Three Acts of Penance [01] Attrition: The First Act of Penance

by S. G. Night

  His stride was long, tall, and proud. He wore a mask of proprietary disinterest, as though everything before his eyes belonged to him and his whimsy. He looked arrogant.

  He fit right in.

  After a few fruitless minutes, Notak refocused his attention on one of the kiosks. The fat man behind the counter looked up at him with watery eyes as he approached, like a toad squatting in a nest of crates and spools of richly-dyed linen.

  Adding a touch of boredom to his mask, Notak indolently perused the stock. The merchant’s blank, glazed eyes watched numbly for a long moment, following Notak’s fingers as he tested the feel of a satin sheet. Notak twitched his mouth into a distasteful sneer and dropped the fabric.

  That seemed to awaken the man’s attention. Even more toad-like than before, he jumped in his seat, as though shocked.

  “Begging your pardon, sire,” the merchant said in a breathy stammer. “A good day to you — is there anything I can help you with?”

  “Perhaps,” said Notak’s false-persona, his nasal voice dripping with self-important indifference. “My father has been looking for a new proprietor of grapes and wine. I wonder if you might be able to recommend a peer of yours for the job.”

  He said the words my father in the grating, supercilious whine of a noble’s son. The merchant visibly flinched at the phrase, and Notak smirked internally — nothing scared traders like the spawn of the gentry.

  “Umm…I…err…” fumbled the flustered merchant. “I don’t deal in the vineyard business much myself, sire…I might not be—”

  Notak cut him off with a haughty snap of exasperation. “I hear talk of a man named Hammon in this part of the city. They say he’s the best.”

  The merchant’s demeanor darkened. “Oh. Hammon. Yes, he certainly is…” he muttered sourly. “He’s head of the Westward Trade Company here in Dírorth. They deal in everything. Wine, produce, textiles, meat…damn near running all of us out of business…”

  “He sounds perfect,” Notak drawled. “Does he have a stall here in the market? Or can he be found elsewhere?”

  The merchant shrugged. “Westward Trade doesn’t have stalls, sire.”

  Notak absentmindedly took a silver dyre out of his purse and began to roll it between his fingers. “I see. Do you know where I could find him, then? His offices?”

  The merchant’s watery eyes turned hungry, and they drifted back and forth as the coin flitted across Notak’s knuckles. He swallowed, as though his mouth were watering. “Uhm…no, sire. I haven’t the slightest idea of where to find him.”

  “Is that so?” Notak remarked, pointedly not looking at the merchant. The coin began to spin faster between his fingers. “Are you absolutely certain?”

  It was like baiting a dog with a slab of meat. Like the merchant was a man dying of thirst, and the coin was a jug of cold water just inches out of his reach. “Uhm,” he panted again. “Uhm…well…uh—”

  “A shame,” Notak sighed. He started to turn away from the man, moving to replace the dyre in his purse.

  “Wait!” the merchant pled, his hand half outstretched as if to grab Notak’s arm. “I might not know but…um…”

  “Yes?” Notak prodded.

  “You might try Enoch over there.” He pointed across the square to another stall that sat in the far corner of the bazaar. It was small, subtle, almost completely hidden in the shadows of the walls. A noticeable space stretched between it and its closest neighbor, isolating it.

  “Enoch…knows things,” the merchant said, sounding almost reverent. “I bet he could tell you anything you wanted to know.”

  Notak hmmed as he squinted at the stall in the corner. Without looking, he tossed the dyre at the merchant. “For your time.”

  The fat Human snatched it up greedily, trapping it in his hands as if to prevent it from escaping. “Many thanks, sire, many thanks. Blessings of Lord Garish upon—”

  Notak was gone before the man could finish, striding across the square. He entered the thick shadows in the corner and approached the stall that the merchant had indicated.

  Behind the stall’s counter was sat a thin, lanky man, picking lazily at his fingernails with a stylus. He had sleek, smooth hair, the color of ink. His clothes were plain, lacking the decedent ornamentation of the other vendors. A pointed goatee extended from his chin, like a tiny knife. His eyes were deep brown, sharp, shifty, and knowing.

  The man noticed Notak almost immediately. When he greeted him, his voice was long, sly, and fox-like. “Ah, good day, friend. Nice of you to drop in on my little corner of the world. How might I assist you on this delightfully dreary day?”

  Reassuming the same charade he had used on the other merchant, Notak stepped up to the counter and replied in his best grating impression of a noble’s son. “I’m seeking a man who deals in wine and fine goods on behalf of my father. I was told you could help me.”

  The Human looked at Notak closely, his narrow eyes scanning him from his dark tunic, to his hands, to the white-skinned illusions over his face. After a long, quiet moment, the man’s face split into a grin and he released an enthusiastic laugh. His shoulders rocked with it, and he tried halfheartedly to squelch the sound in his hand as tears of mirth rolled down his face.

  Notak raised an eyebrow. “I don’t see what’s so funny…”

  “Wow,” the man gasped through his laughter. “You’re really bad at this. Looking for wine for your father? That’s the funniest damn thing I’ve heard all week! I should tip you.”

  Trepidation shot through Notak. He did what he could to cover it and maintain his disguise, doing his best to appear affronted. “I beg your pardon, sir?”

  “Oh, for gods’ sakes, stop embarrassing yourself,” the man said, flicking his fingers at Notak as the last of his laughter subsided.

  “Now look here, my good man—”

  “Please.” the man interrupted. “Don’t try and play games with me. It’s belittling. I’m not stupid — I can spot a wolf in sheep’s clothing when I see one.” He pointed to Notak’s leather-bound hands. “Your claws are showing.”

  Notak tensed. “I don’t know—”

  “Come on,” the Human said, looking around as if to assure himself that no one else was watching. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

  He pulled back the hem of his sleeve and, for the first time, Notak noticed that the man wore a familiar leather gauntlet over his forearm. There was a clack, and a blade as long as a shortsword snapped upward from the top of the man’s wrist. The Stinger glinted wickedly for a moment, and then slipped back into its hiding place.

  Relief flooded through Notak. He pulled back his own sleeve and opened his Stinger downward. The tip of the blade pricked the wooden counter between them.

  The Human grinned again. “Zauvijék nijem, friend.”

  “The same to you,” Notak answered, shutting his Stinger.

  “Forgive me, I have yet to introduce myself.” The Human spread his arms expansively and bowed in his chair. He made grand gestures at his stall full of paper, ink, charts, and graphing tools, like they were his subjects, and he their king.

  “I am Enoch Michelson, adept cartographer, recluse, and the lord and master of a tiny, dark corner of Patrician’s Market. I am a knower of many useless things, and a knower of a few things that matter. Finder of lost items. Gossipmonger.” His smile grew even slyer. “And an informant for a little band of Majiski assassins.”

  “I am Notak,” he answered in his dry, normal voice. “I kill Demons.”

  “Excellent,” Enoch said. “It’d be most embarrassing if you really had turned out to be some rich lord’s bastard.”

  Notak crossed his arms. “Indeed. What gave me away?”

  “You were overacting a bit,” Enoch answered without even a pause for thought. “See, you don’t come off to me as the self-absorbed type, so you were trying too hard to make yourself out like one. You can’t walk around telling yourself to act entirely selfish and conceited, or you l
ook like you’re making an effort to be selfish and conceited. With noble’s sons, it’s not the same. They don’t think of it as selfishness when they take all your money and piss in your face. To them, it’s just another privilege to take for granted.”

  “I will take that into consideration,” Notak said. He nodded at Enoch’s gauntlet. “I did not know that the Genshwin gave away Stingers to our informants.”

  Enoch gave a flippant shrug. “It was a gift. I did a big favor for the Majiski that I used to report to.” His eyes gleamed. “And now I expect that you will need a favor, am I right?”

  “Correct,” Notak said. “A merchant by the name of Hammon. You know of him?”

  “Oh, I know of him alright,” Enoch muttered, making a face as if he had just smelled something foul. “Westward Trade Company, right? Head of operations here in town. What do you want with him?”

  “We need his manifests,” Notak replied. “And we need to kill him.”

  “Gods above and below, finally!” Enoch exclaimed, hoisting his arms as if in prayer. “I’ve been waiting for years for someone to snuff that little weasel.”

  “I gather he is not very well liked by the other merchants.”

  “To put it lightly. They invented words like scum and slime for people like him.”

  “My friend tells me that they invented whores for the same reason.”

  Enoch burst into laughter again. “You know what the best part is? That’s actually true! He loves his whores, and that’s no secret, either. But I have some strong doubts that the feeling is mutual, if you know what I mean.”

  Notak permitted a small, brief smile. “What can you tell me about him?”

  “Nah ah ah.” Enoch waggled his finger at Notak. “First, my fee.”

  Notak frowned. “How much?”

  “My standard rate for my favorite bunch of Majiski assassins,” the Human answered casually. “One whole.”

  “I believe the word they invented for that is robbery,” Notak commented, but he took out his purse nonetheless. He hadn’t thought to bring an entire scion coin from the Manji Tor’s treasury — you don’t typically need to walk around carrying three months’ worth of gold in your pocket. He did, however, have enough assorted silver to cover the value.

  Enoch took the money — he was much more relaxed about it than the twitchy textile merchant at the other stall.

  “Welcome to Patrician’s Market.” he shrugged by way of explanation. “You saw the toll coming in. A cartographer’s pay isn’t wonderful, and a charge like one solid and five a day — every day — just to get a dark corner for your stall? It eats a hole in your purse very quickly. The only reason I can sell in here is because the Genshwin are rather generous when it comes to paying their informants.”

  “That we are,” Notak said. “Now, what can you tell me? I need to know as much as possible about him.”

  Enoch tapped his nose, grinning toothily. “Then you’ve come to the right place, my friend!”

  He turned sinuously in his seat, rummaging through his stacks of charts. Eventually, he extracted a scroll-bound document and rolled it out on the countertop between them. It was a map depicting a large ovoid filled with hundreds of small polygons.

  “Notak, meet Dírorth,” Enoch said, gesturing between the assassin and the map. “Dírorth, Notak.”

  Notak leaned over the counter to examine the map. It was, indeed, an image of the city, drawn in masterful detail. Notak could see every alley and tiny shack. It was like looking down on Dírorth from the sky.

  “I have never seen a map this detailed before…”

  Enoch swelled with excitement. “That’s because only I draw maps this detailed. This one is my baby, my masterpiece. I spent three years walking around town with all my instruments getting the dimensions of the entire city. Building by building, street by street. The effort has paid for itself a dozen times over — people love a map like this, and I sell ‘em cheap.”

  “Marvelous…” Notak whispered. “So, Hammon?”

  “Yesyesyesyes,” Enoch twittered, picking up a red wax pencil and a large magnifying lens. “I can tell you that Hammon,” he marked a square area on the map with the pencil. “Lives here, Greenwood Block. Not too far from here, coincidentally. But he doesn’t spend a lot of time there. He spends most of his days in his office inside Westward Trade’s warehouse, which is here.” Enoch highlighted a large rectangular building a few streets over, nearer the river.

  Notak nodded. “Go on.”

  “Hammon’s a bit…” Enoch thought for a moment. “Intentionally ostentatious.”

  “How so?”

  “He’s high up on Westward Trade’s ladder,” Enoch explained. “He’s got money. And he flaunts it. Bought himself a minor title, from what I hear. He’s got a mansion a few blocks from here, but he never stays there — apparently only the riffraff actually live in their houses. Instead, Hammon likes to stay at a different high-class inn every night, hobnobbing with the rest of the upper-crust. He sticks to a routine, always visiting here, here, here, there, here, here, and here.” Enoch made seven more highlights of smaller buildings scatter across the map.

  “How exactly do you know all this?” Notak inquired.

  Enoch chuckled. “I’m nosy. That, and Hammon bought eight copies of this map from me a few months back. Then spent an hour hogging my counter-space and bragging about how much high-quality tavern hopping costs while he marked them up. He drew out a different route between his warehouse and one of these eight locations on each map. I made a little mental note of it on the off-chance the Genshwin ever came ‘round looking for the little faul.”

  “Hmm…” Notak puzzled, looking from the red-marked locations to the map’s legend. “So these are inns….” He tapped the map. “What about this one? That’s in Redborough, is it not?”

  Enoch checked with his magnifying lens. “Yep. Must be one of the houses.”

  “Eight maps…” Notak pondered aloud. “Eight establishments…eight nights in a week.”

  “Like I said, he spends one night a week at each place, goes to his office in the morning, then goes to the next place on the list.” He rolled his eyes. “Stuck-up bastard.”

  “This is very, very helpful,” Notak told him.

  Enoch shrugged modestly. “Well, I do what I can. It’s not perfect, though. I can’t tell you where he’d be on any given day of the week.”

  “You might not have to,” Notak answered. “May I see that?”

  Enoch handed him the pencil.

  “If I were him…” Notak muttered, drawing lines that connected the eight locations to the warehouse. “I would take the shortest route for each trip. Which would look…something like…this.” He put the pencil down and examined his handiwork. “Fascinating….”

  The routes made a perfect crisscrossing pattern across half the city, like a dozen snuggling polygons. Enoch looked back at the map. “Huh. Stuck-up and pretentious.”

  “This will do,” Notak said. “I need to meet my colleague to discuss details. How much do you want for the map?”

  “Go ahead and take it. No charge. One map is a small price to pay to help put Hammon in the ground. Hell, you can have the pencil too.”

  Notak rolled up the scroll and they shook hands. “Much obliged, Enoch Michelson. I cannot tell you how valuable this will be.”

  “I’m always valuable,” Enoch said, leaning back in his seat. “That’s what the Genshwin pay me for. Feel free to drop by again if you find yourself in need of a rumor or two.” He grinned his fox’s grin. “You’d be surprised how much you can learn from men selling maps in the dark corners of the world. If you know how to ask nicely, that is.”

  ——

  Rachel stepped up to the ornamental door of the large, gaudy building. A wooden sign above the doorway depicted a nauseatingly pink flower and the words Gilded Lily painted in golden, curly letters. She pushed open the door and stepped inside.

  Some of the other brothels she had investi
gated could have passed for innocent taverns at first glance. This place, however, did nothing to hide its true nature. The taproom was choked with a cloud of perfume and incense. Everything was coated in sickening pink and sultry crimson.

  Young, velvet-clad women decorated the arms and tables of men in richly ruffled clothes, their eyes half-lidded and hungry. They fed clients strawberries and wine, and occasionally one would draw their quarry away from the tables and lead them up the stairs.

  Rachel could respect a whore. The kinds of women you see in tattered dresses and tangled hair in the back of riverside allies. She could respect a woman who put herself through hell to make ends meet. Not sinners, but survivors. Those women had grit, toughness that Rachel admired, a kind of stubborn determination to do whatever needs to be done without complaint or reservation.

  But Rachel could see real Litoran diamonds glittering on the ears of these women. Their makeup was pristine. Their dresses were new, true velvet, with subtle necklines that cut just low enough to be questionable. And Rachel could hear more than enough silver rattling in their purses.

  These were not destitute dockside women who sold the only thing they had for a penny a throw. These were not whores. These were courtesans. Women who sold something precious because they could, because it was easy, and because the Demons’ bootlickers paid them more than they could ever need. These were the real sinners. Rachel did not respect them.

  A tall, older woman with painted lips stood behind the polished bar, tending to the new arrivals — the Lily’s madam. Trying not to breathe in too much of the perfume-ridden air, Rachel approached the bar.

  “Excuse me?”

  The madam turned her gaze on Rachel, giving her a proprietary look up and down. Her face was flat and cold. “May I help you, m’lady?” She spoke in a sticky, breathy voice that made Rachel want to take a bath.

  “I’m looking for a friend,” Rachel told her, using the same ploy she had at the other brothels.

  The older woman’s eyes raked up and down Rachel’s body again. “Well…that is a…unusual request…”