“Ok,” he said. “What are they?”
Cole was staring at the glass spheres in his hand, then he came back to the world and snatched his hand behind his back.
“Nothing,” he said.
“Uh-huh,” Pinwhistle nodded.
Cole reminded himself he was a blue scarf in the Guild of Blackened Silk. He was important. Men feared him.
“Why are you here, Pinwhistle?” he asked.
The polder shrugged. “Just keeping an eye on things.”
“What?” Cole frowned.
“Same thing the rats are doing,” the polder said cryptically.
Cole didn’t know what to make of that.
“How many of those little black things you got?” the polder asked.
Cole sagged a little.
“Why?”
“Lemme have them,” the polder said, as though asking for a nail in return.
“I don’t think…the count wouldn’t….”
“Come on, don’t be dense. Tell him you used them all. Tell him anything, how’s he going to know?”
“I don’t know,” Cole said, shaking his head. He pulled his hand from behind his back and looked at the horrible glass beads again.
“Must have been fun down there,” the thief observed. “Rattle you so much.”
“Huh?”
The polder shrugged. “I’m just saying, lot of action down there. You’re shaken. You’ve seen some shit and it rattled your braincase.”
Cole nodded, a little relieved.
“I can tell,” the thief continued smoothly, “because if you weren’t rattled you’d remember I could just steal the fucking things from you and there isn’t anything you could do about it.”
Cole gave up. Extended his hand, shaking. Aimsley padded forward and examined the black orbs.
“Don’t drop them,” Cole warned, and placed the marbles in Aimsley’s palm.
Aimsley shot him a look and went back to examining the marbles. Cole relaxed, relieved to get rid of them. Relieved to have something the polder wanted.
Pinwhistle looked from the marbles to Cole. Shrugged.
“They make deathless,” Cole said.
The polder’s expression didn’t change.
“What?”
“I swear by the black brothers, they make deathless,” the words poured from Cole’s mouth. It was like he was testifying. A witness trying to convince a watchman of what he saw. “I didn’t know what they did, I just…he gave them to me and said to throw them at the ground. I thought they were blackout balls.”
Suddenly the polder’s mind was racing. Cole was a pro, experienced. Deathless would explain his current state. He stared at the black orbs, then looked up into the night sky, thinking.
Cole thought maybe he could run for it. But decided the danger was passed. Pinwhistle wouldn’t kill him, he realized. There was nothing Cole had that the little thief couldn’t take without violence.
“What’s the count up to, Cole?” the polder asked idly.
“You know as much as I do, fixer." Cole was desperate to impress. "I just made Blue this year, I mean sometimes I feel like I know what’s going on, but the count doesn’t tell me shit. I never talk to him. I see the Fixer sometimes. Otherwise...I serve at the pleasure of the Red,” he said with some regret.
“And the Red Scarves, the ones who gave you these…did they seem excited?”
“They were pissing themselves, they were so fucking happy.”
Aimsley nodded. “How do they work?”
“I don’t know.”
Aimsley cocked his head at the man.
“I swear by Saint Pallad I don’t know. I threw one down, and this smoke came out and went into Tom. Tom was dead. But then…then he wasn’t. Then he was something else. A ghoul.”
“There are no more Deathless," Aimsley said, almost reflexively, looking at the tiny glass ball in his hand.
“Well it looked like a ghoul! What the fuck do I know!?”
“Does it need a body?”
“I…I don’t know!”
“Has to work even without one," the polder reasoned. "Otherwise what would have happened if you’d used it before anyone died?”
“What?”
Cole was smart, but in his highly strung, badly rattled state, he wasn’t able to follow Aimsley’s logic.
“Ok,” the polder said. “Alright, I believe you. Thanks,” he said, holding up the glass marbles as though toasting the other thief. He put them in a small pouch on his hip.
Cole just stood there, nail hanging from his fingers, like someone waiting to be dismissed.
“I take back what I said about the count. Don’t tell him what happened. Don’t tell him anything. He’ll feel stupid he sent you and kill you just to make himself feel better.”
Cole nodded. He was sweating in the cold air.
“Better report back to the Fixer. He’ll know what to do.”
“Yeah,” Cole said, nodding. “Yeah, Garth will know.”
“Good boy,” the polder said. “You got a lot of promise, Cole. Things don’t work out with the Guild, you come talk to Brackett at the Hearth. We’ll find something for you to do. Something that don’t involve deathless.”
“Really?” Cole asked, he looked disoriented again. This whole evening left him shaking and unsure what was what. “Why would you…why would you do that?”
The polder frowned. “Dunno,” he said. “Just feeling generous, I guess.”
Cole nodded, though he wasn’t really listening.
“Now fuck off,” the polder said. “Your men are all dead—no fault of yours—and I might change my mind about letting you live.”
Cole turned and ran across the rooftop. The polder smirked. He turned, looked across the rooftops, and fingered the pouch at his hip. He wondered where the priest was.
He looked down into the open window. The ghoul was still down there. He could hear it. Cole had come for the girl, but hadn’t got her. Had got the ghoul instead. The ghoul that was now down there with the girl.
He produced a dirk, and bounded lightly down into the inn.
Chapter Eight
It was dark. Dark and cold and the sound of battle raged above, echoing through the thick wooden door. Vanora stopped, frozen halfway down the stairs. She’d never been down here, had no idea where the stairs led.
As she thought about it, her world spun. Her balance ebbed. The absence of any visual cues made standing upright impossible. The harlequin in one hand, its metal base in the other, she slowly sunk to the ground, spread herself out on the stairs.
“Harlequin,” she whispered.
No response. Something wet happened upstairs and a cheer went up from the mousemen, but the battle wasn’t over.
Her mind raced. She was amazed to find herself thinking quickly and clearly, even in the shadow of violence.
She placed the harlequin’s brass base on the stair in front of her, hoping she wasn’t accidentally balancing it on the edge of the stair in the dark. Then she took the harlequin from her other hand and, eyes watering and blinking with the strain of trying to see anything, she placed the harlequin on the stand. Kept her hand on it to stop it falling off. Hoping for some sort of….
There was a *click* and she felt the harlequin stiffen in her hand. She drew her hand away.
“Harlequin!” she hissed.
A warm glow rose from the base, as though it were heating up, and the harlequin was surrounded in light. It bowed deeply. Vanora breathed a sigh of relief; she’d hoped the metal tutor could make its own light, but did not know.
“A spotlight, mi’lady! All any performer desires!”
She looked around, saw the door in the light of the harlequin’s base, and saw the stairs stretching down into darkness.
Picking up the base in both hands, she lifted it carefully, afraid the harlequin would fall off.
With exaggerated motion, the harlequin lost its balance and tumbled across the small platform, before rolling upright
and planting his feet on the round metal disc. He now seemed attached to the platform, unmoving.
“You need not be gentle with me, young mistress,” the harlequin laughed. “I am no enamel eggshell! Rough and sturdy I am! A tutor for young boys as well as young girls.”
She grasped the brass plate more firmly and, using its light as a lantern, proceeded slowly down the long stairs.
As she neared the cellar, the air cooled and the stone walls bled moisture. Eventually the stairs ended and she stepped off onto flagstones. It was a large room, she couldn’t see the far wall, and there were wooden crates everywhere.
She saw a lantern on one of the boxes near her. She crept forward and put the harlequin down. This, she guessed, was the lantern Heden used. There was a box of slaves next to the lamp. She picked one up, struck it, and lit the lamp.
“Go to sleep, Harlequin,” she whispered, as she lifted the lamp, and the harlequin bowed before falling into a cross-legged sitting position. The light from the brass base faded.
Vanora lifted the lantern and checked its well of oil. Satisfied, she explored the room.
The sounds of battle above were muted now and, she thought, diminished. Had they stopped? She was not eager to run back up the stairs and see what had happened. Better, she reasoned, to wait down here for the mousemen. If they had prevailed. They must have, she thought. They must have won. She couldn’t imagine their brave efforts in vain.
Whatever she expected to find in the cellar, this was not it. It was all barrels of wine and ale, and crates of food. Some fresh, some…not so fresh. The floor was covered in stacks of boxes, the walls were covered in wine racks. She could read chalk markings on the boxes. One said “plates.”
It was everything you needed to run an inn. An inn with no customers. An inn Heden never opened. Why did he buy it? Did he inherit it?
Where did the mousemen come from? Where did his armor, his pack come from? Where was….
There was someone behind her. As she stood in the cellar, frozen in place, she suddenly and with great urgency realized she needed to go to the bathroom very badly. Very very badly.
She turned around, and faced a dozen wounded mousemen gathered at the bottom of the stair. Two of them carried wounded or dead comrades. She smelled blood and sweat-matted fur.
As they stared at her with their small, beady eyes, their priest pushed through them, chattering short prayers to their mouse god and healing them. The diminutive mousepriest seemed annoyed that his congregation weren’t moving, then he saw Vanora.
“Kettik,” he said. Vanora’s eyes were wide.
He barked at the warriors, and they darted forward. Filing past her, toward one of the wine racks which, with a discreet pull at a bottle from a tiny mousehand, swung open, leading to another chamber, this one lit.
The rat-warriors darted in. As the mouse cleric moved past, it stopped and sized Vanora up. It sniffed her with a twitching nose, its whiskers projecting forward and tickling her arm. Then it pulled back and regarded her for a moment before shrugging and moving on.
At the last was a dashing mouse warrior with a conical hat, eyepatch, and rapier. It came up short before Vanora, bowed deeply, doffing its cap, and reached out gingerly to take her hand, planting a miniscule kiss on it, before darting away swiftly.
The hidden door remained open behind the mouseman. For some reason, closing the secret door didn’t seem important to them.
Vanora walked to the hidden door and looked in at the chamber beyond, expecting to see a mouse warren. Instead there was another chamber, obviously part of Heden’s inn, not the mousemen’s home.
There were no mice creatures in here, they had disappeared through some other, secret door they had closed. Vanora saw no sign of it. But even had it been perfectly obvious, she’d probably not have seen it.
She was distracted by the huge piles of gold and gems. Weapons, suits of armor, chests. It was a dragon’s horde, from a fable. It glowed with its own light and projected its own warmth.
Vanora’s mouth hung open slack. There was a tall statue of a man made of bronze with tubes running through and in and out of him. Though disused and leaning against the far wall, Vanora’s sight was attracted to it. It reminded her of the harlequin.
The sounds of battle continued to rage above. Rose in ferocity. Then suddenly stopped. Silence. The battle was over. Who was fighting, if the ratmen had come down here?
Possessed by the feeling that this horde was something to be protected, kept hidden, she quickly shut the door, lest whoever was in the common room above make it down here.
Leaving the harlequin behind, she took the lantern and climbed the stairs out of the cellar, grabbed the latch that opened the door to the common room. As she was about to open it she heard a noise coming from the room beyond.
There was someone in the common room. Bann, surely. Or the watchman? Teagan? The mousemen wouldn’t have come back down here and left her if it wasn’t safe. Would they? She thought of Heden. Would she trust him? She would. Does he trust the mice? He does. She took a deep breath, and opened the door.
Chapter Nine
The door opened, the man fell, the rope pulled taught. There was a snap, then some kicking.
The count laughed. No one noticed amidst the cheering.
“You pick the most amusing places for our meetings,” he said.
“When I ask to meet you,” the Truncheon growled, “you can pick whatever the fuck place you want.”
The count nodded. “Fair.”
They sat at a table on the rear balcony of a tavern overlooking the throng who’d turned out to watch the hangings. By the look of it, it would be a full day’s entertainment. The courtyard below was bounded on three sides by walls of the king’s castle.
“Am I right?” The count speculated. “Are we always within sight of the castle or the citadel?”
The Truncheon tore at his food, left the utensils on the table. “When I’m out,” he said between bites, “I like to watch the people set to watch me.” He looked around the courtyard, nodding at people the count couldn’t be bothered to pick out. A bit of duck hung from the Truncheon’s lips.
“Fuck ‘em,” he said.
The count looked at his fixer, standing at attention behind the Truncheon. Garth shrugged minutely, then went back to watching the Truncheon’s fixer. A tall, slim girl who stood behind the count, as was traditional in these things. The count didn’t turn to look at the girl, but he knew she was standing there, relaxed, watching Garth.
“Things have been good, since the ragman took over.”
“Ungh,” the Truncheon said. He looked like a dockworker. He was short, thick, mostly muscle, and covered in tattoos. His long greasy black hair was tied into a ponytail. It wasn’t any kind of style, it was just something easy when the man’s hair got too long.
The count thought he looked like a thug. But that was the whole point. He was a thug. His methods were those of a sadistic thug. Worse than sadistic, tasteless. Indulgent.
There it was again: taste. Style. The Truncheon had neither. No manner about him. Brick, on the other hand, for all his size and bulk, there was a man with style. Not fashion, certainly, but he knew how to play the role.
When the count didn’t continue, the Truncheon recognized there was something expected of him. He shot the count a look. Wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.
“I don’t give a fuck about the ragman, and neither do you,” he said, his voice a saw.
“Well,” the count said, rubbing the back of his neck, “that’s not entirely true.”
The Truncheon stared at him. The count tried not to wince at the small piggish eyes that bored into him.
“Our arrangement with the castellan has been beneficial, but limiting,” he said. “We’ve all experienced a lot of, ah, growth? Stability? But it’s been almost ten years, and I know for a fact your operation is at the limit of what can be done without overstepping the bounds we all agreed to.”
“You d
on’t know shit about my operation, don’t act like you do.”
The count sighed. Not for the first time he found himself wondering how this barely conscious slab of meat managed to become one of the most powerful men in the city.
“I know you can’t get any more from The Pocket without letting them set up shop here.”
The Truncheon put down the melon rind he’d been gnawing. Wiped his fingers on his linen shirt. Sat back and stared at the count.
“Who the fuck told you that?”
“You’d be able to get far more out of Capital, giving up nothing,” the count said smoothly, “with the ragman out of the way. With us running the city.”
The Truncheon appeared to ignore this last, he was concentrating on the count’s previous statement.
“You come here to tell me what you know? Let’s talk about your operation on the Gambit. You think because the water protects you from the seer we don’t know what goes on there? We got other resources.”
“It’s immaterial,” the count said with a shrug. “We’re competitors only by circumstance. We have no reason to be enemies.”
“We got lots of reasons to be enemies. Don’t give me more.”
“It’s the castellan’s restrictions that force us into conflict; it’s what he’s been counting on. It took nine years, but we’ve reached the limit. The three of us run all the crime in the city. Now there’s no one to fight but each other.”
The Truncheon couldn’t deny this. The count saw the Truncheon thinking. Made his offer.
“I think it’s time we renegotiated the terms of our contract,” he said.
“The fuck are you talking about?” The Truncheon asked.
“The agreement we have with the castellan. It’s time to nullify it.”
“You want to ace the ragman? The king’s man, are you fucking mental?”
“Ah, the king….,” the count raised a hand, “I don’t think it’s accurate to say the castellan works for the king. The king doesn’t have anything to do with what happens within the city walls. He has Baed to worry about after all.”
The Truncheon waited.
“If we made a move against the castellan,” the count clarified, “I don’t believe the king could do anything about it.”
Thief: A Fantasy Hardboiled (Ratcatchers Book 2) Page 4