The weight seemed to be a boot. The man Moread hadn't hit was judiciously resting his weight on the heel of his right foot, which was on Moread's breastbone. He became aware that the toe of the boot rested lightly on his windpipe, and had the feeling that it was only curiosity that kept the man from rolling his weight forward. Far above the boot, a face considered him blandly, as though wondering just what was on the bottom of his shoe this time. Moread thought he could possibly twist free, but decided against trying. The man moved like lightning and had a kick like a mule. He would take his chances on the lack of hostility in the man's face, and the fact that the fellow hadn't killed him yet.
“Moread?”
He became aware of a second shape above him. Focusing on it, he saw a woman crouching nearby. She was very pretty, in an unobtrusive way, dark hair pulled back loosely and tied with a black band. Her mouth couldn't seem to decide between a smirk and a smile, but her eyes held a hint of sympathy. He didn't recognize her, which was odd, since she knew him, and she was certainly worth remembering.
“Who are you working for now?” she asked, her voice full of sincere concern. “Not Speedy still? How's his wooden leg?”
“No,” his voice rasped, surprising him. He didn't remember giving it any instructions. “Smiley's crew offered a bigger haul.” Why had he told her that?
“Oh, Moread.” She shook her head. “No. You don't want that. You accept those conditions, you may as well get an honest job.” She crouched, reached down and gave his shoulder a friendly squeeze, “Go back to card games. You had quick hands. Keep going this way and somebody'll break ‘em for you.”
He could only nod. Who was this? How did she know so much?
“So working closer to the Heights was Smiley's idea? You didn't think this up on your own, did you?”
He shook his head.
“Good. Working this side is a different world. Stick with what you're good at.” She stood up. “Take care.” She glanced at her companion, who removed his foot from Moread's chest. They walked away without a look back.
The robber slowly struggled to his knees, gently massaging the lump on his head and reached for his axe handle. A regulation City Watch boot came down on it.
“Now then, lad,” said Sergeant Niath, “Why don't we have a little chat?”
Moread looked up into the grinning face of the guardsman and reflected that maybe his new profession wasn't the step up he'd hoped.
* * *
An enforcer led Fingers through the florist shop sparsely filled with a few plants well beyond their prime, and knocked on the door to the back office.
“What?” demanded a gruff voice.
“Got that guy here, boss. The one you wanted to see. About that thing.”
“Good. Bring him in.”
The muscle indicated the door with a barely perceptible movement of his chin. The thief shuffled into the darkened room. He fidgeted nervously and twisted his hat in his hands. Getting called to see the boss wasn't something that boded well.
It wasn't something you refused, either, he told himself as he sensed two meaty enforcers take positions behind him.
“You sent for me, boss?”
The figure behind the desk watched him for a moment from beneath lowered brows, his fingers steepled before him.
“I hear disturbing things, Fingers,” said the man. “Things that disappoint me.”
“Like what, boss?”
The man behind the desk sighed, shook his head sadly. “You been telling stories. Talking to our friends in blue.” He stopped and fixed the man with an icy stare. “You know how much we value discretion. It hurts me that you don't show concern for the value I place on discretion.”
Fingers began to feel the world dropping away beneath him. “It's not like that, boss,” he pleaded. “It's that bald sergeant. He was gonna break my fingers. He don't respect the rules. The Watch is supposed to respect our arrangement. I paid my dues. They're supposed to lay off. You tole me they'd– “ He stopped short as the bosses eyes narrowed, sure he gone too far. He frantically tried to backpedal but found nothing beneath his feet.
“Maybe I misjudged you, Fingers. Maybe it's my fault for not explaining how important discretion is.” The boss waved down the thief's attempts to protest, “No, no. It's presumptuous of me to assume you know stuff without explaining it.
“So. Here's how it works. This sergeant comes to you and asks about some loot. You tell him enough that he goes and talks to the guy you got the loot from. So he maybe roughs that guy up and finds out where some pickpocket got the idea to go into strongarm stuff. So then he goes up the chain. Maybe some guy sells out his boss to save his own miserable skin. Or maybe he makes a deal, figuring that if this copper takes out the boss, that'll leave what we call a power vacancy that he could step in to. You see where I'm going with all this?”
Fingers, beginning to feel that he may just be allowed to walk out of this office, nodded dumbly. After all, why would the boss lecture him if he were just going to have him killed.
“You see? All it took was a little communication on my part. Now I can trust you not to talk again, right?”
“Absolutely, boss.”
“Good. I believe you, Fingers. I really do.”
* * *
Trilisean led the way into a small, dark restaurant. A southern place, run by immigrants from…well, Conn didn't really remember. Some place the bloody Jarvings had overrun. But they supposedly made decent food.
They took a small table and the waiter brought them a plate of bread and cheese and a small dish of some kind of oil with spices floating in it. Trilisean ordered a wine with some flowery, foreign sounding name and Conn ordered a pint of bitter. He was impressed when the waiter didn't explain that they didn't serve decent, local beer. You had to watch for that kind of thing in foreign places. Wine was all well and good. It'd get you drunk, but it just wasn't the same.
He ripped off a hunk of bread, dipped it in the oil and ate it. It was pretty good, more interesting than butter or bacon grease. The ale was decent.
Watching Trilisean eat, however, was the most interesting thing.
Conn had grown up on simple food. Bread, oatmeal, potatoes and turnips, and meat that was cheap and slow to spoil, like bacon, salt pork or sausages of whatever the butcher couldn't sell to the wealthier customers ground up with some oatmeal and cheap spices and stuffed into a casing. Often the meat course at supper was an illusion created by frying the potatoes in yesterday's bacon grease. Food in the army was even plainer, and often older, and he'd learned to scrounge and use spices as a disguise more than a garnish. He could appreciate a good meal, fresh ingredients cooked and seasoned properly, but to him it was an interesting diversion, a moment of enjoyment in a life of stale bread and dripping.
Trilisean was different. She was truly enthusiastic about good food. She would take a sip of wine or a bite of cheese and close her eyes for a moment and savor it before chewing and swallowing. She lingered over each taste, as though trying to extract every iota of flavor.
Come to think of it, she approached most things that way, from her new boots to a challenging puzzle or lock, or the thrill of not quite getting them both killed to the sound of somebody else's money jingling in her purse.
For some reason, he found the wide-eyed, infectious wonder and joy made up for the almost getting killed thing.
“So,” he asked over the rim of his mug, “who was your friend with the table leg?”
“Hmm? Oh, that was Moread. Small time hustler. I think it was an axe handle though.”
“Ah. I didn't really notice with it swiftly approaching my skull.” He tore off another piece of bread. “You seemed awful friendly to a man who was trying to put a dent in me.” She shrugged. “If you can't outfight a two farthing card cheat trying his hand at mugging, I'll need to swap you out for a new companion. It was nice of you not to hurt him too much.”
“What inspired his new calling, you think?”
“It's
not something he'd come up with on his own,” she said between bites. “He's not that ambitious. He's being set up, or ordered to make more money.”
“Seems there's a lot of that going on. Plenty of average laborers and tradesmen are coming to learn fighting. Lot's of people worrying about crime that weren't a few months back.”
“Well, crime is up, and spreading. Some merchant's wife got stabbed to death in a robbery a week ago, there've been more muggings, shops have been broken into, and a few of the homes of the high and mighty have been relieved of their burden of excess.” She paused and took a bow. “Not that I had anything to do with the muggings. Or the shops. That's small-time smash-and-grab work. Won't stoop to it.”
“I suppose a woman needs to have her standards.”
“Exactly. And word is the Baron's latest addition to his harem has run off or been kidnapped, and he has the Watch tracking her own, not trying to stamp out this latest crime wave. That's upset people. I mean, the kind of people who aren't always upset and victimized. This is new and exciting for them.”
“So he's got the Watch off chasing this missing girl?” asked Conn. “Who's collecting the bribes for them while they're busy?”
She laughed. “I expect they'll fit that in to their busy schedules.”
“I wonder,” he said grimly, “if people will be quite as happy to be shaken down, what with the attention of the city guard so diverted?”
“I'm sure things will change,” she said. “One way or another. But just take advantage of this time right now. The clouds never obscure the moon long. Strike while they do.”
“Such colorful sayings you get in the city, don't you?” he smiled. “Back home we'd say ‘make hay while the sun shines’.”
“Is that what it's good for?” she asked. “I had wondered.”
* * *
“Problem, Sarge?” the watchman asked.
Sergeant Niath stared down at the corpse formerly known as Fingers. He wasn't exactly overcome with sympathy, but he did have to admit that the man was likely dead because he'd made him talk. The note pinned to his tunic and the position of the body told him that much.
“Slow Learner,” read the watchman. “What's that mean. And what's that in his hand? Looks like raw meat.”
“It means old Fingers has finally learned to hold his tongue,” replied the sergeant. He looked at the other watchman, noticing how pale the man had become. “That's what we call a subtle message to the troops.”
After this, the sergeant knew his informants would suddenly forget things, or not see things. Or just go into hiding. He'd need to find some other way of getting his information.
* * *
A dozen hooded figures sat around a table in an abandoned building on the outskirts of town. A cold wind off the harbor blew in through gaps in the boarded windows and made the flames of the few dim candles flicker wildly.
As they shifted uneasily in their seats, wondering who exactly the others were, a voice from the dancing shadows called them to attention.
“Gentlemen,” said the figure, gliding to a seat at the head of the table. “it seems our plan is proceeding well.”
A portly man adjusted an oversized hood and timidly wondered, “But what next? We have the merchants upset, the common people frightened and the Watch paralyzed. What's left to do?”
“The nobility,” stated the leader. “While the Baron sends his men scurrying after this missing girl, and ignores the pleas of the guilds, the nobles still support his right to rule by blood. We need to expand our programs into their backyard.”
There was an uneasy silence as the men looked from one hooded face to another. Some of these people were nobles, a fact made obvious by their accents, if not their faces. Some were merchants, some crime bosses, and some men of influence with the ruler. The fact that none of them were supposed to know the identity of any others was a matter of security, but also of concern. Each time an attack, its order handed down through a dozen layers of insulating hierarchy, struck at a target, one could never be sure of sparing one's co-conspirators. While each man wished dearly he knew the identity of the others in the room, each feared losing his own anonymity.
“And when the nobles lose faith in the Baron?”
The figure at the head of the table leaned back, steepled gloved fingers and placed a pair of expensive boots on the table, crossed at the ankles.
“A suitable candidate will emerge from the shadows. And that candidate will understand his obligations to the guilds and the nobility…And to us.”
* * *
Sergeant Niath stalked through the streets in a cold rage. Crowds parted unnoticed before his glare.
People weren't talking to him. To him. He had taken years to build his network of informers, shielded them, kept them out of harm’s way, didn't hurt them any more than he had to– and much, much less than they deserved– and now they were avoiding him, clamming up around him.
He stopped as he neared the banks of the river, took a deep breath and forced himself to calm down, think before plunging onward. He'd had to stop looking for his rats, for fear he'd choke the next one to death. No, no. Can't do that. Waste a resource and poison the well for the rest.
Where else could he get the facts he needed. The facts he knew people were keeping from him? Who would be able to tease out secrets that he couldn’t get by intimidation?
He stopped in his tracks. Maybe that could work.
His lip curled in a grim smile. It would be…interesting to talk to her again.
* * *
Conn and Trilisean turned at the sound of footsteps approaching the table. Not the soft, unobtrusive glide of the waiter, come to refill their glasses, but the steady, self-assured stride of a man who didn't know if he were welcome, but didn't give a toss.
“Evening, all,” he said.
“And to you, Sergeant,” the mercenary replied, noticing the copper badge of rank. “To what do we owe the honor?”
“I'd like a word with the lady.”
“How can I assist the Watch?” Trilisean asked, smiling sweetly.
“The real answer to that would be find honest work, but that's not why I've come,” said the man, hooking a chair close with his boot and sitting. “Been a while since we talked, but I imagine you're still a thief. I could use a thief.”
“Such a loaded word thief,” Trilisean smiled. “What does that word mean to you?”
“Means you take what doesn't belong to you, from the people who've earned it.”
“If I did that with an axe handle in an alley, I'd be a thug. If I did it with armed men at my back I'd be a brigand. If those men could march in step I'd be a warlord. If they wore matching tabards with arms blazoned on, I'd be a duke. And if I did it by flashing a badge at the powerless, I'd be a watchman.” She smiled as innocently as she knew how. “Since I do it by wits and skills I've worked years to hone, you call me a thief.” She paused for a sip of wine. “If you like, we can discuss the word ‘earned’ for a bit.”
“No need, lass,” he smiled back. “Our paths haven't crossed in a long time. No reason they should have. But we know enough of the same people, and if half what I've heard is true, and that might be generous, given the sources, then you may be able to help me solve a little problem.”
“What problem would that be?” she asked. “I must admit, I'm intrigued.”
“This city was never safe, or fair, or well run. That's the truth. But now somebody is trying to kick the whole house of cards over, and the chaos will make the squalor of this day look like midwinter’s feast.”
“And what makes you think I'd want to hold back the tide?”
“First off, I'll give you the benefit of the doubt and appeal to your civic virtue. This is your city as well as mine, and whatever it is, it's better than the anarchy that will follow if what I think is going on turns out to be true.”
“And what's the rate for the job? Whatever you've heard about me, I doubt it was that I work for free.”
“Not for free, maybe, but for freedom itself? There's no treasure so precious, so I'm told.”
“And how is my freedom yours to offer?”
“You help me and I forget things I've heard. Your crimes don't mean a thing to me, as such. You haven't stolen from anyone who didn't probably deserve to lose what you've taken, but I have the authority to drag you before a magistrate and present enough evidence to see you in chains, even if I have to dangle a few witnesses over the canal until they remember things.”
Conn studied the man as he spoke. The Watch sergeant was broad shouldered, tall and so heavily muscled as to seem stocky, his head shaven to deprive a foe of a handhold. His face was scarred and his nose had been broken a few times, and set indifferently. His hands were big and calloused, the knuckles scarred and roughened.
The Aeransman had fought armed soldiers as a boy. He had fought sorcerers and champions and the avatar of an ancient god who bled liquid fire. So he wasn't afraid of the sergeant. He did, however, see something that made him pause.
In the man's eyes, behind the bantering, was a cold, hard, implacable gleam that said this was not just a hard man used to violence. This was a force of nature wrapped in mortal flesh. If the sergeant decided to come for you, he would not be stopped by bribes or threats or pain. To stop the man, you'd have to kill him, and he looked like he'd take a lot of killing.
Conn instinctively liked him.
“I'm sure you've heard how the Baron's latest concubine has vanished,” said the sergeant. “He wants no effort spared in finding her. This is on top of the recent crime wave, which is now effecting those who were previously untouchable. Confidence in the rule of the city is being eroded, among those who've never had reason to question it before. If we can't keep even the rich safe, but we can have the Watch swarming after His Lordship's lost trollop, how long until somebody decides that it's time for a change?”
Broken Crossroads (Knights of the Shadows Book 1) Page 12