Or more accurately, it swung open like a pair of doors, and reminiscent of one of those old stories of how Mother Marlth would send storms of insects on the faithless, a cascade of a thousand of spiders tumbled down.
They landed in Trypp’s close-cut hair, fell down his face and tumbled onto his shoulders. Some of them hung down from the ceiling on silken strands, dangling in front of him, their legs twitching. There were ones as small as a finger nail crawling up and down his arms and others as big as Florian’s hand scuttling across the floor.
Somebody shrieked. Big girl. Then he realized it was him. Florian shouted “gerroff!” and one of the big bastards sailed through the air and smacked into the wall opposite. Motega was annoyingly cool about the whole thing, though Trypp, between shivers and swats to the spiders crawling on him, could see that a bunch of the arachnids were nestling into Motega’s long hair. He’d be finding them weeks from now.
Then it started. The sharp flares of pain all over his body, under his clothes, in his breeches, as the spiders started to bite. Please let them not be venomous.
“Time to go.” Trypp grabbed the golden bust, and he staggered as he felt the weight. He hadn’t expected it to be solid gold. He lugged it across the room and shoved it into Florian’s midriff. “Here, you take it.” The big man grabbed it with one arm as he smacked at the spiders crawling over him with the flat of his hand. Then Trypp heard it, the ringing of a bell, muffled, like it was coming from a room or two away.
“Shit! It’s really time go. There was another trap. Alarms.”
Motega led the way out the vault and back into the long banking hall. It was officious and grave, even without any of the stuffed shirts being present. Trypp was sure they were all tucked up in their nice comfortable beds, what with it being two bells past midnight. It was the kind of place that would not ever consider letting Trypp or his friends inside, even though they’d have plenty of coin once this job was done. Well, maybe Florian would at least get the haughty attention of a teller, but for the likes of Trypp and Motega—the non-white types—they wouldn’t get past the guards at the door.
The guards who Trypp could clearly hear running toward them at that very moment.
A rope dangled from the very expensive, very impressive and not actually that secure, glass ceiling that they had used to gain entry. Motega hauled himself up it without a moment’s hesitation. Florian got to the bottom of the rope and stopped. He looked up, and then down at the bust tucked under his arm, a quizzical expression on his face.
“No way I can climb and carry this thing.”
“Mot,” called Trypp. “Another line.”
A second rope unspooled as it fell to the ground. “Go,” he urged Florian, who hesitated for a moment before pulling himself up arm over arm. Trypp tied a noose in the end of the second rope and flipped it over the head of the golden bust to nestle under its chin—judging by the other rich bastards he’d met, Trypp was certain he probably deserved it. He pulled the loop tight and gave the signal for Motega to haul it up.
The door behind the bank counter burst open and an assortment of a half dozen overweight or aging soldiers skidded into the room, some of them still wearing city watch uniform, obviously too lazy to switch garb for their nighttime moonlighting. They gawped at Trypp and he glared back, assessing.
They didn’t have crossbows. That was good. They were only about fifteen feet away, which was bad. But the steel bars above the counter would at least stop them from jumping over. The guards must have finished their own similar thought process as they made a run for the cage door, just as Trypp jumped up to grab the rope, quickly climbing with hands and feet to the sky light above.
He felt the rope tense below him as Motega offered a hand to help him to the roof. There was cry and a grunt as whichever imbecile had thought it would be a good idea to follow him made his acquaintance with the stone floor once Florian had cut the line.
Trypp looked around, taking in the crisp, early winter night, Carlburg arrayed before them. The capital city of Skaria was quiet except for the odd drunk wandering home singing, the tiled roofs of the nearby shops and inns giving way to thatch as the residences began. They were now definitely in Plan B territory. Plan A had been to climb down the rope at the rear of the bank that they had used to get up there in the first place. That was off the table now, the bank guards would be out on the street any moment. Plan B was Motega’s plan.
It was not a good plan.
He was really going to have to talk to him about that.
“Ready for Plan B?” asked Motega, as he looked over the edge of the building to the street fifty feet below.
“Do I still have to carry this fucking thing?” asked Florian, holding out the bust in one outstretched mitt like he was strangling a disembodied dwarf.
“Yes!” said Trypp and Motega in unison.
Florian swore under his breath before muttering, “we should really bring a bag next time.”
Trypp ignored him and resumed his attention to Plan B. The rooftops of the buildings surrounding the bank were all a good twenty feet drop from where they were, and there was a street in the way. Doable, but also plenty of chance of doing yourself a broken leg.
Trypp blew out his cheeks and nodded. “Let’s do it.”
They ran to the edge and leapt out into the dark.
Feet on the table. A roaring fire. Beer in hand. The boys off playing somewhere. Trypp was a happy man.
Atarah’s Hearth was always one of his favorite hostelries, and there was nothing like the glow of getting paid to go with the glow of a warm fire. Giofre had been happy with their work, and their fixer was certain his employer was going to be happy too. Trypp drained his beer and returned the tankard to the table. Another appeared beside it, froth spilling over the top, and Isabel the bar maid gave him a wink. Customer service, that’s what it was all about; whether you ran a bar, or did ‘other’ jobs.
Granted this job had proven to be slightly less lucrative than they had originally expected—the cost of the antidote to that spider poison had been significant. He was just glad that Motega had for some reason been immune to the effects; he and Florian had collapsed when they’d made it back to their safe house, those last few yards an agony as fire lanced up his limbs with every step. As the apothecary who had administered the cure said after Trypp had regained consciousness, “What price would you put on your life?” Their more modest profit was much preferable to the alternative.
It was at quiet times like these that he had the opportunity to be grateful for what he had, given where he had started out from. He had no idea who his parents were, whether they were dead or merely absent, his earliest memories being those of the orphanage where he fought for food, clothes and warmth with a couple score of other children, all the while trying to avoid the attention of Master Levin. Unfortunately, trouble was his shadow even back then. And so something would happen, a fight with another boy, or something was stolen and he would get the blame; so then he’d run away and live on the streets of Kingshold, before eventually getting caught again. If he’d have stayed at that orphanage, he had no doubt that he would be living in some hovel in Bottom Run or Randall’s Addition, struggling to stay alive.
Instead, he had a full belly, a jangling purse, and a partnership in a thriving business. Trypp granted himself a smile and he looked around to see what the boys were doing. Motega, smile flashing, was chatting up a couple of unaccompanied women, not whores by the look of them—the landlady of the Hearth liked to keep the kind of business out of her establishment. Maybe they worked in one of the stores local to this part of Ioth. Florian, meanwhile, was sitting with a group of men, Edlanders by their accents, regaling them with stories of his army days and generally laughing it up. Motega and Florian were like brothers to him, the family he never thought he would have or need. He didn’t mind being left alone; he respected that they all needed a little bit of space after spending the past week cooped up in a modest berth on a ship from Carlburg
to Ioth.
It wasn’t a bad life, this adventuring lark. Trypp chuckled to himself. Adventuring. That’s what Mot and Florian called it, and it’s definitely what they had left Kingshold to pursue. Sure, they did the odd job that could be considered recompensed public service; but Trypp had no illusions or qualms that most of their income came from being high class thieves. Extractors. As long as there was enough excitement to stop Motega from getting bored, and they minimized the unnecessary casualties to keep Florian’s conscience content, his friends went along with it. And it was six-shits better than his other two career opportunities after getting out of the orphanage; an assassin with the Hollow Syndicate or a burglar for the Twilight Exiles.
He also took pride knowing that they were good at it too. Probably the best, and no one other than a few fixers knew who they were. Anonymity combined with enough coin not to worry about a good meal and better room to sleep in. Not a bad life at all. If he could keep the boys at this for a few more years, keep squirreling away a chunk of their pay without them noticing, then he’d be able to surprise them with a nest egg to set up wherever they like; maybe marry, get fat, and watch each other’s kids get into trouble instead of them.
Trypp felt a blast of the winter air rush through the room, reaching through to his place by the titular hearth and he looked up to see the door to the street open. The door closed again, but from his slouched position he didn’t see anyone enter, just the parting of the crowds as something made their way through. A boy, dirty from the streets, appeared from around the wide form of Florian and made a bee line over to Trypp. Trypp resumed looking at his feet, hoping that he was wrong and the kid wasn’t seeking him out.
“Excuse me,” came a piping voice, surprisingly well-mannered for a street boy. “I have a message for you.”
Trypp turned to regard the boy. He could see the familial relationship now. Lai Giofre must have sent one of his sons; the smell of pipe weed hanging over the boy evidence that his father had him working in the pipe shop that fronted his under-the-counter activities. Motega and Florian loomed behind the kid.
“You sure you got the right person?”
The boy gulped and nodded. “Papa told me you’d be the only black man in the Hearth.” Trypp looked around. He was not wrong.
“Spit it out then.”
“Papa says you need to get to the shop. There’s a special pipe you’ll be interested in, but if you’re not there soon he’ll find someone else who is interested.”
Trypp sighed. So much for a relaxing evening. But that was the price you had to pay in their line of work if you wanted to keep your customers happy.
“Let me buy you another one.” Trypp raised his hand to attract the bar maid’s attention.
The man opposite him half-heartedly waved his offer away. “I should be going. Nice meeting you and all, but I got to get back to the wife.”
“Ah, Luniki, you’re a family man. That’s good. I understand, and I would hate to keep you away from them.” Trypp pulled his arm down but he winked over to the bar maid who had already seen his call. “I’m in the business of helping families myself. I know what’s most important in life.”
“What does that mean?”
“It can mean different things.” Trypp leaned in and lowered his voice. “Sometimes I help people make sure that the members of their families are safe. Other times I help the families of those who help me. Do you know what I mean?”
Luniki, a broad-shouldered man who Trypp had observed delivering supplies to the villa of Este Palombi earlier that day, did not seem to be fully understanding what Trypp was saying, though his eyes had brightened with greed at what appeared to be an opportunity to make some additional coin.
“What do you mean?” asked Luniki again, as another cup of wine appeared before him. He eyed it pensively, while the barmaid cleared away the other two empty cups. His indecision lasted only a moment before he brought the wine to his lips. “I don’t do anything to get me into trouble with the Pula.”
Trypp looked around, making a show of ensuring no one was close enough to overhear. “You don’t need to worry about the watch. I have been hired…” he began, “by a concerned father, to check on the wellbeing of his daughter. A daughter who is in the employ of one of your customers and who he fears may have been taken advantage of. And forced into an… unplanned situation.” Trypp raised his eyebrows, hoping that Luniki’s imagination would fill in what he was leaving unsaid.
He knew it wasn’t the best story, but it was the best he had come up with on short notice when it looked like Luniki might actually leave.
It was, of course, all hogwash.
But Trypp was confident that telling Luniki that actually he was trying to work out how to break into the villa of Palombi, so he could steal back a solid gold bust of some dead guy that he had only handed off to Este via a series of intermediaries just a couple of days before, was not going to help his cause.
Luniki took a sip of his wine, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. “Which customer?” Trypp whispered the councilors name and Luniki coughed in reply. He took a big gulp of his drink. “That’s quite an in important person.” Trypp nodded seriously. “What kind of help are you looking for?”
“I just need a look around the place. Hopefully I can just see the girl, make sure she is fine, and give the father some peace of mind. I know he would be very grateful.” Trypp paused significantly. “And I know I would be too.”
There was a thunk as the cup, drained once more, rested on the table. Luniki looked down at it expectantly and Trypp waved for the bar maid’s attention once more. Not for the first time, Trypp considered how often the information they needed for a job was bought with a few drinks. If he ever actually paid taxes, he’d need to track his bar bills as a business expense.
Luniki blew out his cheeks as he made up his mind. “Just how grateful?”
The rising sun filtered between the buildings of the old city of Ioth as Trypp sat at the prow of the gondola, gliding along the narrow canals. Palombi’s villa sat proudly on the grand canal, with a majestic entrance way for family and guests that led straight into the center of the complex. But Trypp knew that he wouldn’t be able to walk in that way. There were few people of color in Ioth, and those that were struggled to make a living through jobs much more modest than the merchants that were the heartbeat of the city. To attempt to play as a merchant, looking to make a deal or a connection with Palombi, that would be far too conspicuous.
But a manual worker—that would go unnoticed.
So he sat quietly as Luniki poled the boat through the narrow canal behind the villa, stopping at the landing for the entrance to the kitchens, and he followed Luniki’s order without complaint to pick up the baskets of fish fresh from the market. Luniki himself hauled a crate of vegetables on to the narrow stone landing and then knocked on the door. It was opened by a spotty teenager who looked like he was playing dress up as a soldier—a chain mail shirt too big for him almost slipped off his shoulder in the style of a whore prowling for business, and his hand rested untrained on the pommel of his sword at his hip. The scowl that he had probably learned from some elder guard was momentarily displaced at the sight of the delivery man, before his brows knotted again at the sight of Trypp.
“Who’s he?”
“Fredo’s sick. Had to get some other help,” said Luniki coolly, though Trypp caught his shifty glance. He better not blow this. Luniki grabbed an apple from the crate and tossed it to the boy, who caught it eagerly. The boy’s prize won, he stepped aside to let them enter, laden with food for the household’s day. Trypp followed his master for the morning into a short passageway that opened out into the center of the villa; a courtyard of marble and potted plants enclosed by four open air passageways. He stopped and quickly took in all he could; the grand entrance opposite, the three stories rising above to tiled roofs, and not missing the other four armored and more mature figures. They stood guard outside closed doors that led inside the building
.
“Stop gawping and follow me,” ordered Luniki, maybe enjoying his role a little too much for Trypp’s tastes. He let it slide, though he had a mind to help him a little less when this was all said and done. Trypp followed him down one of the open-air passageways to an archway that led into the kitchen. It was bright and airy, with high ceilings, but it still felt scorching inside from the heat emanating from the great stone fireplace. The smell of baking bread filled his nostrils and made Trypp wish he had risen a little earlier to have breakfast. He knew that right about then, Motega and Florian were probably tucking into heaping plates of eggs, crusty loaves and cups of weak beer. Bastards. They never realized the sacrifices he made for them.
Luniki placed his crate of vegetables on the long table in the middle of the kitchen. The cook, a plump, golden brown woman with a welcoming smile and dusted in flour—a loaf of bread made flesh—looked up from where she was cutting a huge slab of butter into chunks with a knife that would have made Psycho Silas proud. He meandered over to the table as he took in the others in the room. A boy at the sink scrubbing dishes. Another woman of middling years who was stirring a large pot of something on the stove, giving some unheard instructions to a younger cook. And a girl, probably not much younger than him, just turned twenty and dressed in a maid’s robes, who stared at him wide eyed. She was an attractive sort, the kind of girl that he usually found to be friendly and warm hearted. The kind of girl that he imagined Florian settling down with in his visions of their retirement. Not exactly his type; he usually preferred a little more danger, a little something out of the ordinary. But then again, he wasn’t there to meet his future wife. This was work.
Trypp flashed the maid a smile and when he saw the corners of her mouth turn up in return, he gave her a wink.
His winks were legendary—or at least, Motega always said so. That they could cause a woman to swoon at twenty paces. Trypp knew it took more than that though.
Dark Ends Page 16
