‘But it is just another theft,” he replied, his voice mild. “You’re going to take something. Something valuable. You’re going to take someone’s life. You’re going to take revenge. Here’s where I’m very much starting to worry for you though, Amra: The consequences of a mistake on your part are the same as if you were caught lifting a cask of jewels: Death. And in this case, I’m sorry to say, you’re not even sure you’ve got the right mark.”
“A daemonist who was just about to open a hell gate on the Jacos Road and his boss, the king of assassins. I may have got the wrong villains. May have. But they’re still villains, Fengal.”
“Since when is it your job to deal with evil, Amra? You’re a thief, not a hells-damned knight of the Order of the Oak. And consider this, please; while you’re keeping the world safe from these very bad men, it’s more than possible that your friend’s real killer is out there, safe, satisfied.”
“Well it’s a little late now. Bosch came after me first, and I doubt Red Hand is going to leave me alone just because I say sorry and pretty please.”
He rubbed his shiny head and sighed. “What can I say? You should have come and talked to me sooner. I’m deeply wise of course, but sadly I cannot undo what’s already done. You've already pulled on trouble's braids.”
“If you’re so wise, old man, why don’t you tell me who you think it was that killed Corbin?”
“True wisdom lies not in knowing the correct answer, but in knowing the correct question.”
“Fine. Be that way. I’ve got to go. I’ve got three funerals to attend.” I stood up.
“Don’t you want to know the correct question?” he asked.
I sighed. No, I didn’t. All right, yes I did, but I didn’t have to be happy about it. “Sure, why not.”
“Who had reason to want Corbin killed, besides the two new enemies you’ve made?”
“That’s just it, Fengal. I have no idea.”
“Well then maybe you should start trying to find out. When you have time.”
“Yeah, when I have time.”
“And for Isin’s love, get over to Locquewood’s and pick up your package. He’s been bothering me about it for days, now.”
“When I have time, old man!” I said as I went through the door.
Chapter Twenty-Five
It wasn’t quite as nice as Corbin’s crypt, but the mausoleum for the Thracen retainers was still much more classy than any final resting place I was likely to end up in.
I met Osskil, the same three professional mourners, and two of the surviving armsmen in the necropolis in the late afternoon, about an hour before sunset. Holgren had sent his regrets and funerary tokens, claiming ‘unavoidable occupation.’ I think he just didn’t like funerals, for all that he lived next to dead bodies.
The funeral table was bigger, but the whole ceremony was pretty much the same as for Corbin. Someone had washed the Red Hand’s mark off their faces, thank the gods, and sewed them up with care. They were wearing good cloth under good armor, and their weapons were with them, shiny and sharp.
I arrived in time for the meal, which was all right. Simple fare, no meat. The three professional mourners, I found out, were brothers, though they each had different surnames; Wallum, Stumpole and Brock. I didn’t try to puzzle that one out. I had enough on my mind.
Osskil made the ceremonial speech, we drank the funerary wine, and suddenly there they were, for a few moments, no longer corpses. The youngest one, the one that had kicked in the door to his own doom, looked at me with a sheepish grin on his face. Another, the one in the middle, just looked befuddled. The one on the end, a swordsman, was obviously angry, though somehow I knew it was not at us.
We toasted them, and they raised their glasses at us, the one in the middle having to be nudged by the younger one. And then they were just bodies again, and we put them in the mausoleum in the golden afternoon light.
Once the doors were closed, I turned to Osskil.
“On the day Corbin was killed, Kluge and the constables went through his house.”
He nodded. “I know. I was told.”
“Then you know what they found?” The letter, which according to Kluge, meant that Corbin might have been invited back into the family. That, and a Thracen signet ring. Daruvner’s words had been bothering me the whole trip to the Necropolis. Who had reason to want Corbin killed?
“I know they found evidence he was a thief, and the letter I’d sent him, along with his family ring. Why?”
“The letter you sent him?”
“Certainly. Again, why?”
“What did the letter say?”
“I’m not sure that’s your business, Amra. It’s a family matter, and as much as I like you, you aren’t family.”
“But I was his friend, and so I’m asking you to tell me what was in the letter.”
He gave me a long, hard look. “This cannot be shared with anyone else.”
“You’ve got my word.”
“My father is head of the family, but he is no longer in control of his faculties in any meaningful way. I control our interests, now, and make the family decisions. And now that my father is in no condition to object, I want— wanted my brother back. I wanted him to return to the family, to his home, to his daughter if not his wife. I wanted him to be able to be a part of her childhood, while there was still something of her childhood left. It was just too late.”
I felt ashamed for doubting him. It wasn’t as if Corbin, being the younger brother, could have inherited while Osskil was alive anyway.
“Now will you tell me why you wanted to know?” he asked, sounding more weary and heartsick than angry.
I really didn’t want to answer him. For several reasons. But I owed him.
“There’s a chance Bosch and Heirus didn’t kill Corbin,” I said.
“But what does that—” His eyes grew hard. “You suspected me?”
“No. Not really. But I wanted to make sure. You would have done the same.”
That hard, cold look of his softened. “I suppose I would have, at that. But why do you think the killer might be someone else?”
“I’ll tell you about it later,” I said, my mouth suddenly dry and my palms sweaty.
About twenty yards away, Heirus had suddenly appeared and was staring straight at me.
Osskil hadn’t noticed him there. I wanted to keep it that way. I turned away, walking slowly towards the crypt, and Osskil kept pace.
“Can I come by tomorrow?” I asked. “I’ll lay it all out for you then.”
“Certainly. I’ll be in all day. But why not now?”
“Because I need to do some thinking first.”
He gave me a long, penetrating stare. I tried to show him nothing. Finally he nodded, and started walking towards the exit. Everybody else had been waiting for him, and followed.
As the mourners streamed off towards the gate, I picked my way around headstones and past mausoleums towards Heirus. Night wasn’t far off. The sun was already behind the high walls, casting everything into half-gloom
He was standing at the base of the very large, not very lovely statue of the Weeping Mother. His oiled, ringleted hair glistened dully in the half-light. His gaunt, dusky face betrayed no emotion.
“I don’t have the Blade,” I said to him. “I don’t know where it is. I’m not holding out on you.”
He seemed not to hear me. He was staring right at me, but he made no acknowledgement. I kept moving toward him, slow and careful, the way you approach any wild, dangerous animal. If you have no choice.
“Have you ever hated? Really hated, with every fiber of your being?” he finally asked me as I came within spitting distance of him. “True hate is a powerful thing. It can give you the strength of will to do things you never would have considered. Things you never would have believed yourself capable of. Unthinkable things. Awful and magnificent things.” He took a deep breath, let it out slow. “Hate is a po
werful force because it lends an impossible strength. With enough hate, you could rule the world. Or end it.”
“Is that what you want to do?” I asked him. “Destroy the world?”
He laughed. “I don’t give a runny shit about the world, or anyone or anything in it.”
“Then by all the dead gods, what do you want?”
He sat down, heavily, on a cracked headstone across from me; leaned down and put his forearms on his knees. He looked tired and ill.
“I think,” I said, “That you’re sick. Maybe dying. I think you want the Blade because it will somehow cure you.”
He laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
“You think I’m dying. You don’t know the half of it. I die a dozen times a day.”
“That sounds unpleasant.”
“Well, curses aren’t meant to be enjoyable. It’s what I got for slaying a god.”
“Um, out of curiosity, which god did you kill?’
He gave me an annoyed look. “One who needed it. One whose siblings took offense.” He shuddered, looked as though he might vomit. It passed.
“How long have you been cursed?” I asked.
“How old do you think I am?” he asked.
“Forty? Maybe forty-five?”
“I’m seventeen hundred years old. Older than the Cataclysm. I saw the fall of Thagoth, and of Hluria. I was ancient when Havak Silversword was imprisoned behind the Wall. You people are mayflies to me.”
“You’re tired of life.”
“You haven’t the least idea. It’s much worse than it sounds. Because of the curse laid on me, every moment that passes feels like a hundred. Listening to you talk bores me to tears. Listening to me talk bores me to tears. I’ve experienced this conversation as though it’s lasted all damned day.”
“I’ll try and talk faster,” I said, but he waved it away.
“Don’t bother. You can’t speak quickly enough to make the slightest difference.”
“So what do you want, Heirus?”
Suddenly he was in my face. I never saw him move.
“I want the Goddess’s gods-damned Blade, you stupid cow!”
“Call me a cow again and I’ll stick the Blade so far up your—”
I never saw the fist, either.
I sprawled on the ground and in that bright flare of pain realization came to me.
“The toad,” I said. “It’s in the toad.” Though if there was a weapon inside the thing, it wasn't a very big one. Maybe suitable for paring nails. But when it came to magical artifacts, who knew what was possible?
I wanted to spit out the blood that was spilling into my mouth from the torn lining of my cheek, but I remembered what Osskil had told me. You don’t shed blood in the Necropolis. Ever. The Guardian will notice. I swallowed it instead.
“Yes, it’s in the toad. Nice to see you’re finally catching up.”
“Kerf’s crooked staff. You’re worse than that priest of Lagna.”
“I don’t know or care what you’re talking about. Just get me the toad and we can be shut of each other.”
“The thing you had Corbin murdered for? I’d sooner see it dumped in the Dragonsea than in your hands.”
“Your mouth moves but no sense escapes.”
“You had Corbin killed so you wouldn’t have to pay his fee for securing the toad. Then you put a contract out on me so you could have a necromancer get the toad’s location out of my corpse. Am I making sense now?” I wasn’t certain of anything I was saying, of course, but he didn’t have to know that.
“Oh. I see. You’re laboring under a misapprehension. I didn’t have your friend killed, or hire killers to end you either. Perhaps Bosch got greedy and decided to keep the fee for himself. I don’t know. I don’t care.”
“Why should I belie—” I didn’t get to finish my sentence. A knife had appeared at my throat, pressing hard enough to draw a drop of blood. Then it was at my heart. Then almost, almost touching my eye. It didn’t waver in the slightest in his hand.
“If I’d wanted your friend dead, or you dead, I wouldn’t have bothered paying for it. Understand?”
“Yes.”
“Finally.” He stood up from where he was crouched over me. “If for some idiotic reason I’d wanted to kill your compatriot, who I hired to retrieve the damned toad, I’d have done it after I’d secured the Blade. If somehow I’d become doltish enough make a botch of that, I’d have brought the cooling meat of him to a necromancer straight away. And while Bosch may not be the brightest spark in the firmament, he’s cunning enough to work out the same. Now. Bring me the Blade here at dawn tomorrow. Or I will find and kill you, and drag your corpse to a necromancer and make you tell me where you’ve hidden it. I will also kill both the mages and that fat lord that invaded my home.”
“Alright. One condition, though.” What did I have to lose?
He gave me a flat, put-upon stare.
“Go to Guache Gavon and tell him to cancel the contract on me.”
“Who?”
“The Low Country trash that arranges contracts for assassination here. Or are you going to tell me that Red Hand doesn’t know what I’m talking about?”
“Oh. I know him. His name escaped me.”
“Tell him the contract lapsed with Bosch. Or tell him you cancel it. Whatever. I just don’t want to be dodging assassins while I get the toad and bring it to you.”
“Fair,” he said. “I will see you tomorrow. One day,” he said again.
“Where do we meet?”
“Just come here. I’ll find you. So don’t bother to run. And keep that Arhat away from me or I’ll eviscerate him.”
“The bald kid?” I didn’t have to feign confusion. I knew who he meant, but had no idea why he wanted to avoid a teenaged ascetic. It was a strange tic of character for the King of Assassins to have. “It’s not like I have him on a leash,” I said, but I said it to the air. Heirus was gone.
Chapter Twenty-Six
“Do you want to give it to him?” Holgren asked me when I returned to his sanctum and related my conversation.
“Do I have a choice? He’s Red Hand, for Kerf’s sweet sake. I don’t give it to him, I’m a dead woman.”
“That isn’t what I asked, though. Do you want to give it to him?” The toad was sitting in the middle of some sort of arcane circle he’d sketched out on the floor with charcoal and blood. Bone wanted nothing to do with it, and kept to the corner farthest away.
“I want to have never seen that ugly thing. Sometimes we don’t get what we want.”
“If there is a weapon inside it, a blade forged by a goddess...”
“What?”
“When you next meet the most feared assassin in history, wouldn’t you like to be holding it, rather than an ugly lump of gold?”
I sighed. “Hells, I don’t know, Holgren. He’d probably just take it away from me and shove it in my ear. You didn’t see the way he moves. Neither did I, for that matter, if I’m speaking precisely.”
“Logically speaking, your choice is between meeting him essentially unarmed, or holding a powerful weapon. I know which I’d chose, but it’s up to you. As for his speed, I think I can help you there as well. At least for a short time.”
“Magic?”
“Of course.” He dipped two fingers into the pocket of his waistcoat and brought out a pendant on a silver chain. The pendant was in the shape of a leaf, made of silver as well, about the size of my thumb.
“You just happened to have it in your pocket, eh?”
He smiled. “After what happened at the villa, I decided to un-crate some of my more useful, if dangerous, items.”
“Speaking of the villa, that thing that crawled out of the hearth? It knew your name.”
His face went hard. “Yes, it did.”
“Did you want to talk about that, maybe?”
“Not particularly, no. Suffice it to say that, while I
have had dealings with such creatures, I am no daemonist. If that is what you wanted to know.”
I raised a hand. “Not my business.”
“No, I understand that you might be concerned. Be at ease on that score.” He sighed. “Back to the matter at hand,” he went on, holding up the necklace.
“What is it?”
“I’ve made a study of longevity. Call it an interest of mine. In my studies I came across a way to, shall we say, live more expeditiously for a short time. At the cost of shortening your own lifespan commensurately.
“Can you say that without all the expensive words?”
He smiled. “It lets you cram an entire day or so of living into roughly an hour. At the end of the hour, you’re a day older.”
“Oh. That’s not bad. I could even see giving up a week, or even a month.”
“It would kill you. The aftereffects are brutal. Imagine not sleeping, eating or drinking for an entire day and night. Bad enough. A week? You might well die of thirst. A month? You’d be dead before the spell wore off. But if you need to, you can. The spell will let you. Best if you don’t need to.”
“Magic comes with a price, eh?”
“Always. Though some don’t count the cost until it is too late.” His expression became remote, but he quickly shrugged off whatever he was thinking about and put the chain around my neck. “No need to decide this instant. If you want to use it, just break the chain.”
I thought about it while scratching Bone behind the ear. With the weapon inside the toad and Holgren’s magic, I might stand a chance against Heirus. Without either I stood none, and would have to trust him not to kill me out of hand. And I still had no idea what he wanted to do with it. I honestly could not imagine it would be anything remotely good.
I was starting to believe—reluctantly—that he had not had Corbin killed. All right, he almost certainly hadn't. If I was honest with myself, I didn't want to let go of the notion of him as the culprit because he so obviously fit the mould. And because if he hadn't been the cause of Corbin's death, then there was someone else out there who was. Someone I was no closer to finding than I had been at the beginning.
Thief Who Pulled on Trouble's Braids Page 15
