by DB King
Hammer was a big dog, too, and that would certainly deter the more opportunistic thieves. He showed his teeth to one mad-looking woman who got too close, and she made the sign of the evil eye at Marcus and scurried off.
“This way, boy,” Marcus said to Hammer. He led the way up a narrow lane and around to the inn yard. Here, he shouldered open a back door and plunged into the smoky, poorly lit interior.
Inside, the Ragged Sail was one of the better taverns at the bad end of town. A big ork with an unsheathed blade across his knees sat near the door. He glanced up when Marcus came in. They recognized each other at once, and the ork nodded him in and went back to picking at his nails with his belt-knife.
Most of the inns did not bother with any but the cheapest, most ineffective, most drunken bouncers on their doors, but the Ragged Sail was an exception. Here, a better class of scoundrel could be found, and the bouncer on the door was paid well to make sure that nobody who was not known got through the doors.
Salla looked up from behind the bar. “Ah, Marcus, my old buddy, where’ve you been?” he cried heartily. “We’ve not seen you in here for long enough. How do you do?”
Without being asked, Salla reached below the bar and grabbed a battered pewter tankard, then filled it from a barrel behind the bar and set it down in front of Marcus. Marcus lifted the tankard, sniffed, and took a swallow. It was nowhere near as bad as one would expect in the seafront taverns. Quite good, actually.
The other patrons didn’t look up from their drinks, their games of dice, and their hushed conversations. The docklands were a haven for all kinds of criminals and lowlifes, but there was also a more elite kind of criminal to be found here. Smugglers in high-value goods, men whose trade was in information, knowing who would be where and when, and men whose job it was to kill for money—all these men could be found at the Ragged Sail. Or, if they were not actually in the bar when you wanted them, old Salla could find them for you.
Marcus smiled. The Ragged Sail was less of a seafront tavern and more of a high-end club for the criminal upper-class. He had gained entry here years ago, as a young lad, running errands for a well-known dealer in pirated ambers. Salla knew him and trusted him, as far as it was wise for a man in his position to trust anyone.
“You’ve been doing well, Salla,” Marcus said, eyeing the gold nugget ring on the big man’s finger. Gold was imported from the Dwarven Realms, and was expensive at the best of times. Marcus was sure that Salla had not been wearing that the last time he’d been in the Sail.
Salla looked at the ring and then gave Marcus a knowing grin. “Yeah, we’ve been doing a steady trade in the old Ragged Sail,” he said slyly. “Good beer, good customers, you know how it goes.”
Marcus chuckled and glanced around the half-empty bar. Salla’s wealth was not coming from selling beer, that was for sure. “Good customers, I’d guess, more than good beer,” he hazarded.
“Folks have been good recently, I have to say,” Salla agreed easily, then leaned forward, a glint in his eye. “Been some trouble recently, though,” he went on. “We had a gang of mercenaries down this end of the docks just last night. The Bloody Hand, no less!”
The Bloody Hand. Marcus paused. The same mercenary band that had been guarding Diremage Xeron’s house the other night.
“Well, what did they want?” Marcus asked.
“Looking for stolen goods, they said,” Salla replied, with an injured tone. “On behalf of one of the Diremages up in the Merchants’ Town, so the rumor goes.”
Marcus raised his eyebrows and took a sip of his beer. “Diremages, eh?” he said. “That’s a powerful person to go robbing. Any idea who was trying that?”
Salla waved a hand dismissively. “Ah, the thieves guild, who else?” he said. “Balls of steel, that lot, and no one can touch them because they’ve got the favor of the Lord Commissioner up in the High District. Someone will have hired them to get in about the Diremage’s supplies.”
“Well, and what is it to you? The mercenaries cause you that much trouble?”
“No, no, they know not to mess with Salla. They just had to show their faces.”
“So, what’s bothering you so much about it?” Marcus took another swig of his beer, and Salla glared at him.
“Well, it’s this,” he said leaning over the counter to speak quietly into Marcus’s ear. “Those damned thieves guild scum haven’t come near here with any of it! You know I’m the only fence worth coming to in Kraken City—you want to move goods discreetly, you come to Salla, and yet we’ve seen nothing! Zilch! Not a squeak about it!”
Marcus had to laugh. “So that’s what’s bothering you? You’re offended that they’ve not chosen to bring their loot to you to sell? Come on, Salla, there’s any number of reasons why. Maybe it was some magic item that was wanted for a specific purpose? Maybe it was information that was wanted, not loot? Maybe,” and here he leaned in and spoke conspiratorially to Salla, “there’s a new dealer on the scene.”
Salla looked genuinely hurt. “You know that’s not true. How could it be without me knowing about it?” He glared at Marcus. “You shouldn’t joke about such things. It’s offensive. Anyway, what do you want? Have you come here with something for me?”
Marcus chuckled. The temptation to let on that his magic dust had come from Xeron’s house was strong, but he resisted. There was no point in letting that slip unnecessarily. He trusted Salla as much as Salla trusted him—which was to say, no more than he had to. The two were old friends, of course, but Salla was a trader above all. This kind of business was always, always a risk.
“Not here,” Marcus said, and Salla nodded.
“Come upstairs to my office,” Salla said cordially, then called to a younger man who lounged against the bar, reading a scroll and sipping from a mug. “Hey, Trent, watch the bar for me while I go upstairs for a minute.”
Trent, an unremarkable-looking youth, came over from the other end of the bar, where he’d been cleaning mugs. His face stayed blank, carefully not seeing Marcus or noticing any other face in the bar.
A talented lad, thought Marcus as he followed Salla up the creaking stairs. A lad like that would need to be able to not notice a face in this business.
Salla pushed open a door and led Marcus into a small, wood-paneled office space dominated by a wide wooden desk and a big iron-bound chest in one corner. Papers were stacked high against one wall, and light filtered in through a filthy window high up in the wall behind the desk.
“Sit, sit,” said Salla, waving Marcus into a threadbare chair on the opposite side of the desk. Salla squeezed himself around into the chair near the grubby window and looked expectantly at Marcus.
Marcus reached into his inside pocket and drew out a packet of magic dust. Without a word, he laid it on the desk in front of Salla.
The merchant’s eyes lit up as he gazed at it. Through the translucent pack, the powder was a deep blue, rich as the sea under a summer sky. He picked it up carefully, running his fingers over the translucent wrapping.
Magic dust was rare and very valuable, and not many people could lay their hands on it. Its origins were shrouded in mystery, but it was known that if you ate it, you were granted a magic spell that you could use from then on. For that reason, it was in great demand, but there was never even close to the supply needed to meet the demand.
“Where did you get this?” asked Salla breathlessly. The fact that he would ask such a question showed Marcus that he was genuinely shocked by the sight.
“Salla,” he chided gently. “I’m disappointed in you.”
Salla glanced up. “Yes, of course, sorry. I just… well, it was rumored that this was what Xeron’s mercenaries were looking for… packets of magic dust. And you don’t want these for yourself? To learn spells?”
I have a new magic, Marcus thought, thinking of the dungeon crucible that awaited him back at the Underway. He realized now that he was impatient to get back to it and see what was there for him. What will the dungeon loo
k like now that Ella has been there for more than a day?
He reined his thoughts in. “I have more need for gold than for spells, Salla,” he said. “Don’t ask me where I got it. If it came from the Diremage Xeron’s house, then you know I’m a spectacular thief, and a master trickster, since I managed to lay the blame at the door of the thieves guild. Let’s leave it at that. How much will you give me?”
“It depends. Is this all you have?”
They bargained for a time, but both men knew that Marcus could ask any price, within reason. This was not gold or gemstones, or even information. This was a nearly priceless commodity, and Marcus had a lot of it to sell. Half was in his knapsack now, and the other half was back at the Gutter Gang’s base. In the end, Marcus struck a deal he was happy with and Salla began to count out gold towers—the most valuable coin in use in Kraken City—for each of his brightly colored packs of magic dust.
He looked at Salla. “Hold some of this gold for me,” he said. “This is too much to carry at once.”
“Very well,” said Salla. He wrote out a promissory note for Marcus, then handed over a heavy leather bag of golden tower coins, which Marcus secured to his belt.
Their business done, Marcus shook hands with his buyer and went back downstairs. They chatted at the bar for a bit, and Salla introduced Marcus to Trent, his young barman. But Marcus was itching to get back and see what the dungeon had produced, and he resisted Salla’s attempts to get him to take a second flagon of ale.
“I must go,” he said. “But I’ll be back to see you again soon.”
“Aye, you’ll be welcome when you do,” said Salla.
Afternoon was wearing away as Marcus stepped back out into the inn yard and began to make his steady way back along the wharves toward the King’s Dock.
He became aware of the pursuers almost as soon as they caught sight of him. There were six of them, cloaked and hooded as he was. They had detached themselves from the shadows of a warehouse and were following him at a distance. He slowed, and they slowed to match him. He sped up, and they sped up too.
“We’re in for a fight, Hammer,” he muttered to the dog. “Unless we can lose them.”
“I smell them,” Hammer replied. “You think you can lose them?”
Marcus thought for a moment. He slowed and stopped, looking up at one of the ships. He glanced out of the corner of his eye and saw his pursuers stopping as well.
I can’t lead them back to the entrance of the Underway, he thought, but they’ll likely pursue me as long as I’m on the docks. They’ll have seen me coming out of the Ragged Sail, and they’ll know that I’m likely to have some gold.
He would have to lead them somewhere out-of-the way to deal with them. Six fighters was no joke, and he didn’t want to take them on singlehanded, even with the dog at his side. He was confident that, given a little time, he could outwit them and get them off his trail.
And I know just the place.
Chapter 7
Marcus led the would-be robbers through the lanes of the tightly packed district behind the docks. He knew this place like the back of his hand—he’d grown up here, after all. Past inns, boarding houses, dwellings, and shops. He moved at a quick pace, not breaking into a run, but keeping enough of a pace that his pursuers would have to work hard to keep up with him.
Every now and again, he looked over his shoulder, making sure that he hadn’t lost them. He didn’t want to fight them now—he was not fool enough to take on six men of unknown skills with only his dog for assistance. Marcus was heading for a spot where he felt sure he could use his wits to evade them, rather than his combat abilities.
Perhaps they were low-class bounty hunters, after the price that was on his head? It was true that there was little value left in his bounty because of its age, yet even a bounty as stale and as low as his might be valuable to desperate men. But it was more likely they were opportunistic robbers, watching Salla’s place for a chance to steal from men who came out of the Ragged Sail flush with coin and drunk on ale.
“Well, they’ll not get any easy pickings from me,” he muttered, “that’s for sure.” He moved uphill, his dog coming along beside him. Hammer kept quiet, but Marcus had seen him glance back more than once.
He was headed for a place he knew, a courtyard behind a warehouse that was used for long-term storage. It was rarely used, save as a place for street gangs to settle disputes over territory or loot with brawls or one-on-one combat. High walls rose up on every side, and it could only be accessed by the one entrance—a steep, narrow flight of steps that dived down from the street level. He found the entrance to the courtyard and glanced over his shoulder, making sure his hooded pursuers were in view still, and making sure they saw him go down the stairs.
After he’d spoken to Hammer, who slipped away along the busy street, ready to come at call, Marcus descended the steps. Halfway down, he glanced up to the left. A ragged crack in the stone wall climbed up above him. He leaped up and caught hold of it. Once secured, he swarmed up the wall hand over hand, ascending quickly and smoothly. Just in time, he got to his destination: an alcove cut into the stone, just deep enough for a man to squeeze into.
Pressing himself into this gap, he heard voices in the stairway below. “He went down here,” one voice said.
“Careful,” another said. “We don’t know what’s down there. He might have backup.”
Carefully, Marcus peered out over the edge of the alcove. His pursuers were heading down the narrow stairs, two abreast. Six men, as he’d originally thought, with mean looks on their hooded faces and drawn blades glinting menacingly in their hands.
He waited until the last one had passed, counted to three in his head, and then slipped from his hiding place. Nimble as a monkey, he climbed down the wall again and landed lightly on the steps. As he sprinted up the steps, laughing to himself, he heard angry shouting from the courtyard below.
“Come on, Hammer,” he called, and the dog slid out from a nearby doorway to join him. They dashed through the lanes, sprinting at full speed back toward the entrance to the Underway. Whoever his pursuers had been, they would have to do better than that if they wanted to catch Marcus off-guard.
After they’d lost their pursuers, their trip back to the Gutter Gang’s base was uneventful. The gold in Marcus’s belt pouch was a comforting weight as he jogged along through the semi-darkness of the Underway. When he got to the barricade, he found Jonno on guard again. The one-eyed man nodded to him and waved him through, with a mention that Old Jay wanted to see him.
“You’d better go talk to him,” said Jonno. “I think he’s had a dream about you.”
Marcus decided to delay seeing Ella and the dungeon for just long enough to go talk to Old Jay. The old man’s dreams were not something to be taken lightly. He had brought the original members of the Gutter Gang down into the Underway after a prophetic dream had told him where to go. He’d come down with his followers and found a safe place in the Underway, and ever since then it was known that his dreams meant something.
The Gutter Gang smiled and nodded to Marcus as he passed through the main hall and went toward a small exit from the main chamber. Here, he entered a narrow corridor that climbed steadily upward, leading away from the lower levels. At the top of this corridor, Marcus found Old Jay’s chamber, a comfortable space kept warm by a bright fire in a central hearth.
“Jay,” said Marcus, bowing to the old man. “Jonno said you wanted to see me?”
“Ah,” said Old Jay. “Marcus the Exile. I’m glad you’ve come. I have a message for you.”
The old man was tall and thin, and his sightless eyes were covered in a white film. His long, snow-white beard bristled as he smiled and turned his face toward Marcus.
“I dreamed of you,” said Old Jay. “I dreamed that you raised the Gutter Gang up from the Underway. I dreamed of you with your hands overflowing with gold, and an army of monsters at your back. And I dreamed of the Gutter Gang, strong, well-armed, well-fed,
and with pride restored, looking to you as their benefactor. You, Marcus, you raised us up again! It was a true dream…”
Old Jay nodded to himself as he finished speaking. Hands overflowing with gold? An army of monsters? Marcus liked the sound of that. He grinned, and felt the power of the dungeon coursing through him suddenly.
“You know, what, Jay, I think you might just be right,” he said, grinning.
“Depend upon it, young one. Depend upon it.”
As was tradition, Marcus gave a cut of his gold coins to Old Jay as tribute. All the gang did that, though Marcus was sure that he was the only one who brought gold on a regular basis. The others brought mainly silver or copper coins, or a share of some stolen food taken on a raiding trip out of the Underway. Many brought nothing at all, preferring to spend all their time in the Underway and pay their way through watch duty, or keeping the base clean.
Before leaving Old Jay, Marcus took the opportunity to inform him about the fight with the murgal in the Underway. He told Jay about Ella and the dungeons as well, and the old man nodded but stayed silent as Marcus told his tale. Jay was an old man—just how old nobody knew exactly—but his mind was as sharp as ever. Some of the other Gang members treated Jay with a kind of fond indifference, but Marcus always made sure to keep the ancient man up to date with what was happening.
Inside, Jay was still sharp and quick-witted, though he didn’t say much.
When he had finished telling his tale, Marcus sat quietly and waited for Jay to speak. After a long minute, Jay asked, “And what do you think it means, Marcus, this murgal scout so close to our base?”
“I think it means the Sewer Slayers may be planning a move against us,” Marcus replied immediately. “They work with the murgals sometimes, when they’re not fighting them, and they are the only ones who have enough sway over the murgals to use them in this way. The murgals themselves are not cunning enough to follow up a plan like this themselves, and the ratmen would send scouts of their own rather than using murgals.”
