by Alex Stewart
“Never mind. It’s not important.” Greenleaf seemed willing to let it go, anyway. “Let’s just say I believe you. How soon can you start?”
“Tomorrow,” Drago said. He had a few things to take care of before he left, like leaving Mrs. Cravatt enough money to ensure that she didn’t let his room out to somebody else before enough time had elapsed for her to be reasonably certain he was dead, and stuffing some potentially useful belongings into his knapsack. He noted Greenleaf’s reaction, the evident suspicion on the elf’s face receding noticeably as he assessed the implications of his timetable. If he was really intending to try and discover the extent of Greenleaf’s network, he would be making excuses to remain in the city for as long as possible, not planning to leave the following day. “No point hanging about. The sooner I’m gone, the less chance they have to take another crack at me.”
“That would certainly suit us,” Greenleaf said. He paused. “Have you made travel plans?”
“Not as such,” Drago said. He had an idea about leaving the city, but no desire to share it with anyone. “But I’ll be gone by tomorrow night, you can count on that.”
“And your fee?” Greenleaf asked.
“Your original offer sounds fair,” Drago said. “I’ll take the down payment now.”
Greenleaf’s eyebrow rose. “And what makes you think I have that kind of money on me at the moment?”
Drago waved an expansive arm, taking in their surroundings, and the rest of the guildhall beyond. “You’re here, aren’t you? How else are you going to do business?”
Once again, the elf permitted himself a brief chuckle. “Oh, I do hope you don’t get yourself killed. I’ll so miss our little chats.” He pulled a bulging purse from inside his intricately brocaded doublet, and counted out the ridiculously high sum he’d offered on the eventful evening he’d visited Drago at home. There seemed to be plenty left, and the gnome wondered briefly if he should have held out for more, but the deal had been struck and that was all there was to it.
“I’ll try not to disappoint you,” he said instead.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“It’s a lot iffy.”
“Well, aren’t you full of surprises,” Lady Selina said, as Drago stepped aboard the hired skiff he’d found bobbing at the same landing stage he’d arrived at on his journey to the mercantile quarter. His conversation with Greenleaf hadn’t lasted more than a few minutes, and he’d set out to return home and prepare for his journey as soon as it was concluded.
“I might say the same,” he rejoined. The last time he’d seen her, Selina had been dressed in a manner befitting her station, and accompanied by the sort of bodyguard most people of high standing trailed around like lapdogs. Now she was alone, in the rough working clothes of a professional boat handler, the strands of hair escaping from her red-knitted cap hanging as lank and greasy as though they hadn’t been washed since the last time she fell in the river. Her movements were quick and assured as she unhitched the painter and pushed off, matching her appearance; only her hands, which lacked the calluses that went with a lifetime of handling rope and oars, would have betrayed the deception to someone sufficiently observant. Drago was, but strongly suspected that very few of the other passengers in the boat that day, if there had actually been any, would have noticed anything at all unusual about the ferrywoman conveying them across the Geltwash.
“I thought we could talk here without interruption,” Lady Selina said, raising the sail and sending the little craft scudding across the water, tacking widely to avoid a riverboat laden with timber. “Or being overheard.”
“Talk about what?” Drago asked.
“Greenleaf and his network,” Selina said. “I’m pleased you reconsidered after our last little talk.”
“I’m sorry to disappoint you,” Drago said, “but that’s not the reason I’ve taken the contract. I’m just tired of the other lot trying to kill me, so I’m going after Gorash.”
“Tall order,” Selina said, with a trace of a smile. “Do you really think you can kill him in cold blood?”
“If I have to,” Drago said, suppressing a shiver of doubt as he spoke. “But I’m hoping he’ll just call off the dogs if I talk to him nicely.”
“Because murderous bandits are so well known for their obliging natures,” Selina said, with evident amusement. She seemed to be enjoying the conversation, unless it was handling the boat that she found so congenial. People of her rank normally had servants for that sort of thing.
Drago shrugged. “Worth a try. And if he doesn’t, it’s him or me.”
“Self-defense again, as Captain Raegan would say.”
“I suppose so, yes,” Drago agreed, looking for an excuse to change the subject. He narrowed his eyes against the glitter of the sun on the water, and relished the cool breeze against his face. “How did you know where to find me?”
“Lucky guess,” Lady Selina said, and laughed at his resulting expression. “Well, not that lucky. I was the one who told you where to find Greenleaf, and that was the nearest landing stage to the guildhall.”
“And you’ve just been hanging around there on the off-chance I’d want to talk to him again.”
“Of course not.” She went hard about without warning, noticing his reflexive duck under the swinging boom with evident approval, scudding across the wake of a riverboat heading upstream with a cargo of barrels lashed to its deck. What was in them Drago had no idea, but strongly suspected some kind of foodstuff; which reminded him in turn that it had been some hours since his breakfast with Raegan. “You sent him a message, remember? I was pretty sure you wouldn’t be far behind.”
“So you went to all this trouble just for me. I’m flattered.” His boot bumped against something under the seat, and he groped for it, never taking his eyes off the woman at the tiller. There was clearly far more to her than met the eye, and in his experience that generally meant things were about to get complicated.
“Not just for you.” Drago’s hand grasped cloth, and he found himself pulling out a docky bag, bread and cheese and a gurgling bottle wrapped in a knotted rag. Selina grinned. “Trust a gnome to find the food. Help yourself.” Never one to turn down a free meal, Drago did so, while she continued. “We’ve been keeping an eye on Master Greenleaf for a while now, but he’s bright enough to assume he’s under observation even if he can’t be sure about that. So his associates are proving hard to identify.”
“You must have some idea, though,” Drago said, round a plug of bread and cheese. He chased it down with a pull at the bottle, which contained a rather better vintage than a boatswoman would normally have access to without breaking into a warehouse, and swallowed.
“We’re narrowing it down,” Selina said. “But you could make things a lot easier for us.” They were almost midway across the river by now, and a good deal farther downstream, in spite of the still incoming tide retarding their progress. “If you ask him for a bit of help with your travel arrangements, or getting supplies together, that kind of thing, it’ll make it a lot easier for us to identify his associates.”
“I’ve already told him I’m sorting all that out for myself.” Drago finished the last of the cheese, and followed it with the rest of the wine to clear his palate. He preferred ale, truth to tell, but it wouldn’t be polite to say so.
“I see.” The counterfeit boatswoman nodded, masking her disappointment. “And may I ask what arrangements you’re making?”
“I’d rather you didn’t,” Drago said, more because he wasn’t entirely sure than out of any sense of discretion.
“And you’ll be seeing him again before you set out on your travels?” Selina asked.
“I doubt it,” Drago said. “I’m leaving tomorrow.”
“I see.” If the woman was disappointed, she hid it well. “Then all I can do is wish you the best of luck.”
“And the same to you,” Drago said. He was, after all, a lifelong Fairhavener, and he supposed someone ought to be looking out for the city’s
interests.
“Can we assist you in any way?” Selina asked, lowering the sail, and beginning to pole the little boat into a narrow cut between the wharves and warehouses dominating the riverbank. Most of the vessels surrounding them now were noticeably bigger than the ones at the start of their journey, ocean-going ships, with only a handful of riverboats tied up in the smaller basins, ready to transship their cargoes with the minimum of delay.
“Thank you for the offer,” Drago said, wondering what the catch would be if he said yes, and determined not to find out, “but you’d probably better not. If I was Greenleaf I’d be keeping an eye on me, and he’s definitely got one out for you. He mentioned your name.”
“Flatteringly, I hope,” Selina said, steering the boat to a small landing stage halfway along the narrow canal. Nothing larger than the skiff was moored there, or, for that matter, could have found its way along the confined waterway to reach it. “I’m sure you can find your way from here.”
“I’m sure I can,” Drago said. Now that they were back in the Wharfside, he knew every inch of the area surrounding them. He was only ten minutes walk from the Footpad, and about twice that from Mrs. Cravatt’s. Reluctantly, he pushed all thoughts of his favorite inn to the back of his mind. He had a lot to get done before he could think about eating again. Which reminded him. His hand hovered uncertainly over his purse. “What do I owe you for the ride?” Neither could be entirely certain they were unobserved, and failing to pay his fare would be certain to arouse suspicion in the mind of anyone watching.
“Sixpence should cover it.” He wasn’t sure, but he thought he detected a hint of amusement in the woman’s voice. “And tuppence for my lunch.” She watched him dig the coins out of his purse with a sardonic smile. “No tip?”
“Watch your back,” Drago advised, as he trotted up the steps to the street above.
“Well, yeah, I can talk to some people. Not making any promises, mind.” Clement Wethers, in defiance of all previous expectation, leaned back in his chair instead of forward across his desk. “All sounds a bit iffy, though, if you ask me.”
“It’s not. It’s a lot iffy,” Drago told him. Events were spiraling out of control, a sensation he never liked, and none of the outcomes he could see were particularly good. That said, the ones with him dead in them were particularly unappealing.
The worst thing about it was that he had no one to blame for the situation apart from himself. If he hadn’t offered to act as bait for Raegan, seeing nothing more than the chance to earn some quick cash and get under Waggoner’s skin, Greenleaf would never have approached him, and Gorash’s minions wouldn’t have made him a target.
“Well, leave it with me,” Wethers said. If anyone in the Wharfside district had the connections Drago needed to follow through on his nebulous plan for leaving the city unnoticed by goblin assassins or elvish fixers alike, it would be the chairman of the Tradesman’s Association. He would have felt a lot happier if he could have believed that Selina, or someone connected to her, would be equally easy to evade, but somehow he doubted that.
“Thanks.” He slipped off the oversized chair, and paused in the doorway of Wethers’s office. “I appreciate it.”
“Always happy to help,” Wethers assured him. “You know me.”
“Indeed I do,” Drago agreed, trying not to think about what a favor of this magnitude was liable to end up costing him in the long run. Chances still were he’d end up dead, and not have to worry about it anyway, but he preferred not to think about that either.
“You’re going to be away for how long?” Mrs. Cravatt asked, her eyes darting around his attic room as though already contemplating how much to charge a new tenant.
“I don’t know.” Drago pulled a couple of Greenleaf’s gold pieces out of his purse, noting with some amusement the way her attention suddenly became riveted on his hand. “But this should cover the rent until I get back.” And then some. If he wasn’t back in Fairhaven by the time that amount of money ran out, he wouldn’t be coming back at all.
“I’ll keep everything nice and tidy for you,” his landlady promised, no doubt meaning she’d rifle the place for any unsecured valuables under the pretext of cleaning the moment his back was turned.
“No need to put yourself out on my account,” Drago assured her, beginning to sort out some cleanish clothes as he spoke. His new knapsack was looking a trifle the worse for wear after its encounter with Fairhaven’s streets, but was less aromatic than he’d feared, so he began packing some possessions carefully, maximizing the usable space. “Captain Raegan’ll be dropping by from time to time, to air the place out.” And to check for any messages he might want to send back without attracting any official attention. To be honest, he didn’t think it was all that likely that he’d need to, but you never knew, and it was kind of reassuring to know that he could if required. Besides, with the possibility of an unanticipated visit from the watch at any time, the chances of finding most of his belongings where he’d left them would be substantially improved.
“It’s no trouble.” His landlady emitted a familiar sniff, but without the usual overtones of disapproval. “I’ll just go and make you a bap for the trip. Can’t have you going hungry.”
“No fear of that,” Drago assured her. He wasn’t going to make the same mistake as his predecessors, by gathering supplies before leaving, which had attracted the attention of Gorash’s assassins, but he wasn’t planning to starve either. There were bound to be plenty of inns between here and the Sylvan Marches, and his purse ought to last the distance if he was reasonably frugal. If the worst came to the worst, he supposed, he could eke out his cash reserves by foraging along the way, underestimating the difficulty of such a course with the casual optimism of the lifelong urbanite. Squirrels, for instance. He’d seen pictures of those, and they looked a lot like rats—they couldn’t be much harder to catch. Easier, probably, if they were crawling laboriously up a tree trunk.
“Well, you’ll be glad of it later,” Mrs. Cravatt said, and clattered off down the stairs, getting the last word in while she still could.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“It all spends the same.”
As it turned out, Mrs. Cravatt was going to be right about him being grateful for the filled bread roll, even if both it and the cold bacon within were a little on the elderly side. Drago left his lodgings as dusk began to fall, making his way to the Tradesmans’ hall through the narrow network of passageways only a gnome could have comfortably traversed, to minimize the chances of being spotted. Though he checked behind him at frequent intervals, particularly after crossing a proper thoroughfare, he saw no one, and nothing stirred in response to his hurrying feet beyond the occasional startled rat.
“This way.” A human urchin he vaguely recognized, who hung around the Tradesmans’ hall in the hope of being given messages to run, and occasional scraps from the kitchen, gestured to him as he emerged onto the street. Drago followed the lass, hanging back to make it less obvious that she was his guide, to the rear door of a warehouse close to the riverboat basin adjoining the landing stage Lady Selina had dropped him at. Probably a coincidence, but you never quite knew, and Drago felt a creeping sense of unease, until a large shadow detached itself from the doorway, looming over them both in a manner which was quite unmistakable.
“Well done.” Clement Wethers dropped a couple of coins into the girl’s outstretched hand. “Now sling your hook.” He watched with narrowed eyes until the child had disappeared into the maze of darkened alleyways. “Anyone follow you?”
“If they did, they’re better at it than me,” Drago admitted. He was as certain as he could be that he’d successfully evaded anyone trying to keep an eye on him; but he was learning not to take anything for granted these days.
“Good enough.” Wethers ushered him inside, with a quick glance at their surroundings, although his human eyes couldn’t have seen much in the gathering gloom; but Drago’s sharper night vision didn’t spot any sudden flurries of
movement which might have betrayed a hidden watcher either.
The warehouse was unremarkable, like most of the others Drago had ever been in: cavernous, cheaply built, smelling faintly of damp and old sacking. Shelves clambered up the walls, stuffed with small boxes and bundles, while stacks of crates and barrels covered most of the floor, casting shadows in the flickering light of a lantern hanging from the ceiling. Only one of the dozen or so up there had been lit, casting a small circle of light over a clearing in the boxes, its fellows dangling like roosting bats in the gloom.
“This him?” An elf stepped forward to greet Wethers, with a dismissive glance in Drago’s direction. She was dressed in simple working clothes, topped off with a fraying blue coat, which marked her out as the captain of a riverboat; though not a particularly prosperous one, judging by the hard wear it had obviously seen.
“Yeah.” Wethers waved a hand between them. “Drago, Marieth.”
“Captain Clearspring will do,” the elf said, coming completely into the circle of lantern light. Though she still had a trace of the elvish hauteur common to her species, her tone was devoid of the arrogance Drago had been expecting; and her complexion was so rough and wind-reddened that only her slender build and the points at the tips of her ears marked her out as non-human.
“Then Master Appleroot will do nicely for me,” Drago said, with an exaggerated bow.
To his surprise, the elven woman laughed.
“I like him,” she said to Wethers. “Where did you find him?”
“In my office,” Wethers said. “When Drago wants something, he doesn’t hang about.”
“Sounds like I’ll need to keep an eye on him, then.” Captain Clearspring looked down at the gnome speculatively. “Why are you so keen to skip town?”
“Because people keep trying to kill me,” Drago said. The woman was clearly no fool, and there was no point in lying unnecessarily. “And there are some other people I’d rather avoid too.”
