by JM Guillen
“It’s a waste.” The Fox shook his head.
The Warren’s Spider smiled. “That’s only true if you have more information, information that I do not. Do you have more information, Jakob?” She almost looked sweet.
He gave her a sullen look. “You know that I don’t. But just because I don’t doesn’t mean that I think that some street Joe has anything to do with Rebeka’s disappearance. Not when dozens of young girls have vanished.”
“I’m not saying you don’t have a lead.” Her eyes were hard, almost cold. “We may end up poking around the sewers one way or the other, Fox. I’m just suggesting we don’t have to start there.”
“Fine.” Jakob looked positively childish. “But if we lose time because of this, and I don’t get Santiago his sister back, it’s on you.”
“Only fair.” The Warren’s Spider looked at the rest of the group. “Do any of you have anything else to say? Or can we stop wasting our time?”
Booker watched carefully, looking for all of the things that no one said. In the end, however, all they did was nod. Even Jakob.
“Well enough.” The Warren’s Spider leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs demurely. “Let’s talk specifics, like how we deal with problems.”
4
Booker paused and gave me a meaningful glance. “The rest doesn’t matter nearly as much. It was mostly information about the disbursement of funds and the meeting places if things went awry. The most important thing was that they agreed to check back with me on the following day. It was a good choice. If they found out anything at all, then someone besides one of their number would know it.”
“They never came back.” I looked down at Scoundrel, who was playing with one of her rings. “Did they?”
Booker Dox shook his head. “They never did, not as a group. Fox came back, night before you met with Santiago. Claimed the others had been attacked by assailants unknown, and Santiago set him to track down the perpetrators.”
“So,” I scoffed. “Someone waylays the Coin, the Blade, and the Warren’s Spider, and Santiago sends one man to follow? Then the Fox drops off the chart as well?”
“Well…” Booker shrugged. “Santiago felt he knew who was really to blame. He put a price out on Sebaste, although I don’t know that he really intends that you know about that.”
“That’s almost common.” I gave him a wan grin. “So there was no other word at all? That was it?”
Booker nodded. “Rebeka had vanished, and then those four vanished. As far as I know, I am the last person in the Red Hand to see any of them alive.”
“You don’t think that the Warren’s Spider killed them and then vanished into the city?”
Booker shook his head before I’d finished my sentence.
I held up a hand.
“I’m simply saying that, of the four, she is the one who could vanish and not leave a trace.”
Booker shrugged. “It’s not really my place to make affirmations based upon guesses. I know what I saw, and I know what they said. I will say, however, that she seemed quite professional while she was here. I did not imagine at the time that she might be planning to do them all in.”
I made a placating gesture. “If she was planning on doing them ill, would you have known it? After all, the Warren’s Spider is an assassin. She is known for not being caught doing things.”
“Thom, I simply cannot say. I only know what I experienced.”
“Then it sounds like I might be making a trip to the Coilwerks.”
“It’s a good call. The Spider was quite logical and thorough. If this ‘Cutter Greene’ is the last man to see Rebeka, then he may be invaluable.”
“I wonder why Santiago thought it was Eddie Groil who saw his sister last?” I scratched my chin, wondering to myself. “Eddie is not the kind of guy to go looking for attention from the Red Marquis.”
“I’d be careful, Thom. I agree with you that the Coilwerks sounds like your next stop. But for all we know, someone in the Coilwerks is the one who ended Santiago’s friends. If that’s the case, I don’t know that one judicar stands good odds.”
I nodded. “Long odds are kind of part of the job.”
“The thing is, Thom, I’m not certain you are aware of the trouble you are in.” Booker leaned closer. “I believe there are a few gentleman downstairs, waiting for you even now.” He glanced at the window.
Almost by reflex, I put my hand to my stave. “Outside?” I slowly stood.
Booker shook his head. “The gentlemen who were below when you came up are not my typical customers. Furthermore, one of them was armed. He had a dagger in his boot and a pair of Sindri knucks that he was fiddling with. I had my eye upon them because they didn’t seem like the usual type to come in here.”
I glanced at the window. “They might not be here for me.” Even as I said it, I knew that Booker was probably right. Very little escaped the man, and if he said these weren’t his typical customers, I could trust that.
“They walked outside while we were talking. I sat here and watched them.” His head inclined slightly toward the window. “They met a third man out there and spoke excitedly, all the while pointing at my establishment. Then the three of them came inside.” Booker took off his glasses, cleaning them with a small white cloth. “I hope they are here for you, Judicar. I don’t like the odds of there being three men here for me.”
“Do you have a side door? Anything that leads up to the alley?”
Booker shook his head. “Bad for business. Place like this, people would slip out on me all the time. We have one door: one way out.”
I swore softly to myself. Things were never easy.
“They don’t know that I saw them talking.” Booker looked at me. “They don’t know that you know that they’re waiting for you.”
“Three on one isn’t pretty odds, either way.” I glanced at the window. Perhaps I should send my pretty girl. I could put a message on her leg and have her go find Wil or even head back to the Office of the Just. Three to four judicars or even requisitioned guild-men would make a vast difference here.
I sighed. Extra men would make a big difference, unless these three came upstairs while Scoundrel was gone.
It was no good. I was going to have to do this myself.
“Booker, I need to ask you something.” I leaned forward and steepled my hands. “You have just given me justifiable cause to do bodily harm on these men.” I raised a single eyebrow. “Are you certain of your assertion? Are you certain enough that you would testify at the Offices of the Just?”
Booker furrowed his brow. “I cannot tell you what men will do, Judicar, I can only tell you what I see. I have never seen the two who came in here before. They were armed. They met a man in the street and gestured inside. I can’t see what it is that they want, only that they are men who do not belong here.”
Of course.
I stood, unsheathing my stave. “I suppose I have little choice then.” I looked down at Scoundrel, and with a single gesture, my good girl jumped up to my shoulder.
“Thom, Thom, Thom,” she caroled happily. I tried not to frown at her. She was simply excited to be on our way.
“Not so fast, pretty girl.” I made another gesture.
“Is that ‘guard’?” Booker looked up at me thoughtfully. “Or perhaps, ‘take care’?”
I stopped in my tracks, fighting a smile from my face.
“Why, Mister Dox…” I gave him a bland look. “I wouldn’t know what you’re talking about, sir.” I smiled.
He shrugged. “I have often seen judicars use some kind of handspeak for the birds. It is either that, or every judicar I’ve ever met twitches and makes strange motions before his bird takes some kind of action.” He smiled back at me. “Don’t worry, Judicar. I’ll never tell.”
“Nothing to tell, Mister Dox.”
Fire and Blackened Sand
Riddling, Second Bell Morningtide
I forcibly relaxed as I walked down the old rickety stai
rs. I breathed in oak, the smell of the naptha lamp, and the oil that Booker head rubbed into every wooden surface. I let my senses drink in the world around me, making certain all the while that my good girl was on the alert.
Ward. Get ready. There’s danger. I made the three gestures in rapid succession. My girl shuffled about on my shoulder, obviously off her ease.
“Bad Thom.” She ruffled her feathers. “Bad. Bad. Bad.”
I paid her no mind but checked the final two steps to the tap room.
“Hello, gentlemen.” I stood in the mouth of the stairwell, about three strides from them. “I thought we might have a little talk.”
Booker had been right. There was a third man who had come in, a large bear of a man with wiry hair on his head, face, and, from what I could see of it, his chest. He was drinking a large, brown ale, which he must have helped himself to since I knew that Booker had not been down here.
His eyes drifted over to me, but his head did not turn. “We got nothing to say.” He looked back the other two. “Boys, that right, we got nothing to say?”
The other two men nodded their agreement.
I stepped one cautious pace into the tap-room, my hand on my stave. My eyes were grim, and my gaze pulled at theirs like it was made of the coldest iron.
“That’s funny.” My tone was a no way humorous. “My girl here said we need to talk. Why we were just upstairs all chatting about it.” I let my gaze drift between the men. “She’s not usually off, you know. When my girl tells me I need to have a chat with someone, typically she is square on.”
The large man set his ale down on the wooden table with an audible clunk. “Well, I would hate for your relations with your bloody bird to go all sour just because she is out of her tiny little bird brain.”
“Birdbrain.” Scoundrel was positively chipper as she threw the insult at the man. “Birdbrain.”
I looked at her, shaking my head in amused disbelief. Where had she picked that up?
The man gave her a dark look and wiped the ale from his beard. He turned from his seat and stood. His eyes were murderous.
“Did the little scut-eater tell you what we needed to discuss, Judicar? Did she tell you some secret she saw with those hateful little eyes?”
“I think your next conversation should be with your barrister.” I looked from the standing man to his two friends. “I’ve already had men try and talk with me about poking my nose into the affairs of others. I didn’t listen.”
The man took a step closer. His two friends stood. “We know. We’ve been told we need to help you learn to listen.”
“It’s a serious problem.” I stepped into the small taproom and drew my stave back. It was a classic position, leading straight into the fifth fighting stance. Scoundrel hopped down from my shoulder. “I simply cannot be reasoned with.”
“Perhaps there’s no more reasoning to be done.” This was one of the other men, the grey-haired fellow who had been drinking in here when I had walked in.
I nodded. “Perhaps.”
Then, the men rushed me.
Stance five is specifically for situations like this. All of our fighting stances are for different situations, but this one was almost perfectly wrought.
The room was tight, and I was outnumbered. My back was to the wall. I had both reach and distance on the men.
Also, I had Scoundrel.
Every stance had an accompanying verse, a mnemonic that judicars learned while in training. They were rhythmic and helped our limbs hold proper form as we waged against violent offenders. I had always thought this one apt:
An arrow in flight,
Swift, dark, ever merciless.
The unwary fall.
I swung my stave high, drawing the eye of the men. With my stance wide, I gestured with my other hand. It was a grandiose gesture, one designed to keep their attention.
It did exactly that. The wide swath of my stave caught and distracted them just for a nonce.
That nonce was all that Scoundrel needed.
Our birds trained with us to learn the stances as well as we did. Even as our gestures taught them what we wanted them to do, so too did the stances show them what we needed when in a tight corner.
While the men looked at me, before they realized the fight had actually started, Scoundrel struck.
Swift. Dark. Ever merciless.
The man closest to her, the shortest of the three, screamed as Scoundrel tore into his face. The wicked blades attached to her legs sliced at him, again and again, leaving ruinous cuts dripping scarlet all across his face. He frantically tried to beat her away, but my good girl was more than swift.
She was also smart.
She swerved and dodged, slicing clean through the man’s left cheek with her hook blade and almost severing his ear from his head.
Then, I stepped forward.
That was the whole point of this stance. For a moment, your foe was watching you. As they did, your bird tore into the first one. The moment of shock that this bought you let you step in for your strike.
It was a graceful stance. I stepped in and swung low, my stave a dark blur in the ale-house’s dim light. The burly man with wiry hair scarcely had time to blink before I had smashed my stave into the side of his leg. It wasn’t the best strike. It should have shattered his kneecap or popped the knee out of joint. Either of those would have put the man on the floor. With one man distracted by Scoundrel’s talons, mine being on the floor would only leave one.
Unfortunately, that was not what happened.
The man was quicker than I had imagined. When he realized I was swinging, he stepped forward, a knife flashing in his hand.
As a result, my stave struck his thigh. He still wailed in pain, but it wasn’t the kind of strike that would put him down.
“Scut eater! Feckless whore’s son!” he screamed.
The knife flashed in front of my face once, then again. The man was fast, skilled with the small blade in a way that made me nervous. He slashed back and forth in a way that drove me backward toward the stairs. Behind him, I saw his short friend slip on a pair of Sindri knucks. They were brass and fit snuggly around his fist.
One good headshot from those would put me down.
Fortunately, it wasn’t as if it were two men against one. With Scoundrel’s first foe wailing and bleeding, he was out of the fight. That meant it was two men versus a well-trained judicar as well as his brilliant and deadly right hand bird.
The man with the knife expected me to strike forward. I could see it in the way he held himself, in the way he was trying to keep on the offensive. Instead, I leaned backward on my left leg, almost crouching into the stairwell. I held my stave high over my head to protect myself from a downward slash.
It was almost the exact same ploy. The man was momentarily taken off guard by my retreat. As he almost stumbled forward, Scoundrel dove from his side, an onyx blur of feathers and shining steel.
This time, she missed.
I cannot say if the man expected her to strike or if he just happened to see her out of the side of his eye. Either way, his bleeding friend on the floor clearly sent a message. No sooner did Scoundrel swoop toward him than he hurled himself backward, almost barreling over his wounded companion.
“Not that clever are you, Judicar?” He grinned, showing yellow teeth. “Emmit done learned his lesson; I’m not gonna learn one too.”
“I imagine learning isn’t your strongest suit.” I stepped from the stairwell and took two quick strides until I was on one side of the bar and they were on the other. Below the bar, out of their sight, my left hand grasped a dusty bottle of klêm.
“Good time to bolt.” I raised one eyebrow and glanced at the door. “I’d never get around the bar in time to catch you.”
The wiry-headed man nodded at his man with the Sindri knucks. “Get Emmit over to the door. Stay there.” He turned back to me, a wide grin on his lips. “One way or the other, the judicar does not leave this—”
That’s when I threw the bottle.
Klêm is a thick sludge of a drink, almost as much bread is it is beer. Its alcohol content is positively catastrophic however. When I made the motion, I saw the man’s eyes widen as he tried to duck, realizing that a bottle was about to sail straight for his head.
Which, of course, was not my ploy. Instead, I hurled it as hard as I could at the small naptha lamp hanging over the table they’d been sitting at.
Fire sprayed all across the wall behind them in a sudden roar. The small room was bathed in flickering light.
I hoped it wouldn’t fill with too much smoke. My lungs wouldn’t be able to handle it for long. It should be a quick burst.
I hoped.
“Madri!” That was the man with the knucks, his eyes wide. He’d been dragging Emmit toward the door. When the bottle blossomed into a yellow flower of flame, they both hit the floor. My wire-haired friend with the knife turned and then turned back toward me in time to catch Scoundrel about a foot from his face. He swerved and then ducked, cursing loudly as I stepped from around the bar.
He did not duck quickly enough. Scoundrel caught him, and there was a spray of scarlet.
He bellowed his rage.
“You are officially detained.” I kept the words as low and menacing as I could, walking toward the man who was trying frantically, but failing, to drive my good girl off with his knife.
He simply wasn’t fast enough.
However, hearing his agony was enough for his two friends. The man with the knucks flung the door open and dragged his companion outside with him.
This time, my swing to the man’s knee was perfect. I felt the telltale snap and crunch as his knee was knocked out of socket.
He screamed.
He collapsed in a pile, with Scoundrel making a ruin of his chest and face. Her gaffs tore through him like butcher paper. He rolled, trying to get away from her, but my girl was persistent. She left a knuckle-deep cut across the side of his face.
