“Then what the fuck are we supposed to do about it?” asked Valla.
“Cut off the head of the snake, and lie low for a while,” Sal said. “With Don Scarvini dead, the other four families will leave off. Soon enough, the Scarvini Family pecking order will sort itself out, and we’ll be in the clear.”
Vinny nodded. “He’s right. We need to make our move. We kill Don Scarvini, and all of this ends.”
“I agree,” said Aurie, nodding.
“I’m with you,” said the big man.
“But what of Giovani Scarvini?” said Dominik. “Don Giotto had three sons, not two.”
“What of him?” asked Vinny. “He’s pretty much a kid from what I’ve heard.”
Dominik shook his head. “Won’t he seek vengeance for the death of his kin? Wouldn’t you?”
“He can seek it all he wants, but the Scarvini Family isn’t going to follow some kid just because he’s the son of the old boss,” said Vinny. “Whoever takes power after Giotto Scarvini will either be grateful to us for the new job, or entirely indifferent to the whole situation.”
“You’re making a lot of assumptions,” said Dominik. “Don’t know that it will work meself.”
“It’ll work,” said Sal. “Trust me.”
Dominik faced him with a level gaze; after a few seconds, he nodded. “You done no less for me. Suppose the least I can do is return the favor.”
Sal nodded gratefully. That left one more. “Valla?” he asked tentatively. “What do you say?”
8
The Fence
INTERLUDE, SEVEN YEARS EARLIER
Sal breathed a sigh of relief, taking in the musty smells of hay and horses as he leaped and scrambled his way up and over the wall. He landed in a soft hay pile and rolled down onto the dirt floor with a puff of dust and a soft whinny from one of the horses.
He brushed the dirt from his sleeves and trouser legs once he’d regained his feet, then slowly crept past the stable stalls. He stepped quietly, the last thing he wanted to do was wake one of the studs and set the whole stable into an uproar.
The sun had almost dropped beneath the horizon. Sal poked his head from the stable door to see if the path ahead was clear.
“Master Salvatori,” said Greggings.
Sal nearly slipped his skin. He turned to see the little serving-man standing just beside the stable door.
“Lady’s sake, old man, do you mean to lurk like a bloody shadow walker?”
The old serving man’s lips curled, but he didn’t bother to comment about the curse. “Your uncle awaits you in his solar.”
“Awaits me? What for?”
“It’s not my place to question his commands, merely follow them.”
Sal felt cold beads of sweat forming on his brow. The last time he’d been summoned by his uncle, the man had turned him over to Don Moretti. The gods only knew what Stefano wanted with him this time.
“You ought to make haste. I’ve been searching for you for some time.”
Sal shrugged. “What’s the hurry? No doubt, I’ve already missed the dinner bells. Besides, it’s Tiens; my uncle will be in his solar until you take him off to bed around the hour of the wolf.”
Greggings frowned and jammed on his hat as though it were the source of his irritation. “Very well, do this old man a favor then. Walk with me. I’ve a kitchen scullery wench that needs a good jawing.”
Sal and Greggings crossed the yard, slowly, as not to exert too much effort upon the serving man’s old legs. They parted ways once they had passed into the manor house. Stefano turned and passed through the kitchen doors, while Sal crossed the pale lavender tiles of the foyer and headed up the grand staircase, along the hall, and into his uncle’s solar.
The orange light of evenfall shown through the vast array of bay windows, nearly blinding Sal. Despite the light in his eyes, Sal could still make out his uncle, seated in one of the high-backed armchairs. Stefano could most often be found in his armchair, nose buried in one of his books.
Only, it was strange. Sal’s uncle was sitting in the wrong chair.
Sal shielded his eyes from the light, and then he realized why his uncle was seated in the wrong chair.
The man was not his uncle—he was hardly a man at all. He was a boy, nearly of an age with Sal.
His name was Tristain Watts, and he was the most recent ward of Stefano Lorenzo.
Tristain wore an arrogant smirk on his already smug visage. “Why don’t you have a seat?” Tristain asked, patting the chair beside him.
Sal clenched his fist tight but controlled himself. He was used to being baited by his uncle’s ward. He didn’t respond—other than to glare at the ward.
“You’re certain you don’t want a seat?” asked Tristain. He sipped from a wine cup and dabbed at the corner of his mouth with a cloth napkin. “Your little legs look so tired. You must have walked all the way up here from Low Town. Picking pockets in the back alleys again were you?”
Sal snarled. Tristain was not only taunting Sal, but he was doing it while sitting in the chair that had been Sal’s for so short a time. If not for the incident with that Moretti card game, Sal would likely be sitting there still. He considered walking over and taking a seat in his uncle’s chair if only to prove a point.
Where was his uncle anyhow?
Tristain flashed the most arrogant smirk Sal had ever seen. It was a look of victory. Fire burned in his eyes, and yet he pretended as though it was all beneath him, as though he wasn’t even smiling—because this victory meant nothing—as his competitor was so far beneath even his contempt.
It was that moment Sal decided to teach the bastard a lesson. Fists clenched tight, he gritted his jaw and took a step forward, when the door of the solar opened.
Sal spun around to see his uncle enter.
Stefano was silent as he crossed the room, passed Sal, and took a seat in his high-backed armchair beside his ward.
Sal stood, his heart in his throat, awaiting his uncle’s proclamation.
“Where were you?” Stefano asked without preamble.
“Around,” Sal said with an easy shrug to mask his fear. “You’ve not expected me to await your beck and call beneath the heel for some time.”
Stefano frowned. “I have something I want delivered to the Warehouse District.”
Sal’s heart beat so hard he could feel his words coming out in a tremble, but he spoke them all the same. “Run short on errand boys have you, Uncle?”
Tristain smiled openly, his eyes narrowing to thin slits.
Burning hate rushed through Sal, and he considered charging the boy—his uncle be damned.
“This is a sensitive matter,” said Stefano. “I need an errand boy that I can trust.”
“What is it you need delivered?” Sal asked through gritted teeth, conceding to the fact that any job from his uncle was a good sign, even if it was the back-handed sort.
Stefano motioned to the oak desk across the solar. “The red.”
Upon the desktop amid piles of books and rolled parchment, was a small object wrapped in red cloth. Sal picked it up and gently unfolded the cloth. Inside was the remnants of a shattered chain, some of the golden links still connected. “Old gold,” Sal blurted. “But what’s this—”
“If you can’t keep your mouth shut and your bloody japes to yourself, I’ll have Tristain do it for me,” said Stefano.
Sal clenched his jaw.
“Now put it in your pocket, and don’t bloody well take it out until you’re giving it to my associate, are we understood?”
Sal nodded, barely managing to swallow his anger before speaking. “Where in the Warehouse District am I going?”
“Penny Row,” said his uncle.
The air within the dingy shop was thick with the smoke of incense. It smelled of spices and tasted acrid yet sweet. The room was small, all the more cramped by the lack of organization and general cluttering of the dusty and sorely neglected oddities strewn about. The Miniian spun rugs
were so heavily trafficked it was difficult to tell where the dirt ended, and the fabric began.
Someone stirred awake behind the cluttered counter. A whale of a man. A Shiikali by the looks of him, he wore a white cotton tunic beneath a vest, which looked absurdly small on his large round frame.
“What is it you are wanting?” said the Shiikali, tucking his chins and frowning as he stroked his oiled black mustache.
Sal couldn’t help but notice the steel blade sitting on the counter beside the shopkeeper. He swallowed and reached into the pocket of his jerkin. “Stefano Lorenzo sent me.” Sal placed the red swatch of cloth delicately on the counter. He unfolded a corner to reveal the broken gold chain and gently slid it across the countertop to the fat Shiikali man.
The shopkeeper looked down at the gold chain and back up at Sal.
“Name’s Salvatori,” he said, extending a hand.
“You are coming on behalf of Stefano Lorenzo, you say?” the Shiikali asked, giving Sal an appraising look. “You look much too young to be one of these Commission types. Yes?”
Sal laughed. “I would be at that. But I’m no made man, just the nephew to one.”
“Ah, but now I am understanding. Please, let me apologize. Discourtesy is not my way.” The fat Shiikali extended his hand, jeweled rings on every sausage finger glimmered in the candlelight. “Nabu Akkad.”
“Salvatori Lorenzo,” Sal said and took Nabu’s hand. It was over-large and made for an awkward handshake, yet the introduction was sealed.
“Lorenzo?” asked Nabu. “You said you are Stefano’s—”
“His nephew.”
Nabu nodded his head side to side in the Shiikali fashion. “The nephew, yes. And what is this that is bringing you into my little shop?”
“My uncle tells me you’re the best fence in Dijvois.”
His uncle had said no such thing. He’d said very little of the fence, his shop, or what Sal was supposed to be doing there, but in Sal’s experience, it was always best not to ask questions of his uncle unless it was an absolute necessity. Besides, a little buttering up never hurt, especially not when fat men were concerned.
Nabu smiled a broad big smile on his big flabby face, chins jiggling as he bobbed his head in agreement. “Most kind of you to say this, my boy. I have a wife, you see, and always I am wondering what it must be like to hear kind words.”
Sal couldn’t help but smile stupidly. The man’s good nature was more contagious than red-cough.
Nabu looked down at the red swatch and tarnished yellow gold, the scattered broken links, and strands of delicate chain. He raised a thick black eyebrow and tilted his head just so, as he eyed Sal.
Sal nearly shrugged but reconsidered. This was the first job he’d been trusted with since the incident with the Moretti card game. This was not just another job; it was a test.
Sal locked eyes with the Shiikali shopkeeper and nodded confidently.
Nabu’s brow wrinkled, his lips pursed. His braided black mustache glistened in the candlelight as he stroked it with ringed fingers. Then a thought seemed to occur to him. “Aha!”
Sal jumped. His heart rate quickened, and his eyes fell upon the blade lying on the counter just outside reach. It was a pigsticker—a straight, double-edged dagger designed for stabbing.
Nabu clicked his tongue. “You’re uncle. This man is terribly sneaky, always the hiding and the sneaking and never a straight word. Just like my wife, I am thinking.”
Sal smiled.
The Shiikali folded up the red swatch of cloth and scooped it off the counter.
It wasn’t until that moment that Sal didn’t know what he should do next. Would the fence be expecting some form of payment, or was he supposed to collect the coin? He waited, but Nabu made no signal as to what they were to do next, and so Sal focused on the pigsticker sitting on the countertop as though he’d only been distracted by the knife.
“This blade is bothering you?”
Sal shrugged. “Was just wondering if it’s only there for intimidation purposes, or if you often have to use it?”
The Shiikali let out a booming laugh. “Oh, no, no. I think you are misunderstanding. A man has only just brought this thing in here for trading.”
“A good-looking weapon,” Sal said.
“Good-looking?” Nabu asked, picking up the steel blade by the flat, unornamented handle. The Shiikali wrinkled his nose. “An ugly thing with an ugly name, I am thinking.”
Sal shrugged. “It could be that I misspoke. Well-made, I suppose, is a touch more on the coin.”
“This thing, it is an ugly tool for ugly work. I have many, many more that will be to your liking. Beautiful blades, ornamented and shining. A handsome young man as you, the girls will smile prettily to see you wearing a jeweled dagger upon your belt.”
Sal shook his head. “Jewels on a blade would serve me as well as pretty smiles. No, that there’s the one.”
Nabu frowned and stroked his long braided mustache. He looked at Sal with hooded eyes but nodded his head side to side all the same. “Young and handsome, you might be, but you have an empty head on those skinny shoulders. When did a man have no use for pretty smiles?”
Sal waited for the shopkeeper to name his price. He knew in any negotiation it was best to be silent and let the other speak first. That way, no matter the initial terms, Sal could always work down the price.
Nabu puckered his lips and looked away as though thinking. “I like you; I am thinking, young fool that you may be. So, let us consider this a gift.”
Sal could hardly believe it. The blade may not have been ornamental, but it certainly wasn’t worthless.
“Thank you,” he said with a grin. “That’s terribly kind of you.”
The Shiikali returned the smile. “Most kind, yes, and all I would ask is a gift of five krom in return.”
Sal nearly choked as he sputtered. “Hold on, five krom?”
Nabu showed him an even bigger smile, his chins jiggling as he nodded his head side to side. “A most generous gift.”
Sal bit back his retort, and smirked, shaking his head as he realized just how swiftly the Shiikali shopkeeper had swindled him.
9
Promised
“We needs be going soon,” said the poleman. “It’ll take the hour if you’re wanting to circle the island and go along the cliffs.”
“Hold a turn longer,” Sal said. “She’ll be here. She’s only running late.”
The look on the poleman’s face told Sal the man didn’t much care whether she showed or not. He’d been paid, and now he just wanted to complete the transaction.
“Look here,” the poleman said. “I’ve another client that needs the boat by midday. If we don’t get going soon, this won’t be possible at all, you see.”
“I understand,” Sal said. “I can pay double for your time and the hassle it will cause you.”
The poleman perked up, defiance leaving his eyes as quickly as it had shown. Still, the man was shrewd, and he wasn’t about to leave coin on the table.
“I’ll need thrice pay,” said the poleman, shaking his head. “If I’m late for the next job, I lose the coin and the reputation. Man, don’t appreciate being cheated out of his time, see.”
“I’ll go as high as double pay, no more. If it comes down to it, we can skip the island and go right to the cliffs. I’ve been told that’s the part worth paying for anyhow.”
The poleman shifted from foot to foot while he worked out some figures on his fingers. After a moment, the man looked up. “Double will do,” said the poleman. “She has a turn, but if she doesn’t show, I pocket the krom, and you have on your merry way. We got us a deal?”
Sal held out his hand and the poleman took it with a strong grip.
The little raft rocked at its moorings as a pleasant breeze swept through. Sal set his basket upon the short wall, then hopped up to sit beside it. Standing had taken its toll, as nearly all of Sal’s energy was focused on maintaining his composure. As muc
h as he pretended at confidence, he was growing increasingly worried that Lilliana wasn’t going to show.
The poleman paced, checking the mooring knots from time to time, before looking up at the sun to tell the time.
When a half-turn had passed, Sal began to sink lower and lower into despair. He was nearly certain he would be paying double for a romantic pole-boat ride he wouldn’t be taking.
It seemed the poleman had read Sal’s mind as he walked back over to Sal after checking the knots and lines for the third time.
“Why don’t we head on out of here?” the poleman asked. “I’d fancy a bite before I went back out on the water. I know of a place in East Market serves the best crab and barley stew you ever tasted. What do you say?”
“I’ve a half-turn yet,” Sal said.
The poleman wrinkled his nose, but moved off without complaint, and resumed his pacing.
Sal pulled the locket from beneath his shirt and ran his thumb over the engraved rune. When suddenly, he heard the clatter of hooves on cobblestones.
His heart skipped a beat as he whipped his head up to see a carriage approaching along the road.
Lilliana.
The joy that had been forming in his chest crumbled and sank to the pit of his stomach, as the carriage trundled on past.
The poleman gave him an expectant look, but Sal refused to concede until his time was up.
“Salvatori.”
Sal turned and looked down from the parapet.
Walking the decline of the Bayway, the hood of her cloak pulled up, was Lilliana. He’d not thought to look for her coming from that direction, as he hadn’t expected her to come on foot. Nor had he expected her to come alone. It was a rare thing indeed to see her ladyship outside the walls of the Bastian Estate without the looming shadow that was Damor Nev.
“My Lady,” Sal said, swinging his legs over the parapet and dropping down to the Bayway.
Lilliana part laughed, part shouted in surprise and stumbled back a step as Sal landed beside her.
The Man in Shadow Page 9