The Thorn of Dentonhill

by Marshall Ryan Maresca

  He pulled the rope off, coiled it back. The goon dropped to the ground, unconscious but still breathing.

  Veranix glanced back at the shop. The old man had gotten to the door. He looked terrible, face bruised and bloody, but he gave a nervous nod to Veranix. Then he shut and latched the door. Veranix hurled the rope up to the church belfry and pulled himself back up there.

  He coiled the rope and picked up the cloak. Whatever they were, Fenmere was willing to spend a lot to get ahold of them. Their value was obvious to Veranix, but why would someone like Fenmere, whose business was mostly girls and drugs, be interested in them?

  Veranix decided he needed a rested head to answer that question. He stuffed the cloak and the rope back in the sack, and headed for home.

  Chapter 6

  WILLEM FENMERE NEVER slept much, and he was usually awake before dawn. This morning, as soon as he woke, his butler told him Bell and Francis were back and there was trouble. Fenmere hated being woken for bad news.

  He threw a robe on over his sleeping gown and went down the back stairs to the kitchen. Men like Bell and Francis did not come into the front rooms, especially if there was trouble. If there was trouble, then there damn well better be blood. He didn’t need them bleeding all over his rugs.

  Blood there was. Francis was laid out on a counter, covered in it. Gerrick patched him up as best he could. Gerrick was no doctor, but he was good enough at stitching the boys. Gerrick had been around for as long as Fenmere could remember, his most trusted captain. Fenmere nodded at Gerrick in approval. No need wasting good money on a surgeon.

  Bell was a mess as well, his face had even more bruises than he left with, great deep purple stains. His leg was tied off above the knee, pants soaked with blood. He sat at the small table in the back corner. Fenmere sat down with him. Thomias, his butler, silently put a cup of dark tea on the table. Fenmere took a few sips. Bell, for his part, was wise enough to keep his head down and not speak until he was spoken to.

  “So where is it?” Fenmere asked eventually.

  “Gone, boss.” Bell barely looked up, his head beading with sweat.

  “How many were there? Five men? Six?”

  “Just the one, boss.”

  “One?” Fenmere roared. “One guy did this to the two of you?”

  “It was the same guy from the night before, boss!”

  “The same guy? You saw him? You saw his face?”

  Bell shook his head. “Not his face. He wears a hood over it. But the same guy for sure. He remembered me.”

  “He talked to you?” Fenmere said. “Who is he?”

  “He’s a kid. I’m telling you, a scrawny kid. Seventeen, eighteen tops. But he’s all fast and flips around.”

  “You got beat by a scrawny kid?” Fenmere got up from the table and paced around the kitchen, fuming. “Listen, Bell, there is one reason you are staying alive, and that’s because you have a sense of what this kid looks like.”

  “There’s something else, boss. I think he might be a mage.”

  Biting his lip, Fenmere sat back down. He had to get a grip on himself. “Maybe that’s it, then. That’s why he went for the stuff. Maybe he’s one of the Blue Hand Circle, they took it from you so they don’t have to pay me for it.”

  “I don’t know, boss,” Bell said.

  “What don’t you know?”

  Bell screwed his face in thought. “I don’t think he knew what the stuff was. He just wanted to hit you.”

  “Where are you getting that?”

  “This kid, it’s personal with him. He said you killed his family. He said he’s going to be a constant thorn in your side.”

  “I’ve killed a lot of families,” Fenmere growled. “I’ve had more than a few thorns in my side before. And I always pull them out. We’re going to find this thorn, Bell.” He waved over to Thomias to bring him some more tea. “Tell me about him. Maybe a mage, you think?”

  “I’ve never seen anyone jump like this one, boss. Plus he must have done some tricks to escape us the other night.”

  “What else about him?”

  “He fights with a bow. And a staff.”

  “Bow and a staff?” Fenmere asked. There was something odd about that. Something familiar, he couldn’t put his finger on it.

  “Wasn’t there something with some street sellers getting hit by an archer?” Gerrick asked. “For the past few months, I think.”

  Fenmere nodded. That was probably what he was thinking of. “Nobody fixed that?” Street captains and dealer bosses should have found out who was hitting their boys and buried him in the ground.

  “Nobody found out much. Figured it was the usual trash trying to score some effitte buzz. Not a player.”

  “Well, this ‘thorn’ is a player now. Wouldn’t you say, Bell?”

  “Aye, boss.”

  “All right.” Fenmere took another drink from his cup. “Get yourself cleaned up, then get word to Kalas over in the Blue Hand that we need to talk to him.”

  “You want me to go over to the Blue Hand?” Bell asked. He looked more afraid than ever.

  “Yes.” Fenmere spat the word out. “Go over there. Someone has to tell Kalas what happened. It’s either you or Francis. You want Francis’s job?”

  “What’s Francis’s job?” Bell’s expression was fluctuating between fear and confusion.

  “Francis is busy bleeding to death. Unless you want him to go over to the Blue Hand for you, Bell?”

  “No, boss,” Bell said. He got up and nodded to Gerrick and Thomias, gave another reverent nod to Fenmere, and left out the back door.

  Fenmere finished his tea. “Good. Now where is my breakfast?”

  Bell knew this whole trash was his fault. That kid, he had busted into the cannery, and Bell had let him slip away. Then he hit the drop, and Bell had let that all go to blazes. Stupid kid, ruining everything.

  Bell couldn’t walk to the Blue Hand Circle’s chapterhouse, not with his leg still a mess. He had been lucky to make it back to Fenmere’s place. Bell laughed dryly to himself. Honestly, he’d been really lucky to walk out of there.

  Bell waved to a horsecab. The driver slowed down, fear in his face as he saw Bell. Bell didn’t recognize him, but he knew people in these streets knew him, knew what he did, knew he had a post close to the man himself. That meant the cabs blazing well stopped for him.

  “Where to, boss?” the driver asked, his voice shaking.

  “Price Street, just past Lowe.”

  “Right away, sir,” the driver said, snapping his whip. North of Lowe probably took the driver out of his regular beat, and for anyone else, he probably wouldn’t bother, not without forcing extra coin. That wasn’t going to happen right now.

  Bell settled back in the seat. The Blue Hand Circle. He knew this whole business was going to be trouble. He should have kept out of it. Bell muttered a few curses. He had wanted the cannery office. He had wanted the placement, the extra prestige. He had wanted to show the man he could be more than muscle and pickup. He had been doing good until this special package for the Blue Hand.

  Bell could feel his hands shaking. Had to settle his nerves.

  Stupid kid.

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out his small hassper pipe and his pouch of leaf. Not much left. He’d smoked a lot of it yesterday.

  He packed a few leaves into the bowl of the pipe. When did he stop burning last night? Had to have been ten or eleven bells. His head was completely clear when the drop turned left. He had been good. That kid just hit them hard and fast.

  He looked about the carriage. There were two lamps hanging, but both were dark.

  “Hey.” He knocked hard on the front of the cab, startling the driver. “You don’t got your lamps burning.”

  “No, sir, no,” the driver said, glancing back. “Sorry, sir. Got to save on the oi
l, sir, so I don’t light them in the daytime.”

  Bell grunted in disapproval.

  “I could stop here at the bakery, sir,” the driver said, sweat forming on his brow. “They’re sure to have something I can light a taper with, all right?”

  “Good,” Bell said. He kept a grin off his face. He had no intention of making an incident, and would have been fine with not smoking until after he had arrived at the Blue Hand’s chapterhouse. If the driver wanted to be of service, though, Bell would not refuse. The driver reined in the horse and jumped out of the cab.

  He decided he would tip the man well at the end of the drive. What had Mister Fenmere said? “Occasional magnanimous acts cement loyalty far more than fear alone.”

  While the driver ran into the bakery, Bell thought that perhaps, if he was lucky, Mister Fenmere would let him keep his overseer position in the cannery office. That would be magnanimous, wouldn’t it?

  The driver ran back out of the shop, lit taper in hand. “Here you are, sir, hope that helps you out, sir.”

  “Thank you,” Bell said. The driver spurred the horse forward. Bell lit his pipe, and pulled in the deep, rich smoke. That was better. He snuffed the taper and let the hassper ease his cares.

  Bell’s hands were still shaking, but he didn’t care as much anymore. Not until the cab pulled up near the chapterhouse.

  From the street, anyone not knowing would think it was just another gray stone row house, no different from any other on the block, or on the next street over. A small wooden sign hung over the door, with the blue handprint in the center. Most of the houses on this block were professionals: barristers or surgeons or secretaries, and all of them had similar wooden signs, so it did not make the house stand out.

  The driver, pulling to a stop on Bell’s signal, did not take any special notice of the house either. No one would, unless they knew about the men who lived in there.

  Bell took out a half-crown and paid the driver. “There’ll be that over again if you stay here until I’m out.”

  The driver looked as if the last thing he wanted to do was wait for Bell, but despite that he said, “As you wish, sir.”

  Bell took a moment, standing on the stoop and finishing off the last of the hassper. It wasn’t helping anymore. Nothing would help, save getting the blasted deal over with.

  Bell knocked the last bits of ash onto the ground and put the pipe into his pocket. With his heart pounding, he went up the steps to the front door and knocked.

  The wait was interminable. He could feel beads of sweat dripping down his face. He had an itch creeping its way up his back. Were the Blue Hand doing that? Just watching him through the upstairs window and messing with him? They certainly could.

  That would be petty, even for them.

  The door opened slowly, revealing a young man with blond hair and dull eyes. Bell had met this one before, but couldn’t remember his name.

  “You one of Fenmere’s?”

  “Yeah, that’s right.”

  “Where’s the package?”

  That cut straight to it. Bell took a deep breath. “See, something happened—”

  The door shut.

  Bell stepped back down the stoop. Was that it? He had delivered the message. That should be good enough. He cautiously took two more steps down to the street.

  The door opened. “Get in here.”

  That was not the voice of the young man. Bell swore under his breath. He turned and went up the stairs.

  It was Kalas, the neatly groomed gentleman with close-cropped hair and a tiny mustache, and wearing an impeccable midnight blue suit. Bell imagined the Circle brought him out because he at least knew how to talk to people. Kalas gave a quick wave of his fingers, summoning Bell up. Bell worried that Kalas was about to pull him in magically, like he was a hooked fish. Kalas had no such plan, and Bell walked in through the door on his own power.

  The door slammed shut when he entered. That was magic.

  The place smelled like it always smelled, like dead cats and roasted onions. Bell didn’t want to know why. Kalas walked over to a lone chair in the foyer and sat down, brushing bits of dust off his coat.

  “So, Mister Bell,” he said, glaring at Bell with his piercing dark eyes. “You say that ‘something happened.’ Please define ‘something.’”

  “The delivery got hit,” Bell blurted out.

  “Hit?” Kalas said. “Which means what, exactly?”

  “Your items were stolen.”

  Kalas narrowed his eyes at Bell. “By who?”

  “This kid who’s been nibbling at Fenmere’s gigs. He just happened to hit this one.”

  “Hmm.” Kalas drummed his fingers. He said nothing more for some time. Bell wasn’t sure what he should do.

  Kalas sprang to his feet, surprising Bell and making him stumble back against the door. Kalas called out through the house, “Lord Sirath!”

  “Eating!” came a hoarse reply from down the hallway. Bell shivered. He had seen that man eat before. He didn’t want to take a single step in the direction of that voice.

  “The items were stolen, Lord,” Kalas called back.

  “Intolerable!” shouted Sirath from the back. The house shuddered with a wave of power.

  “I agree,” Kalas said. “Steps are being taken, I’m sure, yes?”

  “Yes, Mister Kalas,” Bell said, nodding more vigorously than he wished he had. He knew it made him look foolish.

  Kalas stepped forward and opened the door, indicating Bell should step out. “I am glad to hear that at least. I trust it will be dealt with expediently.” Kalas smiled at Bell, a smile that looked like it was something he practiced in the mirror.

  “That is our plan, sir.” Bell stumbled backward out the door, not wanting to take his eyes off Kalas until he was outside. Kalas stepped outside with him.

  “Excellent,” Kalas said, walking past Bell. “You’ve brought me a cab. I have some business at the University. This will save me considerable time.” Before Bell could say anything, Kalas stepped up into the cab and whispered something to the driver. The whip cracked and the horses moved with a sudden burst of determination.

  “Blazes,” Bell muttered. He should go back to Fenmere’s, or to the cannery. Probably the cannery. Grinding his teeth, he decided first he needed to visit the hassper den over on Price. He needed another smoke.

  Colin hadn’t slept well. He knew Veranix had gone out and done something to Fenmere, out in Inemar, and if it was Inemar, that meant the docks. If Veranix was hitting Fenmere out on the docks then he was hitting a shipment right as it came in. Crowns right from the man’s pocket, a serious hit. Colin didn’t know anyone who would dare such a thing.

  Veranix only dared because he wasn’t anyone. Just another Uni kid, another face in the uniform. No one anyone on the streets would take any note of.

  Unless someone took a real good look at Veranix’s face. Blazes, if any of the basement bosses, the old ones, ever took a good look at him, they’d probably see exactly whose son he was.

  The business with the cannery, that had rattled more than a few boots on both sides of Waterpath. Not too much, but people were talking, and Colin couldn’t figure out if it was a good thing. Hearing about Fenmere’s boys getting rattled, knowing it was his cousin who had done it, Colin couldn’t help but take some pride in that. Pride was in short supply in Aventil.

  No matter how much pride he felt, though, rattling made noise, and that noise was already looking over Waterpath.

  Morning light hadn’t even properly broke when Colin pulled himself up from his mattress. His usual flop, in the basement under Kessing’s shop, where he and his crew of Princes would crash most nights, was damp and gray, and smelled of a rancid earthiness. Despite that, he had a certain fondness for the place, a place that was in some small way his own. It belonged to all the Princes, so if a Ba
sement Boss wanted to yank him from it and give it to another captain, that could happen any time. Colin worked the streets, worked his crew, as hard as he could, and made sure any merch the bosses left in his flop stayed untouched. They’d never have the excuse to yank him.

  There were only a couple of tiny windows along the ceiling, at street level, and the dull glow of dawn provided just enough light to find his boots and vest and get to the door.

  His fingers went reflexively to his belt, to the knife he kept there, as he came out of the flop and hit the street. Not that anyone would come up on him, not here, not this deep in Prince territory. No one would dare.

  The air was cool and brisk, but he rolled up his sleeves, letting anyone out there see his arm. He didn’t need to show his color, show his stars; anyone who mattered knew who he was. No cool morning would make him hide the one thing he had that was his, that he earned with sweat and muscle and bone.

  A sharp whistle flew across the street. Two young Princes, the ink on their arms still fresh and raw, were working the corner next to the Len House. The Lens were brewers, made some of the better beer in Aventil in their basement, which the Princes guarded nightly. The Toothless Dogs and Hallaran’s Boys kept trying to make runs to steal a few casks.

  Colin crossed over to them. “Any noise?”

  “Nothing much,” said one of them, but he nodded up the block. “There’s a bloke up over there, though, who’s been looking this way for a bit.”

  “How long?”

  “Half an hour, maybe.”

  “Keep your place,” Colin said, patting one of them on the arm. “I’ll go give it a look, right?”

  “Sure, cap.”

  The guy didn’t give any ground when Colin approached. More to the point, his level of fear didn’t change at Colin’s approach. The guy looked pretty afraid already.

  “If you’re the pair of eyes on the brewery, you chose the wrong gig, son,” Colin said.