by Glen Cook
“Must have brought every man in the province,” I said.
Candy shrugged. He and Pawnbroker were piling corpses into defensive barricades. “They must have set up a base camp near here.” Our intelligence about the Tally guerrillas was extensive. The Lady prepares well before she sends us in. But we hadn’t been told to expect such strength available at short notice.
Despite our successes, I was scared. There was a big mob outside, and it sounded like more were arriving regularly. Silent, as an ace in the hole, hadn’t much more value.
“You send your bird?” I demanded, assuming that had been the reason for his trip upstairs. He nodded. That provided some relief. But not much.
The tenor changed. They were quieter outside. More arrows zipped through the doorway. It had been ripped off its hinges in the first rush. The bodies heaped in it would not slow the Rebel long. “They’re going to come,” I told Candy.
“All right.” He joined Otto in the kitchen. Pawnbroker joined me. Silent, looking mean and deadly, stationed himself in the center of the common room.
A roar went up outside.
“Here they come!”
We held the main rush, with Silent’s help, but others began to batter the window shutters. Then Candy and Otto had to concede the kitchen. Candy killed an overzealous attacker and spun away long enough to bellow, “Where the hell are they, Silent?”
Silent shrugged. He seemed almost indifferent to the proximity of death. He hurled a spell at a man being boosted through a window.
Trumpets brayed in the night. “Ha!” I shouted. “They’re coming!” The last gate of the trap had closed.
One question remained. Would the Company close in before our attackers finished us?
More windows gave. Silent could not be everywhere. “To the stair!” Candy shouted. “Fall back to the stair.”
We raced for it. Silent called up a noxious fog. It was not the deadly thing he had used before. He could not do that again, now. He hadn’t time to prepare.
The stair was easily held. Two men, with Silent behind them, could hold it forever.
The Rebel saw that. He began setting fires. This time Silent could not extinguish all the flames.
Juniper: Krage
The front door opened. Two men shoved into the Lily, stamped their feet and beat the ice off themselves. Shed scuttled over to help. The bigger man pushed him away. The smaller crossed the room, kicked Asa away from the fire, squatted with his hands extended. Shed’s guests stared into the flames, seeing and hearing nothing.
Except Raven, Shed noted. Raven looked interested, and not particularly disturbed.
Shed sweated. Krage finally turned around. “You didn’t stop by yesterday, Shed. I missed you.”
“I couldn’t, Krage. I didn’t have anything to bring you. Look in my coin box. You know I’ll pay you. I always do. I just need a little time.”
“You were late last week, Shed. I was patient. I know you’re having problems. But you were late the week before that, too. And the week before that. You’re making me look bad. I know you mean it when you say you’ll pay me. But what will people think? Eh? Maybe they start thinking it’s all right for them to be late, too. Maybe they start thinking they don’t have to pay at all.”
“Krage, I can’t. Look in my box. As soon as business picks up. …”
Krage gestured. Red reached behind the counter. “Business is bad everywhere, Shed. I got problems, too. I got expenses. I can’t meet mine if you don’t meet yours.” He ambled around the common room, examining the furnishings. Shed could read his mind. He wanted the Lily. Wanted Shed in a hole so deep he would have to give the place up.
Red handed Shed’s box to Krage. Krage made a face. “Business really is bad.” He gestured. The big man, Count, seized Shed’s elbows from behind. Shed nearly fainted. Krage grinned wickedly. “Pat him down, Red. See if he’s holding out.” He emptied the coin box. “On account, Shed.”
Red found the silver leva Raven had given Shed.
Krage shook his head. “Shed, Shed, you lied to me.” Count pressed his elbows together painfully.
“That isn’t mine,” Shed protested. “That belongs to Raven. He wanted me to buy wood. That’s why I was headed for Latham’s.”
Krage eyed him. Shed knew Krage knew he was telling the truth. He didn’t have the guts to lie.
Shed was scared. Krage might bust him up just so he would give up the Lily to buy his life.
What then? He would be without a gersh, and in the street with an old woman to look after.
Shed’s mother cursed Krage. Everyone ignored her, including Shed. She was harmless. Darling stood in the kitchen doorway, frozen, one hand fisted before her mouth, eyes full of appeal. She watched Raven more than Krage and Shed.
“What do you want me to break, Krage?” Red asked. Shed cringed. Red enjoyed his work. “You shouldn’t hold out on us, Shed. You shouldn’t lie to Krage.” He unleashed a vicious punch. Shed gagged, tried to fall forward. Count held him upright. Red hit him again.
A soft, cold voice said, “He told the truth. I sent him for wood.”
Krage and Red shifted formation. Count did not relax his grip. “Who are you?” Krage demanded.
“Raven. Let him be.”
Krage exchanged glances with Red. Red said, “I think maybe you’d better not talk that way to Mister Krage.”
Raven’s gaze rose. Red’s shoulders tightened defensively. Then, aware of his audience, he stepped over and threw an open-palmed punch.
Raven plucked his hand out of the air, twisted. Red went to his knees, grinding his teeth on a whimper. Raven said, “That was stupid.”
Astonished, Krage replied, “Smart is as smart does, mister. Let him go while you’re healthy.”
Raven smiled for the first time in Shed’s recollection. “That wasn’t smart.” There was an audible pop. Red screamed.
“Count!” Krage snapped.
Count hurled Shed aside. He was twice Red’s size, quick, strong as a mountain, and barely as smart. Nobody survived Count.
A wicked nine-inch dagger appeared in Raven’s hand. Count stopped so violently his feet tangled. He fell forward, rolling off the edge of Raven’s table.
“Oh, shit,” Shed groaned. Somebody was going to get killed. Krage wouldn’t put up with this. It would be bad for business.
But as Count rose, Krage said, “Count, help Red.” His tone was conversational.
Count obediently turned to Red, who had dragged himself away to nurse his wrist.
“Maybe we had a little misunderstanding here,” Krage said. “I’ll put it plain, Shed. You’ve got one week to pay me. The big and the nut both.”
“But. …”
“No buts, Shed. That’s according to terms. Kill somebody. Rob somebody. Sell this dump. But get the money.” The or-elses did not have to be explained.
I’ll be all right, Shed promised himself. He won’t hurt me. I’m too good a customer.
How the hell would he come up with it? He couldn’t sell out. Not with winter closing in. The old woman couldn’t survive in the street.
Cold air gusted into the Lily as Krage paused at the door. He glared at Raven. Raven did not bother looking back.
“Some wine here, Shed,” Raven said. “I seem to have spilled mine.”
Shed hustled despite his pain. He could not help fawning. “I thank you, Raven, but you shouldn’t have interfered. He’ll kill you for that.”
Raven shrugged. “Go to the wood-seller before somebody else tries to take my money.”
Shed looked at the door. He did not want to go outside. They might be waiting. But then he looked at Raven again. The man was cleaning his nails with that wicked knife. “Right away.”
It was snowing now. The street was treacherous. Only a thin white mask covered the mud.
Shed could not help wondering why Raven had intervened. To protect his money? Reasonable. … Only, reasonable men stayed quiet around Krage. He would cut your throat if y
ou looked at him wrong.
Raven was new around here. Maybe he did not know about Krage.
He would learn the hard way. His life wasn’t worth two gersh anymore.
Raven seemed well-heeled. He wouldn’t carry his whole fortune around with him, would he? Maybe he kept part hidden in his room. Maybe enough to pay off Krage. Maybe he could set Raven up. Krage would appreciate that.
“Let’s see your money,” Latham said when he asked for wood. Shed produced Raven’s silver leva. “Ha! Who died this time?”
Shed reddened. An old prostitute had died at the Lily last winter. Shed had rifled her belongings before summoning the Custodians. His mother had lived warm for the rest of the winter. The whole Buskin knew because he had made the mistake of telling Asa.
By custom, the Custodians took the personal possessions of the newly dead. Those and donations supported them and the Catacombs.
“Nobody died. A guest sent me.”
“Ha! The day you have a guest who can afford generosity. …” Latham shrugged. “But what do I care? The coin is good. I don’t need its provenance. Grab some wood. You’re headed that way.”
Shed staggered back to the Lily, face burning, ribs aching. Latham hadn’t bothered to hide his contempt.
Back home, with the fire taking hold of the good oak, Shed drew two mugs of wine and sat down opposite Raven. “On the house.”
Raven stared momentarily, took a sip, maneuvered the mug to an exact spot upon the tabletop. “What do you want?”
“To thank you again.”
“There’s nothing to thank me for,”
“To warn you, then. You didn’t take Krage serious enough.”
Latham tramped in with an armload of firewood, grumbling because he couldn’t get his wagon out. He would be back and forth for a long time.
“Go away, Shed.” And, as Shed rose, face hot, Raven snapped, “Wait. You think you owe me? Then someday I’ll ask a favor. You do it. Right?”
“Sure, Raven. Anything. Just name it.”
“Go sit by the fire, Shed.”
Shed squeezed in between Asa and his mother, joining their surly silence. That Raven really was creepy.
The man in question was engaged in a lively exchange of signs with the deaf serving girl.
Tally: Close-Up
I let the tip of my blade drop to the inn floor. I slumped in exhaustion, coughing weakly in the smoke. I swayed, feebly reached for the support of an overturned table. Reaction was setting in. I had been sure this time was the end. If they hadn’t been forced to extinguish the fires themselves. …
Elmo crossed the room and threw an arm around me. “You hurt, Croaker? Want me to find One-Eye?”
“Not hurt. Just burned out. Been a long time since I been so scared, Elmo. Thought I was a goner.”
He righted a chair with a foot and sat me down. He was my closest friend, a wiry, old hardcase seldom given to moodiness. Wet blood reddened his left sleeve. I tried to stand. “Sit,” he ordered. “Pockets can take care of it.”
Pockets was my understudy, a kid of twenty-three. The Company is getting older—at least at its core, my contemporaries. Elmo is past fifty. The Captain and Lieutenant straddle that five-zero. I wouldn’t see forty again, “Get them all?”
“Enough.” Elmo settled on another chair. “One-Eye and Goblin and Silent went after the ones who took off.” His voice was vacant. “Half the Rebels in the province, first shot.”
“We’re getting too old for this.” The men began bringing prisoners inside, sifting them for characters who might know something useful. “Ought to leave this stuff to the kids.”
“They couldn’t handle it,” He stared into nothing, at long ago and far away.
“Something wrong?”
He shook his head, then contradicted himself. “What are we doing, Croaker? Isn’t there any end to it?”
I waited. He did not go on. He doesn’t talk much. Especially not about his feelings. I nudged. “What do you mean?”
“Just goes on and on. Hunting Rebels. No end to the supply. Even back when we worked for the Syndic in Beryl. We hunted dissidents. And before Beryl. … Thirty-six years of same old same old. And me never sure I was doing right. Especially now.”
It was like Elmo to keep his reservations in abeyance eight years before airing them. “We’re in no position to change anything. The Lady won’t take kindly to us if we suddenly say we’re only going to do thus and so, and none of that.”
The Lady’s service has not been bad. Though we get the toughest missions, we never have to do the dirty stuff. The regulars get those jobs. Preemptive strikes sometimes, sure. The occasional massacre. But all in the line of business. Militarily necessary. We’d never gotten involved in atrocities. The Captain wouldn’t permit that.
“It’s not the morality, Croaker. What’s moral in war? Superior strength. No. I’m just tired.”
“Not an adventure anymore, eh?”
“Stopped being that a long time ago. Turned into a job. Something I do because I don’t know anything else.”
“Something you do very well.” That did not help, but I couldn’t think of anything better to say.
The Captain came in, a shambling bear who surveyed the wreckage with a cold eye. He came over. “How many did we get, Croaker?”
“Count’s not in yet. Most of their command structure, I’d guess.”
He nodded. “You hurt?”
“Worn out. Physically and emotionally. Been a while since I was so scared.”
He righted a table, dragged up a chair, produced a case of maps. The Lieutenant joined him. Later, Candy brought Madle over. Somehow, the innkeeper had survived.
“Our friend has some names for you, Croaker.”
I spread my paper, scratched out those Madle named.
The company commanders began drafting prisoners for grave-digging detail. Idly, I wondered if they realized they were preparing their own resting places. No Rebel soldier is paroled unless we can enlist him inescapably into the Lady’s cause. Madle we enlisted. We gave him a story to explain his survival and eliminated everyone who could deny it. Candy, in a fit of generosity, had the bodies removed from his well.
Silent returned, with Goblin and One-Eye, the two smaller wizards bickering caustically. As usual. I do not recall the argument. It didn’t matter. The struggle was all, and it was all decades old.
The Captain gave them a sour look, asked the Lieutenant, “Heart or Tome?” Heart and Tome are the only substantial towns in Tally. There is a king at Heart who is allied with the Lady. She crowned him two years ago, after Whisper slew his predecessor. He is not popular with the Tallylanders. My opinion, never asked, is that she should dispose of him before he does her further harm.
Goblin laid a fire. The morning hours were nippy. He knelt before it, toasting his fingers.
One-Eye poked around behind Madle’s counter, found a beer jar miraculously unscathed. He drained it in a single draft, wiped his face, surveyed the room, winked at me.
“Here we go,” I murmured.
The Captain glanced up. “Eh?”
“One-Eye and Goblin.”
“Oh.” He went back to work and did not look up again.
A face formed in the flames before frog-faced little Goblin. He did not see it. His eyes were closed. I looked at One-Eye. His eye was sealed, too, and his face was all pruned, wrinkles atop wrinkles, shadowed by the brim of his floppy hat. The face in the fire took on detail.
“Eh!” It startled me for a moment. Staring my way, it looked like the Lady. Well, like the face the Lady wore the one time I actually saw her. That was during the battle at Charm. She called me in to dredge my mind for suspicions about a conspiracy among the Ten Who Were Taken. … A thrill of fear. I have lived with it for years. If ever she questions me again, the Black Company will be short its senior physician and Annalist. I now have knowledge for which she would flatten kingdoms.
The face in the fire extended a tongue like that of a s
alamander. Goblin squealed. He jumped up clutching a blistered nose.
One-Eye was draining another beer, back to his victim. Goblin scowled, rubbed his nose, seated himself again. One-Eye turned just enough to place him at the corner of his vision. He waited till Goblin began to nod.
This has been going on forever. Both were with the Company before I joined, One-Eye for at least a century. He is old, but is as spry as men my age.
Maybe spryer. Lately I’ve felt the burden of time more and more, all too often dwelling on everything I’ve missed. I can laugh at peasants and townies chained all their lives to a tiny corner of the earth while I roam its face and see its wonders, but when I go down, there will be no child to carry my name, no family to mourn me save my comrades, no one to remember, no one to raise a marker over my cold bit of ground. Though I have seen great events, I will leave no enduring accomplishment save these Annals.
Such conceit. Writing my own epitaph disguised as Company history.
I am developing a morbid streak. Have to watch that.
One-Eye cupped his hands palms-down on the countertop, murmured, opened them. A nasty spider of fist size stood revealed, wearing a bushy squirrel tail. Never say One-Eye has no sense of humor. It scuttled down to the floor, skipped over to me, grinned up with a One-Eye black face wearing no eye-patch, then zipped toward Goblin.
The essence of sorcery, even for its nonfraudulent practitioners, is misdirection. So with the bushy-tailed spider.
Goblin was not snoozing. He was lying in the weeds. When the spider got close, he whirled and swung a stick of firewood. The spider dodged. Goblin hammered the floor. In vain. His target darted around, chuckling in a One-Eye voice.
The face formed in the flames. Its tongue darted out. The seat of Goblin’s trousers began to smoulder.
“I’ll be damned,” I said.
“What?” the Captain asked, not looking up. He and the Lieutenant had taken opposite ends of an argument over whether Heart or Tome would be the better base of operations.
Somehow, word gets out. Men streamed in for the latest round of the feud. I observed, “I think One-Eye is going to win one.”