“And why not?” she snapped. “If you’re easting out, why do you care?”
“Because I’m not,” Asti said. “I swear, Kimber. This neighborhood is my home. I’m coming back to it. I’m—” His voice faltered, dropping to a whisper. “I’m fighting for it.”
Kimber’s wet eyes went wide. “Fighting? How?”
“I can’t talk about it.” He glanced at the few people in the pub’s sitting room. “Just trust me.”
She looked at his eyes, quietly contemplating him for what felt interminably long. “The day after tomorrow, I’ll go to service at Saint Bridget’s. You’ll be there.”
“What?”
“You will be there, Asti Rynax. In decent clothes.”
“Why?”
“Because you want my trust,” she said. “That’s how you’ll get it.”
Asti couldn’t help but grin. Kimber played clever cards. “Fine. Day after tomorrow.”
“Nine bells, no later.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Asti said. He wondered why he was letting Kimber get under his skin, letting her dictate terms to him. It wasn’t like he fancied her or anything like that. She was a nice enough girl, sure, but never the type he would pursue. She was too much mother, despite being the same age as him.
She was the neighborhood, though. Hardworking, earn every crown, decent folk. She was what he and Verci were hoping to be before the fire. She was what they were going after Tyne for. She was what Win Greenfield couldn’t be anymore.
“Is Win still here?” Asti asked.
“He is, up in his room.”
“How’s he doing?”
“He hardly speaks. But he comes down to eat every day, which is an improvement.”
Asti nodded. “Keep him here as long as he needs it, all right? I’ll pay for room and board.”
“You don’t need to—”
“He covered for Verci and me when we needed it. Blazes, when Raych gave birth, he paid for the doctor, knowing we needed every crown for the shop. I owe that man.”
“You saved his life. Helene told me.”
“All the more reason I owe him.” Asti went back to the door and picked his pack up off the floor. “Day after tomorrow.”
“You better be there.” She was smiling again.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” he said, and walked out. Chuckling to himself as he walked down the street, he muttered, “Haven’t been in church in fifteen years. What are you doing to me, woman?”
Verci woke disoriented, wondering where the blazes he was and why he was wet. It took him a few minutes to remember that Raych had forced him to clean up before coming into Lian’s house and, after the eventful night, he must have fallen dead asleep in the baths at Larton’s Bath and Shave.
No one else was in the baths, which was unusual. He wondered how long he must have slept. He couldn’t possibly have slept so long that Larton had closed up. Larton would have woken him and kicked him out first.
Just the fact that he had slept undisturbed for as long as he had was strange. Nobody would have left a man sleeping in the pool for too long without at least jostling him.
His fingers were heavily wrinkled. It had to have been hours he was in there.
He hastily grabbed a piece of soap and scrubbed himself clean. After this long he had to attend to his purpose for coming.
Rinsed off, he exited the pool and grabbed a cloth to dry himself.
Just one cloth hanging by the steps. Also unusual.
There was a pile of fresh clothes on the bench by the door. Pressed and neatly folded. Not the ones Verci had come in with, but similar.
“Larton?” he called out. “Hello?”
No response.
He could either go out into the front room in only the drycloth or in strange clothes.
Drycloth it was.
The front room was surprisingly crowded, given the emptiness of the baths. Larton stood at his barber chair, hands trembling and sweat beading across his brow. The rest of the assembled persons were clearly there together: Nange Lesk, with Essin, Poller, Bell, and a muscled blond woman. All of them looked unhappy, save Lesk, who looked far too happy.
“There’s the man,” Lesk said, his rotten grin wide and ugly. “Did you rest well, pirie?”
“I suppose,” Verci said, unsure of any other way to respond.
“Because you had a big night, didn’t you?” Lesk approached, arms wide. “But look at you. Still wrapped in the drycloth. We brought you fresh clean clothes, didn’t you see them? Essin, go get Verci’s clothes.”
“It’s quite all right, I—”
“Nonsense,” Lesk said, leading Verci over to the barber chair. “Have a seat.”
“I don’t need—”
“Have you looked at yourself, Verci? You’re something of a fright of scruff. Isn’t that right, Ia?”
“Fearful,” the blonde woman said flatly.
“Your lovely wife,” Lesk said, his voice dropping a register. “She just couldn’t bear you coming home looking like that. Of course, that home is really her sister’s. Lian, right? And Hal is her husband. Decent, hardworking folk, aren’t they?” Lesk pushed Verci back into the chair.
“Larton, you don’t need to . . .”
“Never fear, Mister Rynax,” Larton said, his own voice cracking with terror. “I’m a steady hand at this.” He proceeded to lather up Verci’s face.
“Now I’m sure,” Lesk said, “that Hal and Lian, being the decent, hardworking folk they are, are not the types to be involved in the sort of thing you and your brother got into last night, right? They wouldn’t want the consequences coming to their doorstep.”
“I’m not sure what you mean, Lesk.”
The blade came onto Verci’s cheek.
“Look,” Lesk said. “I can be reasonable about things. Something ugly went down across the creek in Keller Cove. Ten dead bodies, Verci. Ten. That’ll keep the sticks over there busy for a while.”
That didn’t sound right. Verci did a quick count in his head: driver, five guards, two more in the street after. How did it get to ten?
“Whoever did that sort of thing, well, someone like that will want some friends. Someone to keep the sticks from looking their way.”
“I’m sure someone like that has already cleared town or such.”
“Even still,” Lesk said. “He’d want to keep his friends . . . happy with him.”
“I’m sure,” Verci said calmly, “that the people he considers his friends are quite happy with him. And that’s all he would concern himself with.”
Lesk frowned. “A smart man keeps a wide circle of friends, Verci.”
“That’s quite a gash you got there on your back,” Poller added.
Verci fought the urge to twist his head around, and Larton was scraping the blade over his cheek. “Got hurt during the fire,” Verci said.
“Of course,” Lesk said. “The fire. That was some bad business all around, don’t you think?”
Verci couldn’t read Nange’s face. He always had that smug look on it, and Verci couldn’t tell if he was being smug about the fire or just in general.
“That’s all it was to you?”
“It’s bad for all Seleth, pirie, and I’ll tell you why. Now we got people sleeping on the street, we got less business being done. That means Seleth is looking less like Keller Cove and more like Benson Court. People are gonna start to think the slums start at the creek. I don’t want that, do you?”
The blade was far too close to Verci’s mouth to dare respond.
“That sort of thing is bad for decent people living here. People like Hal and Lian. People like Larton here.”
Lesk moved in closer. “You and your brother, you’re doing what you have to do for you, and I get that. And you’re doing what the Old Lady needs, and that’s good,
too. She’s important here. It’s, like, a legacy or something.”
Verci didn’t know what was more disturbing: the razor at his neck, or the earnest look on Lesk’s face.
“So we’ve got to build something here, Verci. Our alley got burned down, and someone has to rebuild. Everyone has to do their part, do you understand?”
“I understand, Mister Lesk,” Larton stammered out. He gave one more swipe. “Smooth as when he left his mother, like you asked.”
Lesk clapped him on the shoulder. “That’s awfully good of you, Larton. Isn’t that good of him, boys?” The rest of Lesk’s crew nodded. Lesk turned his focus back to Verci. “You see, a man like Larton here knows to do his part.” Lesk pulled Verci up out of the chair, leaving the drycloth on the seat.
Verci chuckled under his breath. If Lesk thought that was going to intimidate him at all, he’d be sorely mistaken.
“I’ll do my part, Lesk,” Verci said calmly. “I intend to have the Rynax Gadgeterium up and running as soon as possible.”
Lesk and his crew all laughed at that. “Gadgeterium. Of course.”
Essin stood by the back door, the pile of clothes in hand.
“Hand those over, Essin,” Verci said, keeping his voice as calm and level as possible. “I would hate to catch a chill here.” Essin blankly held out the clothes, which Verci grabbed.
“You and your brother,” Lesk said coldly, “you’ll need to respect what’s going to happen in this neighborhood.”
Verci dressed quickly. “Don’t you worry, Lesk. The neighborhood has my respect.” He leaned in and whispered in Lesk’s ear. “And my brother and I will deal with anyone who hurts it. Anyone.”
With a quick snap, Verci pushed Lesk away. The others all tensed up, hands to belts and pockets. If things suddenly went to blows and weapons, Verci would be in a bad spot. Best choice would be to dive for the front window. A few cuts from the glass would be preferable to Bell and Ia carving him up.
Fortunately Lesk held up his hands, easing back. The others relaxed.
“There’s no need, pirie. We can all be friends.” He gestured to the door. “Why don’t you go see your pretty wife?”
Verci brushed through Lesk’s crew and left, resisting the urge to grab their purses on the way out. He could have. It would have been far too easy. But it would have also changed Lesk’s veiled threats into something Verci didn’t need right now.
Right now, all he needed was to relax with his wife and son until Asti was ready for things to move forward with the Tyne gig.
Chapter 17
THE NEW FLOP WAS a mess of molding wood and crumbling plaster, a breeding nest for mice and bugs. It was four floors up, reachable only by a rotting stairway populated by whores and addicts. For the past four days a dead man had lain here, only discovered this morning. The sickening odor of decay was just slightly mitigated by the pungent splash of vinegar the landlady had thrown on the floor. It was vile, and, even at the pittance of a half-crown a week, it was overpriced. All that didn’t matter to Asti because the place had a window with a clear view of Tyne’s Pleasure Emporium.
The Emporium was a monstrosity, taking up an entire city block. The front door was twenty feet high, and there were two muscular goons who stood watch at it, not to guard it as much as open it for the people who were going in. Asti knew from reputation that the ground floor was a restaurant, one of the finest on the south side of Maradaine. People came from all over the city to dine there. The back half of the building was a huge stable where Tyne’s valets parked the carriages of his clients.
Asti also knew, or at least understood from rumor, that there were other floors—above and below—where select clients could gamble, hire companionship, or engage in whatever sort of debauchery they had the money for. A lot of crowns went into the Emporium every day. Somewhere, probably in the lowest levels, there had to be a safe or a lockroom full of those crowns. Asti would keep his eye on the place until he figured out just where those crowns were, how to get them, and how to get away with them. He didn’t know how long it would take, but he wasn’t going anywhere.
There were no windows, at least not on the side Asti could see. If there were any, they would surely have steel grates covering them. There had to be a service entrance somewhere, but that was likely well guarded. The building was the tallest in the immediate area; so getting on the roof wasn’t an option. Underground, be it from existing passages or sewers, might be the best path. Asti sighed. He hated underground entrances. He still felt disgusting from the crawl through the Old Lady’s sewer the other day. If he kept up this lifestyle, he’d never get the stink off.
Keeping one eye on the Emporium, Asti reached over to his satchel on the floor, dragging it to him. He took out a clothbound journal and charcoal pencil, placing them on the sill in front of him. Next he took out Helene’s scope. She’d be riled fierce that he pinched it, but it couldn’t be helped. He needed the thing to see as much detail as he could from here.
Asti mused that he probably could have asked her. Riling her was more fun, though.
He kept close watch on the Emporium. Not much activity at this hour, far too early. Absently he took out a knife and sharpened the pencil.
A mule wagon came up to the door, its wares covered with a tarp. The guards waved to the drover friendly enough. Long-established pattern. One guard lifted the tarp in a cursory manner, giving no more than a glance before letting it drop. Familiarity bred a casual attitude, poor habits. Asti grinned. That was a good sign.
Scope to his eye, still watching the door, with his free hand he jotted in the book, Joram 3, 4 bells. Drover up, waved around back. Blond hair with gray temples, middle years. Brown coat, no patches or badges. No guild. Guards know and trust to a degree.
The wagon went around to an alley, to the back entrance. Asti couldn’t see farther in. He needed to get some eyes closer to it.
He needed to put Mila on the street.
He didn’t want to have to do that, not yet. She wasn’t ready for this kind of work. Even he felt rusty, still occasionally glancing at the page as he wrote the minutiae of the guards’ activities. A year ago he could write out the whole journal without once actually eyeing the page, just watching his target.
Not as sharp as I used to be, he thought. Haven’t really been sharp since Haptur, since Levtha. Not since that same hot stink of the recent dead had been his close companion, harsh voices, hammers on his skull, breaking, breaking. Hot sun high in the sky bearing down while screams surrounded him, knives in hand, blood to the elbows, everything red—
Asti startled. His skin clammy, his pulse racing. Back in the flop. Slow breaths. He hadn’t gone anywhere. Memory had swept him up for a moment—memory so strong it felt like he was there again. That hadn’t happened before.
That was new.
Asti put the pencil and scope down and slumped to the floor.
Was this how badly broken his mind was? Not only could he not trust his temper, but he couldn’t trust himself to stay present, to be in reality?
In the key moment of a gig, timed to the second, could he even trust himself to be aware enough to do what he had to do? He had already screwed up one gig, barely pulled from the fire by Verci.
He still couldn’t catch his breath, shallow and fast. He wanted to run. He wanted to leap from the window. He wanted to cut the throat of the next person he saw.
You are Asti Rynax. He forced the thought across his brain, like jamming his foot on a door he refused to let open. You are in control of yourself. No one else in here but you.
Long, slow, deep breaths. Asti thought of nothing but filling his lungs. He didn’t even care about the rancid, stringent air.
“You all right?”
His body went into action before thoughts could be formed. On his feet, knives drawn, lunging at the source of the voice.
Mila.
He pulled back mid-swing, slamming the blade into the doorframe.
Mila jumped back, her hand at the rope on her belt. But her eyes were calm, piercing.
“How did you get here?” he asked.
“Followed you from Kimber’s.”
He hadn’t noticed. Sloppy on his part. Impressive on hers. “Nice. What do you want?”
“I want to know if you’re all right. What you just—it wasn’t a fight or anything.”
“No. I don’t . . . you weren’t scared?”
“I knew you were in your right senses this time. For the most part.”
“Not so sure about that.” He sheathed the knife and went to sit on the bed. He glanced at it, and thought better, moving back over to the window. Mila came and looked out the window.
“Good view.”
“We’ll need better. You, shaking a hat on the corner there.”
She nodded. “I can do that.”
“How are you doing with gathering up some street boys?”
Her confident air fell. “I . . . haven’t started yet.”
“Why? You said you knew where to find some.”
“Where, sure.” Her eyes darted about the room, looking anywhere but at him. “But how am I going to get them to listen to me?”
This was a problem he could solve. “Do you know where they squat?”
She nodded.
“Then you walk right in. Change your look around a bit first. Tie back your hair, wear a different coat than usual, whatever. Create the person who you’re going to be when you walk in.” He took off his coat and gave it to her. It actually wouldn’t be too big on her at all.
She put it on. “What good is this going to do?”
“That’s just to give you the character. If any of them know you as Mila, you don’t want them to recognize you. Do any know you well?”
“No.”
“Good. Use that. Make a name for the character you’re being. Be that person who is going to walk in and take over.”
“This sounds like sewage, Mister Rynax.”
“I’m serious. Then you figure out who the old boss is, and knock him down.”
The Holver Alley Crew Page 21