Lady Henterman's Wardrobe

by Marshall Ryan Maresca

  Kimber came back in, almost dragging Doc Gelson by the scruff of his neck.

  “I have an office during the day for this sort of thing, you know,” he said gruffly.

  “Not exactly a wait-until-morning sort of thing,” Verci said.

  “Hmmph,” Gelson said, squatting down next to Verci. “There is also Culver Ward.”

  “That’s lacking in the personal service, Doc,” Asti said.

  “I am not your all-hours stitch, boys,” Gelson said sharply.

  “Then perhaps you shouldn’t be so easy to find late at night,” Kimber said.

  “As long as you all don’t expect me to be working for free.”

  “You’ll be paid,” Asti said. “Put his cider bill onto my account.”

  Kimber narrowed her eyes at Asti. “And you, Asti Rynax. Are you living at my inn again?”

  “I’ve paid for the room, haven’t I?”

  “You’ve paid for you and Win Greenfield for the past two months, and the next four. But I haven’t seen much of you, now, have I?”

  “I’ve had business,” Asti said.

  “Business, hmm,” she said archly. “I know I don’t even want to know.”

  “You really don’t.”

  “Keep that business out of my place, hmm?” She leaned in. “If the Constabulary come searching, I can’t protect you, you know.”

  “I would never do anything to endanger you or your business, Kimber,” Asti said. Gelson was now examining Verci’s leg in earnest, and Asti went to sit at the small table Kimber kept in this room, her makeshift desk where she handled the business of the pub and inn. The desk was a mess of papers and ledgers. “Do you need help with the books here, or something?”

  “I manage,” she said. “However, I could stand to not be receiving so much post that is addressed to you.” She lifted up a pile of papers and pulled out a bundle of letters tied together. “I haven’t had a chance to give that to you because you haven’t—”

  “I’ve not been around, yes. You could have put them in my room.”

  “Then I wouldn’t have gotten a chance for a word. Doctor, do you need anything?”

  “The strongest spirits you have, Miss Kimber,” he said.

  “You aren’t getting any of that.”

  “It’s for the Rynax boy, you dilly,” Gelson said. “I’m going to have to set this leg and he’ll want to be out of his skull.”

  “Fine,” Kimber said. She pointed a finger at Asti. “This will be from your tab, you know.”

  “Of course,” Asti said to her back as she went off.

  “What’s with all the letters?” Verci asked.

  Asti flipped through the mail, confirming his suspicions. “Another path to finding out about the fire, who was behind it. I’ve been trying to get the various newsprints engaged in the story, maybe they can dig places we can’t. They’ve had the courtesy to write back.” He opened a few, all of them saying variations on the same thing.

  “So what’d they find out?” Verci prodded.

  “They found out that they don’t give a barrel of sewage,” Asti said. He threw the letters on the floor. “I shouldn’t be that surprised, but—”

  “But what?”

  “I thought there might be some, I don’t know . . . crusading truth seekers.”

  “Rarely do people care about anything beyond their nose, brother,” Verci said. “We’re hardly exceptions to that.”

  Asti had to take that rebuke. It’s not like he gave a damned blazes about the scandals and murders he read about in the newsprints.

  Kimber came back with a bottle of Fuergan whiskey. “This is only for Verci.” She poured a glass and handed it to him, hovering over them all. Verci threw the drink down his throat.

  “That was—oh, saints,” he said, coughing.

  “Three more of those, at least,” Gelson said. “I wouldn’t hate one, myself.”

  “Not a chance,” Kimber said.

  “Four whiskeys?” Verci said, taking the second glass from Kimber. “Raych will not be pleased.” He sent it down his throat.

  “Yes,” Kimber said drily, filling the glass again. “I’m sure the thing she’ll be upset about is that you’re drunk, not the foot.”

  Asti perked up at that. “I suppose I should go tell her what happened, hmm?”

  “Yes, yes, you should,” Verci said as he took the third drink. “That way she focuses the anger part on you—”

  “Which she would anyway,” Asti said. Verci’s wife, at best, tolerated him. One reason why he was now officially living and receiving mail at Kimber’s inn.

  “And then all I get is the sympathy.” He took a few deep breaths. “I recognize this is quality whiskey, Kimber, but four this fast is a challenge.”

  “I’ll get a bucket,” Kimber said, pouring his fourth.

  “Good idea,” Gelson said. “Even drunk, when I set this leg, it’s going to be horrible, wrenching pain. You will probably pass out or vomit. Possibly both.”

  “Joy,” Verci said, taking his fourth.

  “Asti, come here and hold him down,” Gelson said.

  “Got it,” Asti said. He knelt down by Verci’s head, holding his brother’s chest and arm down. Verci gripped onto Asti’s arms.

  “You ever have anything like this in your spy days?” Verci asked. He must be drunk. Verci never prodded about what had happened to Asti when he was in Intelligence.

  “Arm, once,” Asti said. “Out in the Napolic jungle, and Li—” Bile rose to his throat suddenly, just from thinking of Liora Rand. The partner who had betrayed him, got him captured and psychically tortured in a Poasian prison. Thanks to her, he now had this broken brain, this angry beast on a chain in his head. He swallowed it down. “My partner had to set it, splint it with a couple sticks and a torn shirt. That wasn’t as bad as this.”

  “It’s clean, though,” Gelson said. “That’s something. On three.”

  “Count it,” Verci said.

  “One, two, three.” Gelson pulled on Verci’s leg, and at once Verci screamed and vomited. Much of it got on Asti, but he wasn’t going to complain.

  “Is he out?” Gelson asked.

  “Looks that way,” Asti said. Verci’s eyes were closed now, but he was breathing fine. “Went like you said.”

  “He didn’t mention the screaming,” Kimber said. She handed a rag to Asti. “I’m going to check on the rest of my patrons. They’re probably spooked.”

  “I’ll get this set and wrapped now,” Gelson said. “Have him come see me in a couple days—at my office in the day, mind you—and we’ll change out the wrapping.”

  “How long for it to fully heal?”

  “Break like that might never fully heal,” Gelson said. “I mean, I’m pretty sure he’ll walk again, we won’t have to cut it off or anything.”

  “Good,” Asti said.

  “But he’ll probably always have pain. Possibly will need a cane for the rest of his life.”

  That hit like a hammer.

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m not sure, no,” Gelson said. “People all heal different. He might be running by Soran. The foot might turn black and we amputate. We’ll have to see. But I know you boys are all running around and such, so best you know what’s likely.”

  “Thanks, Doc,” Asti said. He fished through his pockets for some bills.

  Gelson held up a hand. “Just take care of the tab here, and pay me proper at my office. And get that mess off yourself, son.”

  Asti cleaned himself and Verci off while Gelson finished wrapping the leg. Verci stayed out the whole time, seemingly sleeping peacefully. Or at least the sleep of four whiskeys. But he didn’t seem in distress, and Gelson wasn’t concerned. When he finished cleaning up, Kimber returned.

  “How is he?”

  �
�He’ll get through,” Asti said, half to convince himself. “Now I’ve got to go tell his wife.”

  Chapter 4

  RAYCHELLE RYNAX WASN’T ASLEEP, despite the late hour. Verci was out—“on a job,” as he liked to say. Even though what he was doing was the furthest thing from a proper job as she could think of, and she could never sleep when he was out there.

  At some point she was going to get word that he was dead or in Constabulary irons, and she honestly couldn’t decide which one she thought was worse. And all because of his loyalty to his brother.

  Stupid blasted Asti Rynax, she thought, quickly adding a prayer for forgiveness to Saint Bridget. Sometimes she cursed the day she had fallen for Verci Rynax and his disarming smile—she hadn’t known he would come with a trunkful of trouble in the form of his mad brother. She had half a mind to shut Asti out of their lives completely.

  But she couldn’t do that to Verci.

  She got up from the bed, checking on Corsi, asleep in his crib. Little boy had no idea where his father was right now, and with luck he would never know the things Verci had done. Was doing right now. She wondered sometimes why Verci and Asti spoke of their father with such fondness. The man had done nothing but put them on a path to an illegal and immoral life. A life both of them had almost freed themselves from.

  They should be free of it now. There was no reason, save Asti’s continued, burning anger.

  The door opened downstairs—the back door from the alley. It caused the jangle bell in their apartment to go off. Raych tensed up, waiting to hear the next sound. If it was Verci coming in, he’d pull the hidden switch in the kitchen that made a different bell ring, and she’d know it was safe. If she didn’t hear it soon, then she knew what she’d have to do—scoop Corsi up and hide in the lockroom behind the secret door.

  Verci had already hidden her away there twice. She hoped she’d never have to go in there again. She still didn’t understand why he was courting the risks that might force her to hide away.

  The second bell rang. It was safe. Grabbing her housecoat and a candle, she went down the back stairs to the kitchen.

  Asti was there, pulling Verci’s inert form through the door.

  “Saints and sinners, what happened?” She found herself shouting despite herself.

  “Quiet!” Asti snapped. “You have neighbors.”

  “I’m aware,” Raych said. “What did you do to my husband?”

  Asti lifted Verci up and put him on the work counter. Verci’s leg was bandaged up, which didn’t explain why he was completely insensate. So many different feelings welled up inside of her. She wanted to scoop up her husband and care for him, she wanted to slap him and scream at him for being an idiot, she wanted to not be worried out of her mind every time he went off on one of these foolish “gigs” that his brother insisted on.

  Asti spoke up. “He had an accident, and Doc Gelson set the leg—”

  “Did he get hit on the head?” She went to check Verci’s head for injuries, and then the smell hit her.

  “No, he’s out cold because of the four whiskeys he had.”

  “The four what?”

  “Just so the leg could be set.”

  Raych couldn’t hold it in. “This is your fault.”

  Asti had the decency to look down at the floor, abashed. “I know. I’m not sure how he fell, but I should have been there to—”

  “No, Asti,” she snarled. “You should not have been there. Neither of you should have been.”

  He glared hard at her. “And, what? Not find out who burned us out? Not bring them to justice?”

  “Let it go,” she shot back. “You already won—”

  “Won?” he almost shouted, then pulled his voice back down. He stalked over to the back door and shut it with the latch, and turned back to her. “What in the name of all the saints makes you think we won?”

  “You had your revenge on Tyne, robbed his place. Why wasn’t that enough?”

  “He was hired by—”

  “And where is that money, Asti? If you went through all that, why don’t we have that money?”

  “I’ve told you—”

  He had told her about keeping it hidden, about putting up a pretense of everything being normal, about acting like they were struggling, and they would slowly introduce the money into their finances. Make it look legitimate. But she thought it was just more excuses for Asti to do what he wanted.

  And drag Verci along with him.

  “I’m not interested in that. I want my husband safe.” She wanted more than that. She wanted some sanity, some normalcy in her life.

  “You think I don’t?”

  “Then leave him be, Asti! Let him just be a husband, a father. Let him get the Gadgeterium started again, let him run the bakery with me. Just be normal.”

  “That’s what we’re doing.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t mean your game of looking normal. I mean actually doing it. Let it go. If you can’t, at least let him go.”

  Asti’s hands were shaking. “I need . . . I need to go check on the others. Make sure they all made it back. Let them know Verci’s all right.”

  “Is he?”

  “Doc Gelson said it’ll heal. He should stay off it for at least two weeks.”

  “Gelson, saints.” That man was more menace than medicine. Everyone around her was. “Fine, get out of here.”

  Asti went for the door.

  “Wait,” she said. “Help me get him upstairs and in the bed. Then go.”

  Asti came back and picked Verci up by himself. Raych was always surprised how strong Asti was for being such a small man.

  “Do you have him?” she asked.

  “He’s my brother, Raych,” Asti said. “I’ll always have him.”

  * * *

  It was nearly eleven bells at night when Mila made it back to North Seleth with Helene. They were stuck walking most of the way from East Maradaine, as neither of them had planned on not being able to ride back in the carriage. They managed to catch a tickwagon over to Trinital Highway in Gelmoor, but from there they were on their own, hiking through Shaleton and Seleth.

  Helene had griped the whole way, mostly about her feet and how Asti must have screwed something up. She liked blaming Asti whenever anything went wrong on a job. She had preemptively griped this job for the week beforehand.

  “Still don’t quite get why we didn’t just bribe the guards,” Helene groused. “It’s not like we don’t have the money.”

  Asti had explained exactly why, and while Mila wasn’t good at articulating it, she understood. Asti pointed out that a bribed guard isn’t a trusted friend, and bribing eight or more guards means a high likelihood that one of them will take the money and turn on you.

  The bigger reason was that while the money they had from robbing and burning down Tyne’s Pleasure Emporium was an immense fortune, it wasn’t safe for them to spend too much in one place, or for any of them to suddenly have so much money. If anyone realized that a crew of North Seleth dregs now had thousands of crowns on them, it wouldn’t take much to figure out why.

  There were deeper matters, politics-of-the-underworld stuff that Mila didn’t really understand. Elements of Tyne’s network, as well as other criminal enterprises throughout the city, who were searching for whoever had taken out Tyne. Miss Josie had referred to a “Mister Gemmen” who was rather put out. Mila didn’t know who that was, but anyone who made Miss Josie speak in hushed tones was someone to worry about. But Miss Josie made it clear that Gemmen was someone who needed to be handled before the money was safely theirs.

  Asti agreed with her, and was adamant about it with the rest of the crew. Laying low kept them safe. They had to put on the long show, like nothing had changed. That meant no extravagant spending, like taking a cab back to North Seleth. No bribing guards. No anything that would send
whispers back their way.

  Mila was reasonably sure that Helene understood, she just hated it. That was Helene’s real issue. Especially since Helene had to keep pretending being a poor girl who never quite recovered from the Holver Alley Fire. She hadn’t accepted that.

  Mila didn’t mind. She rather liked being the richest street beggar in Maradaine. But that was her: her cover was still being a street urchin, one who commanded a small gang of boys who called her “Miss Bessie.” No one in the neighborhood really knew her beyond that.

  Helene was known, especially by folks like the Scratch Cats and the crew running them. She had to put on more of a front, and that meant working in a shop so people wouldn’t wonder how she was getting by.

  Working in the shop was killing Helene.

  “Eight bells tomorrow,” Helene griped as they made it back to the neighborhood. She handed over her crossbow kit to Mila. “I do not have time to ‘check in’ with anyone at the safehouse. Tell them I went home to sleep. Tell Julie to come home.”

  “Don’t you want—”

  “No, Mila, I really don’t,” Helene said. She shook her head. “I screwed up, and Verci paid the price. I can’t—I don’t want to see him, not right now.”

  “I doubt he—”

  Mila found Helene’s finger in her face. “Don’t even try that with me. I do not want to hear your mewling, little girl.”

  Mila let that wash over her. Helene was upset, and she tended to snap—especially at Mila—when she was.

  “Fine,” Mila said. “Go home. I’ll let everyone know you made it back fine.”

  Helene trudged off, and Mila made her way to the safehouse alone.

  From the outside, the crew’s safehouse looked like just another warehouse by the bank of the Maradaine River. There was a whole row of warehouses, most of them owned by companies whose offices were in Inemar or East Maradaine. Rent was cheap and few questions were asked. Carriages coming in and out didn’t look strange, nor did beggar girls looking for a place to sleep. It was a good place for the crew to work out of.