by JM Guillen
“Bad.” Scoundrel adjusted herself on my shoulder and peered at the man. He shifted nervously under her gaze.
“Alternatively, you can let me in the fecking door so I can talk to Santiago. I’ll be on my merry afterward, and you can go back to pretending to be upstanding.” I glared at him.
He glared back, begrudgingly. A long moment passed.
“Fine, Judicar, fine.” He grumbled and spat again. “Ain’t nuffing illegal anyways.”
“That’s good, Grith. Real good.” I smiled. “Just like the upstanding citizen you are.” I didn’t expect Grith would have done anything else. The man avoided conflict wherever he could. He wasn’t a coward; he just knew not to walk against the wind.
He pointed to my left. “Come ’round the taphouse. He’s in downside and that’s closer.”
“Also, I wager no one will see me on that side.” I gave him a tight smile. “Fine. Hurry over there. It’s raining, and I’m in no mood.”
He slammed the door. Not too hard, and not exactly in my face.
Still, he made his thoughts plain.
I stepped around the building, staying under the eaves and out of the rain. Scoundrel huddled on my shoulder, trying to keep dry under the rim of my hat.
To Grith’s credit, he was already at the side door by the time I got there. He leaned out, spat, and motioned me in.
I felt his eyes on my back as I walked inside.
I pretended as if I wasn’t worried.
3
“This way, Judicar.” Grith’s smile was condescending, almost mocking. I grunted at him, and he led the way.
It wasn’t always a simple thing to be pleasant while on the serum. The beginning of a headache was nagging at me as the alchemy boiled in my blood. The visions hammered at the edges of my mind.
“She’s one of my favorites.” He caresses the card, smiling as he plays it.
“Thom?” Scoundrel groomed my hair.
“Fine, pretty girl.” I gave her a smile. The headaches would fade; they were always harshest the day I took the serum.
The alehouse was old stone and wood, creaking with the character that such places have. It smelled old, like wood-wax and lantern oil. In the distance, I could hear the low roar of laughter and drunken revel. Someone was playing a violi, the tune quite frantic and mad.
“This way, Judicar.” Grith smiled at me, ingratiating and infuriating.
I nodded.
The hallway was lined with a patterned red carpet that was heavily worn in the center. Every doorway was watched over, typically by some thug with arms the size of my thighs. Grith smiled at me as he ushered me inside. It was a leering, sarcastic thing.
I ignored the smile and focused upon appearing stern.
This house was rife with secrets. The Red Hand had long been a group with plenty to hide. Over the years there had been plenty of writs filed, but actual proof—
Well, that was another thing entirely.
If a business was profitable, be it burglary, grifting, or long, intricate cons, then someone in the Hand specialized in that field. There were men in the guild that spent their lives learning to pick locks and bypass strongmen, and there were just as many who could charm a man of his small clothes without him ever feeling a breeze.
That was only the surface.
Months ago, my cohort Wil had started gathering facts about the Red Hand and found more than he had wagered on. Santiago had a cadre of barristers on retainer, as well as friendships with guild ministers and close personal relationships with three legates. There were associations and connections that no one would have guessed at, and quite soon Wil realized he might be in a bit deep.
He decided to stop peeking around.
The only nefarious activity the Hand was not part of was selling girls on the streets or running pillow houses. That particular activity had a dark and sinister history within the Warrens, and not even Santiago had stones enough to touch that business.
“I assume, that is.” I kept my tone low as I muttered to Scoundrel.
Occasionally, we passed a door that was a touch open. More than once I saw far more flesh than a respectable young lady would be willing for a stranger to see. The men in those rooms were certainly enjoying their time, but had they paid for that privilege?
There was no way to know.
That was the problem. Santiago’s guildmen were good at what they did. We judicars couldn’t catch them at it—not often enough to make a difference.
Grith ushered me down a long, smoky hallway, nodding at various people as we passed. Scoundrel remained on my shoulder, and more than one person gave a warding sign as she passed. I nodded my head coolly at the men and women inside, doing my best to seem friendly yet distant.
“Nice partner you have there, Grith.” It was an Esperan woman, sitting in a side room. She wore a short, crimson dress and was smoking on a fuma. Her eyes smoldered, and she was all curves and shadows.
“Ain’t no friend of mine, is he?” Grith gave her a dour look. “Judicar wants to talk with Sant—Senír Il Ladren. I’m just showing him in, aren’t I?”
She shrugged prettily, keeping her burning gaze on me. “Must be important for a judicar to visit such humble folks as ourselves.”
“’Portent.” Scoundrel squawked on my shoulder, ruffling her feathers. I had to fight not to smile. She was only mimicking, as the ravens often did, but cutting off the word “important” made it sound dire. My girl fixed her eyes on the woman.
The woman, superstitious as many citizens were about the birds, looked away from Scoundrel, keeping her eyes to the ground.
“’Portent. ’Portent.”
“Now. Be good.” I signaled Scoundrel with my left hand. Quiet.
It was a common reaction. The ravens were in fact dangerous. But the danger came from the two inch, steel combat gaffs on their legs, not in omens or dire powers. Still, many people were scared of the birds’ “magical” capabilities. After all, the serum allowed judicars to see things that we had no way of knowing. It was an easy step to assume that the sable birds somehow croaked arcane secrets to a judicar as we patrolled the city.
Some judicars took advantage of that fear. Not myself, of course. Such behavior would be impolite. Uncivil.
I tipped my hat at the woman before following Grith. I smiled.
She would not meet my gaze.
It wasn’t long before we came to a giant of a man in the hallway. Like most of the Red Hand guildmen, he was Esperan, with their swarthy skin tone and dark eyes. He was wearing a cap lined with thick black fur and had his arms crossed over his chest. His gaze was like old iron. He stood in front of a large, imposing door.
Grith stopped. “I’ve got him, Latigo. He won’t be doing any harm, will he?” Grith gave me a long gaze. “Thom knows where he is. He’s being all polite-like.”
Latigo took a copper tin from a breast pocket and pulled out some spicy, aromatic snuff. I recognized the blue label.
“That ol’ Doc Thane’s?” I smiled at the man. I knew that the Doc had practically been a member of the guild when he was alive. His products were popular with the Red Hands, and probably would be until they were all gone. A few years back, the Doc had come to Santiago for some assistance, and the Red Marquis had come through. Soon, Thane’s competitors seemed to dwindle, the lucky ones moving their business elsewhere. He became the largest distributor of snuff and potives in the Warrens, and the two had become fast friends.
One might say Santiago had a primary interest in the man’s business.
His shop had burned down, just within the past few days, and Thane had not survived. It seemed, however, that some of his product was still in circulation.
Latigo took a shot of it in his nose, wincing as his chocolate eyes watered. “It’s just the thing to settle my humours.” His voice was like gravel on steel. “I need to be straight when the judicar comes a’calling.”
I fixed Latigo with a stare and stood straight. “Just here on business. I’m s
ure Santiago will want to speak with me.”
Latigo laughed. “Yes. Senír Il Ladren loves speaking with judicars.” He spat on the old oak floor and opened the door. The entire time he kept an eye on my hands and the stave that hung at my side.
I couldn’t help but look at his hands. They were massive with tendon like iron cords. Latigo could have cracked nuts with them. He easily could have wrapped one halfway around my throat.
I said nothing. Latigo escorted Grith and I down a side set of stairs to a large double door. The scent of wood oil grew stronger, almost cloying. The door was thick, black wood with brass handles. Behind it, I could hear the faintest tune being plucked out on a guitte.
Yes. This would be Santiago.
“The Senĩr is quite busy, Judicar. Important matters.” Grith gave me that predatory grin again. “Are you certain you won’t come back another time?” He shot Latigo a glance as the large man chuckled.
I said nothing, simply fixing my grey eyes in the sternest glare I could give. Scoundrel stretched her wings.
He guffawed. “No harm in asking, now is there?” Grith opened the door.
In that moment, I lost any faint hope I might have had that Santiago didn’t know I was in the Scarlet Cellar.
No. Of course Santiago knew everything that happened in his own alehouse. He had probably arranged every person I had met, every sight I had seen. Tainted night, the man had probably made certain I had seen half-naked women with their bed-partners—just to see if I’d react.
Trickling from the room was a tune that every child in the city had learned while still young enough to be playing throw-stones in the street. Accompanying it was a soft male tenor. Santiago’s Esperan accent softly curled the edges of the words, making them smooth, poetic.
In a lost darkened alley,
when the ocean wind sings,
the judicar watches
to see what night brings.
The woman who loves him
will wait up in the night,
her heart ever praying
that he’ll come back when it’s light.
For the Blackbird is hunting,
he’s always away.
He can’t make her his,
his oaths he’ll obey,
Yet her heart will still ache,
as she sits all alone,
and ever she’ll wish
that she could be his home.
Blackbird’s Oath. It was a truly mournful song. At the end of the song, the judicar died a painful and mysterious death.
I had no doubt that the mysterious death was Santiago’s message.
I cleared my throat. “That one has a bad ending, if I remember.” Santiago looked up from his guitte, absentmindedly strumming as a smile spread across his handsome face. He gave a casual shrug as he spoke.
“That depends on the side you are looking from, I am thinking.” He set the guitte aside and pulled his feet from the top of the desk. He gave me a friendly smile, but something lurked behind it; something sharp hidden in his eyes. “Do come in, Tomás.”
I stepped into the room. It did not lack for comfort. Santiago sat behind a large mahogany desk where his cedarwood guitte was leaning. Several large candles illuminated the room and the large plush chairs for guests. A spicy, cinnamon and myrrh incense wafted in the air.
“That’s quite the toy.” I nodded behind him at the wall. Santiago looked up at it and smiled.
“She is genuine, Tomás. A true relic from the once days, yes?”
Hanging on the wall behind him was an actual pistol. It was a three-shot of Kabian make. The thing was iron and ancient wood, with a flared end to the muzzle.
It must have been five hundred years old.
“I’d wager that each shot from your relic would use enough firepowder to cost two days of my time.”
He gave that cat’s grin again. “If this is so, then the city is paying her judicars more than I’d guessed.” A smile danced around the corners of his mouth.
A woman stood at each side of the room, both with sharp and wary eyes. They wore dark leathers and had their hair tied high. Each had a long, slender blade at her hip. Each was a study in readiness.
Students of the an-Noem. I knew it from the shape of their graceful swords and the Ghalan script tattoos winding around their arms. These women were deadly practitioners of a martial art that was older than our city. Each tattoo was the mark of a year in training.
They held cool, glittering eyes on me. Beneath their gaze, I felt like a mouse. Despite my combat training, just one of these women could cripple me without breaking a sweat.
But of course they weren’t mere women. They were Santiago’s weapons.
I nodded at the lean man. “I was hoping we could have a moment to speak.”
Santiago looked at me, his fingers touching gently together in a steeple. He was all smile and grace. “Have a seat, Tomás. I give you one moment.” He grinned.
I remained standing. “I’m here in my official capacity, Santiago. I’ll have to be Tomás another time.”
“If I were in my official capacity as well, I would be Senĩr Il Ladren, not Santiago.” He chuckled. “Come now. Are things as serious as this?”
I gave him a grim nod. “They are.”
His eyes flickered. “Of course, Judicar.” His tone was smooth, eloquent. “I would be pleased if you had a seat with me, and we can discuss business.”
I nodded and sank into one of the plush seats, setting my stave to my side. Behind me, I heard Grith quietly close the door. Scoundrel hopped down to my leg and peered about. I pulled one of her training rings from my belt, giving her something to play with.
The two women watched me, watched Scoundrel. They certainly knew that with little more than a flick of the wrist, I could have my good girl shredding Santiago’s face.
They were wary.
“How can I help you tonight, Judicar?”
I peered at him a long moment, not certain what to say. I had hoped for a more private meeting than this. Santiago looked back at me, smiling. His cunning eyes glittered in the flickering light.
“It’s sensitive business. Are you certain we are free to speak of private matters just now?” I glanced at one of the women.
Santiago laughed. “Judicar, please. These ladies are my hands, my eyes and ears. They have heard things more delicate than you bring me, I think.”
I cut to it. “I have heard that you have a problem, Santiago.”
He gave that shrug again. His smile was like steel. “All men have problems. We are shaped by problems in this life.”
My head was pounding. Wisps of nausea still trickled through me.
“Where did she go?” His voice is a rising panic.
I cleared my throat. “Yes. But I have heard you have a problem that actually troubles you. A problem with a woman who cannot be found.”
The smile faded from his face. There was a long moment of thunderous, deafening silence.
He was angry. Fury boiled in his eyes, in the clenching of one hand. But when he spoke his words were soft, almost pleasant.
“How are you hearing of such things, Thom?” He leaned back. “A man who knows of this business must have ears in every darkened corner of the street, hmm?” He reached for his guitte and lazily strummed a chord. It was still Blackbird’s Oath, a not-so subtle threat. Santiago’s eyes were steel as he tried to focus on the guitte’s eight strings.
“The Offices of the Just—”
He cut me off. “The Offices of the Just must have eyes everywhere to know about this, Tomás.” His eyes smoldered with rage, and his voice was tight. “I have been extremely quiet. A man might begin to wonder who in his guild is betraying him, if secrets like that are out on the wind. When people keep secrets from Santiago, things get… bad.”
The serum was still roiling in my mind.
A Fox. A Sword. A Spider. A Golden Coin. One by one, the mysterious man snatches them up, right in front of the king’s face. Yet, the
king does not see him.
I didn’t know any of Santiago’s secrets. All I had were the whispers from the serum, murmuring secrets in my deep mind.
That was something I could never admit.
None of Teredon’s citizenry knew of the judicar’s serum or of the hazy visions that often guided us. It was an alchemical secret more than three hundred years old, and one of the greatest weapons that we judicars had.
But even without any of his secrets, I was getting the shape of things. My Jack had taken from Santiago. Had taken a woman and—
A Fox. A Sword. A Spider. A Golden Coin. One by one, the mysterious man snatches them up, right in front of the king’s face. Yet, the king does not see him.
“Are other missing folke among your secrets, Santiago? Are you missing more than just the woman?”
He stopped playing and fixed me with a gaze of stone. “You think you going to step in now, after she’s gone, and tell me how to find my sister? The judicar is going to come here and tell me how to run things, hmm?” His tone was low, shadowed.
So that’s who the woman was.
He twanged a string, and the chord fell apart. His anger was a quiet storm, a trembling fury held in check only by a thread of will. I had no idea how I had so infuriated him so quickly, but this was not what I wanted. I had to make a play and quickly.
He is a dangerous man.
I laughed in his face.
It was just a quick bark of a laugh, nothing mocking or scornful. It was a laugh of surprise.
I knew I would have a moment, just a nonce. Santiago gaped at me, incredulous that I would laugh at his rage. I waved my hands in front of myself, a gesture of negation.
“Do you think I’m a fool?” I leaned in. “The Offices couldn’t pay me enough slips to walk in here, bold as brass, and tell you how to run the Hand. You are Santiago Il Ladren.” My voice was little more than a whisper, but it cut. “You are not to be taken lightly. Men who take you lightly come to a certain kind of end.” I subtly flashed Scoundrel two small, rapid hand gestures.