“Hurry up, damn you,” said one of the Docksiders, looking down the street. Someone might come along and see.”
The shovelers stepped away, one of them gesturing for the Docksiders to move n. They went to the back of the wagon and with a twin pair of grunts hurled the body up and into the piled horse shit and offal. The dead Crescent Lord landed on his side, missing the hollow and falling onto the pile of shit on the other side. A moment passed, and then it slid back down and fell into the street.
“Bugger all!’ One of the Docksiders kicked the body, then curses again as his boots were dirtied with filth.
“Second time’s the charm,” said the driver with a laugh.
“He’s all filthy now,” said one of the Docksiders. “Gah...all over me hands!”
“Quit grizzling,” snarled the others. “And this time we toss him good. One...two...and up!”
The body flew back onto the wagon, landing in the hollow with a disturbing squelch. The Docksiders cursed at the filth covering their hands, knocking them against their hands and rubbing them against the walls of the house.
“You jackasses could have helped,” said one of the Docksiders, looking up. “Wait...where are they?”
The driver was gone, as were the men with the shovel’s. The Dockers looked down the street, where they saw the dung men disappear around a corner. “Hey! Where are you going?”
But Fenn saw what was coming. Four men approached from the other end of the street, armed with blunderbusses, their faces hidden under dark clothes wrapped blow their eyes.. The Docksiders saw them a moment later...a moment too late.
Fenn ducked down as the blasts ran out. He heard a scampering sound, as the beggar rose up and ran away with remarkable speed and agility. The Docksiders shouted, one of them running for the door, even as his comrade fell down before two loads of pistol shot, pebbles and whatever else the shooter had loaded down the wide barrel of his weapon.
Two more shots rang out, One missed, sending up a burst of dung as it hit the back of the wagon. The second hit the remaining Docksider in the back, hurling him against the door. He slide to the other side and turned around, facing his attacker. One hand reached into his coat and pulled out a knife.
A spent blunderbuss dropped to the ground, as one of the killers stepped in. He easily grabbed the dying man’s wrist, twisting it so the blade fell to the ground. Then he drew a blade of his own and stabbed it into the Docksider’s neck, twisting it slightly as he pulled it out.
The Docksider fell dead before he hit the ground. The killers closed in, checking on the dead. One of them looked towards the alleyway, and Fenn lid back further into the shadows, reaching for his own pistol, ready to fire and run.
The man looked into. He dipped his fingers into the pools of blood spreading across the ground, and drew a crude red crescent on the wall of the house. Then he cocked his head, hearing shouting in the distance. A glance at the others and as one they fled, running down the street, then splitting up, all four men going in different directions.
Fenn exhaled, letting go of a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. He looked one last time at the scene - the dead Crescent lying in the back of the cart, the Docksiders dead on the ground and the mark on the wall.
“This won't end well,” he muttered, turning away and headed down the alley.
Chapter Two
Kord Holdenor leaned back in his chair, arms behind his head. “Is that all of it?” he asked.
“Were you expecting more?” Fenn shot back, meeting his gaze.
Kored stared at him, his pale blue eyes unwavering. The grizzled fellow was somewhere past his fiftieth year, and as far as the rest of the world was concerned, was a retired lakeboat captain living off a modest pension. A man one would not look at twice if passed in the street, unremarkable in all the ways that mattered. Which was the quality most desired in a master of spies.
Officially, the title Master of Whisperers belong to Lord Sevvan Incelidar, nephew of the Prince and his presumed heir, an arrangement that fooled no one and sparked all manner of speculation about who might actually hold the post. Kord Holdenor was that actual someone, a closely guarded secret, and had been for decades. He possessed a connection to the Prince, a past association that gained him the absolute trust of his master, to whom he was absolutely, unbendingly loyal in turn.
That loyalty did not extend to those agents who served him. Fenn knew he was a tool to this man, to be used and if necessary cast aside if it became convenient. This being Galadorn, there were always plots afoot, intrigues within intrigues, with Kord Holdenor being one of many large spiders at the center of a forest of webs. Being sent out to trail a dung cart seemed a demeaning task, until he began to speculate on how it might relate to other affairs, other things this man was involved in. He did not speculate long, that was only led to madness, but it did leave him feeling more helpless than usual, a fly caught in the web, wondering when it would be his turn to be sucked dry and left as a withered husk…
“You don’t seem that surprised?” Fenn said.
Kord merely raised an eyebrow. “I haven’t been surprised at anything in twenty years.”
“I meant, you knew this was coming.”
“That someone might have an interest in ending the truce between the Crescent Lords and the Docksiders?” Kord rolled his eyes. “There’s a long list of men who would want that.”
“What I mean is, you sent me after that rolling pile of shit knowing this would happen,” Fen said, growing frustrated. “You needed me to see it happen. To be a witness.”
“I sent you after that cart because the men who own it are defrauding the city by not performing the duties for which they are being paid.” Kord leaned forward. “The fact that their employees are taking on extra work disappearing corpses is unexpected, but not unusual. It certainly explains the missing deliveries at the nitrary.”
“And the killing?” Fenn asked.
Kord did not answer. “You did well,” he said after a long and uncomfortable moment. A drawer opened on his desk and he plucked out a small cloth bag, placing it on the desk. “A small appreciation.”
Fenn picked up the bag. He could tell by the weight it was a substantial amount of money.
“Loyalty has its rewards,” said Kord. “As does discretion. Go back to your home. Get a night’s sleep, and when you’re fresh, start asking around the Gardelaar about those hired killers. Go to Red Eye, he’ll know if anyone does. And keep me informed of what you learn.”
The drawer slammed shut, indicating the conversation was over. Kord picked up a ledger from a pile on the floor by the desk. After a moment he looked up. “You can go now.”
In the center of the Gardelaar was a nameless square. One side was marked by a shrine abandoned for as long as anyone could remember, to the point that no one could recall what god or saint was worshipped there. These days it functioned mainly as a shelter for rats, roaches and those desperate wretches in need of shelter and none-to-particular where they found it.
On the other side was a rambling, two story building whose walls seemed to sag, with doors that never closed, where cheap wine and ale flowed like water to a clientele that was a broad cross section of those who walked the shady side. Thieves, killers, smugglers, traffickers, the lowest of gutter thieves and the leaders of gangs, they all came to the Red Cat. And when they walked in through the doors they kept their hands clear of their weapons, and smiled at their sworn enemies across the room, raising their hands only for toasts of welcome, for this patch of earth, beneath its stained roof tiles, was neutral ground. Whatever wars and conflicts wracked the underworld of Galadorn, they ended at the doors, and woe unto him that forgot this rule. Red Eye would see to that.
He was at his usual post on this night, behind the broad bar polishing one of the clay cups. He was a burly, bald-headed man somewhere on the far side of his fourth decade, who kept his normal eye on his bar, occasionally looking up to check on the antics of his customers with the ot
her orb. Blood red, glinting in the light of the lamps and candles like a ruby. There were all manner of stories on how he gained this curious feature, though Fenn once heard him mention it was a result of a fever as a child, and that he could see through it perfectly well. No one knew his true name (of if they did, they weren’t saying) and there was a persistent rumor about that the man who discovered it would drink at the bar free for life.
Red Eye stood under no flag, he was sworn to no gang or faction, was not under the patronage of any among the great and good. His doors were open to all, provided they had the coin to spend, and often to those who did not, who could trade something else instead. Information was the other thing he sold beside strong drink and rooms by the half-hour. Not a thing happened in Galadorn that touched on the shady side that he would not know of. Most paid through the nose for access to the treasure trove locked firmly inside his head But Fenn wasn't just a customer, he was a friend, and that made things a bit different.
“Red.” Fenn sidled up to the bar. A man lay slumped on his usual stool, snoring softly and smelling of slate beer and unwashed armpits. Fenn shoved the fellow off, the man only grunting as he dropped to the floor, slumped down against the bar, bubbles popping from the corner of his mouth.
“Harald!” Red Eye looked up, waving at the bouncer, who came over and grabbed the inebriate by the scruff of his shirt, nodded to Fenn by way of greeting.
“What’s with the love bite?” Fenn asked, pointing a the deep scratches on the man’s face.
Harald, normally a cheerful fellow, merely glared and shuffled away, muttering under his breath.
“Best leave him be for a few days,” said Red Eye, putting down the cup. “His wife is in town.”
“I didn’t know he had a wife.” Fenn slid onto the stool.
“She works on a lakeboat, swings through town every two months. They don’t get along. Alas, Harald’s people hold to the belief that marriage is a sacred bond that once made cannot be unbroken. She comes in, they fight, they make up, they find again, and he comes in with another set of scratches of bruises.”
“Sounds passionate,” Fenn said, a bitter note in his voice for a moment. “May heaven save me from such excitement and lead me to a life of quiet respectability.”
“You would go mad from boredom in three days.” Wine glugged into a cup and slid across the table. Fenn fished around in his pocket and handed over three copper coins. “Let me know when that runs out.”
Red Eye raised an eyebrow. “You seem flush.”
“It’s been a good week, when it comes to business.” Fenn picked up the cup and drained it in a single swallow. After a moment he sensed Red Eyes expectant stare. “An apothecary in Saint Barelin, dealing certain powders under the counter he should not have. He got careless spending the money, and the Treasury men came around, asking all kinds of questions about his extra income. A raid was imminent, so he hires an enterprising fellow to break into his shop while he was visiting his mother in the country to remove the items in question and set fire to his storeroom.”
“I heard about a blaze near the docks. Lucky for all it was raining that night, so the flames didn’t spread.”
“I’m a thief, not an arsonist. I didn't want the whole neighborhood to burn to the ground. I kept the powders in question. Don’t ask me what they do, but it brought in some fine coin.”
All of this was true. Kord made it clear that he was to continue his usual activities - as far as the rest of the world was concerned Fenn Aquila was an up and coming skag from the Gardelaar, with his other duties remaining a deeply kept secret. Fenn had no illusions what would happen if the truth came out...spies were loathed on the shady side, a snitch whose activities became known would have the life expectancy of a mouse in a room full of hungry cats. Even Red Eye would turn his back, and they'd been friends since the day Fenn had arrived in Galadorn.
Red Eye nodded, filing away the tidbit of knowledge for future use. “So, you’ll be taking a few days off I reckon. Maybe get out of the city for a few days?”
Fenn knew what he meant. It was not something he was going to discuss. Instead he leaned in close. “I might have something else for you,” he said.
“That’s right, change the subject…”
“A couple of Docksiders were gunned down at the hole-up on Scotta’s Way. I saw it happen.”
“Go on.” Red Eye picked up another cup and started polishing it as Fenn related what he saw, though he left out the part about following the dung cart.
“They they ran off,” Femm said. “They painted the crescent mark, but they didn't look like anyone Ogeron the Brick has under his flag. Too well organized. And they left the dead Crescent in the back of the cart to rot.”
“Hmm.” Red Eye set down the glass. “They didn’t go into the house? There was a box on the second floor with a lot of coin inside, fifty aurins at least.”
There was? Son of a… “Not that I saw,” Fenn said calmly, while wincing inside
“Hmm...not there for the coin, looks like. An organized hit...wouldn’t be on the Bricks order, otherwise he wouldn’t sending out warning flags, calling for a sit-down with the big ones among the Docksiders. Another player is on this...or maybe they just had a grudge against the men who got shot. Speaking of which, what were you doing there? didn't think you were all that friendly to the Docksiders.”
“I spit at the mention of their name...though not on here, out of respect for Harald’s fists! No, I was there because one of those fellows owned me seven galmarks from a game of cribben. Wish I'd known about the money upstairs, could have walked away all the richer.”
“Aye, a simple mistake, Fenn my land, You’ve making a fair few of them over the last few days. Seems you might be distracted…”
“Red, leave it.”
“Just saying…”
“What do you want me to say? She left me Red. It happens...women come and then at the appropriate time they go.” Fenn glared at the bartender, daring him to say something more, even as that memory came back, unwanted and yet hanging around like a bad smell in his head…
“This is how it has to be, Fenn.”
“He’s selling you to an old man! Like a farmer selling a cow...no worse! At least the cow doesn’t stand up and tell the bull it’s for the best!”
“What do you want me to say?” He could still see the anger in her eyes, mingled with pain and more than a hint of shame.
“Say no. Say you won't do it...you don’t have to say yes to me, but…”
“Oh please, stop being such a child! What can you offer me than he can’t? You are a thief, Fenn! You live in a garret in the Gardelaar. In the three years I’ve known you, someone has come close to killing you four times or more, and more than once I’ve been in the path of the dagger as well. What do you want, that we should run away together, take to the road like vagabonds? Sounds romantic...until you actually try it. Until your luck runs out, and I'm crying as they bury you by the roadside.”
“Joelie...”
“My father is bankrupt, Fenn. If he doesn’t meet his obligations by the turn of the season his creditors will take everything and turn my family out into the street. This match will save us.” And then she’d paused, holding back the tears. “He’s a good man...he asks nothing more than I'm willing to give. My family will be saved, and when he dies, I will be his sole heir, that is the agreement.”
“I…”
“This is how it has to be, Fenn. I...want you to leave. Leave and do not come back. Goodbye…”
“Fenn.” Red Eye pulled him out of the memory.
“Hmm? What?”
“Never mind.” RedEye refilled a wine cup. “Forget I asked. You’re better off without her, right?”
“Right As you say.” Fenn did not pick up the cup. “Let me know if you hear anything.”
“About what?”
“About what...the Docksiders! I'm still owed money.”
“Seven galmarks hardly seems worth the effort.”
“What about another war between the gangs? Be nice to know if thats coming, so I can make my way accordingly…”
“Fine, air enough. I’ll keep my good eye open.” Red Eye rolled his red eye, then frowned. “Hold on a moment. Harald, left side!”
Red Eye plucked a billy club from under the bar and hurried away Fenn looked over and saw Mari, one of the barmaids, shoving away an inebriated fellow who was pawing at her skirt.
“Piss off!” she snarled at him pushing him away with one hand while balancing a tray with a pair of wooden mugs on the other.
“Aw...don’t be like that, give a kiss, why don’t ya…”
Fenn winced. Red Eye was closing on one side, while Harald came in from the other. Neither had any patience with the drunks taking liberties with the staff. Neither did Mari for that matter, as she shoved the fellow away with her free hand, then sent her foot up the fork of his legs. The impact was loud enough to cut through the general noise of the tap room, along with the fellows gasp of shock and agony, swiftly stilled as she plucked one of the mugs off her tray and rapped it sharply on the drunkards head, dropping him like a stone, all without spilling more than a mouthful of ale.
“I keep half of what he has left,” she snapped at Red Eye., daring him to object.
“As you say,” Red replied, a bit meekly. Mari was not a woman to cross. Rumor had it she’d killed at least six men using the long hair pins stuck in the bun at the nape of her neck.
He and Harald took hold of the body and dragged it away. Dead or unconscious, either way he’s go flying into the muck and trash in the alley out back, minus any coin left on his person.
Heaven’s tax on idiocy. Fenn drained the wine in one gulp and decided to call it a night.
The shouting hit him along with the warm summer air as he stepped out the door. A crowd was gathering around the abandoned shrine, pointing fingers and asking questions. His curiosity pricked, Fenn crossed the square and pushed his way through the crowd...then wished he hadn't.
A rope was looped over the ancient doorway the crossbeam creaking under the added weight. Hanging from it it heels up was the body of a man, only recently slain from the red trickle still coming out of the hole in his forehead, dribbling down from the top of his scalp to the growing puddle on the ground. One of his hands brushed against the ground, while the other was pinned by the sleeve to his belt, from which a rudely lettered sign hung by a length of string.
Oath of the Thief Page 2
