by Alex Stewart
On the verge of bolting, Fallowfield froze, clearly picturing a desperate scramble through the dark, narrow labyrinth, where his diminutive pursuer would have all the advantages. That could only end in one way, and he was bright enough to see it. Instead, he took a few steps toward Drago, assuming a nonchalant air he was manifestly far from feeling.
“We’re both too old for games,” he said, as easily as if the two of them were old friends sharing a bottle of something. The abrupt switch from sweaty panic to bonhomie was faintly disconcerting, or would have been if Drago hadn’t studied his quarry beforehand. As it was, this was exactly what he’d been expecting. Ambrose Fallowfield had all the innate empathy of a serpent, but was adept at simulating it when he thought it would serve his interests. He spread his arms, as though welcoming Drago into an opulent parlor rather than a reeking midden. “I’m sure we can sort something out.”
“That’s why I’m here,” Drago said. “To make you an offer.”
“An offer?” Fallowfield repeated, as though trying to make sense of an unfamiliar language. “I don’t take offers. I make them.”
“Then you know how this works,” Drago said. He didn’t think the man would try to jump him; vermin like Fallowfield generally relied on other people to get their hands dirty. But he’d faced sufficient cornered rats as a child to know just how vicious they could be. Not that it’d done any of them enough good to avoid the cooking pot, but the attempts had drawn blood on more than one occasion.
“Oh, I do.” Fallowfield came to a halt just short of the clothesline, as though the chest-high strand of rope was a tangible barrier protecting him from the gnome, who could have walked under it easily without taking his hat off; even if he’d been wearing one of the currently fashionable kind with a ridiculously long feather tucked into the brim. “You talk, I ignore you.”
“Who said anything about talking?” Drago said evenly. He pulled a folded letter from the pouch at his belt, and held it out. Then hesitated, as if struck by a sudden thought. “Unless you’d like me to read it to you?”
“I can read.” Nettled, as Drago had intended, Fallowfield ducked under the rope and snatched the paper from his hand. He tore it open, with a disdainful glance at the Tradesman’s Association seal, and took a perfunctory look at the contents. His face darkened, all pretense at affability discarded. “What the hell’s this?”
“I thought you said you could read,” Drago said. He picked up the crumpled ball of paper, and smoothed it out, carefully avoiding some of the more aromatic stains. “It’s a ticket. One way. To the Icelands.” He pretended to study it. “Oh, leaving tonight. Lucky we’re right by the wharf, isn’t it? Wouldn’t want you to miss the ship.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Fallowfield said vehemently, taking another step forward. Drago could hardly blame him for that. The Icelands were as desolate as their name implied, fit only for trolls and the handful of humans hardy or desperate enough to settle there, manning the trading posts and fighting off the occasional raid: the only forms of contact with the outside world the locals seemed interested in.
“The thing is,” Drago said, “this offer. It’s not what you might call negotiable.”
“Everything’s negotiable,” Fallowfield said, changing tack again. He glanced warily at the blade in the gnome’s hand, making sure he was still outside the range of a swift thrust. He produced a bulging purse from inside the enveloping coat, and chinked it suggestively. “If you’d never seen me tonight, I could make it well worth your while.”
“Tempting,” Drago lied, shaking his head with a regretful sigh, “but bad business in the long run. For me, I mean. Too many people saw me come after you.”
“You could say you lost me in the dark,” Fallowfield said, and Drago laughed with genuine amusement.
“I’m a gnome. I can see just as well now as at noon.” Which wasn’t quite true, but humans, he knew, were quick to attribute traits they feared or envied to other species, and he’d never seen the downside of being overestimated. It made the people he was paid to go after less likely to make a fight of it. “Besides, you’ll be needing that where you’re going. Cold weather gear doesn’t come cheap.”
Fallowfield wasn’t used to people saying no to him, that much was plain. He was holding onto his temper with a visible effort, and the mask of affability was beginning to slip. Any moment now he’d lash out, hoping to take Drago by surprise, and be utterly astonished at his failure to do so.
And here it came, a wild swing with the heavy purse, which made the tankard wielder in the tavern look like a model of precision. Drago stepped aside without thinking, raising the flat of his sword to protect his head, and slipped in the admixture of mud and filth coating the narrow courtyard. Cursing, he regained his balance almost instantly, but the damage had been done. The point of his weapon had risen, and Fallowfield, overreaching, lost his footing too. Man and gnome collided, and Drago found himself slammed into the noxious dirt, the full weight of the gangster on top of him.
At least the ground hadn’t been cobbled, he thought, the impacted mud beneath the top layer of slime providing a relatively soft landing, with nothing he could crack his skull against. Could have been a lot worse, although the breath had been driven from his body by the mass of a fully grown human suddenly slamming into his ribcage. And he’d landed on his back, so at least he hadn’t had a mouthful of whatever vaguely squishy ground cover he’d landed in.
Fallowfield hadn’t been so lucky though, landing face down, and was far from happy about it, judging by the muffled choking noises he was making. Drago got both his hands on the gangster’s chest, and pushed, exerting all his strength—which was considerable for someone his size. Fallowfield rolled clear, and Drago scrambled to his feet, casting around frantically for his dropped sword. Whichever one of them found it first would have a considerable advantage. True, it would be more like a long knife in the hands of a human, but could still do a lot of damage, and he wasn’t about to wrestle for it if he could avoid that.
Oh. There it was, the hilt sticking out of Fallowfield’s chest, still catching the light in a few places, despite the layer of muck encrusting it. And not just filth from the ground, either, Drago realized. There was a thick, metallic tang in the air now, and the stain on Fallowfield’s coat seemed to be spreading.
“Damn it.” This wasn’t supposed to happen. Fallowfield should be comfortably tucked away in the hold of a trading vessel by now, not leaking all over some back-alley midden. Not that his employers would be all that distressed by the way things were turning out; gone was gone so far as they were concerned, but to Drago it seemed like shoddy workmanship. Any halfwit with a grudge could settle a disagreement with a blade, but he prided himself on executing his commissions with a little more finesse. It was what his reputation was founded on, after all, and his services wouldn’t be in anything like so much demand if his clients thought they could get the same result by giving a couple of dockyard dregs a knife and a handful of pennies.
No point in crying over spilt blood, though. He bent over the recumbent gangster.
“Fallowfield. Can you walk?” They needed to get to a healer. He knew a couple who wouldn’t ask too many questions. The problem would be getting the man there in the first place.
Fallowfield responded with a muffled gargling sound, in which a couple of words seemed to be embedded. The second sounded like “you,” and Drago reckoned the first was unlikely to be “bless.” This didn’t look good; a priest would probably be more use than a healer at this stage, although Drago didn’t know any of those with flexible ethics.
Then the matter became moot. Fallowfield spasmed, his heels drumming on the ground, raising little splashes of semi-liquid filth, and became still. A last choked breath rattled his throat.
Drago sighed. “Should have taken the boat ticket,” he said, bracing a foot against the dead man’s ribcage, and tugging on the sword hilt. It came slowly, with a moist sucking sound as he twisted it to open the
wound and break the seal of flesh trapping the blade. Finding a relatively unsoiled corner of Fallowfield’s coat, he wiped the steel carefully before returning it to the scabbard—it would need oiling as soon as he got it home. He had a cleaning kit in his pouch, of course, but right now he was disinclined to linger here any longer than he needed to.
As he turned away his boot hit something hard, which gave a little and clinked, and he bent down to investigate, already certain of what he was about to find. Fallowfield’s purse, dropped in the struggle. He shrugged, and picked it up, pleasantly surprised at the weight of it: chances were he’d need a whole new set of clothes after tonight’s little escapade, and even if he didn’t, his laundress would demand a healthy bonus.
The rest of the deceased gangster’s trappings he left for the neighborhood scavengers, who undoubtedly needed them more than he did, along with the ticket to the Icelands—a new life, rich with opportunity, for any of the local denizens brave enough to take it. He had no doubt someone would be sufficiently desperate.
Then he went to find too much to drink, and a dice game to squander the swordswoman’s money on.
That was Fairhaven for you; life went on around you whatever you did, and wherever you died. The trick was to put it off for as long as possible.
CHAPTER TWO
“Who happened to him?”
Drago woke with a pounding headache, and a sense of deep dissatisfaction. After a moment or two it began to dawn on him that not all the pounding was internal, and that the door of his lodgings was shivering on its hinges.
“All right, all right, I’m coming.” To his vague surprise, he seemed to have retained the power of speech, although the effort of articulating his jaw required a bit more concentration than usual. Whoever was outside must have heard him, however, because the incessant thumping on the wood moderated in response, to a slower, lighter tempo of impatient drumming.
“Stop that, you big oaf, you’ll have the paint off,” the familiar voice of his landlady squawked, followed almost at once by the rattling of a key in the lock. Which narrowed down the number of potential callers considerably; by now Mrs. Cravatt would have run most people causing a disturbance like that off the premises at the point of a broom handle, not to mention her tongue, which had been known to reduce hardened street toughs to quivering wrecks at twenty feet. Relative politeness, and cooperation, just had to mean . . .
“Jak. Come on in.” Drago hauled himself more or less upright in the tangle of bedding, instantly regretting the sudden movement, and let go of the hilt of the dagger he habitually kept beneath the pillow.
Captain Raegan of the City Watch squeezed his impressive bulk through the narrow doorway, stooping slightly to fit beneath the eaves. The attic of Mrs. Cravatt’s lodging house was cramped even for a normal human, let alone one of Raegan’s stature and girth, but Drago had always found it roomy enough.
“Not a social call, Drago.” Raegan’s voice was blunt and businesslike. “Get your britches on, you’re nicked.”
“What for?” Drago asked, trying to reconstruct the latter half of the previous evening. He couldn’t recall any brawls, or outstanding bar tabs, and Raegan would just have sent one of his constables round to talk about those anyway.
“Murder and robbery ring any bells?” Raegan asked. He glanced pointedly at Drago’s discarded clothing, still encrusted with the filth he’d rolled in the previous night, and liberally stained with Fallowfield’s blood. Both had hardened while he slept, which at least had moderated the smell, but done precious little for their wearability.
“How many times do I have to tell you to put those in to soak as soon as you stab somebody?” his landlady interjected peevishly, her face appearing round the watchman’s bulk, bearing its usual expression of irritation. Edna Cravatt was a woman of indeterminate age and species, although human and goblin appeared to predominate, whose vocation of running a lodging house would have been entirely congenial to her if it hadn’t been for the unfortunate necessity of the presence of tenants. Mr. Cravatt was long gone, “to a better place” according to his erstwhile helpmeet; opinion among the lodgers was evenly divided as to whether that meant the hereafter or the Icelands, though they were unanimous in the conviction that either would be a definite improvement. “Gloria won’t be able to get that lot out without an enchantment now, and you know what money-grubbing bastards wizards are.”
“I’ve got enough if she needs to buy one,” Drago assured her, hoping that was true. Fallowfield’s purse had been full, right enough, but the dice had been even more unforgiving than usual last night. Easy come, easy go, as the saying went. On the other hand, he knew a mage or two who could probably be persuaded to do him a favor in exchange for his continuing discretion about some previous commissions, and the laundress would never know the difference.
“Hm.” His landlady absorbed the assurance with a skeptical sniff, and remained rooted to the spot.
Raegan turned to look down at her. “Haven’t you got cabbages to boil, or something?”
She shook her head, sullenly determined to make the most of the entertainment. “Not for ages yet.”
“I need to get dressed,” Drago said, allowing the blankets enveloping him to slip a little. “And a lady’s presence . . .”
Mrs. Cravatt shrugged. “Don’t mind me,” she said. “I doubt you’ve got anything I haven’t seen before.” Raegan’s face became preternaturally expressionless. “And I’m not leaving one of my tenants with the likes of him without a witness.”
“Very commendable,” Raegan said, trying not to look as though the exchange was by far the most amusing thing to befall him that week. “Because you just can’t trust the City Watch, can you?”
“Damn right you can’t,” Edna Cravatt agreed, brimming with righteous indignation. “You’re all either on the take, or just can’t be arsed to do your jobs properly.” She jerked a thumb in Drago’s direction. “Just as well, really, ’cos it means he can earn enough doing it for you to cover the rent.”
Raegan nodded. “So, you think if you weren’t here to keep an eye on us, I could just make up whatever charges I like and drag him off to the watch house?”
“Exactly.” Mrs. Cravatt nodded triumphantly.
A thoughtful tone entered the watchman’s voice. “Unless I made up a few more, and took you in as well.”
The landlady considered this for a moment. Then turned decisively toward the door. “This is all very well, but I can’t waste the whole day chatting with the likes of you. I’ve got cabbages to boil. Tenants don’t feed themselves, you know.”
“They do round here, if they’ve got any sense,” Drago confided, sotto voce, once her receding footsteps had reached the bottom of the stairs. He rolled out of bed, waited for the floor to stop rocking, and started rummaging in the battered chest of drawers for a clean shirt and hose. Raegan watched impassively. “Who am I supposed to have murdered this time?”
“Ambrose Fallowfield.” Raegan waited for a reaction, which Drago was too hungover to have given, and which he would have suppressed anyway even if he hadn’t been.
“Never heard of him.”
“Really?” Raegan responded, in tones of polite skepticism. “Walking sack of sputum, about so high, last seen being chased through the kitchen of the Jolly Rogerer by you, after laying out five of his goons to get to him.”
“Must have been some other gnome,” Drago said. “We all look alike to you lot. Just the top of a hat.”
“Don’t try to be clever, Drago.” Raegan seated himself on the recently vacated bed, with a sigh of relief at finally being able to stop hunching his shoulders, even though his chin was now almost level with his knees. “You told one of them who you were.” Oh, right, the swordswoman. He’d even bowed, like it had been a proper introduction. One of these days he’d learn not to show off so much. “And we’ve spoken to Clement Wethers.” The chairman of the Tradesman’s Association, whose name was most definitely not mocked within his hearing. No
t if you valued your fingers. “He told us you’d taken a contract on Fallowfield from him and his mates.”
“To persuade him to leave town. On a ship, not a bier.”
“Which doesn’t change the fact that he turned up dead this morning.” The watchman looked pointedly at the heap of soiled clothing on the floor. “And if I take these in to our sorcerers, they’ll probably find the blood’s Fallowfield’s, and the . . . rest of it matches the patch of ground where they found him.”
“All right, Jak.” Drago sighed, giving up the unequal struggle. There didn’t seem any options left, apart from the truth. “I did kill him. But it was in self-defense.”
“Course it was,” Raegan said skeptically. “When isn’t it with you?” He hunched forward a little, trying to look like an attentive listener. “What exactly happened?”
“I gave him a one-way ticket for the Icelands; a little present from the Tradesman’s Association, to show their appreciation of all he’d done for the local economy.” Drago shrugged. “He didn’t want it, for some reason. Tried to jump me.” He paused, reflectively. “I don’t think he was all that bright.”
“You’d just taken out five of his bravos without killing anyone. What went wrong with Fallowfield?”
“He slipped in the muck. Landed on top of me.” Which wasn’t entirely the truth, but considerably less embarrassing than admitting he’d lost his own footing. “When I pushed him off, I found my sword stuck in his chest.”
“Hm.” Raegan looked thoughtful. “That would be consistent with the entry wound, anyway. Let’s pretend I believe you. So what happened to his stuff?”
“What stuff?” Drago asked, surreptitiously nudging the dead gangster’s purse a little farther under the bed with his foot as he spoke.