Among Thieves totk-1

by Douglas Hulick

  The rope was spinning in Tamas’s hand again. He beat my blade with his own once, twice, then stepped in, trying for the bind. At the same time, the cord snaked out again, heading for my groin.

  I tried to disengage my rapier from his attack by bringing its tip underneath his and back in line between us. I needed the sword to block the rope. I had no idea if the steel could stand up to his magic, but it seemed as good a time as any to find out. The question quickly became academic, though. My sword didn’t make it around in time, and I barely managed to bring my left hand forward to catch the tip of the rope across the knuckles.

  Pop. Pain. My dagger fell to the street.

  I withdrew again. My disengage had worked well enough that I was in position to slip by his blade and score a light chest slash on the way out.

  Tamas rolled his shoulders once and kept smiling.

  I took another step back. There was an alley near my left now.

  Someone yelled for the Watch from down the street. The sound of our steel had raised the alarm. Knowing the local Rags, they would arrive in time to find a few spots of blood on the cobbles and scratch their heads. After all, that was what Nicco paid them to do.

  I feinted at Tamas’s head, then dropped into a crouch and went for his groin when he moved to parry. He swung the rope at the same time. The cord passed over my head. I missed his crotch by a finger’s breadth, my point passing between his legs.

  “You fight better than you dust,” I said as I scrambled upright and back into guard.

  Tamas pushed his lower lip out in a dismissive manner. “You got lucky.”

  It was my turn to shrug. I backed away again.

  “Trying for the alley?” he asked, following my retreat. Before I could answer, Tamas swung the rope at the side of my head, forcing me to my right. At the same time, he stepped to his own right, placing himself between me and the alley mouth.

  Tamas tsked.

  “And here you’re supposed to be such a Boman Prig,” he said, shaking his head in mock pity. “I didn’t think you’d be so easy to beat.”

  “Finish it,” I said.

  Tamas swung his rope faster. “With pleasure.”

  I smiled. “I wasn’t talking to you, Blade.”

  I’ll say this: He was quick. Tamas was already turning when one of my Oaks stepped from the alley and ran him through. The rope was still spinning when he hit the ground.

  I let my guard drop and tried to make a fist with my left hand. The entire arm just hung there, limp and full of pain.

  “What the hell were you waiting for?” I snapped.

  The Oak, a big stone-faced cove named Scratch, put his foot on the body and wrenched his blade free. “Just got here,” he said.

  “What the hell do you mean, you just got here?”

  “Ran my ass off from my post over there,” he said, pointing at a roof halfway down the street. “Alley was faster, so I came out here.”

  “Then who was supposed to be here?”

  Scratch wrinkled his nose and moved a step away from me. “Roma.”

  “Where is she?”

  Scratch shrugged.

  “Signal Fowler,” I said.

  “Expect she’s already coming.”

  “Just do it.”

  Scratch let out a long, wavering whistle as I knelt down next to Tamas. Bloody bubbles were coming from where the sword had exited the front of his chest. His eyes were half closed, already glazing over. He wouldn’t be answering any questions.

  I gave the Blade a quick roll, coming up with a handful of hawks, two more daggers, and not much else. I left the cutlery, tossed the coins to Scratch, and looped the rope into a coil on the ground, careful not to touch any of the knots. I could already feel the results of my trip down the stairs coming back, now that the excitement was over.

  “Get rid of him,” I said, standing, rope held between my thumb and forefinger. Scratch picked up Tamas’s sword, stuffed it through the man’s belt, and dragged the whole mess away.

  I headed back to the shop. Eppyris was waiting in the doorway to his family’s apartments, framed by candlelight from behind. The light burned my night vision, bringing tears to my eyes. I wanted to look away, toward the cooling, dark shadows of the ground; instead, I stared straight ahead and gritted my teeth.

  Eppyris remained silent as I walked up. Straightbacked, square-shouldered, with a hard jaw and high forehead, Eppyris is one of those men who comes across taller than he actually is. In truth, he barely has three hands on me, but, between his iron posture on the outside and solid demeanor within, it’s hard to see him as a little man.

  Behind him, I could hear Cosima’s voice, talking softly to their two girls.

  “Something for the pain,” I said. I was wincing with every step now, and limping every other. “Lots of something.”

  He nodded once. “In the shop. We’ll talk there.”

  Before I could answer, he had shut the door in my face.

  It was shaping up to be a wonderful evening all the way around.

  I blinked in the semidarkness, waiting for my eyes to recover from Eppyris’s candle. I knew if I concentrated hard enough, I could hasten the recovery, but I just didn’t have the will right now. Instead, I walked over to the stairs.

  There was laundry everywhere. I bent down, picked up the laundry basket, and looked at the knife lodged in it.

  A throat cleared itself behind me. I turned to find Fowler Jess standing in the arched doorway to the street.

  “Let me start,” she said, “by saying that I don’t know how he got in.”

  “Through the door you’re standing in, I imagine,” I said, setting the basket down. “Funny thing is, someone’s supposed to be watching that door.”

  The Oak Mistress put her hands behind her back and looked up at me from beneath blond brows. She had a thick, flowing mane to match, but right now it was tied back and hidden beneath a floppy green cap. The cap was big, making her delicate face and fine shoulders seem even smaller than usual. A bit of dirty lace showed at her neck, escaping from beneath the green doublet she wore. Her skirt was a deep brown, but beneath it, I knew, were green stockings. She was all of nineteen summers, maybe, and if I weren’t so furious, I would have taken her upstairs right then.

  “We never saw him,” she said.

  “ ‘We’?”

  “All right, I. But I was on rover, so I can’t be sure. Sylos was watching the front. I’ll check with him and see what the problem was.”

  “The problem,” I said, my voice rising, “is that I was almost dusted in my own hallway! I got shoved down the stairs, chased into the street, and all your people did was watch! If I hadn’t drawn the Blade over to that alley, Scratch would still be picking lice out of his hair and I’d be dead.”

  “I was coming.”

  “When?”

  “It takes time to get down off a roof, Drothe.”

  “And Roma?”

  Fowler cocked her head, brows knitting together. “What about her?”

  “To hear Scratch tell it, she was supposed to be on the alley he came out of, only she wasn’t.”

  Fowler looked over her shoulder in the direction of the alley.

  “You’d better check on your people, Fowler,” I said. “You might find one’s been bought out from under you.”

  Fowler’s head whipped back around. “My people don’t sell out,” she snapped. “I don’t do the cross, and neither do they. That’s why you hired me, and that’s why I hire them. I’ll talk to Roma and see what happened, but I know her. She wouldn’t give you up like that.”

  “You’d better do more than talk,” I said, “or I know some people who aren’t going to be happy.”

  Fowler’s hands came forward to rest on her hips. “Look, Drothe, I botched it, all right? You almost died, and I’m supposed to stop that from happening, so yeah, I botched it. Be mad, but be mad at me. Scratch, Roma, Sylos, and the rest are my worry. If there’s a problem, I’ll take care of it. Don’t b
e threatening to put weight on my coves-I can do that myself.”

  I reached out with my right hand and laid it where her shoulder and neck met. She flinched but didn’t move away.

  “Listen up,” I said. “Anyone leaves my blinds open when they should be shut, I take it badly. And personally. You talk to those Eriffs you call Oaks and get things straight. But tell them this, too: Any more problems and I deal with them myself.”

  Fowler’s jaw set, pushing her lower lip out. Anyone who didn’t know her would think she was pouting, instead of barely keeping her hands from my throat.

  “My people, Drothe,” she said. “My problem.”

  “My neck takes precedence over your people,” I said. “Just remember that.”

  Fowler clenched her jaw some more. “Like you’ll… Oh, to hell with this! ” Fowler gagged and took two quick steps back, waving her hand in front of her face. “I can’t argue with you when you smell like that. What did that Blade attack you with, anyhow-a chamber pot?”

  I resisted the urge to look down at my clothes. “It’s a long story.”

  “Then tell it to me after a long bath,” she said. “I’m going to try and figure out what went wrong before I lose my dinner. Do you need to yell at me about anything else before I go?”

  “No.” I waved a hand. The adrenaline was finally starting to wear off, and I could feel the fatigue setting in. “Wait-yes.”

  Fowler stopped just beyond the archway and turned back, the setting moon turning the hair at the nape of her neck into fine silver. “What?” she said.

  “Send someone to find Jelem the Sly. He’ll either be in Brass Street or Quarters cordons this time of night.”

  Fowler nodded. “It may take a while.” She waved up and down the street. “I have a few things to do here, first.”

  “You’ll find me.”

  “Damn straight I will,” she said. Then she was off, jaw set, steps fast. I didn’t envy her people the grilling they were about to receive.

  I sat down on the steps. I knew Eppyris was waiting on me, but I didn’t have the energy for another argument right now. I needed five minutes-just five minutes of no motion.

  I leaned back on the steps and winced as something shifted and poked into the small of my back. Oh, right.

  I reached behind me and pulled out the case-or rather, its broken remains. The fall down the stairs had split its top nearly in two, and the fine hinges and clasp that held it closed were a twisted and buckled mess.

  The filth from the sewers was dry now, and some of it had flaked away. I could see more of the inlay and make out hints of gold wire along with the ivory-even a few glints that might have been precious stone. It looked for all the world like the box a person would…

  “Son of a bitch,” I said as I carefully lifted the broken lid. Inside the battered case, on a bed of padded velvet scented with myrrh, rested a narrow crystal tube. Gold filigree scrolled around it, forming artful flowers and intricate symbols, almost hiding the crystal itself. I didn’t need to look in the small window that had been left in the filigree to know what was inside the tube, but I did anyhow, and saw an old, faded, slightly dirty quill pen, its end feathers nearly gone.

  I knew it; or rather, knew of it. It was the pen the emperor Theodoi had used to write the Second Apologia in an attempt to make amends with his other incarnations almost two centuries ago. By all accounts, he was still the most consistently sane of the three, but that hadn’t stopped him from writing far less placating tracts to his various selves in later incarnations.

  I resisted the urge to bow to the quill three times, then three more, then three again. I’ve handled enough purloined relics to know my obeisance wasn’t going to make a difference to the Angels anymore-I was damned a couple times over, by that reckoning.

  “Son of a bitch,” I said again as I examined the goldwrapped tube. “What the hell were you doing with my relic, Fedim?”

  Chapter Ten

  I sat at the bottom of the steps, trying to put things together. Nothing fit.

  Athel and Fedim, Fedim and Athel-was there a direct connection between the two, or had the relic passed through more hands on the way to the Dealer’s shop in Ten Ways? And what was it doing in Ten Ways, for that matter? Imperial relics meant money and powerful interests-neither of which frequented Ten Ways, and certainly not a Dealer of Fedim’s status.

  The book-somehow, I suspected, this all had to do with the book the Cutters and their employers had been looking for; a book they thought Fedim had had, and Larrios might have right now; a book I was suddenly starting to get interested in despite myself.

  I pulled the slip of paper out of my ahrami pouch and ran it through my fingers. Imperial and relic, it said-but what else? If there was a connection between Athel and Fedim, the relic and the book, I was in deeper than I’d thought and against people even Degan wanted to leave alone, barring an Oath.

  Shit. I needed to get my hands on Larrios and squeeze some answers out of him.

  I stood up and gingerly made my way upstairs, every ache and bruise I’d gathered making itself felt along the way. My left arm still wasn’t working, so getting into my rooms was a challenge, but I managed it without setting anything off. I deposited the reliquary and Tamas’s rope underneath a loose floorboard, then made my way back down the stairs and to the front door of Eppyris’s shop.

  The apothecary had a brazier glowing and was adding a pinch of something or other to a mortar when I opened the door. He didn’t look up. I shaded my eyes against the light coming from the lamp, and entered.

  I took a deep breath as I waited for my eyes to adjust. As always, a riot of smells greeted me, and, as always, they seemed just a little different from the last time. There was a dark, almost roasted smell in the shop tonight, mixed with a hint of spice, riding on a wave of smoke and oil and lampblack. Nothing was brewing or steeping overnight, which left a vacancy usually filled by some sharp, caustic, or musty odor.

  My vision began to adjust, and I got a better view of Eppyris seated at one of the two massive tables that played host to an assortment of bottles, mortars, cups, scales, and loose ingredients. The walls to either side were covered with row upon row of shelves, each crammed with the raw ingredients of Eppyris’s trade: jars of oils, boxes of fine powders, sheaves of dried herbs, and the occasional jug or sealed pot marked with the strange script Eppyris refused to translate for me.

  Eppyris put pestle to mortar and gave a few quick, well-practiced grinds. As I walked over, he pulled a small box down from a shelf, removed a dried sprig of something, and sniffed it.

  “Separate the flowers,” he said, handing me the delicate bit of branch. I moved to join him at the table. “Over there.” He pointed to the far end of the room. “And burn this beside you.”

  I took the proffered incense, went to another brazier at the far end of the room, and tossed in the scented nugget. The heavy odor of the incense mingled with the smell of sewage that clung about me, but did little to hide it.

  I sat down and lit a candle from the brazier. Feeling was starting to creep back into my left arm and hand-along with the occasional flash fire of pain-so I was actually able to strip the flowers. The petals were tiny purple-and-yellow things the shape of tears, their colors faded from drying. They felt like fly wings beneath my fingers.

  “Are you all right?” asked Eppyris after several minutes of silence.

  “Bruised, mainly. Nothing broken that I can tell.”

  “And the filth you’re wearing?”

  “Long story.”

  Eppyris grunted. He shook the contents of the mortar into a cup, added two pinches of something from a shallow bowl, and poured boiling water over the whole thing.

  I held up the nearly naked branch. “You need this?”

  The apothecary shook his head and pointed at the cup. “Has to steep. We’ve time. What are you handling?”

  I tasted the dust on my fingers-sweet, heavy, with a bit of burning at the back of the throat. “Ha
rlock?”

  “Yes. Good. But you should use your nose before your tongue, and your eyes before either. The flowers might have been poisonous.”

  “I know what can kill me in that small a dose.”

  “Of that, I have no doubt.” Eppyris picked up the steaming cup and gave it a practiced swirl. “What about the other man?” he said.

  “The one who was on the stairs? He didn’t fare as well as I.”

  “What did he want?”

  “I missed an appointment. He was upset.”

  “So he came for you.”

  “More or less.”

  Eppyris set the cup down, then put both hands on the table. “I thought they weren’t supposed to be able to get in the building. You said it was taken care of.”

  “It was a mistake,” I said. “It won’t happen again.”

  “He got in the building, Drothe.” Eppyris’s voice began to rise. “On the stairs.” He stood and pointed toward the entryway beyond the wall. “One door away from my family!”

  “He wouldn’t have come after you or Cosima or the girls.”

  “No?”

  “No. He was deep fi-He was professional. He was here for me, no one else.”

  “And what if I had walked out into the stairwell when he was there, Drothe? What if Cosima had come up to ask you down for tea? What if one of us had found him by accident?”

  I stood up and walked the petals over to him. I set them down carefully, then stared up into his face.

  “He was a professional, Eppyris. That means you wouldn’t have seen him. Even if any of you had been up four hours before sunrise.”

  Eppyris scowled. “Don’t patronize me. You know what I mean.” He swept up the petals and crumbled them between his fingers, letting them fall into the cup.

  “So what happens the next time?” he said more softly. “What happens if the next one isn’t as ‘professional’? What do you do then?”

  The next time-there was the problem. Would there be a next time? Would I allow her another chance?

  I didn’t doubt my sister was behind this; there was precedent, after all. Besides, no one knew to use her livery, let alone to make an appointment with me, like that. I couldn’t figure exactly what I had done to bring this latest attempt down on me, but that didn’t matter. I’ve found you don’t have to know why someone is trying to kill you; you just have to know that they are.