“Bah,” she blows out, but does unhitch a section of the counter and lifts it up so I can head through. “What’ll I be tellin’ them, then?”
“Tell them you have no idea where I went, Sweet Marless.”
Marless looks as if she wants to spit. “If they ruin but a copper’s worth of mah goods, I’ll be chargin’ ya fer it, Knell.”
I blow her a copper’s worth of a kiss, and she “Bahs” me again. But she does smile to take the sting from it.
“Be quick about it,” she says as I thread my way through her storage room and on out the back door. The sheet metal spanning from the roof of Sweet Marless’s shop to the building behind resounds with the falling rain and even in the rain-washed, musty confines of this narrow backway, I can still smell something gone to rot in one of the many refuse piles.
I’m careful where I step as I pick my way along the muddy backway, back-tracking to finally slip down an alley that’s little more than a water drain. The rain-slicked stones make my progress easy but I have to sidestep through, and by the time I’m back on Commonwealth, I’m filthy and soaked.
I’m now three shops down from Sweet Marless’s place, and there’s no sign of the two men. Hopefully they’re inside, searching about for me. Sweet Marless should keep them occupied long enough for me to jog back to the entrance and wait. I only have time to take a few steadying breaths outside of Marless’s door before they step out from the shop as expected.
“Should have took him out two blocks ago,” one says.
“Too many witnesses,” the other says.
“I’m gonna skin him alive for making us chase him in this rain.”
I push my back up against the robust square column supporting the little overhang while the first man walks into the rain, nears the edge of the sidewalk, and looks around for me. When the second steps out from under the overhang, I strike.
Those that know me, know of me, are well aware that I keep a six-spell at my hip. But those who know me a bit more intimately, they know that when I decide to settle things without the six-spell I can be relentless—and certainly not above using base tricks and tactics. One of my favorites is the classic sucker punch.
I spin from behind the column while the second man, the closest, still has his back to me. I drive my scarred knuckles into the base of his skull and I’m satisfied when the man drops to the wet stones with nothing more than a grunt. The first man turns at the commotion and I prepare to close the distance to him when I notice he’s brought his own wand, a more traditional single-shot piece.
He raises his wand my way and time slows to a crawl as I try to determine what type of crystal he’s got charged and loaded. Doubtful it’s a lightshot, what with all the water about. He’d just as likely fry himself as he would me if he fired an arc of lightning. That leaves either a wind or fire elemental. A windshot could punch the breath from me, not to mention bruise some vital organs I may hope to keep in functioning condition, and a fireshot could ruin my jacket on its way through my flesh.
Times snaps back and I make my move.
Whatever god or gods are watching over me today see fit to have the man loose a windshot. I try my cursed best to dodge aside, but the fist-sized knot of blue-green energy slams into my left shoulder, sending me spinning on the only foot I have firmly planted.
My curse of pain is cut short when I hit the hard, wet stones with a jaw-jarring splash. My vision swims as I come to terms with my horizontal position. I can make out my satchel lying not more than a foot from my face, where the flap has been thrown wide enough for the candlestick to make an appearance.
My six-spell’s at my left hip, which does me no good as my left arm has gone as numb as a rock. I manage to roll to one side and free my right arm and hand, but the bastard who shot me is already there, making sure I give up the fight with two swift kicks to my exposed stomach and side.
I fold in on myself like a drowning spider and I’m rewarded when the man steps back and laughs down at me. I may be mistaken, what with the rain pelting my face, but I think he adds insult to injury by spitting at me. There are some things one just doesn’t do in a good old-fashioned face-to-fist conversation, and spitting at your downed opponent is high up on that list. Far higher than sucker-punching a man in the back of the head. Anger burns through me, and before the bastard can do anything else, I lash out with my right hand, not at him, but toward my satchel.
I accept another kick in my gut in order to get a grip on the candlestick and swing it up with all my might. The stuck-pig sound he makes as the candlestick meets his groin turns my own stomach, as it would any other man’s. At this point, I’m not a bit ashamed of fighting dirty. It was two against one, an unfair fight from the beginning. And, he did spit on me.
With his hands cupped to his battered goods, the man falls to his knees, and I rise to mine. I put him out of his misery by backhanding him across his gaping jaw with the candlestick. Before I gain my feet, I reach over and retrieve my satchel. By this time, the man I’d knocked out first is stirring, and I limp my way back to him.
I roll him over onto his back to see if I recognize him. I don’t, which doesn’t surprise me. I drop to a knee and slap his stubbled cheeks until his eyes focus on me. Rain pelts his face, and I lean over him to keep the worst of it away.
“Why are you following me?” I ask through my teeth.
“The satchel,” he says without much thought. “What’s in the satchel?”
He must be a little dazed still from the blow I’d given him, his tongue working on its own. I use it to my advantage.
“Why?”
“Boss doesn’t want you to get rid of something he wants.”
“Which boss?”
Something in his eyes clicks, and they cloud over as he realizes he’s said too much. Now that he’s regained some of his wits he presses his lips tight together.
I grip his collar and give him an encouraging shake. “Which boss?”
“Gods burn you, Knell. I’m not saying another word.”
I slam his head back into the stones and throw his coat wide. A knife and few silvers in his pockets, that’s it. The knife goes in my satchel, the silvers in my pocket, and I return to the first man and come up with another knife and two more silvers. I smash his spent wand with the candlestick, which at this point looks as bad as I feel. I won’t be able to hawk it for its aesthetic and functional use anymore, but I can still get a good handful for the weight of it.
Feeling is returning to my left arm, my fingers awash in an ebbing tide of tingly waves, and the darkness in my blood screams at me to grip the neck of the shallow-breathing man at my feet, to unleash my curse and draw from him what I need, what my aching body demands; even if it’s just a taste. Insistent as it is, I fight the curse’s urge, more because what it demands I have never learned to satiate, never learned to control.
A woman’s scream from across the street pulls me away from the man, away from dark thoughts and darker actions. Then someone else yells, “You leave them alone! We’ve sent for the Watch!”
And just like that, I’m the villain in this situation.
Ducking my head, and not because of the rain, I sprint away, each step jouncing my bruised insides. I hit the alley leading to Hunden Square, knowing that any reports the Watch get of me will say that’s where I headed. Upon learning that, the watchmen won’t bother trying to ask around anymore. In their eyes, I’ll have been another thug, a cutpurse or ham-fist, lost in the sea of others that frequent Hunden Square.
Which will give me time to sell off the candlestick and put my thoughts to who those two work for. One thing for sure: the silvers I found in their pockets tell me that their boss, whoever he may be, didn’t skimp on paying good coin for information regarding me.
And, apparently, for acquiring whatever they thought I had in my satchel.
6
FLAGONNERS REEL
Now that I’ve got extra coin in my pockets, both from the two thugs I laid out on Commo
nwealth and from hawking the candlestick-turned-truncheon, I decide it best to gather my thoughts and nurse my wounds. And no better way of doing that than over a hot bowl of potatoes and leeks washed down with a warm mug of spiced ale.
I avoid Commonwealth like the plague when I leave Hunden Square, instead taking side streets and broken roads on my circuitous route back to my place, which inevitably leads me to the Flagonners Reel, a dark and moody tavern frequented by hard-working souls before they head home for the night. It’s the perfect place to be around people who want as much to do with you as you do with them.
Tonight, Darcy is on stage, looking as pleasantly plump and sounding as sweetly dulcet as ever. Master Whisken finds me a table near the back corner, where the ambient light comes from candle and not telektric crystals, and is quick to return with my soup and ale. He sits for a moment or two with me, concerned about my twice-bruised face and stiff-backed pace, but after allaying his fears, he leaves me alone with a clap on my shoulder and the promise of sending the next mug on the house.
I won’t say I huddle in on myself, but I do my best to become another fixture in the corner. I glance around the wide taproom as I eat, my gaze flitting from face to face, never obvious, never lingering a moment more than needed to assess and dismiss. The patrons are mostly men, with a few women, and even a couple children nearing adulthood.
Darcy sings on, an unobtrusive backdrop to the scene, and those closest to the stage pay homage in the form of coppers or mugs of ale—which, as I’m privy to, are actually cups of water or weak cider. Darcy isn’t one to imbibe heavily, and Master Whisken gladly accepts the coin from people wishing to buy the lady a pricey drink or two. Night’s end, the barkeep and singer split the take. Not a bad racket, if you ask me.
I’m lost in my thoughts, not really enjoying my meal, my hand working mechanically in accordance with my mouth and tongue. Before long, my spoon scrapes on wood and I look down. I hadn’t realized I’d been that hungry. As I contemplate whether or not to motion for Master Whisken to send for another bowl, Darcy’s voice drifts away like snowflakes in the sun. A young boy, maybe six or seven, spiders his way onto the stage and dutifully swipes up all the coins the patrons have tossed there. If he’s lucky, Darcy will let him keep one out of ten when he tallies up the count later on in the evening.
A round of applause greets Darcy as she steps from the stage, and she politely raises a gifted mug of supposed ale in the air, her silent promise to the room that she’ll return soon. More than one man professes his love for her and she manages to blush with each proposition thrown her way.
I briefly catch her eye as she saunters toward the bar and the kitchen beyond, and she throws me a slow wink and a coy smile, the type of look that would make a man run face first into a stone wall if it earned him another.
I notice from my periphery a pair of men dressed in dark grey coats over green satin shirts cutting through the taproom at an angle, their only possible destination my isolated table. A few patrons dip their heads, hide their eyes, as the pair stride through the room. Those few have probably run afoul of the Aristocracy at some point in their lives. As for me, I push my empty bowl aside, wrap one hand around my mug, and slip my free hand under the table to rest it on my left thigh.
They both walk with sure steps and with their hands out in the open, but being from the Magician’s Aristocracy’s training grounds, they would have no need for hidden weapons. Their hands and mouths are enough, even if the single purple-and-gold band stitched down the left side of their grey overcoats marks them only as first-year spirit mages.
As College-trained mages, these two are magistrates, the Aristocracy’s personal enforcers. Where the Watch serves and upholds the laws for normal citizens, the magistrates serve the Aristocracy alone. Their loyalties are not to everyday people like us in the Flagonners Reel. They answer to the Head Magistrate, and woe be to the one they set their sights on.
The mustachioed one steps ahead of his narrow-faced, elvish counterpart and greets me even as he sits across from me uninvited. “Gideon Knell. How does this evening find you?”
I take a sip before answering. “Bothered. Cramped.”
“Would it have anything to do with the purpling eye you’re sporting?” the magistrate asks.
“The purpling eye is there to keep my busted lip company,” I say. “Which is all the company I prefer.”
“Don’t fret,” he says in a dry tone. “This is not a social call, Knell.” He nods to the elf, who pulls something from inside his overcoat. My left hand whispers closer to my hip, ready to draw my six-spell. But when I see what he’s produced and sets on my table, I only sigh.
A broken wand.
And it looks like it’s been smashed and splintered by something heavy. A candlestick, perhaps.
I don’t say a word, though I contemplate whether those two men were working on behalf of the Aristocracy.
“You need to take a step back, Knell,” the mustachioed magistrate says, getting right to the point.
“From what?” I ask, feigning ignorance.
“The Herchsten case.” One of his eyes twitches in anger but his voice remains calm.
I’m almost impressed at his control. I’m completely concerned, though, how they knew I was on the case. It’s been less a day and everyone seems to know I’m involved. Which worries me to no end. What about this case has everyone’s feathers ruffled?
“I’d like to think the Aristocracy would want Herchsten’s killer brought to justice,” I say, keeping my voice light and conversational. “He was well respected by all.”
“This is more than just a murder, Knell.” He leans forward. “There is more at stake than a simple murder.”
I lean back in my chair. “Never seen a murder that was simple.”
Another eye twitch. “You know what I mean.”
“Actually, I don’t. And I’m beginning to think that’s the problem. Why are you interested in my case?”
“It’s no longer your case. We know you were at the estate earlier. We can’t have you meddling in our affairs.”
“The way I see it, this is more of a Watch affair, than anything. It has nothing to do with magic, which means it shouldn’t be any of your concern.” I cock my head. “So, what’s got the Aristocracy riled up this time?”
The magistrate looks to his silent companion before settling his cold blue eyes on me. “It would be best for all parties if you backed off. The murder, the will, everything. Leave it us. It’s under control.”
Now I lean forward, fists on the table. “Devil’s balls, it’s under control! Everywhere I turn, someone’s stepping on my toes. It’s like dancing with a four-footed ogre, and starting to smell like one, too.”
Both magistrates bristle at my clipped tone and my still-clenched fists.
“You’ve never had real problems with the Magician’s Aristocracy,” the seated one points out. “Don’t start now.”
“Is that a threat? It sounded like a threat. Or was it an order?” I force out a laugh. “I don’t work for the city anymore. You and your bosses can’t order me to take a piss sitting down.”
He looks around, and I have the distinct feeling he’s biting his tongue, biding his time to let his eye-twitching ire die down. When he gathers himself enough to look at me again, he says, “Out of respect for your mother and all the good she has accomplished for Wrought Isles, back off. Let us handle this.”
I curl my busted lip at him and point to the busted wand. “The way your lackeys handled me earlier today?”
A smile spreads beneath his mustache, and for some reason this offsets me more than the idle threats he’s thrown about. I look to the other magistrate and find a matching smile on his narrow face. I look back.
“You misunderstand us, Knell,” he says. “We didn’t send those men after you, if that’s what you’re trying to imply. We don’t work that way.”
This knocks me back in my chair. Not a hint of deception in his voice. In fact, it was p
ure truth. Smug, but truth.
“It wouldn’t be above the Aristocracy,” I counter, trying to keep from floundering.
“Not if we consider someone below our interest,” he shoots right back. “We can have your business shut down, buy your house out from under you. We’re not the illiterate fools who come to you for help, for your half-assed detective services.” He taps the broken wand on the table. “And I promise you, if we were the ones to have come at you in the streets, this wouldn’t have been the only thing left lying there, broken and useless.”
I lean forward, keep my voice low and my eyes pinned to him. “And I promise you, it would take a lot more than you’ve got to break me.”
The magistrate stiffens his shoulders, lifts his chin. “There’s more than one way to break a man.”
I’m tempted to discharge a lightshot into his face, see how he manages to look down on me with crackling energy convulsing his every muscle.
He saves me the trouble by standing up. “Now, leave things as they are, Knell. And tell your client, Miss Herchsten, that you must withdraw your services.” He extends his hand, where it hovers in front of me for a long heartbeat.
I’m well aware that more than a few patrons are watching this little exchange between myself and the two magistrates. Either I scoff at the offered hand and draw more attention to the situation, or I play the congenial part.
I opt for the latter.
“Thank you,” he says, his grip firm. “And for your troubles …”
His eyes gloss over and warmth floods into me through our clasped hands. My injuries, at the least ones he can see and target, begin to tingle. My eye lids droop in their bruised socket then my lip begins to itch something fierce. It’s a good thing I’m seated because any type of healing performed on a body will demand something, not enough to lay you out flat, but enough to leave you winded.
I yank my hand free and bring it to my face, searching and prodding. No more purpling eye, no more cut lip.
“You didn’t need to do that,” I snarl, feeling violated. Cursed spirit mage. I really wish he hadn’t done that, especially in a place so public.
The Amethyst Angle Page 6
