“Well, what have you got for me? What news of the council’s interests?”
“Little has changed since my last report. Lord Hugo remains quite entangled in the Shiikal trade tariffs, and his correspondence with Lord Vaughan and Lord Peaks suggests others in the High Council have opposed the proposition of a full embargo. They argue an embargo would not stop the trade, but merely move it to a black market where the crown of Nelgand will lose out on taxes and regulation.”
Luca arched an eyebrow. “Opposition to the embargo in the High Council? This is news indeed. What are your thoughts on the matter?”
“I agree with Lord Hugo’s opposition. If my interests aligned with those of the duke, I would oppose the embargo. However, as my interests are not aligned with the duke’s, I support the embargo and intend to exploit the future inflation of imports from the Near East.”
Luca smiled and tapped the side of his head with two fingers, the sour look all but scrubbed from his visage. “An enterprising mind, but what else have you for me? What of the sugar blossom?”
Sal hated when Luca mentioned Lilliana. Spying on her felt like enough of a betrayal of her trust, and relaying her movements and secrets to Luca seemed a betrayal of the highest order .
“Little and less has changed,” Sal said, feigning nonchalance with a shrug. “She goes to East Market on Tiens, South Market on Sujens and Thorsens, Town Square on Leidens, Malens, and Sacrens. Soluns she visits the cathedral.”
“And the hired sword, this Bauden creature, he’s always with her?”
“More often than not. You’ll want him to be far away when you make the move on the estate. Many of the house guards have gone soft with their leisurely posts. Not a man of them is worth his salt with a sword, but Damor Nev is another story.”
Luca nodded. “I anticipate Nev won’t be much of a problem with a dagger in his back and his life’s blood spilling from his throat.”
Sal shuddered. He knew no threat from Luca was an idle one, and despite not liking the bodyguard, he didn’t think the man deserved a red smile. Besides, Damor Nev had saved him in that alley off Penny Row. If anything, Sal owed him a debt, and a dagger to the back was no way to repay that debt.
“Who will be guarding the gate come evenfall?” Luca asked.
“If the rotation remains consistent it’ll be Dingle and Twitch.” Sal had given all of the guards names to keep them straight; Dingle and Twitch were two of the softest and least adept of the household guards.
Luca nodded, poured them each a cup, and told Sal he’d done well. “There will be a big cut in this for you, my boy. Surely you of all people have earned it.”
“You mean to do the job come evenfall?”
“Not something you need to worry over. You’ll get your cut for work well done. Consider your part taken care of.”
Sal nodded, took a drink of the sour wine, and wondered whether he should be relieved that his work for Luca was finished or terrified because Luca no longer had a use for him.
Luca flicked the back of his hand in the air a few times, as though shooing an animal.
Sal stood. Eager to leave as he was, he had little desire to turn his back to Luca. If Luca wanted Sal dead, he wouldn’t let a little thing like a crowded tavern stop him from slitting Sal’s throat then and there. Just ask the corpse of Fabian.
“The Lady’s luck to you, then,” Sal said, and turned.
“Hold,” Luca said before Sal had taken a step. “You’ll need to excuse me, kid. Incidents of late have been of an upsetting nature, and I fear it has left me in a disgruntled fucking state.”
Luca stood and closed the distance to Sal.
Sal flinched as Luca wrapped him in a hug.
“You’ve truly done well, Salvatori. Truly.”
Sal returned the embrace, moving his hands with the deftness of a soft-touch artist, his heart beating so fast it was difficult to draw breath.
“Be safe,” Luca said, releasing Sal. “You’ll have word of your cut soon enough, I assure you.”
Sal nodded and turned for the door, his fist clenched tight about his prize. He felt the stares of the other patrons as he left. Once outside the Crown, Sal pocketed the hair he had plucked from Luca’s doublet, feeling a tick safer knowing the hair was in his jerkin pocket.
B artley and Vinny had been waiting in the taproom of the Hog Snout for a full hour. Bartley didn’t seem to mind, but Vinny was in a right state about something.
“That Sacrull damned singer needs be gone,” Vinny said. “Surely Bessy could find one man in the city that can carry a tune and knows some new songs, for Light’s sake.”
“Before you go piddle,” cried the singer, strumming his lute, “consider you this: If not for that diddler, who’d diddle your sis?”
“What news of Luca?” Bartley asked.
Sal shrugged. “Claims this was my last report, I am officially out of the job. Now I wait for the coin to come to me. That or the knives, there’s no telling with Luca.”
“He wouldn’t dare,” said Bartley. Not with your uncle being who he is. ”
Sal wasn’t as sure as Bartley. After all, Anton was a made man, and he found himself with a red smile all the same. Sal wasn’t made, he wasn’t even connected, merely the nephew of a Commission underboss. By any measure, Sal was a nobody.
“Right. Well, it seems I find myself unemployed and without any coin to show for weeks of work,” Sal said. “Anyone have a job in mind?”
Vinny’s top lip curled. “Why don’t you talk to your uncle? He should have work, and I’m certain he, at the least, is a man of his word.”
The way Vinny spoke was like an assault, every word projected like the thrust of a dagger.
“Did I do something wrong?” Sal asked, taken aback by the behavior usually reserved for Bartley.
“Wrong?” Vinny said. “Clearly you’ve done nothing if naught comes to mind.”
Sal looked to Bartley, but the Yahdrish only shrugged. Sal was incredulous.
“Something must be wrong. Elsewise your smallclothes wouldn’t be in such a bunch.”
Vinny snarled. “Might be I’m only upset because Antonio Russo’s old route was filled, and it’s not me that’s working it.”
Sal frowned. He’d forgotten all about his promise to speak to his uncle on Vinny’s behalf. “Oh, Vinny, I’m sorry, mate. I’ll speak with him, surely it can still be settled.”
Vinny spat to the rushes. “Too late. The route’s already been filled.”
“Who?” Sal asked, in the hopes that it was a leg-breaker of little enough significance that he might be replaced without much fuss.
“One of Alonzo Amato’s boys,” said Vinny. “Bruno Carbone, I think his name was.”
“Anything to drink, honey?” said Bessy.
“Nothing for me, thank you,” said Sal.
“A vial of dredge” said Vinny sullenly.
Bessy frowned. “Anything for you, hon?”
Bartley blushed, something that still seemed to happen even after he claimed to have coupled with the barmaid. “Another ale,” Bartley said, winking to compensate for his rosy complexion.
“Luca say anything about Anton this time?” Bartley asked as Bessy moved off.
“Quiet as ever,” Sal said. “If he had something to do with it, he doesn’t want anyone to know.”
“What did your uncle say about it?” Bartley asked.
“How should I know?” said Sal.
“Well, you did ask the man?” Vinny said.
Sal shook his head. “Haven’t gotten around to it.”
“Hold on,” said Bartley. “You mean to say you haven’t talked to your uncle since we found Anton?”
“Haven’t seen him in a few months,” Sal said defensively. “It’s not as though I visit the man often.”
Bartley stared at him slack-jawed. “You never bothered to ask your uncle whether he knew something about Anton’s murder? Sacrull’s balls, you never fucking bothered?”
“Lad
y’s sake, Bartley, I’ve been a touch busy. What with Luca’s job and worrying about my own neck and all. Besides, what makes you think Stefano would even tell me?”
Not deigning to grace Sal with a reply, Bartley simply shook his head, as though he couldn’t believe Sal’s behavior.
“You’ll be off, then?” Vinny asked.
“Now?” Sal said.
Vinny nodded. “Now, and don’t you bloody forget to ask about that route. I need this one, Salvatori.”
Sal felt a twinge of irritation boiling up, but he swallowed his pride, knowing that at times the only way to win was to lose. Sal stood. He looked first to Bartley, then to Vinny. Something else was bothering Vinny, but Sal couldn’t quite pin down what it was.
Vinny took a drink, pretending to watch the singer, the very same singer he’d said wasn’t worth the toe-jam from an especially stinky boot.
“Right, then.” Sal said. “Suppose I’d best be off.”
Vinny’s top lip twitched as he nodded. Bartley grunted and turned his attention to the singer as well .
At that, Sal turned and headed for the exit. The door of the inn swung shut behind him. Overhead, the crudely painted sign of the boar swayed listlessly in the breeze, the hinges creaking in a rhythmic cadence.
Sal reached for the locket at his collar, and the soft pulsating power coursed through his body, reenergizing him before he began his walk to High Town.
B eneath the fresh coat of lacquer the door was solid oak, and each rap of the brass falcon’s-head knocker resounded with a heavy thud. Three knocks and he stepped back. Sal heard noise from within. The heavy door swung open, and a little brown man with a head like a spotted egg stood on the threshold.
“M-Master Salvatori,” stammered Greggings, wringing his hat in his little arthritic hands.
“Just Salvatori. I’m no one’s master, especially not yours.”
The old manservant bowed deferentially. “How might I be of service?”
“My uncle, is he in?”
“Lord Stefano is in his solar. I could call on him and see if he can make the time.” Greggings stepped aside, allowing Sal into the tiled foyer.
“I know the way, Greggings. There’s no need for you to climb the stairs.”
“But Master Salvatori, it wouldn’t be proper.”
“Bugger propriety,” Sal said, giving the manservant a wink. “Consider this a homecoming.”
“Will you be returning to us?”
“I meant it in a figurative sense. I’m only here for a visit.”
The old manservant’s relief was visible in his eyes, though he did his best to hide it.
“Worry not, Greggings, there will be no need to change the rushes and beat the curtains in the guest quarters.”
Greggings paid him the hint of a smile. “Will you require refreshments? I’ve some pickled herring in the larder to which his lordship has grown quite partial.”
“Nothing for me, thank you. Why don’t you find yourself a nice place to sit and put your feet up. I’ll only need to speak with my uncle a moment, but anything he needs I can take care of while I’m here.”
Greggings smiled and nodded, but Sal knew the man was too dutiful—and far too stubborn—to ever allow himself such a respite.
Each time Sal returned to the home of his uncle, he was reminded of how he used to feel, walking through that house as a child. He’d been like a mouse, scurrying this way and that, always trying to stay out of sight and keep from being crushed underfoot. It was almost surreal to him now, to walk beneath that same roof, on that very same floor. Only now, all he felt was sadness and loss.
Sal made his way across the pale lavender tile of the foyer, up the grand staircase, and along a hall. He took the third door on the right and entered the solar. He shivered as a draft swept through the room.
A magnificent gold and crystal chandelier hung at the center of the ceiling, refracting the light that penetrated the bay windows. Each wall was lined with shelves full of books, the floor carpeted with a massive, elaborately patterned Miniian rug. The one space on the wall devoid of bookshelves or windows was occupied by a quartered crest of carved wood and gilded bronze. Gold for Novotny, blue for Moretti, white for Scarvini, red for Dvorak. Bronze falcon at the center, upon the black of Svoboda.
The silver-haired man lounging in the armchair looked up as Sal entered the solar. He wore a double-breasted frock coat and reading lenses. In one hand was a thick leather-bound book, in the other a crystal glass of golden wine.
Stefano Lorenzo fixed Sal with a look of pure apathy, the placid expression unchanging as Sal crossed the room and sat in the armchair beside his uncle.
“Good day, Uncle.”
“A good day, is it?” asked Stefano, not unkindly but certainly lacking genuine interest .
Sal shrugged. “I’ve naught to complain of thus far. How have you fared of late?”
Stefano frowned. “I’ve no patience to bandy words.” Stefano placed his wine glass on the table between them and closed the book in his lap. He kept a hand on the stem of his glass to stabilize it as he slid open the table drawer. From the drawer he withdrew a leather cord and held it at eye level.
Sal’s heart plopped to the pit of his stomach as his uncle’s ring rocked to and fro upon the throng.
“When the man came to my door demanding his due, I thought him a liar. Surely this man was mistaken, my own nephew offering twenty krom for a ferry ride,” Stefano said, shaking his head. “Twenty krom for passage across the Tamber, he says to me. If not for this ring, I’d have slit the man’s throat and named him liar.”
“Twenty krom? The crook! We agreed to eight.”
“Eight or twenty, the coin is not the point,” snapped Stefano. “Though you are not of my loins, you bear my name. I tell you, boy, a gift given can be taken. I’ll not have you bantering about my city making mock of the name Lorenzo.”
“Surely, Uncle, it is not so bad as that. I had every intention of returning to the ferryman—”
“The ferryman? The ferryman is not the half of it,” Stefano said, shaking his head. “I ask you, boy, have I taught you so little? Did I truly send you out into this world so ill-equipped, with naught but stuffing between your ears?”
“Uncle, I—”
“What is this I hear of you working with Luca Vrana?”
Sal shrugged. There was little and less he could say in his own defense.
“First you frolic about with that fop Antonio Russo, then you take work with Luca Vrana? The man is a dockside thug. There is good reason he’s not moved up the ladder. With a temper like that, he’s not to be trusted. Not to mention the man’s associates have a long history of disappearing.”
“I’ve ended my working relationship with Luca.”
“A sentiment hollow of reassurance. Do you think me simple, as well as deaf and blind? Fool of a fool, you don’t think I know the job you took? Of all the asinine acts of a jackanapes, what would possess you to accept a job with such a man?”
“What do you know of the High Keep job?” Sal asked.
“Like as not, more than you, boy. Luca Vrana played point. Most of his usual crew, along with three stand-ins. The job was considered a failure by all accounts. Botched, as they say. City Watch interference, and bodies soon after.”
“Commission-approved bodies?”
“No permission was sought of my don, nor any of the five families so far as I am aware.”
“Who was the backer?” Sal asked.
“Backer,” Stefano said. He frowned and shook his head. “There was no backer. It seems this Luca Vrana thinks he can back his own jobs.”
“You’re certain of this?” Sal asked. Valla had seemed quite certain otherwise.
Stefano wrinkled his nose and narrowed his eyes.
Sal felt a twinge of panic, a fear he’d not fully come to terms with, a truth that sank right to the pit of his stomach.
“Luca, he’s the killer, yeah?” Sal asked. “Luca Vrana, he ki
lled Anton?”
“The man is a dockside thug,” said Stefano. “To think such a man would attempt a job on the High Keep. His pride is as big as the emptiness between his ears.”
“But he’s the killer?” Sal asked. “Luca Vrana. He killed Anton and Pavalo Picarri?”
“So far as I can surmise,” his uncle said, confirming the suspicion Sal had held for weeks. “Luca Vrana has always been a killer.”
21
Bartley and Bessy
I t had been Luca all along.
The realization sank in slowly, like rendering fat. The longer Sal considered the fact, the more questions arose. If Luca was responsible for Anton’s death, how much did Luca know about the locket? For that matter, how much did Stefano know of the locket? He seemed well enough informed on the rest of the situation.
“Your sense has been lacking in the highest degree,” Stefano said, as he pressed his reading lenses back onto the bridge of his nose. “You should never have involved yourself with Luca Vrana—with this High Keep business.”
“Ah, hindsight truly is all it’s made out to be, is it not, Uncle?”
“Now you mock me, boy. Do not do it again.”
“I’m sorry, Uncle. You’re right. I made a mistake. What can I do to correct it?”
“Correct it?” Stefano said, a hand on his chin. “What makes you think this can be corrected?”
“Because if anyone in this city could fix this, it’s you, Uncle.”
Greggings stepped into the solar with a knock on the open door. “M’lord, the evening meal is prepared. Will Master Salvatori be supping with you this eve? ”
Stefano’s face tightened. He hesitated a breath before speaking. “It would be rude of me not to extend the invitation, now that you have so blatantly announced the existence of a meal.” Stefano turned to Sal. “Well, boy?”
Sal shrugged.
His uncle’s nose wrinkled, his top lip curling back. Then he stood and nodded.
Greggings led the way down the stairs and into the dining room. It was an opulent room, from the grand walnut dining table, large enough to seat eighteen in plushly cushioned thrones, to the intricate designs of cherubs rolling in fields of flowers that were carved into the ceiling beams and baseboards.
The Hand That Takes Page 20