When Shev spent a year tumbling with that travelling show there’d been a strongman called himself the Amazing Zaraquon, though his real name had been Runkin. Used to strip to the waist and oil himself up and lift all kinds of heavy things for the crowd, though once he was offstage and towelled down you couldn’t get the lazy oaf to lift a thimble for you. His stomach had been all jutting knots of muscle as if beneath his tight-stretched skin he was made of wood rather than meat.
This woman’s pale midriff reminded Shev of the Amazing Zaraquon’s, but narrower, longer and even leaner. You could see all the little sinews in between her ribs shifting with each shallow breath. But instead of oil her stomach was covered in black and blue and purple bruises, plus a great red welt that looked like it had been left by a most unfriendly axe-handle.
Severard whistled softly. ‘They really did give her a beating, didn’t they?’
‘Aye, they did.’ Shev knew well enough what that felt like, and she winced as she twitched the woman’s vest down, then dragged the blanket up and laid it over her. Tucked it in a little around her neck, though she felt a fool doing it, and the woman mumbled something and twisted onto her side, matted hair fluttering over her mouth as she started to snore.
‘Sweet dreams,’ Shev muttered, not that she ever got any herself. Wasn’t as if she really needed a bed here, but when you’ve spent a few years with nowhere safe to sleep, you tend to make a bed in every halfway safe place you can find. She shook the memories off and herded Severard back into the corridor. ‘Best get the doors open. We aren’t pulling in so much business we can let it slip by.’
‘Folk really after husk at this time in the morning?’ asked Severard, trying to wipe a smear of the woman’s blood off his hand.
‘If you want to forget your troubles, why live with them till lunchtime?’
By daylight the smoking room was far from the alluring little cave of wonders Shev had dreamed of making when she bought the place. She planted her hands on her hips as she looked around and gave that weary sigh again. Fact was it bore more than a passing resemblance to an utter shit-hole. The boards were split and stained and riddled with splinters and the cushions greasy as a Baolish kitchen and one of the cheap hangings had come away to show the mould-blooming plaster behind. The Prayer Bells on the shelf were the only things that lent the faintest touch of class, and Shev gave the big one an affectionate stroke, then went up on tiptoe to pin the corner of that hanging back where it belonged, so at least the mould was hidden from her eyes even if her nose was still well aware of it, the smell of rotten onions all-pervasive.
Even a liar as practised as Shev couldn’t have convinced a fool as gullible as Shev that it wasn’t a shit-hole. But it was her shit-hole. And she had plans to improve it. She always had plans.
‘You clean the pipes?’ she asked as Severard stomped back from opening the doors, brushing the curtain aside.
‘The folk who come here don’t care about clean pipes, boss.’
Shev frowned. ‘I care. We may not have the biggest place, or the most comfortable, or the best husk –’ she raised her brows at Severard’s spotty face ‘– or the prettiest folk to light it for you, so what’s our advantage over our competitors?’
‘We’re cheap?’
‘No, no, no.’ She thought about that. ‘Well, yes. But what else?’
Severard sighed. ‘Customer service?’
‘Ding,’ said Shev, flicking the biggest Prayer Bell and making it give off that heavenly song. ‘So clean the pipes, you lazy shit, and get some coals lit.’
Severard puffed out his cheeks, patched with the kind of downy beard that’s meant to make a boy look manly but actually makes him look all the more boyish. ‘Yes, boss.’
As he went out the back Shev heard footsteps coming in the front, and she propped her hands on the counter – or the hacked-up piece of butcher’s block she’d salvaged off a rubbish heap and polished smooth – and put on her professional manner. She’d copied it from Gusman the carpet-seller, who was the best damn merchant she knew. He had a way of looking like a carpet was sure to be the answer to all your problems.
The professional manner slid off straight away when Shev saw who came strutting into her place.
‘Carcolf,’ she breathed.
God, Carcolf was trouble. Tall, blonde, beautiful trouble. Sweet-smelling, sweet-smiling, quick-thinking, quick-fingered trouble as subtle as the rain and as trustworthy as the wind. Shev looked her up and down. Her eyes didn’t give her much choice in the matter. ‘Well, my day’s looking better,’ she muttered.
‘Mine, too,’ said Carcolf, brushing past the curtain so the sunlight shone through her hair from behind. ‘It’s been too long, Shevedieh.’
The room looked vastly improved with Carcolf in it. You wouldn’t find a better ornament than her in any bazaar in Westport. Her clothes weren’t tight but they stuck in all the right places, and she had this way of cocking her hips. God, those hips. They went all over the place, like they weren’t attached to a spine like everyone else’s. Shev heard she’d been a dancer. The day she quit had been a loss to dancing and a gain to fraud, without a doubt.
‘Come for a smoke?’ asked Shev.
Carcolf smiled. ‘I like to keep a clear head. How can you enjoy life otherwise?’
‘Guess it depends whether your life’s enjoyable or not.’
‘Mine is,’ she said, prancing around the place like it was hers and Shev was a valued guest. ‘What do you think of Talins?’
‘Never liked it,’ muttered Shev.
‘I’ve got a job there.’
‘Always loved the place.’
‘I need a partner.’ The Prayer Bells weren’t all that low down. Even so, Carcolf bent over to get a good look at them. Entirely innocently, it would appear. But Shev doubted Carcolf ever did an innocent thing in her life. Especially bend over. ‘I need someone I can trust. Someone to watch my arse.’
Shev’s voice came hoarse. ‘If that’s what you want you’ve come to the right girl, but …’ And she tore her eyes away as her mind came knocking like an unwelcome visitor. ‘That’s not all you’re after, is it? I daresay it wouldn’t hurt if this partner of yours could pick a lock or a pocket, either.’
Carcolf grinned as if the idea had only just come to her. ‘It wouldn’t hurt. Be good if she could keep her mouth shut, too.’ And she drifted over to Shev, looking down at her, since she was a good few inches taller. Most people were. ‘Except when I wanted her mouth open, of course …’
‘I’m not an idiot.’
‘You’d be no use to me if you were.’
‘I go with you I’ll likely end up abandoned in some alley with nothing but the clothes I’m standing in.’
Carcolf leaned even closer to whisper, Shev’s head full of the scent of her, which was a far stretch more appealing than rotten onions or sweaty redhead. ‘I’m thinking of you lying down. And without your clothes.’
Shev made a squeak like a rusty hinge. But she forced herself not to grab hold of Carcolf like a drowning girl to a beautiful, beautiful log. She’d been thinking between her legs too long. Time to think between her ears.
‘I don’t do that kind of work any more. I’ve got this place to worry about. And Severard to look after, I guess …’
‘Still trying to set the world to rights, eh?’
‘Not all of it. Just the bit at my elbow.’
‘You can’t make every stray your problem, Shevedieh.’
‘Not every stray. Just this one.’ She thought of the great big woman in her bed. ‘Just a couple of ’em …’
‘You know he’s in love with you.’
‘All I did was help him out.’
‘That’s why he’s in love with you. No one else ever has.’ Carcolf reached out and gently brushed a stray strand of hair out of Shev’s face with a fingertip, and gave a sigh. ‘Is that boy knocking
at the wrong gate, poor thing.’
Shev caught her wrist and guided it away. Being small didn’t mean you could let folk just walk all over you. ‘He’s not the only one.’ She held Carcolf’s eye, made her voice calm and level. ‘I enjoy the act. God knows I enjoy it, but I’d rather you stopped. If you want me just for me, my door’s always open and my legs shortly after. If you want me so you can squeeze me out like a lemon and toss my empty skin aside in Talins, well, no offence but I’d rather not.’
Carcolf winced down at the floor. Not so pretty as the smile, but a lot more honest. ‘Not sure you’d like me without the act.’
‘Why don’t we try it and see?’
‘Too much to lose,’ muttered Carcolf, and she twisted her hand free, and when she looked up the act was on again. ‘Well. If you change your mind … it’ll be too late.’ And with a smile over her shoulder deadly as a knife blade, Carcolf walked out. God, that walk she had. Flowing like syrup on a warm day. How did she get it? Did she practise in front of a mirror? Hours every day, more than likely.
The door shut, and the spell was broken, and Shev let go that weary sigh again.
‘Was that Carcolf?’ asked Severard.
‘It was,’ murmured Shev, all wistful, a trace of that heavenly scent still battling the mould in her nostrils.
‘I don’t trust that bitch.’
Shev snorted. ‘Fuck no.’
‘How do you know her?’
‘From around.’ From all around Shev’s bed and never quite in it.
‘The two o’ you seem close,’ said Severard.
‘Not half as close as I’d like to be,’ she muttered. ‘You clean the pipes?’
‘Aye.’
Shev heard the door again, turned with a smile stuck halfway between carpet-seller and needy lover. Maybe it was Carcolf come back, decided she wanted Shev just for Shev—
‘Oh, God,’ she muttered, face falling. Usually took her at least a little longer than that to regret a decision.
‘Morning, Shevedieh,’ said Crandall. He was trouble of an altogether less pleasant variety. A rat-faced little nothing, thin at the shoulders and slender in the wits, pink at the eyes and runny at the nose, but he was Horald the Finger’s son, and that made him a whole lot of something in this town. A rat-faced little nothing with power he hadn’t earned, which made him tetchy brutal, and prickly spiteful, and jealous of anything anyone had that he didn’t. And everyone had something he didn’t, even if it was just talent, or looks, or a shred of self-respect.
Shev hitched that professional smile back up though it was hard to think of anyone she wanted less in her place. ‘Morning, Crandall. Morning, Mason.’
Mason ducked in just behind his boss. Or his boss’s son, anyway. He was one of Horald’s boys from way back, broad face criss-crossed with scars, ears all cauliflowered up and a nose so often broken it was shapeless as a turnip. He was as hard a bastard as you’d find anywhere in Westport, where hard bastards were in plentiful supply. He looked over at Shev, still stooping on account of his towering frame and the low ceiling, and gave an apologetic twitch of the mouth. As if to say, Sorry, but none of this is up to me. It’s up to this fool.
The fool in question was peering at Shev’s Prayer Bells, and without bending down, mouth all twisted with contempt. ‘What’s these? Bells?’
‘Prayer Bells,’ said Shev. ‘From Thond.’ She tried to keep her voice calm as three more men crowded past Mason into her place, trying to look dangerous but finding the room too tight for anything but uncomfortable. One had a face all pocked from old boils and eyes bulging right out, another had a leather coat far too big for him, got tangled with a curtain and near tore it down thrashing it away, and the last had his hands shoved deep in his pockets and a look that said he had knives in there. No doubt he did.
Shev doubted she’d ever had so many folk in her place at once. Sadly, they weren’t paying. She glanced at Severard, saw him shifting nervously, licking his lips, held out her palm to say, Calm, calm, though she had to admit she wasn’t feeling too calm herself.
‘Didn’t think you’d be much for prayer,’ said Crandall, wrinkling his nose at the bells.
‘I’m not,’ said Shev. ‘I just like the bells. They lend the place a spiritual quality. You want a smoke?’
‘No, and if I did I wouldn’t come to a shit-hole like this.’
There was a silence, then the pock-faced one leaned towards her. ‘He said it’s a shit-hole!’
‘I heard him,’ said Shev. ‘Sound carries in a room small as this one. And I’m well aware it’s a shit-hole. I’ve got plans to improve it.’
Crandall smiled. ‘You’ve always got plans, Shev. They never come to nothing.’
True enough, and mostly on account of bastards like this. ‘Maybe my luck’ll change,’ said Shev. ‘What do you want?’
‘I want something stolen. Why else would I come to a thief?’
‘I’m not a thief any more.’
‘Course you are. You’re just a thief playing at running a shit-hole Smoke House. And you owe me.’
‘What do I owe you for?’
Crandall’s face twisted in a vicious grin. ‘For every day you don’t have a pair o’ broken legs.’ Shev swallowed. Seemed he’d somehow managed to become more of a bastard than ever.
Mason’s deep voice rumbled out, soft and calming. ‘It’s just a waste is what it is. Westport has lost a hell of a thief and gained a very average husk-seller. How old are you? Nineteen?’
‘Twenty-one.’ Though she sometimes felt a hundred. ‘I’m blessed with a youthful glow.’
‘Still far too young to retire.’
‘I’m about the right age,’ said Shev. ‘Still alive.’
‘That could change,’ said Crandall, stepping close. As close to Shev as Carcolf had been and a very great deal less welcome.
‘Give the lady some room,’ said Severard, lip stuck out defiantly.
Crandall snorted. ‘Lady? Are you fucking serious, boy?’
Shev saw Severard had that stick of hers behind his back. Nice length of wood, it was, just the right weight for knocking someone on the head. But the very last thing she needed was him swinging that stick at Crandall. He’d be carrying it up his arse by the time Mason was through with him.
‘Why don’t you go out back and sweep the yard?’ said Shev.
Severard looked at her, jaw all set for action, the fool. God, maybe he was in love with her. ‘I don’t want—’
‘Go out back. I’ll be fine.’
He swallowed, shot the heavies one more glance, then slid out.
Shev gave a sharp whistle, brought all the hard eyes back to her. She knew well enough what having no choice looked like. ‘This thing you want. If I steal it, is that the last of it?’
Crandall shrugged. ‘Maybe it is. Maybe it isn’t. Depends whether I want something stolen again, don’t it?’
‘Whether your daddy does, you mean.’
Crandall’s eye twitched. He didn’t like being reminded he was just a little prick in his daddy’s big shadow. But Shev was always saying the wrong thing. Or the right thing at the wrong time. Or the right thing at the right time to the wrong person, maybe.
‘You’ll do as you’re told, you little gash-licking bitch,’ he spat in her face, ‘or I’ll burn your shit-hole down with you in it. And your fucking Prayer Bells, too!’
Mason gave a disgusted sigh, scarred cheeks puffed out. As if to say, He’s a rat-faced little nothing, but what can I do?
Shev stared at Crandall. Damn, but she wanted to butt him in the face. Wanted to with all her being. She’d had bastards like this kicking her around her whole life. Almost be worth it to kick back just once. But she knew all she could do was smile. If she hurt Crandall, Mason would hurt her ten times as bad. He wouldn’t like it, but he’d do it. He made a living doing t
hings he didn’t like. Didn’t they all?
Shev swallowed. Tried to make her fury look like fear. The deck was always stacked against folk like her.
‘Guess I haven’t got a choice.’
Crandall blasted her with shitty breath as he smiled. ‘Who does?’
Never consider the ground, that’s the trick to it.
Shev straddled the slimy angle of the roof, broken tiles jabbing her in the groin as she inched along, thinking about how much she’d rather be straddling Carcolf. Down in the busy street to her right some drunk idiots were haw-hawing way too loud over a joke, someone else blabbering in Suljuk which Shev didn’t understand more than one word in thirty of. Down in the empty alleyway on her left it seemed quiet, though.
She inched to the chimney, keeping low, just a shadow in the darkness, slipped the loop of her rope over it. Looked solid enough but she gave a good heave to check. Varini used to tell her she weighed two-thirds of nothing but even so she’d almost dragged a chimney clean off once and would’ve taken a tumble into the street with half a ton of masonry on her head if not for a luckily placed windowsill.
Careful, careful, that’s the trick, but a healthy streak of good luck doesn’t hurt, either.
Her heart was pounding now and she took a long breath and tried to settle it. Out of practice was all. She was the best thief in Westport, that was well known. That was why they wouldn’t let her stop. Why she wouldn’t let her stop. That was her blessing and her curse.
‘Best thief in Westport,’ she muttered to herself and slid down the rope to the edge of the roof, peering over. She could see the two guards flanking the doorway, lamplight gleaming on their helmets.
About the right time, and she heard the whores’ voices, shrill and angry. Saw the guards’ heads turn. More shrieking, and she caught the briefest glimpse of the women struggling before they went down in the gutter. The guards were drifting down the alleyway to watch and Shev smiled to herself. Those girls put on a hell of a show for a couple of silvers.
Seize your moment, that’s the trick to it.
In a twinkling she swung over the eaves, down the rope and in through the window. It had only taken a few coppers to get the maid to leave the shutters off the latch. She pulled them to as she dropped onto the other side. Someone was on their way down the stairs, a light tread, unhurried, but Shev was taking no chances. She nipped to the candle and pinched it out with her gloved fingers, sank the corridor into comfortable darkness.
Sharp Ends Page 3
