Daeholf rolled his eyes. “We weren’t in the cell for very long. Try being in a siege.”
“Here we go again.”
“Well you’re the one going over the top.”
“Have you bitten into it? Go on, bite into it.”
Daeholf did so, and as a dribble of juice ran down his chin he chewed. Then, sadly, he was forced to admit, “Alright that is fucking tasty. What is it?”
“No idea.”
“It just said ‘meat’,” Zedek informed him.
“Good thing we aren’t picky.”
“That’s us alright, how we get on with each other.”
“Ha fucking ha.”
“Still, if we knew what meat it was we could order it next time.”
“I suspect it’s all to do with the spices. Not sure I’ve ever had this mix before. I wonder what it is.”
They all exchanged looks and nodded. “From the pirates.”
“Traders,” Trimas said, shaking his head.
“Anyone worried Kellan is still out there watching us?” Zedek asked.
“Quite handy so far.” Trimas replied.
They were now walking up the street to the butcher’s shop. “Any guesses as to how long before they decide to have a last shot at us?” Zedek asked.
“Probably tonight.” Daeholf pondered.
“We got out just in time.”
Trimas had finished his meal and licked his fingers. “If we stay here, we’ll have to move in next door to that shop.”
“We could sell them our meat…”
“Zedek, you’re getting far too into character. We don’t actually have to make any money.”
“No, if we sell them the meat cheap, they could give us the recipe.”
“That is a very good idea.”
Daeholf had been listening to this. “It’s a small shop in the far north. They will sell us the recipe for a few silver. This is not a high class outfit in the capital.”
“Mmmm,” Trimas said as he drifted into nostalgia.
“Someone nudge him.”
Zedek lifted his arm and punched Trimas cautiously on the arm.
“Ey?”
“That’s the right thing, isn’t it? Not too hard?”
“Yeah, that’s it.” Trimas punched him back.
Daeholf laughed. “And that, Magistrate, is how we got arrested again.”
“All good fun.”
“Don’t start wrestling.”
“We’d look like a right pair.”
They were nearly at the front of the shop, so Trimas swung himself in, shouting, “We have a great business id—”
He froze, and Zedek bumped into him. The shop had been trashed, with nothing that should be upright still so, and meat lying in clumps all over the floor. A dog had walked in and was eating it.
Daeholf had a blade out in a heartbeat and moved to the internal doorway ready for anything.
He found one person, Erik, lying on the ground.
The trio moved into position. Zedek moved through and checked the yard, then stood guarding the doorway. Trimas bolted the front door, then came back over to Daeholf, who had been checking the casualty.
“He’s alive, and he’ll live. No major damage.”
Erik had blood down his face and was coughing and spluttering, so Daeholf wiped it away with his sleeve.
“What happened, Erik, did they come back?”
Daeholf looked up at Trimas’s question and sighed. “No, he fell down the fucking stairs.”
“Just trying to lure him back into the world.” Trimas crouched. “Look at us, Erik, was it them, did they come back?”
“Where … were … you…”
Daeholf swallowed hard. “Let’s get him upstairs and in bed, get those wounds dressed.”
They carried him, laid him gently down, and Daeholf went to work. After a few minutes, Erik looked him in the eyes.
“I’m sorry. For what I said. Where were you. Not your fault. I took the decision to bring you in. I should have…”
“Don’t apologise. The victim doesn’t apologise.”
“Victim. I suppose…”
“Bad choice of words. Ignore that. But you're going to be okay.”
“I know now.”
“Ey?”
“What I should have done. Can you tidy up, and when they come I’ll pay them. It’ll all be sorted.”
Trimas and Zedek were stood at the back of the room and glanced at each other, but it was Daeholf who spoke.
“They’re coming back?”
“Tonight. For my money.”
“Don’t give it to them.”
“You’ve seen what happens. They come back. They’ll always come back.”
“They knew we were in the cells.”
“I can’t fight these people.”
“No, but we will for you. It’s begun, we will finish it.”
“Daeholf, I appreciate your support, but you fought them last time. It didn’t work. Now … now I pay.”
Daeholf’s face turned into a vulpine smile. “Last time we fought them as soldiers. This time, we will fight them as scouts.”
“Oh boy,” Trimas said.
*****
Witnessing the execution had been a strange experience. At once both revolting and exciting. And it had given him a problem. The need was there again. Growing, unstoppable need. Stoked by the death he had witnessed. He couldn’t put it off any longer. He had to kill again. And he’d been inspired.
Hooded as the executioner had been, it hadn’t been hard to find out who he was. The man took pride in his job and pride had led to boasting which meant the right questions to the right people had led to a name.
A name and a little money had led to an address. An address and a rooftop vantage point had led to establishing the man’s patterns.
After that? It would be easy. Or should be. The man was big. A straight-up attack, even by surprise, might be dangerous. Get it wrong and it might be a fight that was difficult to win. And the target had a reputation. He wasn’t one of the city’s imperial executioners just for the money. Rumours were that he enjoyed the killing. That he got into the occasional fight. Extracurricular activities perhaps, but a fighter nonetheless.
That meant a slight change to the way things had to be done. This was now a hunt of sorts. Taking down big prey with tools. And he’d brought just the tool for the job.
Sat on the roof, opposite the man’s house, hidden by the night, he pulled out the bow. Whilst it was normally wise to leave it unstrung until it was needed, it represented extra bulk that he had to conceal as he moved through the city and was not something he’d be able to explain to any watchman that might take an unwanted interest. So he’d strung it ready before he came out. Murdering watchmen wasn’t exactly on his list. Yet, anyway. But it would be much easier to get away if they were disabled from a distance and he had no compunction about self-preservation. Him or them was a very easy equation.
So now he waited, bow ready, poised on a roof, waiting for his target to emerge. He heard the hour bell. Not long now.
The target emerged from his house on cue. He resisted the sudden urge to take him with the bow there and then. The man had to die but this had to be done properly. Quietly. And with no witnesses.
Fortunately the target had vices. Vices he didn’t want known, or people following him. So he used side roads. And alleys… He watched as the target crossed the street from his house and walked purposefully to a nearby side road. With only a slight glance around to check he wasn’t being followed, he walked along the smaller road, not knowing he was being trailed all the way from the rooftops.
He smiled. The target had no idea. Soon, now. The next alleyway.
Just as predicted the target turned into the alleyway. He could just make him out in the moonlight, the lack of torches both a help to make sure he would not be discovered and a hindrance to aim. He ran along the roof silently, closing for a better shot. He kneeled, slowing his breathing. Steady. Eyes adjusting. He t
ook a bead, held his breath and loosed. The arrow whistled slightly but the target only started to twitch to look before the arrow took him high in the back on the right. Lung. The man stumbled and crashed to the ground, choking. Quiet but not yet dead. Excellent result. Time to finish.
He shouldered the bow and scrambled down the angled roof towards his victim, leaping from the edge onto the pile of rubbish he’d scouted earlier. The man was still down, choking on his own blood, moving weakly. He drew his knife as he approached. Heart racing in anticipation.
“Help … me,” the man gasped on the ground.
“In a way,” he said, stepping in, bending down and jabbing the knife into the man’s other lung. The man bucked and flailed out with an arm, catching him in the leg and sending him sprawling, leaving the knife in the gasping and choking target.
He stood up. Unexpected. He pulled another knife. Dancing around the flailing arm, this time the knife found the throat. A spray, a gurgle and a wheeze from the new opening. The man stilled. He poked him a couple more times to be sure but that seemed to have done the trick.
He looked around carefully. It didn’t seem to have drawn any attention, he’d picked the place well. Retrieving his first knife, he set about his work. He wasn’t nearly done yet.
After a few minutes he stepped back, wiping off his knife. He breathed hard, taking the night in. Heart racing, adrenaline flowing, he felt alive.
This man had been more difficult. Bigger. Stronger. But now just as dead as all the others were. But this was different.
Oh, it had been exciting. Exhilarating even. But somehow not quite as satisfying as before. Maybe it had been because he had downed the man with an arrow first. Though it had proved a necessary step, just as he’d anticipated. But the need was blunted. Not fully sated. It would not be long before it dominated him again.
He looked at the broken arrow on the ground. Hmm. He’d better fish the arrowhead out. No sense in making life any easier for the watch. Though thus far they’d proved utterly incompetent at tracking him. And he’d been watching.
It didn’t take long. Two cuts in the unresisting body’s torso and the arrowhead was free. So easy to cover up. But cutting the body this time meant nothing. No rush. It was just meat. Meat that had a piece of steel he needed in it. No pleasure, no thrill. Nothing. Just cold. He was curious at the difference in himself. The same actions but two different contexts. Two different results. It made little sense. Caught up in his thoughts, he walked away. Something to explore perhaps. Maybe to paint.
There was a noise in the alley behind him. He turned sharply. There was a man bending over the corpse, examining it.
No. Not now. Not yet.
He ran over, knife out, heartbeat up again, ready to kill, but when he saw who it was he stopped. Or perhaps what it was. A pathetic excuse for a person. Dirty, stinking and wrapped in filthy mismatched rags. Someone who was now shying away from him, hands up, staring at the weapon he held.
Kill him. No witnesses. But he couldn’t. The man disgusted him. He couldn’t bear to be near the filth. He stood there, motionless, knife raised. The beggar watched him closely. He still didn’t move, inner conflict raging.
“I didn’t see nuffink,” the beggar muttered eventually. “Was just lookin’ to see if he had owt worth selling. It’s cold. And wet. Please don’t kill me.” The beggar started to back away slowly.
Kill. Kill him. But he couldn’t. The smell. The filth. He felt sick. The urge died. The beggar managed to get a little distance as he stood, knife still ready. Soon it was enough and the beggar turned and ran. Gone.
Perhaps now it was too late. Maybe he could have hunted the man by smell. Put an arrow in him. But then he’d have had to get close to retrieve it. The thought turned his stomach. He looked down at himself. Wrapped carefully in black. Hood covering his face. The beggar would not be able to identify him.
He didn’t matter.
*****
“We’ve had a tip about a delivery.”
“It’s dangerous to sneak up on a man when he’s counting money, Jarn,” Sim said without looking up from the table. The count wasn’t bad, business was still good.
“Then maybe you should be paying more attention,” Jarn said, walking over to stand near him.
Sim looked up. The grizzled man facing him was his most loyal and effective man. Who in private challenged him regularly. “One day you will show me some respect,” he said.
“One day you’ll earn it,” Jarn said, grin evident on his lopsided face.
“Why do I let you get away with this?”
“Because you need me.”
“Today. Tomorrow may be different.”
“We’ll see.”
“So what did you want?”
“Like I said, we had a tip.”
“Go on.”
“Hood is moving weapons again tonight.”
“And the tip tells us where and when?”
“Exactly.”
“How reliable is the source?”
“We gave him a beating, he didn’t change his story.”
“He’s not going to be a source for long then.”
“Saved us some money.”
“Check with me first next time.”
“Okay. Boss.”
Sim shook his head. If he wasn’t so good at his job… “So we hit the transport then. Show Hood we mean business. So what do we have?”
“Late tonight. Old Quarter. One cart, two men driving.”
“One cart? No guards?”
“So we’ve been told.”
“How is Hood getting away with transporting weapons like that?”
“Because he’s an arrogant fucker who thinks he owns the streets and that people don’t know what he’s up to.”
“I guess he’ll find out otherwise tonight then. Go assemble the men. Quickly. It’s already getting dark so we don’t have much time.”
“As you say. Boss.” Jarn nodded and left the room, closing the door behind him.
A weapons shipment. That could really change things. It would hurt Hood and have the added benefit of giving them equipment they badly needed. And they would be able to take full advantage of it. Soon. He gathered up the takings and hid them away. The gang were mostly reliable, as reliable as people could be in this business anyway, but it didn’t do to take chances. They were criminals after all. He reached for his sword. Highly illegal of course, but it was an effective weapon. A family heirloom that hadn’t been surrendered. It leant him an air of authority, as well as security. He checked that it was free in the scabbard and strapped it on. This was not something that he was going to miss. He joined the rest in the main room. Four men and two women were clustered around a table. They turned to look at him.
Jarn raised his eyebrows at the sword. “Boss,” he said deferentially but there was a question evident in his face.
“You were outlining a plan,” Sim said.
“Yes. We’ll take up position, four of us ahead of the cart in the road, with Tal and Dun circling behind,” Jarn said, motioning to two men standing opposite him at the table. “The cart won’t be able to turn but we’ll be able to cut off any escape if either of the drivers try to make a run for it. Orna here,” he said, indicating the woman to his left, “will take the driver. She’ll act drunk, stumbling in the road. A drunken woman will seem like no threat and will be able to get close without arousing suspicion. I’ll take out the other from cover. Lom and Hella will act as backup,” he added, indicating the remaining man and woman.
“No. I want one of them to escape. I want Hood to know who took the weapons,” Sim stated firmly. Jarn studied him briefly but said nothing.
“As you say boss,” Orna said. “No point teaching a lesson if there’s no one to hear it.” The others laughed.
“It’s a good plan but I want one of you on a roof as a lookout. In case our information proves unreliable. If the wagon turns out better defended than we expect or they know we’re coming. I want warning.
I’ll take the place of the man on the street,” Sim said.
“No sense taking chances,” Orna said, nodding.
Plan agreed, they grabbed a hodgepodge of weapons and headed out onto the streets, moving in ones and twos so as not to draw the eye or arouse unnecessary suspicion. Before too long they reached their destination. Lom was given a leg up and made his way onto the roofs, with clear instructions to shout if he saw trouble. In cover, they lay in wait.
The night was clear and the cart was audible from a short distance so they heard it before they saw it, even though the driver was trying to move quietly.
Sim looked up to where Lom had taken cover on the roof but couldn’t see him. Clearly he was concerned about a silhouette being visible against the moon and was laying low. Good man. He’d not given any indication of anything amiss though, so the gang moved into place as planned, the two rearguards using an alley to circle round behind the cart. Orna moved into place in the road and started singing drunkenly, swaying around. The rest remained in cover in the shadows.
The cart moved into view and stopped when the drivers saw Orna. They chuckled to each other.
“Can we help you?” came a voice. Orna kept singing, weaving in the road, heading vaguely in the direction of the cart.
“She’s a right one this one,” came another voice. “Out on her own, late at night. Lucky we were here to stop anything nasty happening to her eh?”
Orna stumbled, landing heavily on her backside. “What happened to the street?” she said, slurring.
“It’s treacherous in winter,” the first voice said, as the man got down from the cart. He moved across to Orna who was obviously struggling to get up.
“You don’t know the half of it,” she said, drawing a knife and taking the man by surprise. Before he could react, it was at his throat. “I’d stay still if I were you,” she said calmly as people came out of the shadows around them. The driver that was still on the cart reacted more quickly, grabbing the reins and lashing the horses. The cart started to move, jolting forwards suddenly and sending crates crashing from the back. The people in the street dived for cover as the cart approached. Jarn scrambled onto the cart as it passed, clambering over to the driver. He hit him hard from behind before grabbing the reins and drawing the cart to a halt.
Knives of Bastion (An Empire Falls Book 2) Page 17
