The Holver Alley Crew

by Marshall Ryan Maresca

  “Early is always good.” Verci didn’t want to say too much. “Asti forgets that sometimes.”

  The girl shrugged. “I was awake already. Been up since dawn. Sticks woke me up from my crash.”

  “Where did you sleep?”

  “Under the creek bridge, over on Frost,” she said. “It’s usually a good enough crash, least it used to be. About ten folks there last night, and the sticks routed us all at sunup.”

  Verci didn’t know what to make of this girl. “Asti told you to be here for this?”

  “Didn’t I say that?”

  “Did he say why? What you would be doing?”

  “Said I wouldn’t be anyone’s whore, that’s what.” She spat this at him, like an accusation.

  “Well, that’s . . .” Verci stumbled. “I didn’t think that would be what you would be brought on for.”

  “You can forget all about it if you were thinking that, mate,” she said.

  “Not thinking it!” Verci almost shouted. “I’m a married man.”

  “Married man,” she scoffed. “They’re usually the worst.”

  “Forget it,” he said. “I’m sure Asti knows exactly what he’s doing.”

  “Of course I do.” Asti’s voice came from behind them. He came up to the both of them, large pack slung over his shoulder. He shook his head and frowned as he held up a newsprint. “Look at this!”

  “What about it?” Verci didn’t want to ask about the girl in front of her, so it was best to trust Asti and wait for a private moment. He glanced at the print. None of the stories jumped out at him as being significant. “I don’t see anything of note. Unless you are interested in what dresses Lady Henterman and Lady Hanson were wearing last night.”

  “No, that’s my point!” Asti snapped. “Two days, and nearly nothing about the fire! A paragraph in the corner.”

  “Really?” Verci grabbed the sheet from Asti and looked over it again. “That’s odd.”

  “Newsies don’t care what happens out here in westtown,” Mila said.

  “When did we become westtown?” Verci asked. “I thought you had to go west of Junk for that.”

  “Westtown has started at the creek as long as I’ve known,” Mila said. “But you two are old men.”

  “When did I become an old man?” Verci asked. “I’m twenty-four!”

  “I guess that’s old now,” Asti said.

  Mila gave a light slap to Asti’s shoulder. “So what do you want from me, old man?”

  “I want you to do some hatshaking today,” Asti said.

  “You’re paying me to shake my hat?”

  “You’re paying her to shake her hat?” Verci echoed.

  “Yeah,” Asti said. “Specifically, I want you to go into Keller Cove, to the end of Wheeler, and shake in the square outside the customhouse gate.”

  “The customhouse gate?” Mila asked. “Ain’t exactly prime territory for shaking, you know?”

  “So no one will try and muscle you out,” Asti said. “The point isn’t what you make.”

  “Since you’re paying me,” Mila said.

  “How much?” Verci asked.

  “Ten crowns,” Asti growled. “You watch that gate. You watch the men on the wall. You learn how long they stay on watch. What time they switch. What they eat for lunch. You get it?”

  “I think so,” Mila said. “Eyes and ears open, learn everything.”

  “Everything and anything.”

  The girl shrugged. “That’s a good ten crowns,” she said. “Now?”

  “Now. Go.”

  She winked at Asti and walked back off down the lane.

  Verci took advantage of the moment. “You’re bringing in a strange girl to scout for us?”

  “An aspect of it,” Asti said. He shrugged and lowered his voice. “That’s Jono Kendish’s kid. You remember him?”

  “Vaguely,” Verci said. He did recall two little Kendish girls, long time ago.

  “Yeah, well, fire hit her as bad as us, you know?”

  “So spread some help around,” Verci said, nodding. “Works for me, if you’re sure about her.”

  “Sure as anyone,” Asti said. He pounded on the door of the stable. After a moment Kennith opened the door.

  “Who’s the girl?”

  “Girl?” Asti asked innocently.

  “I heard you two talking with some bird, who is she?”

  “Her name’s Mila. We’re having her scout out the customhouse for us. Let’s get inside.”

  Kennith scowled, but stepped back so they could enter.

  The inside of the stable was larger and cleaner than Verci had expected. A small carriage—a two-wheel gig propped up on blocks—dominated the center of the room. There were only two stable stalls, all the way in the back, where two chestnut horses were quietly eating. The wooden floor had been impeccably swept, and the two workbenches on the side wall had all their tools neatly arranged.

  “Nice,” Asti said, glancing around. “And this is all yours?”

  “I’m the only one who comes in here,” Kennith said. “I take care of the horses, and drive the carriage if anyone staying at the inn hires it out.”

  “No one stays at this trap more than a night or two,” Verci said. “It’s a whore hole, nothing more.”

  “Used to be a nice place, I’m told,” Kennith said. “The old couple who run it are very nice.”

  “And they won’t ask any questions?” Asti asked. He was looking around the back of the stable, where the large carriage doors were.

  Kennith coughed and looked to the floor. “They have been told not to. By Missus Holt. I think they have certain debts to her.”

  “A lot of people do,” Verci said. He checked out the workbenches. Kennith was clearly a meticulous worker. He had several bins of nails and gears and other bits and bobs, each one neatly organized.

  Asti closed the lock on the back door. “Secure location. Good sightlines to the road. We could set up some alarm wires on the path, yes?”

  “I think so,” Verci said. He looked back out the door down the drive to the street.

  “Alarm wires?” Kennith asked.

  “This is our base right now,” Asti said. “We’re planning the whole gig in here, and we need to know if anyone is approaching. Precaution is our best friend in this business.”

  Kennith looked skeptical. “If you say so.”

  Verci knew Kennith was new at this, but his attitude was especially naive. And the twitch in Asti’s eye meant he was about to snap at the man. “It’s for the best. Essin was on me a bit this morning.”

  “How?” Asti asked.

  “Might have been nothing. Seemed a little odd.”

  “Just Essin? Alone?”

  “As far as I saw. He was on a bit of a next-morning stumble.”

  “Drunk?”

  “What does this have to do with anything?” Kennith snapped.

  Asti raised his eyebrow. “You want Lesk and his boys to poach this gig from us?”

  Kennith scoffed. “They can’t poach this from me. It’s my gig. I brought it!”

  “Doesn’t matter if they learn what we’re up to and do it first,” Asti said.

  “Or skunk us out of spite.”

  “Really? People do that?” Kennith sat down at one of the workbenches. “You people are crazy.”

  “Damn right,” Asti said. “So moving on?”

  “So what’s our next step?” Verci asked. “I’m guessing you want me to set up those defenses here while you do the day scouting.”

  “I’d like you on the scout, though,” Asti said. He took the pack off his shoulder and dropped it on the worktable. “I’ve got a plan.”

  “I know you have a plan,” Verci said. “What’s the plan?”

  Asti opened the pack, pul
ling out clothes. “I was thinking of one of Mister Gin’s plays. The Greasy Merchant?”

  “Greasy Merchant?” Kennith asked, his face showing how much the man was in over his head.

  “I never remember the names to those games,” Verci said.

  “Here’s the thing,” Asti said. “We need to get into the customhouse today, while they’re working, to see how it operates on the inside.”

  “Sounds risky,” Kennith said.

  “Course it is,” Asti said. “See, there’s a trick to any one of these plays.”

  “It’s more or less the same trick every time,” Verci added. “You make them think they’re pulling one over on you.”

  “So how are you doing that?”

  Asti unfolded the clothes. It was a smartly embroidered tunic, Kieran style, with matching hose and cap. Wearing that, Asti would look like a total fop. “Here’s how. I’m going to walk right in there, demand to talk to the foreman, and slide a few coins into his hands.”

  “How does that help?” Kennith asked.

  Verci chuckled. “The idea is that the foreman is going to be suspicious of Asti anyway, so Asti will play into that.”

  “Confirm his suspicions by trying to bribe him, act like I want something he can deliver.”

  Kennith nodded. “So he’ll be so focused on that, he won’t notice that you’re really scouting the place to rob it.”

  “Precisely,” Asti said. “Greasy Merchant and its ilk work best when the target never even suspects what you’re really after. When they don’t actually give you anything.”

  Verci added, “That foreman will walk away with a few extra crowns in his pocket. He’ll figure he had a good day for doing nothing.”

  “So what do I do?” Kennith asked.

  “You and Verci have the other side of our scout.”

  “Other side?”

  Verci didn’t like the sound of this. “Sewer trawl?”

  Asti shrugged. “Has to be done.”

  “I have to go in the sewer?” Kennith asked.

  “Nah.” Asti stripped off his clothes. “You are going to take the inn’s carriage out near the customhouse. Cut a hole in the bottom of it.”

  “Owners may not like that.”

  “Blazes to them. They can complain to the Old Lady. Verci’ll ride in the carriage, which you’ll park over a sewer hole. Verci will go out the hole and into the sewer.”

  “That seems a bit complicated,” Verci said. “He’ll just sit there?”

  “Someone asks, he’s been sent by the inn to wait for someone coming out of the customhouse. If someone asks, you hear?”

  “Sit and wait quiet?” Kennith confirmed.

  Asti put on the tunic. “Worst thing happens, and we’ve got to bolt fast, you’ll be set to get us out of there.”

  “And I go in the sewers.” Verci really didn’t care for that part of the plan.

  “Things go well,” Asti said, struggling with the hose, “I’ll send you a mark drop in the backhouse.”

  “Presuming that is a backhouse.”

  Asti put on the cap. “How do I look?”

  “Like a jerk,” Kennith said. “A greasy, Kieran jerk.”

  “Perfect.”

  Chapter 6

  THE HARDEST PART about faking a Kieran accent was subduing the urge to exaggerate it. There was something about the big, round vowels and soft palate consonants that made Asti want to push it further. Plus the audience almost expected it, as the big, overblown Kieran was a traditional trope of local theater. If he underplayed it, most people wouldn’t believe it.

  “Most people,” though, wouldn’t include people who worked the customhouse, who would encounter actual Kierans, and would see through his ruse if he wasn’t on point. It didn’t help that his costume wasn’t perfect. He would have liked some jewelry. A few gaudy rings would make a huge difference. He had to settle for some heavy rouge on his cheeks and lining his eyes. Hopefully the garishness of his face would be enough to keep everyone’s attention off his fingers.

  “So who do you need to talk to?” the man at the gate asked. Asti had been let inside the first set of gates, leaving him stuck in the box between the two gates. Verci had a theory about the gates, and from what Asti could see, he was right: they were designed so only one gate could open at a time. The customhouse people could trap someone between the gates and wait for the sticks to come.

  Not a position Asti enjoyed. Just standing in the box was making his heart race, and every hair on his neck stood on end. He needed to get through quick.

  “Your foreman,” he said, keeping his Kieran accent in check. “I don’t know the man’s name.”

  “But why?”

  “Does it really matter?” Asti asked. He took a single crown out of his pocket and flipped it over his fingers. Might as well start a reputation for bribes right away.

  “Eh,” the man said, snatching the coin away. “I suppose it doesn’t.” He pulled a lever and opened up the gate.

  Asti walked into the grounds. “So who am I looking for here?”

  “You want Mister Tolso, right over there.” He pointed to a man in a dark gray vest and matching cap.

  “You’ve been of esteemed service, good man,” Asti said. He crossed the lot, noting the locations of each of the warehouse doors, marking the distance to the dog kennels. Tolso was near the suspected backhouse, so that made things all the more easy.

  Asti approached boldly, hand outstretched. “Tolso, is it? You’re the man to talk to I understand.”

  Tolso didn’t accept Asti’s hand. The mealy-faced man looked at it as if it were holding a dead fish. “Talk to about what?”

  “Forgive me,” Asti said, glancing about. He hoped Tolso read him as checking if they had a bit of privacy, though he actually was counting the men on the wall. King’s Marshals uniforms. Three on each side, armed with crossbows and swords. Proper longswords at that, not gentlemen’s rapiers. “I should introduce myself.”

  “Please,” Tolso said.

  “Gestorus is the name,” Asti said. “Andio Gestorus. You may recognize the name.” The Gestorus family was huge, and did a fair amount of shipping all over Druthal, and had any number of representatives in Maradaine at any given time. A name that provided just the right balance of notoriety and anonymity.

  “It’s familiar,” Tolso said. “There a problem with a shipment?”

  “Not yet there isn’t,” Asti said. “And I’m doing a bit of . . . preventative action to make sure it stays that way.”

  “Something incoming?”

  “Something and someone,” Asti leaned in close to whisper, keeping an eye over to the kennels. Close enough to the wall to throw a few morsels of meat? Asti dismissed the idea. Far too amateur.

  “We strictly deal in cargo here, Mister Gestorus. You’d have to go to the north bank to discuss passenger clearance.”

  Asti pulled a coin out of his pocket and slid it into Tolso’s hand. “See, that’s just it. I’d prefer not to have to deal with the north bank, if you get me.”

  “Hmm,” Tolso said. He did hold on to the coin, though. “When is your cargo arriving? I take it you need it . . . processed quickly? Perishable goods that can’t waste time getting to market.”

  “Quite right, Mister Tolso,” Asti said. “I’d hate to lose their market value.” He looked back over to the warehouses. The doors were marked with codes of colors and shapes. No written signs. Blasted saints. That wouldn’t make finding anything too easy.

  “I’m certain arrangements can be made,” Tolso said.

  “Good, good,” Asti said. “I hate to trouble you further, Mister Tolso, but if I might have occasion to use your water closet?”

  “No closet,” Tolso said, his teeth gritting. “Just the backhouse over there.”

  Perfect.

  “That
will have to do,” Asti said. “If you’ll excuse me?”

  Asti went in. The recent run in the sewer had reminded him of how bad these things smelled. He didn’t want to have to stay in any longer than necessary. He gave three quick knocks on the seat.

  Three knocks returned.

  “How easy?” Asti whispered.

  “Ridiculous,” Verci called back from the darkness. “Which is good, because it’s particularly awful down here. How’s it on your end?”

  “Good as it can be,” Asti whispered. “You were right about the gate being a double-lock. No chance of sneaking through it.”

  “Figured,” Verci said. “I’ve got an idea of floating downstream with the goods.”

  “Problem is still getting it,” Asti said.

  Someone knocked on the door. Asti composed himself and opened up. Tolso stood outside, looking smug.

  “Everything well?” Tolso asked.

  “As expected,” Asti said, bringing back the Kieran accent.

  “Well,” Tolso said, holding out an arm for Asti to exit. “I think we’re done for now. Yes?”

  “I think so,” Asti said. “You’ve been very helpful.”

  “Of course,” Tolso said.

  Hairs on the back of Asti’s neck went up again. He walked out and went to the gate. Tolso walked right with him.

  “Our guest is ready to go,” Tolso told the man at the gate. The inner gate opened up.

  Asti stepped inside. It slammed closed behind him with a solid clang.

  “I’ll be in touch soon, Mister Tolso,” he said.

  “I’m sure,” Tolso said.

  The outer gate was still shut.

  Asti’s heart started hammering.

  He took a hold of the bars and shook it. His hand was trembling.

  Tolso’s face was unreadable. “It just takes a moment to switch the gears. Sorry for the trouble.”

  “Not a problem,” Asti said. The beast in the back of his head was screaming. He wasn’t going to stay in here. Not going to be trapped, not again. He’d tear through the bars and carve up Tolso and the guard and anyone else—