Beyond the similarities of age and comeliness, each was very different. Who needed more than one blonde? the Baron felt, when there was such a bounty of varied and wondrous young womanhood to be enjoyed.
In fact, he felt quite strongly, life would lose its meaning if he ever got so jaded as not to find a thrill in the forms of his harem. He frequently ordered changes in their costume and ornamentation to keep his ardor fresh. This evening he was quite excited because he was replacing one of his longest serving concubines.
Issa, well, didn't bore him exactly, but he had begun to feel a certain…predictability about her. Her mannerisms, her body, her techniques. He no longer felt the catch in his breathing when he thought of her, or when he saw her undress. No, it was time to replace her before he began to resent her.
He was not a cruel man. She would not be sold. In fact she could not, for as close as she had been to him for so long, she knew far too many secrets that his enemies could use. But, because he was not a cruel man, he would not have her eliminated. She would be married off to a member of his guard, a man he trusted. He even, being a magnanimous ruler, allowed her to choose from his officers. The girl would gain status, freedom, and a respectable husband, and the guardsman would gain a wife highly schooled in pleasing a man.
Yes, the Baron was a benevolent master. And as such, he would have the pleasure of choosing a new slave to take Issa's place. The merchant was to bring a selection of candidates along after dinner that evening.
He wondered if he should choose another redhead, to maintain balance in his bedroom, but decided not to be bound by preconceived notions. He would evaluate all of the new talent and make his choice then.
A wise ruler does well not to close off options before he must, he thought. He reached out and tenderly stroked the cheek of the slave girl at his feet, smiling into her large, almond eyes before pulling her toward him.
* * *
Sergeant Niath of the City Watch strode into the dank, smoky alehouse, ducking his shaven head under the lintel. He crossed the room casually, acting as though he belonged there. As he passed, the conversations trailed off, leaving a spreading wake of silence behind him.
The watchman moved with confidence through the crowd of dangerous men. Cutthroats, thieves, pimps and enforcers made a point to study their mugs. He wore a steel buckler on his belt, the polished surface scratched and dented. It was balanced on the other hip by a heavy oaken truncheon, gouged and chipped at the business end. He made no move towards the weapons on his belt, however, confident that the cold gleam in his narrowed eyes would be more than armament enough to keep him safe. In other parts of town the blue tabard with the silhouette of the Sollych emblazoned in white might have been enough. Here he put more faith in his carriage.
The sergeant walked quietly toward a table where a thin, agitated man bent low over his cup, muttering to some colleagues. As the aura of silence that surrounded the sergeant reached the group, one of the others nudged the small man, who looked up with shifty eyes under lowered brows, saw the watchman and cursed.
Sergeant Niath stopped before the table and scratched his head.
“Fingers!” He beamed, as though seeing the weasely man was an unadulterated joy. “Just the man I was looking for. I think you could help me in a small matter.”
The man squirmed under the watchman's gaze, his eyes darting around the room. “Always happy to help the Watch, Sergeant. You know me.”
As he finished speaking, he heaved the table over, rolled backward off his stool and darted towards the door to the back room, weaving through the crowd.
Fingers raced through the kitchen and out the back door into a narrow alley, turned right and sprinted toward the main road. As he burst into the daylight of the main thoroughfare, a blinding pain exploded from his right knee and he pitched forward, raising his hand to protect his face from the cobbles.
A rough hand dragged him up by the back of his shirt and tossed him against a wall. His knee buckled and he slid down the wall, slumping to the cobbles. He leaned forward to clutch his throbbing knee, but the end of a truncheon against his breastbone pressed him back against the wall.
“Now, Fingers,” said the sergeant soothingly. “That wasn't very nice. You went and got wine on my uniform. You know how hard that is to get out. Not that you ever worry about wine stains.”
Fingers' only reply was a groan. The sergeant went on.
“You sold some jewelry. Jewelry that was taken from a murder victim. That kind of evidence could have you dancing the hemp jig by week's end.”
“I never killed nobody,” Fingers protested between moans.
“That I don't doubt.” Niath squatted on his haunches, lifting the thief's chin with the end of his club. “Not your style. But I can't have the wives of prominent merchants turning up dead. Looks bad. We need to hang somebody, just to show we care. Restore faith in the Watch. You know how it is.” He smiled. “Help me make up my mind who gets to hang.”
“I don't know nothin',” Fingers replied, trying to tear his eyes away.
“You don't know enough to steer clear of trouble, that's for certain.” The sergeant frowned in contemplation for a moment. “Why do they call you ‘Fingers,' I wonder? Could it be because you need them for your work?” He seized the man's right hand in his left, isolating the thief's last finger and slowly pressing it backwards with his thumb, “I wonder what they'd call you if you couldn't use them so well…
“Ahh! Wait, wait!” the thief said. “Don't do this. I'm paid up with the Watch.”
“Not with me.”
“I can tell you who! Sergeant Vorrick– “
“Fingers, I know this may come as a shock to someone in your line of work, but I don't care about anybody else's scams. You know what I want. I know that you know. And I know that you are a rat coward with a low pain threshold. Save us both some time and talk. Or don't.” He increased the pressure on the man's finger. “Your call.”
* * *
Conn set the kettle on the stove for tea. He had a few hours to kill before his evening class. They'd be working with staves tonight. He liked staves. You couldn't get much simpler, but they had reach and speed and were so versatile.
Even better, the evening classes were filled with working class students. The mercenary felt much more at ease there. During the day, when these people labored, he taught wealthy sons of nobles– and merchants aspiring to be nobles– how to use swords, generally dueling swords. It was refreshing to teach laborers and longshoremen how to use clubs, knives and staves. The pay wasn't as good, but he felt a few nights a week helped keep his fighting focus sharp, as opposed to his dueling focus. It also kept Ioresh, his apprentice, interested, which was a good thing, since if the boy got bored, he'd run off and join a mercenary band, which would be unhealthy for him, and irritating for Conn since he'd have to break in a replacement.
“I've decided you may buy me a drink.”
Conn turned at the voice. He was sure he had locked the door, not that it mattered. Trilisean paused just inside the hall. She wore a new outfit, all in muted, dark tones, the better to fade into the shadows, but all of costly fabric, well made and carefully tailored.
“In fact, I'll even buy you one back.”
“Business been good then, lass?” asked Conn.
“Very. Lots of contract jobs.” She pirouetted to display her new clothes, then hopped up, sat on his table and extended her legs, crossed at the ankle, to showcase her boots.
“Found a new cobbler,” she grinned, eyes sparkling. “Leather soft as butter. Like walking on a cloud. Treated with beeswax to keep your feet dry, and you can hardly see the dagger I hid in each one.”
“Good to know,” Conn replied, truly interested. He had spent enough time in the infantry to know the value of a really good pair of boots.
“And how've you been doing?” she asked. “You still seeing that barmaid?”
“Depends. Which was the last barmaid you remember?”
She
rolled her eyes. “Well, at least you've found your type.”
“And you? Still hanging around with that minstrel?”
“Ah, no,” she sighed. “He was…less than faithful. Pity, really. Man had a silver tongue.”
“Knew he played the lute,” said Conn, fetching his cloak. “Never heard him sing.”
“Never said he did,” she replied. “How's business?”
“Very good,” he replied. “Plenty of folks signing up to learn the arts of defense. Must be from all the lawlessness on the streets these days.”
“You see,” she arched an eyebrow. “I'm looking out for you. Actually, it's good to see a nice crime spree that benefits us both.”
“Come to think on it, why are you still doing jobs?” asked Conn. “I’d’ve thought you’d still be living high from the loot we got from that temple last year.”
“You know how it goes,” she said. “Money works by some kind of magic. One moment there’s all the money in the world, then a few pair of good boots, well tailored clothes, good food, good wine, and suddenly there’s none. There’s never just a little.”
“I’ve heard of that. Like frost. It’s everywhere, then the sun rises and it’s gone.”
“Exactly,” she agreed. “I did get to take the winter off and stay nice and warm. Clinging to windows and picking locks with frozen fingers is something I’ll lose a fortune to avoid. And what about you? Why don’t you have an empire of schools and a dozen apprentices doing all the work?”
He shrugged. “As you say, wealth is tricky. I bought a pub. Figured I’d spent enough time in ‘em to know how they work.”
“What happened? You didn’t let yourself drink on credit, did you?”
He didn’t rise to the bait. “It turns out there’s a lot that goes into running a place. And the man I bought it from had debts. I figured they couldn’t be so bad. I was mistaken.” He took a cloak from its peg. “Jarving invaders and armed bandits and sorcerers and even that bloody monster temple guardian were easy. You can fight them. And worst they can do is kill you. Moneylenders use uncanny arithmetic to fight you, and no matter what you pay, you owe more than you did before you paid. And you can’t just stab them.”
“Shocking.”
“I know. You’d think a civilized society would let you cut a man who tried to pull that on you, and even cheer you for making the world a better and fairer place. But no.” He shook his head. “Seems they’ve worked their wicked magic on the law as well.”
* * *
Sergeant Niath was about to go home from the night watch when he was summoned to the Commander's office. He was a bit surprised. The Commander and he generally moved in mutually exclusive circles. The sergeant had no concern for politics, glory or promotion. He just liked getting scum off the streets.
His idealism, if it had ever really existed, was long gone. He knew that you couldn't really fix a city like Laimrig. He managed to go to work each night by dividing crimes into two categories, those he didn't care about and those he did. Small crimes that didn't really hurt anybody he ignored. Large crimes by powerful, untouchable people he ignored. Violent, ruthless crimes that struck fear into the populace, added to the general burden of despair that the average citizen carried from day to day, perpetrated by people he could reach with a truncheon, those he cared about.
That wasn't strictly true. He did care about those other crimes. He just didn't obsess about what he couldn't fix. He remembered the details, saved them for leverage, and if he needed to threaten the low or blackmail the powerful to get closer to some vermin he could hit with a stick, those details came in useful.
He knocked at the door to the Commander's office, waited to be called in.
“You wanted to see me,” he stated. It wasn't really a question.
The Commander took a long look at the sergeant. He didn't quite know what to make of the man. Niath's lack of ambition confused him. A man without convenient handles to twist made the Commander uncomfortable. Not a man to promote, or to trust with power, until you knew what he wanted to do with that power.
There was no arguing that the man was effective. The sergeant knew the streets, the gangs, and individual miscreants better than any of his other men. He could get information that most of the Watch couldn't, and he while he shielded his informants, as far as the Commander knew, he wasn't beholden to any of them.
“Just got back from the palace,” said the Commander. “It seems someone broke in and kidnapped the Baron's brand new slave girl late last night. He wants her recovered. No effort spared.”
The sergeant blinked twice. “His new slave girl.”
“Yes.”
“And he wants us to track down those responsible.”
“Yes.”
The sergeant chewed the thought over for a moment. “That's not going to help his popularity.”
“I tried to explain that, Sergeant,” said the Commander. “His Lordship seemed unimpressed.”
“I'll see if my sources have anything. Where did he get her?”
The Commander shoved a stack of parchment across the desk. “That's her description, name, bill of sale and so on. Let's try to wrap this up quickly and quietly.”
Sergeant Niath scooped up the parchment, nodded and walked out, thinking.
Probably the girl just ran away, he thought. But running away from the palace was difficult. She could have charmed some guard and he smuggled her out. If that was the case, this should be easy enough.
So easy the Commander and his favorites, or the Baron’s own guards, should have been able to solve it by now. If they were calling him in, that meant the high and mighty couldn’t find her and they suspected something elaborate. Something that extended down to the street level. The level where the eyes of the palace seldom looked.
He examined the documents. The girl had been at the palace for three months. Bought from Constantine, a reputable slave dealer. Reputable within the confines of the profession, at least. No known connections to the big crime bosses, no allegations of kidnapping or extorting families into selling their children to him. His business did pick up after Paisleigh died a year or two ago, but that man was a rat and a smuggler and Nuad knew what else, so it’s not like he was going to live to see old age anyway. Not too likely a legitimate business rival had him killed.
Worth looking into, though. Always look for connections. Even when there shouldn’t be connections. He credited the city its ability to continue to surprise even his cynical mind with its twisted workings.
Niath thought about the timeline. Crime had begun to get worse just under three months back. And to spread from the slums where it was simply a fact of life, to the middle class areas, where it was …what did they call it? Oh, right, an unacceptable travesty of which the Watch should be ashamed. Can’t have street crime in the good parts of town. The merchants don’t like competition.
The Baron wasn't popular with the merchants as things were. Taxes were high with the war, neither the Baron nor the King was putting any effort into repairing the road or dredging the harbor, crime was rampant, most of the Watchmen were corrupt and bought off, and now with crimes over the last few months targeting the merchants in the wealthy sections of town, and the Watch tied up restoring his lordship's latest piece of tail…
By Nuad. Was that it?
Could this all be connected? A push by the most rebellious to sway the wealthy against the lord of the city?
That, decided the sergeant, could get messy.
He disliked messy.
* * *
Moread lurked in the narrow alley, his axe handle held close against his leg, waiting for a mark.
This was moving up in the world, he told himself. It clearly was in the geographic sense, since this was better than the usual neighborhoods he worked. He was also moving up as far as vocation, at least according to his boss. If you mugged somebody, you got all his stuff, and it only took a second. The three card shuffle and rigged dice scams he had been running earned poorl
y, and you had to put some time in to charm and wheedle the silver out of people. You spent a long time winning and losing farthings and pence before they'd throw a few real coins in. Lots of time reeling in the fish. This should be quick and profitable.
He worked to control his breathing, to will himself invisible, to blend into the shadows. The neighborhood made him nervous, but expanding was part of Smiley's new strategy. The underboss, with the characteristic impatient snarl which projected a sense that he was restraining himself with difficulty from killing you, explained that this was a “vast untapped vein” of wealth. The poor areas where they normally worked offered small return for the effort, and the prey were wary, furtive. The wealthy side of town was too full of hired muscle. This, Smiley had assured Moread through clenched teeth, a district of merchants and tradesmen, was where the profit was.
Moread repeated this line of reasoning to himself over and over, and in the moments where that wasn't enough, he remembered Smiley's expression and decided that nobody out here could possibly be worse than that.
After too long, as the shadows lengthened to evening, he heard a pair of voices approaching. A man and a woman
Perfect, he thought, the man will be distracted, his mind in his trousers instead of on his surroundings, and the girl will be no problem.
He waited, listening to their approach, breathing deeply and quietly, flexing his hand on the grip of his axe handle. The man was nearer to him. Good. He held his breath as they came abreast of his hiding place, then stepped out, swinging at the back of the man's head with the axe handle, all the fear and tension of waiting channeled into the blow.
Moread almost overbalanced as his weapon struck nothing. The man dodged. While the would-be waylayer wondered for a moment how that was even possible, a boot slammed into his midriff, driving the breath from his body, and an elbow crashed into the side of his head.
Things became hazy for a moment as Moread's world dissolved in a crimson swirl of pain and vertigo. There was a twisting sensation, a drifting moment of disconnect, then things swam slowly back into focus. The general pain resolved into a splitting headache, the feel of cobbles digging into his back and a heavy weight on his chest.
Broken Crossroads (Knights of the Shadows Book 1) Page 11