Pre-Diaspora meant that whatever it was, it was more than a thousand years old. Possibly much, much more. From the Age of Gods. From humanity’s first cultures, before the Cataclysm that killed millions and saw the survivors fleeing for their lives. The time of the Diaspora, when the gods went mad and the race of man ran screaming in every direction, abandoning an entire continent. An age of myth and legend. And powerful and deadly artefacts.
“How powerful are we talking, Holgren?”
“I believe the thing inside the statuette is, in some way, self-aware. Probably intelligent, possibly even alive.”
“Magical, then.”
“Yes. But not human magic. I suspect that whatever it is, it was god-forged.”
“And you want to let it out of the toad? Doesn’t that strike you as a tad dangerous? I seem to recall you saying something like it being ‘dangerous and distasteful.’”
He shrugged. “What can I say? I’ve always been the curious sort.”
“You mages are all mad.”
“Don’t oversimplify, Amra. So?”
“So what?”
“Do I have your permission?”
I sighed. “Why not?”
“Good. I’d tell you to pack your things, but I suspect there’s nothing to pack.”
The first faint stirrings of suspicion started to claw their way through my guts. “Why should I want to pack?”
“Well you can’t stay here, can you? Not with the contract and all.”
My blood went cold. Suspicion blossomed into dread. “What contract?” I said in as calm a voice as I could muster.
“I didn’t tell you? Someone’s put a thousand mark bounty out on you. Or your corpse, rather, but only if it’s intact.”
“What? When?”
“Two days ago, I think. Yes, two. Must have slipped my mind.”
“How does something like that slip your Kerf-damned mind?”
He seemed slightly affronted. “Well they aren’t after me, now are they? Don’t worry. You’ll come stay with me. It’s the safest place for you. That I guarantee.”
“Do you have any idea what people will do for that kind of money, Holgren?”
“Oh yes. Almost anything. But attacking a mage in his own sanctum is unlikely to be one of them.”
“Why my whole corpse?” I wondered. But I already had an idea.
“I can only assume they’re able to use necromantic measures to extract information. Such measures require the body to be intact to a great degree.”
“They want the toad.”
“They want the toad,” he agreed.
I put my head in my hands. I was tired. I had sworn to kill Corbin’s murderer, but I didn’t see how I was going do that, since I was going to be busy dodging every back alley tough with a blade, club, rock or heavy fist. I would be looking over my shoulder every second, and waiting for assassins in my sleep.
“I should leave Lucernis.”
“For that much money, there will be assassins following you to any city on the Dragonsea. Anyone who vaguely matches your description is likely to get a knife in the heart. Your best course of action is to find and deal with whoever offered the contract. Or you could match the offer, I suppose.”
“Oh, sure. Can you turn around for a minute while I pull a thousand marks out of my arse?” I meant it as sarcasm, but it gave me an idea. A costly idea, but an idea.
“It was just a thought. No need to get ugly.”
“Well having a price on my head hasn’t improved my mood.” I took a deep breath.
“We will get it all sorted, Amra. You’ll see. Come, let’s go.” He stuck a hand out and helped me up.
“Holgren.”
“What?”
“Why are you helping me?”
His brow furrowed. “Why shouldn’t I?”
“Because I’ve landed in the shit wagon, and there’s no way you’re going to come away clean from this if you help me out.”
He cracked one of his rare smiles. Well, rare in that it wasn’t condescending. Not terribly condescending, anyway. “I like you, Amra. You’re capable and you have two wits to rub together. You’re good at what you do. And it won’t hurt to have you in my debt. Reason enough?”
“Not really, no.”
He laughed. “Gods above, but you’re suspicious. Come on, the day is wasting, and the longer that dog is left alone, the greater the destruction is likely to be.” He dug out a frayed piece of string from a pocket and handed it to me. “Tie this around your wrist.”
“What is it?”
“Just a fetish. It will suggest to inquisitive eyes that they see nothing interesting. I don’t want to fight a running battle through the streets of the city.”
“Magic?”
“What do you think?”
“How long is this thing good for?”
“It should be effective for two or three days.”
“How effective is it? How does it work, exactly?”
“That depends. Anyone who knows you well won’t be discomfited. They’ll see you just as you are. To anyone who doesn’t know you, you’ll be just another face in the crowd. An unremarkable one. But any physical contact will negate the effects.”
“What about if I just talk to someone?”
“Well, the longer you converse, the less effective it will be. Passing pleasantries won’t violate the spell. A heated discussion will.”
“How much do you charge for something like this?”
“If I sold such things, I imagine I could make fifty marks or so. But I don’t sell my ability, Amra. At least not directly.”
“Why the hells not?”
“I just don’t.”
I shut up, being able to take a hint when it suited me. I tied the string on to my wrist one-handed, tightening the knot with my teeth. And then we were off.
I knew Holgren’s fetish was the real thing by the time we’d got to Daughter’s Bridge and not a single person had taken a second look at me despite my bald head. Holgren was a damned good mage. Made me wonder yet again why he chose to steal for a living.
~ ~ ~
Despite his professed curiosity, Holgren seemed in no rush to melt down the toad. I had expected him to toss it in a crucible and stoke the fire. Instead he rambled on about some series of preparations involving the laying of wards and whatnot. I had no idea what he was talking about, and frankly didn’t much care about the details.
“How long?” I asked him.
“A day, perhaps two. Likely two. I want to take care.”
“Good. I want to be around to see what’s inside, Kerf knows why. But I have some errands to run. You sure this bracelet is good for another day or so?”
“If any knives sprout from your back I’ll give you a full refund.”
“Comforting.”
“When you come back, don’t bother knocking. The door knows you now, and I won’t want to be disturbed.”
“All right. But you should really get some rest. You look like three miles of bad road. When was the last time you slept?”
He waved that away. I wanted to ask him about Bosch’s hair, but he was so wrapped up in what he was doing that I didn’t. It would wait. I wasn’t in any rush to confront Bosch again. As I was slipping out the door, Holgren looked up from the tome he was studying.
“Amra?”
“Yeah?”
“Be careful.”
“Always.”
I closed the door. I was off to see Daruvner.
Chapter Fifteen
Fengal Daruvner had been my fixer and fence almost as long as I’d been in Lucernis. I’d met him within weeks of stepping off the boat. He had given me my first contract. He’d always been fair and trustworthy, within the limits of his own self-interest. I’d brought him a lot of swag over the years. We put meat on each other’s tables.
He was a large round man with the red cheeks and nose of someone who likes his drink. He never picked up a glass before noon, and never put one down after. Behin
d his jolly, fatherly banter was a sharp mind. He’d survived a long time on the wrong side of the law, and he’d made so few enemies as to barely count. And those he did make ended up at the bottom of the Ose, like as not. He knew everyone, and everyone knew him. He was part of the fabric of the city. Or at least the undercity.
He ran a rank eatery on Third Wall Road. The best thing that could be said about the food was that it was cheap, and the portions were huge. I found him there, ensconced at his table in the back. His runner, a kid named Kettle because of his girth, sat behind him, dozing. Daruvner had one of his nieces on his knee, telling her some outrageous story. I couldn’t remember which one she was. There were five and they all looked alike except for a bit of height difference.
He saw me as I came through the door and waved me back. I guess that meant he knew me intimately enough for Holgren’s fetish to have no effect. That, or Daruvner had his own magic. Or both. I weaved my way through the crowd of late night diners to his table.
The little girl ignored me, but then his nieces always ignored everyone but Uncle Fengal.
“Amra! I see you’ve got the Havelock curls! I must say it hasn’t improved your looks.”
“I just wanted to look more like you, Daruvner. You’re always saying bald is beautiful.”
“For a man, yes. For you?” He leaned back and considered. “It makes you look like a penitent. Or an ascetic. It makes you look haunted, girl. Haunted and holy.”
Kettle opened one eye, winked at me, closed it again. Cheeky kid.
I sat down at Daruvner’s table. “That’s me,” I said. “Saint Amra of the second story. Got anything to drink?”
Daruvner whispered in his niece’s ear. She giggled, slid down off his knee, and ran off to the kitchen. Daruvner poured winter wine into two of the thimble-sized glasses it was meant to be drunk from.
“To your friend Corbin.”
“You heard?”
“Of course.”
“To Corbin,” I said, and sipped appreciatively. It was a little sweet for my taste, but fine. Silence stretched a bit.
“Speaking of Corbin, I got a note from Locquewood that there’s a package waiting for you at his shop.”
I waved that away. “I’ve been indisposed. I’ll sort that out when I have time.”
He chuckled. “Indisposed. That’s one way of putting it.”
“So did you know, or just suspect?” I asked.
“About you being taken to Havelock? I found out the day after. I made some inquiries, talked to a friend who owes me a favor. There was nothing I could do for you.”
“Why?”
“Because you were being held on a nobleman’s order.”
“No, I mean why did you try to help?”
He stared at me. Then he shook his head. Then he started laughing.
“What? Did I say something funny?”
“No. That’s just it, Amra. It’s not funny at all. But what can you do but laugh?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I know you don’t. Otherwise I might be insulted.” He downed his thimble, scratched his ample belly. Gave me a mild stare. “How long have we known each other?”
“Six, seven years?”
“Eight years, almost to the day. How many commissions have I got for you?”
“I don’t know. Dozens.”
“Thirty-eight commissions. All of which you have fulfilled, to the very letter. You’ve never held out on me and you’ve never double-crossed me. And when you work solo, you invariably come to me to fence anything that needs to be fenced.”
“I’m sure I’m not the only one.”
“Don’t be so sure. The ones who are as clever as you, eventually they either get too clever and try to keep a commission for themselves, or they find out they aren’t as clever as they thought, and get caught. And get dead.”
“Like Corbin?”
“Like Corbin? I don’t know. I don’t know the details, but dead is dead. The point is you’re something special. To lose you would be a blow to my business. And to me personally. So I tried to see if I could pry you out of Havelock. I couldn’t, but it seems you managed to spring yourself. Though I hear that you might just have been safer inside.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
He sighed. “I suspected as much. I have a cousin in Isinglas who can set you up. I know it isn’t Lucernis, but what is?”
“No, Daruvner. It’s not that. I’m not going anywhere.”
He lifted his eyebrows. “Are you sure?”
“Very. I have some business that won’t wait.”
“So what do you need from me?”
“A name.”
He shook his head. “I don’t know a name, Amra. You would know better than I who’d want you dead.”
“Not that name. I have a good idea who’s paying. I want to know who inked the contract.”
Murder for hire is a nasty business, even in law-challenged Lucernis, and treated appropriately. Every contract went through layers of intermediaries, to keep any of the nastiness from sticking. But somewhere under all those layers was someone who held the money, and wrote out the contract. I’d never had cause to wonder who that was. Until now.
“That... that could be very dangerous information, Amra. I’m not sure I should tell you. I can’t see how knowing will help you at all. Quite the contrary.”
I shrugged. “Let me worry about that. It will never come back to you, that I promise.”
“It isn’t that. It’s just—these are not nice people, even for such as you and me. You are an artist in your way, and I am a businessman. But these people, they are killers. In their core, you understand?”
I smiled. “Whatever you might think I look like, I’m no saint, Fengal Daruvner. I’ve seen death, and caused it.”
“But it isn’t your trade. You don’t strangle old ladies in their beds to secure inheritances. You don’t knife cheating husbands, you don’t hurl barren wives down flights of stairs. That sort of ruthlessness is not in you, Amra Thetys, no more than it is in me. The man attached to the name you want, he is as bad as they come.”
“So you know him.”
“I once saw him cut a man’s throat. The poor bastard was eating his dinner, and they were laughing and chatting, and then in the blink of an eye he slit the poor sod’s neck from ear to ear. And then he pushed the dying man out of the chair, sat down in it, and finished the bloody food.” Daruvner shook his head. “Do you know what he said to me? He said, ‘Needs more salt.’”
“What’s his name, Daruvner? It’s not like there’s no-one else to ask.”
“You won’t listen, will you? His name is Gavon, then. Guache Gavon. He owns the Cock’s Spur, down in the Rookery.”
The Rookery was a part of Lucernis that had turned cancerous over the centuries, home only to the destitute and the desperate. Morno’s reforms weren’t even a rumor in its narrow, labyrinthine, garbage-choked streets, and the Watch didn’t dare set foot in it. People called it the Twelfth Hell. And the Cock’s Spur was one of the public houses that was considered to have a ‘bad’ reputation there. It didn’t surprise me that the owner also had a side-line in murder for hire.
“Thank you, Fengal.”
“Don’t thank me for telling you something likely to get you killed.”
“Fine then. But I owe you.”
“Do you mean that?”
“Yes.”
“Then make me a promise.”
“If I can.”
“Don’t go alone.”
“Fengal—”
“I mean it, Amra. Don’t go down there without someone to watch your back. Literally. I can scare up someone capable and trustworthy if you give me a couple of hours.”
“Who did you have in mind?”
“The mage. Holgren Angrado.”
“He’s busy right now.”
One eyebrow rose.
“He’s already helping me, in exchange for something you don’t
want to know anything about. Trust me.”
“Well he’s sensible enough to know I’m right about this. Don’t go to the Rookery without him.”
“Fengal, I’m a grown woman.”
“You owe me, and you promised.”
“Not yet I haven’t.”
“But you will.”
And a quarter hour later, I did. I was tired of arguing. Daruvner usually gets what he wants, if for no other reason than he has the patience of a stone. In any case, Daruvner proved to be right.
Chapter Sixteen
I hadn’t told Daruvner why I wanted Gavon’s name, and he hadn’t asked directly. He was too polite for that. Or he knew better than to ask questions he didn’t want answers to. He suspected I planned to kill the man, to make a statement. Which had its appeal, admittedly, but it wasn’t what I had planned. Would-be assassins would certainly be put off if I killed the man who inked the contract on me, but I just don’t have the stomach for cold-blooded murder. Daruvner was right about that. Oh, I could argue the morality of it with myself all day, and make a perfect case for putting a knife in the heart of a man who made a living being the middleman for murderers and their clients, but I couldn’t fool myself. If I had to I could do it, but I hoped I wouldn’t have to.
Instead I was going to try something a little more tricky. I was counting on the fact that a fixer, even a fixer for assassins, would have to honor any contract if he wanted to stay in business.
I just hoped to Kerf that it worked. If it did, no one would dream of trying to cash in on the bounty that had been put on my head. If it didn’t, I’d almost certainly be dead. Either way, my problems would be over.
But before all that, I had a funeral to attend.
~ ~ ~
The City of the Dead. From the outside it looked like some mad prince’s idea of a fortress, massive white walls stretching up and up, though there were no sentry towers. There was only one gate, a thing of impressive impracticality made of oak timbers a foot thick banded with iron and inscribed with arcane symbols that throbbed with power. Next to the gate in a half-dozen languages was a notice:
The Thief Who Pulled on Trouble's Braids Page 9