A silver tencoin lighter, he exited the shop.
Isabel was waiting at the corner. “How did it go?”
“I’ll have flowers ready tomorrow. Let’s hope I won’t need them.”
“Sheriff’s here.”
Digger spotted him immediately. The man stood in front of the stockade gate speaking with a group of tourists. His telltale green felt hat was impossible to miss. The armed purebloods around him were older than the ones Digger had seen earlier. They wore non-decorative rapiers, their clothes were less flashy, and they appeared to be alert to their surroundings. Their boots, their swords—it was all identical to the gear the man he’d killed had worn.
Not tourists, he decided. So who were they?
Isabel sank back into the shadows. “I know them. The blond man in front is Angel, Queen Claudia’s nephew.”
“So you know them. Do they know you?”
She nodded. “They’re the ones chasing me.”
Chapter Ten
DIGGER STUDIED THE group around the sheriff as he broke cover and walked closer. A few of them had departed, but Lord Angel and his entourage remained.
Isabel was right at Digger’s elbow.
“Wait back in the alley,” Digger murmured. “They’ll spot you staring.”
She lingered beside the cider wagon. “They’ll see you too.”
“No they won’t. And we’re going to have to talk about who exactly you took that watch from. But not right now. I’m going to try to listen in.”
Lord Angel wasn’t familiar to Digger. He was of average build, standing a head shorter than his tallest companion. He wore gaudy rings on his fingers and a red ribbon on his short blond ponytail. He was frowning as the sheriff spoke. Besides a rapier, he had a dagger on his left hip.
All their weapons had worn grips. These were the real deal. He would have to assume this band knew how to fight, a sharp contrast to a majority of the tourists who came as spectators. These purebloods were here for the catacomb games, which meant they had no qualms about murdering fel for sport.
Head bowed, Digger stepped close to the group and stopped at a respectful distance. Nearby, a pair of performers were setting up a puppet theater.
“What are you going to do about it, Sheriff?” Angel was asking.
“It will be investigated.”
“That’s what the city guard officer told me. But they can’t find their privates without a map.”
“It’s the guard’s duty to find missing persons. My assignment is broader and I have little legal power in the city.”
Angel’s voice rose. “Diregloom’s part of the dukedom.”
“The Isle of Loom is, technically. But your aunt has never relinquished her authority. My duke’s own constitution guarantees—”
“Don’t quote me law. The city guard will do what you tell them. This can’t wait. I need to know what happened to Victor now. If you won’t investigate a loyal subject of the duke vanishing, then your failure here will be reported.”
The sheriff nodded gravely. “I’ve heard your request from the night guard captain. He said you had your companions on the street searching last night. But there were reports of them out even before Victor came up missing. What is it you’re looking for? I’m sure that piece of information will expedite my search for your friend.”
Angel shifted in place. Digger recognized a sudden case of nerves when he saw it.
“Perhaps there are two crimes which need my attention,” the sheriff continued. “With so many visitors, the city watch has its hands full, and you’ve done well in bringing the matter to me. Your aunt, the queen, would no doubt appreciate my involvement in assisting her nephew, wouldn’t she? That, in turn, would make my duke happy. But my inquiries will have to start with you, if you wish me to proceed.”
“How much?”
The sheriff made a face and waved a finger as if admonishing an unruly child. “I serve at the pleasure of my duke. He compensates me with salary, so no bribe is needed for me to do my job. I extend my services to you, my prince, with all due consideration, and completely free of charge.”
“I withdraw my request,” Angel said. “I’m sure my friend Victor just tied one on and will turn up.”
He motioned for his entourage to follow and they fell in. Digger drifted away towards the gallows and kept an eye on the sheriff. A guard who had also been waiting for the conversation to end approached the sheriff and the two conferred, walking to the stockade gate. Digger returned to the alley.
Isabel was nowhere in sight. His cart was still there, abandoned.
He saw motion in the shadows at the end of the alley. Three men in dark clothes had their attention on a balcony above them. Isabel was up there, working to open a sealed shutter.
“Come down now, Sprite,” one of the men said. “I promise we won’t hurt you.”
Isabel ignored them and continued to pry at the window.
One of the three began climbing. He grabbed one fingerhold and swung himself higher to another. The crannies in the stucco were barely visible. The other two stood back and watched. One had a blade out, the other a metal pipe.
Digger grabbed his shovel from the cart. He walked on the balls of his feet. The alley was clean. Sneaking down it wasn’t a challenge.
But the rogues were no amateurs. The one with the pipe turned in time to parry as Digger swung his shovel. Their makeshift weapons clanged. The man with the knife sidestepped and lunged. Digger twisted aside, grabbed the shovel by the neck, and swung the handle, catching the man across the back of the head.
The knife wielder reeled and stumbled away.
The rogue with the pipe didn’t hesitate. He grabbed the hood of Digger’s cloak and pulled it, tangling him in his own clothes. A blow struck Digger between his shoulder blades as he yanked the garment off and flung it at his attacker. The rogue swatted it aside and pulled a thin blade from a sheath with his left hand. He brandished both weapons and took a step forward.
Digger backed away. He clutched the shovel defensively.
The other man had recovered and stood next to his companion. The bandana he wore had slipped beneath his jaw. He was obviously fel, with green skin and a ridged brow.
Now Digger faced both of them, with the third still on the wall above. “Leave the lady alone.”
“This is none of your business,” the fel said.
“I’m making it mine.”
“We don’t have time for this,” the pipe-wielding rogue hissed.
Above them, Isabel threw an empty flowerpot that struck the climber. He wavered, slipped, and thudded to the stone floor of the alley.
The rogue with the pipe did a half turn to look. Digger swung the shovel and caught the man’s arm at the elbow. Bones and tendons cracked as the rogue howled and dropped the pipe. The fel slashed at Digger, launching a series of furious knife strikes. Digger fell back, swinging the shovel and warding off each blow. Digger managed a thrust of the shovel, which caused his opponent to pause.
They stared at each other. Digger waited. The man had black tattoos covering his forearms. One was a skull with starry eyes. The ogre Hellard wore similar ink.
Digger was almost caught by a feint followed by a low thrust. He parried in time, but just barely, and stumbled away as the rogue’s blade swished the air near his face. The fel was quick and knew how to fight.
Any more lapses in attention would cost Digger his life.
Another flowerpot sailed through the air and impacted on the stone next to them. Isabel threw a third and a fourth. The rogue jerked back as the last one almost hit him.
Digger had regained his balance. He reaffirmed his grip on the shovel.
The fel rogue retreated and helped his companion with the injured arm. “We’re not done here. You’ve made an enemy.”
Winding up for a swing, Digger stepped towards him. But the fel hurried to check the third man who had fallen off the wall. That one wasn’t getting up. The two rogues retreated along an interconn
ecting alley around the back of the flower shop and vanished.
Isabel peered down at him, another flowerpot in hand.
“We need to get out of here,” he said.
She set the pot aside and swung over the railing. She dangled for a moment before dropping and rolling. He inspected the unconscious rogue, who groaned as Digger patted him down and grabbed his coin purse.
“Who were they?” he asked.
“They didn’t introduce themselves. But they recognized me. What about the sheriff? And the watch?”
“It’ll have to wait. Cover up. We need to get you off the street.”
“Where are we going?”
“Back to the Dragon and Rose. One of those killers had the same tattoo as the ogre, Hellard. Which means Monty’s in danger.”
Someone from up the alleyway whistled. It was one of the younger tourists, and he had out a shining silver rapier with a ruby-hilted handle. He was waving someone on. A moment later four of his companions appeared, blocking the way back to the stockade courtyard. They wore broad grins as they moved towards them.
“Looks like the games have started early,” the tourist said.
Digger cleared his throat and stepped towards his cart. “Nothing’s started early. We’re just working and these thieves tried to rob us.”
The leader swished his blade before him. “This’ll be a nice bit of warm-up, then. And it looks like that man at your feet is a pureblood. Last I remember, there’s a law in effect. Bad for you.”
“I’m a pureblood,” Digger said.
“Not with those orange eyes you’re not. We could call for the watch, but they’re so, so busy.” He motioned his companions on. “I told you boys this was going to be a fun week.”
Digger shoved his cart over and ran. Isabel needed no prompting and was at his side as they raced along behind the shops, following in the footsteps of the retreating rogues. They dodged piles of rubbish and empty crates. The tourists behind them hooted and laughed as they charged after them.
There was little time to think as they came out onto a side street. One direction would lead back to the stockade where the city guards waited. There were several more alleys across the street. Any one of them might conceal an army of rogues lying in wait.
Digger made his best guess and picked one.
The catacomb games weren’t waiting for the weekend. If they were caught, the purebloods would kill them and there was nothing any sheriff or city guard would do about it.
Chapter Eleven
THE PUREBLOODS WHISTLED and howled as they pursued Digger and Isabel. The sounds bounced off the walls of the buildings around them as they fled down the narrow lanes of the city.
They had been running for what felt like a half an hour. Digger’s side ached with a cramp. The shovel kept getting heavier. They paused at an interconnecting series of steps leading between several apartment buildings.
Isabel was panting hard and shaking her head. “They’re drunk. Let’s stop and fight them.”
“Doesn’t matter. There’s five of them and they have swords. Come on.”
They picked a direction and were soon tromping through a muddy back lot that had been repurposed as a makeshift garden. They weaved around a dozen or so people who were working in the dirt.
“Look out!” Digger called as they ran past.
Someone was shouting from the alley ahead of them. It was one of the tourists. They had split up and at least one was now in front of them.
Digger readied his shovel with both hands. The tourist assumed a fighting stance and began to descend the steps to the lot.
Isabel tugged at his arm. “Now you want to fight them? There’s too many people here who’ll get hurt.”
She pointed to a wooden fire escape leading up the side of one of the tenements. He followed her as she raced to the stairs.
The garden workers scattered as more of the tourists burst into the lot from behind them. Digger and Isabel headed up the creaking steps. The tourist leader shouted and pointed. Soon he and the others were coming after them.
The stairway shifted beneath Digger’s weight. Isabel was well ahead of him and made the rooftop. A stair gave out behind her, almost sending Digger falling. He clutched the loose handrail and kept climbing.
She was waiting for him at the top. “We’re in trouble.”
“What?”
“There’s no way down.”
He took a moment to survey the building’s rooftop. Someone had brought up a few planter boxes where lettuce and a small lemon tree grew. But there was little else. The neighboring buildings were too far away to jump to and he saw no access doors, skylights, or balconies.
The closest pursuer was on the last flight and coming quickly. He was laughing as he ascended towards them, with their leader and three others right behind him.
Digger planted his feet at the top of the steps, his shovel ready to swing. “You boys are making a mistake.”
“Doesn’t look like it to me,” the closest tourist said. His hair was dyed a reddish color and light-brown roots were showing. His ruffled gold shirt had sparkling buttons and a starched high collar. He held his sword with a leather-gloved hand and swirled the blade as he mounted the final steps.
But the way the tourist held his blade like it was a fire poker, where he placed his feet—he was off-balance. The boy had never been in a real fight in his life.
Swinging, Digger struck the rapier near the guard and knocked it from the youth’s hand. Without a pause he caught the tourist across the side of the head with his backstroke. Several teeth and a spray of blood exploded into the air as the man tumbled down the steps and landed at the feet of the others.
Digger towered over them. “Game’s on. Who’s next?”
The leader took a moment to look down at his companion. For a moment Digger almost believed the man would collect his friend and they would retreat. But the tourist just stepped over him. He held his sword poised before him, ready to thrust. When he was a few steps away he feinted, but Digger didn’t fall for it, keeping his own weapon in front of him ready to ward off an attack.
It was clear this one was better trained than the man Digger had struck.
Digger saw no opening. Once on the rooftop the tourist would have all the advantages. The man’s movements were deliberate as he climbed the final steps. He remained balanced, his eyes focused. Digger was about to lose this fight. One mistake and he would be cut to pieces.
“This way!” Isabel called.
She stood on the opposite side of a planter. A previously unseen trapdoor lay open.
Digger let out a shout and slammed his shovel down onto the top rail of the fire escape with a terrific crack.
The tourist jerked back, momentarily surprised, as Digger retreated and leaped down the opening in the roof onto wooden stairs. Isabel followed and swung it shut behind them. She wasted no time in sliding its metal bolt closed, sealing the door. She screamed and tumbled away as a blade came piercing through between the gaps in the trapdoor.
Digger pulled her up and they hurried down a dim stairway, taking two steps at a time.
They emerged in front of the building and hurried down a street Digger knew. It led towards Diregloom’s manufacturing district. There were plenty of people on the street, but he and Isabel had to get out of sight.
The three factories dominated the skyline. Soon he and Isabel were hurrying past clustered two-level structures. Some were homes, but among them were the city’s oldest textile and clothing manufacturers.
This was the neighborhood that gave Loom Island its actual name, from a time before any self-proclaimed queen began to rule. She had once been some minor duchess over the islands, an honorary title passed down among the pureblood nobility. This had been a fel-only city then, a haven for their kind.
No longer.
Past a material yard they approached what at first glance looked like a shuttered mansion. The drab domicile’s roof was partially burned. A gable stood de
void of paneling or tiles. The visible beams and framing reminded Digger of exposed bones. Weeds grew around all sides of the place and litter was strewn about everywhere.
“We’re not going in there, are we?” Isabel asked, but she followed as Digger led the way to a side door.
He opened the door to a dark hallway. Curtains blacked out every window. Digger walked down the corridor and they emerged into a candlelit main room. The ceiling was gone, as was much of the wall paneling. A dozen men and women were drinking at several round tables. None were vacant.
The man behind the bar was reading a book. He looked up at Digger and arched an eyebrow. Digger escorted Isabel to an occupied table. The man sitting there with his head down didn’t stir as they sat.
“Do they have a menu?” Isabel asked in a deadpan voice.
Digger placed his shovel at his feet and then raised two fingers. The barkeep brought two pitch-black beers.
She looked at her frothy mug suspiciously.
Digger sipped. The brew of the week was a silky brown stout. “It won’t bite.”
“Are you sure? What is this place?”
“It’s where my kind can get a drink.”
“You mean fel?”
“I mean gravediggers.”
She looked around the room and back at him, confused. “A place just for gravediggers?”
“Not exactly. But it’s a place where those who dig latrines, work the sewers, and do similar jobs can come.”
“But the city needs all those people.”
“Doesn’t mean folks want them at their elbows when out for a pint.”
She took a tentative taste and then drank. “Not bad.”
“Hangman knows what he’s doing.”
“The bartender...?”
“Someone wears that hood.”
“But he’s fel.”
Digger nodded. “And the job pays well.”
She leaned forward to whisper. “He kills our kind?”
“Executes them. It’s like every other law in the city. We either go along with it or we lose what little we have left.”
She set her mug down. Digger swirled the foam in his before drinking more.
Midnight Monster Club Page 5