RINGS (The Paladin's Thief Book 2)

by Benjamin K Hewett

  I get excited, thinking Petri has tipped her off, but her hand comes away empty, no handful of rings to show for her effort. I know because her face is white as she melts back into the crowd.

  The messenger from Northgate finally gets his message across as the crowd turns to watch him canter up, people diving to get out of the way.

  “This man is not to be hanged!”

  “Why not?” Captain James replies with resignation.

  “For the confirmed elimination of a bountied Nightshade, one Kinkaid Lumière of Doward. This man is the honored recipient of the Lady Selwin’s congratulations!”

  “See! See!” Barkus and his large, round belly bounce with fervor.

  Lucinda is urging him to stop with a one-handed, off-with-your-head slitting motion. I wish she wouldn’t do that almost as much as I want Barkus to shut up.

  But a good story in motion is a hard thing to stop, and Barkus has the bit in his mouth like a horse running for the stable.

  “And I tell you, just yesterday Teacup was in my inn promising a big clean-up to come, how all those doers of evil better run for cover. He even threatened me, bless him. But I don’t blame him. Sometimes it’s hard to know.” Barkus takes a hard stare at Sanjuste, and when he can’t find him, looks to Petri. You’re next.

  It’s too much for the guards. The honest ones have been chomping at the bit for a champion, and the dishonest ones can admit to themselves that fewer Nightshades would be better.

  The final straw falls when the sketcher shows his newly drafted pardon poster:

  “Teamus Steaps, yor Nightshade Hunter.”

  The drawing has a pile of black-cloaked Nightshades dead at my feet, remarkably well rendered. Hell and Damnation. And Pan’s Beard. I’m a dead man.

  After that, they get me off the gallows fast, bowing and shaking my hand, apologizing. Complimenting me on my climbing abilities. Looking worried.

  “Are you okay, Mister Steeps?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “A drink, perhaps?”

  “No thanks. Prefer to drink from a known source.”

  “Well thought, sir. It would take more than a little gallows to finish you off, Mr. Steeps.”

  “Of course.” I say it quietly because my throat feels scratchy.

  “Do you need any assistance, Mr. Steeps?

  “Yes, I do. I’d like to talk to the sketcher.” Pan’s beard, this is a pain. As if it isn’t bad enough to have a gigantic, red target painted on my chest now, for all the deadliest killers in Teuron.

  The sketcher steps up, older than I’d guessed, hair dyed recently as evidenced by the charcoal stain on his scalp.

  “Nicely done, sir,” I say.

  “What can I do for you, Slayer. Anything.”

  “It’s pretty easy. Can you fix my surname? S. T. E. E. P. S.” When I’m perfectly dead next week, I’d like for them to at least get my bloody tombstone spelled correctly.

  The sketcher relaxes. “Right away, sir!”

  Someone in the crowd is selling meat pies. The smell of golden pastry and spiced lamb hits me like one of Magnus’s meaty fists. My stomach grumbles loudly, because they don’t serve breakfast to the condemned. That would be a waste of good porridge.

  A gap-toothed villager, the same idiot who tipped off the brawl, is bragging about how this all started when someone got jealous about the gorgeous barmaid that kept hanging around his table.

  “Yeah right, George! Prob’ly ‘cause yer didn’t pay yer bill!

  “Yer a lout!” George retorts.

  “Yer double!”

  A small scuffle ensues.

  Barkus seizes the moment, turns to Captain James. “Mr. Steeps will be in touch. No small jobs, please. Only the most serious. He’s had a hand in the death of over 20 assassins to date, so let’s not waste his time.”

  He’s pulling me down the stairs, with Magnus following in his wake, my family closing in. “You better run straight to Fortrus Abbey,” Barkus whispers.

  “Did you have to finish that story?” I complain.

  “I got a little carried away.” His cheeks are flushed and he looks healthier from his early morning run to the gallows. “I know you ain’t really aiming to shut them Nightshades down. And I’m sorry for all the trouble I’ve made for ya.”

  “You bought me time. You saved my life. Thanks.” I stare Barkus straight in the eye, for a full minute till he knows I’m thankful. He looks worried, over his thick stubble and strong shoulders and large stomach, and I know immediately how this story needs to finish, even if I have no intention of seeing it through. It needs to end with hope.

  “Barkus, if the Nightshades have anything to fear, it’s me.” I say it in my soft voice, because I’ve never had much bravado to begin with, and always had to tiptoe around that. “Especially if they come ‘round my house again.”

  Barkus’s eyes go wide. He thinks I’m serious.

  “You still better run.”

  “I know.”

  There’s one last oddity. A girl with short, red hair is watching me closely from the middle of the crowd. She isn’t wearing black, but I know it’s her, and we’re not moving fast enough. She cuts off our escape without making it obvious that she’s doing it. But I know.

  I’m looking for a weapon when she greets us in a civil tone.

  “Handsome, sir,” she says in her silky voice, brown eyes glittering. “If I can ever be of assistance. . .”

  I glare at her. “Some assistance last night might have been nice.”

  Carmen catches up with us, and the twins are right behind. “Teacup, who is your friend?” Her tone says something, but I’m not quite sure what.

  “Someone interested in watching me hang.”

  Red’s sly satisfaction slips for a second. “I was sent to observe . . .”

  Carmen threads her arm through mine. “How about observing us walk away?”

  We split apart a few blocks from Redemption Alley. We all agree it’s best the kids and I leave Ector early tomorrow with Magnus, if we can get a coach. The ladies will watch the house with a pair of Northgaters standing guard. Neither look happy about this arrangement, but Carmen isn’t ready to leave her clients behind and Magnus is insistent that Lucinda stay in Ector to keep Carmen company.

  Carmen slips a thimble into my pocket for good luck before following Magnus toward the liveries. She touches my arm lightly and looks away just as quickly. “I have a friend there. He can help,” she says.

  Lucinda just stomps away to get the food Barkus has pledged for getting us on the road quickly, growling something about using her dagger on Magnus. Valery stomps after her, obviously taking behavioral notes.

  Timnus lingers, though he’s supposed to go with Lucinda. “Da, I want to stay in Ector with Lucinda and Carmen.” His eyes are both mischievous and hopeful. “I’ll spread word about the town that you’re out on business and won’t be back for several months. Things will be safer for the ladies that way.”

  “That’s a good idea.” I know there’s more. “And?”

  “And people are going to come running to buy my shoes, now that we’re back in business.”

  This is the part where I tell him, like a father, how things are going to go down: as safely as possible. None of my kin are staying in Ector while Sanjuste is on the loose.

  “You can make shoes for the monks,” I say in consolation.

  “Monks are boring.”

  “Boring like Magnus?”

  That catches his imagination.

  “You’re going to have to work on your sizing, though,” I say pointing to Valery’s clompy impression of Lucinda.

  Timnus flashes me his “do-I-look-stupid?” grin. “Da! If I made boots that fit her to the inch, I’d be making her new boots every day!”

  “Just checking,” I recover. Smart kid.

  I change subjects to seal the deal. “Still got that wheel-pin?”

  His grin widens into something genuine as he pulls it from his pocket.
/>   “What are you going to do with it?”

  “I dunno, Da. Save it for luck?”

  “Good plan. Mind Lucinda.”

  He scampers off, stuffing the pin back into his pocket.

  I don’t go directly into the house, which the kids have forgotten to lock again. I don’t blame them, for all the excitement that’s been going around. Instead, I sit on the back steps for a long while, enjoying the fresh breeze, the sudden freedom, and the happy thought of raising kids. Being almost-dead makes being Dad more precious.

  When I start feeling sleepy, I go inside and head up the stairs. Last night’s adventure is catching up with me.

  I’m yawning in my own kitchen when I realize I’m not alone. There are boots on my table, and the owner of those boots is grinning like a skeleton.

  The smell of improperly cured shoe-leather drifts through the air. “Sanjuste.”

  I leave off the honorific. Sanjuste’s no master of the trade, no matter what the guildmen say (probably out of fear).

  He’s a beast of a man, at least two boots taller than me, and several times as thick. And he’s gained weight since the last time I had the misfortune of gazing upon him. I’ve compared him to Magnus before, but today he looks thicker in the middle, decidedly pear-shaped, thickening in girth around the waist, not unlike Barkus. He doesn’t strike me as big today so much as fat, but I know that girth can move quickly for his size. When he bounces up from his double-reinforced cobblers bench, you’d better already be moving, if you want to stay out of the way.

  But I stand my ground, at least for the moment. “Get out of my house.”

  “I told you to keep a close eye on your kids.” A wicked grin spreads across his face.

  He wants me to think he’s found them, but I know better. I know for a fact they’re hale and hearty, helping Lucinda and Magnus.

  I’m afraid, but only a little. Sanjuste leaves his dirty work to Frank, or so I’ve heard, and the back door is just a scamper away.

  Creak. Clack.

  The sound of someone barring my own door below. A glance tells me it’s Frank.

  Fear creeps in. They must have come straight here after the execution. “I’m opening up the shoe shop again,” I say, sliding away from the stairway and Frank’s long narrow rope. It wouldn’t be strong enough to hang Magnus, but it’ll do quite well for me. “You’re going to wish you never came here.”

  His grin spreads wider. He peers around as if to mock my lack of allies. “You won’t be opening up anything.”

  I’m not stupid. They’re here to kill me, and not in the quick and silent way of Nightshades. They’re here to make me suffer. They’re here to make a mess and send a message. By now everybody has seen Val’s new boots, and there were at least three people in the gallows crowd wearing Timmy’s trademark, which I didn’t recognize until this morning. Those two have been selling shoes for the last two weeks, and I didn’t know anything about it!

  But it’s time to cut my losses and get out. I wouldn’t put Magnus up against these two, not in such a tight space, not with him still half-blind and such. I surely don’t have a chance.

  Sanjuste springs forward without warning, but I’m faster. To the kitchen window. It’s big enough for me, but not big enough for him. On the roof I can lock the door and set fire to the house. It’ll be a shame, but I can’t afford to have this monster out and about.

  Only the window won’t budge, and I don’t have time to find out why. I leap to the side, narrowly avoiding a crashing blow from his right hand, and a leather-punching awl it has brought along. The sharp awl settles into the wood and sticks, buying me a half-second to dash to the master bedroom door.

  Locked, and no time for lock-picks.

  I feel a cold sweat, watching Frank as he guards the stairs. They’ve been planning for this. The window is nailed shut and the bedroom door is locked. We never do that. Between Timnus, Valery, and me, we all know the uselessness of locks. Except now. Now they’re a big deal. And no one is due back for another hour or two.

  It’s the end of the line for me. Unless I can play them against each other, they’re going to catch and kill me, and it’s going to be messy.

  Frank steps back into the stairwell as if hearing my thoughts, getting out of Sanjuste’s way.

  They watch me as realization sets in, and Sanjuste smiles a cruel smile. “I told you I didn’t like you seven years ago. I told you this wasn’t the right side of town to set up shop on. I told your precious wife, too. You think your blind, little Paladin’s going to keep you safe? Not when I have Tom’s collection.”

  He flexes a meaty fist, one holding a pair of leather snips. Five black rings, one for each finger on his left hand, even his thumb. All the same, all different. I can see swirls in them, now that they’ve been cleaned, like the folds in Tenebrus’s own coat, swirls that keep moving like a cloak flapping in the wind, or a dark cloud roiling up a thunderstorm.

  I play for time. “How you make shoes with those paws is beyond me,” I say.

  He scowls.

  “Oh. Right. Not well, I remember now. My son is going to rip your business apart.”

  Sanjuste’s scowl deepens. “Your boy was lucky. Frank’s an idiot and slow. We’ll catch him one of these days. Hell, we may even get to string him up next to you.”

  Frank just grins.

  I lose my cool. I’m not a fighter but I go for Sanjuste, with the same knife I put into poor Pale Tom. I take him by surprise, but it barely grazes him as he pivots out of my way. Suddenly I’m trapped in a smelly armpit. I can see a small strong rope coming over my head.

  “Wait till his darling kids see him dangling from the rafters,” Sanjuste laughs.

  Frank laughs, too. It’s a stupid laugh. A trollish laugh.

  My chest tightens. I point my knuckles and jab hard in Sanjuste’s ribs, but there’s too much fat protecting the soft parts. I squirm. I bite. But Sanjuste holds me tight until Frank’s hoisting me towards my own rafters. I’m holding Sanjuste by the shirt to stay on the ground, but he aims his leather snips at one of my fingers. “This little piggy . . .”

  I move my fingers, hear Pale Tom sighing. “All that hard work wasted. Ector will have Sanjuste as its Nightshade. . . . I should have picked Lucinda. She’s so much more clever.”

  What would Lucinda do?

  Check the pockets, I realize. Sanjuste could be carrying anything. A dagger. A shiv. A cobbler’s pick.

  My hand finds the right pocket just as Frank heaves-to again. My fingers close around something circular. Tom’s ring flashes hot in my hand, and I know suddenly that Petri gave it to Lucinda and Lucinda planted it, in case Sanjuste proved himself devious and managed to catch me unawares.

  And then I’m airborne. But now I have an ally.

  I can feel time slow again, can feel the rotation of the rope, can sense the movement of Frank behind me as I turn, can smell his foul breath as he hoists me toward the rafters. My timing is perfect as I deliver a heel to Frank’s ear and the soft part behind it. Frank crumples, dropping me. My feet punch the floor.

  Hello, planking.

  I can’t get more than three fingers between the noose and my neck before Sanjuste’s got me off the ground again, keeping a distance from my flailing feet. I’m still going to choke; it’s just going to take a little longer. I fight it.

  “You always were a tricky little bastard,” he swears. “I should have handled this ages ago.”

  He doesn’t know that I have my ring, that I can hear his muttering even though I should be passing out, or that I can hear the scratching in the attic of someone coming through my trapdoor. (So that’s how they’ve been getting in!)

  I stop kicking to save air.

  I hear Timnus and Valery whispering frantically, arguing.

  “Lucinda said wait!” Timnus is pleading. “She’s getting Magnus.”

  “We don’t have time, Timmy! They’ve got Da in there. They’re killing him.”

  Sanjuste has tied off the r
ope and is kicking Frank, who isn’t waking up. Probably should be putting a knife in me instead, but I don’t remind him. Darkness seems to gather around him, but he doesn’t hear the sounds in the attic. I guess that’s not a skill every Nightshade has, not even one with five rings.

  I spin round and round, and Val is there, in the rafters, trying to cut me down. I scream in my head Get away! Get away, Val! but the words get caught on the rope around my throat. She can’t hear anything but her own panic.

  Sanjuste throws his knife at—one of several he’s laid out on the table—sinks it straight into her delicate side. She screams and falls, bleeding. My tears fall with her.

  I grab the rope with my free hand, trying to kick up, frantic, and feel Sanjuste’s enormous hand catch my foot and yank it back down.

  “Watch with me,” he says cruelly.

  He’s still watching her twist and turn on the floor when Timmy pounds a leather awl straight through the man’s right boot, foot, and floor, pinning it in place. I don’t know where he came from, but seeing his taller, braver sister bleeding is all the incentive he needs. Then he swings a chair, hammering it into the huge shoe-maker’s chest.

  The back door shudders below, and Sanjuste’s knee sends Timmy sprawling, out cold.

  Magnus bursts through the door, snatching up Valery and pulling her to safety. There’s a flash of light, and then he’s bleeding for her, gasping, placing a hand to his side. Stanching blood flow.

  Sanjuste curses, striking out, but his boot is still pinned to the floor and he can’t reach Magnus, who anticipates what’s coming next. Magnus twists sideways, reaches past Sanjuste’s other knife, his fingers bent in a long-fist. His reach and his good form make it possible to connect from a distance and there’s a crunching sound as Sanjuste’s nose surrenders.

  I'm still dangling by my neck from the noose, but gratefully my hands have kept the knot from closing too much. I manage a kick to Sanjuste’s swaying head before I pass out.

  I’m in a pale-green field of feather-grass with an old man dressed in black.