The Holver Alley Crew

by Marshall Ryan Maresca

  “That had too many euphemisms,” Win said. “What are you talking about?”

  “We’re not doing what they are expecting from us,” Asti said. “They’re never going to expect us to do the huge job we’re trying to pull.”

  “I’m not sure we can,” Verci said.

  Asti cut into his fish pie and took a bite. “Oh, I’m pretty sure now. All the pieces are in place.”

  “You’re crazy, you know?” Verci said.

  “I’m well aware of that.” He sipped at the wine. “Now, gentlemen, I’m going to eat this, and then I’m going to try and sleep until morning. Please let Kimber know of my intentions. Tomorrow morning the three of us, and the rest of the crew, will meet with the Old Lady at the Birdie Basement. Spread the word, brother, to be there at ten bells. You both better get some rest as well, because tomorrow night might just be the biggest gig of our lives.”

  Spreading the word had been easy. Finding Mila was the only challenge. Verci had kept his head low the whole time. Miles and his bunch of goons probably had their eye out for him, and he wasn’t going to let them have a chance to do to him what they did to Asti. But the crew knew about the meeting, and he could relax—at least try to, given the circumstances—until the morning.

  The sun was nearly down when he got back to the Junk Avenue Bakery. He stopped outside for a moment, staring at the sign hanging over the door. It could be easily repainted to read “Rynax Bakery”. Or even “Rynax Bakery and Gadgeterium”. He liked that.

  Not a good idea, though. Had to keep a low profile. Look legitimate, but don’t draw too much attention. Another one of Dad’s rules for getting by. Dad was big on trying to blend in. Though Verci had to admit, Dad had never been good at it.

  He went inside, shutting and latching the door behind him. Then he reached up and rang the bell two more times. “It’s safe.”

  He went up to the apartment, lit the lamps, put the teakettle to boil. He was starting to pull some cold lamb and cheese out of the icebox when Raych emerged from the safe room, Corsi swaddled in her arms.

  “Is this going to happen a lot?”

  Verci answered as honestly as he could. “I really hope it doesn’t.”

  “Hope?”

  “I don’t know what else I can tell you, Raych.” He laid out the lamb and cheese.

  She sat down. “I just . . . I can’t live my life with people coming after us.”

  Verci went to the cabinet, pulled out a bottle of wine that Mersh had left behind. “I don’t think we really have a choice about that, love.”

  “If you and your brother stopped this crazy . . . oh, saints. Asti is all right, isn’t he?”

  “He got hurt, but he’ll live.” Verci opened the wine and brought it over to the table.

  “So you see? We have to stop now before . . .”

  “Before what, Raych? Before they burn our home down?”

  Raych bit her lip, then went to place Corsi in his cradle.

  “These people were already after us, you see? It may not have been personal, but they came after us just the same.”

  “It’s not the same.”

  “No, it ain’t. Now we’re not some shopkeeps and renters they can muscle in on.”

  “Right,” Raych said acidly. She came over to sit at the table. “Now you’re the Rynax brothers.”

  “Now we’re ready for the fact they’re after us. Now we’re handing back to them.”

  “But why do we have to be?”

  “Because this is where we live, Raych. It’s where I live, where you live. Where Hal and Lian live.”

  “Yes, I know, but . . .”

  “Do you want to move out of here? Head west into Benson Court or something?”

  “Of course not.”

  Verci poured out the wine. “East up? Dentonhill? Aventil? Corsi will have his choice of street gangs there.”

  “Blazes, no!”

  “Leave Maradaine altogether?”

  “No.”

  “So we have a choice, Raych. Let these tossers put us under their boot, or fight the bastards.”

  “When does it stop, Verci? When are we safe?”

  “I don’t know. I do know, if we do nothing, these tossers will run rampant over the neighborhood, and we never will be.”

  Raych sipped at her wine.

  “How long?”

  “We’re doing this tomorrow.”

  “So you could be killed tomorrow.”

  Verci drank his wine. “I could. I could regardless whether we go forward tomorrow or not.”

  “True,” Raych said. “But you’re going to do your damnedest not to, you hear?”

  “Damned right I am,” Verci said. “I’ve got plenty of reasons to live.”

  “At least two,” Raych said. She grinned wickedly, and gulped down the rest of her wine. “I better make sure one of them is firmly on your mind tomorrow.”

  Like a spring, she burst from her seat and grabbed Verci by the front of his shirt and kissed him. He stumbled backward, barely staying on his feet from her passionate onslaught. He returned the kiss, while her hands tore down his suspenders.

  For just a moment Verci considered that he needed to put his life at risk more often.

  Asti dozed lightly. Nightmares of Levtha came with deeper sleep—not just the torture, but the layers of mental defense, the explosion of violence, visions of his hands pulling out the entrails of Poasian archers as they shot at . . . images were lost.

  Someone knocked, then opened the door. Kimber stood there in her nightdress, carrying a candle. “Asti?”

  “I’m sleeping,” he said.

  “I heard shouting. I wanted to . . .”

  Asti sat up. “I’ve been asleep. No shouting.”

  Kimber came in, shutting the door behind her. “I heard you shout, Asti.”

  “What did I shout?”

  “Little things. ‘Come with me.’ ‘Go!’ Things like that.” She sat down on the bed.

  “I . . . I must have had a nightmare.”

  “You think?” She leaned in, gingerly touching the dressing on his neck. “I wonder why that happened.”

  “Kimber, what are you doing here?”

  “Worrying about you, Asti Rynax.” Her eyes were wide, slightly wet.

  “Really? I’m . . . not sure I even know what that means.” He thought she was about to kiss him. He wasn’t quite sure how he felt about that. “Why do you worry about me?”

  “I saw you, the day after the fire. You were angry, and bristling. But you also had your eye on everyone. Win, and Helene and Julien. And Hexie. I saw how much you cared about this neighborhood. But . . . I could see in your eyes how much you . . .” She closed her mouth and turned away.

  “How much I what?”

  “Hated yourself.”

  Asti didn’t know what to say to that.

  “I could see it in you, Asti. You’re the kind of man who will throw himself in front of an arrow to save a neighbor. But I think that’s partly because you want that arrow for yourself.”

  “I don’t want to die, Kimber,” Asti said. He touched the dressing at his neck. “Came too damn close today.”

  “Maybe that was a good thing,” Kimber said. “Sometimes to find God, you have to get pretty close to him.”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “Maybe for someone like you, it’s more like getting too close to the blazes of damnation to know how hot it is.”

  That was the problem. Tomorrow he would have to go into Tyne’s blasted pit. Maybe that was the only way he could do it—get in as deep as he could stand to, look the bastard in the eye.

  “What’s going to happen to you tomorrow, Asti?” Kimber asked, touching his hand gently.

  “I . . . Verci and I have a bit of a job to do. Cross town.”r />
  “And when that’s done, are you coming back here?”

  “To your place?”

  “If you need to. Or make your own here. In the neighborhood.”

  “That’d be nice. If I can do that, Kimber, I’d like to.”

  She nodded. “There’s hope for you yet. You should try and sleep.” She didn’t make any move to leave.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Keep watch.”

  Asti took her hand and held it tightly for a moment, and then let it go. He lay back down and shut his eyes. For the first time in months, he fell asleep quickly.

  Chapter 23

  IN HER TWENTY-SIX YEARS Helene had never been in a place like the Birdie Basement, though she had heard plenty about it. She praised whatever saint had watched over her life that she had never had to resort to going there to make a living. She didn’t even want to step inside now, just to meet with Missus Holt and the rest of the crew, but this was where Rynax said to meet.

  “Don’t we need to go in?” Julien asked as they stood outside the door. The entryway was recessed at the bottom of a stairwell, half hidden under the offices of an import agent. She had always assumed the agent was a front for smugglers.

  “Asti said ten bells,” she told her cousin. “I’m not stepping in a second sooner than I have to.”

  “They might be in there already,” Julien suggested.

  “Then they’ll wait for us.” Helene glared at Jules, who had a far too eager expression on his face for her taste. “When we’re in there you keep your blasted eyes down, you hear me? I don’t want your eyes—or your hands—going someplace they shouldn’t. Hear?”

  “You were staring at Verci yesterday.”

  “I was not staring, I was—that’s completely different.”

  “I don’t really think it is.”

  “And that’s why I do the thinking, Julien.”

  Julien pouted, making him look very much like a little boy, save for the fact that he was nearly seven feet tall.

  “I’m guessing you two are waiting for the same people I am.” An older gentleman, thin and drawn, approached the two of them. He was dressed in a suit that looked like it had been the height of fashion ten years ago, but was now threadbare and faded. His quick eyes darted at the two of them, and he gave them a quick smile.

  “What do you think that for, old man?” Helene snapped.

  “Because you’re looking at the door of that place like you’d rather eat your own hand than go inside.” He gave Julien another look up and down. “Aren’t you a tall one?”

  “Yeah,” Julien said.

  “Why don’t you step off?” Helene said.

  “Because, like you, I’m waiting for those charming Rynax boys, who said we were to meet in this ill-reputed establishment, though why here I have no idea.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Of course, how exceedingly rude of me.” He took Helene’s hand and kissed it as he bent down in an extravagant bow. “Pilsen Gin, master of stagecraft.”

  “Stagecraft?” Julien asked.

  “He’s an actor,” Helene said.

  “Absolutely, my dear,” Gin said. “Though I’m sure it is the baser aspects of my talents that our dear Asti and Verci wish to exploit.”

  “What did he say?” Julien asked.

  “That he’s a con artist.”

  “Guilty,” Gin said. “Though I would never say such in a court of law.”

  The door of the Birdie Basement opened and Asti was standing there, glaring at the three of them. “Would you three stop blabbering out in the street and get in here?” Asti’s neck had a horrible gash, crudely stitched shut.

  “What happened to you?”

  “Nothing that won’t heal. Come on.”

  Reluctantly Helene stepped into the place. The inside stank of mold, sweat, and rotten perfume. The stone floor stuck to her boots with each step, and Helene didn’t even want to think what it was sticking with. Her eyes adjusted to the dim candlelight, and then she could clearly see the girls.

  Two were on the crude stage, wearing nothing but stockings and corsets. One of them she figured to be Mila’s age; the other was old enough to be her mother. Both of them danced with blank expressions on their faces, specifically fixing their gaze on a part of the room where there were no men. As for the men patronizing the place, they littered the floor around the stage haphazardly, all of them regarding the two girls dancing with as much interest as they could muster.

  The idea passed through Helene’s mind that neither the girls nor their clients gave a damn if they lived another day.

  “Ah, depravity,” Gin said from behind her. “One never lost money supporting it.”

  Another girl walked up to Helene, slightly more dressed than the two on the stage. “Oy, aren’t you a pretty raven?” she said with a Waish accent thicker than the paint on her face. She reached up to touch Helene’s hair. Helene slapped the woman’s hand away.

  “Don’t touch me,” Helene snarled. She glanced back at Julien, who was blushing furiously. He looked over at her, swallowed hard, and ducked his head.

  “We’re seeing the boss,” Asti said, leading them to the back of the room and through a shabby curtain. They passed through a dark hallway with several doors on each side. The sounds from behind each door turned her stomach. Helene was no maiden; she appreciated a good roll when the opportunity suited her. This struck her as nothing like that; the sounds she heard were desperate, soulless. Pathetic. Nothing she wanted any part of.

  Asti knocked three times on one door. After a moment Helene heard the loud snap of a latch being undone, and the door opened. Verci stood there, with his far too pretty smile and piercing eyes. He stepped back and let them enter. The rest of the group were already around a small table, lamps and candles all around. Mousy Almer Cort sat hunched over one corner, fiddling with a few bottles of some concoction. Mila, with her dark hair and darker eyes, stood up against the wall, her expression showing she was as disgusted by this place as Helene was. Kennith, his black Ch’omik face lost in thought, probably piecing together some mechanical puzzle. Most surprising was Win Greenfield, looking for all the world like a rabbit with a sky full of hawks.

  Sitting in a chair at the head of the table was, Helene presumed, the woman herself, the grand dame of the Seleth underworld: Josefine Holt. Helene had heard plenty of stories about her. As with the carriage job, she had worked on gigs that were for her; one couldn’t help it in this neighborhood. But this was the first time she had ever seen her. She was surprisingly small and stout, but even sitting in a dingy room in the back of a depraved hole that couldn’t even be considered a proper brothel, the woman had presence.

  Pilsen Gin made straight for her. “Josie Holt, you glorious creature, I should have known you’d be in the center of this madness.”

  Holt smiled at Gin like he was a dog begging for scraps. “Pilsen. Asti told me he had brought you in on this.” Helene noticed that Missus Holt had grabbed her cane when Gin approached her, clearly preparing to crack him across the face if he got too close.

  “It’s been far too long, Josie. Last time I saw you, you probably could have shown all those girls out there how things are really done on that stage.”

  “What?” Verci said incredulously.

  “You boys are far too young to have known it, but in her day, Miss Josie here could dance.”

  “I had no idea,” Asti said.

  “She’d even make my knees shake, boys,” Pilsen said, taking a seat at the table. “And that, I can tell you, is an accomplishment.”

  “Enough, Pilsen,” Missus Holt said, her tone giving the discussion all the finality needed. Pilsen seemed chastised, nodding quietly to her. “Well, Asti. You think the gig needs to go tonight?”

  “Tonight?” Helene was surprised. This all was happening a lot f
aster than she had expected.

  “It’s a hot iron kind of gig,” Asti said. “But we’ve got to hit all the parts like the church clock, you hear? No sloppy mistakes this time.”

  “It was your sloppy mistake last time, Asti,” Helene said.

  “True enough.” He drew a deep breath. “First off, we have to secure the wine shop. I want that in place today, and have it clear all throughout the night. Pilsen, that’s on you.”

  “It most certainly is,” Pilsen said. “I hope you don’t mind, I took the liberty of moving on that right away.”

  “Not at all,” Verci said. “What did you do?”

  “Well,” Pilsen said, leaning back in his chair, “my poor little puppy was very put out that I wasn’t going to let him play, so I decided to let him help with this one. Anyway, we did a variant on an old gag, a bit I’m going to call ‘Caskets of Nitella Red.’ I’m presuming there is some overhead available on this whole operation, yes, Old Lady?”

  “What do you need?”

  “Three hundred crowns is all,” Pilsen said. “The usual scam involves getting someone who fancies himself an expert on something, and paying him a small fee to come and verify the quality of a product, and then there’s a bit that turns left and boring, boring, boring, and in the end you have his money and he has a whole lot of nothing. This is actually much easier to pull off since we don’t need the bit that goes south or the fake goods. Just my sweet boy leading the merchant to a warehouse all the way up on the north side of the city, where there will be no goods at all, and there may be some shouting and possibly the Constabulary and I’m talking too long. Simply put, at three bells this afternoon, the merchant will lock up and leave, and he won’t be back until the morning. I presume, Verci, you retain the skills to get inside without further help from me?”

  Verci seemed very amused by Pilsen’s whole speech, but through his chortling he managed to nod.

  “Excellent,” Asti said. “Once we’re in there, if my memory of the block is correct, there is a loading dock for the wine shop around the back. Kennith, you’ll be staging our escape carriage there.”