“Right, right,” she said, playfully shoving him to the door. “Now move.”
Veranix slipped back out into the dark night. He was exhausted, sore down to his bones, but he also had a sense of rejuvenation. As he crept over to the side of Almers Hall, he began to feel almost giddy. He realized the damage he had done to Fenmere. The kind of anger, the kind of wrath that Fenmere had sent down on him didn’t come from petty swats, or even a bloody nose.
Veranix climbed up an ironwork trellis on the side of Almers, pushing through the pain, ache, and fatigue. Just a few feet more. To stay focused, he started to think up a plan. He would lie low for the rest of the month. In Joram, he would start knocking dealers and pushers around the park, and the north end of Dentonhill.
As he reached the third floor, he thought about Maxianne and the other doxies. The kids with them. That gave him pause. Could they wait until Joram? Were things going to be even worse for them, with what he’d started? Would they think he had given up on them, left them to fend for themselves against Fenmere? They were going to have to. He couldn’t help them if he were exhausted or dead, which he would be if he kept up at this pace. Blazes, he was already exhausted. When he reached the window to the third-floor water closet, he could barely muster the minute amounts of numina needed to pop the iron grate covering it.
He slipped in the window and magicked the grate back into place. It took every ounce of strength and willpower not to collapse right on the floor. He pulled himself over to the water basin and filled it. He bent down and sipped some, and then splashed the rest on his face. A glance at the mirror showed he had gotten most of the blood and dirt off himself, enough to not draw stares from anyone who saw him. Tomorrow he would go to the baths. That would be good.
He slipped off his boots and hid them in the bottom of the linen cabinet, behind a pile of sheets. The dormitory stewards didn’t work on holidays, even on a minor Saint Day, so they would be safe through tomorrow. He left the water closet and trudged down the hallway. A few lamps still burned low in the third-floor common room. As Veranix slipped through, he saw Rellings sleeping in one of the chairs. He had a few books around him, so he might have been studying, but knowing Rellings, Veranix figured he was sitting watch.
Veranix noticed a sheet of paper lying in Rellings’s lap. Despite the low light of the lamps, he could read it. Rellings had been writing a letter to Parsons’s parents. They had already been informed by the University, Veranix was sure. He looked closer, and saw that the letter was far more personal, Rellings telling them of how sorry he was for Parsons’s accident, taking blame for it, and good things about Parsons’s life at the University.
Veranix never thought Rellings had it in him.
“Rellings,” he said, nudging the prefect. “Wake up.”
Rellings startled, opening his eyes and groping around at the arms of the chair. “What, who?” He looked up, focusing his eyes. “Calbert. What time is it? Why are you out of bed?”
“Water closet,” Veranix answered. “I’m not sure about the time. Maybe around four bells.”
“Mmm,” said Rellings. He glanced around, obviously still a bit disoriented. “Fell asleep in the chair.”
“Keeping an eye on us all, eh?” Veranix asked, but without the usual bite he would give to Rellings.
Rellings squinted at him, clearly waking up a bit more. “You should be in bed, Calbert.”
“You too, Rellings,” Veranix said. “You’ll hurt your neck sleeping that way.”
“Right,” said Rellings. He stood up. “All right, go, Calbert.”
“Yes sir,” Veranix said, giving Rellings a bit of a wink. He walked over to his own door. “Holiday tomorrow, Rellings.”
“Right,” said Rellings, nodding as he picked up his books and papers. “No wake-up or walk to Holtman.”
“Thank the saints for that,” Veranix said. “Good night, Rellings.” He went into his room. Delmin was fast asleep, sprawled out facedown on the bed. Veranix peeled off his shirt and pants and dropped onto his own bed. He was asleep almost the moment he landed.
Fenmere hadn’t slept the whole night. This had not been his choice. Lord Sirath and Kalas had invited themselves into his parlor at eleven bells, this time bringing two of their own heavies with them. They had spent the entire evening waiting for their merch to return, demanding food and wine from his staff.
In twenty years, Fenmere had never been muscled on like this. It was humiliating. The only saving grace to the whole business was the fact that Sirath and his Blue Hand boys didn’t move in his normal circles. This wouldn’t get tracked back to him, wouldn’t carve into his action.
It was still degrading.
Fenmere had spent much time out of the parlor. Sirath, at least for the duration of the evening, had the grace not to follow him around the house. He spent much of the night waiting on the balcony outside his office, which from three stories up overlooked Inemar and the river. The night had been bright and clear, and he could see quite far to the north side of the city, making out the rough shape of high towers against the horizon.
Hainara had come at two bells. He had almost forgotten that he had arranged for her. He had presumed that the whole business would be done by one bell; the merch would be delivered, and the Thorn’s head would literally be on a platter. She was to be his celebration. She wasn’t one of those common street doxies; she was an artist, the real pride of his stable. Keeping her for himself tonight cost him another hundred crowns, at least, but she would have been worth it. With Sirath and his Circle still there, with no news from the Three Dogs, there was nothing to celebrate. Even Hainara’s gifted hands couldn’t lift Fenmere’s dark mood.
The sky was lightening. A few blocks away, the bells over Saint Polmeta’s would ring soon. Fenmere picked up his pipe, a small treasure of gold and ivory, and packed a pinch of hemas leaf into it. He lit a taper off one of the candles on the balcony, and lit the pipe. He took a deep pull of the smoke. It did little to calm him.
Thomias knocked on the glass door. “Sir? They . . . they’re asking for you.”
“Are they?” said Fenmere, not turning to look at his servant. “Very well. How have they . . . comported themselves?”
“One of them left to go to the bakery. They have asked for the cook to prepare some breakfast.”
“Of course they have,” said Fenmere. He took another pull off the pipe. He put on a large smile as he turned around. “Whatever they need, Thomias. They’re our guests.” He patted Thomias on the shoulder genially. Thomias scuttled off down the back stairs, toward the kitchen, as Fenmere headed to the parlor.
The room was normally a testament to Fenmere’s success: walls and doors of dark mahogany, shipped up from the southern archduchy of Scaloi; plush chairs from the Kieran Empire, in the High Age style of the eleventh century; Imach carpets, intricately woven masterpieces; five paintings commissioned from Len Hovath and a sculpture by Corrin Essel. The room was a display case, showing his guests how much he had accumulated over the years of enterprise. Now it was sullied by Lord Sirath and his companions.
Sirath sat in one of the chairs in the corner of the room, lounging with an infuriating air of disdain and disregard. He was lying back, with a platter resting on his stomach that contained nothing but chicken bones. Sirath was sucking on the bones, taking in every possible bit of edible flesh. Kalas was in the middle of the room with another member of the Blue Hand, a young man who looked as hateful and haggard as Kalas. Fenmere had heard his name was Forden, but he didn’t care to know too much about the man. The two of them were playing Doubleback Dice with Fenmere’s board, the board that was a gift from Baron Hemlier, the board that had been another item on display. No one had ever played a game on that board before. Both of them had glasses of Fuergan whiskey sitting half empty next to the board, sweating moisture on the wooden table.
“Nearly five bells,” Kalas said
without looking up. “We should have had news by now.”
“We should have,” Fenmere said, nodding. “We knew the Thorn was a tough customer. Clearly he gave the Three Dogs quite a challenge.”
“Failure,” muttered Sirath.
“What’s that?” Fenmere asked. Sirath snorted and focused his attention back on the chicken bones.
“He gave them failure,” Kalas said. “These were supposed to be professionals, I thought. Some of the best assassins in the city.”
“They are,” Fenmere said. He picked up the bottle of Fuergan whiskey, glancing at the label. As he feared, it was the fifty-year-old Astev bottle. He brought it over to the sideboard and poured out a glass for himself. He gave a silent prayer to a few saints that Sirath and the rest hadn’t thought to raid his cellar, where the truly rare and valuable liquors were.
“We should have sent Kent or me,” Forden said. “At least to observe.”
“There’s no need for that,” Fenmere said. He sipped the whiskey. “More people would have just got in the way of the Dogs.”
“So you say,” Kalas said. He gave the dice a roll and moved his pieces across the board, claiming two pieces.
“Blast,” the young man said. He looked over at Fenmere. “We don’t know if your Dogs even found the Thorn today. Or if they did, that they would return with the items.”
“Of course they will,” Fenmere said. “They were told we needed to recover the stolen goods. Perhaps that is what the delay is.”
“What do you mean?” Kalas asked.
“Killing him would be quick,” Fenmere said. “But if they had to get him to tell where the goods are, that might take some time. Then they would have to go recover the goods.”
“So you’re suggesting that they have captured him and tortured him,” said Kalas, nodding. He rubbed his chin, thinking the idea over. “That makes sense, but wouldn’t they have sent word?”
“Men like these aren’t ones to send status reports,” Fenmere said. “They come when the job is done.”
“Or lost,” Sirath said. He discarded the plate of bones on the floor, having sucked out every useful morsel he could.
“These men don’t declare a commission lost as long as he still breathes,” Fenmere said. “Out of honor, they would pursue him for as long as it takes.”
“We do not have ‘as long as it takes,’ Fenmere,” Kalas snapped, his face reddening. The veins on his forehead bulged. “Tonight the circumstances are ripe.”
“Yes, I know, Kalas,” Fenmere said, glaring hard at the mage. “You have said so several times.”
“And yet you fail us,” Sirath snarled.
Two men came into the parlor. The first was presumably Kent, the other mage from the Blue Hand, who walked in like it was his own home. He carried a paper bag full of bread, still steaming fresh, casually eating a handful of it, leaving crumbs on the floor. The other man limped in, clutching his side, bruises along his face.
“Found this one out in the street,” Kent said. “He’s got nothing, but he smells of the stuff.”
Forden dashed over to the injured man, moving his face in close, seeming to sniff at him. Lord Sirath went for the bread, tearing the bag out of his associate’s hands.
“Yes,” he said. “He’s been in contact with our things.”
The injured man responded by clocking Forden with the back of his fist. “Get off, freak.”
Forden raised a hand at the injured man, but Kalas whistled at him, and he backed down.
“You’re one of the Dogs, then?” Fenmere asked.
“Right. Name’s Samael. You’re the man with the contract, then?”
“That’s right,” Fenmere said.
“I told this one,” he said pointing to the mage who arrived with him, “I only would talk to you.”
“Talk now,” said Sirath.
“The Thorn showed up, just like you said.”
“Is he dead?” Fenmere asked.
“Of course he isn’t dead,” Kalas said. “If he were, this one would have brought back our things with his head.”
“Unless he’s pulling a trick,” Forden said.
“I just love being called ‘this one,’” Samael said. “It’s such a sign of respect.” He walked over to the young mage. “What do they call you, eh, bloke? I ain’t met a mage who can survive a knife in the chest, or an arrow. So you want to go for a run, mage?”
“You think you could ‘run’ me, then?”
“I think you’ve never been in a real scrap, life on the line, teeth and hands against another man.” Samael grinned. He turned to Fenmere, giving no heed to the mages. “That’s the thing about the Thorn. He knows how to hold his own, push himself. He knows what do when his life is on the line.”
“Tough one, he is?” Fenmere asked. “He must be if he got away from the three of you.”
“That’s right. Took out Pendall, killed Coleman, and ran me over with a horse.”
“Where did he get a horse?” Fenmere asked.
“Stole it from a dead constable.”
“He killed a stick?” Fenmere whistled low. “I didn’t think he had that in him.”
“Nah, that was Cole. But the Thorn has the stones to do what he has to.”
“This is all fascinating,” Kalas said. “But the point is that the Thorn got away, and our goods are still lost.”
“Failure!” Sirath said. “Kill him.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” Samael said, holding up his hands. “No need to be doing that sort of thing.”
“I agree,” Fenmere said. “I’m never one to kill something I can use again.” He crossed over to Samael, looking him in the eye. “You are of use, aren’t you?”
“Like blazes I am, boss.” Samael held out a finger at Sirath and the other Blue Hand mages, as if just by pointing he could hold their magic at bay. “I know where he goes. I know where he runs to.”
“And why didn’t you follow him?” Kalas asked.
“Could barely walk, mate, let alone run the seven blocks to catch him.”
“So, where does he go?” Fenmere asked. “Where does he run to?”
“What’s it worth?” Samael asked.
Fenmere liked that. Cocksure, even in the face of death, willing to push just a little harder to get something out of it. “How about a chance to redeem yourself, and a little more work? That would be worth your while, no?”
“Where?” Sirath snarled.
“To the campus, University of Maradaine,” Samael stammered out, suddenly spooked and backing away from Sirath. “I saw him go over the wall.”
“So, possibly a student, or someone on the staff,” Kent said.
“Or even a professor,” Kalas said.
“Rose Street Princes and the other Aventil gangs are bending over backward to disavow him,” Fenmere said. “Makes sense if he’s on campus.”
“So we need to go get him and our things,” Kalas said.
“Right,” Fenmere said. He put down the glass and paced the room. “Crossing the wall, it’s not easy, but I’ve got some boys who can do it. They’ll put on a good hunt. Samael, you’re going to take them, and search hard and dirty. Shake it up and make some noise. At this point we need to show everyone—not just the Thorn—that you don’t make noise in my part of town without getting it visited back on you. That includes the blasted campus.” He was getting hot, blood boiling. “Too long we’ve respected that wall, but it’s time to put an end to that. The Thorn isn’t going to hide on the other side, and he sure isn’t going to run me out of my neighborhood or anywhere else!”
Fenmere glanced about. The only people in the room were Samael and the Blue Hands. None of his own men. No one who cared, no one who was invested in his business. Just four poor allies and one hired killer. He felt Kalas’s hand on his shoulder.
�
�Actually, Willem,” Kalas said with a familiarity that Fenmere found infuriating, “I think we have a better way to achieve our goal here, one which will make less noise. At least, the kind of noise that would turn undue attention this way.”
“What would that be?” Fenmere asked.
“The Circle has academic contacts, favors to be called in. Nothing you have to worry about.”
“We’ll find him,” Sirath muttered. “Breakfast first.” He left the parlor, heading toward the kitchen. The two young Blue Hands followed, with Kalas taking the bread. He stopped and turned back to Fenmere.
“We will still need our arrangements for tonight, though,” he said. “Come on, now, Willem. You must be famished. I know I am.”
Fenmere stayed in the parlor for another minute before he realized Samael was still there. He took another moment before addressing the assassin.
“Stick around today, Samael,” he said. “Despite their confidence, it might be best to have additional plans.”
“That’ll cost you, sir.”
“I know that,” Fenmere snapped. “It’ll be worth your while, though. And you’ll get another crack at the Thorn.”
“Does that mean I’m invited to breakfast, Mister Fenmere?”
“If you want.” He sighed as he headed to the door. “I’ll warn you, though, watching these mages eat can really ruin your appetite.”
Hetzer was woken up by someone pounding on the door. He had crashed out in the basement pad under Kessing’s general store. He liked sleeping there because it was usually quiet. Hardly any Princes ever stayed there, besides Colin’s crew. No one ever pounded on the door this early.
Blearily, he opened the door a crack. Jutie was there, looking sweaty and nervous. He had a bird with him. She stood out like a fire in a dark alley. Dark brown skin, wide nose, narrow eyes. Napa girl, if ever he saw one. Honestly, he hadn’t seen many, not in Aventil. Mixed-blood and foreign-borns didn’t really live in the neighborhood, staying to the Little East in Inemar and the dregs out in the western neighborhoods. She was dressed in working clothes, linen shirt and rough canvas pants and heavy boots, and she was carrying a satchel. She was a pretty one, though. The way Jutie was shaking, Hetzer thought the kid was looking for a private place for his first roll.
The Thorn of Dentonhill Page 23