by D. J. Butler
“What I do best,” Yashta Hossarian purred. “Killing.”
“You won’t be killing anyone today.” The voice was new to the conversation, but Indrajit recognized the accents of the Lord Chamberlain’s intelligence agent Grit Wopal.
Chapter Nineteen
“Ha ha.” Indrajit grinned at the bird-legged jobber, trying not to think about Hossarian’s general resemblance to a tiger. “Help has arrived!” He had no idea whether Grit Wopal had come to help or hurt him, but he was encouraged at the declaration that seemed to forbid Hossarian from killing Indrajit.
“He’s alone,” Fix said.
“I see.” Indrajit shifted his grip on the hilt of his sword and prepared to die.
“Oh, I’m never alone,” Wopal said. Indrajit heard the soft padding of sandals on baked clay and then the Yifft joined him, standing at his side and facing the orange-and-black jobber. Still wearing only a dirty yellow tunic and loincloth, the man looked defenseless.
“If you’re seeing some reinforcements in your third eye, Yifft, you might want to go to an apothecary and get your vision checked.” Hossarian had a sneer on his face and in his voice, but he spoke with slight hesitation. Doubt?
“Wherever I go, I am cloaked in the authority of the Lord Chamberlain.” The Yifft smiled blandly. “Are you prepared to provoke the wrath of Orem Thrush?”
“Thrush doesn’t own these men,” Hossarian barked.
“You aren’t after these men. You’re after Ilsa without Peer.” Wopal spread his hands, a peaceful gesture. “However much you’ve been promised for her death, you need to stop now.”
Yashta Hossarian took one step forward. “I’ve been promised a lot.”
“Then let me make a counteroffer. Your life, spared, if you leave this instant.”
Indrajit looked about. Were there archers hidden on one of the adjacent rooftops, and he just hadn’t noticed them? But no, Grit Wopal appeared to be alone.
Yashta Hossarian lowered his head. It was an ambiguous gesture that might be a submissive bow, or might be a shoulder lowered in preparation for charging. Wopal stood still, unruffled.
As if finally coming to a decision, Hossarian stepped back to the edge of the rooftop. “I concede nothing.” He stepped off the tile and dropped out of view.
Indrajit turned to find the Zalaptings filing away, dropping down onto the stack of crates and barrels and trooping out of sight.
“You made that guy nervous,” Indrajit said.
Grit Wopal laughed, a sound that was bell-like, and seemed to ring straight from his gut. “If Orem Thrush threatened to murder you if you punch me, Indrajit Twang, what do you think he would do if that jobber actually killed me?”
“What’s Hossarian doing mixed up in all this?” Fix asked again.
“I’m not entirely sure,” Wopal said mildly. “Are you familiar with the concept of a dead man’s switch?”
Fix frowned and looked away, as if consulting his memory. “I think it’s where a man arranges for something to be triggered by his death.”
“Correct. I believe Yashta Hossarian is responding to a dead man’s switch, set by Holy-Pot Diaphernes.”
Indrajit whistled. “You mean, that guy hated me so much, he paid Hossarian to kill me in the event that he died.”
“No, if Hossarian had been paid to kill you, he’d have killed you in the Paper Sook. He wanted to capture you.”
“Hossarian isn’t after us,” Fix said. “He told us so himself. He’s after Ilsa.”
Indrajit’s head hurt. “He would do that, why? Because he didn’t want to pay out under the risk-repurchasing contract? Am I thinking of that correctly?”
“Maybe,” Fix said.
“But why would he care?” Indrajit asked. “Because he has heirs? So he pays Hossarian and says, if I die, rescue Ilsa without Peer, and then you’ll get a bonus payment, for protecting my heirs’ money.”
Fix pulled at his chin thoughtfully. “I guess so.”
“Frodilo Choot is on the hook for a hundred thousand Imperials if Ilsa’s dead,” Indrajit said. “How much of that risk did Holy-Pot buy? If it was even a tenth, then there’s plenty of incentive and plenty of money to pay Hossarian. To set up a dead lever.”
“A dead man’s switch.” Grit Wopal coughed politely. “I, on the other hand, am here to offer you money.”
Indrajit laughed. “If you’d said that in the first place, Wopal, I never would have punched you.”
The Yifft ignored the jibe. “It will likely not surprise you to learn that my master, the Lord Chamberlain, is interested in the return to him of Ilsa without Peer.”
Indrajit saw where the conversation was headed and tried to do some fast calculation. He no longer worked for Holy-Pot Diaphernes; he was chasing a bounty offered by Frodilo Choot. He would get the bounty if Ilsa lived.
Maybe, if Orem Thrush didn’t want to kill her, he could get paid twice.
Or if Thrush offered a bigger bounty for her dead…Indrajit shook his head. He didn’t think he could bring himself to kill her. He certainly didn’t want to be that kind of jobber.
“I don’t know if I can do that,” he said.
“What does the Lord Chamberlain want with her?” Fix asked.
Had the shorter man done the same calculation Indrajit had?
The Yifft inclined his head in a nod of respect. “You worry whether the Lord Chamberlain wishes to kill Ilsa. He does not. Of all actors on this stage, he is the one with the strongest interest in keeping Ilsa without Peer alive.”
Could that be true?
Indrajit elbowed Fix. “Actors on this stage, see? Like you were saying, Kish is the world is the Palace of Shadow and Joy.”
Grit Wopal’s brow furrowed, but he stifled whatever questions he had. “The Lord Chamberlain has such a strong interest in keeping Ilsa without Peer alive, that he will give you one thousand Imperials for her return. Since you will also be able to collect from the risk-merchant Choot, that should come to quite a tidy sum.”
Indrajit almost asked how Wopal knew they had talked to Choot, but he stopped himself. Of course, the Yifft was following them, or having them followed. Maybe the jobbers in orange kilts answered to him. Maybe the jobbers had followed them into Choot’s shop and interrogated her.
If so, he hoped they had been rough on her doorman.
“The promise of a thousand Imperials doesn’t exactly guarantee that Thrush wants the singer alive,” Fix pointed out. “Maybe he wants her dead so badly, he’s willing to pay that much.”
“To collect the thousand Imperials,” Wopal said, continuing as if he hadn’t heard Fix’s objection, “you must bring Ilsa to the Lord Chamberlain’s palace by dawn tomorrow.”
Indrajit shot a look up at the sun. He made it to be early afternoon.
“A thousand Imperials certainly sounds nice,” he said.
“We could use some resources,” Fix said.
“A thousand Imperials will buy lots of resources,” Wopal agreed.
“No,” Fix said, “I mean now. The Lord Chamberlain wants his singer back, because he doesn’t want to lose the revenue, or he wants to keep supporting the opera house, or whatever. Fine. But you’re asking the two least-well-equipped jobbers in Kish to do the job. I mean, we don’t have horses. We don’t have armor. We haven’t even eaten in a day. Or maybe two.”
“Pretty sure it’s two,” Indrajit said. “Feels like a week.”
“You may not be well-equipped,” Wopal said, “but you’re uniquely well-positioned. And still, you shouldn’t assume that you’re the only jobbers the Lord Chamberlain has set to the task.”
“We’ve seen the orange tunics,” Indrajit said.
“I’m glad the Lord Chamberlain values our position,” Fix said. “So maybe you could open those purse strings and give us a little cash.”
The Yifft bowed slightly. “I could advance you a little cash.”
“No, no advance,” Indrajit said. “And no loan. Just cash, no strings attached. Call
it a retainer if you need to feel official, but give us fifty Imperials now.” It was an insane request, and more money than Indrajit had ever held in his hand, but he knew he wouldn’t get what he didn’t ask for.
“Fifty Imperials.” Grit Wopal smiled. “I am willing to give you that, to equip you to serve our master. But you must understand that when you ask for no strings attached, you are talking complete nonsense. When the Lord Chamberlain is involved, there are always strings attached. He might as well write strings attached beneath the family crest of House Thrush.”
“The horned skull.” Fix didn’t smile.
“The horned skull.” Wopal didn’t smile, either. He handed fifty Imperials to Indrajit, then walked to the staircase of crates and barrels and disappeared.
Indrajit gave the Yifft a minute to get entirely out of earshot, then whistled a low note of appreciation. “That was bold.”
Fix shrugged. “I took my inspiration from you. If you could ask Choot to put up our bond, bold as brass, I could ask to get paid.”
“Too bad we couldn’t get the lawyer on our side, too.”
“The thing about lawyers is they work for money. If we went back and paid him these fifty Imperials right now, he would draw up and post our charter, no problem.”
“Maybe we should,” Indrajit said.
“No.” Fix tapped his chest. “This thing isn’t over, and every time we turn around, we get attacked by someone new. We need to get armor.”
“That’s pretty time-consuming, isn’t it?” Indrajit asked. “The smith has to fit you, and then hammer out a breastplate the right size. We have until tomorrow morning to find Ilsa.”
“You’re imagining metal, and maybe we could get greaves and vambraces for our arms and legs. But I was thinking linothorax and a studded leather skirt.”
“I’m not sure I get the idea of linothorax,” Indrajit said.
“Because your people don’t wear armor?”
“We are a peaceful folk, living lives of joy and harmony.” Indrajit smiled. “But isn’t linothorax just made of linen? I mean, does wearing a second tunic really give all that much protection?”
“It’s multiple layers of linen, with rabbit glue between them. It’s protective and it’s light. Which is probably necessary, given all the climbing we’ve been doing so far. We may need to run and jump and dodge before tomorrow morning.”
“I’m not such a good jumper. Let’s stick to climbing.”
“Also, you can buy the linothorax in a standard shape. Like a tube. You squeeze into it, and then the heat of your body and your sweat make the armor soften up and reshape itself to your body.”
“Very nice for you,” Indrajit said. “Yours will look all muscular. Mine will look like the torso of a thin-armed man, with a bit of a belly.”
“Just a bit,” Fix said.
“I like to think it’s dignified. That doesn’t mean I want to wrap my belly in form-fitting armor.”
“You’re a handsome man, especially for someone who looks so much like a fish. But for our purposes, it means we can buy armor off the rack and wear it immediately.”
“Can we buy it in the Paper Sook?” Indrajit looked out over the rooftops, realizing that Yashta Hossarian and his Zalaptings could be hiding around any one of a thousand corners. He really didn’t want to have to jump across the rooftops.
“We’re at the edge of the sook,” Fix said, “and there’s an armorer a block from here.”
They climbed down—just in case, they chose the side of the building opposite the staircase of crates and barrels, dropping first to a sturdy canvas awning and then to the ground. Fix was correct about the location of the armorer, and within twenty minutes both men were wearing undyed linothorax of a tawny yellow-gray color and studded leather skirts over their tunics and kilts. In addition, Fix replaced his spear, and Indrajit got an actual scabbard and sword belt for his leaf-bladed weapon.
Fix got a helmet, steel and plain, with an open face. Indrajit tried on a matching helmet and found it blocked far too much of his field of vision. When he put it back on the shelf and counted out coins for the armorer, a burly man with a third arm sprouting from his side just below his left arm, he found Fix pursing his lips and making a fish face at him.
“I will concede,” Indrajit said, “that in this one respect, I am somewhat fishlike.”
Fix shrugged. “It’s no big deal. I am very much like a monkey, a fact about which I feel not the slightest sense of outrage.”
“Do you have a tail?” Indrajit was curious. “Or are you like a monkey in the sense in which all men are like monkeys, meaning, in general shape, number of limbs, and so on?”
“If you are asking to look up my kilt, Indrajit Twang, the answer is no. We’re not partners yet.”
“I have sudden second thoughts about this partnership.”
They wound back into the sook; Indrajit felt reassured by the weight of the armor on his shoulders and his hips. Fix led them to the second address Frodilo Choot had given them, which was the bank.
The building was made of marble, and did indeed look like a temple from the outside. The blocky, gleaming white building had only two visible doors, both guarded by a pair of spearmen; one door was an entrance and the other was an exit. There was writing in bannerscript, painted onto the marble to either side of the entrance.
“What’s that say?” Indrajit whispered to his companion.
“Goldsmiths United Depository,” Fix whispered back. “It’s the name of the bank.”
Indrajit nodded to the burly Kishi spearmen at the entrance, expecting them to demand his weapons. They didn’t. Entering, he found himself in a narrow hall that turned immediately right and jogged directly to the exit. The internal walls were made of marble, too, and everywhere he looked he saw trim made of polished brass. On his left were windows, barred with steel bars, and behind them sat clerks. From where he stood, he could see the presence of the clerks, but no details of their faces. Over each clerk, and facing Indrajit and Fix, hung a number. Standing at each window was a Kishi—most dressed in face-concealing scarves or cloaks with hoods or other garments that tended to hide the identity of the wearer—doing business with the clerk.
One of the customers stepped away, and a voice from an unseen speaker called out, “Number three!”
Indrajit strolled uneasily to the third window. “Have you ever used a bank before?” he whispered.
Fix nodded. “I have my savings in a bank.”
“That seems…elaborate.”
“I find if I have my money physically out of reach, I’m less inclined to spend it in every tavern I enter.”
“I find that the taverns I enter are more than happy to extend credit when I ask. And I don’t even have money in the bank to reassure them.”
The bank clerk was a person of indeterminate sex, with gray skin and all the features and personality of a pole. The clerk sat inside a cubicle with charcoal and paper on a desk, and behind it there was a plain door in the wall.
“Account number,” the clerk said.
Fix consulted his fascicle and read the account number, which they’d been given by Choot. The clerk took note.
“Password,” the clerk said.
Frodilo Choot had given them no password. Likely, she didn’t have it, since all she had to do was make a deposit in this account. Fix looked at Indrajit and raised his eyebrows.
Could they guess? Maybe if they knew whose account this was, but since they didn’t, the field of possibilities was wide open.
Without a password, the clerk wasn’t going to let them in.
If they admitted they didn’t have the password, wouldn’t it look like an admission that they were trying to steal someone else’s account?
“Epic Fish Eyes,” Indrajit said.
The clerk made a note.
“What transaction?” the clerk asked.
“Check the balance,” Fix said.
The clerk swayed forward, a motion resembling the movement of
a palm tree in a spring storm, and left by the door.
“I didn’t really think this through,” Fix said. “We can’t very well pretend to be the account holder and then ask who the account holder is.”
“So what are you thinking, then? If we know the account balance, you think we’ll better be able to guess whose money it is?”
“It doesn’t matter. The clerk is going to check, find we have the wrong password, and alert the guards,” Fix said. “We have no chance of getting any information this way.”
“I reached the same conclusion the minute she or he asked for a password,” Indrajit said. “Let’s go.” He started walking.
“Number three!” the unseen announcer called out.
Indrajit kept his pace to a casual stroll and pasted a bland smile to his face. He nodded at the guards at the exit, stepped into the Paper Sook beyond, and did his very best to disappear into the crowd.
Once they’d turned a corner and were out of sight, they stopped.
“If you know banks so well, you could have warned me it would be like that,” Indrajit said.
Fix shrugged. “You’re so quick to talk your way through things, I thought maybe you’d be able to do it with the bank clerk, too.”
Indrajit sighed. “Well, I can’t fault you for confidence in your partner. What if we…I don’t know, maybe we could follow the bankers home after dark, and force one of them to let us back in. If we just look up the account information, it isn’t even really a robbery, is it?”
“I’d assume it’s some kind of crime,” Fix said. “Misappropriation of knowledge, or something like that. But in any case, the bankers enter and leave by secret tunnels, with bodyguards.”
“I guess having a bank account yourself doesn’t entitle you to know where the secret passages are?”
Fix shook his head, unnecessarily.
“Probably they go down through the sewers and the old city layers,” Indrajit mused. “We could go back to Choot’s and ask her to let us down there, poke around.”
“Bit of a long shot, isn’t it? Especially since we only have until tomorrow morning. Besides, what are we going to do? Knock on every door we find and ask if we’ve come to the bank?”