Queen of Thieves Box Set

by Andy Peloquin

  The Hunter's eyes narrowed. "Given what?"

  Graeme's gaze slid to one side. "The state of the bodies. Sliced up, drained of blood."

  Ah, of course. He'd encouraged many legends about himself, including one that claimed he consumed the blood of his victims.

  He shook his head. "Not my doing. If I'm going to leave a message, I'll make sure it's clear what I'm saying. Like with Lord Eddarus."

  Graeme nodded, relief evident on his pudgy face. "Good, I didn't think so. Carving up vagrants didn't seem your style."

  Vagrants? This piqued the Hunter's interest.

  Jak's words from the previous day rang in his mind. "Seems a lot of us has gone elsewhere. Pete, Rozyn, Tarth, a few others. They ain't come 'round these parts in weeks."

  "Might just be the Bloody Hand's doing," Graeme said, his voice tinged with anger. "Keeper alone knows if the poor sods did something to piss them off."

  Life in Lower Voramis was hard, but death came cheap. The Bloody Hand would kill a man for looking the wrong way. Their hired daggers and thugs weren't choosy when it came to paying clients; men, women, even children had fallen to their knives, swords, and poisons.

  "Either way," Graeme continued, "it's a nasty business. A body here and there, it's to be expected in the Beggar’s Quarter. But at last count, we've had nearly twenty in the last month."

  Twenty? That is a lot higher than average.

  Such a high number of senseless deaths was bad enough, but if word spread that he was the one doing the killing, it could seriously interfere with his business. His clients would think twice about hiring someone who murdered beggars for the sheer pleasure of it.

  Might be something I'll have to look into. Once I finish the Damuria job, of course.

  The fat alchemist shook his balding head. "Worse, the Heresiarchs haven't a clue what to do to stop it. Not that they're doing much, mind you. Strolling around in their fancy red robes, pretending to be all official. Useless, the lot of them."

  The Hunter grinned. "Just don't say that too loud, or someplace they'll overhear you." He chuckled; Graeme had a tendency to rant. "They don't take kindly to that sort of talk."

  Graeme muttered a string of insults that would have rolled off a dockhand's tongue. "Stuck-up pricks, walking around pretending their shite don't stink. The way they play soldier, it's a…"

  The Hunter stopped listening. Graeme's words had sparked an idea. He played the thought over in his head, examining it from every angle. It would be damned unpleasant, but it should work.

  "Graeme." He cut off the alchemist's rambling with a chopping motion. "Tell me, how much do you know about gongfermors?"

  * * *

  The few people on the streets of Upper Voramis gave the rattling cart a wide berth. A thick cloud of reek emanated from the rear of the wagon—essentially a brass tank sitting atop the axles--and stains of nauseating colors covered the tank, wagon, and drivers.

  The Hunter shifted to find a more comfortable position on the hard wooden bench. The man beside him shot a nervous glance at him and wiped sweat from his forehead with a filthy hand. He was terrified, to be expected given that he knew his companion was the legendary Hunter of Voramis.

  "Remember, Serach," the Hunter said in a low, gravelly voice, "there's two ways this will go. You keep your mouth shut and go about your routine as we discussed, and you walk away with enough gold to buy a second cart." He held up Soulhunger beneath the man's nose. "I don't need to remind you where the second option leads, do I?"

  "N-No, sir, er, Hunter, sir." Serach's lips pressed in a tight line, white against his dusky, excrement-stained skin.

  "Good." The Hunter nodded and tucked the blade in its hidden sheath. "As long as you stick with the plan, you've nothing to fear from me."

  The acrid tang of terror mingled with the man's unique scent of manure, human excrement, and the cloves he chewed.

  The cart rattled around the corner, and the high walls of Lord Damuria's mansion came into view. Immediately, the Hunter hunched over, letting his arms hang limply by his side, his face contorting into a mask of witless innocence.

  A Steel Company mercenary appeared at the small door set into the huge wooden gate. "Halt!" he shouted and held up a hand.

  Serach tugged on the reins, and the two draft horses pulling the cart slowed to a stop.

  The mercenary lifted his lantern and shone the beam over Serach's face. "Not you again!" He stepped back, pinching his nose. "Haven't you stunk up the place enough for one month?"

  Serach gave a little shrug. "Just doin' my job of keepin' the jakes and chamber pots empty." He spoke in the rough, harsh accent of the Beggar's Quarter. "You ain't got to like it."

  "You got that right!" grumped the mercenary. Keeping his distance, he swung his lantern to shine the beam at the Hunter. "Who's he? Never seen him before."

  Serach sighed and shook his head. "My brother-in-law, Ornard. He works well, but don't speak much." He tapped his temple. "Kicked in the head as a child."

  "Lackwit, eh?" The mercenary raised the lantern and fixed the Hunter with a stern gaze. The Hunter gave him a broad, idiotic grin. To sell the façade, his alchemical mask had a broad white scar along the right side of his forehead.

  After a moment, the guard shook his head. "Whatever. Just keep him out of sight, and get the bloody hell out of here fast as you can, you hear?"

  "Of course, good sir." Serach nodded and reached for the reins.

  The mercenary turned and hammered a mailed fist on the gate. "Open up. It's the bloody nightman again."

  The gates slowly swung open. Serach clucked his tongue, setting the horses into motion. The cart rattled through the gate and to the right, around the rear of the Damuria mansion.

  The Hunter hid a grin as the cart rattled through the gate. He'd chosen the perfect way in. Well, not quite perfect—the abominable stench of human excrement assaulted his sensitive nostrils. But it was certainly the easiest way in.

  Gongfermors like Serach were hired by the lords and ladies of Upper Voramis to empty their outhouses, jakes, and privies. An unpleasant and undesirable job, but a potentially lucrative one. Not only did the gongfermors earn the nobles' coin to cart the refuse away, they could sell a portion to the farmers to use as manure. Anything not sold would simply be disposed of in the Midden, the enormous void in the northern section of Voramis. The hole had always been a part of Voramis, and no matter how much garbage, refuse, and waste was fed into its gaping maw, it remained a bottomless pit.

  Gongfermors had earned the name "nightmen" after King Gavian had passed an ordinance banning them from working during the day. No one in Voramis wanted to smell or see the carts filled with the putrid nightsoil.

  That suited the Hunter's purposes just fine. Three nightmen serviced the entirety of Upper Voramis. It had taken him an hour to track down Serach, the one contracted by the Damuria estate. A threat and the promise of gold had convinced the gongfermor to pay a visit to the nobleman, with a disguised Hunter along for the ride.

  Now, as they rattled around the rear of Lord Damuria's mansion, the Hunter had an opportunity to study the property from the inside. Two patrols of mercenaries passed their cart, both giving them a wide berth and looks of disgust. Serach seemed unfazed by the disdain; he simply nodded and tipped his hat to the scowling guards.

  The nightman swung the cart wide, then backed it toward a pair of battened doors set into the stone wall of the mansion. Pulling the horses to a halt, he jumped down.

  "Stay here, Ornard!" he commanded the Hunter in a stern voice. The Hunter nodded and mumbled gibberish, a convincing act for a nearby pair of Steel Company mercenaries.

  Serach strode to the door and pounded on it. A few moments later, it creaked open, revealing the sleepy-eyed face of a servant.

  "What?" the man yawned.

  "Come to haul off your nightsoil, we have," Serach replied.

  The servant caught a whiff of Serach and flinched, pinching his nose. "Blessed Mistress!" he groan
ed.

  Serach shrugged. "Sooner you let us in, sooner we get out of here."

  Face pinched with displeasure, the servant swung the doors wide. Serach clambered onto the seat, picked up his reins, and set the horses backing into the entrance. He maneuvered the cart with the ease of experience, until he pulled it to halt.

  The nightman tugged the Hunter's sleeve. "Let's go, Ornard," he said in an exaggerated voice. "We've got work to do."

  The Hunter followed him over the seat, ducked around the metal tank, and hopped down from the cart. They stood inside a room roughly twenty paces wide and long. Metal barrels filled the space, and the Hunter's nose told him exactly what they contained.

  Serach turned to the servant. "While we're here, you might want to bring all the chamber pots. Empty them all at once, you know?"

  The servant all but fled from the underground chamber, leaving them alone with the barrels of nightsoil.

  Serach slid aside a wooden hatch atop the metal tank, and a fresh wave of reek wafted up from the gaping hole. The Hunter struggled to keep down the few bites of food he'd eaten that day. Serach seemed unperturbed by the odors.

  Surprise registered on Serach's face as the Hunter set about rolling the barrels toward the cart. The Hunter chuckled inwardly at the man's astonishment; no one in their right mind could imagine the Hunter, legendary assassin of Voramis, would stoop to hauling shit.

  The barrels proved heavier than expected. Even with his extraordinary strength, the Hunter found himself sweating with the effort of helping Serach lift them to empty their contents into the tank. By the time they'd emptied the fifth barrel, a steady stream of servants entered the room bearing chamber pots. They deposited their stinking burdens and fled as fast as they could.

  An hour later, the Hunter and Serach had emptied all twenty-five of the foul-smelling barrels. As they rolled them back into place, the Hunter drew a small pouch from his robes. He dropped one of the tiny brown pellets into each barrel before replacing their lids. Serach gave no indication he'd noticed the surreptitious movements.

  Emptying the chamber pots took far less time, though the task proved no less unpleasant. Foul liquids splashed over the Hunter's sleeves as he carried the ceramic, metal, wood, and clay containers to the cart. He swallowed hard to keep his gorge from rising.

  More brown pellets went into the empty chamber pots. Their small size and dark color blended perfectly with the residue clinging to the container walls. He didn't bother with the four ceramic chamber pots. They no doubt belonged to Lord and Lady Damuria, and would be thoroughly cleaned before seeing use.

  No sense wasting a good pellet.

  After a great deal of laughing, Graeme had given the Hunter the pouch and explained how they worked. Something about an alchemical coating that was slowly broken down by the chemicals in human urine and feces. Once the coating dissolved, the volatile mixture within would react violently, producing a loud bang or pop and a thick, nauseating smoke that could lead to severe, though not fatal, illness that lasted for up to a week.

  "Nasty little concoction," Graeme had said, giving him a wicked grin. "Shame there's not much demand for it these days." His smile had turned into a frown. "The problem is that it's impossible to predict when it will go off." The alchemist had gone on for too long about acidity levels in human wastes. "Plus, they're old enough that I can't give you an exact timing on when they'll go off. You've got at least two days, but it could be three or four before the coating wears off."

  That suited the Hunter just fine. In fact, he'd prefer a staggered reaction. A much more dramatic effect that way, one far more likely to spook Lord Damuria. If the little "stink balls", as Graeme called them, worked, the nobleman would be driven from his mansion one way or another—if he didn't believe there was a legitimate threat on his life, the gut-wrenching stench of the smoke would do the trick.

  Like smoking rabbits out of a warren.

  The servants appeared genuinely relieved to see the cart roll out of the mansion, and the doors were all but slammed behind them. The guards already had the rear gate open by the time they arrived. Nightmen served a vital function in the mansions of the nobility, but that didn't make them welcome guests.

  Sweat dripped down Serach's forehead again as they rattled through Upper Voramis, and he shot worried glances at the Hunter.

  "You're almost free," the Hunter said in a low voice. "Almost a wealthy man."

  The single Heresiarch patrol they passed took pains to march on the far side of the street. When the red-robed guards disappeared around a corner, the Hunter gripped Serach's arm. "Stop here."

  The nightman jumped, but complied. He flinched as the Hunter stood, throwing up his hands as if expecting to be murdered on the street. The Hunter simply leapt off the wagon and removed his thick oilskin cloak.

  He tossed the garment onto the seat beside Serach. "There's a purse in the pocket, as promised. Not a word to anyone about this." He dropped his voice to a harsh growl. "You say anything about tonight, and there won't be pieces of your body big enough for your family to bury. Understood?"

  Wide-eyed, Serach gave a frantic nod and clutched the reins like a shield.

  "Good. Now off with you." The Hunter slapped the nearest draft horse's rump, and the beast moved into motion. Before the nightman's cart rattled ten paces up the street, the Hunter had ducked into a thick hedge and out of sight. When Serach glanced nervously over his shoulder, the road was empty.

  Chapter Four

  The Hunter blinked hard and rubbed his eyes. The sun-baked tiles were warm against his belly, and the occasional cool breeze wafting across the rooftop brought the sweet scent of Snowblossoms. After a long night playing gongfermor and a day spent watching the activity in Lord Damuria's mansion, the late-afternoon heat felt like a blanket that threatened to drag him into sleep.

  He grinned as a messenger rode up to the Damuria mansion and handed a sealed envelope to the Steel Company mercenaries at the gate. The third such today. The Hunter had no need to guess the letter's contents; he'd paid a hefty fee to have a dozen threats—some promising death, some gruesome torture, and one utter gibberish sure to confuse the nobleman—delivered before the end of the following day. Lord Damuria would be jumping at shadows. When the stink pellets finally worked, he'd have no choice but to flee.

  Where he'd flee to, that was the only thing the Hunter couldn't predict. Lady Damuria spent her summers in the Damuria estate in Praamis, but Lord Damuria had never visited it. He preferred to travel north to Malandria, which he did four times a year. However, he had a property south on the shores of the Frozen Sea, and some whispered that his holdings extended as far as Nysl.

  Either way, the Hunter would be prepared. A horse waited for him in the grand foyer of the abandoned mansion below, along with enough supplies for a three-day journey. All he had to do was follow Lord Damuria from the city gates, ride ahead of his party, and set up an ambush. The nobleman wouldn't take the entire Steel Company with him. Besides, the Hunter had no need to fight; one well-placed crossbow bolt—coated with the thick, tar-like argam poison—would complete his mission. Even with his limited woodcraft, he could evade any pursuing mercenaries. Or kill them, if necessary.

  The pieces were in place, his traps baited. All that remained was the waiting.

  The insistent voice in his head made patience difficult. Soulhunger was eager to feed on Lord Damuria's lifeblood. The dagger filled his mind with its pleading, demanding. His head pounded, and an ache had grown behind his eyes.

  Drawing in a deep breath, he tried to block out Soulhunger's voice. It faded to a dull thrumming in the base of his skull. He had to kill soon, or the low murmur would grow louder until he could no longer block it out. That voice was why he had become an assassin in the first place. As long as he kept it sated, it fed him power, fueled him with the life it stole from his victims. But if too much time elapsed between kills, it would invade his mind. The dagger lusted for blood, undiscriminating of men, women, and childr
en alike. The Hunter could only channel its power, harness it in aid of his hunting down his targets. An uneasy alliance, yet a necessary one.

  The dagger was the single link to his forgotten past. He had no memories of life before arriving in Voramis, no clue who he was, where he had come from, or why he hadn't aged after forty years. But Soulhunger had always been with him, that much he knew. He clung to the dagger in the hope it would unlock glimpses into his life before becoming the Hunter.

  Movement at the Damuria mansion's front gate snapped him back to attention. The wicket opened, and the two figures of Captain Dradel and Sergeant Rakhan emerged. Once again, they wore simple, plain clothes.

  The Hunter scuttled backward, slid down the rooftop, and leapt onto the third-story balcony. Instead of going through the mansion, he stepped off the stone railing and dropped to the balcony a floor below. His powerful hands caught his weight, though he winced as the rough stone scraped his palms. With the agility of a sailor in the riggings, he clambered down the railing and jumped the remaining distance to the overgrown lawn below. He landed and tucked into a roll, which brought him to his feet. Without hesitation, he raced around the empty mansion toward the front gate.

  Before stepping out into the street, he checked his disguise one final time. The alchemical mask gave him sharp cheekbones, a high forehead, pointed chin, and long, slim nose perfect for perching a pair of spectacles. His simple clothing was cut in the style popular among the wealthier commoners of Lower Voramis, as would be expected from a bookkeeper successful enough to serve the noble houses of Upper Voramis. The perfect disguise for traveling both affluent and plebian neighborhoods freely.

  He hurried through the streets, his long legs covering ground in short, scurrying steps. He kept his expression turned down in the perpetual frown of a man squinting at ledgers, his shoulders hunched from hours spent sitting at a desk. No one paid him heed as he rushed toward the main avenue that circumnavigated Upper Voramis.