The Holver Alley Crew

by Marshall Ryan Maresca

  “Parliament vote postponed!” the boy shouted. “Members complain about procedural trickery!”

  “Oy, newsboy,” Asti said. “There a story on the fire?”

  “What fire is that?” the kid asked.

  “Over on Holver Alley last night.” Asti pointed back in the direction of the alley. “A whole mess of houses and shops burned down.”

  “I ain’t heard,” the boy said. He looked at his newssheet. “Nothing about a fire.”

  “What?” Asti said. He grabbed a newssheet away. The big stories were about Parliament parties arguing with each other, a mistress scandal involving City Council Aldermen, and some mages murdered on the east side. Asti flipped through the sheet. Stories about a dockworkers brawl, a tetchball game, and a ceremony for an old admiral. Nothing about the fire.

  “Hey!” the kid shouted. “You owe me two ticks!”

  “Why isn’t there a story about the fire?”

  “I don’t print it, chief,” the kid said. “Newsboys just call it and sell it. Two ticks!”

  Asti dug into his coat pocket, taking a couple of copper coins out. “Who prints this one?”

  “That’s the West Maradaine Daily,” the boy said. “They do the printing the night before the newsboys get them, you know. If the fire was in the night, they wouldn’t have gotten word in time to make today’s print.”

  “So it’ll be in tomorrow’s print?”

  “I just call it and sell it, chief,” the kid said. He turned back out to the street at large. “Alderman Strephen ousted! Mistress shatters the City Council! Big tetchball game tonight! Silversmith Guild against the Brewers League! Read it all for only two ticks!”

  Asti walked away from the newsboy and almost collided with a pedalcart trundling around the corner.

  “Sorry, mate,” Asti said. Mersh was the one pedaling the cart. “What are you up to?”

  “Spice cakes,” Mersh said, noting his cargo. “The Old Lady said most people who got hurt in the fire are in Kimber’s.”

  “You giving or selling?” Asti asked.

  “Giving,” Mersh said. “Least I can do, you know?” He took a cake out of the cart and handed it to Asti.

  “Good man, Mersh,” Asti said. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was, greedily taking a bite. “These are excellent. I think it’ll help a lot in there.”

  Mersh nodded. “The secret is a spice called jhektak.”

  “That’s Poasian, isn’t it?” Asti asked. Poasia was far to the west, across the ocean, and Poasians were a horrible, brutal people. Druthal had spent half a century at war with them, with an uneasy peace for the past fifteen years. Asti’s time in Druth Intelligence made him very aware how fragile that peace really was. Despite that, the demand for Poasian spices made the spice trade a profitable enterprise.

  “It is,” Mersh said. “I get mine from a shop over on Heel Street. You know the shop? You might find something you’re looking for over there.”

  Asti did know the shop, all too well.

  “I don’t do much baking, Mersh.”

  “Poasian spices have many uses, as I’m sure you know,” Mersh said. He gave a nervous glance down the road. Asti didn’t notice anyone watching them, but working for the Old Lady would make anyone jumpy. Mersh cleared his throat and gave Asti a sheepish look. “I’m going to bring these over while they’re still warm.”

  “Of course,” Asti said. Mersh started pedaling his cart along toward Kimber’s. Asti went down Junk, heading back toward the alley.

  He wasn’t sure why he wanted to go back over there. Something gnawed at him, and he needed to see it in daylight. The whole travesty of it didn’t seem real yet. Last night still felt like a horrible nightmare.

  It was no nightmare when he reached Ullen Street and the mouth of Holver Alley. The reek of smoke filled the place. The east side was nothing but ashen husks, skeletons of the buildings that had once been there. Ash covered everything: the cobblestones, pushcarts, every window and sign on the east side.

  A few people wandered around, their eyes glazed over. A small cadre of the Fire Brigade and Yellowshields were here, clearing the walkway of debris, collecting the dead. Some street kids ran about, even playing in the burned-out buildings. Asti marveled at children’s resistance to tragedy, their ability to enjoy themselves amid the destruction.

  “Get down from there! Are you crazy? Get down!” Someone was shouting at a boy up on the second floor of a half-collapsed shell of a house. The boy just laughed, ignoring the man shouting at him.

  The man was Winthym Greenfield.

  “Win?” Asti called, running over to him.

  “Get down!” Win shouted again. “Great saints, he’s going to get killed!” Win turned to Asti, grabbing him roughly by the shoulders. His face still smeared black with soot, his gray eyes wild. “Doesn’t he understand? Doesn’t he care?”

  “He’s just a boy, Win,” Asti said. He wasn’t sure what else to say.

  “Rynax.” Win actually looked at Asti, recognizing him. “You pulled me out.”

  “Yeah, Win,” Asti said.

  “My girls? My wife?” Win’s voice cracked. “Why didn’t you get them?”

  “I tried, Win,” Asti said. Despite himself, he felt his eyes well up. “I really tried, but I couldn’t get to them. We were lucky to get you out.”

  “Lucky.” Win snorted. “That’s it. Lucky Win.” Win walked away in an aimless wander, as if his feet were moving of their own accord. In the distance Asti noticed the dark-haired waif girl watching Win. She stayed out of the way, her head down, long hair obscuring half her face. She did a good job of looking like she was just milling about; most people wouldn’t look twice at her—blazes, she was such a tiny, skinny thing, hardly anyone would see her once.

  Asti knew how to focus on someone and trail them from a ways back, without looking like that was what he was doing. He also knew how to spot when someone was doing that. The girl was focused on Win. She started to move when Win did. As she walked, she pushed through a small crowd of people going the other way. Keeping a close eye on her, Asti spotted her hand slip into one man’s pocket and back out in that second of pushing through. None of the crowd noticed, as they kept walking while she followed Win.

  Asti strolled in the same direction as her. With her attention on Win, she didn’t notice Asti until he was right up behind her. He grabbed her by the elbow and matched pace with her.

  “Win Greenfield doesn’t have any money for you to filch, girl,” he whispered.

  “I—I don’t know what you . . .” she stammered out. She tried to stop walking, but he kept moving, forcing her along.

  “I don’t care whose pocket you pick. But Win doesn’t need any more grief.”

  “I know that,” she said. She yanked her arm out of Asti’s grasp. “I know how much he’s lost.”

  “So why are you following him?”

  “I saw when he left the pub this morning. I saw the look on his face. I know that look.”

  “What look is that?” Asti asked.

  “A man ready to die,” she said. “He’ll be lost soon.” She kept walking after Win, and Asti kept with her.

  “What’s your name, girl?”

  “Mila.” She paused for a moment. “Mila Kendish.”

  “Kendish?” Asti couldn’t place the name at first, though it was familiar.

  “Jono Kendish was my father,” she said. Asti remembered, though it was from several years ago. He had heard Jono’s wife had gotten sick, and he spent all his money on doctors. It hadn’t done any good, and after she died he hung himself. He had left behind two daughters.

  “Blessed saints,” he muttered. “Didn’t you and your sister end up with an uncle?”

  “Ancient history, Mister Rynax,” she said. She clearly knew who he was. “We ran out of there after a month.”

&
nbsp; “Where’s your sister?” he asked.

  She pointed to a burned-out building on the alley. “She was sleeping in there.” Her voice was dead, empty of any emotion. “I wasn’t with her.” She looked down the road, her eyes back on Greenfield. “He’s still moving.”

  Asti didn’t know this girl, but he had a feeling in his gut that she was the right sort. Plus she had good eyes, quick hands, and decent instincts. She’d need to be taught, but she could be pretty good in the trade.

  She reminded him of himself at sixteen.

  He also knew she was right, that Win looked like a man who might hurt himself. Someone needed to keep an eye on him, and the girl wanted to do it. She was hungry for a purpose, hungry for approval.

  “Keep on him,” Asti said. “Steer him back to Kimber’s if you can.”

  She nodded, walking backward so she could face Asti while still going after Greenfield. She looked eager, excited. “Is that where you’ll be?”

  “For the time being,” Asti said. “Go.”

  She gave another nod, turned, and dashed off.

  “Picking them young, aren’t ya, pirie?”

  The nasally voice over Asti’s shoulder sounded irritatingly familiar, and there were only a handful of people who would call him or Verci a “pirie.” Most people didn’t even take notice of their Kieran heritage. He barely thought of it himself. He let it wash over; he didn’t have time to think about it right now.

  Asti turned around. “What do you want, Nange?”

  Enanger Lesk, face pockmarked and scarred, thin hair sliding from blond to gray, gave Asti the ugly sneer he considered a smile. Nange had two friends at his elbow. Ren Poller was a weasel, sallow face and wispy scruff on his chin. The other one, the thick-necked bull with the baby face, Asti didn’t know.

  “Just seeing the what-for, pirie, seeing the what-for. Blazes of a thing, ain’t it?” Nange’s West Maradaine accent was so thick it was almost comical.

  “Putting it lightly, Nange.”

  “Maybe so.” Nange picked at his teeth. “Your brother do all right? Him and his bird?”

  “We’re all breathing.” Asti turned away.

  “Heard you saw the Old Lady last night.”

  Asti turned back. “Where’d you hear that?”

  Nange shrugged. “I got ears.”

  “Apparently so. What of it?”

  “Sounds like you and Verci are coming back to work.”

  The bull chuckled, giving a knowing nod. Asti still had no clue who this guy was.

  “Something you find funny?”

  “You came crawling back,” the bull said.

  “Who the blazes are you, meat? You think you know me? Or my brother?”

  “He’s heard enough,” Poller wheezed.

  Asti’s head was pounding. “He ain’t heard enough if he thinks it’s smart to laugh at me.” He didn’t have a knife at the ready; both of his blades were in his pack. The bruiser didn’t have a weapon either, but he had over a foot in height and almost double the weight. Nange and Poller were likely armed. Blazes, Nange probably had four or five on his person. Including the sheath knife Asti spotted at his hip, covered with the coat.

  Nange laughed this time. “We could just make bets on how you two softies fall apart on your next job.”

  Asti couldn’t stand another second of this. He closed the distance between him and Nange before any of them could react, drawing out the knife on Nange’s hip and pressing the tip under Nange’s armpit. “You want to make that bet?”

  Poller and the bull moved in, but Asti hissed at them. “Wouldn’t recommend that, boys. Right, Nange?”

  “Step off, gents,” Nange said quietly. “That’s how you play it, pirie?”

  Sharp whistle came from a distance away. One of the Brigade officers came up, with two Yellowshields pushing a handcart behind him. “There a problem here?”

  “None at all, Officer.” Asti stepped away, palming the knife and sliding it up his sleeve. “These boys were ready to head elsewhere.” Not that a Brigade officer could arrest anyone.

  “Elsewhere is a good place to be,” the spark said. “You all move along.”

  Nange tipped his hat to Asti and the spark, and walked off, his entourage in tow.

  “Obliged, Officer,” Asti said. “You here to investigate?”

  “I said move along, son,” the spark said. “Ain’t nothing here for you.”

  “Plenty here for me,” Asti said. “I owned a shop at the end of the alley, and I lived right over there.”

  “Sorry for that, son,” the spark said. “But nothing to be done. We’re . . .” He paused, looking down at the street. “We’re mostly just collecting the dead.”

  “There’s something you should see, Officer Serrick.” Almer Cort came over from one of the burned-out buildings—definitely not his shop. He was covered in soot and grime. He might have been the one Asti spotted in there earlier. He squinted over his spectacles. “That you, Asti?”

  “Just having a word with Officer Serrick,” Asti said. Tal Serrick, on his scorched, tarnished badge.

  “I told you to stay out of there, mister,” Serrick said to Cort. “That isn’t safe.”

  “I’m confirming a theory,” Almer said. He beckoned them to the building, going on ahead. Serrick chased after him, and cautiously Asti followed along. The place was just the bones of a structure, the beams as much ash as wood.

  “Let’s come on out of there,” Serrick said. “I don’t want to have to issue a writ to you.”

  “Come see this, Serrick, and then decide.” Cort went into the back room.

  The back room was even more burned out, making Asti nervous. The only thing giving him any comfort was bare dirt directly beneath the exposed floor. There was no cellar to fall into if the floor gave way.

  “Cort, this isn’t safe.”

  “No, it isn’t,” Cort said. “But it’s very interesting.” He pointed at the ash and burn marks along the floor and walls. “See that? The way the color of the ash changes?”

  There were differences in the ash, ranging from a dull gray on the outer edges to a bone white in the center of the room. “I see it.”

  Serrick, for his part, gave it due attention. “What does it mean?”

  “You don’t know, Officer?”

  “I put out the fires, mister.”

  “Blazes of a job last night,” Asti muttered.

  “Don’t you—” Serrick started, sputtering. “We were . . . I got here as fast as I could.”

  “From where, Inemar?” Asti’s voice was louder than he expected.

  “Shaleton,” Serrick said quietly. “Readiness drill.”

  Asti didn’t even know how to respond to that. Fortunately Cort spoke up before Asti bit Serrick’s head off.

  “It means two things. First, it shows that the fire started in the center of this room, at least in part.”

  “In part?” Serrick asked.

  “Yes. It also shows the fire was deliberately set.”

  A sharp buzz of anger hit Asti in the back of the head. “You’re certain?”

  “Quite,” Cort said. “I found burn markings like this in three other places. Someone wanted to make sure the whole alley burned.” He picked up a charred piece of wood and held it out under Asti’s nose, then Serrick’s.

  “Smells strange,” Asti said. Smoky, but not a natural smoke. Like the scent from the shipyards.

  “Yeah,” Almer said, sniffing it himself. “Pitch, I’m pretty sure. Or something like it.”

  Serrick waved it away. “That could be a coincidence. What was this building? Did they keep dangerous chemicals here?”

  Cort shook his head. “It’s the same in the other three places.”

  “So someone burned out the whole alley on purpose,” Asti said. “Killed who knows
how many, ruined the lives of even more.” He almost couldn’t see, he was so angry. He stormed out of the back room. He needed fresh air.

  “That’s what I’m saying.” Almer followed him out, Serrick right behind him.

  “Who do you think did this?” Asti asked.

  Almer shrugged. “I don’t know about things like that, Rynax. I’m just telling you what the evidence tells me.”

  “What about you, spark? You going to go to the constabs with this?”

  Serrick looked troubled. “I don’t know what to make of this, gents. I should talk to my supervisors.”

  “That’s a plan,” Almer said. “For what it’s worth.”

  “Of course it’s worth it,” Asti said. “Tell me there’s a chance for some justice here.”

  Serrick shrugged. “I’ll look into it.” He walked back over to the rest of the sparks and shields.

  “Don’t know,” Almer said, watching Serrick go. “You show a stick a dead body, tell them it’s murder, they’ll do something about it. This here, he tells his bosses what I showed him? Maybe they’ll see it. Maybe not.”

  “I got it,” Asti said.

  “You’ve got a good head, Rynax. You see what’s going on and put the pieces together.”

  Asti nodded. He’d already had a feeling that something wrong must have happened for the whole alley to catch fire the way it did. Someone would have to know something. Someone with his ear to the ground.

  Someone like the spice merchant Mersh had mentioned.

  “Keep talking to them anyway,” Asti said. “You never know.”

  “What are you gonna do?”

  “I’m going to go see a man about some spices.”

  Lian and Hal’s house was small, with an even smaller garden in the back, but it was a pleasant and cozy enough place to stay, at least until Verci found something new for himself and his family. He convinced Raych to let her sister watch Corsi while he talked to her out back.