Ahren flashed a gold drein and palmed it before anyone else could see it. Showing money carelessly could lead to a cut throat faster than anything. “Then maybe I’ll pay that if you can definitely point me to him, or maybe my friend here can start removing fingers until you can say for certain if you’ve seen him or not.”
Volker pushed up beside Ahren, his shoulders back, fingers caressing along the bone handle of the thick-bladed knife at his waist. They’d played this little game at least a dozen times that day. Every time, Volker seemed more and more likely to carry out Ahren’s threat. He hoped this barkeeper wasn’t foolish enough to try to call the bluff.
“I…I don’t recall,’ the man stuttered. “Lot of men come through here.”
Ahren pursed his lips. “Until I find him, the offer and payment are still open. So be on the lookout.”
The barkeeper nodded. “If I see him, how will I find you?”
“If I don’t find him tonight, I'll be back in the morning. If he comes in looking for a place to sleep, you might want to give it to him before he goes somewhere else. Somewhere that might also be looking to make my reward.”
“But my rooms are all rented out.” He motioned to the cramped and crowded barroom. “I don't even have floor space to rent.”
“I’m sure you'll find something,” Volker growled. “Give him your bed if you have to.”
“I will.” He gave a nervous chuckle.
“Then we’ll be back in the morning.” Ahren pocketed the coin. “Good luck.”
They turned and worked back through the crowd. Again, searched the bedraggled faces for the man who called himself Günter, the killer who had the mask. His gaze caught a glimpse of red among the room of dingy browns and grays. Blond curls draped over the crimson cloth.
Focusing his attention, he spied Anya on a corner bench. A grimy sailor with a four-day beard kissed her neck, his fingers drunkenly fumbling with her bodice lacing.
“There you are,” he said, weaving toward her. “I was afraid I’d never find you again after you broke my heart.”
The woman's eyes widened as they neared. An expression of bewilderment and horror fell across her face.
Ahren tapped the sailor’s shoulder. “Excuse me, friend.”
He turned and looked up.
“The lady is with me,” Ahren said with a smile.
“Get your own whore,” the sailor belted.
Volker’s large hand snaked down onto the man’s wrist, peeling his hand from Anya’s breast. “You. This one is spoken for.”
The sailor moved toward the knife in his boot. Then twisted with a pained gasp as Volker’s grip tightened.
The bald brute slid his knife an inch from its sheath while lifting the sailor with his other hand. “You really don’t want to do that. It’s been a very long day.”
Eagerly nodding, the sailor raised his hand from the weapon.
“Good.” Volker released him. The sailor hurried past the packed tables and out the door.
“What do you want?” Anya snapped, brushing her hair over her scars. “He was about to buy me supper.”
“Relax.” Ahren slid beside her and held out a silver sasik. “This should cover your earnings.”
Her prickly glare immediately softened. “Still looking for old Finnet?”
“Not anymore. When we spoke before, there was a man in the bar. Older man. Long hair but balding. Had a green shirt.”
“Mikkel? Why do you want that old sod?”
“Yeah, Mikkel.” He shot a smile to Volker.
His partner sat beside him, his face slack. He put a hand over his brow, covering his eyes. “Mikkel.”
“What is it?” Ahren asked.
“Lord Nahtler had a servant, an instructor who’d been in the house for years. After his father died, Nahtler’s resentment for his mentor came out. His name was Mikkel.” Volker's hand slid from his face, forming a fist. “He was the servant we bribed to get into the house. Nahtler threw him out four years ago. He was in the family for years. Knew which vault they used. He looked so different now, I didn't recognize him.”
“Anya, do you know where he is?” Ahren asked.
The young woman’s almond eyes narrowed, moved to Volker then back to Ahren. “First you want Finnet, now Mikkel. What is this?”
Ahren’s lips pursed. There wasn’t enough time to play games and wish for honesty. He could only hope to win it with truth. “Mikkel killed Finnet, stole his uniform, and framed him for a theft. We need to find him.”
Slowly, she sat back. Her mouth opened then shut. “Finnet?”
“Yes. We need to find Mikkel. Do you know where he is?”
The young prostitute’s expression hardened. “He threw a fit when the soldiers kicked us out below. Kept saying he needed his effects. But they wouldn’t let him back to his place.”
“Did he say what they were?” Ahren asked.
“No. He never had anything. Always spent it all on dice when he did. But he said he had to go back and get his things. Left about an hour ago.”
Ahren’s pulse quickened. “Where did he live, below?”
“An empty building below Eichmire’s Bakery. Just down from the bar.”
“Thank you.” Ahren stood. He removed the gold coin from his purse but paused. “Buy a new dress with this. Go to the Ruby House, tell the owner Karl that Ahren sent you.”
“Ruby House? The noble’s brothel?” She drew the dirty blond curls from her face, revealing the deep scars. “They’d never have me.”
“Karl owes me. Tell him…Nadjancian veil. He’ll know what to do.” He slipped the coin into her hand and closed her fingers around it. “I’ll come check on you in a few days, make sure he’s treating you right. Thanks, again.” Quickly, he turned, nodded to Volker, and the two men made their way to the door.
“Ruby House?” Volker exclaimed as they jogged down the lane to the closest undercity entrance. “She’s right. No one there will want her.”
“Not with a veil. Maybe a mask. Karl will see how beautiful she is. How smart she is. He’ll make her a full courtesan in no time. Her scars become a mystery, not hindrance.”
“But why? Sounds like the waste of a good favor. If you fancy her, you could have bought her for a lot less than that.”
“She’s smart,” Ahren repeated. They turned down a side alley and hurried down the steps leading below. “If Karl sells it right, makes her mysterious, exotic, teaches her, she’ll excel. That’s how loyalty is made.”
The bald man snorted. “I still say you fancy her.”
With only the dim, red glow from the Old Kaisers spilling through the grates above, they traced the narrow walkways in near darkness. Ahren could only hope Mikkel was still down there. If the former servant had already escaped, finding him in the crowded city could be impossible. If he sold any of the treasure, Mikkel could be on a ship or horse out of Lunnisburg by morning. Ahren pushed the thought out. He was too close to lose the mask now.
Orange light flickered from a passage ahead. They turned to see a soldier standing before a rudimentary lashed gate, covered in taut netting. Fire burned in an iron brazier beside him, next to a stack of bundled torches, fresh wood, and folded canvas. The wary guard must have heard their footsteps. He held his forked spear out and ready.
“Halt!” he ordered as Ahren and Volker neared. “This passage is quarantined. Go back to the surface if you have any sense to you.”
Raising his arms and splaying his fingers to show he was unarmed, Ahren slowed. “I couldn’t want out of this Arieth-forsaken place more than I already do. We’re only trying to find my friend. Maybe you’ve seen him.”
“There’s no one down here,” the sentry replied, his weapon still raised at the approaching men.
Ahren stopped only a foot from the pronged spear tips. “He’s a soldier like you. Have any soldiers passed through?”
The man’s grip eased. “Yeah, a soldier passed through a few minutes ago. I told him it wasn’t safe, but he
insisted.”
“Sounds like Franz.” Ahren smiled. “Did he have an ugly blue hat?”
“Yeah,” the soldier said with a grin. He lowered his weapon.
Ahren turned to Volker and nodded.
“Listen, friend,” the bald man said, reaching into his belt pouch. “We don’t want to be down here longer than we need to. Could you give our friend a message when he comes back? We’ll pay you for your time.”
The guard moved closer. “Of course.”
Without warning, Volker’s fist shot up, smashing just below the soldier’s chin with a solid thwack. The man’s head flew back’ and he fell limp, dropping his weapon. Volker snatched the spear before it hit the ground.
Ahren caught the unconscious man before he fell into the open sewer street and lowered him to the dry walkway. “I’ll go on ahead.” He unsheathed the guard’s rapier. “Head to far side of the row in case he circles around.”
Volker lit a pair of torches off the fire and handed one to Ahren. “Just chase him my way, and I’ll do the rest.” He opened the wooden gate door and charged down the tunnel, turning right at the first intersection.
Ahren could only hope the brute’s heavy boot clomps would chase their prey toward him. He dashed through the open gate and ran straight, past the intersection and directly toward Dyson Row. His soft-soled boots padded silently across the stones. A block away, he dropped his torch on the walkway. Its light would only warn of his approach.
Nearing the intersecting row, he slowed and moved forward until he could look down the dark passage. It appeared empty. Trying to recall the street above, Ahren quietly made his way to where he remembered Eichmire’s Bakery.
He flinched as an iron-rimmed wagon wheel rumbled across a street grate above, breaking the silence. He sighed and continued past the empty buildings.
Light moved ahead, spilling through an open window. Ahren estimated it beneath the bakery. Squeezing the rapier handle tight, he crept closer. Yellow light swelled in the empty doorframe, then a figure emerged, holding a small lantern. A sword hung at his waist. His hand cradled his round belly, awkwardly bulging through his blue soldier’s tabard. A crumpled and shapeless hat covered the man’s face.
Mikkel adjusted the obviously fake gut and pulled his belt higher before turning and sauntering away down the path. Keeping low, Ahren moved closer. His gaze locked on his quarry, he didn’t notice a bottle laying in the walkway until he accidently kicked it. The tinkling glass skittered across the filthy cobblestones. It bounced off a storefront, spun back across the walkway, and plunked unto the shallow canal street.
The thief whirled around. Ahren sprang from his crouch and charged, his rapier tip out. Mikkel hurled his lantern to the ground between them. Clay shattered, slinging flaming oil across the narrow pathway.
Ahren leapt back, shielding his face from the fiery droplets. Blinded by the sudden light and greasy smoke, he staggered back, unable to see beyond the blaze. With no alternative, Ahren jumped into the canal-like streets, sinking shin-deep in the slimy filth. Choking and coughing, he trudged around the burning oil. He squinted as his eyes re-acclimated to dim the passages. Mikkel was gone.
Squeezing his sword handle, Ahren searched the streets, and he stepped up onto the raised walkway. The fire behind him lit the tunnel in fluttering light except for the path before him, obscured by Ahren’s own shadow. Cautiously, he continued on, his muck-caked boots squished with each step. Minding every open window and doorways he passed, Ahren followed the lane toward the next intersection, ready for an ambush.
As he neared the adjoining street passage, a shadow leapt out before him. Ahren’s blade whipped up toward the attacker but was knocked aside with a clang.
“It’s me!” Volker hissed, clutching his forked spear.
“Saint Vishtin,” Ahren growled. “I could have killed you! You were supposed to have a torch.”
“Not likely.” The big man lowered his weapon. “Dropped it a block back. Didn’t want the light to alert him.” His eyes moved to the dying blaze behind Ahren. “Where is he?”
“Don’t know. He couldn’t have gone far.”
Volker looked around. “Well, he didn't pass me.” He hurried back down the street and ducked into an open building. Seconds later, light shone through the doorway, and he emerged holding his torch.
Ahren turned and scanned the streets, and Volker’s clomping feet and light grew closer. “Then we—”
A crack of splitting wood followed by a chaotic crash came from up the side road. The two men dashed across the stepping-stones to the other side of the street and down the tunnel. They reached a broken and splintered door. Another crash echoed from the blackness beyond.
Torn netting draped the open frame. A narrow hall stretched inside, lined with curtained doorways.
Cautiously, Ahren stepped inside. With his sword tip, he moved aside the dingy curtains to reveal tiny rooms, each with a crude straw mattress and pegs along the walls. The pungent reek of fish filled the tiny apartments, growing stronger as they moved deeper. The hall opened into a large room. In the light from Volker’s torch behind him, Ahren could see a long table. Behind it, wooden stairs led to the building above.
Ahren froze. A bloody smear ran down the steps.
“Arieth’s balls,” Volker cursed, raising his torch.
Following the trail, Ahren spied a corpse in the corner. Frothy slime, specked with thousands of gelatinous beads, coated the mangled body. A terrible knot formed in Ahren’s gut. He scanned around and spied a gray and blue eel beneath a tipped chair, its wide mouth open, displaying double rows of needle-like teeth. The creature sprung, stretching its body the full length of the room. Raising his sword, Ahren leapt back.
Volker’s spear blurred downward, striking the beast and driving it to the floor. It thrashed, blood pouring from the cut along its side. Twisting the pole, the bald man hooked one of the blades beneath the slippery eel, thrust up, then down. The spear thudded into the table, its prongs pinning the massive eel beneath it. Ahren lunged forward and hacked. The blade bit into the table with a solid thwack, and the severed eel’s head fell to the floor.
Panting, Ahren stared at the monster corpse, still writhing and balling as if alive.
Volker yanked his spear free. “That’s why I wear armor.”
A bash echoed from upstairs, ripping Ahren’s attention from the eel. The sound came again. Hurdling the beast’s corpse, Ahren sprung onto the table and leapt to the stairs. He raced up, taking two to three at a time, past an open door and into a darkened building.
Red light peeked through semicircular panes above shuttered windows. A dark figure in a wide hat shouldered the shop’s sturdy front door. Ahren charged.
Mikkel spun around. He grabbed a tall case beside him and wrenched his body. Glass shattered, and metal clanged, and the heavy cabinet fell and crashed into a cluttered table, blocking Ahren’s path. Without hesitation, the thief ran up a nearby staircase to the second floor.
Cursing, Ahren climbed over the debris and toward the stairs. Volker reached the first floor as he started up the steps. A wooden chair fell from the darkness above. Ahren jumped to the side and pressed against the wall, barely dodging it. A copper candelabrum followed. Raising his sword, he deflected it down into the room.
Footsteps clomped up to the third floor above. Cautiously, Ahren peeked up to be sure it was clear then bounded up the stairs behind him. He reached a hall and raced around to the steps to the next floor. Faint red light came from above.
Carefully, he headed up, hoping his quarry wouldn’t hear him over Volker’s ruckus downstairs. Wood scraped at the top of the stairs, and a blocky shadow plowed toward him. Grabbing the rail, Ahren leapt over the side and dropped as an iron-bound chest tumbled end over end down the stairs. His filth-coated boots slipped on the wooden floor, sending him sprawling.
Wincing in pain, he felt blindly for his dropped rapier. The orange glow of Volker’s torchlight shone up the stairway as his partn
er raced up. Steel glinted as the light filled the hall. Ahren rolled to his feet, scooping up his fallen sword, and dashed up to the third floor.
Through a bedroom door, Ahren spied an open window. Mikkel raced along the rooftop outside, his tabard flapping behind him.
“He’s outside,” Ahren called down, running after him. He reached the window just as Mikkel stopped at the edge. The neighboring flat-topped roof sat at least eight feet across the yawning chasm to the alley below.
The old man turned back but stopped, spying Ahren at the window. He yanked his sword from his belt and approached. Clutching his own rapier, Ahren straightened. He dared not stoop and step through the window as the man neared. With an insane smile, Mikkel flipped the blade around and hurled the rapier across the roof like a javelin.
Ahren dropped behind the wall. The weapon flew past and skittered across the floor. He looked back through the window to see his quarry running toward the roofs edge. Grabbing the sill, Ahren leapt through the window and started after.
As he reached the edge, Mikkel leapt, his arms stretched before him. The old man dropped, missing the roof and slammed into the side of the stone building. Clamoring like a mad cat, he clawed for the eaves but couldn’t catch hold as he tumbled backward.
A meaty thud echoed from the alley below.
Ahren crossed the clay-shingled roof and peered down. Lord Nahtler’s former mentor and servant lay at the bottom, a dark pool spreading beneath him.
Tucking the sword into his belt, Ahren quickly surveyed the wall faces, turned, then dropped. He caught the lip of the roof and stopped, his toes barely brushing the edge of a window frame. Digging his fingers between the smoke-stained stones, Ahren quickly descended the wall through climbing and controlled falls.
He stepped onto the hard alley and looked to the dead man beside him. Mikkel’s tabard had fallen open, exposing his lumpy and irregularly shaped gut bulging against his sweat-stained shirt.
Crouching, Ahren tore the threadbare fabric open to expose a course canvas bag held down by the man’s belt. He wrestled the heavy sack free and reached inside to feel straw. Sifting his fingers deeper, Ahren found a metal plate then several coins, a chained pendant, and finally a mask.
Sea of Quills (Tales of the Black Raven Book 2) Page 11
