pregnant rumor. "

  "You were his informant."

  "I prefer gossip. The other sounds impersonal."

  "And what intelligence earned you that clinking purse the other night?"

  The barmaid made her way over, carrying the first of the food plates. Noole rubbed his hands together. "I am no gentleman poet. To keep a roof over my head, I must at times resort to the unconventional."

  "You were squatting in a Qadiran trader's house in Grand Arch."

  He popped a chunk of blue cheese into his mouth. "If only I had a critic who followed me as avidly as you, my peach." He frowned. "Don't blush, child. I mean nothing by it."

  "Don't call me child."

  "At Grand Arch, did you happen to notice any skulky characters about?"

  "Across the way from you."

  "Yes. A small troop of highly armed men and women, their every furtive glance broadcasting ill intent. I crept over there one night, as I am wont to do. They spoke with Korvosan accents. Alas, I heard little of their discourse. They did have a map of the city up on the wall. Stuck there with a dagger. A breach of squatter's etiquette, I must say."

  Luma nibbled absently on a piece of cured boar. "And that's all you told Khonderian?"

  "He wanted me to do some more creeping about. I left that open as a possibility."

  "But never followed through?"

  "The muse led me elsewhere." He shoved the tankard, which she hadn't touched, toward her. "Try it. Strongly hopped, with a hint of persimmon."

  She took a grudging sip. "Why go to the head of the lord-mayor's bodyguard? Why not the lord justice?"

  "My tittle-tattle is of a political nature, chiefly, and of little interest to the law." He drained the last of his ale. "Also, Khonderian paid well. The city guard can scarcely afford blade polish."

  "And you have no guess as to why Khonderian was killed?"

  He gestured to the barmaid for another Old Asmodeus. "It can't have anything to do with me. Speaking of which, his departure leaves a gaping void in my future earnings. Surely you Derexhi could stand to enlarge your network of informants."

  "We cultivate unpaid sources."

  "Then I venture to say you're missing a trick." With one swipe he cleared the meat plate of its olives. "Let's talk advance."

  Luma stood. "Let's go get your weapons back to you."

  "My second tankard hasn't arrived. Listen, I hate to argue from need. I can impose on dear old Lady Khedre for a week or so in her servant's quarters, but do so hesitantly. Ours is an association that wilts under the heat of prolonged proximity. Khonderian's payment was not so generous as you may have assumed ..."

  Luma paid the barmaid. "Drink up, gnome. I'll tell the manager he's free to give you your sword when you come to ask for it."

  Chapter Eleven

  The Lost Workshop

  Korvosan squatters..." Arrus mused, distractedly drumming on the squad room table. Iskola sat at his side, fingers intertwined, in her standard state of glacial serenity.

  "Does that have anything to do with our clien
t?" Luma asked.

  "I'm not sure. Iskola has already sent word, asking to meet."

  Iskola broke from her contemplation. "I meant to seek permission to reveal to you, and our other siblings, the name of the client and the general objective of the mission. Now I will add this other question. It is possible that our patron has been withholding information from all of us. If so, I will express our displeasure in the strongest terms. No matter how lucrative the contract, our first priority must be defending you against the lord-mayor's false charges. Should we be forced to breach it and refund our advance, so be it."

  "Yet," added Arrus, "it is a sizable sum, so it would be preferable not to."

  "I understand," said Luma.

  Iskola shifted uncomfortably. "It was short-sighted of me to agree to so confining a secrecy requirement. I should have anticipated that you and the others would find it difficult to perform your duties under its strictures. On reflection, I cannot but concede that I erred."

  "Clients are trouble," Arrus said. "Sometimes they insist on measures meant to trip us up so they can haggle the price down when the job is done."

  "Next time," said Iskola, "I will take you along with me, to see the tricks they play."

  "I would like that," Luma said.

  Arrus produced a scroll case. "The squatters might play a role in this, or could mean nothing. Nonetheless, you did good work, and showed initiative by tracking down the gnome."

  "If you'd come to us first, we might have tried to stop you," said Iskola, "Yesterday we exchanged harsh words. Afterward, we reflected on what you said and saw the justice in it."

  What to make of this? Luma expected to wage a long war for their contrition, and here it suddenly was. It should please her, but didn't. Then she realized why. Her father. Would he tell her to stand up for herself, and then go straight to Arrus and Iskola to plead her case for her? Absolutely he would. She could see the entire scene unfold before her: their initial denials, then the full force of his logic, followed by a flare of his temper, topped off with a soothing helping of self-deprecating humor. It was what she'd wanted, when she went to him, but now that she had it, it felt hollow. He meant to help, and she couldn't blame him for it, but he had taken her chance to win this on her own.

  Still, given a choice between an unearned victory and none at all, she'd settle for the former. "If I spoke harshly, it was only in the heat of argument," she said.

  "We pushed you to it," Iskola said. "If we are to lead, we must learn to listen better." She rose and embraced Luma. "You are our sister." Both held themselves awkwardly. By mutual, unspoken impulse, they quickly disengaged.

  A moment of collective chagrin hung in the air. Arrus cleared his throat.

  The door swung open; it was Ontor. "We found it, all right," he said. Ulisa and Eibadon came in behind him.

  "Found what?" asked Luma.

  "To defend you, we must work on several fronts," said Iskola. "Foremost, we must learn who killed Khonderian. But that will go for naught if we can't convince others that it's true."

  "She means politics," said Arrus.

  Iskola nodded. "I've spent the day lining up support for you in the Council of Ushers."

  "Which costs money," added Ontor.

  Iskola crossed her elegant arms. "Father has good friends on the council. But a gift never goes awry."

  "So," said Ontor, "I followed up on that possible job you mentioned—the golem attacks in Bridgeward. First of all, the idea that magical constructs have acquired intelligence and an agenda has to be nonsense."

  "No boat dreams of shore," Eibadon intoned.

  "If golems are attacking jewel and gem stores, that's not a rebellion, that's robbery. And where there's robbers, there's a hideout—and loot to be retrieved. So I went to the Jewelers' Guild, and the Goldsmiths as well. Between them, they're willing to spring for an acceptable up-front fee. Should we find the lair where whoever it is has stashed their golems, we earn a substantial reward. As a further bonus, if there's merchandise to be recovered, we keep half, free and clear."

  "Well negotiated," said Iskola.

  "Politicians elude me," said Ontor, "but merchants I understand."

  "Very well," said Luma, "how do we find them?"

  "Already done," said Ontor. "Hand me that map, Arrus." His brother passed him the scroll case, from which he unfurled a detail map of Bridgeward. "The golems storm in suddenly and escape just as fast. A group of gigantic constructs doesn't stomp from neighborhood to neighborhood unnoticed. That means the hideout has to be near the shops they raided." Ontor stuck pins into the map. "Those shops are here, here, and here. Wizards have been building golems nearby for generations. So I had Eibadon check the library for mentions of laboratories that might not exist any longer."

  A wormy smell suffused the room as Eibadon opened a copy of the city chronicles. "Thirty years ago, or thereabouts, the workshop of Laurdin Iket, subsequently called Laurdin the Mad, was consumed by living green fire. The account hints that devils visited the catastrophe on Laurdin for failing to meet unspecified obligations. The laboratory, and he and his automatons, are described as having fallen into the earth itself."

  "So," said Ontor, "I'm reckoning someone dug down and found Laurdin's old workshop, now a subterranean chamber."

  Luma reached for the book. "The golems raiding the shops were built by Laurdin the Mad?"

  "And only now rediscovered by our robbers, or so I'm surmising. No one would create golems just to steal from stores," said Ontor.

  "They're too expensive to build," said Iskola.

  "That's right," said Ontor. "The value of the loot would pale in comparison."

  "This is not to say that these robbers are clever," Iskola said. "If they've found Laurdin's laboratory, there a chance they've also stumbled across an item of great value. One worth far more than the gems and jewels their golems have taken from the good guildsmen of Bridgeward."

  Ontor grinned. "This item—it would buy us a lot of politics, I take it."

  "Precisely so." Iskola rolled up one of her sleeves, which had fallen out of place. "The dampening ring of Laurdin Iket. The annals describe it variously, but from the name we can reckon its shape. It is likely a construction of precious metals, worked together with rivets and joins."

  "And it controls golems?"

  Iskola nodded. "A singed remnant of the wizard's own journal, held in the library's Forbidden Collection, describes its use against errant golems one might accidentally create during the experimentation process."

  "A hazard of the profession, I suppose."

  In sour acknowledgment of her brother's banter, Iskola crinkled her lip. "When placed on the golem's torso, the device instantly drains it of all animation."

  "So it's not a ring, as in a piece of jewelry," Luma ventured.

  "No," said Iskola. "Look for a hoop-like affair, perhaps six inches in diameter. I believe it affixes itself to the golem by a form of magnetism."

  Luma leaned forward. "In other words, if we find ourselves fighting golems, and we catch sight of the device, we should toss it onto the nearest or toughest automaton, and hope that it stops where it stands."

  "Throw it to me first," said Iskola. "It may require activation. I've studied accounts of the item, and may be able to do that."

  "And what are the odds we'll find it?" Luma asked.

  "Let's not count on it," Iskola said. "But if there's truly an iron golem with them, as the robbed merchants report, it would be good to have. Such creations often exhale poisonous fumes, which are not readily countered."

  Ontor reached for the chronicles. "The history doesn't give a location for the workshop at all. But it does say that, after the green fire and the collapse, the other laboratories moved west to avoid contamination. Only a few streets sit both east of the current golemworks and close to the targeted shops. So Ulisa and I went out combing them for cellar doors and other entryways that might lead to a once-buried and now-recovered wizard's lab. I found a good candidate—a
metal trapdoor, secured by a fresh new lock. I wanted to poke my nose in, but Ulisa talked me out of it."

  "If there are golems in there," Ulisa said, "all six of us must face them together."

  Luma examined the map. "Where did you find this door?"

  Ontor took another pin and jabbed it into the spot.

  "The map is wrong," Luma said, pointing to a laneway. "This has been blocked off for years and is impassable. If it goes sideways and we have to flee back up to the street, we must all head south. These buildings have been torn down and replaced by two others. Now there's a space between them, too narrow to call itself an alleyway. That's our escape route; we can squeeze through it, where golems can't."

  "A good plan," said Ontor, "but let's hope it doesn't come to that."

  "It will be a tough fight," said Arrus. "Worse than Shoanti wildmen. Are we all agreed?"

  "We need gold to shield Luma from the gibbet," Iskola said, "and right away. Has anyone else found a better source of it?"

  No one answered.

  "Then I say we must do it," Iskola said.

  "I agree," said Arrus. "Ontor?"

  "I want to see what's down there."

  "It is the only course," said Ulisa.

  "A city may not thrive," said Eibadon, "when disorder reigns."

  Arrus massaged his sword hand. "You have the most to lose here, Luma. What say you?"

  "I say let's go," she said.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Ontor led them to the Street of White Dust, a deserted avenue near the majestic ruins of the Irespan. Shore birds flapped above it, diving and fighting for prime spots to perch. Luma heard the flatulent growls of pelicans and the death-rattle cry of the speckled turnstone. A pair of Varisian children, olive-skinned and raggedy, crept up on the birds, carrying frayed loops of rope to use as snares.

  The Derexhi took scant notice of them. Wherever there was a margin or a cranny in the city, members of that vagabond people could be found scrabbling for a living or winkling out a main chance. When most people thought of Varisians, they thought of the roaming caravans of tinkers and dancers that had given the region its name. In Magnimar, however, most Varisians were of the settled sort, working laborers who scratched out lives the best they could, and had for generations. In a very real sense, Luma knew, Magnimar's land had been theirs first. Yet compared to the Chelish explorers who built Magnimar, they'd done little with it—or so Arrus was fond of saying.