“She would be proud,” Sal said.
“Proud?” asked Stefano, then understanding seemed to come over him.
“Yes, proud,” Sal said defiantly. “She would know that—that no matter what—what happens, she would know that I can earn my keep.”
After an instant that seemed to stretch for a turn, Stefano gave a curt nod toward the door.
“I’ll think on it. Now, I’ve business.”
He could feel his legs shaking, but Sal kept his feet planted.
Stefano’s eyes narrowed.
“You want me to take care of this?” asked Benito.
“I’ll do it,” said Hamish, stepping toward Sal.
Stefano held up a hand, his silver ring reflecting the light. Hamish stopped in his tracks.
“Take a seat, boy.”
Sal stopped holding his breath, amazed he’d managed to defy his uncle and walk away unscathed. No, not walk away, join. He was going to join his uncle. He took a seat in the high-backed armchair beside Stefano. He sat up straight as an arrow, although it was all he could do not to collapse into the chair with a sigh.
Just then the door opened, and Greggings entered. Two bearded Yahdrish men followed in the servant’s wake.
“May I present Master Achava Cherkas and his son, Adar.”
“Please, be seated,” said Uncle Stefano, gesturing toward the divan across from him and Sal.
The older man nodded, taking his long beard in hand as he sat. “Most kind of you, most kind.”
With everyone seated, Greggings closed the door.
Uncle Stefano proffered a hand palm up, signaling for the Yahdrish to begin.
“My Lord,” said the gray-bearded one, “this past fortnight has been one of difficulty for my family. My son has just had a son of his own. My daughter—an accident has left her—I tell you this so that you might understand the predicament in which I find myself. You see, I have paid my dues to your man, but these past weeks another has come calling, claiming rights of collection.”
Stefano’s jaw was clenched as the Yahdrish spoke.
“Who?” Stefano asked .
“Bruno Carbone,” said the younger Yahdrish. “He has claimed right of collection under Alonzo Amato.”
“Amato?” asked Stefano.
“He’s one of Moretti’s,” said Benito. “Got a crew.”
Stefano nodded. “Achava, you have my condolences for your hardships. You would ask of me a boon, for your loyalty. You have kept faith, and I shall keep faith with you. Consider the matter taken care of.”
The gray-bearded Yahdrish practically jumped to his feet. His head lowered, he murmured praises to Stefano. His son, Adar, stood beside him, thanking Stefano as well.
Stefano nodded, and the men moved for the door, which was opened swiftly by Greggings. When the Yahdrish men had left, Uncle Stefano turned to Sal.
“Your thoughts?”
Sal’s mind began to race. This was a test, but what did his uncle want to hear?
“I would send a pair of thugs, not unlike the ugly brutes behind us,” Sal said, hardly believing his own audacity. “I’d have them speak with this Carbone fellow, let him know whose protection these Yahdrish are under. And if he and his don’t back off, give him a taste of steel.”
Stefano looked at Sal, emotionless, his face betraying nothing of his thoughts. Then he nodded. “You may leave.”
Heart racing, wondering whether or not he’d done well, Sal stood and went for the door.
14
Fitzen
A chill in the air warned of the approaching season, as if the bustling streets of the city were not enough to remind him. Fitzen was upon them, the holiday of winter’s welcome.
Fitzen wasn’t all bad, Sal merely wasn’t in a mood to celebrate. He’d been feeling down. The second incident with Nabu had been the catalyst for a series of questions that had eaten at his mind for weeks. The constant nightmares that plagued his sleep had kept him on edge as well. Always the same dream: Sal, alone in Anton’s place, Anton’s bloody corpse asking him for help, telling him he could have helped, he could have done something. Always it ended the same. The corpse would twist and writhe. It would change shape before his very eyes until it took on the image of his mother, her voice, her words, her blood.
Sal would wake in a sweat, gasping for breath, tears welling in his eyes. It was enough to make him wish he’d never found Anton. Enough to make him wish someone else had been saddled with the burden of that discovery, the burden of his guilt.
He’d had steady work with the side jobs he, Vinny, and Bartley had been able to find, along with the scouting job he was doing for Luca—the job he could not seem to shake, from the employer he feared yet could not seem to escape.
It felt as though he’d spent a lifetime watching the Bastian family, memorizing every movement of their day. He’d spent weeks observing the house, learning the routines and habits of the guards and household servants, as well as weeks following the routines of both Lord Hugo and his daughter, who Sal had learned was named Lilliana.
The time spent watching the Bastian estate was like pulling his own fingernails. Cloudless hot days on the rooftop, and days of heavy rains and cold winds, Sal had braved them without complaint, thankful the snows had not come early. Not all days were torture. There were even some he looked forward to, the days he spent following Lilliana.
After nearly two months spent watching the Bastian estate, Sal had come to realize Lilliana Bastian was the most beautiful woman in Dijvois, if not all of Nelgand. She had black hair that fell just past her shoulders, eyes of lapis lazuli, and soft pink lips made for kissing. Her olive skin was not the milk-white flesh common to her class, but showed she’d spent time in the sun. Her sense of fashion was unique, elegant but simple, with a streak of fearlessness that bespoke a rebellious nature.
She lived the charmed life of the nobility, though it seemed much of her time was spent in Low Town. While she did spend a goodly amount of her time shopping, Sal had seen her take much of the clothing and food she purchased to street urchins in some of the nastier parts of the city, even giving some of them coin.
It was a futile, even foolish gesture, as Sal had seen firsthand the destructive nature of well-intentioned giving. Still, it was the thought that counted. Sal couldn’t fault her for ignorance. Though he couldn’t seem to fault her for anything.
When she smiled, Sal felt himself smile in turn; likewise when she laughed. She was his muse, his inspiration for going to work each day. He even found that after a time he’d grown jealously protective of Lilliana.
Still, he was a damned fool to harbor any hope of ever attaining her favor. Lord Hugo Bastian would make a match for his daughter with some other noble’s get. Royalty, nobility, and gentry were all the same in this. Marriage was merely another currency, to be spent with the sole intent of advancement—political or social, it mattered not.
It was all enough to make Sal grateful he was a bastard. Common folk, at the least, had some say in a marriage. Among the commoners there was little concern for trade alliances and house pacts. Some women even spoke of marrying for love, though that was more a fancy of the times than a routine.
In any case, whether for love, money, land, or social advancement, Sal had no chance in Sacrull’s hell of ever marrying a woman of Lilliana’s standing. The most he could hope for was more time to watch her from a distance.
Thus far, Luca had not indicated when he planned to use the information Sal had gathered, nor when Sal would be done gathering information on the Bastian estate. He had often found himself bored with the work, and his attention had drifted to the locket. He’d strung the locket on a thin silver chain which he’d placed about his neck. Whenever his attention drifted, he found his hand inside the neckline of his shirt, clutching the locket, the faint pulse of energy flowing into him.
He knew for certain the locket was magic. He’d accessed the thing’s power thrice, and although he’d only managed to activate th
e power once intentionally, Sal had been confident he’d be able to do it again.
But despite his best efforts, he had failed.
It seemed the secrets of the locket remained hidden. No matter how hard Sal had willed the thing, how he had poked at it, rubbed it, or cursed the locket to the deepest level of Sacrull’s hell, the thing had refused to yield its power. Eventually Sal had grown vexed with the locket.
He wore it around his neck at all times, even while sleeping and bathing, and he had taken to examining it, running a finger over the etched rune and letting the energy pulsate through him, but he’d stopped trying to force the magic from it. He merely hoped that when the time came that he needed it, the locket would once again rise to the occasion.
Ever since he’d seen the steel caps at Nabu’s, Sal had worried the locket could be what had gotten Anton killed. The news he’d gotten from Nabu regarding the locket had put him doubly on edge. He worried that not only the City Watch, but whoever had commissioned the theft might be out there looking for the locket.
In the end, it was all speculation. Sal still didn’t know why Anton was killed. It could have been because of the locket, and it could have been because Luca was tying up loose ends. Might even be that Anton was the rat. Then again, it could all be one big coincidence. Mayhap Pavalo and Anton had been killed for entirely different reasons. There was a chance Sal had misread the whole situation. Thus far, he’d yet to hear any word of why either Anton or Pavalo had been killed. And it was the not knowing that frightened him most.
He did know the steel caps were looking for the locket. It was a fact that had taken some time for him to dissect, despite the obvious implications. Sal had stolen the locket from the High Keep the very night they had been ambushed by the City Watch. After he had seen steel caps at Nabu’s shop, and heard Nabu confirm what they were after, it was clear to him that someone wanted the locket.
On the morning of Fitzen, Sal found himself skulking through the Shoe. He walked cautiously, still uncertain whether his life was in danger. He’d decided it was better to lean toward caution.
Vinny’s place was on the north end of the Shoe, not far off Beggar’s Lane. Sal had agreed to meet there a turn after dawn. Even in the Shoe, where most feared to travel unarmed, the feeling of joy and the energy of the masses was palpable. Fitzen was in the air.
The home belonged to Vinny’s father. It was a single-story hovel built of old stone, crumbling mortar, and loosely laid thatch. Sal knocked and entered. The poorly fitting door grated on its hinges. Vinny sat at the table, cup in hand, a sour look on his face. There was the sound of snoring coming from the far side of the room. Vinny’s father slept on the floor, huddled near the hearth .
“He all right?” Sal asked as he took the seat across from Vinny.
Vinny scowled, the look in his eyes darkening. “The sodden lush only just stumbled in an hour past.”
“Truly?” said Sal, with the hint of a smile.
Vinny didn’t smile back. His scowl deepened. “Seems he found the cache of coin I’d been saving. Decided he’d have himself a droll little evening of drinking and dicing. Twenty krom, for Light’s sake, twenty bloody krom. The coward didn’t even have the stones to look me in the eyes when he came stumbling in just before light’s break. Walked in and curled up on the floor like a fucking dog.”
Sal’s smile slipped; the situation no longer seemed quite so funny. “What’ll you do?”
Vinny took a swig. His cup looked to be filled with a heady dark beer. He shrugged and brushed a lock of long blond hair from his eyes. “Suppose I’ll do nothing,” Vinny said. “Scarce little else I could do, apart from kicking the old bastard until his insides are a jellied pulp.”
Sal didn’t know how to respond. If someone had stolen twenty krom from him, he might want to give them a thrashing. Not that Sal had ever given anyone a thrashing; fighting wasn’t his forte. Vinny, on the other hand, didn’t share Sal’s distaste for violent solutions, and he was plenty big enough to give most anyone a thrashing.
Vinny’s father was full-blood Norsic. He stood half a head taller than his son, but due to years spent at the bottom of a bottle, what brawn the man had once possessed had wasted away until only sagging fat and loose flesh remained.
“Let’s be off,” Vinny said as he slammed his cup on the table. “Another minute in this stinking hovel and my thoughts may turn to patricide.”
T he Hog Snout smelled of meadowsweet, which made Sal smile. The taproom was packed full. Bartley had saved them seats near the back, an empty clay mug on the table, another half- filled mug in his hand, and a stupid smile on his face. The Yahdrish slapped the tabletop when he spotted Sal and Vinny, swaying in his chair as he waved at them. He must have started celebrating early. It was only midmorning, yet heavy bags hung under his bloodshot eyes and his face was sunken and drawn. Either Bartley had gone without sleep, or smoking skeev day and night had begun to take a toll.
The room was filled with a cacophony of voices, the singer’s loudest of all as he sang “The Queen’s Old Goose.”
“For her goose was loose, as the court well knew.
‘A noose,’ they cried, ‘a noose, a noose.’ ”
Bessy was at their table in no time. She put her hand suggestively on her hip as she asked what they’d like.
Vinny and Sal ordered house ales, and Bartley asked for a bottle of fire-wine, as he was wont to do. The thought of the scalding alcohol made Sal nauseous, his stomach turning over in disgust.
“Bessy,” Sal said before the barmaid could leave, “who’s the singer? The man seems to have taken a liking to your taproom.”
Bessy turned and looked at the man strumming his lute.
“For many a man had fouled her fowl,
plowed her like farmland in need of a trowel.
‘A noose,’ they cried, ‘a noose, a noose.’ ”
“He’ll be around once a span, at the least,” Bessy said. “Thought he might liven things up a tick. Don’t seem like it on a day like this, but the Hog is hurting for business. I thought a singer might draw in some crowds on the slower days. It’s not Fitzen every day, you know.”
Vinny scowled. “Most like to drive business off with that wailing, he is.”
“Might be he don’t have the most handsome of voices,” Bessy said with a frown, “but that face singing them bawdy songs is going to bring in a good crowd, and don’t you doubt it. ”
Bartley and Bessy shared a look before the barmaid moved off.
“Oy, Bart,” Sal said. “Are things as serious as that?”
Bartley turned a deep shade of red.
“Most oft it’s the woman who grows unsatisfied earliest,” said Vinny, the first sign of good humor he’d shown that morning.
“Trust you me,” said Bartley. “No woman I ever pleasured had cause to complain.”
“How could you know?” Vinny asked. “Not likely you ever pleasured any woman with that little worm you call a manhood.”
“What would you know of it?” Bartley said. “Not as though I’ve ever seen either of you with a woman. Pair of maids, I’ll reckon.”
Vinny stood, but Sal headed him off.
“Easy now, mate, he was only having a bit of fun. No need to get good and mean.”
“And he was having a bit of fun at the expense of my honor,” said Bartley. “I won’t be beaten bloody by a silk glove, no matter who the son of a bitch is.”
Vinny stirred, but Sal put a hand firmly on his chest.
“Right, then,” Sal said. “Might be best if we all sit back down.”
Bartley took a big, messy swig of his ale and stood. “Not me. I want to be at the bottom of this. If a man’s going to talk tough, he’ll need to back it up. How is it we’ve never seen you with a woman, Vincenzo? What are you, some kind of a sodder?”
It seemed Sal had misjudged just how deep into his cups Bartley was, and in just how dark a mood Vinny had been.
With one smooth movement, Vinny brushe
d Sal’s hand from his chest and went for Bartley.
The little Yahdrish stood his ground, putting his fists up as though he meant to deliver a few blows of his own, but in the end he never had the chance.
It took one punch from Vinny’s big fist, and the fight was over. A straight shot to the nose. Bartley squealed, blood sprayed. His head whipped back, and his knees buckled to the floorboards.
Bartley clapped a hand over his bleeding nose, tears welling up in his eyes. “Sacrull’s balls,” Bartley moaned, blood streaming over his lips and dripping from his chin .
Vinny snapped to, as though breaking from a trance. He moved toward Bartley with a hand extended to help the Yahdrish to his feet. Their fight had attracted the attention of some of the tables around them, but the taproom was filled with enough commotion that many patrons didn’t deem to notice.
The singer played on, his voice and lute carrying above the din.
“For queen she was, but whore she’d been,
a stain ne’er washed from the eyes of men.
‘A noose,’ they cried, ‘a noose, a noose.
String up queen whore, and hang king goose.’ ”
Bessy bustled up to their table, a tray held at shoulder level. Two clay mugs and a bottle which, just to look at, made Sal’s insides burn. Bessy placed the mugs of ale on the table and began to hand Bartley the fire-wine when she noticed the Yahdrish’s nose. “Light’s sake, what’s happened here?” she asked, and kept hold of the bottle.
“A misunderstanding,” Sal said.
Bessy set down the fire-wine, flashed Bartley a suspicious look, and moved on to another table.
Vinny sipped his ale tentatively, as Bartley glared, pinching his nose with thumb and forefinger to stem the flowing blood.
“For when the realm fell to disrepair,
what was to blame but her affair?
‘A noose,’ they cried, ‘a noose, a noose.’ ”
“Right, then,” Sal said. “Might we call it a day?”
The Hand That Takes Page 14