Sal knocked, but to his chagrin, it was not Vinny who answered.
Vinny’s father was a near mirror image of his son, in a shrunken, warped by time, and drunk kind of way. A sort of pathetic reminder of what a man can become should he let his vices drag him to the deepest depths of Sacrull’s hell.
“Hello, sir. Is Vinny home?”
“Knows you?” said Vinny’s father, his breath reeking of sour wine.
“You do, sir. You saved my life once. And I’m still grateful for that.”
“Hmm, don’t seem you was too grateful, seeming is it you don’t—wasn’t,” Vinny’s father shook his head, looking somewhat confused, “was you?”
“No, sir, I wasn’t,” Sal said, hoping he’d made the right choice.
“No, you wasn’t, was you?” Vinny’s father agreed, taking a long drink from his cup. He looked at Sal rather skeptically. “You’re to see—”
“Vincenzo, sir.”
Vinny’s father harrumphed and turned. He walked into the house, and Sal followed as the Norsic man swayed dangerously with every step.
“Boy, you wake your sorry ass off, damned sleeping. Man here looking.” Vinny’s father stumbled as he kicked at the bed where Vinny slept.
Vinny sat up and rubbed at his eyes when his father slapped him full on in the face with the palm of his open hand.
Vinny cursed, scrambled to his feet—shoving his father in the process—and swung a fist.
The drunken lout took the punch stoically, hardly flinching as the fist cracked into his jaw with enough force to crumble the man’s knees beneath him. Vinny’s father dropped to the floorboards like a sack of unwashed onions and curled on his side.
Vinny shook his head to clear it, grabbed a blanket from the bed, and threw it over his father. He picked up the wooden cup that had clattered on the ground. Vinny cursed. Then blinked, as he only then seemed to notice Sal standing there.
“Sacrull’s big hairy ones,” Sal said. “You think he’s all right?”
“He won’t be all right until he quits breathing,” Vinny said, snarling.
Sal couldn’t think of a thoughtful response, and so he left it there. “How are you, mate?”
“My bloody nose stings something awful,” Vinny said, rubbing at it. “Did you see the bastard slap me?”
“I was referring to that ugly bite on your hand there. It looks to be a tick swollen.”
Vinny looked at his hand and shrugged. “Not near so bad as the bite you took. You’d have thought that mender was going to have to take the arm off. Though, it seems she is a talent among Talents,” Vinny said with a grin.
“You may want to see her about that hand,” Sal cautioned. “How’s the rest of the crew?”
“Balliel is dead.”
“Dead?” Sal asked. “When? How?”
“Last night, while we were trapped in the warehouse,” said Vinny. “It turns out only six of the Scarvini men went into the warehouse. The other three must have gone after Balliel. Caught up to him just before Town Road and opened him full of holes.”
Sal shook his head. He’d thought if anyone had gotten out of there, it would have been Balliel. Sal had seen him driving away on the wagon. He never would have thought the man would have been dead only moments later.
“It’s almost as if they expected us to be there. How else could they have gotten Balliel? They must have set an ambush.”
“Light’s name,” said Vinny. “You really suggesting—”
“No,” Sal said flatly.
Vinny pinched the bridge of his nose. “I suppose the question is how they could have known. How did they know we were taking the warehouse in the first place?”
“You know, I probably should have asked this before taking the job, but do you have any idea who Valla’s backer was?”
Vinny shrugged. “Don Moretti, I suppose, but I really hadn’t thought to ask.”
“Well, I’m beginning to wonder if we shouldn’t go ahead and do that. Lady’s sake, whoever this source was that gave up that warehouse has set us up for death. We broke the Code. Don’t you see that? Valla is made under the Moretti Family, and we just hit a Scarvini owned warehouse.”
“Look, we’re all supposed to meet up at the Rusted Anchor by midday,” Vinny said placatingly. “Might be we’ll get some answers out of her then.”
As Sal pushed through the doors of the Rusted Anchor, he hardly noticed the haze of smoke, the smell of stale rushes, the peeling wall paint, or the noise.
He brushed off the woman that pawed at him, whispering promises of ecstasy to the highest order. Deaf to the shouts of the man he shoved past, his focus dead set on Valla, his rage blind to all in his periphery.
Vinny put a staying hand on his shoulder. “You don’t want to go at her like that, mate. She’ll eat you alive, she will.”
Sal rolled his shoulder and shrugged off Vinny’s hand.
“Oy, the magus lives,” said Odie, flashing Sal a broad smile as he drew near.
Odie, Aurie, and Valla were all seated at Valla’s usual table. There was only one empty chair. It seemed they’d not been expecting him.
No matter, he wanted to remain standing should things escalate.
Aurie looked worried, Odie unconcerned, but Valla had yet to meet his eyes, as though she meant not to notice him.
Sal slammed a hand on the table, causing Aurie to jump. Odie smiled all the broader, and Valla slowly turned to look at him with half-lidded eyes.
Vinny took the empty seat without a word.
“Seems we’re all here then,” said Valla.
“Not all of us,” said Sal, injecting as much scorn as he could muster into the words. “Where is Balliel, Val?” Sal could feel the faces drop around him, but his eyes did not leave Valla’s.
“He don’t know?” asked Odie.
“He knows,” said Vinny.
“These things happen,” Valla said with a shrug. “You know the work as well as anyone.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” said Sal. “I do know the work as well as anyone, and these things don’t just happen. They only happen when something has gone seriously wrong. Well, something has gone seriously wrong, Val.”
“And you’re saying I’m the one responsible, are you?” said Valla.
“You were lead,” Sal said. “If you don’t take responsibility, who should?”
“Come off it,” said the big man. “Ain’t no need for that.”
“You near got all of us killed,” Sal said. “And you damned well got Balliel killed. Lady’s sake, Val, we broke the Sacrull damned Code.”
“Keep your fucking voice down,” Valla hissed. “You don’t think I know all of this?”
“And that’s the worst of it,” Sal said. “You knew we were breaking the Code. The Commission families are off limits; you know that.”
“I didn’t know,” Valla said defensively. “That warehouse doesn’t belong to any of the Commission families. It was listed under the name of a Lord, some member of the Open Council. None of the fucking Commission families were even supposed to be connected.”
“Let me guess, Lord Garred Peaks?” Sal blurted.
Everyone was silent as all eyes turned on Valla.
Slowly, Valla nodded, her eyes fixed on Sal with a beseeching look.
“Who’s Lord Garred?” Vinny asked.
“What were Scarvini men doing there?” Sal said. “And Giuseppe Scarvini himself. This must have been something serious if it required the presence of the Scarvini heir apparent. What else was in those crates, Val? It wasn’t just indigo, was it?”
“Drugs mostly,” said Valla. “Dream-salt, skeev, bliss, poppy oil. The indigo is a fucking façade, just a top layer to get the crates in the city.”
“Sacrull’s balls,” cursed Vinny.
Aurie went wide-eyed, like a rabbit that had seen a wolf.
It all made sense. The harbor inspectors weren’t fools and would have seen the abnormalities on the shipping manifests, just as Sal had.
They would undoubtedly check what was in the strange crates—bribed or not—and this time, would have found indigo upon a quick inspection. It would be perfectly reasonable to want to smuggle powdered indigo illegally to avoid the high tariff, and any bribed harbor inspector would have no qualms allowing something so harmless as indigo into the city.
“And your source?” Sal asked. “Who is this acumen of stratagem that has marked us all for death? Who was it backing this warehouse job?”
Valla’s glare sharpened dangerously.
“Surely something can be done,” said Aurie. “They’ll have to understand it was a mistake.”
Sal laughed. “We killed the eldest son of Don Scarvini. We killed Giuseppe the Shark and gods know who else. There will be no understanding. We’ve broken the Code of the Commission. Our lives are forfeit.”
“You killed the don’s son,” said Valla, shaking her head, arms crossed over her chest. “You killed all of them. What the fuck was that, Salvatori? What is it you’ve been hiding? First Dellan, now this.”
They were all looking at him now. Vinny, Odie, Aurie, and Valla all stared at Sal with looks spanning a mixture of bewilderment, fear, and awe.
“You killed them all,” said Valla.
“I did what was needed,” Sal said. “It was you who put us there, you that marked us for death. You were the lead, Val, you.”
“Fuck you, Salvatori.”
“Look, mate,” said Vinny, “I’m sure your uncle can do something. Scarvini pays homage to Svoboda. I’m certain Stefano could talk to Don Scarvini.”
Sal laughed. “Don’t you get it? There’s nothing my uncle can do. We were dead the moment we set foot in that warehouse. Valla is a made man, and she’s broken the Code—we have broken the Code. Besides, even if the Commission decided to show mercy for the first time in a hundred years, Don Scarvini is never going to forgive us for the murder of his son. Valla has as good as killed us.”
Valla stood. “Shut your fucking hole before I cut your cock off and shove it down your throat.”
Sal put a hand to the cold metal of his amulet. He raised the other and faced his palm toward Valla. “You want to try me?”
No one moved, but Sal could see the terror beneath the masks of calm. They were scared and with good reason. They had seen what he’d done to those men at the warehouse, and they’d heard the rumors of what he’d done to Dellan. No doubt, they thought he was capable of melting them all where they sat.
Valla exhaled through her nose, cursed, and took her hands off the knives at her belt.
Sal sneered, then turned to leave, little satisfied with the results of the encounter and too angry to stick around and sort things out.
“Where are you going?” Vinny asked.
But Sal didn’t bother to answer.
The wrought iron gate stood twice as tall as Sal. Forged in the style of the Near East, it was as formidable as it was elegant. Two guards stood at either side of the Bastian Estate gate. One was armed with a spear, the other a poleaxe. Both guardsmen wore the livery of Lord Hugo upon their breasts, the black bull of Bastian.
A third guard walked up the drive toward the estate house. He carried a message for the lady Lilliana, announcing Sal’s arrival.
It wasn’t long before Lilliana met him at the gates. She looked beautiful, her black hair tied up in a tight bun, a chain of white gold about her neck, and a slip of a green silk dress that accentuated the curves of her figure.
“Let us go for a walk, shall we?” said Lilliana.
Sal extended an elbow, and she took it gladly.
“Did you learn more about that monk, this Leobald character?” Lilliana asked as they headed up the King’s Round. “Is he the man we’re looking for?”
“Regrettably, I’ve not had the chance, and worse, things have only grown more convoluted,” Sal told her what he had learned of the shipments of drugs. That they’d been backed by the Scarvini Family and how a warehouse belonging to Lord Garred had been used to store them. They were not merely dealing with some small-time scheme cooked up by a couple of monks and a street dealer. They were dealing with something far more extensive.
Lilliana’s eyes showed fear when he’d finished his telling.
“Scarvini, that’s a gang, is it not?” Lilliana asked. “One of the Five Families, if I’m not mistaken. I should have known that horrid Thieves Guild would be involved in this. So what does this mean? Ought we tell the constable of the City Watch, or better yet, the lord magistrate?”
Sal flinched. “Lady’s sake, are you mad? Did you not understand? I’m a dead man if I do anything.”
“Sounds to me you’re a dead man if you do nothing,” said Lilliana. “Why not speak with your uncle?”
“I told you, he can’t help. Not now.”
“But why not speak with him? What is the worst that could happen?”
The worst? His uncle could turn him over to Don Scarvini, and Sal could be executed for killing Scarvini’s men, along with his eldest son. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time his uncle had turned him over to a Commission Don.
Sal shrugged.
“Exactly, nothing bad could come of it. You need to go to your uncle, now, before it’s too late.”
“Right. Well, if I go, I want you to stay safe. Things around this city could get quite messy in the coming nights. You ought to stick close to the estate for the time being, and by no means should you leave High Hill. The Commission could very well be going to war.”
Sal clasped the brass ring of the knocker and rapped upon the heavy oaken door. He stepped back and waited.
“Master, Salvatori,” said Greggings upon opening the door. “What a pleasant surprise. Do come inside.”
“My uncle, is he home?”
“He’s only just returned. Shall you be joining us for dinner?”
“I don’t believe I shall, Greggings. He’s in his solar, I trust?”
The manservant nodded.
Sal crossed the lavender tiled floor and climbed the grand staircase. The third door on the right was his uncle’s solar, the most likely place to find Stefano when the man was home. The number of books in his uncle’s collection never failed to impress him. Sal could spend the next ten years reading, and he might finish one of the four book-lined walls within that solar.
Stefano Lorenzo fixed Sal with a look of apathy as he entered, trod across the elaborately patterned Minnian rugs, and took a seat in the armchair beside his uncle.
“Gooday, Uncle.”
Stefano cleared his throat, grunted, and went back to his book.
Sal picked at a loose thread in the upholstery of the chair’s arm. When he looked up, he saw Stefano’s eyes glaring over the top of the book. With a sigh of exasperation, Stefano slapped the book shut and dropped it on the side table with a show of indifference.
“Something engrossing?” Sal asked.
“Hardly,” his uncle said with a scoff. “An alternate history of the Sundering, proposed by the Dahliish of Shiikal. It has only just been translated to the common-hand, and what an utter waste of time. Never in my life—the man actually proposes the events could be explained without the presence of gods. Claims the entire Sundering could be explained with figures—figures, I tell you.” Stefano shook his head, looking disgusted.
“I’m sorry, Uncle, figures?” Sal said. “But how?”
“Precisely,” said Stefano, as though Sal had provided the answer rather than proposed a question. “The Dahliish has scribbled a mess of numbers and symbols about the pages as though this will explain away the consummate nonsense of his assertions.”
Sal nodded, pretending to understand.
But Stefano Lorenzo was not a man to be fooled. His eyes narrowed. “All those years I spent schooling you, preparing you for greatness.
“That was my sister—”
“And rightfully so,” said Stefano. “She never shamed me, never balked at a challenge, never failed to grasp a concept, but you, boy, you had as well pul
l an ox cart for all you’ve retained.”
Sal felt a burning urge to tell his uncle where he could shove his concept, but recalled why he had come, and swiftly swallowed his retort. “I am sorry I’m not the man you wanted or expected of me, Uncle.”
“We shall see when you have become a man.”
“And why should I not be called a man, for my soft cheeks?” Sal laughed, doing his best to keep the mood light. “I see no whiskers on your chops, Uncle.”
Stefano did not seem in the mood to be humored. “Japes, yes, japes. You can make a quip, and you can wipe your own ass, I presume, but I wonder, boy, does a real man jape in the face of his own inadequacy?”
“I shall strive to do better.”
“Shall you? Tell me then, why should your name have been brought up today while I was at the Commission meeting?”
Sal’s heart sank to the pit of his stomach. He had been too late. His uncle already knew about the warehouse.
“The Commission has made a decision, and it is only thanks to me that your life will be spared,” Stefano said, levelly. “The girl cannot be allowed to live; the risk would be too high. She’s been marked.”
Sal blinked. “Wait, what girl?”
“Gods, do these falsehoods never end with you, boy?” said Stefano. “Ought I to have made of you a mummer? You were seen with her, by more than one man, on more than one account. Did you not think we would have eyes on her with all the poking and prodding she was doing into our business?”
Sal was dumbstruck, what poking and prodding had Valla been doing? And then it struck him, his uncle wasn’t speaking of Valla.
“Lilliana?” Sal blurted.
“Ah, and now you admit to it. Well, when you’re done playing the fool, take note, she’s been marked.”
It was as though a hand had grabbed him by the throat. Sal couldn’t breathe. His head was spinning, his entire body numb, as though he’d slipped free of his flesh and was slowly drifting away in an ethereal mist.
A Fool of Sorts Page 22
