Thief Who Pulled on Trouble's Braids

by Michael McClung

  That did not make him a nice person. The Red Hand had killed more people than famine had, if you believed only half the stories about him. Hells.

  “Alright,” I said. “Let’s open up that ugly thing and get Abanon’s Blade out.”

  “That would be a very bad idea,” said the bald boy as he walked through Holgren’s door, and wards, as though they didn’t exist.

  #

  “Who are you and how did you gain entry to my sanctum?” Holgren’s voice was calm, but I could tell he was ready and willing to unleash violence.

  I recognized the boy, of course. The ascetic who had been staring at me as I left Alain’s place. The one from the funeral. Arhat.

  “Gaining entry to your sanctum was not difficult, magus. Magic is a rusty hammer with which to beat reality into different shapes. Philosophy, the true Philosophy, is a pen with which to alter, and hopefully correct reality.”

  “Arhat,” said Holgren. The boy nodded.

  “What do you want?”

  “Please give me the statue. It is not meant for you. It is not meant for the world.”

  “You know this kid?” I asked Holgren.

  “I’ve never laid eyes on him.”

  “But you know his name.”

  “Arhat? That’s not a name. It’s a title.” He had a pissy expression on his lean face.

  “Alright, I’ll bite. What’s an Arhat?”

  “Do you remember the Cataclysm?” he asked.

  “Not really, no. It was a thousand years ago.” But he wasn’t in any mood for banter.

  “If you want to know why the Cataclysm happened, ask the Arhat.”

  I looked over at the kid. He shook his head sadly. “The Cataclysm was not the fault of the Philosophers, mage.”

  “Oh really? Then who was it that decided to poke and prod at the underpinnings of reality? Milk maids?”

  “No. But not the Philosophers, either. A group that perverted Philosophy—”

  “The point remains, Arhat, if those wise fools hadn’t gone mucking about with knowledge man was literally not meant to know, millions wouldn’t have perished—”

  “Enough,” I said, rather loudly. “If you two want to debate, go to the Speaker’s Corner. Kerf’s crooked staff, we’re under a deadline here, or had you forgotten, Holgren? Arhat, you can’t have the toad. Sorry about that, now please run along.”

  Holgren just stood there, looking mulish. The kid refused to run along.

  “Seriously, go. We don’t have time for you.”

  “Please give me the statue. What is inside should stay there, in my safekeeping. I’ve been entrusted with it since I was ten years old. When it was stolen, I failed in my duty. I must take that duty up again.”

  “Look,” I said, losing patience, “We don’t have time for this. If Heirus doesn’t get the Blade, lots of people are going to die, including and especially us. ‘Please’ is nice, but not nearly enough.”

  “The Blade was never meant to leave me. I am its guardian. I must have it back, or the consequences could be unimaginable.”

  I looked at him. “Corbin took it from you?”

  “It was stolen from the temple.”

  “Some tumbledown place in the Gol-Shen swamps?”

  “Yes.”

  I remembered the cryptic remark he’d made in the City of the Dead. “Then you’re a shitty guardian. I wouldn’t give it back to you in any case. Now get out.”

  “You have no idea what you’re doing. Do not render down the statue, for the love of all.”

  “Tell me why. Give me one good reason, good enough to balance being slaughtered by the bloody Red Hand if I don’t.”

  “It could end the very world.”

  “Well that’s pretty good, I admit, but I have only your word on it, and besides, if we don’t melt the damned thing down, Heirus will just kill us, take it, and melt it down himself. Nice try though. Holgren, let’s do it. Or are you going to try and stop us, Arhat?”

  “I will not attempt to force you to stop. But know this: What is inside the statue is like a psychic poison. If you release it, what little shielding there is between it and the world will be gone. Everyone and everything around it will be twisted beyond all recognition. Quick or slow, it will happen.”

  “Again, only your word.”

  “For seven years I have watched over Abanon’s Blade. I have paid the price. I will show you.”

  And he did.

  Suddenly he wasn’t a fresh-faced boy anymore. Suddenly he was a nightmare, scaled and diseased, elongated slavering jaw, piss-colored eyes, taloned fingers—

  And that now-familiar hate washed over me and I wanted him dead, dead, in pieces on the floor to stomp on until he was just a stain. I had a knife out and winging toward him in an eye blink, and was already following it with another in hand to gut him, but he was gone.

  “You see?” he said from behind me, just a boy again. I spun around and saw that Holgren had a spitting, coruscating knife made of light under the boy’s chin, and a slowly disappearing snarl on his face. Bone, silent as death, had sunk his ivory fangs into the boy’s calf, and blood trickled down.

  “The Blade that Whispers Hate,” murmured the boy as Holgren, pale-faced, turned him loose and led Bone outside, shaking and querulous. “Do you think you can ignore its blandishments? I could not. If you release it, you’ll find you have only two choices. To act on them, much to the world’s woe, or to... internalize them.” He bent down and ran a hand over his bleeding leg. The puncture wounds from Bone’s fangs turned to puckered scars in front of my eyes, and the blood dried and flaked away onto Holgren’s threadbare carpet. “I chose to take in the hate that leaked out of the Blade's prison, lest it poison the very air of the temple and the waters of the swamp. It forced upon me this duality, this alternate self that draws the hatred of others like a lodestone.”

  “Surely there was some other alternative,” I said.

  “None that I could think of. Do you mind if I sit?” he asked.

  “Not my house, but feel free.” I was trembling from the aftereffects of that blind hate. I sat, too. Holgren came back in and leaned against the door sill, regarding the Arhat with sharp, brooding eyes.

  “You’ve attacked me twice,” I said to the Arhat. “First you tried to break into my house, then you ambushed me when I was breaking into Heirus’s villa. Why?”

  “The first time I only meant to take the toad while you slept. But you woke. I did not attack you.”

  “You sure as hells did the second time.”

  “To keep you from entering the villa. If you had, you would have died. And my intent was not to harm you. But my control over the form Abanon cursed me with is imperfect.”

  “Why use it at all then?”

  “It is strong. And it is impervious to pain.”

  “Why not just appear in my rooms and take the toad?”

  He smiled. “I could not, otherwise I would have. The physical places where such parlor tricks are possible are limited, and random. To understand more I would need to teach you at least the fundamentals of Philosophy—”

  “Mmm, no thanks. I’m a little pressed for time.” And interest.

  Holgren cleared his throat. “I agree that releasing the Blade would be imprudent,” he said. “It still must be handed over to Heirus. There’s no way around it.”

  “I implore you not to do so.”

  “Sorry. As Amra said, we have no choice.”

  “Well then, I will have to take it from him, then.”

  “Oh,” I said. “He told me if he sees you he’s going to do unpleasant things to your body.”

  “Be that as it may.”

  “You want to tell me why he hates you?”

  “He hates all Arhat.”

  “Again, why?”

  “He founded the Order of Philosophers. After the Cataclysm, he walked away from the Order, vowing eternal enmity.”

  “Sounds
like there’s a story in there.”

  “Oh yes. But one you do not have time to hear.”

  He stood up, and walked out the door. Holgren and I exchanged glances. He gave me a small shrug.

  Somebody else knocked at Holgren’s door.

  “I’m becoming entirely too popular,” he said with a frown. He put his hand to the door, shrugged, and opened it.

  Standing at the door was Kettle, Daruvner’s runner. Usually he had a mischievous look plastered on his round face, but tonight he was serious.

  “Miss Amra, Daruvner wants to see you. Says it’s urgent. You’re s’posed to take the hack back with me.” He pointed a pudgy thumb over his shoulder to the waiting carriage. “Magister Holgren should come too, an’ it please him.”

  “What’s it about, Kettle?”

  He shook his head. “Not sure. Something to do with Locquewood. His man Bollund showed up at Fengal’s door, bleeding like a fountain, asking after you.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  There wasn’t much chit-chat in the hack on the way to Daruvner’s. Holgren had taken the toad, no longer trusting the security of his sanctum, but left Bone.

  I prodded Kettle to tell me what he knew.

  “Bollund staggered in the eatery at supper time, blood gushing out’n him. Looked like he’d been speared in the guts. Looked like he was holding ‘em in with his hands, truth be told.” Kettle shuddered. “We got ‘im into the back room, an’ he was goin’ on about a giant metal spider and askin’ after you. Fengal sent me off to fetch a physicker from down the lane, and when I’d got back with ‘im, Bollund was passed out and Fengal told me to go an’ fetch you two.”

  “So Bosch is back,” I said to Holgren, and he nodded.

  “Who’s Bosch?” asked Kettle.

  “A giant metal spider,” I replied, and his eyes got big.

  “I thought he was just delirious.”

  “Sadly, no,” said Holgren.

  Kettle didn’t seem to want to talk much after that, and I didn’t want to talk too much about what might be going on in front of him, so the rest of the ride was silent. When we got to Fengal’s, Kettle paid the hack off and unlocked the door to the eatery. If I’d doubted it was serious before, I didn’t now. Fengal never closed, except for private parties, which he almost never hosted.

  Kettle led the way back past empty tables to a storeroom off the kitchen.

  Bollund lay on a makeshift cot, covered with an old horse blanket. He wasn’t conscious. He was very pale, lips ashen. Daruvner was sitting in a chair near him. When he saw us, he got up and ushered us back out into the dining room.

  “So Bosch attacked Bollund?” I asked him.

  “No doubt. Speared him through the back and out the belly.”

  “What the hells for?”

  He shrugged. “Because he’s a nasty little git?”

  “No, why did he attack Bollund?”

  “He knew Locquewood was Corbin’s fixer, and assumed Locquewood, and by extension Bollund, would know how to contact you.”

  “Me?”

  “Of course. He wants the toad. Bollund said he’s got Locquewood hostage in his shop. He sent Bollund out to tell you to bring him the toad. Alone. If you don’t, he swears he’ll start killing everyone you know, starting with Locquewood.”

  “But I don’t even like Locquewood.”

  “That’s not funny, Amra,” chided Fengal.

  “I just meant it’s not like he’s got my lover or a family member held hostage.”

  “Do you happen to have a lover, or any family to take?” Holgren said.

  “Well no, but—”

  “Locquewood was the easiest to get to, of all the people Bosch can connect to you. I was more than his match before he entered his present state, Baron Thracen is amply protected, and Inspector Kluge is quite adept at staying alive. In any case, he knew exactly where to find Locquewood, having dealt with him for the original commission. Locquewood was low-hanging fruit.”

  “You need to go rescue him, Amra,” said Daruvner.

  “Weren’t you the one who told me not to be a hero?”

  “I didn’t tell you to be heartless, either. Bosch is your mess to clean up now.”

  “I’m not saying I don’t want to deal with Bosch. I have scores to settle with him. I’m just saying I’m not doing it for Locquewood. Kerf’s balls.”

  “Well, now that we’re clear on that,” said Holgren, “let’s be on our way, shall we? Like him or not, the longer Locquewood is subjected to the attentions of Bosch, the less likely he is to survive them.”

  “You’re coming with me?”

  “Of course. I too have unfinished business with Bosch.”

  #

  Kettle whistled up a hack for us. I was amazed he found one as quickly as he did, that late at night. The ride to the Dragon gate was a short one, but by the time we got there Holgren had already sketched out a plan.

  “Don’t enter the shop,” he said as he passed me the toad. “Just call out to him, and show him the statue if you must. As soon as I can see him, I promise you he won’t be in any condition to cause further trouble.”

  “Well that sounds simple enough,” I replied. But I privately doubted it would be so easy. Bosch was mad, but he was cunning. I couldn’t see him presenting such an easy target for Holgren to destroy. I would have said so, but Holgren had displayed some seriously disturbing abilities in the way of making things dead. So I kept my mouth shut, and hoped he was right.

  We alighted at the end of the deserted, lamp-lit street. Locquewood’s shop was in the middle of a commercial area, high-end, and nobody bought expensive trinkets like his in the middle of the night. Holgren put a hand on my shoulder, then crossed the street. We walked the rest of the way up the slight incline to Locquewood’s shop.

  There were no lights on in the expensive glass display windows. The door was closed. I glanced back across the street. Holgren was nowhere to be seen, but I didn’t worry that he’d taken off. Much.

  I put a hand on the knob and tried it. Unlocked. I pushed it open.

  “Hey, Bosch,” I called. “I hear you wanted to talk to me.”

  Silence, then a low groan, somewhere far back in the shop.

  “Anybody home?” I called.

  “Come in, Amra.” That pipe organ voice. “I hope you’ve brought me my trinket.”

  “I think I’ll stay right here, thanks. Why don’t you come and get what you wanted?” I held up the toad.

  “Bring it to me,” said Bosch. “Now.”

  “No.”

  Locquewood screamed. Quite a lot.

  “My new limbs lack digits, but they are the very thing for poking out eyes, I’ve found.”

  “What the hells is wrong with you, Bosch?”

  “Having my body disintegrated has made me churlish. Now bring me the toad, or this dandy will lose his other eye. And I should warn you, my limbs are not really suited for fine work. It’s entirely possible I’ll poke too deep.”

  “Kerf’s crooked staff,” I swore. I shoved the toad inside my jacket and pulled out my knives. And entered the spider’s web.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  “You might as well let the dandy go,” I said as I stepped into the dark interior of the shop. “It’s you and I that have this dance.” I walked slowly past rows of precious gewgaws and delicate frippery, giving my eyes time to adjust to the gloom. The shop wasn’t all that big; I was certain Bosch and Locquewood were in the back room. The muted witchlight that pulsed erratically from the dark interior was another clue.

  “All right,” he said. “Mister Locquewood, if you would care to depart, be my guest.”

  A dull whimper was the only reply.

  “It seems Mister Locquewood prefers sitting in a puddle of his own blood, Amra.”

  “Come out here, Bosch, and get your toad.” Here at least there was some light from the street. The storeroom was windowless.


  “Come back and hand it to me.”

  “Let’s stop the games. You plan on killing me and Locquewood both, and taking the idol. I’m willing to try and save him, but not at the cost of my own life. I’m more than willing to meet you half-way, though, if you come out here now and face me. Then whoever’s left standing does whatever they want.”

  “So you aren’t going to come back here to save this wretch’s life?”

  I didn’t like where that question was headed. “Are you afraid to face me?”

  There was a jarring series of notes that I decided was Bosch’s new laugh.

  “I’ll take that as a no. Come out. We’ll settle our difference. Since you’re certain of the outcome, you can always go back and finish Locquewood off after you’ve sorted me out.”

  “That would just be extra work,” he replied, and then I heard a wet tearing sound, and a agonized scream that abruptly cut off.

  “Oh, dear,” said Bosch. “Clumsy me.”

  One of the things I was taught, long ago in the back alleys of Bellarius when Theiner, my friend and protector was teaching me to fight with knives, was to never, ever lose your temper in a fight. Of all the knife fighting techniques he drilled me on, that one was the most crucial. It was a hard lesson for me to learn—for any child to learn—but learn it I did.

  I surprised myself a little with the hot splash of rage that sprang up at Locquewood’s death. I hadn't liked him but he certainly hadn't deserved to be tortured to death. I'd like to think anyone would have felt the same, but sadly I knew better. That detached, emotionless part of my mind began to churn out bare facts in rapid succession despite my emotion.

  Locquewood was almost certainly dead or on the way. My reason for being in this trap had expired. Time to leave. Holgren could burn the place down once I was out of it.

  I turned and ran. Not a moment too soon, as it turned out.

  Bosch had kept control of one of his hellish pets. It had been above me the entire time I was talking, waiting to drop down on me.

  As I turned, I caught the barest flicker of movement from above, and then its talons raked my back, ripping my jacket and the shirt and skin beneath to ribbons. The daemonette that had retrieved Bosch’s head from Gavon’s. The shock of it forced a cry of pain out of me, but I kept moving. Holgren, and light enough to see my enemy, were just outside the door.