Yet in his high spirits, hot on the heels of his victory, it seemed Garibaldi was in the mood for companions to share in his revelry. And the gods only knew just how open Garibaldi was about his preferences.
Sal ran his tongue slowly across his top lip. “There’s no reason to be nervous,” he said, sitting up and patting the divan cushion.
“Close the door,” said Garibaldi, slinking toward Sal.
As Garibaldi neared the divan, the look in his eyes changed. He no longer resembled a deer so much as he did a mischievous weasel.
Sal wondered just how stable Garibaldi Scarvini was, and whether he ought to abandon the rouse there and then.
Garibaldi’s nose wrinkled, his top lip curling slightly. “You said Giovani sent you?”
Sal nodded.
The door closed with a thud, and the others moved in behind Garibaldi. There were three of them: a slender bloke with a knife at his hip, a fat one with a cudgel already in hand, and a thickly-muscled dock thug that slipped a pair of iron knuckles from his pocket as he neared the divan.
“Giovani? He sure did. Wanted me to make sure you weren’t too heartbroken if you’d lost—and if you won, I was told to show you a good time.”
Garibaldi nodded, but his eyes were filled with suspicion, and his pursed lips frowned at the edges. “Giovani sent you did he?”
Sal maintained his composure on the outside, but inside, his confidence had shattered like a pane of stained glass. He’d made a damned fool of a mistake; keep the lie simple, don’t bother with unnecessary detail.
“My little brother didn’t send you,” said Garibaldi, the tremble in his voice readily apparent. “Giovani’s never done a decent thing in his bloody life. Now, who in Sacrull’s hell sent you?”
Sal realized his initial approach was bound to fail, and so he swiftly switched tact. “I’m here to deliver a message; a message concerning Giuseppe Scarvini.”
Quick as that, the sneakiness was gone, and Garibaldi looked like a deer readying to run. “What’s this about Giuseppe, what’s your fucking message?” he asked, his voice just short of panicked.
Sal stood up from the divan and calmly stepped past the muscular thug, addressing Garibaldi directly.
“His killer wants to make peace.”
“His kill—and just who the fuck are you?”
“Salvatori Lorenzo,” he said with a wink.
“Lorenzo?” said Garibaldi. “As in Stefano Lorenzo?”
Sal shrugged. “I suppose we’re related.”
“So, what’s this? You telling me the Svoboda Family is responsible for my brother’s murder?”
“No,” Sal said. “I’m not with Svoboda. I’m here on behalf of your brother’s killer. My message is from him. We aren’t associated with any of the Five Families. We’re a family of our own, you could say.”
“The fuck? You saying you’re responsible for Giuseppe’s death?”
Sal shrugged, “Some might look at it that way.”
All four of the men tensed. Sal could feel the energy of the room, shifting with his admission. It was as though they didn’t know whether to be upset or frightened. But it seemed they quickly settled on an option.
“And what other way is there to look at it?” asked Garibaldi, a vein in his neck bulging.
Sal shrugged. “Might be you would need to hear my message to understand.”
Jaw clenched, the vein in his neck pulsating dangerously, Garibaldi turned his hand palm up, as though asking Sal to hand the words over.
Sal grasped the locket with his skeev coated fingers. A rush of energy cascaded through his veins. Without warning, he focused his will and released it through his open palm.
A blue bolt of lightning burst forth and struck the closest man square between the eyes.
His head exploded like a melon, and the muscular, headless corpse collapsed to the ground.
Garibaldi shrieked.
Sal spun on the skinny one who’d drawn his knife by then. Sal focused once more and unleashed another bolt.
Lightning consumed the skinny man like a web. He writhed on the ground as blood streamed from his eyes and the corners of his mouth.
As Sal turned, the fat one swung a cudgel. Yet he swung as though his club were a sword and he meant to split Sal in half from head to naval.
Sal dodged, but the cudgel clipped his ear.
The fat man swung again. The cudgel whistled past on the backswing.
Sal focused his energy and felt the electricity course through his veins, down his arm, and out his palm.
The bolt he unleashed was so powerful that when it struck the man, he splattered into a thousand tiny pieces.
Sal was panting, his heart hammering in his chest, his limbs weak and rubbery. Yet he kept standing and turned to face Garibaldi.
Only, Garibaldi Scarvini had disappeared.
Where the man had stood, there was now a mere puddle.
But as Sal looked about, he noticed a pair of fine, black, leather boots poking out from behind the divan.
Sal sighed, relieved that Garibaldi had chosen not to fight back. Exhausted as he was after pulling thrice upon the locket’s power, Sal doubted he could have so much as raised his arms high enough to fend off a punch—even a punch thrown by Garibaldi Scarvini.
“Come out, m’lord,” Sal said. “The fighting is all done.”
The boots quickly tucked behind the divan. Sal couldn’t help but hate the man for his cowardice.
“Look, Scarvini, you saw what I did to your men, yeah? What makes you think that bit of furniture is going to make a lick of difference if I choose to kill you?”
“I'll have your balls for this!” Garibaldi cried out; his voice pitched high with fear. “You're a fucking dead man. There are twenty men outside this room, twenty Scarvini soldiers, killers to the man.”
“By my count, only seventeen men remain you, and all of them are outside this door.”
“Think it through,” said Garibaldi from behind the divan. “There is only one door in or out of this room. One door and no windows. Just how do you expect to get out of here without my help?”
“A valid point,” Sal said. “Though, if my predictions prove correct, the two men outside your door are already dead.”
Garibaldi laughed. Yet it was a laugh that rang hollow; there was true fear just beneath the layer of bravado. “What sorcery is this? The guards outside my door will gut you the instant you try to leave.”
Sal moved slowly to the door, scuffing his boots loudly as he walked so that Garibaldi would hear.
When he turned the door handle, he looked back over his shoulder to see Garibaldi peeking over the back of the divan.
Sal opened the door.
The fat body of the tattooed guard slumped through the doorway and thudded on the flagstones.
Garibaldi let out a shrill cry.
The tattooed corpse was dragged out of the way, and Valla sauntered in, followed by Dominik, and the big man.
“Help!” Garibaldi cried out.
But too late.
Dominik closed the door. The cry might have been heard just outside the door, but there was no chance anyone in the clamoring arena hall would have noticed a thing.
“Fucking mess you made of this one,” said Valla, wrinkling her nose.
“Who—who are you people?”
Dominik crossed the room and went behind the divan. He grabbed Garibaldi by the leg and dragged him out as he kicked and screamed.
Dominik had to halt once or twice to stomp on Garibaldi until he stopped his flailing.
When they reached the center of the room, Dominik put a boot to Garibaldi's chest and pinned the man to the floor.
“Who the fuck are you?” Garibaldi cried.
“You want to know who I am?” Dominik said, looking down on the terrified Scarvini with eyes that held no mercy.
“You’re a dead man!” Garibaldi said, voice cracking, piss puddling on the flagstones beneath him.
Domin
ik snorted and drew his knife.
Tears streamed from the corners of Garibaldi’s eyes, but his tone remained petulantly defiant. “And why the fuck should that mean anything to me?”
“Scarvini that’s your name, isn’t it?”
“Fuck you,” said Garibaldi.
“Had me a wife for that once,” Dominik said, giving Garibaldi another kick. “Hell, had whole brood of me own once: me little family. But your family—they had to go and try to take it from me.”
“Fuck you, dead man,” Garibaldi sneered, his back flattened against the flagstones. “I’ll have your balls for this. What’s your fucking name?”
“Me name’s Dominik D’Angelo. But you can just call me the reaper.”
2
Five For Death
Sal awoke to the tolling of bells.
Dong, dong, dong, dong, dong.
He rolled from his bed, bare feet hitting the cold floorboards. He was exhausted, his body drained of energy from the night before. He stretched, feeling every twinge and ache. He found that the more he used the locket, the better he was able to control the power. Yet no matter how much control he gained, accessing the locket's magic was more physically and mentally fatiguing than anything Sal had ever experienced.
Dong, dong, dong, dong, dong.
The bells tolled five times. It struck him, what he'd heard. It hadn't been the single toll of the morning bell, nor could it have been the midday bell. Five tolls of the city bells could mean only one thing, but it was a moment before Sal recalled the old chant
: One for the Light, two for the Dark, three to gather, four to fight, five for death—five, for death.
Who had died? Could it be that the duke’s illness had finally taken him?
Dong, dong, dong, dong, dong.
Whomever it was must have been important, the bells of Dijvois didn’t ring for the death of any old street thug. Only those of royal blood and high distinction were worthy of that honor.
Sal began to dress, every movement accompanied by a sting, but his curiosity had peaked, and it wouldn’t be sated until he’d answered the question. No doubt, word of the death had already reached the streets.
Peddlers, pushers, and whores were among the most ravenous of rumor mongers, followed shortly after by the patrons of the Hog Snout. Sal was willing to bet that if he asked the first person he saw downstairs, they would be able to tell him on whose behalf the bells tolled.
Dong, dong, dong, dong, dong.
Three bells tolled: the bell of Knöldrus Cathedral, the bell of Town Hall, and the great bronze bell of the High Keep bell tower.
But whose death did they mourn? Had one of the blood royal truly passed? It could only be Duke Tadej, the man’s health had been failing for years, and it seemed his illness had finally caught up with him. How long before they announced the ascension of the new duke?
Sal knelt and pulled a carved wooden box from beneath his bed. Despite the three-tone brown wood, the box was similar in size and shape to the ebony box that Bartley had owned, and it often reminded Sal of times he'd spent with his old friend.
Sal placed the box on his bed and removed his pipe and a cap. He placed them on the bedside table, removed a shard of flint and a round stone, bunched some tinder in the hearth, and struck the flint until the tinder took a spark that he could coax into a steady flame.
With the fire burning, Sal returned the flint to the box and picked up his pipe from the bedside table. He turned the pipe over and clapped it once against his palm to knock free any residue then picked up the golden-brown cap and began to crumble the skeev into the bowl of the pipe.
Dong, dong, dong, dong, dong.
The tolling bells shifted Sal’s thoughts to those of primogeniture. If Duke Tadej had indeed died, they would needs name a new duke. Tadej had once had three legitimate sons: Andrej, the youngest, and rumored to be the most entitled to his sovereign authority; Matej, second son of Tadej, known in some corners of the city as the bleeding heart of Dijvois, and in other corners as Lord Fop; and Jadrej, once heir to the High Keep, the eldest son of Duke Tadej.
Nine years past, those very same bells had rung for Prince Jadrej, on the day the prince had been murdered.
Sal had seen the murderer executed in Town Square, and he still remembered how he’d felt the day he’d heard the bells. Much like he did this morning. A touch confused, oddly and inexplicably excited. Yet, it was an excitement tapered by fear and a sinking feeling of dread.
If it was Duke Tadej for which the bells tolled, that would mean Matej would soon be crowned duke of Pargeche.
“Duke Matej,” Sal said aloud as he crumbled the skeev into his pipe.
Thump, thump, thump.
Sal stirred, the unexpected sound catching him off guard. That was no bell, but a knock at the door.
Thump, thump, thump.
“Salvatori, are you there?”
Sal froze, as the bells tolled.
Dong, dong, dong, dong, dong.
Thump, thump, thump, came the knocks at the door a third time.
“Salvatori?” Nicola said. “Salvatori, are you in there?”
Sal gritted his teeth, shoved the pipe and half crumbled cap back into the box, clapped the lid shut and slid the box under his bed. He went to the door, flipped the lock, and pulled it open.
"Salvator—by the Light, your ear," His sister said, her expression flipping from irritation to concern in an instant. “What’s happened?”
Sal put a hand over his ear to obstruct her view, but Nicola grabbed his wrist and moved his hand away as he winced in pain.
“Light’s name, what did you do?”
What did you do—the phrasing was typical of Nicola.
Sal's sister had never let him off the hook for anything. She was a paragon of self-imposed stricture and personal responsibility, the sort of person who demanded the same level of excellence from others that she displayed on the daily.
Sal opened his mouth to explain, but before the words came, the bells sounded.
Dong, dong, dong, dong, dong.
Nicola arched an eyebrow.
"An accident, it's nothing, really."
“Nothing? How can you—Salvatori, your missing half your ear!”
“Surely, it’s not so bad as that.”
“Worse, much, much worse. By the Light, you were such a handsome boy.”
“Right. Well, I suppose my days whoring are over then, aren’t they?” Sal said with a smirk.
Nicola narrowed her eyes. “You made a fine apprentice.”
"Ah, yes, well, you were always the talent in the family," Sal said. “I never seemed to have your gift for cloth work.”
“And so you’ve survived by taking the food out of others mouths?”
“Not typically,” Sal said. “I mean, once they’ve begun eating the food I usually leave off.”
Nicola scoffed. “You know what I meant.”
“Yes, and I’m glad to see nothing has changed since we last spoke, supportive as ever, sweet sister.”
“I’ll not support reckless behavior. I love you too much for that.”
Sal felt a twinge of guilt. It was true, as ever the fault was with him, yet it was something he refused to acknowledge openly. Let her eat some of the blame.
Dong, dong, dong, dong, dong.
“Lady’s sake,” Sal said. “Those bloody bells are like to drive me mad before I’ve even broken my fast."
Nicola sighed. “A true tragedy, that. So sad for the Lady Tereza. I could only imagine how she would feel?”
“The Lady Tereza?” Sal said with a shrug. “I imagine she isn’t too upset. Her husband’s going to be duke after all.”
Nicola stared at him blankly. "You do know why the bells are ringing?"
“The death of the duke,” Sal said, his conviction waning with each word. “I think—who else?"
“Not the duke,” Nicola said. “The prince—Prince Matej.”
“Matej?” Sal asked. “How, when?”
“The word’s all about town, must have been in the night.”
“Do you know how he died?”
Nicola frowned. "Rumor is it was murder, but isn't it always?"
“Murdered?” Sal said. “Another bloody prince?”
Nicola shook her head. “Who could know? There are so many rumors that I can’t begin to make heads or tails about it.”
“You’re certain it was Matej?” Sal asked.
“The rumors say it was Matej, so that’s what I’d have to assume.”
Dong, dong, dong, dong, dong.
“Any rumors of Commission involvement?” Sal asked.
“You would know better than I,” Nicola said flatly.
"Streight to the quick as ever," Sal said with a smirk.
Sal began to wonder just who might want Matej dead when he noticed a letter in Nicola's hand. There was a familiar red wax seal stamped upon the folded parchment.
“What’s that?” Sal asked with a nod. Even though he knew perfectly well what it was, and the sight of the thing set his heart to racing.
Nicola looked at her hand as though she too had only then noticed the letter.
“You left this.” She extended the letter toward Sal. “I thought you would want it.”
Sal made no move to take the parchment.
As it hung there, the red wax seal faced up, the dragon signet pressed within the wax seemed to burn into his vision.
Nicola cleared her throat and nudged the letter a hair closer to Sal.
And still, he made no move to accept it.
“Salvatori,” Nicola said, her eyes narrowed.
Sal turned away from her and walked toward the window.
“I noticed you haven’t opened it,” she said to his back.
Sal shrugged, not bothering to face her.
“Nine years isn’t long enough?” Nicola asked.
Sal didn’t respond. What could he say?
Dong, dong, dong, dong, dong.
Nicola dropped the letter at the foot of his bed.
“Think on it,” Nicola said. “You might like to know what it was she had to say. I know I would.”
The Man in Shadow Page 3