Queen of Thieves Box Set

by Andy Peloquin

  At the same time, these men had killed Thrifty Pete, perhaps even some of the other beggars that had gone missing. Worse, the deaths were being laid at his feet. Even if they believed they were working for the good of the city, could he let that go unanswered?

  He was no Heresiarch or Justiciar, not bound by honor or duty to protect the people of Voramis from harm. Hundreds of men and women had died by his hands, killed to slake Soulhunger's endless thirst, for the sake of his sanity.

  But something about this was…different. With his twisted arm and palsied leg, Thrifty Pete had no chance to defend himself. Life had treated him poorly, given him nothing but the scum on the bottom of the barrel. Deformed at birth, he'd had no choice but to steal—Karrl had given him the name "Thrifty" in jest, as he'd never spent an honest coin in his life—or beg to survive. The Brotherhood of Pestilence saw that as weakness, something to be eradicated so that others could live.

  So who would be exempt from their predations? Disease spread through every corner of Voramis, from the palace of King Gavian to the lowest slum in the Beggar's Quarter. The King had established laws to prevent overcrowding in Voramis for this very purpose.

  A part of the Hunter recognized the rationality behind the Brotherhood's actions. Reducing the population of Voramis could very well prevent or reduce disease. But another part of him recoiled from the wanton brutality, the ritualistic nature of the murders.

  Worse, the Heresiarchs hadn't a clue as to who was behind the murders. If the Brotherhood of Pestilence was allowed to continue unchecked, how many more would die? Eventually, when the bodies piled up, the King would have to give orders for his arrest. To avoid it, he had only to kill the ones responsible for the murders. In his mind, the immediate peril of a war with the Crown trumped any potential threat of disease.

  The pale face of Thrifty Pete stared up at him, features twisted in his final moments of horror, unseeing eyes filled with a plea for vengeance.

  So be it. He had the time. Graeme's stink balls wouldn't work until tomorrow at the earliest, perhaps not even then. He could afford a small distraction from Lord Damuria's assassination. He knew where to find Sergeant Rakhan and Captain Dradel. That just left four for him to track down.

  He spider-crawled on his hands and feet away from the hole in the floor, retreating toward the crumbled wall. Climbing onto the stone, he leapt the gap to the house beyond and crouched, waiting for the figures within to emerge.

  The first one to appear had to be the grizzled man. He had removed the thick robe, gloves, and boots, and wore only rust-colored robes, with a smaller version of the beaked mask covering his features. Moonlight sparkled off the bloodstone amulet hanging on the golden chain around his neck. In his hands, he carried a pair of smoking censers.

  The Hunter frowned. So he really is a priest of the Bloody Minstrel, then. He had no fear of the gods or divine retribution, but the fact that this man was a Trouvere meant he would be harder to reach, locked within the Hall of the Cruori. It would be a simple matter for the Hunter to cut him down there and then. However, the priest had mentioned "others".

  How many more of this Brotherhood of Pestilence are there?

  If he wanted to put an end to this problem once and for all, he'd have to convince at least one of them to talk.

  Captain Dradel and Sergeant Rakhan appeared a moment later, clad in their nondescript clothing. The Hunter's eyes followed them through the alley. He wouldn't take a risk on them, not yet. Some of the other Steel Company mercenaries could also belong to the Brotherhood. He needed to get as many in the same place at the same time as possible. That meant leaving these two alive long enough to find out.

  When the first of the three remaining figures exited alone, the Hunter considered following him. He drew in a deep breath through his nostrils, catching the scent of pottery clay, ceramic glaze, and wheel grease. Though he cast wary glances around, he would be an easy one to pick off all alone.

  But the pair struggling to maneuver the lumpy, tarpaulin-wrapped object through the door made the decision clear. They would be so focused on disposing of Pete's body that they would never notice him following along on the rooftops.

  Easy pickings, that's for certain.

  With a grim smile, he leapt across the alley to the roof of an adjoining building to stalk his prey.

  Chapter Five

  "You’re an idiot if you think this is the place to dump him, Leress," Dunn snarled.

  "And y'think you can come up with a better place?" Leress, the rail-thin man motioned around him. "Ain't no one come 'round these parts in a long time, by the look of things."

  The two men stood in a small back alley nestled in the heart of Beggar's Quarter. The mud caking the ground was surprisingly free of rubbish, proving Leress' theory true. If anyone had used this alley or lived nearby, it would be filled with all manner of refuse and debris.

  Dunn shook his head. "And what happens when he starts to stink? Someone's bound to poke their head back here and find his body just left there. That'll attract all the wrong sort of attention."

  "And settin’ him adrift in the port's better?" Leress snapped. "Last three stiffs we dumped into the ocean just washed back up down the shore. Attracted just as much fuss, mind you." He thrust a finger toward one of the alley walls. "Just put him there, but prop him up like he's asleep. That way, anyone finds him, they'll think he just fell asleep and died."

  The slit throat and multiple wounds will quickly reveal the truth, the Hunter thought. He crouched atop a single-story building just beyond the pitiful circle of illumination radiating from the lamp in Leress' hand. Following these two had proven painfully easy; though they moved with caution, they had been wary of Heresiarch patrols, not an assassin following them across the rooftops. To the Hunter's keen ears and sensitive nostrils, these two had all the stealth of a sack of hammers going down a staircase.

  "I don't know, Leress." Dunn shifted the canvas-wrapped bundle on his shoulder. "I still say the ocean's better. We can wait 'til the tide's ebbing, then drop him in to let the waves take him out to sea."

  "And risk gettin’ caught?" Leress threw up his hands. "Too many people wanderin' 'round the port at night. Besides, d'you really want to lug him all that way?"

  This seemed to convince the bigger man, who dropped his burden to the muddy alley ground with a wet thump. Drawing a dagger, he stooped and sliced the ties holding the canvas tight. Leress pitched in, and together they removed the wrappings, revealing the pale, twisted face of Thrifty Pete.

  The Hunter dropped into the alley behind them, his boots splashing in the thick mud. He had no need of stealth, not against these two.

  Dunn whirled, raising his dagger. "Who goes?" The Hunter's sensitive nostrils caught the reek of iron.

  Leress lifted the lantern. His brow furrowed, his mouth pressed into a thin line. "Wrong place, wrong time, stranger," he growled. "If you c'n keep this to yourself, we'll let you go. If not, my friend here'll have to make sure you don't tell no one what you seen this night."

  Dunn took a menacing step forward. Up close, he was a large fellow, half a head taller than the Hunter, with too-big hands at the end of forearms thick with muscle. He moved with the confidence of someone who had won his share of street brawls. He had the look of a dockhand, with broad shoulders, a wide trunk, and solid legs. The sort no average Voramian would trifle with.

  Unfortunately for him, the Hunter was anything but.

  "Here's the thing," the Hunter said in a quiet, dangerous voice, "I really only need one of you alive to talk."

  His eyes darted to the dagger in Dunn's hand. For some reason he'd never understood, the slightest contact with iron elicited a violent reaction. His skin would crawl, his veins turning black as if from a Secret Keeper's deadly poison. He had no wish to find out what happened if Dunn managed to stab him with the blade.

  He moved, too quick for the man's eyes to follow. His sword slid free, darted out, and slipped back into sheath in a single fluid movemen
t. Dunn fell back with a wordless cry, his tongue flopping to the floor, the shreds of skin that had once been his cheeks flapping. The Hunter took two long strides forward and kicked the man's hand. The blow snapped bones and sent the iron dagger clattering into the darkness. Drawing Soulhunger, the Hunter drove it up under Dunn's ribs.

  The big man screamed then, a horrible, grating sound filled with terror and agony. The gemstone set into Soulhunger's hilt flared to life, filling the alleyway with crimson light. The movement tore Dunn's cheeks even further, but the man was beyond caring. His screams grew fainter as Soulhunger consumed his life force.

  Power rushed through the Hunter, pushing back any remaining traces of fatigue and flooding his muscles with energy. Soulhunger's cries of ecstasy echoed in his mind. His head rang with the shrieks of triumph as the dagger fed. A finger of fire etched a scar into his flesh, and he gritted his teeth against the pain in his chest.

  The ruby light leaking from Soulhunger's gemstone illuminated Leress' horrified expression. The man stumbled backward, falling over Thrifty Pete's corpse, to land in the muck. Before the man could rise and flee, the Hunter was on him. He drove a fist into the thin man's gut, and Leress doubled over, gagging, falling to his knees.

  The Hunter seized Leress' hair and yanked his head up. "Look at your comrade, you bastard." He seized Leress' chin and gripped it hard. "Look well."

  Slowly, the light from Soulhunger's gemstone faded and died. Even in the light of the fallen lamp, the silent corpse of Dunn was clearly visible, his torn face stretched in an expression of abject terror.

  The Hunter growled softly into Leress' ear. "You know who I am, yes?"

  Leress swallowed and gave a jerky nod.

  "Good." The Hunter released his chin, but retained his grip on the man's lanky hair. "Then you know I'm capable of far worse than what you just witnessed. And you'll know just how foolish it is to lie to me." He twisted Leress' face up to look into his. "Seems pretty clear that it's in your best interest to be forthcoming, then."

  "Yes," gurgled Leress, his neck contorted at an awkward angle.

  For a full count of twenty, the Hunter held the man immobile, fixing the man with his most baleful glare. Leress didn't move either, his eyes wide in horror. A single twitch of his hands would snap the man's spine—they both knew it.

  The Hunter let the man go, and Leress fell to the muck, gasping. The stink of urine flooded the alley. He lay trembling on the floor, hands over his head, as if expecting the Hunter to strike him down. When no attack came, he glanced up.

  "W-What do you want?" he asked, his voice quavering.

  "The truth." The Hunter came to stand before him, arms crossed over his chest. "Tell me about the Brotherhood of Pestilence."

  Leress sucked in a sharp breath, his eyes going even wider than before. "Th-The—"

  "And before you think of lying to me," the Hunter snarled, "remember what will happen to you." He ripped Soulhunger from Dunn's chest and held it before Leress' eyes. The man's gaze remained fixed on the dagger's blade as it absorbed all traces of Dunn's blood, until only clean, glimmering steel remained. "I will tear your soul from your body, twist it, and turn it to my will. Your body will become a vessel for demons, but your mind will be conscious as I send you home to tear your loved ones limb from limb. You will beg me for death, but I will curse you to live forever, a rotting, decaying corpse."

  Leress' face went so white it almost gleamed in the darkness. The Hunter hid a grim smile. He couldn’t do any of those things, despite what the rumors—many of which he'd instigated—said. But after seeing Soulhunger consume Dunn's lifeblood, Leress would be far from a rational state of mind. By the horrified look in his eyes, it was clear he believed the Hunter could do exactly what he promised.

  Words spilled from his mouth almost too fast to follow. "Trouvere Silech's behind it all, him and those damned mercenaries from Odaron. Said they're tryin' to keep plague away from the city, that they seen it work in their northern cities. Anytime a place gets too crowded, the Bloody Minstrel's hand is not far behind. We was doin' good for Voramis, they said."

  The Hunter growled. "How did you get caught up in all this?"

  "I-I just…" Leress hung his head, his eyes darting away. "After the Bloody Flux took my oldest, I had to find somethin’ to do. The priest's words made sense, in the beginnin’. He has a way of convincin' you, you know? When he talks, everythin' seems like it's the right thing."

  The Hunter couldn't deny that. The priest had spoken with an authoritative voice, one filled with passion and conviction. He truly believed in what he was doing. To the weak-willed, those desperate for a purpose, that aura of command couldn't be ignored.

  "And the fact that you're killing people never made you think twice?" The Hunter thrust a finger toward Thrifty Pete's corpse.

  "It did." Shame filled Leress' eyes. "But he said we were doin’ the Minstrel's work. That the ones we killed needed to be purged. For the sake of the others."

  "Others like you," the Hunter snarled.

  "Like my family!" A hint of fire shone in Leress' gaze, echoed in his voice. "My little un's just startin' to walk, but there ain't no way she'll survive a plague. My pa told me stories of the Bloody Flux, what it did to the city. I ain't gonna watch my daughters suffer the way he did his brothers and sisters."

  The Hunter clenched his jaw. Twisted logic, but desperate, terrified fools were always willing to swallow shite if it gave them a hint of hope.

  "How many more are there?" he demanded. "In this Brotherhood of yours?"

  For a moment, it seemed Leress would refuse to speak.

  The Hunter pressed Soulhunger's edge against the man's throat. "Speak, or your daughters will bury you."

  Leress held out a heartbeat longer before gasping. "Ten!" His breath came in ragged pants. "Not countin' me'n Dunn."

  The Hunter's lips quirked into a smile. "Not a particularly grand Brotherhood, are you?"

  Leress had the good sense to look ashamed. "The mercenaries and the Trouvere, they're the ones as does the recruitin'. Dunn n' me, we just showed up because they promised we'd be heroes for savin' our families. Oh, Keeper!" He stared at the corpse of his friend. "Dunn's wife, his four tykes. I'm gonna have to tell 'em…" He trailed off, then turned and added his vomit to the mud filling the alley.

  The Hunter stepped back to avoid the spray. When Leress had recovered, he crouched in front of the shaking man. "The others, where do I find them?"

  Leress shook his head. "I don't know." He threw up his hands as the Hunter hefted Soulhunger. "Not all of 'em, at least. I know the captain’s got at least three in his Steel Company, countin' that sergeant of his. I could tell you where to find two others, but I don't know about the rest."

  The Hunter ground his teeth.

  "But," Leress spoke so quickly he nearly tripped over his tongue, "they'll all be together tomorrow. The Trouvere's got somethin' he says we all need to hear, somethin' big he's got lined up. Says it's a way to cleanse the city of a lot of filth at once."

  "So kill tens, maybe hundreds or thousands of your fellow Voramians," the Hunter growled. "That about right?"

  Leress couldn't meet his gaze. "Look, I told you what you wanted to know. You c'n just let me go and—"

  The Hunter drove his boot into Leress' throat, crushing cartilage. The man's eyes widened, and he choked out a wheezing cough, trying desperately to draw a breath.

  He crouched over the dying man. "I let you live, you go and kill someone else."

  Leress slumped to the muddy ground, his struggles growing weaker as his body starved for air. Slowly, he stopped moving. His eyes stared sightless into the night sky, his face twisted in an expression as terrified as the one staining Thrifty Pete's features.

  The Hunter spoke in a quiet voice. "Voramis has enough pain and suffering without you adding to it."

  And what of the pain and suffering you bring, assassin of Voramis? A voice spoke in the back of his mind—not Soulhunger's, and not his own t
houghts, but something else entirely. It only came occasionally, but filled his head with doubt, insult, and animosity. Even after Soulhunger fell quiet, sated from the kill, this voice refused to leave him in peace.

  The question echoed in the Hunter's mind. He'd wrestled with it often and found no answer. After decades as an assassin, he had seen the worst of human nature, the depths of depravity to which men could stoop in the pursuit of wealth, power, and desire. All men deserved death.

  But perhaps some deserved it less than others.

  Turning his back on the dead man, ignoring Dunn's corpse, he crouched over Thrifty Pete and pressed the beggar's eyelids closed. The Long Keeper have mercy on you, and may you find safety and comfort in his arms.

  After a long moment, he wrapped Pete's corpse in the canvas and hefted it over his shoulder. The man deserved better; he deserved a burial, as did every man, woman, and child that sought shelter under his roof. Though he could do little to prevent their deaths—sickness, age, and hard years were forces even he could not defeat—he could at least ensure they met the Long Keeper with some dignity. None would lie rotting and moldering in alleyways or abandoned buildings. Tymmons, the old caretaker at the Voramian Cemetery, would see that Pete had a decent resting place. A few silver coins would cover a small plot and a few words from whatever priest could be summoned at this time of night.

  It wasn't much, but it was enough.

  * * *

  Dawn found the Hunter lying atop the roof of the empty mansion in front of Lord Damuria's estate. Gone were the accountant's robes, replaced by his "work clothes"—a simple tunic, a jacket to conceal his leather armor, durable pants, a well-crafted pair of boots, and a heavy cloak to cover it all. The outfit stood out among the bright silks and lace of Upper Voramis, but the heavy bundle waiting below completed the disguise of working stiff. With it on his shoulder, no one had questioned him as to his purpose. And, it gave him an easy way to transport his weapons—sword, daggers, and handheld crossbows—in defiance of the Heresiarchs' edict banning armaments in public.