The Hand That Takes

by Taylor O'Connell

  “Day’s only just begun,” Bartley said in a nasal tone. “Like hell if I’m going to miss Fitzen over a nosebleed.”

  “Sorry about the nose,” Vinny mumbled.

  Bartley pointedly pretended not to hear. He drank his ale and turned his attention to the singer, who was now working his way through “When Pigs Don Armor.”

  Sal took a big swig of his ale, downing half the mug in one go. “And what did you have planned for the day?” Sal asked.

  Vinny shrugged. “I for one am a touch short on coin. Can’t afford much merriment, unless someone had a quick job in mind. ”

  Bartley stirred, but kept to himself, still pretending to listen to the singer.

  Sal cleared his throat. “I don’t know that a job would be wise, not with the amount the pair of you have had to drink.”

  “This is only my second cup,” Vinny said, bristling and holding his mug up for them to see.

  Bartley took a drink, his nosebleed halted for the time being. “I’ve got a job in mind,” Bartley said. “That is, if you maids think you can handle it.”

  Sal shook his head.

  “Come now,” said Vinny. “Let the Yahdrish speak. You’ve not even heard his proposition.”

  “It’s not a proposition worth hearing,” Sal said. “Besides, weren’t you at his throat just a tick past? When did you start defending him?”

  “It’s nothing big, if that’s what’s got your underclothes in a bunch,” Bartley said, slurring his words slightly. “Heard talk from a couple of pushers on Penny Row. They had a job lined up, but things fell through. Target is still there, though, ripe for the picking by the first hand that takes it. I’ve got Valla and Odie on board already.”

  “If Valla and the big man are in, I’m in,” said Vinny.

  Sal didn’t know if it was the thought of no longer having a krom to his name, or a combination of alcohol and guilt that fueled Vinny’s enthusiasm; either way, Sal found it disconcerting. As much as Sal liked the little Yahdrish, he never had, and never would, go on a job concocted by Bartley. He was too green, too cocksure, and too clumsy by half. Bartley would never have the head for planning heists. At best, he was a middling second-story man, which made it hard to believe the big man and Valla were on board. Odie wasn’t exactly brimming with acumen, but he did possess a certain base instinct for survival. Valla was shrewd, cunning, and assertive. If Valla was in on the job, it was more than likely she’d been the one who’d planned everything. It wouldn’t be the first time Bartley had taken credit for another’s work.

  “How about you tell us your plan,” Sal said .

  Bartley grabbed the empty mug and the bottle of fire-wine and began to talk. As Bartley explained his plan, Sal found it difficult to criticize without time to consider all the angles. For the moment, he was forced to take the Yahdrish at his word so far as the details went.

  Deep in his cups as Bartley was, and enthusiastic as Vinny was, they didn’t stick around the Hog Snout for long. After Bartley went up to his room to smoke a cap while Sal and Vinny each had another ale in the taproom, they paid their tabs and headed back out into the bustling streets of Dijvois.

  Fitzen had put the city into a frenzy of celebration. Foot traffic was shoulder-to-shoulder. Had it not been for the half-Norsic in their trio, Sal and the little Yahdrish could have easily been swept up in the human current that pushed through the streets.

  Beer flowed like a river, and the citizens of Dijvois willingly embraced the rapids, gullets opened wide. The monks of Knöldrus did their part, giving a cup of beer to any who called. All they asked was a prayer to Solus and a copper shill from those who could afford it. Still, their generosity was not purely altruistic, as it allowed the monks to clear out what was left in their cellars to make room for the new batch they would brew from the autumn grains, the last harvest of the year.

  Nearly every shop in Dijvois, be it miller or jeweler, tanner or tailor, cobbler or carpenter, closed its doors for Fitzen. Only the alehouses, taverns, wine-sinks, and inns did business on the holiday of winter’s welcome, and they were stuffed to bursting with patrons.

  The City Watch remained on duty, even increasing their numbers, hiring any brute or dock thug looking for extra coin, slapping a poleaxe in their hand, a tabard on their chest, and a coned helm upon their thick skull. Rather comical, really. Sal could always tell a steel cap from a holiday recruit, so scantily armed and clad were they.

  It was a tradition on Fitzen that the children ran about masked. Some wore simple black or white masks that covered their little cherubic faces from just above the mouth. Others sported peacock plumes or polished glass gems that reflected the light. Even more extravagant were the masks fashioned after exotic beasts. Sal saw wolves and lions, phoenixes and cockatrices, a dragon and even a chimera.

  It reminded Sal of the job he and Bartley had done at the Rusted Anchor all those years back, the card game that had nearly gotten him killed. He and Bartley had worn masks just like those the children wore.

  The masked children would scour the city begging for sweets. Many adults carried candies to give when asked, elsewise the children were free to cause mischief. Some adults simply carried sticks, or weapons of a more sinister nature. Rather than proffer sweets, they would simply chase off any children who came begging. Sal and his friends employed this latter strategy, as sweets cost coin, but the looks in the eyes of the children when Sal pulled his pigsticker were priceless.

  The whores made good money during Fitzen. In the pillow-houses they hardly had time to get off their backs between customers, and in the streets they paced alley mouths with tight bodices, low-cut blouses, and hiked-up skirts, calling after men and women alike.

  “A shill and I’m yours! A krom and you can have me twice,” one whore called. “A silver and I’ll take the lot of you at once, supposing you don’t mind either end!”

  Bartley often stopped to talk, until Sal or Vinny dragged him along.

  One impudent young streetwalker approached the trio as they neared Beggar’s Lane. Blonde, skinny, and bowlegged, she had sores on her hands and arms that told she was a blisser. She grabbed Bartley by the hood of his cloak and began to drag him toward a dilapidated building. He went willingly, haggling a price as they walked.

  Sal grabbed Bartley by the arm and reminded him they were headed for a job.

  Bartley scoffed. “I’ll not need long.”

  “And what might Bessy say?”

  “Bessy? I’ve not married the wench, if that’s what you’re thinking. ”

  The whore gripped his hood tighter and pulled harder. Sal tightened his grip in return, while Bartley did his best to shrug Sal off.

  “Let him go, bastard!” said the whore.

  Sal looked to Vinny for help, but Vinny only laughed, letting the struggle unfold as it would.

  “Trust me,” Sal pleaded. “You don’t want to do this, Bartley.”

  The Yahdrish let his body go limp as a wet fish, and Sal lost his grip.

  Bartley and the woman shuffled toward the crumbling brick edifice. The warped and splintered door hung on loose, rusted hinges that screeched as Bartley and his whore pushed across the threshold.

  They were brought to an abrupt halt as Vinny took hold of Bartley’s arm. When Vinny pulled, both the Yahdrish and the whore were tugged along.

  Sal watched admiringly as Vinny part carried, part dragged Bartley by the arm as though he were a small child, the skinny bowlegged whore hanging on as if her next hit of bliss depended on it. Which, in all likelihood, it did.

  The whore was dragged along as they strolled down Beggar’s Lane before she eventually dropped to the cobblestones on her hands and knees.

  Worried the woman would be trampled in the press, Sal helped her to her feet and off the road, where he sat her down and propped her against a stone wall.

  The rush of revelers pushed by like a mindless herd. Sal slipped between people like a fish in seaweed, dodging this way and that until he stood at Vinny�
��s side.

  Bartley looked disgruntled, but he seemed too tired and far too drunk to fight.

  “Where is this place, again?” Vinny asked.

  “North of East Market near the Kingsway,” Bartley said.

  Vinny sighed. “Best be on our way. With these crowds it’s like to take half an hour just to cross the Lady.”

  After an hour, they approached the Low Town bridge tower. Like on the day of End, there were no fewer than three crossbowmen atop the catwalk, perched behind merlons, crossbows cocked and ready.

  Six steel caps lined the passageway, three on either side. Sal avoided making eye contact. After his recent encounters with the City Watch, steel caps were the last people in Dijvois Sal wanted to see. He kept his head down and mussed his hair with a hand to shield even more of his face.

  As the trio passed the limestone statue of the Lady White, his compulsion outweighed the pressure of Vinny’s glare. Sal couldn’t resist reaching out a hand and running it along the hem of the Lady’s dress for luck. Not to do so seemed almost sacrilegious.

  Vinny had not been far off in his assumption; crossing the Bridge of the Lady took nearly an hour. Although the waters of the Tamber were calm, the bridge that spanned its great width was a den of madness. Vendors lined the parapets on either side, creating a bottleneck that reduced traffic flow to a single file in each direction. The vendors shouted their wares, haggling and pushing, stopping passersby and holding up traffic as they attempted to make a sale.

  Spun-sugar unicorn horns, slices of peppered beef skewered with onions and sweet peppers, legs of lamb, honeyed dates, and steaming pastries were shoved under Sal’s nose. Other vendors placed necklaces of glass and jet, agate and garnet about his neck, torcs and bracelets of gold and silver about his wrists, telling him of their worth, their rarity, and the unbelievably low price for which he could have them. He was sprayed with perfumes and nearly choked by smoky, sweet-smelling incense.

  When they eventually reached the High Town bridge tower, it was as though they had been through a scuffle. Still, Sal had managed to pick a few pockets during the crossing and had even made off with a gold torc.

  Another six steel caps lined the bridge beneath the High Town tower, and Sal once again lowered his head as he passed the bored-looking guards leaning on their poleaxes.

  Once off the Bridge of the Lady, it was a swift journey to the armory as they took the Kingsway, bypassing East Market by cutting through a few narrow alleys.

  It seemed there was some truth to Bartley’s telling. The big man and Valla waited a few buildings away from the armory so as not to draw attention to themselves,

  although it was near impossible for Odie not to draw attention. The big man was larger than life, the sort of man that made the ancient stories of giants seem plausible. He stood head and shoulders above the crowd, his massive shaved scalp reflecting the sun like a beacon.

  Valla was subtler, leaning against a brick wall as though she were a lazy cat lounging in the sunlight, but Sal knew better. When she moved, it was with such swift feline grace that if she ever wanted him dead, it would happen before he knew what had stuck him.

  “About time,” said Valla, sliding off the wall and approaching the trio. She looked them up and down with shrewd appraisal. Her eyes narrowed to slits, and she grabbed Bartley by his already rumpled shirt collar, pulled him close, and smelled his breath. Then, just as quickly, she shoved him away with a look of disgust.

  Bartley stumbled back a step and plopped on his ass. A look of bemusement twisted his features.

  “Drunk?” Odie asked, his sonorous voice rolling like thunder.

  Valla made a noise deep in her throat and walked away muttering something about Anton and Sacrull damned Yahdrish.

  No one tried to stop her, no one called out or tried to chase after her. Once Valla was in a mood it was best to give her space, a lot of space, for a goodly amount of time. Sal pitied the next drunken reveler that stumbled across Valla’s path.

  “Right, then,” Sal said. “I suppose that settles that. Care for a trip to the East Market?”

  Bartley got unsteadily to his feet. “The hell if I’ll call it a day just because that bitch has lobsters in her craw.”

  Odie cocked an eyebrow, and Vinny shifted his weight from foot to foot, hands in his pockets, eyes on the cobblestones.

  “East Market it is, then,” Sal said, his spirits a tick higher knowing he’d no longer have to follow through with Bartley’s job .

  “Bugger that,” Bartley said. “We’re going on as planned. We don’t need Valla.”

  “And how exactly are we supposed to do this without a cat’s-paw?” Sal asked.

  “Odie can handle it,” Bartley said. “He’d have an even easier time of it than she would have.”

  “Right, sure, sure,” Sal said, bobbing his head like an idiot. “Only, how in Sacrull’s hell is Odie supposed to climb through a bloody window?”

  Bartley licked his lips. “Vinny, then. He can handle it.”

  “And who will disable the wards?” Sal asked. “Anything more than a single-rune ward is too much for me, and this is the armory. Even the privy will be warded.”

  Vinny cleared his throat. “I really don’t think I’m up for it. I came along thinking I was playing mule once the window ward was down. I’m not prepared to play the cat’s-paw if it came to that.”

  “Then it’s settled,” Sal said. “East Market.”

  Bartley balled his fists, his eyes starting to water. He looked to be on the verge of a tantrum. Sal half expected him to be writhing on his belly pounding fists and feet on the cobblestones at any moment. Instead, Bartley turned and moved off in the opposite direction from Valla.

  Sal called after him and received a hand gesture in return. Whatever trace amounts of sympathy Sal had left for the Yahdrish burned away with that gesture.

  Sal didn’t bother voicing the question, merely tipped his head in the direction of East Market. Odie shrugged, and Vinny nodded. Then the newly forged trio made their way back into the press of the crowd on the Kingsway.

  In comparison to South Market and Town Square, East Market was like another world entirely. Though the taste of salt air carried throughout the city, there were few other similarities between the two marketplaces. Book sellers, sweet shops, charcuteries, bakers, tailors, and furniture makers at East Market all sold their wares at exorbitant prices, partly because the gentry, nobility, and affluent merchants would pay them not to have to cross the Tamber to go to market, and partly because the rents in East Market were so high proprietors were forced to make adjustments to compensate. Still, it was not so costly as the Agora—but then again, nothing was. In the Agora there were boutiques, delicatessens, florists selling sweet-smelling flowers, galleries displaying oil-painted canvases, and diminutive shops selling peculiar treasures from the Far East.

  Sal, Vinny, and Odie seated themselves on stools next to a wine vendor’s cart. They each ordered a cup and watched the dancing. A five-member band was playing a jaunty jig, and townsfolk danced in the market’s center square.

  “Though before you go piddle, consider you this:

  If not for that diddler, who’d diddle your sis?”

  Sal pulled a handful of coins from his pocket and laid them out on the makeshift bar top. Two iron dingés, a copper shim, and a gold krom—his take from the Bridge of the Lady, and not a bad take it was. He swept the coins into his palm and handed them to Vinny along with the thin gold torc he’d nabbed.

  “It’s not much,” Sal said. “But seeing as Bartley’s little job fell through, this ought to get you through the day.”

  Without a hint of reluctance, Vinny accepted and thanked Sal earnestly.

  The trio sat quietly, watching the crowd as they drank their wine—a wine so red it was nearly purple, with notes of cherry and plum and a surprisingly peppery finish. Sal liked it enough to have a second cup.

  “This sweet wine is . . .,” the big man said, gesturing as thou
gh he would grab the words he sought from thin air, “is missing . . .”

  “Fire,” said Vinny, nodding.

  “You bloody Norsic oafs and your fire-wine,” Sal said. “I’ll never understand what it is you like so much about that piss-water.”

  The big man took on a serious expression. “Not only Norsic, but Vordin and Adilaie. By the gods, all of Skjörund drinks fire-wine, it flows through our very veins. Even that little Yahdrish drinks the stuff. ”

  “Yes, well, no one ever claimed Bartley was right in the head.”

  “I’ll second that,” said Vinny, raising his cup. “Bartley isn’t much of a measure to go by in one’s life.”

  “My friend,” Odie said, turning to the vendor, “I’ve done with this maiden’s grape. Do you have fire-wine?”

  The vendor scowled but produced a bottle and filled Vinny’s and Odie’s cups. He offered Sal a pour, but he waved the man off.

  “Believe I’ve had my fill,” Sal said.

  As Sal paid the vendor for the wine, something caught his eye. Standing at a clothier’s cart, not two vendors away, Lilliana Bastian held up a blue scarf. Sal found himself on his feet before he’d even thought to stand.

  Vinny flashed him a questioning look.

  Sal downed what was left in his cup and gathered up his courage. “I’ve got something needs doing,” Sal said, and headed for the clothier’s cart.

  15

  Lilliana

  I t could have been the mood of Fitzen, a madness in the air. It could have been the wine and the ale he’d had, inspiring an act of drunken courage as loutish as it was fearless. It could have been the pent-up lust, the aching desire built up from watching a woman for weeks without the chance to act. Whatever it was, something propelled Sal toward Lilliana.

  He was doing his best to look sober, focusing on even, steady strides, when he bulled headfirst into someone. Someone big, solid, and unmoving.

  When Sal regained his balance, he realized just who it was that had stepped into his path.