A Fistful of Elven Gold

by Alex Stewart

  “On the bright side,” Raegan said, “whoever sent them seems to know where you live. Maybe they’ll have another go.”

  “There is that,” Waggoner agreed, apparently cheered by the prospect, and wandered off to interview the few witnesses who hadn’t immediately found other, urgent business as soon as the watch appeared.

  “So what went wrong?” Raegan asked. “It’s not like you to walk into an ambush.”

  “I didn’t.” Drago strolled over to the nearest corpse, the one missing a head, and began rummaging through its pockets. They were all empty, which in his experience was highly unusual. Everyone had a coin or two about them, and a few personal possessions.

  “Professionals,” Raegan said, coming to the same conclusion. “Nothing to identify them if they got caught.”

  “Or who they were working for,” Drago agreed. “But whoever it was, they could afford sorcery.”

  “Right.” Raegan nodded. “That’s how they sneaked up on you.” He pulled a small leather bag from inside the shirt of the eviscerated goblin, tugging the string it was attached to over the corpse’s head. He loosened the drawstring, glanced inside, and closed it again hastily. “I’ll get our mages to take a look at this, find out what kind of enchantment they were using.”

  Drago shrugged. “Looked like basic shadow weaving to me. Apprentice stuff. Half the spell slingers in the city could throw something like that together.”

  “Can’t hurt to try.” Raegan tucked the bag inside a pouch on his sword belt, and wiped his fingers fastidiously on a moderately clean section of the corpse’s shirt. “You going to put that thing away now, or am I going to have to do you for carrying a blade in public?”

  “What?” Drago became aware that he still had his sword in his hand, and that his attackers’ blood was beginning to congeal on it; which would do the fine steel no good at all. “Oh, right.” He flicked the worst of it off, and wiped the rest against his sleeve—his shirt was so spattered with other people’s ichor, one more stain wasn’t going to make that much difference. Raegan watched impassively as he slipped the weapon back into its scabbard.

  “Any idea how they knew where you live?”

  Drago shook his head. “Don’t recognize any of them. They must have been briefed.”

  “Which leaves us right back where we were before.” Raegan sighed. “With no idea of why or by who.”

  “Doesn’t make any sense to me, either,” Drago admitted. The whole point of setting himself up to look like he’d be willing to take on whatever job the dead bounty hunters had agreed to had been to flush out whoever had hired them; but no one had come forward with a proposition. Maybe he’d jumped to the wrong conclusion, and their deaths hadn’t been connected. Or maybe Raegan had been right to begin with, and someone was just pursuing a personal vendetta against the bounty hunters of Fairhaven. He sighed. “Coming in for a drink?”

  “I’ll pass,” Raegan said, with a glance in the direction of Waggoner, who was just dropping a couple of copper coins into the hand of a convenient local urchin. The lad nodded, and ran off in the direction of the nearest watch house. “Got a lot of cleaning up to do.”

  “You know where I am,” Drago said, making momentary eye contact with the sergeant, before returning his attention to Raegan. “If you want a statement.” At least Waggoner wouldn’t be able to cast any doubt on his claim of self-defense this time, he thought, with a faint sense of satisfaction.

  Raegan shrugged. “Tomorrow will do,” he said, with another glance in the direction of his deputy, who was now busily engaged in fending off the growing crowd of curious onlookers. “Unless you’d rather talk to George.” He noted Drago’s expression with a wintery smile. “Didn’t think so.”

  “See you tomorrow, then,” Drago said, with a final glance at the trio of corpses, before heading back home for bed.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “I don’t really do trees.”

  Inevitably, the first person Drago saw as he slammed the front door behind him was Mrs. Cravatt, emerging from her parlor with the air of a wyvern spotting an unwary shepherd standing between it and a fair-sized flock. She looked him up and down, and opened her mouth to speak.

  “I know,” Drago said, before she could begin her unvarying oration. “Get it in cold water right away.”

  “You should.” His landlady sniffed disapprovingly. “But that’s not what I was going to say. You’ve got a visitor.”

  “Who?” Drago asked. It was almost unprecedented for Edna Cravatt to allow strangers on the premises at all, let alone leave them unsupervised. He craned his neck around the parlor door, half expecting to see someone in the room behind her.

  “A gentleman,” she said, in the overly elaborate diction she habitually adopted when dealing with someone further up the social scale, presumably in case they overheard, and might mistake her for someone of equal status. “I sent him up to your room.” Noting his expression of incredulity, and the direction of his gaze, her expression hardened. “I’m a respectable widow. Got my reputation to consider.”

  Not to mention her purse, Drago thought. Letting someone into a tenant’s room while they were out wouldn’t come cheap. He nodded.

  “No one around here would ever consider the possibility of impropriety involving you,” he assured her, straight-faced. Not unless the gentleman in question was blind, at any rate.

  Mrs. Cravatt emitted another sniff. “I should think not,” she said, mollified, taking the remark at face value.

  Since neither of them had anything else to say, Drago turned and made for the stairs.

  “Cold water,” his landlady said as his foot hit the first tread, unable to resist snatching the last word, and slamming the parlor door behind her before he had a chance to respond.

  Drago made his way up to his room as quietly as he could, his hand on the hilt of his sword. It crossed his mind to turn round and tell Raegan about this unexpected development first, but he dismissed the thought almost as quickly as it came. There was so much going on outside by now that if he left the house to talk to the watchman it was bound to be noticed, possibly even by his visitor if he’d been standing near the window, and Raegan was bound to insist on providing some sort of backup, which was just as likely to complicate things as to help. Besides, he was used to watching his own back—just as well, as things had turned out.

  He shrugged, philosophically. He’d just seen off three sorcery-assisted assailants entirely by himself: a man on his own on Drago’s home ground shouldn’t be that much of a problem.

  Unless his visitor was the sorcerer who’d given the goblins their shadow-weaving charms, of course. For a moment he hesitated, wishing he’d thought to ask his landlady for more details about whoever was waiting for him, like whether or not they were wearing a pointy hat, but most of the hedge wizards he knew didn’t go in for that sort of thing anyway. Besides, Mrs. Cravatt distrusted magic and all who wielded it, almost as much as she did people who read books, and was bound to have said something about it if the man was an obvious spell chucker.

  Only one way to find out. Pushing the door open, he strolled into his garret, affecting complete unconcern.

  His visitor raised an elegant eyebrow. “Oh my,” he said, “what in the trees happened to you?”

  “Guess,” Drago replied, making straight for the wash stand. He poured half the jug into the basin, cleaning his face and hands with brisk efficiency, while keeping a wary eye on the elf lounging on his bed. A little over five feet tall, about average for one of his race, he just about fitted the available space, with one elbow propped up on the pillow; the previous tenant of the attic had apparently been a goblin, who’d disappeared one night leaving his furniture behind, to be seized by Mrs. Cravatt in lieu of several weeks’ worth of unpaid rent. Quite how his predecessor had managed to get away with that, Drago remained unsure, other than concluding that the fellow must have been exceptionally charming—and perhaps there were some mysteries in life best left undisturbed.
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  The bed was absurdly large for a gnome, but he didn’t mind that—he liked to sprawl, and the extra room came in handy on the rare occasions he had company overnight.

  “I’d rather not,” the elf said, exuding the faint air of smugness which made humans, gnomes and goblins want to punch most of the ones they met in the face within minutes. “Client confidentiality, and all that. Wouldn’t want to get off on the wrong foot by seeming to pry into your . . .” a perceptible pause, while he searched for the right phrase, “other business commitments.”

  “You’re here about a job,” Drago said, stripping off his shirt and dunking it in the basin, watching the water turn the shade of beet soup with detached interest.

  “I might be. If you’re as proficient as you seem.” The elf pivoted smoothly to a vertical sitting position, avoiding cracking his head on a low beam by a disappointing fraction of an inch. His clothing was utilitarian, but of a quality no one in this part of town could afford even by pawning everything they owned. The fact that he’d got this far without so much as a visible mark on his immaculate jacket, the leather so soft that it folded like linen in the crook of his elbows, was a silent warning to Drago not to underestimate him. The ornate chasing on the hilt of his sword looked more ornamental than functional, but that was no guarantee that he didn’t know how to use the blade attached to it.

  “You’re hardly in a position to call my proficiency into question,” Drago said, drawing the obvious conclusion about his recent encounter with the goblins. “You were followed here.”

  “I know.” His uninvited visitor smiled, in a manner calculated to make the face-punching impulse redouble, and glanced toward the window in the attic’s gable end opposite the door. “I watched you deal with them from here. Quite impressive.”

  “You brought three hired killers to my door, and let me walk right into them?” Drago tried to keep his voice calm, but was far from certain he was succeeding. Unbidden, his hand brushed the hilt of his sword, and he moved it away with a brief mental effort. No point antagonizing the fellow until he knew what he wanted. “What were you thinking?”

  The elf shrugged, a gesture so elegant it was almost like watching liquid flow and resolidify. Amusement danced in his sea-green eyes. “That you’d save me a little inconvenience when I leave.”

  “If you leave,” Drago said without thinking, his hand drifting back to the sword hilt. This time he kept it there.

  His guest smiled again, seeming more amused than ever. “I’ll go as soon as our business is concluded,” he said, one hand drifting inside his partially unbuttoned jacket. The shirt inside was of a lighter shade of grey, like a seagull’s wing, in contrast to the charcoal hues of his jacket, breeks and boots. Drago tensed, but the hand emerged holding nothing more threatening than a purse. “I trust this will go some way towards compensating you for picking the fleas off my back.”

  “Some way,” Drago conceded, taking the small leather bag. It was heavy, and chinked, and when he loosened the drawstring he saw a rich yellow gleam, like freshly churned butter. He was holding more money than he’d ever managed to squander in his life. He shrugged, and chucked it casually onto the nightstand, trying not to let his surprise show on his face, and certain he wasn’t succeeding. Whoever the elf was, he was clearly nobody’s fool.

  “I take it I have your attention then,” his visitor said.

  “Most of it.” Drago drew his sword slowly, keeping the point and the cutting edge well away from the elf, who followed every movement with the calm deliberation of a cat outside a mouse hole. Taking a small cloth and a phial of oil from his belt pouch, Drago began to clean the recently sullied blade. “Do you have a name?”

  “Yes.” The elf smiled, moving another conversational pawn, but didn’t elaborate.

  “I take it you know mine,” Drago said, letting the observation hang.

  The elf nodded. “Drago Appleroot. Bounty hunter, hardly ever left the city. Could be an advantage.”

  “How so?” Drago asked.

  “No one would recognize you.”

  “Recognize me where?”

  “Where your target would be.” The elf paused. “All I’m prepared to say at this point is that he’s upstream.”

  “And all I’m prepared to say at this point is ‘piss off,’” Drago said, hoping he wasn’t overplaying his hand. The elf’s eyebrow rose again. He probably practiced in front of a mirror. “I don’t work for anyone who won’t even give me a name.”

  The elf shrugged. “You can take Greenleaf, if it makes you feel any better.”

  It didn’t, really, but Drago nodded, pretending to accept the obvious lie. Unless it was true, and a double bluff: the name was common among elves from the forest kingdom far up the Geltwash, and quite often heard in the streets of Fairhaven as well, particularly around the quays where the riverboats docked.

  “So you’re from the Sylvan Marches. Is that where the job is?”

  For the first time Greenleaf, if that was really his name, looked faintly surprised. Then he nodded. “What do you know about the Marches?”

  Drago shrugged. “Lots of trees, they tell me. I don’t really do trees.”

  “You should. Clean air, silence, solitude—“ Greenleaf broke off, looking faintly embarrassed. “As you can tell, I don’t really do cities. Unless it can’t be helped.”

  “Things can always be helped,” Drago said. “If they’re not how you like them, you change them. One way or another.” He examined the blade he’d been cleaning carefully, then returned it to its scabbard. He might have been imagining it, but Greenleaf’s hand seemed to move a fraction of an inch further from the hilt of his own sword, and his posture become a little less tense.

  “Which is where you come in. Or someone like you.”

  Drago shrugged again. “Damn few of those left in Fairhaven, so I hear.”

  Greenleaf nodded. “The assignment is not without risk.”

  “Never had one that was.” Drago started rummaging for a clean shirt, although by now he didn’t really see the point of getting dressed again. The adrenaline comedown after the fight outside was starting to kick in, and what he really wanted to do was sleep. No chance of that while Greenleaf was still occupying most of the bed, though.

  “No doubt.” Greenleaf nodded again. “But this one will be exceptionally hazardous.”

  “I got that impression from the way everyone you’ve spoken to about it so far’s turned up dead,” Drago said, before another thought struck him. “Or has someone else had better luck than the others?”

  “Not yet,” Greenleaf admitted. “But you seem a far better choice in any case. Shame you keep so low a profile. I could have saved a lot of time and a considerable amount of money by coming to you first.”

  “Then why didn’t you?” Drago asked, hoping he didn’t sound too eager. Greenleaf had to believe he was willing to go along with whatever this assignment was, but the more persuasion he apparently needed, the more the elf would open up in an attempt to convince him. At least, that was the theory. He’d set himself up as bait, and the bear was beginning to sniff the goat at last. Which didn’t answer the question of who the goblins outside had been, or why they’d jumped him, but with any luck that would become clear too.

  “You didn’t appear to be interested in the kind of contract we’re offering,” Greenleaf said, a spark of doubt entering his voice. “And, to be honest, I’m not entirely sure that you would be now. But a couple of recent incidents suggest that perhaps we were mistaken.”

  “We?” Drago asked.

  The elf nodded. “The people I work with.”

  “If you’re answerable to someone, I want to talk to them,” Drago said, standing dismissively, and glancing pointedly at the door. “I don’t negotiate with messenger boys.”

  “I said work with, not for.” For the first time a flash of irritation entered Greenleaf’s voice, before being hurriedly suppressed. Good. Annoyed, he might let his guard down more than he’d intended. T
hat had worked in Drago’s favor many times, in both verbal and physical confrontations. “I’m fully authorized to make any agreement I see fit.”

  “Authorized by who?” Drago asked, in a politely reasonable tone that reeked of skepticism.

  Greenleaf sighed. “None of the others asked. All they were interested in was the money.”

  “And look how well that ended for them,” Drago pointed out. “If I take your job I want to know everything about it. Who, why, exactly what the risks are. Then I’ll decide if you’re paying me enough to chance my neck on it.”

  “Fair enough.” The elf’s smile became marginally more genial, and a little more genuine. He reached inside his jacket again, and produced a small silver medallion. An oak tree, more elegant and symmetrical than any found in nature, was embossed on it; the image seemed vaguely familiar, and after a moment Drago recognized it. He’d seen the same symbol many times before, pressed into the wax of the excise seals on crates being unloaded from riverboats newly arrived down the Geltwash. “I represent his Royal Highness Lamiel Stargleam, monarch of the Kingdom of the Sylvan Marches.”

  So, Drago thought, his guess had been right. He worked at keeping his face neutral. “And how can I help so exalted a personage as His Royal Highness?”

  “A little less sarcasm would be a start,” Greenleaf said, looking genuinely amused for the first time since the conversation started, which made Drago feel marginally less like hitting the elf than he had done since entering the room.

  “Just leave that bit out of your report,” Drago suggested. “So how many other agents does he have in Fairhaven?” Not that he cared, but it was information that Raegan would be interested in.

  “Enough,” Greenleaf said, “but that’s beside the point right now. I’m the one handling this. If you want the job, you deal directly with me, and only me.”

  “I haven’t said I do, yet,” Drago said. “And I won’t, until I’m sure I won’t be getting out of my depth.”