by Jon Sprunk
Caim threaded his way to the bar. Big Olaf was tending tonight. He grinned through a row of uneven teeth as Caim approached.
"Hey, boyo. You should've been here last night. I had to toss out a pair of uptown rakes with a mean-on. Swear they flew a dozen paces before they hit pavement. Each."
Caim slid a silver noble, double-penny weight, across the bar. "Is he in?"
The coin disappeared, and Olaf jerked a sausage-thick thumb at the back stairs. Caim headed around the bar. Mathias, the owner of the Three Maids, also handled several of the biggest fish in Othir's murder-for-hire game. He was their broker, their middleman, the one who ferreted out the contracts and matched them with the right talent for the job. He lived above the tavern, he claimed, to be closer to the people, and always acted hurt when anyone insinuated he was a miser. Caim didn't know why Mathias continued to live amid the dregs of the city. With the commissions he'd made in the last year alone, he could afford a comfortable house in High Town. Some folks couldn't bear to leave their roots, no matter how high they climbed. Caim had never had that problem.
The back stairs were unlit. As he started up, Caim heard the whisper of leather glide over wood a moment before a shape appeared above him. An image flashed through his mind: clinging to the walls of Duke Reinard's keep, gazing up at a mysterious black figure crawling along the battlements. A twinge quivered in his chest. Both suete knives were out in an instant, held low and pressed against his thighs to hide their shine. His knees flexed, ready to leap back or lunge ahead.
Two white circles appeared in the gloom above him, a pair of hands held open. "Peace," said a low voice. "Good evening, Caim."
"Ral." Caim slipped the knives back into their homes, but he left an inch of each blade free. "If you've got business with Mathias, I'll wait below."
Ral descended a step. The faint glow from the common room highlighted his features. Bright blue eyes peered from beneath coiffed spikes of stark blond hair. Dressed all in black leather, he melded with the shadows of the stairway. The intricate silver cross-guard of a cut-and-thrust sword jutted from his belt. Glints of steel at his wrists, waist, and boots hinted at other weapons; Ral was notorious for all the hardware he carried.
"No, we are concluded." His lazy way of talking reminded Caim of a dozing cat, always a moment from showing his claws. "I heard you did quite well up north. Reinard and his bodyguards slain in front of a hun dred witnesses, but not a single person could identify the killer afterward. Not bad."
Caim chewed on his tongue. He didn't like discussing his business, especially where idle ears could overhear. He leaned against the wall of the stairwell, trying to appear casual.
"It's done. That's all that matters."
Ral came down another step. "Exactly, but you should be careful. There's been a citywide crackdown these past couple days."
"I saw the display in the square."
Ral chuckled. Despite his butter-smooth voice, it wasn't a pleasant sound. "A gang of roof-crawlers got pinched robbing a vicar's home. All involved were caught and hanged, but not before they tortured his entire family for the location of a cache of jewels. Word says they even cut off the youngest boy's fingers and toes."
A leader of the True Faith, supposedly sworn to vows of poverty and chastity, keeps a house in High Town with a wife and children, and no one cares to comment. But why should they? Large sins are easily forgotten. It's the little ones that gnaw at your soul in the lonely hours of the night.
"Of course," Ral said, "the fops up on Celestial Hill are terrified out of their wigs that it's another movement toward rebellion."
Caim nodded, uncomfortably reminded of young Lord Robert. "If you'll excuse me, I have business of my own with Mathias."
"I've no time for palaver myself. I'm heading out of town."
They passed each other on the stairs and Ral turned. "You know, Caim. It's not fair."
Caim paused with a foot on the top step. "What isn't?"
Ral opened his hand and a slender throwing blade appeared, too fast for the eye to follow. Caim tensed.
"Here we are," Ral said. "Two of the deadliest men in the city. We should be running things, lording it up in the palace. It's all wasted on those powdered fools whose only claim is their family name." His eyes lit up as he spoke.
Caim looked down at the other man without a shred of empathy. According to the rumors, Ral was a son of privilege who had enjoyed many a night rutting in Low Town until his inheritance ran out. Then, broke and desperate, he had weaseled his way into the assassination trade. He must have found the taste to his liking, because he came back again and again between benders on Silk Street. Knifings in the merchant district in broad daylight, pregnant mistresses found floating in the harbor-those were Ral's stock in trade.
What does that make you? A vigilante with bad dreams or a thug just smart enough to stay one step ahead of the law?
Searching for a way to end the conversation without giving insult, Caim decided on brevity. "It is what it is."
"I suppose so. Farewell, Caim. I'm off to a warmer clime to take care of some business. We'll talk another time."
Not if he had any choice in the matter, Caim thought as he climbed the last step. He was tired. He just wanted to get his money and go home. Maybe he would take some time off. He approached the only door on the upper floor, knocked twice, waited a heartbeat, and gave two more knocks. He opened it without waiting for an invitation.
If Mathias acted the skinflint with his patrons below, he spared no expense to make his living space look and feel like a mansion. Overlapping hand-woven carpets covered the floors. Silken arrays embroidered with eastern-style hunting scenes decorated the walls, hiding the bare panels underneath. Heavy furniture in glossy hardwoods cluttered the room, along with marble tables and expensive bronze artwork.
Mathias came through the archway on the far side of the parlor, dressed in a gaudy teal robe splashed with tiny golden cranes. He was a heavyset man past his middling years. He still had most of his hair and employed dyes to keep it black and lustrous except for a pair of silver wings brushed back over his ears. An admission of inevitability, he called them.
"Our good friend returns from the north!"
They shook hands, and Mathias offered him a choice of seats. Caim sat down on a high-backed chair with no armrests or cushion.
Mathias fetched a bottle and two glasses from a malachite sideboard. "By the gods above and below, I am glad to see you back."
"Blasphemy, Mat? At your age?"
"Aye. I'm too old to care anymore what the Church thinks. What has that prattle ever done for anybody? Nothing. But forget about that. Everything went well, yes?"
Caim accepted a glass of amber brandy and settled back into the hard seat. "Well enough, although trying to get anywhere in this country is becoming a right pain in the ass. The roads are a mess and tollhouses have sprung up over every hill."
Mathias flumped onto a banquette and sloshed liquor on his expensive robe. "The realm is coming apart like an overripe melon. Every warlord who can put together a dozen half-trained men-at-arms is trying to carve out a piece for himself. It's almost enough to make one long for the good old days of imperial law and order. Almost."
"Anyway, I stayed in Ostergoth long enough to hear the bells ring His Grace's departure from the world of the living before I left."
Mat lifted his glass. "To another job completed and another villain vanquished."
Caim took a sip before setting the glass down. "I've gathered there was some trouble in town while I was away."
"I had nothing to do with it." The rubies encrusting Mat's pinky ring gleamed as he placed a plump hand over his flabby breast. "You know I never touch that sort of smash-and-grab work. It's an unsavory business and a trifle pathetic. Now we all have to suffer through a few weeks of heightened security, but things will settle down. They can't stay on full alert forever, eh? More brandy?"
"I'll just have my fee and leave you in peace."
Mathias smiled. "That's the man I know. All business-and business is good!" He reached under his seat and tossed a bulging leather sack to Caim. "Five hundred soldats, just as the contract stated."
Caim caught the bag and slipped it into his shirt.
"Not going to count it?"
"No need to. I know where you live."
"Right enough. You're acquiring quite a reputation, Caim. That's why I know you're just the man for another job I'm sitting on."
Caim rose to his feet. "No thank you, Mat. I don't want to see anything you're sitting on. That cushion looks like it's had enough."
"It's not like you to pass up money, especially for a worthy cause."
"I'm sure. Another priest with a fetish for children, or a landlord who squeezes every last crumb from his destitute peasants. No thanks. I'm going to take some time off. Like you said, the city's heating up."
"That's why I'm turning to you, Caim. Believe me when I say this job is easy. So easy you could do it blind and one-handed."
"Not an image I want to ponder."
Mathias brushed the air with his pudgy fingers. "You know what I mean. But it has to be done fast."
He headed for the door. "Sorry, Mat."
"Caim, I'm desperate!"
Caim stopped with his hand on the knob. Mathias wasn't a stranger to theatrics, but he sounded genuinely worried, and Mathias Finneus never worried. The look of relief on his face was almost comical as Caim came back and stood by the high-backed chair.
"What's the Job?"
"Please, sit, my friend," Mathias urged. "More brandy?"
"No more drinks. Tell me about the job."
"It's very simple. One target, living in High Town."
Calm's hand hovered over his glass, resting still on the table. "Inside the city?"
"Yes, you've done local work before."
"Who is he?"
"A retired general, a real hard case from what I've heard. He was responsible for some big massacre during the war. Up in Eregoth, I believe. You're from those parts, aren't you?"
Caim considered the carpet between his feet as a jumble of old feelings knocked around in his chest. "What makes you say that?"
"Nothing much. You just have a northernish look about you."
Caim looked Mathias in the eye. "I told you before. I'm from the western territories."
But he wasn't. As far as he could piece together from his shambled memories, his family had hailed from Eregoth, one of several border states that had once been part of the Nimean Empire. But it was a past he didn't want known, for no better reason than it was personal.
"Oh yes." Mathias winked. "I forgot."
"Go on."
"Well, what makes me nervous is the timing. This job has to be done in two days."
"Impossible. You know I don't do rush jobs. Go find some desperate sailor deep in his cups and slip him a few silvers."
"Caim, this client isn't someone to disappoint, if you get my meaning. It must be done quickly, and with no mistakes. That's why I need you. You're the only one I can trust with a job like this on such short notice."
"I want to help you, Mathias, but there are too many things to consider. I spent weeks stalking Reinard before I took him down. I would need time to study the target, learn his habits and movements. After that I would have to do the same for his family and bodyguards."
Mathias bounced off the chaise and waddled to a rolltop desk against the wall. He held up a bundle of papers bound together with a red cord.
"I have all the particulars here: daily itinerary, personal security details, interior layouts, everything you'll need. He lives with a young daughter, but don't worry about her. The mother's dead. He doesn't keep any guards, just a broken-down manservant who sleeps like a log. It will be the easiest money you ever made."
Mathias held out the bundle, but Caim didn't take it.
"Who gathered all this?"
"A mutual friend. I vouch for its authenticity."
"It was Ral, wasn't it?"
"Why does it matter? Just take it."
"Damn it, Mat. He took the assignment and then dumped it back in your lap when a better job came up, didn't he? No wonder he was so chummy. No thanks. I'm passing."
Caim took two steps toward the door. Mathias reached out as if to grasp his sleeve, but drew his hand back before it made contact. Caim stopped as the bundle of papers was thrust in front of him.
"It's his loss!" Mathias said. "In and out, and a thousand soldats in your pocket."
"I don't clean up other people's messes."
Mathias cocked his head to the right. "My friend, that's precisely what you do. Please, don't make me beg. I'll throw in half of my end. That's another three hundred in gold. Then you can take a nice, long sabbatical."
Caim sighed as Mathias shook the papers at him. He couldn't do it, couldn't let down the man who had given him a chance as a young man on the run, a vagabond with no contacts or vouchers.
Caim took the papers. "All right. I'll do it. But hang on to your fee. You're getting old, Mathias. You should think about retiring soon."
Mathias gathered his robe around him as he returned to his chair. "I don't know what I'd do with myself if I ever retired."
"Buy a big villa somewhere nice. Live the life of a country gentleman."
Mathias laughed so hard he almost choked on his wine. "Can you see me as a country squire? I wouldn't last a month. Good fortune, my friend. I'll see you when the job is done."
Caim tucked the papers into his tunic. The bundle made a lump under his arm opposite the money pouch. He crossed to the door, but hesitated with his hand on the knob.
"By the way, what was the other job Ral took?"
"What?" Mathias twisted around to look at Caim over his shoulder. "Oh, something in Belastire. He'll be bow-legged and as dusty as a beggar by the time he returns."
"Belastire? It'll be cold on the Midland coast this time of year."
Mathias nodded. "Cold and bitter. The blackheart should feel right at home, eh?"
Caim thought back to the conversation on the stairs. Hadn't Ral mentioned a warmer clime? What game was he playing?
Caim checked his knives out of habit as he departed the Three Maids. Revelers accompanied by torchbearers filled the benighted streets, pushed out the door by exhausted tavernkeeps. The sun would be rising in another couple hours. He would have liked to go back home and crawl into bed for a couple sennights, but he had work to do. Two days wasn't enough time.
Tucking the pouch and the papers deeper into the confines of his shirt, Caim pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders. The broadcloth wrapped around him in a warm cocoon as he delved back into the Gutters.
CHAPTER THREE
osey had nearly worked herself into another bout of tears by the time her carriage stopped outside Anastasia's house on Torvelli Square. She couldn't get the conversation with Father out of her head. She'd never felt so helpless in her life. The only thing she could think of was to talk to her best friend about it. Between the two of them, she was certain they would find a solution.
An elderly footman ushered her inside. Handing her mink-lined cloak to one of the house girls, its silky hairs stiff from the chill, Josey filed away the changing seasons as another potential argument against her departure. Now was hardly the best time of year to undertake a sea journey. That wouldn't be enough on its own to sway her father, but when she talked to him again, she intended to have an arsenal of reasons why it would be best for her to stay in Othir, at least until after Yeartide.
"Josey!" Anastasia's cheery voice echoed through the atrium as she hurried down a winding staircase. They clasped hands and kissed each other's cheeks.
Anastasia stepped back to arm's length, concern written across her pretty features. With her honey gold hair, coiffed in wavy marcels, and her ocean blue eyes, Anastasia was a true beauty, doll-like in her perfection. Next to her, Josey had always felt homely, her complexion too pale, her hair too dark and stringy.
"What's the matter, Josey? Come in here."
Josey let herself be pulled into an adjourning parlor room and seated alone on a padded settee with tiny green leaves embroidered on the cushions.
Anastasia kissed her again. "Something's wrong, Josey. Tell me."
Josey told Anastasia about her father's decision to make her leave. By the time she finished, she was sobbing openly.
Anastasia lent Josey a handkerchief to wipe her face. "That's simply not fair. Othir is as safe as a nursery. Forgive me, Josey, but I fear your father may be feeling his dotage. You know how old men get. They see specters in every dark corner."
"I know. But no matter what I said, he refused to budge on the matter. I don't know what to do. That's why I came to see you. You have to help me, 'Stasia. I cannot miss your wedding. It will be the happiest day of my life!"
"You have to be there!" Anastasia looked on the verge of tears herself.
Before her friend started to cry, Josey rushed on. "I will be. I promise. But I need a plan. Father won't give in to emotional pleas."
"You could stay here with me. With the armsmen we keep, this house is virtually a fortress at night."
"I'm not sure Father would feel that's adequate. My safety has always been his chief concern. There were bodyguards everywhere when we lived in Navarre. Sometimes I could hardly breathe."
"But the westlands are abysmally lawless. This is Othir. It's entirely different."
"I know. I just don't know how to convince Father of that."
Anastasia squeezed her hand. "Don't worry, darling. We'll find a way." She reached up and touched the pendant hanging from Josey's neck. "I've always admired this piece, Josey. It's beautiful. So simple, but elegant."
Josey lifted the pendant, an antique-style key in gold. "Father gave it to me for my fourteenth birthday. It's my favorite piece of jewelry."
"It must be. You never wear anything else."
