by K. T. Davies
The building overlooked the alley, and I spied my quarry, running like all Hell’s demons were chasing them. It was tempting to pursue them across the rooftops, but they were mostly straw, so I jumped down, taking the twenty-foot drop in my stride. Jojo flew down and landed before me.
“What the fuck! What are you doing, Jojo?” I could have throttled him.
He ran his hand through his curly locks and smiled weakly. “I saw you leave the camp, and...” He laughed. “I know this sounds foolish, but I thought you were going to leave us.”
I picked him up by the shoulders and moved him out of the way. “You’re right, it does sound foolish. Now fuck off back to camp, and I’ll see you later,” I said as I ran down the alley.
Every decent-sized town in the Empire had a rookery. And even though much had changed in the world since I’d help slot Shallunsard, the forgotten and the lost still needed to live somewhere. This town was smaller than Appleton, but I found myself tearing through a familiar honeycomb of narrow alleyways, leaping over snuffling tuskers, and dodging naked madmen howling at the night.
The scent of my prey grew stronger as did the stench of filth the deeper I ran into the stews. I followed the sound of running through a daub-walled alley that doglegged before disgorging into a courtyard. People scattered. A pair of doors beneath a covered staircase slammed and were bolted. Dogs barked.
I stopped in the middle of the yard. Across from where I’d entered, the alley continued until it became a passage that ran under the wing of a three-sided hall, which was where the scent trail led. The hall was well-appointed. Built over three floors; it boasted a full fifteen windows. At my back, cut up as small as a beggar’s loaf was a modest row of wattle and mud dwellings. Bolts were slid on two of the three doors behind me, the third creaked open. I turned enough to catch the smell of greasy human, pel, and fear.
The doors to the hall also opened. Pale faces loomed from the leathery darkness and a couple of hulking coves stepped forward, blocking my view save for the rafters from which were hanging shimmering skeins of silk.
“Who’s this come to the Lace Maker’s yard?” The voice was reedy and high pitched and accompanied by the clickety-click of lace making bobbins.
“Chas Amberley. Who wants to know?” I asked.
“I’m the Lace Maker, and this is my court. Come, child, come into the shade where I might see you better.”
“This an official invitation?”
“It is.”
“Then I accept your gracious offer.” The formals having been nicely dealt with; I risked a glance over my shoulder as I inclined my head to the doorway. Behind me, a long-faced wench leaned against the door of one of the hovels, casually swinging a misshapen lump of lead on a chain. She smiled at me, displaying an incomplete set of brown, tombstone teeth. I smiled back, even went so far as to tip her a nod. She giggled, which was not a pretty sight or sound. The other two lurkers stayed in the shadows, which suited all of us.
I was pleased that the situation hadn’t turned nasty, thus far. I wasn’t complacent because this was a nest of vipers and vipers could never be trusted. I was mindful, but my confidence was bolstered by the irons in my belt and the knowledge that if I really needed to, I might find some magic within me. It would have to be a last resort because my gut, and the path of destruction I’d left behind me, told me that I’d pushed the Paradox of Power as far as it could be pushed. I hated to admit it even to myself, but I cared passionately about something. That it was bloody vengeance was irrelevant; the paradox had caught my scent. So be it. As Saint Bartholomew once said, shit happens and then you explode. Or something like that, scripture was never my strong point.
With a death’s head grin plastered across my stupid face, I walked nonchalantly towards the hall. In all my lives I’d never lost my confidence, but as I’d got older and grown more worlds weary, I had lost my swagger. But now it was back. I had a new, young body and several lifetimes’ worth of experience. I was still a twat— that too had never changed, but I was a fit, knowledgeable twat and that put a spring in my step.
Unlike the theatre, the arse-end of the criminal underworld didn’t attract the prettiest coves, as evidenced by the hulking meat sacks guarding the door, both of whom looked like what happened when a troll fucked an urux.
I waited patiently until they lumbered aside, revealing… a workroom. Given the lacy trappings and the skeins of silk, it shouldn’t have been a surprise. But it was queer to see a regular place of work instead of the usual, squalid filth I’d grown accustomed to when visiting gangs in their hideouts. The floors were swept and strewn with clean rushes; the benches laid out in neat rows. Fat, sausage-shaped cushions had been left on the tables. Pinned to some of the cushions were pieces of delicate lace, attached to long, wooden bobbins. As it was night, the workers were absent, save for one.
She was an old cove; her leathery skin dark brown like she’d been carved from antique walnut. Her head was humanish, save for a pair of twitching antenna that swept from either side of her nose, upon which were perched a pair of wire-frame spectacles.
“Come closer, child. I won’t bite.”
I wasn’t convinced, but I approached to just beyond a sword’s length. Now, I’m no expert when it comes to such fripperies, but the lace she was making was exquisite, like frozen breath that had been caught and spun into a web of ghost roses. She was weaving the shawl with a pair of human hands and two pairs of barbed claws. Her brown silk gown had been expertly tailored to accommodate the roach-like limbs.
I sketched a polite bow. “Madame. Chas Amberley. A Blade of the Guild, out of Appleton.”
She didn’t pause in her work, but there was a stutter in the rhythmic clatter of the bobbins. Their were eight members of her gang in the room, all feigning disinterest while listening intently to every word exchanged between their mistress and me. The smell of Redhead and Lankhair was strong in here.
“And how fares Mother Blake? I thought she’d retired to Valen.”
“She’s in rude health and is still the queen of Appleton’s court.”
“Indeed? And how is Shu Lo doing?”
“He’s just experienced a bad case of death.”
Again, she didn’t betray her reaction to the news. “These things come to pass. I pray he was in heaven an hour before hell knew he was dead. Now, why wouldn’t a Guild Blade introduce themselves to the nib of a manor?”
“They did. When your man jounced me upon my arrival. I gave the sign; thought he’d cottoned it.” I shrugged. “Next thing I know, some upstanding coves are casing my geese like they’re fixing to crack and plunder. Which, as all know, is poor form.”
“Them prattle merchants ain’t paid their dues to me.” Her tone was even, but her antenna flicked angrily, and one of the silks snapped sending the bone bobbin skittering across the table.
“They already paid Mother Blake, which is why they’re under my wing. A fact I’d have only been too pleased to impart, but your people didn’t bother asking.” I folded my arms, felt my sore gut strings tighten as the conversation danced on the knife-edge between conflict and accord. I didn’t push in either direction that wasn’t the place of a Blade. And as these things went, I hadn’t particularly lied; the Company of the White Star was under Mother’s protection because they’d helped to save my life.
The Lace Maker retracted her claws and rubbed her humanish hands together, working circulation back into her bony fingers. “Clemmie, Dane, get in here.” A door opened, and the Redhead and Lankhair traipsed in. Both gave me the knife-eye as they passed. I stepped back; all the doors to the workroom were closed.
“Well, isn’t this cosy?” I said, earning a reproving look from the Lace Maker.
“Well?” The Lace Maker turned to the sullen pair.
“I didn’t see no signs,” said Lankhair.
The Lace Maker turned to the Redhead. “Clemmie?”
“There wasn’t no sign given, ma. I’ll swear it.” She gave me the sharp e
dge of her eye.
I unfolded my arms. My fingers itched to curl around the reassuring grips of the barkers, but I refrained and remained loose-limbed and nonchalant.
“You didn’t see the sign?” As I spoke, I made the sign of the horns and the crown against my thigh. “I thought I’d made the signs plain enough. Perhaps it was too quick for you?”
The Redhead drew her thumb across her throat. “Do you know this sign? Not too quick for you, is it?”
“I know I was invited in by your nib and that Mother Blake would take it badly if I had to do for you in your own house.”
“Enough. Lay off the barbing.” The Lace Maker clasped her claws and her hands in her lap. “It ain’t often we see any Guild in these parts. If you had business you’d be sure to clear it, wouldn’t you?”
“Cut my throat as soon as lie.” I put my hand on my heart. “Aye, I would. I may look like a callow youth.” Saying that made me smile. “But I was well-schooled in chapter and verse of good, courtly conduct.”
“So you’ve no business other than nursemaiding?”
“None at all.”
She gave a small smile. “And pray, what’s so special about a troupe of traveling players to warrant a guardian angel?”
“Dunno, Ma’am. You’d have to take that up with Mother.”
“It was a good play,” said Dane. A couple of the others agreed. “I did not expect that ending.”
She sighted her varlet through the polished lenses. “I’ll bet you didn’t. Now, back to this business. As far as I see it, there’s two things we could do. We could settle this in the old way— trial by combat, the two of them against you.”
Even though I was enjoying this, I maintained a stony expression.
The Lace Maker shifted in her chair. “Alas, I’ve got a half dozen pregnant tuskers penned in the pit. As much as I thirst for honor, I can’t disturb my sows. That being the case, I suggest we all agree that a mistake was made, and we move on without any hard feelings.” She looked hard at Clemmie and Dane.
Dane took a half step back, raised his hands. “As you say, Mistress.”
Clemmie gave him a look that could freeze fire and flushed as red as her hair. The room held its breath while she struggled to make a life or death decision. “A mistake, aye.” She chose life, and the room exhaled. I was pleased, but remained on guard as the situation could still go awry.
The Lace Maker couldn’t hide her disappointment. “Next time you pass through my domain, Blade, make sure you present yourself.”
“Indeed, Madame.” I inclined my head. “As we have an accord, I shall bid thee bene darkmans.”
The Lace Maker took up the broken thread and bent her head to her task. “Bene darkmans, young Amberley. Pass on my respects and congratulations to Mother.”
“Of course.”
You could have eaten the atmosphere with a spoon by the time I turned to leave and the rock-headed clumpers opened the doors. They looked disappointed that there hadn’t been a fight and gave me the evils before standing aside. I forced myself to stroll into the yard, but I couldn’t stop my shoulders tingling in anticipation of a blade, shaft, or shot. To my great relief, nothing happened.
The Lace Maker had considered my barking irons and that her crew were armed with makeshift pain grinders. She knew Mother Blake’s reputation, and that Pork Chop was dead. Armed with this scant knowledge, she had made a sensible decision. In her position I would have done the same.
The doors closed behind me, and the shouting began directly after. I departed under several pairs of watchful eyes. Had I really been a Guild Blade, I would have tarried to earwig on them so I could tell Mother what I’d heard when I got back to the Nest. I felt a sharp pang of regret. I’d not only conned the Lace Maker; I’d also briefly fooled myself that life was much the same as it had been before I’d run into Shallunsard. But it wasn’t, and never would be again. High spirits subdued by the truth; I threaded my way back through the stews.
I didn’t get far from the Lace Maker’s court before I heard Jojo yelling for help. Not again. If he’d got into bother following me when I told him not to, that was his lookout.
“Help! Breed! Someone!”
I kept walking. He needed to learn not to flutter into dangerous places.
“Please! Help.”
Not this time. A shriek of pure terror pulled me up. Damn him for being so loud. Jojo was somewhere lower down, nearer the river, and by the sound of it he was being torn limb from limb. Half-a-dozen steps gleamed like polished jet before plunging into darkness that was cut by the angled jut of many rooves. “Fuck’s sake.” I bounded down the steps and ran through a twisted wynd that widened into a courtyard. It was dark. What light fell was blocked by mismatched roofs of shanties wedged into any available space between legitimate buildings.
“I don’t fucking believe you, Jojo,” I said to the youthful idiot who it seemed had chosen yet another interesting way to try and get himself dead.
“Breed! Sweet Salvation, thank the gods you heard me.”
“I’m quite sure the whole fucking town heard you.” Wings beating furiously, he was clinging to a tin chimney pipe sticking out of one of the hovel roofs. A hook-ended rope was wrapped around one of his skinny ankles, marking plainly how he’d been snared. Hanging onto the other end of the rope, two mangy dregs were trying to haul him off the roof. A third filth garbed creature was waving a stick at Jojo. The wild-haired crone was wearing a sack and spitting commands through the whistling gap in her teeth. Like the others, she was armed with a home-made bleeder, which was little more than a crude, piece of sharpened steel. Rough though their weapons were, they’d soon dice Jojo if they got hold of him.
“Let him go,” I said, wearily. The elderling hissed at me and continued to enjoin her fellow crawlers to pull him down. “I said, let him go. I have an accord with the Lace Maker.”
“Fuck you, fuck her, and fuck off,” the crone snarled, quite taking me aback.
The creature with the stick spun to face me. It had a mass of long, curly hair matted beyond the point of combing. A pair of bloodshot eyes glared from within the tangle. “Goo on! Goo get! Goo get, I sez.”
“I would love nothing better than to leave, my friend, but that fool you’re fixing to…well, I dread to think what you’re fixing to do, is my responsibility. So you see my problem.”
It jabbed the stick at me. “S’ares now. You goo. Goo on, goo!”
Jojo’s grip failed momentarily. With a chorus of animal whoops and a shriek from the would-be victim, they began to drag him towards their rusty shivs. I drew a handcannon. “That’s enough. I won’t tell you again.” I pulled back the striker. The two on the ropes stopped pulling and turned to the crone. “As I said. This idiot is my responsibility. How about I give you a couple of coppers, and you let him go?”
“Silver!” said the elderling. “This pigeon put hims foot through my roof and I wants repairs.”
“Jojo, did you damage grandmother’s roof?” He was too busy re-establishing his death grip on the chimney to answer. “Very well, madame, a silv—”
Something about the way the air moved against my back told me to step aside just before the rock smashed into the dirt where I’d been standing. Overbalanced, the murderous flea charmer stumbled past me. I helped him on his way with a kick in the pants and sent him sprawling. “That wasn’t very nice. Now let my friend go, because you’re starting to piss me off.”
“Silver!” the toothless one screeched and waved her rusty, little stabber.
“Not a chance. You just watched your brother son try to bash my head in so you can fuck right off.” I aimed up on the Queen of Dung. After a moment’s reflection, she ran at me screaming and slashing the air.
The rapport of the barker was deafening, and the muzzle flash lit the grim scene. The body, now missing its head, tottered a step and fell. “See what you made me do. Fuck!” I wiped her blood off my face as her crew scarpered. Jojo freed himself from the rope, gave
me a look somewhere between guilty and horrified before scrabbling over the roof and flitting off, back to camp if he had any sense. I drew Crane’s barker, to show those who were watching that I was still in business before backing out of the squat.
No one came to see what the fuss was about. If the militia heard, they probably considered it too much trouble to stop drinking in pursuit of the cause of a single shot. Nevertheless, I took a circuitous route back to camp.
When I neared the temple, the drone of little wings grew louder, distracting me from my tail-chasing thoughts. Jojo dropped into the street beside me.
“Why didn’t you go back to camp?” I asked more sharply than I’d intended.
“I was on my way, but then I came back to find you.” As was his wont, he smiled apologetically, but I wasn’t in the mood.
“Proper little bloodhound.” I quickened my pace, so he had to run to keep up. But I figured if he was out of breath he couldn’t talk.
“You have a distinctive smell. Mostly calthracite powder.”
“Aye. Funny that.”
He stopped. “Please. Wait.”
I waited. “What?”
“I’m sorry.”
“You don’t fucking listen. That mad crow is dead because you didn’t do what you were told.”
“That’s not fair. I came to see if you were all right. I…I feel responsible for you.”
It took a while, but I eventually stopped laughing.
He looked as close to furious as I’d seen him, which again was very funny. “Stop laughing. I saved your life. I’m responsible for you.”
“Holy Eye.” I put my hands on his birdish shoulders. “I absolve you of your responsibility, Sir Dragonfly. Just keep your head down, don’t gamble, don’t duel anyone, and we’ll all be a lot safer for it.”
Hurt, he pulled away, his dark eyes bright with anger. “It’s like you want people to hate you.”