That it was all true—except for the getting acquainted part—only made him more embarrassed. Which was, he supposed, the point, at least for Nikolas. Not that Nikolas specifically wanted him embarrassed, but that Nikolas wanted a consistently genuine reaction, since some of the people they were greeting were Heralds. And just when Mags was starting to wonder when they would actually get around to doing what they allegedly came down into Haven to do, one of the actors from the previous evening hailed them from across the room.
The man came to the table at Nikolas’ gesture. “Niko, Arianna wants your opinion on her farce,” he said. “We want it to be funny, but we don’t want a repetition of the Bochter incident. Eh?”
Nikolas made a face. “No one wants to repeat that. It took the Constables most of the night to clear the inn. I can certainly help make sure no tender sensibilities are trodden on, nor tempers raised, nor insults taken.” He stood up. “Come on, lad. We get to be theater critics today.”
“This will take a while, but you don’t need to worry about Andels locking you in. You might as well leave by our entrance; it’s closer to the stables, and there’s someone on the door at all hours,” the actor said, as they followed him through a side door. He wasn’t pitching his voice in a way that made it obvious he wanted to be heard—but if Mags was any judge, he was making sure that anyone who wanted to hear him could.
Puzzled now, Mags still held his peace. The actor went one way at a t-junction in the hallway, but Nikolas went in the opposite direction, and Mags followed. Nikolas opened a little door that looked as if it led to a storeroom with a key he had on his person.
He opened the room, and somewhat to his surprise, Mags saw that a lamp was already burning in it. It probably had been a storeroom at one time, but now it held just two things: a rack with clothing on it and the lamp safely mounted on the wall. Without a word, Nikolas handed Mags a set of clothing not unlike what he had worn as the blind beggar and took down a similar set for himself. Very shabby and threadbare, but carefully mended. Shirt, jerkin, and some sort of loose trews, all in faded dust colors, with the faint remnants of stains on them. But clean. Mended clothing and clean—that put two more things in Mags’ mind. He and Willie Weasel were supposed to care about how they looked, but Willie didn’t spend a pin more on anything than he absolutely had to.
Things were beginning to make sense for Mags now. This was where they would transform into their other identities—perhaps not every night, but given that Nikolas was a familiar creature around here, they would be using this room often enough. It was probable that someone had come to ready the room and light the lamp as soon as he and Nikolas had settled at their table. Then it had just been a matter of someone coming up with an excuse for Nikolas to go talk to the actors. Their comings and goings in an inn that was already frequented by Heralds in general (probably because of the plays) and patronized by Nikolas in particular would not be noted.
The actor who had accosted them was clearly one of Nikolas’ confederates. Now that he had the general shape of things in his mind, Mags was confident that when Weasel and his boy left this inn, they would leave by a side entrance that no one would note.
Huh. Guess I been learnin’ a lot I niver thought ’bout.
“All right, then,” Nikolas said, very quietly, in tones barely above a whisper, as Mags hung up his uniform. “Tell me what’s going on here.”
Mags did, and Nikolas nodded with satisfaction. “I’ve built up confederates and places like this on a network that I inherited from my predecessor,” he said. “This particular resource was his; he actually was an actor before being Chosen, and this inn belongs to his family. Remember the soapmaker you utilized?”
Mags nodded.
“I’ve recruited her,” Nikolas said with satisfaction. “She’s a fantastic resource. As you noticed, no one pays any attention to the person who comes to clean the ashpits.”
Mags felt a sudden pang of guilt. This was all very well but—what if they were ever trailed back to these bolt-holes by someone dangerous?
“But—I wouldn’ wanta bring danger on ’er—” he said hesitantly.
“That’s another reason I am relieved to have you partnering me, Mags,” Nikolas told him as he cracked the door for light, then blew out the lamp. “You should be able to sense if we are being followed, and in that case, we take another way back, one that will take us through a few cellars. That should effectively lose them. And if for some reason that doesn’t work, we’ll lead them straight into Constables or the Guard.”
Mags felt much better about that as he closed the door to the little room and made sure that it locked behind them. He wondered if they would leave through a cellar this time. In fact, they left by a side entrance so lost in darkness and shadows that they had to grope their way along the alley it let out on to find a street. Not a nice street, either. Not a dangerous street, but there were a fair number of disreputable looking characters and establishments on it. Mags fell into his character immediately, sticking close to Nikolas and not reacting to sounds at all. Unlike the street of their inn, this one smelled. It wasn’t rank, but there were faint suggestions that someone had been sick, overlaid with beer, cheap wine, and burning grease smells.
The neighborhood gradually became dirtier and darker. Not that Mags could see the dirt, but he could smell it. Places where cats and dogs (and probably people) had relieved themselves. A stink of unwashed bodies and unwashed clothing. Slops poured into the gutter only added to the reek, which would persist until a rain came and washed it all down to the collection basins. People living here weren’t supposed to do this, but unless you actually caught someone at it, it was hard to tell who the culprit was.
Finally Nikolas paused at a shuttered storefront halfway down the street from one of the few streetlamps, took a key out of his belt pouch, and opened the door. The universal symbol of the pawnbroker, three coins, was painted beside and above the door. The paint was fading. The symbol was the visual representation that the pawnbroker would lend you two coins but would get back three, whether he got it when you redeemed your pledge or when he sold it.
It was as dark as the inside of a hat in there, and the place smelled musty. Mags held absolutely still while Nikolas groped around at the edge of the door. He came up with a tallow-dip, which he took to the dim little streetlamp and held it up until it took. He brought it back, sheltering it from the breeze with one hand, and Mags followed him and the light inside.
The shop seemed to hold a mish-mash of just about anything and everything; there were tables heaped with old clothes and shoes, battered tools and kitchen utensils hung on the walls, and above them were shelves with boxes on them. Everything on the wall had a paper tag on it. Only half the shop was open to the public; the other half was behind a wall with a barred window in it and a counter behind the window. It had another locked door, which Nikolas unlocked after lighting a lamp in the front. They both went inside, and Nikolas locked the door behind them.
This, clearly, was where the valuable things were kept. Tools in much better condition, silver plate, some jewelry in trays. There was more in labeled boxes on shelves along the walls. Mags didn’t have a chance to do more than glance around when a bell over the door rang and a man entered.
“I hope that boy of yours came with you this time, Weasel,” said the man, sounding irritated, as he pulled a small box out of a pouch and shoved it under the bars of the window.
“He ain’t my boy, and aye, I got ’im,” Nikolas half snarled. Since Mags had been standing away from the window looking at the things hung up on the wall when the man came in, he gave no indication that he had heard anything until Nikolas reached over and shook his shoulder, roughly.
He turned, hunching over in the same servile posture he used to take at the mine when one of the owner’s sons accosted him. Nikolas pushed him toward the counter and opened the box, spilling out the rough-cut gemstones inside onto a tray. There was already a magnifying lens on the tray, waitin
g. Mags nodded, and Nikolas brought over a cobbler’s lamp and lit it so that the clear light fell on the tray. Mags picked up the lens and the first of the stones, doing his best to ignore the man’s beer-laden, foul breath, as he leaned forward to watch Mags sort.
There were about twenty of them. None of them were the rare sort: rubies, emeralds, or sapphires. There were some citrines, garnets, some quartz dyed to look like aquamarine and amethyst, and a couple of sunstones. Mags examined each stone carefully with the magnifying lens. All had flaws and inclusions; all had been cut to try to hide the flaws. He sorted them all into the cups at the edge of the tray. Nothing went into the one on the farthest right,which meant “worthless,” but none of them went into any cup higher than “inferior,” and the dyed ones he sorted out onto the counter.
The man was incensed. “What th’ hell, Weasel?” he demanded. It was clear to Mags that he knew what the sorting cups meant. “Them’s good sparklies! An’ what’s he sorted th’ purples an’ blues out fer?”
Mags made meaningless hand motions when Nikolas shook his shoulder, keeping his head ducked down as if he expected a blow.
::He’s trying to pass off dyed quartz as aquamarine and amethyst. All of the stones have been cut to try to hide flaws. Nothing is even up to ‘good’ grade, but the ones in the farthest cup left have flaws that are interesting, at least, and could be recut and polished to take advantage of them,:: he Mindspoke to Nikolas as his fingers flew. ::My sense is that he knew very well these were fakes. They are worth just about as much as cut glass or paste.:: Nikolas nodded, then his face darkened with rage. As his hand shot out to grab the man by the collar and haul him up to the bars, Mags ducked and scuttled into a corner.
“Yer tryin’ t’ pass off fakes!” Nikolas snarled, and shook the man one-handed until his teeth rattled. “Ye rat bastard, yer tryin’ t’pass fakes off on me!”
The man yelped and beat at Nikolas’ hand. “No! I didn’—I never—”
Nikolas let go and spat at him. “Liar! I should take these’n get a Constable!”
“I didn’ know!” the man sputtered, looking genuinely terrified. “How was I t’know ’e’d be carryin’ aroun’ fakes? I lifted ’em fair an’ square!”
::’E guessed. ’E don’t know stones, but ’e guessed that these wasn’t wuth much.:: Mags was positive of that. The man was terrified of the rage in Nicolas’ eyes, because he hadn’t expected it, so he was lying his head off, hoping to somehow wiggle out of this without Nikolas making good his threat.
::He jest admitted t’ stealin’ ’em,:: Mags added.
::I noticed that. Which would make me a receiver of stolen property. If I call the Constables now, I’ll be in as much trouble as he is.::
“Ye damn fool, didn’ ye figger ’e’d be holdin’ a drop-pouch? Idjit! That boy has more sense’n ye do!” Nikolas spat again. He made no reference to the fact that the stones had been stolen, but he also was not talking about Constables now either.
“Well, they ain’t all fakes, is they?” the man asked desperately. “I mean, the boy didn’ sort ’em all out!”
“Nah, but they ain’t wuth what ye was tryin’ t’git outa me, neither,” Nikolas snarled. “Not even close. Gold? Not a chance. Not even siller. Copper, I’ll gi’ye. Two apiece, an’ nothin’ fer th’ fakes.”
“Two? Ten!” the man yelped, and they settled down for some serious bargaining. Mags had no idea that Nikolas was such a ruthless bargainer. Two copper was about what a glass or paste “gem” was worth. Even the fakes were worth twice that. But then again, these were stolen. While it was not likely that the Constables would be searching very hard for the thief who had taken something so small in value, there was still a risk for Nikolas in taking them. Eventually the man, worn down to nothing by Nikolas’ sharp tongue and threats to expose him to the Constables as a thief after all, settled for five silver and twenty coppers for a pile of small gemstones worth, in Mags’ estimation, about twenty silver.
Mags wondered what he was going to do with them.
Nikolas counted out the money reluctantly and shoved it under the bars. The man trudged away.
Nikolas pointed to a stool in one corner and handed Mags some horsehair, then made some meaningless signs. ::You have to look busy,:: he Mindspoke. ::Reading would be out of character, so I supposed you could braid some trinkets to sell here in the shop.::
Mags nodded, scuttled over to the stool, and began to make a pretty, round braid for a bracelet. People came and went, some legitimate, some not. Mags soon learned that Nikolas was a moneylender as well, taking peoples’ possessions as surety against a loan. Those who came in and repaid their loans a bit at a time got their property back. Those who defaulted lost it, and presumably Nikolas sold their goods. One fellow came in and joyfully redeemed his carpentry tools. Nikolas grumbled the entire time he was handing them over.
::This fellow’s a good, honest man,:: Nikolas was saying in Mindspeech as he berated the carpenter. ::He just fell on hard times. I found someone who could take him on so he could get his tools back. He’ll be fine now.::
::Reckon ye didn’ overcharge ’im, neither,:: Mags replied, keeping his face still.
::Well, it would have been out of character for me to be easy on him. Weasel is known as a sharp man, but fair, when it comes to a plain loan.::
But as the night wore on, people came in who were not honest. There was no reason why a fellow with dirt caked black under his fingernails and who clearly had not washed himself nor changed his clothing in a year would own six silver spoons, nor why a woman with paint caked on her face so thick it was cracking and a threadbare velvet gown so low-cut Mags was afraid her breasts were going to pop out of it should have a double handful of silk handkerchiefs, both plain and embroidered. Nikolas bargained with both of them as sharply as he had the gem thief, and with as little evidence that he cared where the loot had come from or how the possessor had acquired it.
Finally, as the trickle of customers slowed and dried up and Mags judged it was getting near dawn, the first man came in again.
“Here!” he said, thrusting something under the bars. “Now thet’ll be worth somethin’!”
Nikolas gestured to Mags, who left off his braiding and joined the Herald at the counter. On the worn wood between them was a brooch set with carnelians and silkstone cabochons. Not worth much in and of themselves, but the workmanship of the brooch itself was incredible, made all of twisted wires of a metal that was so red it looked a little like copper—but which proved on application of the touchstone to be gold. And not plated, either.
Who would mount common stones in a setting of gold wires?
“Huh,” Nikolas said, and stroked his chin. “Huh. I don’t rightly know how t’value that. ’Tis gold. Carnelian and silkstone ain’t worth a lot. But setting—’tis gold. I could gi’ ye th’ gold-weight value . . . I don’ s’pose this’s somethin’ nobody’d miss.” The last was said with so much sarcasm the words practically sank beneath the weight.
“H’actually, they won’t,” the man said smugly. “I got yon off a corpus. ’E won’t be lookin’ for it, and I misdoubt there’s any sad relations about to shout thief.”
“Grave robbin’, now, are ye?” Nikolas cackled. “But if yon relations should come ’cross it in me shop—”
“They won’t. Or if they do, they won’t say nothin’.” The man grinned smugly. “Furriners what weren’t s’possed t’be here. Fool got hisself kilt by dray wagon this mornin’, an’ his friends lit out babblin’ in some furrin tongue. I might’ve been follerin’ ’em, seein’ as furriners don’t know city an’ might need a guide.”
“Big of ye,” Nikolas said with a snort. “Right, then. I can gi’ ye a bit now an’ a bit more once I make sure this ain’t gonna bring no trouble to m’shop. Here’s gold-weight value—” He shoved a few silver pennies under the bars. “Come back termorrow an’ ye’ll mebbe get that agin.” The man reached for the money, but Nikolas seized his wrist. “Not so fast. I gi�
�� ye twice as much, if’n ye kin find out where these furriners be bidin’.”
The man stilled. “Who wants t’know?”
Nikolas laughed. “Ye think I’m so daft as t’tell ye, so’s ye kin run to ’em an’ collect my fee?” He let go of the man’s wrist.
::He really does look like a weasel,:: Dallen marveled, watching through Mags’ eyes. Mags kept his shoulders hunched over and his head down. He was actually beginning to enjoy this.
Now, he himself wasn’t at all sure that the brooch was from their murderous “guests.” It wasn’t of a style like anything he had ever seen before, but as he had come to know, there was a great deal of Valdemar out there, and beyond the borders of Valdemar, there were a lot of strange places and people.
Still, if the Weasel was known for taking in things like this, some other trinket might lead them to their targets.
::Is there any way you could tell for certain where this is from?:: Nikolas asked, as the thief rubbed his wrist.
::Not really. Not like stones got liddle maps on ’em sayin’ where they come from. Might could be a Gift thet could tell ye where it’s been, but I ain’t got it. Mebbe I could look at them books the buggers left behind an’ see if’n the designs look alike, but—:: He wanted to shrug, but didn’t. No giving the game away by something out of character. ::I’d’a thunk an art-feller would be more like t’tell ye yea or nay on thet score.::
“I take all the risk, an’ you get all the profit!” the thief whined. “Now I ask you, is that fair?”
Nikolas laughed nastily. “Oh, aye, a lot of risk ye took, takin’ it off a dead man! Afraid he’s gonna haunt ye?”
The thief looked around uneasily. Nikolas laughed again. “Ye got to do next thing t’nothing to get twice what ye got fer this trinket. Keep it in mind.” He shoved the money all the way to the other side of the bars. “I buy lotsa stuff that ain’t trinkets. People pay me t’find out things. I pay people t’find ’em out for me. Understand?”
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