I tried to think of it as moving up in the world. I failed, but I tried.
As far as I’d ever heard, there were only two ways out of the tower – total exoneration, or a date with the hangman. Either way, its tenants did not often spend long in its confines; months more often than years, and weeks more often than months. And unlike Havelock, you couldn’t rightly call it crowded, which suited me fine. You know, for being in prison.
I’d had more to say to Morno, but apparently he was full up on listening. They put the iron jewelry back on me, which was disappointing but not unexpected, while Morno wrote out a note and passed it to Kluge. Presumably it was for the warden of the Dragonfly Tower. I don’t know, he didn’t seek my input. Kluge took it and the rest of my possessions, and my two minders marched me back down the stairs and out of the manse, and then shoved me back in the carriage. Kluge climbed in after and the carriage set off once more.
“Kluge.”
“Yes?”
“Are baths a thing in the Dragonfly Tower?”
“They are. You get one when you first arrive, as it happens, whether you like it or not.”
“Do me a favor.”
“I saved your life today. I think you’re out of favors for a while.”
“Have you ever been in the Ose?”
“I have.”
“Did you enjoy it?”
His face told me he had not.
“I need fresh clothes. Don’t make me beg.”
“Where are your things? Surely you did not make the passage to Lucernis without any luggage.”
I opened my mouth. And then I closed it again. I had had a trunk on the ship with me. I remembered paying one of the sailors to drag it down the gangway. And then the next thing I remembered was standing in front of the cinders of my house. And hadn’t Chuckles said something...?
Something wasn’t right. Just thinking about it made me feel queasy. But all I said to Kluge was “I lost my trunk.”
“What, would you like me to lend you something? I don’t think anything of mine would fit.”
“That won’t be necessary. I’ve got a fresh wardrobe waiting for me at my tailor’s.”
“You want to stop off on the way to your imprisonment, to collect you new wardrobe.”
“Kluge. Please. I swear by all the dead gods, I’ve got things crawling in places nobody wants to feel a tickle. They’re already paid for, and just sitting there in the shop, and if I don’t bathe and change soon, I swear I’ll just start ripping these rags off to get at the problem.”
He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Finally, he said “What street?”
MY TAILOR WAS MORBIDLY ecstatic when I showed up under guard and in chains.
Kluge didn’t let me out of the carriage, of course. But while he went through my order to make sure there wasn’t anything dangerous in it, she stood in her doorway and asked me “So, are they gonna?”
“Gonna what?”
“You know.” She mimed being hanged, with one hand above her head, with her neck bent and her tongue sticking out.
“What the hells is wrong with you?”
She thought about it. “I lead an incredibly boring life. So, are they?”
“Fuck, I don’t know. Ask him,” I said, indicating Kluge, who was finishing his inspection.
“Will you be hanging my customer, officer? And if so, do you have a date yet?”
Kluge gave her the kind of look you give your dog when it’s licking its crotch. He didn’t give her an answer. Or rather, I guess the look was his answer. He tied my package back up indifferently and walked out of the shop. He tossed in the coach beside me and said “There’s something wrong with you tailor.”
“She’s different, yeah.”
He climbed in and slammed the door. “Any other errands before your incarceration?”
“There’s a jug at Tambor’s. It’s got my name on it, but I’ll share.”
He didn’t roll his eyes, I suspect, only because he couldn’t be bothered.
“It’s on the way.” And it was, too. The Dragonfly Tower was just next to the Arsenal, on the edge of the Foreigner’s Quarter.
We didn’t stop by Tambor’s.
THEY MADE ME STRIP. Not that I objected – what’s pride compared to the very real possibility of leeches camped out in your nethers? I wanted to object to the search that followed, but I kept my mouth shut while other parts of me were prised open. Well, until they told me to open my mouth as well, to make sure I wasn’t concealing a crossbow under my tongue.
Because it wasn’t Havelock, my particular minders were both female. They were also both double my size, and fitter than I had ever dreamed of being. They had ironwood bully sticks hanging from their belts and a look in their eyes that said they didn’t get to use them nearly enough. I resolved not to give them an excuse. The brown-haired one seemed marginally less attuned to violence than the blond, but I wouldn’t have put money on it.
Because it wasn’t Havelock, they inventoried my possessions while I made use of a bucket of fresh water and a scrub brush, and nothing went missing. Because it wasn’t Havelock, I got to use a bar of soap. But because it was still prison, it was lye soap. I didn’t complain. The Ose needed stiff competition.
Once I was dressed again, they took me up a flight of stairs to my cell. On the way the one in front informed me that I would be given two meals a day, and that my chamber pot would be emptied once a day, and if I caused trouble those numbers would be reduced to zero until my behaviour improved. It was all very straightforward.
We came to a door. They opened it. I walked in. The brown-haired woman hesitated before closing the door.
“What?”
“You’re taking all this well. Better than most, anyway.”
“It’s not my first time, and anyway I could do with a rest.” And I very much doubted Visini would let me linger here for long. She had her game to play, and she couldn’t play it if I wasn’t running for my life. I wouldn’t be here long.
The woman grunted and closed the door. A key turned in the lock. I took in my new digs.
I had a cell about four paces by three, with a narrow wooden bed that was the opposite of sturdy, a battered chair, and a chamber pot; all of which I could actually see because I also had an arrow slit in one wall that let in starlight and fresh air. I had a view of the Foreigner’s Quarter, rather than the bay. There was no bedding, which in prison was probably a mercy. Involuntarily, the memory of Havelock’s lice and nits came back to me with enough vividness to induce a whole-body shudder. Anyway, I had my packet of clothing to use as a pillow, which I did.
It had been a long day.
I wondered if I’d be able to get a decent amount of sleep before Visini drove me back to the chase. Being ever the optimist, I kept my still-damp boots on.
As tired as I was, and despite all my aches, sleep proved elusive. A lot had happened in a very short span, and it was all a snarl in my head. I had a sort of compulsion to try and pick it apart that wouldn’t let me rest. Or maybe I just needed to rake through the ashes, even though it was pointless.
None of it mattered; not the gentlemen, nor Mister Hope and the associated killers. Not Morno, nor being in the slammer, nor even Gammond, as scary and crazy as that bitch was. They were all just distractions; they were the hand-wavey mumbo-jumbo that the street conjuror deployed to distract you while he produced a rabbit from his trousers and his accomplice stole your purse. The only real thing was Visini, and all I had to do was endure, to survive her hell-show until she finally revealed herself.
That’s when things would go from bad to worse.
That’s when I might well have to kill someone I actually cared about.
It wasn’t anything I wanted to dwell on, but there I was, dwelling nonetheless. Prison was good for that; it was the perfect venue for obsessing over all manner of unpleasantness. Which made it the perfect place to go mad. People lucky enough to make it out of Havelock did so, more often than
not, with far fewer wits than when they went in. It broke people, prison did, physically and mentally. Execution was a less cruel fate for many than being dropped in a hole and forgotten for years.
“Can’t see many stars here,” came a voice from beside the arrow slit. Fucking Chuckles.
“I don’t recall inviting you to come out and play.” I sat up and glared at her.
“You did, back at that ruined villa. I am free to come and go as I please now.”
“Fucking hells. I’m gonna kick Mother Crimson’s ass, blind or not. What do you want, soul-tick?”
She stretched her imaginary neck. “Listening to your maundering was getting tedious.”
“I thought you didn’t get bored.”
“I didn’t say I was bored.” Her brow wrinkled in thought. “I’m not sure what I am feeling. I seem to be experiencing new emotions. Perhaps it’s due to our bond.”
“We don’t have a bond, Chuckles. That would imply there was some sort of agreement between us. You’re a leech, and I never consented to our connection.”
“I never consented to the rain getting me drenched,” she said in a perfect mockery of my own voice. “And yet.”
“Don’t fucking do that.”
“Do what?”
“Use my voice, you little shit.”
She shrugged one narrow shoulder. “Just picking up the local color.”
I discovered I was gritting my teeth. I made myself stop. “What do you want, Chuckles? Don’t bullshit me. This is the first time since the Telemarch’s death that you’ve voluntarily started a conversation, so spit it out already.”
“All right. The old blood told you to talk to me. You have, twice. But because you aren’t particularly bright, you haven’t asked me the question that needs to be asked. If you don’t ask it soon, you won’t be asking any questions ever again.”
By all the dead gods, she was showing more emotion than I’d ever seen from her before. Both her facial expressions and her tone of voice were becoming more human.
I didn’t like it.
“Well, since I’m such a halfwit, why don’t you skip the question part and just tell me what I need to know?”
“I might be convinced to do so.”
“Lovely. How?”
“Call me by my true name. Call me Kalara. Ask for my intercession, as an avatar to her goddess.”
“Let me think about that.” I thought about it for about two seconds. “Nah. I’d rather eat shit.” I gave her the fingers for good measure, then lay back down.
“Then I cannot see any outcome for you other than death.”
“Sure, I might die. But if I do, so will you. A little honey to go with the sting, and all that.” I closed my eyes. I might have choked down calling her Kalara instead of Chuckles. But I’d be fucked if I was willingly going to be her avatar in any way, shape or form.
“I am inside you, privy to your innermost thoughts, dreams, desires. And still I do not understand your self-destructive obduracy.”
“I guess you need to soak up a little more of that local color, then. And when the day arrives when you do understand, may the horror of what you’re guilty of rise up and drive you to destroy yourself.”
“Fool.”
“Monster.”
She was quiet after that, for long enough that I thought she’d fucked off.
“He had a good question,” she said.
“Who?”
“Kluge.”
“Kluge has lots of questions. He’s a human shaped collection of questions. Maybe you could be more specific.”
“What happened to your luggage?”
A feeling of unease rolled over me. I had completely forgotten Kluge asking me that, though the question had unsettled me when he’d asked it.
I tried to remember. I remembered disembarking. And then I remembered standing in front of the remains of the manse. And nothing in between.
Something was wrong, sure enough. But however much as I picked at it, the memory was just... gone.
“Do you remember me asking you the same question, Amra?”
“What?”
“The night you met the blood witch. I, too asked you where your possessions were.”
“The fuck you did.” But even as I said it, I remembered her asking.
“I have another interesting question for you. Why is it your fingers were ink-stained when you first arrived back in Lucernis?”
Had they been? I didn’t – and then I did remember, clear as day. Giving my bastard of a next-door neighbour the fingers, and noticing the ink.
What the fuck was going on? I began to fear for my sanity.
“I don’t know, Chuckles,” I finally managed. “Why don’t you tell me?”
She smiled that not-nice smile of hers. “Because my name isn’t Chuckles.” And with that, she disappeared once more, leaving me alone, exhausted, and deeply disturbed.
Eventually I drifted off. The Dragonfly Tower, unlike Havelock, was a quiet place, and there was little enough street noise at that hour drifting in from the arrow slit. When I did sleep, I slid immediately into a decidedly non-prophetic dream involving Kluge dancing with my tailor, while Lhiewyn, the old fart at Lagna’s temple, played the hurdy-gurdy. Every time they missed a step, he hurled a rotting fish and verbal abuse at them.
Some people say that dreams are messages from the gods. If so, the gods needed to put down the hellweed pipe.
In any case the dream, and my rest, didn’t last long. A sound from the corridor outside my cell woke me. If it had been a loud noise, I probably would have slept through it. But it hadn’t been, and whatever it was yanked me straight out of the ballroom absurdity. Well, that and the little hairs on the back of my neck trying to pluck themselves out to make a prison break. I heard it clearly once I was awake; the sound of leather soles on flagstone. Too many leather soles. An absolute gaggle of them getting closer to my door, but nobody talking.
At the same time, I realized the stone wall behind my head, the outer wall of the tower, was giving off an unnatural heat. I had no fucking clue what was about to happen, but I decided to give myself what cover I could. I dropped to the floor and rolled under the bed, then popped back out and dragged my bundle of clothing down with me. You never know, and lately I’d been as hard on clothes as I was on knives.
I heard the key in the lock and the door opened. I saw hobnail boots, presumably belonging to a guard, and behind them a forest of well-tailored pants legs sprouting from more expensive footwear. The gentlemen, I presumed. There was a moment’s silence, ended by Mar’s voice.
“Tell me you’re not actually hiding under the bed,” she said with an audible sneer.
I thought the wall exploding was a fairly witty retort, even if I couldn’t take credit for it.
TWENTY-ONE
LIKE A GUNPOWDER EXPLOSION, stones were hurled at force by the blast, and dust was suddenly everywhere. Unlike a gunpowder explosion, it was all relatively quiet. I mean, it was loud, the stones and shards ripping themselves apart and slamming into walls and flesh, as were the resulting screams. But not so loud as to set my ears ringing. I came away from the whole thing completely unharmed, for a change.
I couldn’t say the same for the guard. From my position I could see her down on the floor. The parts that weren’t splattered all over. It looked like she’d taken the brunt of the damage, but the gentlemen behind her were none of them upright that I could see.
I heard a footstep on grit from the opening, and briefly wondered how whoever it was had gotten up to the second floor so easily. Then I called myself an idiot, because the answer was magic, obviously. Or a ladder. It didn’t matter. What mattered was I was stuck between a rock and a hard place. The rock was almost certainly Gammond. The hard place was the gentlemen, assuming they were still alive.
My vantage point allowed me to see the heap of bodies at the door, so I saw Mar sit up, her face sheeted with blood, and fling a dagger at whoever had crashed the party. Apparently she
connected, because I heard a gasp of pain. Then the hairs on my neck and arms stood to attention, but whatever the spell was, Mar just smiled a bloody-toothed smile.
“You fucking wish,” she growled, pulling out a couple more blades while staggering to her feet. Behind her I saw that big bastard, Balthaz, also getting up. At the same time, the rubble strewn all across the floor started trembling, and then it all rose up off the floor. Whoever the mage was, they weren’t stupid. Direct magic might not have had an effect on Mar or the others, but magic-hurled rocks sure as fuck did.
I decided it was time for me to get gone.
The hallway wasn’t really an option, it being clogged with people who wanted to have a chat with me, and besides, there were at least two more locked doors beyond it between me and freedom. But there was now a hole in the wall with a survivable drop; with a little luck it wouldn’t even hurt much. There was still a mage between me and that hole, however. I swore, braced myself as best I could, and flung the rickety bed at whoever had crashed my cell. I didn’t hang around to see the outcome; I just grabbed my wardrobe and scrambled for the newly expanded window, hoping my ladder theory proved out.
It didn’t.
I don’t know what happened in the cell after that, beyond a grunt of surprise. Once I’d confirmed no ladder was waiting for me, I leapt without much in the way of looking. landed hard on the cobbles, and I lost hold of my package of clothing. My heels let me know they didn’t appreciate my reckless disregard for gravity, and I went down onto one knee. I put my arms out and my stitched shoulder betrayed me then. I ended up on my side. A knife clattered onto the pavement by my head a split-second after. I don’t know if it was meant for me or if it had already missed its target, and I didn’t much care, but damned if it wasn’t my own favorite knife, with the onyx in the pommel. That bitch Marl must have taken it from my effects.
The Thief Who Went to War Page 13