Queen of Thieves Box Set

by Andy Peloquin

  Estimating the time he'd taken to reach the street, he turned away from Lord Damuria's mansion. He scanned the passing men and women in search of the two mercenaries. At their speed, they'd be passing the Maiden's Fields. He'd have to hurry. If they reached Lower Voramis before he caught up with them, he'd have no chance of finding them.

  He spared a quick glance for Farida as he rushed by her cart. The little girl was busy bundling flowers, while a paunchy nobleman with far too many chins and a too-young wife on his arm waited impatiently for his purchase. He wished he had time to stop and leave her a few coins, but the Steel Company mercenaries were his priority now.

  A grim satisfaction flooded him as he caught sight of them fifty paces ahead. Their simple clothing stood out amidst the lace, frills, bright colors, and silks of the nobility walking and riding past, but their confident swagger—a hallmark of fighting men—made them stand out from the servants, merchants, and other commoners.

  Their ground-eating strides and purposeful gait made it difficult for him to close the gap without breaking character. He slipped through the carriage and pedestrian traffic as quickly as he could. He had to reach them before they left Upper Voramis.

  By the time they began the descent into Lower Voramis, he'd gotten within ten paces of them. He matched their pace, staying far enough behind that they wouldn't notice him yet close enough he wouldn't lose them in the heavier traffic of the main city.

  To the Hunter's surprise, the two mercenaries turned away from the Blackfall District. Most of the men and women seeking strong drink, narcotics, or companionship went to the many-colored houses there.

  Intriguing, he thought.

  The Merchant's Quarter did have a few brothels, gambling dens, and other pleasure establishments. Though the alehouses and taverns near the Port of Voramis were unpleasant, the drinks there cost far less than the finer wines, ales, and spirits sold by the Bloody Hand. Curiosity burned within him.

  I wonder where they're headed.

  The men skirted the Palace of Justice and Temple District, entering the busy streets beyond. Merchants shouted at full volume, hawking everything from fine metal wares to clothing and textiles to produce that looked nowhere near as fresh as claimed. The smells of grilling meat, burning fat, and baking bread hung thick in the air, mingling with the odor of rotting food, horse droppings, and sweating, unwashed men and women. Horse- and oxen-drawn wagons rumbled past, loaded high with wooden casks, bales of hay, sacks of barley and wheat, and leaking crates filled with fish.

  The press of people discomforted the Hunter. He hated the closeness of the jostling bodies, the myriad odors that assaulted his sensitive nostrils from all sides. Worse, he could lose his targets in the crowd. One moment of inattention, and the two Steel Company mercenaries could disappear in the throng or turn down a side street.

  He slipped closer to the two men, almost near enough to reach out and touch them. People gave way before the mercenaries, and the Hunter followed in their wake. He had no fear of them spotting him. If they looked back, they would never notice the fussy-looking man scurrying behind them.

  The bustle of activity diminished as they turned off Trader's Way and away from the Merchant's Quarter. The Hunter slowed his steps, widening the distance between them. With fewer people on the street, he had to follow with more caution. Through the twisting, turning avenues of Lower Voramis they went, leaving the busier sections behind for the slower-moving streets and alleys of the Beggar's Quarter.

  The Hunter's brow furrowed. What in the bloody hell are they doing here? He couldn't come up with a rational explanation as to what Steel Company mercenaries could possibly want among the impoverished.

  Few wagons and carts passed through this section of Voramis, and at this time of the early evening, only a handful of pedestrians moved about. He hung back, putting a full thirty paces between them. Now and again, one of the two would cast furtive glances over their shoulders. They had drawn their cloaks tight about them, lifting their hoods just enough to conceal their features without drawing suspicion. But the Hunter's instincts told him something about them was…off.

  The two men paused at the mouth of an alley. The Hunter ducked into a doorway as they scanned the streets. When he peered out a moment later, the mercenaries had disappeared.

  Years as an assassin had honed the Hunter's fighting instincts, yet also developed a deep-rooted mistrust of people. Anyone who acted with such secrecy had something to hide.

  The question is, what?

  After a moment, the Hunter entered the lane. Stinking muck splashed on his boots, and the stench rising from the piles of refuse heaped against the walls set his stomach churning. Twenty paces from the main street, the alley branched out to the right and left. The Hunter glanced both ways, uncertain where to go. The settling gloom of night obscured any sign of the mercenaries' passage.

  He drew in a deep breath, grimacing at the foul odors assaulting him. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on filtering out the layers of urine, vomit, rotting meat, and hundreds more nameless smells that came from the detritus around him. He focused on the scents that stood out of place: tabacc leaf, aniseed, and metal. Rosewood, oak, and olive oil. They didn't belong in the Beggar's Quarter, but marked the presence of Sergeant Rakhan and Captain Dradel.

  They came, faint and barely discernable, but there. His eyes snapped open, and he turned down the right-hand alley. His ears strained to detect any sound, and he focused on the myriad scents filling his nostrils.

  Rounding a corner, he nearly stumbled upon his targets. They stood just five paces away, tapping on a faded wooden door set into a crumbling building. He flattened himself against the wall, heart pounding, and listened as the door creaked open. Words were exchanged in a voice too low for him to hear. A moment later, the door creaked shut, a latch clicked, and there was the thunk of a deadbolt sliding home.

  Deadbolt? The Hunter peered around the corner. It made no sense. A stiff breeze could knock over the building the men had entered. Three of the second-floor walls had crumbled inward, with only a single roof beam surviving the collapse. Only the most desperate sort would live in that derelict structure.

  So why in the fiery hell would it have that level of security? Another question followed. What brings our Steel Company captain and his sergeant?

  He had only one way to find out.

  Retreating a few steps down the alley, he raced toward a nearby wall and leapt high into the air. Planting one foot on the solid brick, he pushed off toward the opposite wall, twisting his body upward and reaching out to seize the exposed end of an overhang. With a heave, he pulled himself up onto the thatched roof and jumped the narrow gap to land lightly on the second floor of the building into which the Steel Company mercenaries had disappeared.

  The sound of voices drew him toward the heart of the building. A section of floor had collapsed inward, and the light of torches shone through the gaping hole. The Hunter slithered closer and peered down.

  Six figures stood in a circle in the center of the room below. All wore heavy cloaks, thick boots, and elbow-length leather gloves. From beneath their raised hoods protruded elongated, curved beaks and round eyes as dark and empty as the Midden--or the Hunter's own eyes.

  The scent of blood—fresh, stale, dried, and dripping—reached the Hunter's nostrils. Dark stains covered the floor beneath the figures' boots. Soulhunger began to pound in the back of his mind, aching to feed. The Hunter wrestled back its demands with effort.

  A quiet chanting echoed in the small space. It took the Hunter a moment to understand the words.

  "Death will bring life," they intoned. "Death will bring life."

  The chanting continued for a full minute. The sound and smell grated against the Hunter's bones, sending an instinctive shiver down his spine. He recognized the ensemble: the curved mask and heavy clothing was that worn by the Trouveres, priests of the Bloody Minstrel, god of sickness, plague, and horrible music.

  What are they doing here? T
he Trouveres only were allowed to roam the city in time of plague. Their counterparts, the Malady Singers, were permitted to leave the temple to deliver the red bloodstone amulets said to ward off the worst of the Bloody Minstrel's pestilence. To see not one Trouvere, but six, here set the alarm bells ringing in the Hunter's mind.

  "Brothers." The hoarse, rasping voice came from beneath one of the masks, the Hunter couldn't tell which. "We do the gods' work today."

  One of the figures stepped forward, crossing his arms over his chest, resting his hands on his shoulders. "Our fair city is ill, but it is an illness that is unknown to all but those who serve the Minstrel."

  "Praise his holy name," intoned the other five figures in unison.

  "Praise be his name," the first figure repeated. "For five decades, we have held plague and sickness at bay through our devotion, prayers, and vigilance." From within his cloak, he drew out a red amulet and held it high. "And, thanks to his gift of the bloodstone, the city has escaped epidemics."

  His voice rose to a frenzied shout. "But try as we might, we cannot keep up with the ever-increasing number of men, women, and children filling our walls. They come all over Einan, bringing new pestilence. Worse, they occupy every corner of the city until the streets overflow with their refuse and filth. The more that come, the greater the threat of disease.

  "But we cannot stop them from arriving. We cannot stem the flood of humanity that throngs to our walls. The prosperity of our city will be its undoing. But the Minstrel—"

  "Praise his name," the voices chanted.

  "—has entrusted to us the holy mission of fighting pestilence. We fight not a war of attrition, but one of prevention."

  He turned and strode away, disappearing from the Hunter's view. The Hunter tensed at the sounds of rattling chains, accompanied by a soft, weak moan. A moment later, the man returned. The chain gripped in his hand was attached to something set in the roof.

  The Hunter craned his neck to get a better look. The lantern light shone on something solid, dark red interspersed with bits of brown and white. For a heartbeat, he thought it could be a slab of beef.

  Then the thing shifted and gave a quiet cough.

  Horror surged within the Hunter. It's a person!

  The man—he could tell by the thick hair covering its chest—hung by his feet, his arms dangling over his head. The dark stains on his body were blood, his own. It seeped from a wound in his abdomen, another in his chest, two in his thighs, and another on each of his wrists. A gruesome drip, drip echoed in the chamber.

  "From the clay the Master created us," the hooded figure said in his rasping voice.

  "And to clay we will return," the others answered.

  "While our souls are taken into the Long Keeper's arms, the bodies left behind turn to rotting flesh, releasing foul miasmas that bring illness and death in their wake. Thus it was with the Spotted Flux that ravaged our city fifty years ago, and with the Bleeding Fever of a hundred years prior. Yet, it is not the flesh that produces these miasmas, but the blood."

  He ran a hand along the man's chest, eliciting a weak cry from the victim, and held up a bloodstained glove.

  "It is the blood that spreads death. It is the blood that putrefies and attracts the swarms that carry pestilence on their wings. Thus, we must cleanse the city of the blood of the ill and push back the threat of disease."

  "The city must be cleansed," the five figures chanted.

  "We operate in the shadows, as the Brotherhood of Pestilence has for so many centuries. We are the unseen hand that guides the city away from the Bloody Minstrel's touch, which keeps outbreaks at bay."

  He drew a dagger—an ornate, curved blade with a skull etched into the hilt—and held it aloft. "Some must die—men, women, even children—but only so that others may live. With every life taken, the odds of disease diminish, and the Bloody Minstrel's wrath is averted. With every death, contagion is held at bay, and the city is safeguarded."

  At his nod, another figure stepped back, returning a moment later with a metal bucket, which he placed beneath the hanging man.

  "Death will bring life," he said.

  "Death will bring life," the others responded.

  With a quick slash, he drew the blade across the man's throat. The man gasped, and crimson pumped from the tear in his neck. After a few seconds of pathetic struggle, movement ceased, and his body swayed slowly back and forth. Silence hung thick in the room, broken only by the drip, drip of the blood filling the bucket.

  The rasping voice echoed after a long moment. "With the flow of blood, the city is cleansed. A few deaths will safeguard the many. So it has been in the past, and so it will be."

  "So it will be," the five men chanted.

  Acid rose in the Hunter's throat. This went beyond simple murder—and too many of those occurred in Voramis each day to be of real concern. No, this was some sort of foul ritual, one conducted in the name of the Bloody Minstrel.

  He had heard the discussion before: the recent growth of Voramis' population had many concerned at over-crowding and the higher prevalence of disease. The Malady Singers distributed the pestilence-fighting amulets until their stores were empty, and only one-third of the population of Lower Voramis had received the bloodstones. Thrice in the last year alone, the city had held its breath for fear of epidemics.

  Yet this, surely this couldn't be sanctioned by the Hall of the Cruori. Any official rituals would take place in the Bloody Minstrel's temple, not some derelict building in the Beggar's Quarter. Everything about this seemed…wrong.

  A full minute passed in silence, then the men below lifted their eerie masks. The speaker was a tall, imposing fellow with a grizzled face and a scar that ran the length of his neck. The faces of Captain Dradel and Sergeant Rakhan appeared from beneath the coverings. The other three men had the rough features common among Lower Voramians. The Hunter couldn't pick up their scents; the metallic tang of fresh blood filled his nostrils.

  "You know what to do with him," the grizzled man said. Two of the men nodded and strode toward the corpse. One slid his arms around the hanging man's waist while the other produced a heavy key and fumbled at whatever bonds held him suspended. Something clicked, and the first man grunted with the weight of the body. He lowered it onto a nearby tarpaulin, face up, and crossed the man's bloodied wrists over his chest.

  A jolt of shock coursed through the Hunter. It can't be! He leaned closer, staring down at the corpse with horror. Sure enough, there was the sword-shaped scar. He'd seen it often enough, flushed red as the man reeled drunkenly between Twelve-Finger Karrl and Jak the Thumb. There was no mistake: It's Thrifty Pete.

  Jak had said Pete was missing for a few weeks, along with a few of the other outcasts that squatted in the abandoned building he called home. Disgust writhed like a worm in the Hunter's gut. The man had been hung by his ankles, his blood drained—just as Graeme said happened to the other bodies.

  So this Brotherhood of Pestilence is responsible for all the deaths. It was the only explanation that made sense. If they were trying to prevent disease, of course they would start with the lame, the ill, those considered the "dregs of humanity"—the ones most likely to carry disease and plague.

  The grizzled man's voice snapped the Hunter's attention back to the remaining men.

  "We must work faster," he was saying. "Even at our current rate, we cannot hope to keep up with the overwhelming numbers flocking to our city. If we are to stem the tide of plague that even now approaches Voramis, we have to do more than just cleanse one or two at a time."

  "You want us to kill even more?" asked one of the men, a fellow with a nose as square as his jaw, and a thick forehead. "Already, our actions have begun to draw attention from the Heresiarchs." He finished emptying the bucket's grisly contents into a glass bottle and handed it to the grizzled man, who accepted it with a nod and stoppered it.

  "Aye, he speaks truth," replied another, a thin fellow with gaunt cheeks and a complexion somehow even more yellow i
n the lamplight. "Last week, when Dunn and I was disposin' of that old lady, we nearly got caught. Took some quick thinkin' to stash the body 'neath a pile of rubbish and claim we was lookin' for a ring Dunn dropped."

  The third man, no doubt Dunn, grunted. "Last thing we need's the Heresiarchs casting their eye on us."

  "So be smarter," Captain Dradel snapped. "See this man?" He pointed to the body lying on the tarpaulin. "He was too drunk to stand, tucked into some filthy alley a few hundred yards from this building. Think like a beast of prey, and pick the weak ones, the isolated ones, from the herd."

  "Easy f'r you to say," the rail-thin man retorted. "You're fightin' men, but I'm a bleedin' candlemaker, for the Keeper's sake."

  Sergeant Rakhan thrust a finger toward Dunn, a tall, broad-shouldered man with hands large even for his thick forearms. "So team up. Dunn here'll have no problems finding dreck hanging around the Port. Two or three of them at a time, even." He produced a purse. "Use this to get yourself a handcart or barrow or something."

  "Your generosity will be rewarded, Brother Rakhan," the grizzled man intoned. "If not in this life, then in the next."

  "No more than our duty, Trouvere Silech." The sergeant bowed. "I've seen what plague can do to a city; as long as I'm in Voramis, I'm proud to serve this branch of the Brotherhood any way I can."

  "We both are." Captain Dradel's voice had a petty ring to it. "When we return tomorrow night, we will have more souls to offer to the Bloody Minstrel. Death will bring life."

  "Death will bring life," Silech echoed, bowing. "See that you pass the message on to the others, those unable to join us tonight. They, too, must increase their efforts to cleanse the city. Until tomorrow, my brothers." He clasped the hands of each of the other five in turn, then strode out of the Hunter's view. Captain Dradel and Sergeant Rakhan followed a moment later.

  The Hunter found himself torn by indecision. He had been paid to kill Lord Damuria, and that should be his primary focus. He had never deviated from a job. He was the Hunter, and death was inevitable once coin changed hands.