An ancient tapestry from the Far Eastern city of Yardu hung upon the wall. It depicted a scene of a serpentine dragon coiling itself about some ancient city. A man in blue armor, a red banner streaming from a pole on his back and a thin, slightly curved sword in his hands, approached the dragon from the bottom corner of the tapestry. Though his uncle had long ago told him the unfortunate result of the conflict between the man and the dragon, according to ancient Dahuaneze myth, Sal liked to imagine the little armored warrior winning the fight against impossible odds, his slender curved sword cutting open the white underbelly of the dragon.
Uncle Stefano seated himself at the head of the table, so Sal sat in the cushioned throne at his uncle’s right hand. Stefano’s eyes narrowed, his jaw clenched, and for all Sal knew his anus puckered tight as a snapping bear trap.
It was not long before Greggings returned, balancing a tray full of steaming platters and bowls.
He started them with scallops breaded and fried in oil, then drowned in butter, with leeks slow-cooked in lemon butter and garlic, and a foie gras from one of Stefano’s flock of fattened geese.
Greggings served a golden wine from Stefano’s reserve stock, a fact Sal only learned due to the chastisement Greggings received from his uncle for wasting such a fine vintage on a palate so unrefined as Sal’s.
The meal passed with little conversation. The dining hall felt empty, as it lacked the presence of Nicola. Sal recalled the last time his mother had sat at that table, and his appetite disappeared. As his uncle ate forkfuls of mince pie, washed down with mouthfuls of wine, Stefano seemed to loosen up, his hard edges softening.
“Your sister, how is she?” Stefano asked.
Sal covered his mouth as a belch escaped him. “Nicola is thriving. She has grown her business to thrice what it was. Bought a property off the South Market as well. She’s already talked of expanding the home for her clothier’s work, even mentioned buying the property next door, tearing down the home, and doubling the size of her own.”
Stefano smiled, a look of pride shining in his eyes. It had always been blatantly clear, even back when Sal and Nicola were children growing up in their uncle’s home, that Stefano preferred Nicola to Sal. He’d begun grooming her from an early age, taught her the secrets of his trade, equipped her with everything she would need to take his place when it came his time to leave this world. But Nicola had turned away. She’d chosen a new path, though not before spitting in the face of the man that had raised her, telling him she never wanted to see him again and blaming him for the death of their mother.
“I would that she visited sometime. It’s rare enough I see this face of yours, but the face of my beautiful niece would suit nicely.”
“Nicola is willful,” Sal said, leaving the rest unspoken.
“There is too much of her mother in her. I’d have done anything for my sister, you know that, don’t you, boy? In the end, she only had herself to blame.”
Sal’s fists clenched beneath the table.
Greggings cleared away the dishes from the main course and brought strawberry tarts.
Sal picked up his fork but didn’t touch the tart.
“She did the best she could,” Sal said, finding it difficult to unclench his jaw enough to speak.
“I told you, boy. The reason has never changed,” Stefano said, scoffing derisively. “Coward’s way out, I always thought.”
Hands shaking, Sal threw his fork to the tabletop and stood. “ Thank you for the meal, Uncle. I am sorry your wine was wasted on me. It is always such a pleasure, but I do believe I will take my leave.”
Stefano didn’t show surprise, merely stared at Sal with eyes half-lidded.
Sal stalked out of the dining room and past Greggings, who tailed him to the foyer.
“Master Salvatori, please.”
Sal about-faced on the pale lavender tile of the foyer, and Greggings shuffled close.
“Do be safe,” Greggings said, a look of fear on his weathered brown face. “One hears of cloak-and-dagger work afoot.”
Sal nodded, his anger leaving him as the words seeped in.
Greggings shivered, wringing his small hands. His eyes met Sal’s as though there was more to say, but rather than speak, Greggings turned away and walked in the direction of the dining room.
T he heavy oaken door closed with a satisfying thud as Sal stepped out. The sky was a panoply of red, pink, and golden hues as the sun receded below the horizon.
As Sal walked along the cobblestone streets, he contemplated the manservant’s parting words. Cloak-and-dagger work. It was enough to upset the confidence of any man. Even more so a man already in fear of such things, a man who’d spent weeks worried over just that. On the other hand, Sal told himself that the warning from Greggings was nothing new, he’d known there was cloak-and-dagger work afoot the very night he’d found Anton—hell, the very day he’d heard from Nabu about the fate of Pavalo Picarri. Only now he knew for certain who was behind it all.
Suddenly, Sal found himself worried about the well-being of his friends. He felt a pressing need to warn them, and doubled his pace.
H e stood beneath the swaying sign of the boar. The taproom of the Hog Snout was almost deserted as he pushed through the door and made his way in. A man and woman sat at a rickety table with mismatched chairs, while an older man sat alone, calling for ale.
The man continued to call for ale, and yet Sal saw no sign of Bessy or the kitchen hand, Cooky. Blessedly, there was no singer in sight either. If Sal was going to spend another night in Bartley’s room, he’d certainly appreciate a night of quiet.
As the lone man banged his empty mug on the table, shouting for ale, Sal made his way up the staircase. Apart from the man’s shouting, the inn was quiet, and Sal could hear the creak of every step. The lighting was dim in the hallway atop the stairs; two of the three wall lamps had been snuffed out.
Sal inhaled the scent of meadowsweet as he reached for the handle to Bartley’s door. He had never bothered to knock before entering Bartley’s room; it was a sort of unspoken agreement between the two. The door was unlocked and opened with a click.
The smell of stale rushes wafted from the room, propelled by a gust of air from the open window. Bartley’s room was entirely dark aside from a thin strip of moonlight that illuminated the dresser.
It seemed Bartley was out. Sal would need to search for him elsewhere. As much as he wanted to lie down and call it a night, he felt a need to warn his friends.
Before Sal headed back out, he thought he would smoke a cap, telling himself that Bartley wouldn’t mind. Sal crossed the room and nearly fell flat on his face as he stumbled over something.
He managed to throw his hands out before him to cushion the fall, and landed on something softer than floorboards and wetter by far.
Something rather like—a body.
It took only an instant before realization and revulsion struck.
Sal scrambled backward, gagging and spitting his disgust, his forearms slick with warm blood. He fell on his back in his fit of panic, kicking and writhing toward the door .
He was sobbing, heaving, and shuddering. He tried to catch his breath. Snot and saliva streamed down his cheeks and lips and dripped from his chin.
He closed his eyes, allowing them to adjust to the dark, and did all he could to slow his breathing. His heart pounded like a drum of war. His hands shook like leaves in a tempest. Eventually he managed to steel his nerves enough to stand, wipe wet forearms on his trouser legs, and tentatively approach the body.
At a second look, Sal realized there were not one, but two bodies on the ground before him. A woman and a man, facedown, their naked bodies white as fish bellies in the faint moonlight.
She was closer, the larger of the two, the pale flesh of her back freckled and sagging.
The man was short and slender, a familiar tangle of black hair on his head.
Sal knew them both. Bartley and Bessy.
He knew them to be dead but c
ouldn’t help but check to be certain. He rolled first Bessy and then Bartley, checking for breathing or the beat of a heart, but found them both as he’d feared—throats cut clear across, jagged, deep wounds that had nearly drained them of blood.
The tears came on, an unquenchable flow that left Sal heaving and short of breath once more. On hands and knees he became sick, vomiting into the rushes.
His head was spinning. Why, who, how? Questions flooded his mind, and the shaking in his hands seemed to course through his entire body.
Sal needed a cap. He stumbled to the dresser, shaking and sobbing, and fumbled open the drawer. The carved ebony box was in its place snuggled among Bartley’s most prized possessions.
Sal flipped open the lid of the box and removed a golden-brown cap and the pipe. He crumbled the cap into the pipe’s bowl with thumb and forefinger. His sticky, bloody fingers became coated in a film of skeev dust as he worked.
Sal reached for the unlit handlamp on the bedside table, when a movement in his peripheral vision caught his attention .
He snapped around and realized he was not alone in the room.
The piercing blue eyes of a predator stared back at him hungrily, as a lithe figure separated from the shadows. Dellan wore all black, a layer of boiled leather armor and a hooded cloak. When the Kalfi-born Vordin smiled, he showed a set of teeth filed to wicked points.
Sal stumbled back. It was like staring into the face of a monster, a nightmare creature in its full corporeal form.
Dellan’s knives were drawn, two jagged, ugly pieces of steel.
“All done blubbering?” Dellan asked in a voice like the crunch of a boot on gravel. “I was rather enjoying the show. Not so much as the one your little Yahdrish and his wench put on, but then there were two of them. Still, might be you’ll prove droller in time. Up for a strip and a roll in the sheets before I slit your throat?”
“Why?” Sal said through quivering lips. “Why are you doing this?”
Dellan’s smile spread to his eyes. “Only thing I’ve ever found worth taking the time to do.”
Sal wanted to pull his pigsticker from his boot, but knew if he moved for the knife, Dellan would have him stuck full of holes before he even bent down. His finger-knife was handy, slipped up his sleeve, but the minuscule blade would do little against the daggers Dellan held.
“Was it Luca?” Sal asked, buying time.
“Luca?” Dellan asked, genuinely perplexed.
“He’s been sending you after the rest of the crew because he never found the rat. First Pavalo, then Anton, now Bartley. Was I next?”
“Never found his fucking rat? What is it like to wallow through life in ignorance? Luca was never looking for a rat. Luca was the fucking rat.”
“Luca, the rat?” Sal was incredulous. “How? Why?”
“Because Luca is a worm with shit for brains. Should have realized that steel cap was going to turn around and bugger him. That’s what them City Watch are good for, cheating and buggering.”
“But why? If Luca was the rat, why is he killing off the crew? ”
“You think it’s him done the killing?” Dellan said, chuckling and shaking his head. “Luca’s been too busy with his little girl to be making no corpses.”
“Little girl?” Did Dellan mean—but no, he couldn’t.
The pale Vordin made a purring sound deep in his throat. “Soft-flesh noble bitch. Luca’s going to have himself a bit of fun, I imagine. Might be I’ll go for him next. Take his little prize off his hands. Claimed she was worth a sizeable ransom when he offered me the job. That was before he knew I had other work lined up. Still, think I’ll take him up on the offer. Never tasted noble flesh myself.”
“Lilliana?” Sal blurted.
“Might have been the cunt’s name. Might be I’ll ask her before I’ve had my taste.”
Sal felt nauseous, his stomach twisted in knots. His gaze darted around the room, searching for a place to run, a way to escape.
Dellan stood between him and the door.
That left the open window. It would be a long drop, but he might survive the fall to the cobblestones.
“Why, then? Why Anton, why Bartley and Bessy?”
Dellan shrugged. “Antonio had something that belongs to my employer, or was supposed to. Inquires led me to believe your little Yahdrish had it, but now I’ve come to believe otherwise.”
Sal’s eyes widened.
Dellan’s smile grew. “Where’s the locket?”
Sal’s hand went to the chain at his collar. The locket was warm, and sent a current of energy surging through him.
Dellan ran his tongue across his top lip. His eyes narrowed, and without warning he sprang for the kill.
Sal’s legs went weak. He clutched the locket all the tighter and lashed out with his free hand.
He put all his will into the blow and saw, as much as felt, the blue lighting that surged from his palm with a boom of thunder.
The blue bolt struck Dellan square in the chest just as the Vordin punched a fist into Sal’s ribs. Sal felt his breath forced from his lungs as Dellan flew backward and slammed into the opposite wall .
As quick as that, it was over.
There was the smell of burning hair. A soft thump as Dellan’s corpse slumped to the floorboards, his back leaning against the wall. His chest was split wide open, boiled leather and dyed wool burned away, flesh and hair charred black. His heart and lungs had exploded. His filed maw was fixed in a permanent scream, the staring blue eyes sightless.
Even in death, Dellan was a terrifying sight to behold.
Sal’s head was spinning. A flush of triumph washed through him. He had cast lightning from his hand—bloody lightning—but savoring that triumph would needs wait until he’d had a moment to sit down.
Dellan had punched him hard in the ribs, and it had knocked the air from his lungs, making it difficult to draw breath. He needed to take a seat, to rest and recuperate. He put a hand on his side where he had been punched. He assumed there would be severe bruising for a week at the least. Still, he was alive. He had faced Dellan and walked away with minor bruises to show for it. At least, he thought it was a bruise.
Only, when he removed his hand, it came away wet and sticky with blood—his blood.
22
A Flash of Lightning
S al stumbled, hand clutching at his side as warm rivulets of blood slithered through his fingers and dripped to the floorboards. He had been stabbed. The pain set in like fire. Sal wanted to scream but didn’t have the air in his lungs, each breath coming in a wheezing gasp.
There was no help for Bartley and Bessy, nor what remained of Dellan. Sal was the only one not beyond saving, and so, staggering, Sal fled the room. He stumbled down the stairs, leaning heavily against the wall as each jarring step sent a stab of pain into his ribs.
The taproom patrons craned their necks as Sal passed. The man who’d been banging his mug and shouting went quiet, the woman let out a muffled gasp, and her companion moved to comfort her.
No one so much as lifted a hand or spoke a word to Sal, as he pushed through the door and out into the night.
The walk to Beggar’s Lane was a blur, his head foggy, his eyes unable to focus. Each sharp inhalation was like a punch to the chest. He focused on progress, nothing but the forward movement of his feet, ignoring the stares and catcalls that accosted him as he moved one foot past the other in a slow death shamble .
He coughed. The iron taste of blood filled his mouth, and when he spit his saliva was red.
Sal staggered into a deserted alley, leaning against a brick wall as he stumbled forward. Unable to stand any longer, he dropped to his hands and knees.
Thunder cracked, and lightning cut a jagged tear across the black sky. Heavy rain began to fall, slapping the cobblestones and splashing Sal’s face. The stone under his hands quickly grew slick.
Sal drew in the deepest breath he could manage, put a hand upon the brick wall, and struggled to his feet.
In that instant, he saw them.
They spilled from the alcoves and out from behind the wooden crates and stacked barrels, like a colony of rats. The gang was at least twenty strong—urchins, the lot of them.
The pack crept closer, chittering and hissing words that Sal couldn’t quite hear. The kid in the lead was holding a weapon of some sort, but Sal couldn’t focus well enough to make out what it was. The kid said something, and Sal reached for his boot but was too weak to get the pigsticker loose from its sheath, and the gang closed in.
Just then, someone shouted. A man, not a child—a man.
The gang of urchins scattered and fled like so many rodents exposed to the light. They slipped back into alcoves and nooks, behind barrels and stacked crates.
Sal braced himself against the wall, letting it take his weight as he searched for the source of the voice.
A tall man, Norsic, stringy blonde hair, fleshy and pale. Eyes bloodshot, half-lidded and watery. His face was drawn, but it was a familiar face, one Sal knew well—Vinny’s face.
Only this wasn’t Vinny. He was too old.
The man helped him to his feet, but Sal found he was too weak to stand, and he dropped back to his knees.
The man spoke, but the words jumbled up in Sal’s mind, and he was unable to decipher their meaning.
He groaned as a new bout of fire surged through his wound.
The man spoke again, and before Sal knew what was happening, he found himself being carried upon the man’s shoulders. The ride was rough, and each jarring bounce sent a wave of pain bursting in his side.
Their journey could not have taken long, but the pain made it seem an eternity. The man pushed through a door, the hinges grating.
The man said something in a booming voice, and there was movement across the room. Sal was laid down gently upon a bed, and water was brought to him in a wooden cup.
He drank until he began to cough painfully, and sputtered water all over his chin and chest.
The Hand That Takes Page 21