Assassin of Dragonclaw (Nysta Book 7)

by Lucas Thorn

  Off the edge.

  A pale puddle speckled with grime.

  Window above him was nailed shut.

  He looked shapeless. A mass of flesh and fat which ensured he could no longer rise without help. Head rolled back, face aimed at the ceiling.

  Mouth slack.

  Drool wet down the side of his cheeks.

  Shirt too small for him. Stretched across the pale baleen of his belly, it looked ready to burst. Couple of buttons had already popped loose. She couldn’t see them on the floor.

  Arms akimbo, palms upward.

  Might as well have been a corpse.

  “Shit,” she said.

  “Not sure what you want from him,” Tati said softly. “But I doubt you’re getting it. He’s been like this for months. I didn’t want to tell anyone. If they think he can’t do his job anymore, they’ll cut him loose. Thought that’s why you were here. Thought you’d come to kill him.”

  “Just came to talk is all.”

  The big man leaned against the wall and then slid down, figuring she wasn’t about to kill him for it. Pulled his knees up and lay his arms across. Stared at the unconscious figure.

  “He weren’t always like this. But he lost his parents a while back. Really did him in. They knew what he did. Knew he’d joined up with the Red Claws. But far as they were concerned, he couldn’t do no wrong. He was their baby boy, you know? His ma used to cook every night. Clean his clothes. She was good cook. Did a potato stew like you wouldn’t believe. And they didn’t complain when all the guys kept knocking on the door at all hours. Loved them, he did. Always did right by them. When they were gone, it’s like he didn’t know what to do anymore.” Paused. “You sure you ain’t here to kill him?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Well, right now I can’t tell if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.” He eyed her carefully. “What is it you’re after, long-ear? Maybe I can help. Maybe I can’t. But I can see you’re the mean type, so I won’t fuck you around.”

  The elf stood in the doorway and chewed it over. A magelights shone its pale glow through the window. The elf caught her reflection in the window and had to resist throwing something at it.

  She’d thought to find a street tough with savagery in his eyes and a sword in his hand. Had figured on resistance.

  Hatred.

  Anything but a pathetic slab of meat sprawled in the middle of a room so empty it chilled her bones.

  Her leg trembled, battling the urge to kick the helpless man.

  Finally, she crouched down near Tati and gently tapped the wooden floor with the tip of her knife. Notched a small hole.

  “He ain’t what I expected,” she said.

  “Yeah. You ain’t from around here, I’m guessing.”

  “I’m new to the city.”

  “Sure. I could tell that the second you walked in. You ain’t like most of us.” He looked down at his knuckles. Some looked to have been broken in the past and never healed right. “You know, Dragonclaw’s a fucked up place. Fought my way out of the gutter with my ma’s tits practically still in my teeth. Worked my way up to being the Fish’s minder. Look at me. I made it to my thirties, and I’m sure I look a hundred.”

  “You ain’t pretty,” she allowed with a hint of a smile.

  “It’s all the hits to the head.” He tapped his temple where an ugly scar flowered across his forehead. “I took a lot. Should see the rest of me. I got scars on top of scars. Mostly from kids who got lucky. Or maybe it was me who got lucky. I’m still here. Some of them ain’t. Now, when I go out in the street, I feel nervous. Maybe someone’s gonna walk up behind me. Clock me with a rock or something. Maybe stick a fucking knife in my back. But it won’t kill me. Just piss me off. That’s how I feel about this place. We fight, but it’s mostly by a set of twisted rules. The Duke don’t like too much murder in the streets. Guards start taking an interest if bodies keep showing up. That keeps us mostly using clubs or our fists. But you? You walk in here with your head high and your knife so damn quick. You’d kill me in a second. Kill anyone, I reckon. Bring the whole guard down around our ears. You don’t belong in this city, you know. It’s bad here. But not bad enough for you. Not yet, anyway. You should head north. Doom’s Reach, maybe.”

  Tati’s words were slivered glass, cutting into her pride.

  Reminding her she was far from a place she’d called home.

  Lostlight.

  The Deadlands.

  Reminding her she didn’t belong. Not in the house Nearne was sharing with Rockjaw. Not in Powell’s inn. Not in this gutted remnant with its piss-stained floors and mould-dotted walls.

  Nowhere.

  The dim light hid the hot flush rippling across her cheeks. The heat seemed to ride her forehead then down the back of her neck where the scurrying darkness inside her flesh squirrelled in retreat.

  “Hard to think you use your fists so much, feller,” she grunted. “Given your tongue’s so fucking sharp you could cut yourself with it.”

  “The Fish always says that to me, too.” The grin faltered. “Well. Used to say it. Don’t say much now, of course. They were killed right here, you know. In this room. Me and the Fish, we were down at the Haul and Anchor. That’s a drinking hole a few streets over. Some little fuckstain came in while we were out. Didn’t give a shit when he was told to head down to the Haul. Went berserk with a chunk of wood. Splattered the Fish’s ma all over that wall there. His pa was laying in the doorway near you. Head belted in. Nothing left of it. Just mash and blood. Worst fucking thing I’ve seen in my life.”

  “You find the feller who did it?” She wasn’t sure why she asked. Wasn’t even that interested.

  But her eyes unconsciously searched the floor for sign of blood.

  “Nope. Might as well have been a ghost.”

  “They were killed right here?”

  He caught the tone of disbelief and nodded. “Sure. No point you looking for no stains, though. You won’t find shit. Not with the amount of cleaning the Fish did. More than a month he spent just scrubbing. On his knees. Couldn’t drag him away. Just kept scrubbing. And scrubbing. And crying. Wore his hands down to the bone, mostly. Waste of time. Got the wall so wet mould grew right over soon as he stopped. Made it stink worse.”

  The smell seemed stronger as soon as he mentioned it.

  She slid the knife into its sheath, content Tati wouldn’t make a try for her. Content to trust in instincts honed on streets more ruthless than any she’d encountered so far.

  “Looking for something the Red Claw are protecting,” the elf said at last.

  “Figured you would be. Figure I’m gonna hate knowing what it is, too.”

  “Feller named Damis.”

  Glum, his fingers twitched. “Yeah. Knew I’d hate it.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Where’d you think?” Tati gave a snort. “Right in the belly of the Red Claw volcano. Heard they dug him in real deep underneath, but I ain’t got no way of knowing where. And, before you ask, neither does the Fish. We never go there. No need to. They got runners doing deliveries, so we just hang out here most of the time. Sure, I’ve heard of Damis. Enough to know he’s hot property. Lot of gangs would like to get their hands on him. That’s why the Red Claw chose to fortify where they did. Their volcano used to belong to the Three-Point Gang. You heard of them?”

  She shook her head. “Nope.”

  “Their leader had a funny name. Wisehorn. Wisetort. Wisehorp? Something like that. Anyway, most of us call him Whitehead. On account of all the grey hairs he had. And I guess he got used to that. He recruited kids, mostly. But not just any kids. Kids who could fight. Sons of soldiers and guards. You know, kids who’d be good in a scrap and maybe take orders a bit better than your average brat. Got so good he took over most of the turf between here and the Four Bridges. If you don’t know where those are, then you really are new.”

  The Four Bridges were a series of heavy stone structures standing solid further up the stream. A
local landmark for the gargoyles carved on their sides. It was also a natural border, with one side of the stream leading to the Ducal quarter and the other to the slums of the west side.

  “I’ve seen them,” she said. “Ain’t crossed them, though.”

  “You wouldn’t,” he said. “Not dressed like that. Guards’d shoot arrows in your belly on sight.”

  She allowed he was probably right. “What’s all this got to do with Damis?”

  “I’m getting to that,” he said. Cut off as the Fish moaned. The gigantic man shuddered as though possessed of some ghost. The thought sent a chill racing down her forearms. Tati rubbed his hands as though feeling the same chill. “Poor guy. Keeps seeing them dead. Sometimes cries in his sleep.”

  “Damis...”

  “Yeah, yeah.” He licked his lips. “Whitehead took over one of the old inns. No one was really using it and the owner didn’t want to put up a fight. Boarded it up and painted his gang’s sign on the front in red. Then they went to work. Started taking the buildings around it. Building up the wall first. Wall’s supposed to be thicker than any other volcano around. And there’s tunnels between the apartments. Not just inside the walls. Underneath. All over the fucking place.”

  “They dug tunnels?”

  “Yeah. All over their territory. Lets them get around real quick. For a while, it looked like they were gonna be big. Ended up with a volcano almost half the size of their block. Pretty good for a gang as small as they were.”

  “You reckon Damis is in those tunnels?”

  “Sure. Why not? It’s where I’d put him. Wouldn’t you? And Noster’s not as thick as most. Not as smart as Whitehead, but smart enough to use what he took from him.”

  “You know how to get into those tunnels?”

  “Short of knocking on their gate and asking? Nope. That’s a secret ain’t nobody’s gonna share.”

  “Know anyone who might know?”

  “You could try catching one of the runners. We got one due tomorrow morning. Could try following him back.”

  Her eyes thinned at the idea. Not because it was a bad one.

  But because it was his.

  Catching the suspicion, the heavyset man shrugged. “I won’t let on you’re following him if that’s what you think. Not that I like you. Don’t get me wrong. Just I’ve seen the Red Claw’s worst. They’ll kill me if they find out I told you what I have. Kill me for sure. But I reckon you’ll do the same if I don’t. I’m sort of fucked either way. Thing is, the Red Claw ain’t too much into torture. Don’t get me wrong. They’re tough, but they ain’t like the West Bay Scourge. They don’t cut a man into little pieces while trying to keep him alive. They’d probably cut my throat and be done with it. I got a feeling you’d do worse.”

  “You keep those feelings, feller,” she said. “Because they’re right.”

  “I’m easy, I swear.”

  “Sure there’s no one else who’d know a way inside?”

  “You could try Whitehead’s men. In fact, that’s probably a better idea. They hate Noster. Those who didn’t take Red Claw colours, anyways. They’d probably help you get in. Maybe back you up if you need it. A couple got away and hang out down by the docks. Noster’s been after them for years, but they’re smart enough to keep out of his way.”

  “Know their names?”

  “I sure as shit don’t. But I do know what they look like. You can’t miss ‘em. They shave one side of their head and got a tattoo on it of their gang sign. A triangle.”

  The elf grunted. “Shit.”

  “You met ‘em already?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, that’s a start. Maybe you should talk to them…”

  “Bit late for that, feller,” she said.

  “Oh?” Then he understood. “Oh.”

  “Yeah.” Sighed. “Reckon I just made a few grave mistakes.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Despite Tati’s placid attitude, she didn’t trust him.

  Even though he obviously didn’t quite think of himself as entirely belonging, he was a Red Claw. So she waited in the room with him.

  Watched the Fish’s gigantic chest heave as he took one strained breath after another.

  Listened to the heavyset man’s stories.

  Stories about how he’d run with one gang or another. How he’d earned his scars. Got a few tattoos. The elf let him talk. In a way, she learned more from him than she had from sitting in taprooms.

  Gangs often had their own private places to drink, so she didn’t get to talk to many individuals. At least, not for long.

  He told a story similar to her own. Kicked out of home when he was barely able to talk. Ran with a gang of other kids about his age. Mostly picked pockets and broke into houses.

  Tried to avoid the Alley Rats.

  “They’ve got a thing for kids,” he said. Scowled. “Snatch you off the street and next time anyone sees you, you’re like them. In the eyes. Know what I mean? And they talk funny. Not like they did before. It’s awful. Fucking awful. I reckon it’s some kind of potion or something. Has to be. Ain’t no other reason any normal feller’d want to live in shit like that.”

  When he was in his teens, he migrated into more violent gangs. He’d gotten too big to slip through crowds or through small windows. Had needed to work the streets in ways more suited to his growing size.

  The first gang he joined was one whose colours were yellow and red. He couldn’t remember their name. Was with them for six months before they were run out of their patch by another gang.

  “I didn’t want to be a loser,” he said. “So I joined with the Blue Scribes. Called themselves that because they wrote all over the walls everywhere they went. Mostly trash talk. We thought it was clever. Sometimes I see old marks here and there, and it all looks so stupid.”

  The Blue Scribes had a good run and Tati rose quickly within their ranks. Found himself bodyguard to the boss. Worked the streets at night sometimes, prowling the edge of their territory for anyone stupid enough to wander inside.

  Then one night he was beaten by a Glowering Skull.

  Had his head cracked with an iron bar.

  Lucky to be alive, he dragged himself back to the Blue Scribes den and an alchemist healed him up quick. Then he was out, hunting the streets for the Skull who’d left him for dead.

  Instead, found the man’s younger brother.

  Killed him.

  The war between the two gangs lasted months.

  “Even the guards started to intervene,” he said. “And they never do. But they saw the mess we were making. We joined up with the Larvals from the westside of Two Houses, and kind of cornered the Skulls between us and a patch run by Dread Sevens. The Sevens hated the Skulls. So, for a while, it looked like we was gonna grind ‘em to fucking ash. But then the Skulls made a deal with the Larvals, and it all turned to shit. They got into our den. Killed Patches and Donk. Broke everything. Took our shit. We were nothin’ but a joke after that. So, I joined the Dread Sevens. Hoped for revenge. Killed a few Larvals and a Skull or two. But that was it. Stayed with the Sevens until the Red Claw came knocking and asked us all to join up maybe two years ago. Dazzle said yes, and that was that. Now we’re sort of Claws, I guess. Weren’t ever really made formal. And I didn’t exactly get a proper coat. Not like the Fish here. The Fish was straight up Red Claw from when their clubhouse was an abandoned teahouse out on Ninth.”

  “What happened to the others?”

  “The Skulls and Larvals? Well, the Larvals figured they’d taken us down real easy, so they started getting ideas they shouldn’t rightly be getting. They went into one side of an Alley Rat alley and came out the other in bits. Lots of bits. And the Skulls kind of drifted away. Never really had what you’d call strong leadership. Few joined up with the Red Claw in the end. Couple others headed to the northside. Heard they started a new gang up there. Rest hooked up with the Shivs. To be honest, I don’t give a shit anymore.”

  “They’re a big gang, tho
ugh? The Red Claw?”

  “Big?” He thought about it. “Well, they’re big enough, I guess. There’s plenty who are bigger. But lately, we’ve been growing. Like, really growing. Bunch of Mutant Trolls joined last month. They’re tough fighters. Mostly ex-guards and some soldiers. They take orders, and all they want is to scrap. Fellers like that, they add to your rep, y’know? Other gangs know to look out. They don’t fuck with you so much. Like, I used to get some of the Trash City Rejects in here, looking for Shadow. They’d give me shit sometimes. About how their gang was better. One or two tried to rumble a bit, in the beginning. Now? Now they changed their tune. They’re all polite. And a few even asked how hard it is to join up with the Claw. Maybe in a year or two, we’ll be big enough to move out of these shitty streets. Maybe head toward the docks. Claw could use the docks. Could maybe ship Shadow out to Doom’s Reach or something. They’d go nuts over this shit. Fucking nuts.”

  “It’s that good?”

  He nodded toward a small vial of darkly glowing fluid which rested beside the unconscious man’s hand. “It’ll lay you out like him for a week. When you wake, you’ll want more. I’ve never tried it. I ain’t that fucking stupid. Don’t reckon you are, neither. But those who do, they swear they see shit. Vivid shit. Shit that’d turn your hair white. Does exactly that to some of them. I got fucking fifteen-year olds running around looking like they’re fifty. Walk like it, too. It’s fucking pathetic.” He flexed his fingers. They were old. Thick and lined with callouses. A small tattoo between thumb and forefinger was washed away with time. A dull smudge which might have once meant something but was now an echo. “Still. Pays okay, I guess.”

  Three kids suddenly hedged into the room. Silent as ghosts.

  Skinny and malnourished.

  Tight grey shirts under brown leather jackets. Dark pants and heavy boots plated with steel. Heavy clubs on hips, but they seemed to have forgotten them.

  Pale-skinned and wide-eyed. Hunched as they walked. Rubbed hands together.

  Hungry.

  Hopeful.

  “Hey, Headjam.” Long greasy hair and a mouth covered in sores. Held out both hands, cupped and like a beggar. “You got any cream, man? Just a couple shots?”