“Get to the point, Glaive.”
“The point is, doesn’t matter if we’re bargaining for our jobs or our lives. There’s no person better to do it with than a merchant.”
5
The Railside was a train station turned saloon, all moldy clapboard and iron girders, standing with difficulty beside a recessed length of track that was part of Tristol’s derelict railcar system. Lined with a series of booths upholstered in torn red vinyl, the interior had a temporary look to it, as if the decor had been tacked on as an afterthought.
The room was thick with smoke and lantern light when Toler sauntered through the boarded-over glass door with Sylas Blatcher and Andover Mays in tow. A bell tinkled as the door slammed shut behind them, and they were enveloped in the familiar bouquet of stale cigarettes, cheap liquor, and cheaper cologne.
“My fourth-favorite shithole in this town,” said Andover Mays, with an air of satisfaction unbefitting the statement.
“You like it better than the locals do, apparently,” Toler said, noting its relative emptiness.
“Can I get you fellas something to drink?” asked the bartender, a petite redhead wearing a pair of aviator goggles as a necklace that called attention to her low-cut tunic.
“Three whiskeys,” said Toler.
“Best stuff you got,” Andover Mays added.
Toler wrinkled his mouth.
“Hey, you said it was your treat. Might as well taste good until I’m too hammered to know better.”
The three of them sat around a high-top table in the middle of the room. Toler stowed his saddle on the floor.
“Why you always bring that thing inside with you?” Mays asked.
“Got it from his daddy,” Blatcher said, saccharine-sweet.
“Yeah, eat shit, Blatcher. I was three when they carried my parents home in body bags. This saddle was my dad’s.”
Mays made a face. “Sorry I asked. Let’s get tanked and forget I said anything.”
The bartender dropped by with their drinks. “Here you go, boys. Can I get you all anything else?”
“You can tell me when you get off work,” Blatcher said. He gave her his best smile, which made him look like he was inspecting his tooth-rot in a mirror.
“An hour after you leave town,” said the bartender, without sparing him a look on her way back to the bar.
“There’s the reason why nobody comes in here,” Blatcher said. “No bitches in here but the bartender.”
“You’re subtle as a spear in the eye,” said Andover Mays. “Should’a let Glaive have the first go at her. He’d’ve softened her up. He’s prettier than she is, for Infernal’s sake.”
“Oh no, not Glaive. He’s spoken for,” said Blatcher, giving Toler his elbow.
Mays shook his head, skeptical. “Can’t be. This dway doesn’t do spoken for.”
Blatcher laughed, one of his belly laughs that started with a rude burst of air and ended with a snort. “You didn’t know? Glaive went and got himself a little girlie-friend. Sleeping with the boss’s daughter, this one.” He clapped Toler on the shoulder, nearly sending him off his chair.
Mays almost fell off his chair on his own. “Naw. You’re banging Vantanible’s sweet innocent flower?”
“Shut up, Blatcher. I’m not spoken for.”
Blatcher pointed. “Look at him. Blushing like a whipped horse!”
Blatcher had made a fast believer of Andover Mays. A smile spread across his face, wider than any Toler had ever seen him attempt. Mays looked so proud, he was almost radiant. “You scoundrel! What are you worried about Calistari for? Bad report or no, Vantanible’s gonna ring your neck on principle the next time you get within reach.”
That got Blatcher howling.
Toler sighed, slouching. “Coff on you. Both of you. I’m not worried about Calistari - you are. Do you want help with him or not?”
“We’re busting your balls, Glaive.”
Blatcher’s laughter wheezed to a halt. “Let’s hear what you have in mind.”
“I’m not tied down to any Reylenn Vantanible, either,” said Toler, knowing it was only true in a technical sense. “Getting caught up with her would be the biggest mistake I ever made. Like you said, Mays. He’d strangle me, sure as daylight.”
“If you haven’t banged her, I hope you don’t, for the sake of that pretty throat of yours,” said Andover Mays. “But if you have...” He finished the thought by giving Toler a sly smile.
Blatcher was more wheeze than laugh now, his guffaws rough and wet-sounding. He cleared his throat, spat something colorful on the floor, and lit up a cigarette. “Alright, on to the important stuff. How do we deal with Calistari?”
“We save his life,” said Toler.
“Already did that, nigh on two weeks ago. He gave you more of a reaming for it than me, if you recall. Man’s got no concept of gratitude. Not a shred of decency in him.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about. This is about the deal, remember? We want him to keep his mouth shut. So how do you keep someone from talking?”
“A hammer and nails.”
“A way that doesn’t involve torture.”
Blatcher gave him a dumb stare. His face lit up. “Threaten him.”
Toler sighed. Rational exercise was too much to ask of a man like Blatcher. “You find out what they’re hiding, that’s how. Calistari’s hiding something.”
“How do you know that?”
“I don’t. It’s my gut talking. We’ve worked Calistari shipments before, right? Have you ever seen Jakob Calistari himself on a train? The man melts in the daylight. He hates it out here. Hates the hounds, hates the heat, hates the city. He visits a place like Tristol and he’s scared of his own shadow the whole time. It struck me the other day that he’s in the habit of sending his minions everywhere on his behalf. Why would he come himself unless there’s some reason he felt like he needed to?”
Andover Mays shrugged. “Calistari is in fabrics. What’s he got, a box of undies he doesn’t want anybody knowing about? I think we’d be better off threatening him.”
If Blatcher hadn’t cared about the contents of Calistari’s crate before, he was starting to now. “Nah, the business he’s in don’t mean shit. He could be hiding anything in that crate. We need to see what’s in there. Routine inspection, any0ne?”
Toler nodded. “That’s exactly what I’m saying. If he’s hauling something besides fabric, Tristol’s the place he’d unload it. Once we know what it is, we can hold that information over his head. We promise not to squeal to Vantanible as long as he doesn’t. If he wants to keep that fat head on his shoulders, he’ll shut up about those bad reports he’s been threatening us with. That’s called saving lives, fellas. Or blackmail, if you prefer.”
“The deal,” said Blatcher, with a look that bore a close resemblance to comprehension.
“The deal,” Toler repeated. “Now like I said, we can be pretty sure it isn’t cloth he’s hiding. What cloth is important enough that he’d suffer a fifteen-week tour through the Amber Coast? I’m not buying it.”
Andover Mays gestured toward the bar. “You are buying the drinks tonight though, and I’m ready for another.”
6
Walled in by tall buildings and guarded around the clock by well-paid henchmen, Tristol Village Square was run by a group of unscrupulous entrepreneurs who called themselves The Tristol Crest. While the Crest’s dominion was limited to the confines of the Square, they were quick to promise traveling merchants that it was the only place in Tristol where they could hang their hats and stow their wares with the relative certainty of safety. Toler and the others were about to test the validity of that promise.
The three shepherds gave their credentials and entered through one of the six gates, keeping a casual pace despite their assorted states of inebriation. Distant stars shed pale blue light against the brickwork, but the yard was otherwise dim under the night sky. The Square was as grand a courtyard as any in the Inner East, with sta
bles and garages for storing animals and crates, market stalls for the selling of goods during open hours, and even a small boarding house for the merchants and their guardians, aptly named the Tristol Village Square Hotel.
It wasn’t hard to locate Calistari’s booth, with its colorful array of bolts and spools displaying fabric of every kind - linens, cottons, wools, leathers, and silks. Many of his threads were rare - the kind of finery only the wealthy could afford. The booth was closed and locked down for the night; Calistari was either counting his riches or already asleep. Toler hoped it was the latter.
They strolled through the market and into an open side door that was set along a wall of loading bays. On the other side, the enormous warehouse they called the dealer shed opened up before them. Toler glanced over his shoulder and across the courtyard before they went in. There was an old man having a smoke at the far end, but no one else was around. Toler nodded, pleased at the lack of intrusion. They were clear to get to work.
Inside, Andover Mays tried to light a candle with his striker, then resorted to using his cigarette when he was unsuccessful. They passed by row after row of stored boxes and shipping crates until they arrived at Calistari’s flatbed, its latch secured with a heavy padlock as expected. Snuffed torches hung in sconces along the wall, leaving the candle their sole source of light in the cavernous warehouse.
“What now?” asked Blatcher, looking around warily as their shadows danced along the floor.
Toler undid his belt, unbuttoned his pants, and pulled out the crowbar he’d strapped to his thigh. Someday he would opt for the more comfortable approach of keeping things up his sleeve. Whenever he got into the habit of wearing sleeves. He handed the tool to Blatcher, who grimaced before taking it. “Now, we bust the lock. What’d you think we were going to do?”
Blatcher wedged the crowbar into the padlock’s shackle and wrenched downward. The lock came undone with a pop. When they slid the door’s latch open, it squealed in its track and sent echoes over the walls. Opening the big metal door on its rusty hinges was even worse. They waited for several moments, letting the noise die off the room and listening for any signs of alarm before they stepped inside, leaving the door cracked behind them.
Everything appeared to have been unloaded from the crate except for the merchant’s own portable booth and a layer of dusty woolen blankets, laid out across the floor to keep the dirt off his finer fabrics. The blankets looked too thick somehow. Blatcher narrowed his eyes and gave Toler a look. A look that told him they were both thinking the same thing. Together they yanked the blankets away.
“Dolls?” said Andover Mays.
“Coffing... cloth dolls,” said Blatcher.
Long, shallow wooden crates lined the floor, each one filled with an assortment of stuffed figurines, dressed in clothing of every color, with burlap skin and big round button eyes and rough-spun woolen hair.
Blatcher frowned. “He isn’t hiding anything valuable. He’s just saving himself some embarrassment. Shit.”
“I don’t get it,” said Andover Mays. “When was the last time we visited a city that had more than a handful of kids?”
“Never.” Toler grabbed one of the dolls for a closer look. It was heavier than it should’ve been. Its head flopped against its back as soon as he lifted it off the pile. Thank goodness. There’s more than stuffing in here. He flicked his knife open and turned the doll over. There was a rough seam along the back of its head. He made a vertical cut through the seam, and in the candlelight something glimmered from within. “Embarrassment might not be enough to shut him up,” Toler said, “but a shit-ton of nine-millimeter ammunition is.”
Blatcher was confused. “Lemme see.” He dug around inside the doll’s head and plucked out a bullet. “Ammo? Dolls with coffing bullets in their heads? Why didn’t he just register this with Vantanible and bring it in a box? It’s not like there’s a law against shipping ammo.”
“Have you been to an arms dealer lately?” Andover Mays said. “Everything’s handloads and custom work these days. Some of that shit I wouldn’t touch if you paid me, let alone put it in my gun. This is factory-grade, from before the Heat. Rare as grass anymore. This haul makes most inventories I’ve seen look like piles of slag.”
Toler looked out across the floor to take in the vast collection. The dolls stared up at him with blank eyes and joyless smiles. “You’d have to be insane to register a crate worth this much. You’d have every bandit in the Inner East after you if people knew you were carrying something like this. Why would you broadcast it if you didn’t have to?”
“Because Vantanible hates smugglers,” Blatcher said. “Calistari knows that as well as anyone. Once we tell him we found his stash, he’ll keep his mouth shut. He’ll have nothing but praise to give Vantanible about us. Now, I say we take a little of this for ourselves.” He tossed Toler the bullet he’d taken, then crouched beside the nearest box of dolls.
“Hold on a second,” Toler said, shaking his head. “You’re overlooking an enormous detail, big dway. We have no idea where any of this came from.”
Blatcher put his hands on his knees and stood. “Who cares?”
“You don’t know what kind of operation Vantanible runs, do you?” Toler said.
“I’ve been working for him twice as long as you have, Glaive. And Mays longer than me,” said Blatcher.
“That’s great, but you’re not understanding me. What if Calistari got this stuff from Vantanible?”
Blatcher opened his mouth in dissent, but he stopped when the realization hit him. “Well shit, Glaive. Son of a bitch. If that’s true, we’re coffed. Calistari won’t care that we know. And we can’t steal from the boss.”
Andover Mays muttered a curse under his breath as a drip of hot wax caught him on the knuckle. “Why did I let you two jackasses wrap me up in this? He wasn’t gonna give me a bad report. You coffers are here trying to save your own skins, and now I’m gonna get shafted too. Some deal this turned out to be, Glaive.”
“We’re not coffed, and I’ll tell you why. Maybe this shipment isn’t from Vantanible. If not, we have Calistari by the balls. If it is, we’ll have to get creative.”
Blatcher wrung his hands. “Doesn’t matter either way… does it? The only way to find out is to ask Calistari. If Jakob and Vantanible are working together, we’re not just coffed. We’re dead. How are we gonna get outta this one, Glaive?”
“You need to start thinking with your gut, Blatcher. You have guts in there somewhere, don’t you? Come with me.”
7
Toler made the knock sound urgent. Calistari opened the hollow panel door after a few moments, his hair in pillow-borne disarray, his belly draped over a pair of underpants of alarming size and color. It was a sight Toler had never imagined could be so disquieting. It was one he’d never imagined in the first place. He got hold of himself and pretended not to mind.
Jakob rubbed his eyes and blinked against the candlelight, standing on the threshold with a look of dim recognition. “What’s this? Come to lynch me, have you? The young punk and the bullying brute have come to show me what-for, along with their silent partner. Very well. Have at you!” He put up a set of fists, his breasts undulating at the prospect of moving the ham hocks he called arms.
“Sorry to wake you, Jakob,” Toler said, ignoring his rancor. “We need to talk to you. Someone just tried to rob your crate.”
A look of horror passed over the merchant’s face, his chins tremulous. He slammed the door, reappearing moments later in a nightcloak of soft blue toweling, his own candle in hand. It was in keeping that a man who sold cloth would wear the finest himself, even down to his pajamas. He made a move to shove past them.
“I don’t think so,” Toler said, holding up a hand. “You’ve got some explaining to do first. Would you mind telling us about this?” Toler held up the doll he’d taken, its stuffing spilled from the split in its head, brass glittering within.
Jakob didn’t reach for it. Instead he let his hea
d laze to one side, examining the doll as if it were something foreign to him. His eyes were glossy, his expression morose and disbelieving. “Tell me what happened,” he said. “Did you see who broke in? Did they see you?”
“We were coming back from the bar. We thought we’d inspect the flatbed and make sure it was stowed properly. The door was hanging open and there was no one around. We took a look inside and found a whole bunch of these.” Toler had to hand it to himself; he was a good liar when there was truth involved.
“Have you notified the guards?”
“We thought we’d better tell you first.”
“I’ve seen a lot of weird shit in peoples’ crates, Calistari, but dolls with ammo in their heads...” Blatcher shoveled a hand toward the doll in want of explanation.
Jakob was flustered. “I had nothing to do with those.”
“You didn’t put these in here?” Toler asked. “You’re telling us you’ve been hauling these dolls around for two weeks without knowing it, and you had no idea your crate was full of pre-Heat, factory-loaded ammo?”
Jakob paused. “I knew about the dolls, but I don’t know how those got inside them.” His expression was almost convincing.
“You registered these dolls, then,” Toler said. “And you expect us to believe this ammunition just... appeared.”
Jakob scoffed. “Of course I registered them. The dolls are on the ledger. I’m bringing them to Lottimer, to sell to my cousin Maynard. The whole reason I came on this Infernal-forsaken route was to visit him and his family. Lottimer City trades over the sea, you know. No one makes children’s play-things anymore. There are enough children in the Amber Coast and around the Horned Gulf to create demand for them. Fine dolls like these will fetch a high price.”
The Shepherd (The Aionach Saga Book 0) Page 3