Sal was left with two options, south or east. On a hunch, Sal headed east toward High Bridge. It was not until he’d crossed half the bridge before he caught sight of a dun, brown robe some ways ahead. Once he was within fifteen paces of Philip, Sal slowed, not wanting to give the chase away.
He wondered where Philip was headed. If they were taking High Bridge, the monk must have been headed somewhere in High Town. Though, Philip neither went up High Hill, nor did he cut toward the Kingsway, but instead took a hard turn and followed the riverside path southward along the Tamber. Sal stuck to the road as long as he was able, but after the Ferryman’s Ford, was forced to cut down the embankment and onto the riverside path.
He was no stranger to stalking a quarry. It required patience, keen instincts, and a good sense of the proper distance one needed to remain undetected. Sal had mastered the art, but even he was nervous about following Philip down the riverside path. It provided little crowd cover and nowhere to move off the path should his quarry turn and backtrack. If that happened, the chase would be over.
Sal passed fisherman pulling up their nets and stringing their fresh catches on a line. There was a group of children playing circle-round, laughing and carrying on as though nothing mattered outside their little game. An old crone chased off a dog with her boot. The dog—a skinny, ragged thing—ran from the woman, tail between his legs, a mangled fish in his slavering mouth.
The farther south Philip walked, the more confused Sal became. He was running out of guesses as to where the monk could be headed, and as his confusion increased, so did his suspicion.
The monk continued south along the Tamber until he reached South Bridge. To Sal’s utter bewilderment, Philip stepped on the bridge and headed toward the Big Island. As he continued to cross the bridge past the Big Island, Sal wondered if Philip did not know he was being followed. Surely the man would not have taken such a roundabout way simply to reach Low Town when he could have walked straight south from the abbey and gotten there in half the time. Unless, as Sal had suspected, Philip did not want to be seen or followed.
As they walked along the Bayway, Sal became convinced of his theory. Philip continued south past the Harbormaster’s quarters and down into the very Toe of the Shoe district. When he saw the Rusted Anchor alehouse and the massive rust-red anchor outside its doors, Sal thought he knew just where Philip was headed, and sure enough, the monk slipped into the alley behind the alehouse. Cautiously, Sal followed, stepping softly as a cherub’s buttocks. He crept only so far as he dared before he slipped into a shadowed alcove, slowed his breathing, and waited.
For a moment, there was only silence, and Sal’s mind began to flood with doubt. Had he misjudged the situation? Had Philip continued on, or had he stopped as Sal had predicted? Had Philip marked him? Did the monk know he’d had a tail before he had slipped into the alley? Might be he had only gone into the alley to shake Sal.
Sal’s heartrate quickened. His palms clammy, mouth dry, his entire body nearly shaking with anticipation, Sal took a step from the alcove.
“You got something for me?” said Ticker.
Sal leaped back into the shadow.
“The next one is coming in tomorrow,” said Philip. “Eighth Harbor, evenfall.”
“I’ll inform the boys,” said Ticker.
“It’s a big one, bring all the little street gangs you can, White Eyes, Rooks—”
“Bugger off,” said Ticker. “I know how to do my job. Besides, I don’t need your kind stinking up my place of business.”
There was silence for a moment, then Sal heard footsteps and saw Philip enter into his alley. Sal shrugged back against the wall, pinning his body to the mortared stone, as Philip passed right by him.
Once the monk had left the alley, Sal slipped from the alcove and followed. Philip was headed north, moving quickly across the cobblestones. Sal followed him out of the alley and onto the nearly deserted street.
Philip turned and looked back over his shoulder. As though time had slowed, the monk’s gaze locked with Sal’s. Without a word spoken between them, Sal knew it was all over.
The monk ran.
“Hey, stop!” Sal shouted, but Philip did no such thing.
In fact, he sped up, sprinting headlong up the street.
Sal took chase.
Philip cut into a narrow alley in the direction of the Shoe’s heel before he zagged back up another alley and headed for the Bayway.
Sal felt a sense of urgency, more, a sort of terror at the thought of what the City Watch would do should they spot him chasing a man of the cloth through the streets. Still, he couldn’t let the monk escape, surely Philip was his way out.
Even if Philip didn’t know outright who murdered Brother Dennis, he undoubtedly possessed information that could clear up the matter with Lord Garred and the shipments of drugs.
As they ran north up the Bayway, Sal began to close the distance, slowly but surely gaining on the monk. When they reached South Bridge, Sal was within two arm spans.
They were halfway to the Big Island when Sal grabbed hold of the brown robe, fingers clenching the loose, roughspun.
Philip wrenched free, shouting something inaudible, and losing his footing as he tripped heels first over the parapet of the bridge.
Sal cried out and made a swipe at the monk, but his fingertips only brushed the hem of the robe as the monk toppled backward over the parapet, arms swinging, face contorted in horror as realization struck.
Philip fell, arms flapping in the air as though he meant to fly. The monk seemed to fall forever, until finally, he hit the water with a smack.
Sal watched in sickened awe as Philip’s limp body was washed seaward by the current of the mighty Tamber.
III
The Mistake
Life is full of disappointments, and yet, I imagine death will be the greatest disappointment of all.
—Stefano Lorenzo
17
Something Of An Apology
INTERLUDE, SEVEN YEARS EARLIER
“Do you know what the Commission is, boy?”
Sal glared back at his uncle defiantly. He’d been kept locked in his room, a day and a night without food or word of what was to be done with him. Now, his uncle stood before him, daring to lecture him as though he were a child.
Uncle Stefano raised his arm and struck Sal across the cheek with the back of his hand.
The blow stung, but Sal was determined not to give his uncle the satisfaction of seeing him wince.
“I asked you a question, boy. Do you know what the Commission is?”
Sal snarled. “The five most powerful street gangs in Dijvois. Novotny, Svoboda, Moretti, Dvorak, and Scarvini.”
Stefano closed his eyes and drew a long, deep breath. “It is of little comfort to me that you acted out of ignorance. The Commission is not merely the Five Families. The Commission is a pact, an agreement between those families, and sealed by the Code.”
“I know this, Uncle, what of it? I’m no made man, what use do I have for your Code?”
Stefano struck him again, this time upon the opposite cheek with his open palm. “Bloody whoreson! Boy, you’ll begin to use that brain of yours, or I’ll knock sense into you until you do. You are no son of mine, but so long as you carry my name, I am responsible for your acts of idiocy.”
“My acts of idiocy? Am I to blame that the coin purse was kept just beneath the window? If we are to speak of acts of idiocy, blame the fool that was hired to secure the purse. Bloody hell, it was a high stakes game. What kind of fool puts the coin purse—”
Stefano struck him a third time, another backhand that sent his ear to ringing.
“Are you deaf or stupid, boy? Do you not realize the severity of the situation? Do you not realize what you’ve done? I ought to kill you myself, only that wouldn’t satisfy Don Moretti. Do you know what I’ll have to do? What you’ve forced me to do with you? War, that is what you’ve risked here. You have risked open war of the Commission.”
/> “What is this place?” Sal asked as Hamish hauled him bodily from the carriage.
“The Underway,” said the hulking Kirkundan, his voice hardly carrying over the howling wind of Lower’s Point. “Used to be a crypt.”
Sal went stiff. “You don’t mean—”
Benitto laughed his big dumb laugh. “Not been a crypt a long time. Nowadays, it’s a Moretti safe house.”
“What did they do with the bodies?” Sal asked.
The young man standing guard at the entrance jumped into action and opened the door when Benitto barked the order.
No doubt Stefano had sent word ahead. Don Moretti would be expecting them.
They entered into a damp, dank stone tunnelway. The smell of mildew prevalent in the musty air. A well-dressed man approached, his styled hair was such a fair blonde that it was nearly silver. He was young, with big white teeth and too much smile. His clothes were more elegant than most noblemen. There was something about the way the man carried himself that was both comforting and frightening, which made it altogether bemusing to Sal.
“And this stunted, scrawny, little thing is presumably the adolescent who dared to bravely shove his grubby paw within the hive for a taste of the honey?” said the well-dressed man. “Does he not know that bees possess a propensity for stinging?”
“This is the bastard that’s robbed you, if that’s what you’re asking,” said Hamish.
“I do suppose it is heartening to know you’re not too stupid to know at least that much,” said the man, wearing a smile as though he’d just complimented Hamish.
Sal half expected the beefy Kirkundan to launch himself at the well-dressed man, but instead, Hamish scowled and looked away.
“You going to stand there looking pretty, or you going to lead the way?” Benitto asked.
“You sir, are quite the conversationalist, I imagine.” The well-dressed man turned his massive smile on Sal. “Can’t be certain why, but I expected you to be a smidgeon more mature, more elongated in a vertical sense as well.”
“Amato, ain’t it?” said Hamish, the scowl still fixed on his big Kirkundan face. “How about you stop flirting with the boy and lead the way.”
Sal froze, he knew the name. Alonzo Amato was a known man among all the right people. He was the righthand man of Don Moretti and the official conciliator of the Moretti family.
Alonzo Amato smiled his big, broad smile, showing off his overly large, white teeth. “I see that you gentlemen are quite anxious to make audience with his lordship. Very well, we can save propriety and formality for a less trying time, and a more welcome trio of guests. That said, shall we gallivant arm in arm through the majestic halls of the Underway until we’ve reached our destination?”
The stone tunnels were poorly lit, with random offshoots that led off into dark passageways and made the place seem like an endless cavern of tunnels. Alonzo Amato in the lead, Benitto in the rear, Hamish practically carrying Sal by one arm as they went. They followed Alonzo through a series of tunnels that all looked the same to Sal’s eyes. Eventually, they reached a cavernous, open room, barrel vaulted ceilings supported by uniform stone pillars. Before Sal, a cushioned throne sat upon a dais. Sal had heard tales of that chair, the Throne of Thieves, it was called.
The man seated upon the throne was squat, rather toadlike with a big flabby face and round shoulders, short arms, and short, stubby fingers. His side-whiskers grew in thick and white, but his jaw was clean shaven, which made his sagging jowls all the more pronounced.
Hamish dropped Sal on the earthen floor before the dais.
Don Moretti glared down at Sal, his wide mouth set in a frown. “Come to beg for mercy, have you?” Moretti asked, then turned to Alonzo Amato and scanned his heavily lidded eyes over Hamish and Benitto. “Lorenzo isn’t here, I see. Not brave enough to come here himself? Sends his lackeys. Why, I ask you, does he fear me? Retribution, perhaps?”
“I imagine Stefano is shaking in his little boots after this transgression made by his own blood,” said Alonzo Amato. “Stefano surely fears a war within the Commission.”
Chest swelling, Hamish cracked his neck. “Stefano ain’t afraid of shit. Especially not no fop like you, Amato.”
Don Moretti’s top lip curled, his nose wrinkling.
Benito put a hand on Hamish’s shoulder, and the Kirkundan backed down.
“Best be on with this before tempers rise,” said Don Moretti, leaning forward in his throne. The look he gave Sal reeked of disapproval, yet there was a flash of curiosity in his eyes that gave Sal a flicker of hope. “Did you come to apologize? Do you truly think anything you say could suffice for what you’ve done?”
“I hadn’t dreamed it would,” Sal said, standing as a rush of defiance swept through him. “I didn’t come here to apologize, I came to warn you. What I did at your card game was only a taste of what I’m capable of.”
Don Moretti seemed too stunned by the reply to speak. His brow wrinkled, his frown more severe than ever, his hands on the arms of the throne with a white-knuckled grip.
Silence hung over them, when suddenly, Alonzo Amato burst out with laughter.
Don Moretti turned to Alonzo, eyebrow arched in question.
Alonzo spread his hands, palms upturned. “The kid’s got balls, though, he said he came here to warn us. What was your warning, boy, that you’re…capable?”
“My warning is to be careful because someday, you’ll be calling me Don Lorenzo.”
Don Moretti sneered. “You think I’ll just let you fuck with me this way, boy?”
“Seems to me, you already have. The men you hired to work that card game were clearly incompetent, at the least, undisciplined. I mean, come now, they were asking to be taken. And that banker you hired, the asshole stuck the coin purse right below the window. Could a man be any stupider?”
“The coin purse was beneath the window?” Don Moretti asked.
“All it took was half an ounce of flash powder and a set of picks,” Sal said. “Wasn’t for that shoddy mask and my uncle’s man who’d spotted me, no one would ever have known.”
Don Moretti turned to Alonzo, one eyebrow arched.
“I’ve had Bruno dealt with,” said Alonzo Amato.
Don Moretti shook his head, the hint of a smile forming at the corner of his mouth. He looked to Sal. “Don Lorenzo, you say? Best hurry up on that, because the way I see it, you don’t have long.”
“No?” Sal asked. “And why is that?”
“Haven’t you any notion why you were brought here, boy? Your uncle and the rest of the Commission have given me the go ahead. Your life is now in my hands. From this day forward, I decide whether you live or die. And right now, I’m not so certain I much like you.”
18
The Shipment
Her raven-black hair sheened in the afternoon sun. She sat alone at the oyster vendor’s cart—alone aside from her mustached bodyguard, who seemingly stood aloof a hair’s breadth away. Sal knew Damor Nev’s disinterest was feigned. Beneath the mask of dim expression, the bodyguard was vigilantly observing everything around his charge.
As Sal drew closer to Lilliana, he could feel Damor’s stare boring into him, but couldn’t seem to catch the Bauden man looking. Lilliana smiled as Sal took a seat on the stool beside her, a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes—her beautiful, sad, blue eyes. “How are you feeling?” Lilliana asked.
Sal smiled back. His smile genuine, despite everything. “Better, yourself?”
“You have news?” Lilliana asked. “I can see it in your eyes, you are dying to say. What is it? What has happened?”
“Much and more,” Sal said, glancing at Damor Nev.
“Well?” she prompted.
Sal told her of the discoveries he had made regarding the shipping manifest. He then told her of following Philip, of what he had overheard between Philip and Ticker, and the chase which had ensued. But when he reached the part about the bridge, his words left him, like smoke in a breeze.
&n
bsp; “And what?” Lilliana said, seemingly unaware of his distress. “What happened next?”
“He fell,” Sal said, his breath catching in his throat.
Lilliana put a hand over her mouth, her eyes widening like a frightened animal. Even Damor Nev had turned to face Sal, all pretenses of disinterest done away with.
“Where—what did you do?” Lilliana asked.
“Went to the abbey to explain what had happened,” Sal said.
Damor grunted, and Lilliana turned on her hired man like a mother addressing a child in need of discipline. “And you would have done differently?” Lilliana asked her bodyguard.
“Pardon, My Lady, I didn’t mean to interrupt, I only—well—it’s like this. Those monks up at the abbey are not what you might call the forgiving sort. A hard bunch, the lot of them. And this one claims he walked right into Knöldrus Abbey, bold as you please, and told them monks he done murder to one of their number? No, no, not on Damor Nev, boy. You want to try and pull the wool over My Lady’s eyes, you’re going to need to do better than that. If you gone to Knöldrus Abbey telling them monks a tale like that, we’d find your corpse strung up on the abbey gate.”
Lilliana looked pointedly at Sal, as though silently demanding an explanation.
“Right. Well, there are those of the Vespian Order who would have gladly strung me up. More accurately, I was told they wanted to give me to the flames. Though, there were some who wanted to flay me alive and hang only my skin above the gates. Might be they would have let me walk free after they’d skinned me, it’s difficult to say.”
Damor frowned. “That sounds a tick more like the monks of Knöldrus. So, what happened? How’s it we don’t get the pleasure of watching your hide flap in the breeze?”
“That’s enough, Damor,” Lilliana said, wearing a look of disgust. “I’ll not hear that sort of talk.”
A Fool of Sorts Page 16
