WANTED: Thieving witch
Ten crowns for information related to a rash of thefts in the Temple district. Suspect is a witch who can put her victims to sleep before robbing them.
A few weeks ago posters had started popping up in Broadside, the city district he'd first targeted. They'd warned of thieves, but as his marks started comparing stories, the rhetoric had quickly escalated. Now the posters spoke of witches.
It was a big difference. The law would cut a thief's hand off—but it would burn a witch at the stake.
He'd responded at the time by shifting north to the Temple district, where he was now. He didn't like to piss where he slept, but Temple fairly glittered with wealth. His average take on each mark had improved by half again, but new posters had gone up even faster than in Broadside. And now, to find one just outside his door . . .
Doesn't matter, he told himself. Just stay calm. They have no idea who I am or what I look like. Much of Keswick's Church presence had left for Tal'aden months ago for the Dedication, taking a good part of their Church's guard with them. According to the rumors, they had a Convocation to attend after the Dedication that would last for another month, and they weren't expected to return before then. That left only the city guard—the locals called them Blackboots—to enforce the law. For the love of winter, they think I'm a woman. If this poster was any indication, the Blackboots were out of their depth.
It was all solid reasoning and good logic, but he had survived this long by listening to his gut, and his gut said it was time to take a break. He had enough to stay at the Damsel's Rest for the next two weeks if it came to that; there was no risk of sleeping in the alley. He could wait, let the city cool down a bit, and start up again in another part of town. So long as he finished before those clerics got back from Tal'aden, all would be well.
Right, then. He didn't know Keswick as well as Keldale, of course, but he'd started getting a handle on it and could make his way around. He'd seen some gambling halls down in Broadside, and knew a few tricks from his Keldale days that tended to tilt the odds in his favor.
Chanting wasn't everything. He was clean now; presentable again.
Maybe it was time to get out of the alleys altogether, and play some cards.
M'sai. So some of his card tricks didn't always endear him to his fellow players.
He had a few ups and a few downs, but at one particular table he managed to get caught. One of his opponents flipped the table; a second drew a knife. He could hardly chant them in the open public, so he'd run.
It had been a long run.
The street glowed with the setting sun by the time he felt safe enough to slow down and catch his breath. Dogged bastards, he thought. A card player getting cheated out of half a shell had ten times the determination of the Blackboots, the lazy city guards who had given up chasing him on his first night here. It's always different when it's your own money on the line.
The card tricks had worked better for him back in Keldale. Here, he'd barely managed to break even after a day of sharking. His decision that morning—to be patient and let the heat die down—had lost its appeal. He was tired of floundering. He needed to get something done.
Scorch it. It was a local phrase, but it had grown on him. I'm finding a mark.
Over the last few weeks he'd gotten his mark hunt down to a science. First, learn the area. Busy places with big crowds but quiet alleys were best. No one had managed so much as a shout of surprise yet before they went under, but he still needed a secluded place to actually rob them. Second, learn the streams. Crowds were like rivers: they flowed where their surroundings guided them. If he knew the two or three most likely directions someone would take, he could use his knowledge of the area to line up an ambush. After that, all he needed to do was blend in and find a nice, rich mark—the drunker the better.
He ventured one last peek around the corner to make sure he'd lost his pursuers before merging back into the crowd. A tavern up the street called The Devil's Respite struck him as a good starting place: quiet alleys branched off from three major travel arteries only a few blocks away, and it had no shortage of drunks. He adopted a casual affect (Just a young man out for a night on the town, he thought) and slipped inside.
Lotta card players, he noticed as he took a seat at the bar. That was good; it made it easier to spot someone with a heavy purse, possibly someone not too skilled at guarding it. The trick was to not get caught scoping. If the bartender caught a whiff of a thief on the hunt, it was over.
Harth took the challenge head-on, striking up a conversation with the barman directly. A heavyset Bahiri, the man had an easy way about him, approachable and friendly. Gonna have to leave another good tip here.
Harth ordered a glass of Beecher Red, a pricey drink that made the Bahiri's brows rise, and nursed it to a gentle buzz. A good Beecher was rare south of the Tears, and worth every shell he'd spent on it. He needed to keep his wits, obviously, but not long ago he may have been tempted to down the whole thing anyway. Not anymore. The Pulse had ruined a lot of good things for him, and it seemed fine wine was the latest on the list. Compared to the euphoria of absolute omniscience, the Old Kingdom's grapes just didn't cut it.
I should Ascend now. Might help me find the right mark. Emotion was one of the infinite facets of a person he could sometimes see through the Pulse, but he'd never tried focusing on it; it was a single flicker of light on a diamond's face, and there was every chance he wouldn't even remember what he'd seen when he Descended. More than that, though, he knew why he really wanted to Ascend, and it had nothing to do with his odds of finding a mark. That rationale was just a thin layer of justification floating on an ocean of yearning. No. I just want another taste of it. Viewing the Storm this morning while Ascended had left him raw with longing. He had to wait it out. Besides, if he found the right target he'd get to Ascend soon enough. For now, he'd find his mark the old fashioned way.
Ten minutes' observation turned up a few possibilities, but one in particular stood out: three men playing cards, two older and one of an age with Harth, at a table with a single chair open. The oldest of the three, a gaunt man with heavy brows and black, drooping mustaches, appeared to be winning—and having plenty of drinks to boot.
Looks promising. "Hey, thanks for the drink," Harth said, leaving four heels on the counter as he left. He worked his way into a game of darts near his mark's table, where he could overhear the conversation. He quickly gathered their names: Kai, Trius, and Cort.
"It's all done now." The mark, Kai, slurred his words just enough to make Harth second-guess how sober he was. "No more. No point."
"Lay a card, Kai," the younger man, Cort, said. "It's your turn."
"No one would come even if he did start them up again. Everyone's scared now. You saw what they did to Ben. They could do it to anyone. Sehk, that Grey Girl, in Tal'aden—she's next, you mark me." Kai took a long swig from his tankard. His mustache seethed with foam as he went on: "By God, they're not hurting anyone. They say this Grey Girl is just feeding poor people, and Ben just wanted to keep his house. Wouldn't you?" He fumbled through his cards, eventually laying a crown of lovers. Strong play, Harth thought. "Cort. Wouldn't you?"
"Anybody would," Cort said. "I heard that Grey Girl's a witch, though. They're saying she―"
Trius, a balding fellow long gone soft around the edges, trampled over him. "Oh, drink it off, Kai." He played a cleric of shadows—the only card that could still win the game after Kai's play. Cort whistled.
"Sehk," Kai said.
"You need to forget it," Trius said as he swept the round's pot. "I know you hate 'em. A lot of godless bastards do. But they're not going anywhere." Kai tossed his cards to the middle of the table, and Cort started shuffling. "What did you think would happen? What, the Church was going to start taking orders from the Prince Regent? What power does he really have? He's just a man. The Fatherlord is God."
"Yeah, yeah." Kai drained his glass, then waved away the cards Cort tried to de
al him. "No more. My luck's turned."
Trius scoffed. "Your luck hasn't turned. You're just too drunk to play straight."
"Dogsehk," Cort threw in. "He damn near had that last hand."
"I win my first hand of the night and you're going home? Not sporting, Kai."
Cort, about to throw Kai the last card of a new hand, paused. Kai sighed and relented. "Just a few more." Cort nodded and threw him the card.
Harth managed to win a few heels at darts while Kai got slowly drunker. Trius took the next two hands of their game. That bastard is taking my money. As the man leaned forward to rake in his third round of winnings, Harth caught a glimpse of a pair of cards tucked under his belt.
Oh, that does it. It was time to move. Harth excused himself from darts and approached the table.
"You lot got room for one more?"
Trius gave him a steely glare. "No. This is just a casual game."
"Looks like pretty big money for a casual game."
"Trius is driving up the ante," Cort grumbled, "trying to win back his losses."
"Well, I'm just one more shell in the pot, then, aren't I?" Harth set a silver shell on the table. "Don't worry, I can keep up."
Trius looked at Kai, who waved him in.
"Nice accent," Cort said as he redealt the cards. "Old Kingdom? Or Valley?"
"Here I thought it was you that had the accent." Harth smiled. "Valley. Good ear."
"That's a hike." Kai's comment carried a heavy whiff of ale. "What brings you west?"
"Family in the city," Harth lied easily. "My grandmother's ailing. Both my parents been dead for years, and I'm pretty much all she's got left." He thumbed through his cards; not great, not terrible. He had a few options depending on how the table played out, but likely wouldn't scoop the pot. And definitely won't if Trius's magic cleric shows up again.
"That's rough," Cort said amicably. "My condolences."
"Thanks." A thought occurred to him. "She told me she was hoping to get to one of the regent's public audiences, before she passed." That got their attention; all three turned to look at him. "Just to see him in the flesh, I guess. But I didn't know what she was talking about. Does he actually do that?"
"No," Kai grunted. "Not anymore."
"It's a . . . touchy subject," Cort said.
Trius laid the first card, a quad of storms—a fairly bold play, for an opener. "Nothing touchy about it. He started sticking his nose where it didn't belong, and damn near got it chopped off. Probably thought he could get away with it, with all those clerics gone to Tal'aden, but he's just a kid. Doesn't know not to piss where he sleeps."
"Don't listen to him," Kai said without looking up from his cards. "Isaic would've done your grandmama proud. I saw his petitioners. They were happy just to be in the same room with him. He's the Prince Regent, for summer's love, but he treated them like equals. He charged a lot less than the Church, and everyone could tell he was fair."
"Church doesn't charge," Trius said, and Harth choked back a snort of derision.
"Donations, then," Kai amended. "You can call a turd a diamond but that don't make it stink any less." He laid a sext of storms, continuing the suit and the fast progression.
"That's quite a ramp there." Harth arched a brow at the high card.
Kai smiled. "You said you could keep up."
"Oh, I can. But this guy started the ramp"—Harth nodded at Trius—"and I don't want to find out why." He set down an oct of storms—third in a row of a single suit, which let him force a single player to discard. He fixed his eyes on the cheater. "Spread 'em."
Kai cackled.
"Oh, he got you, Trius!" Cort howled.
Trius glared at him again, but spread his cards without showing them. Harth moved his fingers along the card tops, watching the man's eyes for some sign that would betray their value, but Trius had too good a card face. Finally he pulled one, and Trius threw it in the pot: a cleric of lovers.
"Bitch's tits," Trius snarled as Cort whooped.
"You lot are obsessed with dogs out here," Harth observed. "Dogsehk, dog's balls, bitch's tits—when you're mad you always talk about dogs."
"You lot don't say 'bitch's tits' in the Valley?" Cort marveled. "What do you say?"
Harth considered as Cort played a crown of lovers. "Just 'sehk,' I suppose. 'Rev'naas take it.' The kids might say 'fishguts.'" He heard that one a lot around the orphanage—or used to.
"Those are all boring," Kai muttered.
"I do like your curses out this way," Harth admitted. "Bitch's tits. It really rolls off the tongue."
Trius steadfastly ignored the conversation. Without his cleric, he couldn't beat Cort's crown. Forced to break progression, he now had to feed the pot or fold out. Harth wasn't surprised to see him feed the pot. Why wouldn't you, when you've a got a cleric up your sleeve—or in your belt, in this case.
"So these trials the Prince Regent was running—no chance of them coming back, you don't think?"
"No chance," Trius growled.
"Isaic's gonna be a new kind of king," Kai drawled. His slurring had gotten worse. "People love him. This was all just him testing the waters. Once he's on the throne he's gonna put the Church in their place. No more kidnappings, stealing peoples' homes, killing 'em for talking wrong. You'll see."
Cort glanced around, pensive. "All right, I think you ought to slow down on the drinks."
Trius slapped his cards to the table, the game forgotten. "What is your complaint with the Church?"
"My complaint?"
"Yeah. Kidnappings? Killings? You sound like that Mad Matthew. They're hunting witches, Kai. You're no witch, are ya? Nothing to worry about."
"No, Trius, I'm no witch, but neither was my son."
Trius slapped his mouth shut.
Kai went on, glaring: "Neither was your man, Barent."
That looked like it hit a nerve. "They said they had their reasons."
"Yeah, and you let 'em. Barent was a good man, Trius, and you just watched them haul him away."
"I'd warned him to keep his mouth shut, just like I'm warning you now."
"Sehk on that. Barent was no witch, and neither was Ben Ashandiel, but they're both getting tortured to death in the city prison because there's no room left under Majesta! They've got too many people!"
"Kai," Cort pled. "You're getting really loud."
Trius trampled over his warning. "That's my whole point, you idiot! There's enemies everywhere, and you sit there whining about the only people who can keep us safe!"
"Oh, there's enemies everywhere, all right, but they're not my sehking neighbors. They're all wearing stars!"
The other games stopped, the other conversations dried up. Even the bartender looked their way now. That's great, Harth thought. Perfect. Every eye in the house on me. He couldn't take this mark now; too many people had seen him.
He thought to excuse himself and get out of here while he still could, but then he noticed something that drew him up short. In Keldale, talk like Kai's could get you hung. Here, though, no one shouted Kai down. A few people actually nodded. A woman near the door, of middle years with auburn hair and eyes shiny with drink, even muttered, "You tell him."
In the Devil's Respite, at least, it seemed the Church had few friends.
Trius snatched back the coin he'd just tossed in the pot. "I'm done. Rev'naas take this. You"—he pointed at the auburn-haired woman who had spoken, then waved his hand, taking in everyone—"better get your heads on straight. I know a lot of you by name. I could turn you in. I'm not gonna, but I could, and I guarantee you there's someone in here who will. It's three shells per name, if it leads to an arrest."
"They took my little boy," Auburn retorted. "Ripped him away from me right in the street. Said he caused a Stormsign." Behind the shimmering curtain of inebriation, her eyes blazed. "You think I'm scared of them after they took what I love most?" More nods, an undercurrent of mutters. "Anyone want a three-shell for a grieving mother?"
Trius r
olled his eyes. "If they grabbed him, you ought to be grateful you don't have to sleep in the same house anymore." Then, to the barkeep: "Clean up your house, Moharren—before it burns down."
Scoffs and mutters of "Good riddance" chased him out. Someone spat. Cort sank down, trying to disappear into his chair.
But Auburn wasn't done. "Melakai," she said.
Kai rubbed his temple, suddenly looking ten years older. "What, Dorothy?"
"You have to do something." Murmurs of agreement. A few more people nodding. "You've got his ear, you can ask him to stop all this―"
"He's not doing it, Dorothy! He can't stop what he's not doing!"
"But he's the Regent! He's basically King now, he can―"
Kai slammed his fist into the table. Coin and glass alike jumped away from him. "Lucas Gregor is the King!" he shouted. "Not Isaic! He's given up, all right? And so should you. Or Demetrius is right—you'll end up rotting with your son."
Melakai, Harth thought. Oh, God above. He looked at the man he'd been playing cards with, the one he'd been planning to rob. That's Melakai Thorn, captain of the Crownwardens. Even being new to the city, Harth had heard of the man; his recent promotion had lit every tongue in the city on fire. Second to the man's own Preserver, no one was more responsible for the Prince Regent's safety. He glanced at the door Trius had just disappeared through. And that would make him . . .
Harth took a quick swig of wine to mask his sudden pallor. He'd been playing cards with Demetrius Cariott, captain of the Blackboots.
Kai's outburst killed the muttering and the nods. The auburn-haired woman developed a sudden fascination for her table's wood grain. "Thought so," Kai grunted. He lurched to his feet and followed Demetrius out.
Harth let out a long, slow breath, meticulously counting his blessings.
"Well, then . . ." Cort tossed back Harth's ante from the aborted game. "Clean round? Head-to-head?"
"No, thanks." Harth gathered his things and stood. "I think I've had enough gambling for one night."
17
A Season of Rendings Page 29