by Mel Odom
He told them about the time he’d stolen King Iakha’s magic mirror that kept him from aging (a story borrowed from Hralbomm’s Wing), and the way he’d tricked Northern Giants into letting him know where their lair was (from an unfinished story he’d started working on with Taurak Bleiyz as the main character), and how he’d assassinated a dragon by destroying its magical heart.
By the time Wick had walked the tavern crowd through the lava-filled antechamber of Shengharck’s lair (Wick actually renamed the dragon and his own purposeful destruction of it, as well as working in a vengeful king who’d hired him to do the deed—not mentioning, of course, that the deed had been accomplished through sheer accident and not design), many of the men were sleeping at their tables or in their chairs.
Wick walked along the countertop much as he had back in Paunsel’s in Greydawn Moors when he’d first gotten involved in the search for what had truly happened at the Battle of Fell’s Keep back during the Cataclysm. He was slightly tipsy from the wine, for it was a good vintage, but not so much off his game that he wasn’t already wondering where he should spend the night. Particularly since he wanted to wake up in the morning.
Then the door opened and four hard-eyed men walked into the tavern. All four of the men wore the open razor tattoo on their cheeks that marked them as members of the thieves’ guild Wick had come to Wharf Rat’s Warren to scout.
Quietly, the little Librarian walked to one end of the counter and made himself as invisible as he could. He didn’t look at the thieves, but he kept track of them through his peripheral vision. He also noticed that Quarrel was keeping watch over them as well.
The Razor’s Kiss guild members bellied up to the counter and ordered. “Hey, Utald. Where’d you get the privy?”
“Oh, this old thing?” Utald asked, jerking his hand back toward the privy in the safe. “I’ve had it for a long time.”
“I’ve never seen one before,” the tallest of the men said.
“They’re rare and unique things, Vostin,” Utald agreed.
A sleek shadow slunk along the counter bottom beneath Wick’s feet. The cat was huge, with tortoiseshell coloration and startling gray eyes. Just past Wick’s feet, the animal sat on its haunches and gazed up at him in the way that only cats could.
Then, with a lithe leap, the cat jumped up to the counter next to him.
“Hello, kitty,” Wick said. He reached to pet the cat.
The animal turned to him and hissed a warning. One paw lifted and filled with sharp claws.
Hastily, Wick drew his hand back. He didn’t want to risk injury to his fingers because that would affect his ability to write. In the past, he’d hurt his hands and fingers, and the time he’d been unable to write had been almost unbearable.
“Not the friendly sort, are you?” Wick turned his attention back to the four Razor’s Kiss thieves as they made small talk.
“What are you doing in here?” Utald asked.
“Meeting a man,” Vostin said.
“Business?”
“Yes.” Vostin tossed back his drink and looked hard at the barkeep. “None of it yours.”
Wick’s ears pricked up. Craugh was of the impression that someone had hired the Razor’s Kiss guild to steal Boneslicer. As far as Craugh and his contacts in the city could ascertain, Boneslicer hadn’t left the hands of the Razor’s Kiss.
Sipping his drink, Wick wished his head would clear.
Nearly an hour later, after a dozen men came and went through the tavern, a new visitor walked through the door. He hadn’t known the secret knock, which had marked him instantly as someone from someplace else, but he’d produced a marker of some sort that got him past Krok.
Wick watched with interest. Beside him, the cat yawned, pink tongue rolling out for a moment before curling back in.
The new arrival was a man of indeterminate years. He wore dark clothing against the cold, and carried a longsword at his hip. After an almost casual glance around, the man settled on the four Razor’s Kiss thieves. He tapped his cheek.
Vostin nodded and hooked a chair from another table with his foot. The man came over to sit.
After a brief conversation with the new arrival, the thieves got up from the table and headed out the door. The mood inside the tavern lightened almost immediately.
“I suppose they’re not exactly popular around here,” Wick observed to the man next to him.
“Razor’s Kiss,” the big mercenary muttered. He was deep in his cups and his gaze was a little slack. “Think they’re something special here in the Warren.” He took another sip. “They’re not. Just thieves.” He shrugged. “Thieves that will slit your throat as soon as look at you, though. Better to stay away from ’em.”
“I will,” Wick said, and wondered if he’d be able to. He had no intentions of—
“Follow them,” a woman’s voice ordered.
Wick looked down at his feet. He thought that was where the voice had come from. It was hard to imagine, though, because he hadn’t seen any women in the tavern.
Only the cat lay there.
“Did you say something?” the mercenary asked.
“Not me,” Wick said.
“Coulda sworn I heard a woman.” Looking around, the mercenary pulled at his beard. “But I don’t see any in here.”
Okay, Wick thought, we’re imagining the same thing. He was just thinking how strange and improbable that was when—
“Follow them.”
The tone was more insistent this time. It also wasn’t finished.
“Get up off your duff, halfer, and get moving.”
Now there was no mistaking who the voice was talking to.
5
“Is That Your Talking Cat?”
Wick was distracted by Quarrel as the young man got up and departed the Tavern of Schemes. Movement erupted at his side. When he turned back to the counter, he found the cat sitting there staring at him with those large gray eyes. At the moment, those eyes looked particularly intelligent.
And angry.
“Get up,” the cat said, baring her fangs. (Wick was suddenly certain the cat was a she.) “Get up and get moving. This is what you’re supposed to do. If you’d made it to the meeting, you’d have known that.”
Meeting? Wick thought rapidly. Now that he considered everything that Craugh had told him, he did seem to recall some mention of a meeting. But he’d thought that wouldn’t take place until he found Boneslicer.
The mercenary leaned in from the other side. “Is that your cat?”
“Noooooooo,” Wick answered cautiously. He was fairly certain that talking animals would not be well received in Wharf Rat’s Warren. With all the paranoia prevalent throughout the outlaw town, the animal would doubtless be hung as a spy. Or drawn and quartered. Or simply thrust into a bag with a brick and tossed out into the harbor.
The chances were also good that anyone with the cat would receive the same treatment. At his size, Wick thought it was possible he would fit in the same bag as the cat.
“Move it,” the cat yowled. She struck at Wick with extended claws.
Wick barely got his hand out of the way. The claws sliced neatly through the sleeve of his cloak.
“Did you hear that?” the mercenary asked.
Looking innocent, Wick said, “I didn’t hear anything.”
“You didn’t hear that cat talking?”
“No.” Wick shook his head.
“You did,” the cat insisted. She stood and stretched, arching her back and moving closer. The threat was evident. “Now get up.”
The mercenary raised his glass and peered into it. “Utald must be forgetting to water his drinks. They don’t usually have this much kick.”
The cat swiped at Wick’s arms again, chasing them from the counter. “Let’s go. You need to find out where they’re going.”
Wick stood.
Moving with ease and grace, the cat dropped to the floor. Her tail flicked imperiously. She stopped and waited, clearly not hap
py about Wick’s reluctance.
Jerking a thumb toward the door, Wick said, “I’m going to let the cat out.”
“You’d better,” the mercenary said. “She sounds really upset with you.” He drained his drink and banged the empty glass against the counter, signaling for another.
Wick went. Now that the tavern’s patrons were pretty drunk, none of them seemed to care that he was leaving. Seated near the door, Krok looked up at Wick.
“The cat,” Wick said, pointing.
The cat waited impatiently at the door.
Krok nodded. “Who let it in?”
“I don’t know.”
“Filthy beasts,” Krok growled. “Always carrying in vermin.”
“Look who’s talking,” the cat hissed. “Is that your head? Or did your neck throw up?”
“What?” Krok roared, pushing up unsteadily.
“I didn’t hear anything,” Wick said.
“Get the door, halfer. You’re losing ground.”
“Is that your talking cat?” Krok demanded.
“No.” Wick shook his head. “Definitely not.”
“Then why are you taking it outside?”
“Because …” Wick thought furiously, “I’m tired of listening to it. I can’t get it to shut up.” That was the truth. “But it’s not mine.”
“You’re going to be polite to a troll,” the cat accused, “but you can’t listen to me?”
“See?” Wick said, smiling as inoffensively as he could.
“Get it out of here.”
Wick opened the door and followed the cat out. He thought just for a moment of staying inside the tavern. But he’d been fortunate enough the first time to survive the encounter. Besides, now that the cat had mentioned it, he did remember that Craugh had given instructions about some meeting with someone named—
“Alysta,” Wick said, looking down at the cat.
Regal and confident, the cat sat on her haunches and gazed up at him with gray-eyed command. “I am. You are the Librarian.”
Wick glanced around to make certain no one had overheard the cat. Full dark filled Wharf Rat’s Warren’s streets, leaving thick shadows everywhere.
“I am,” Wick admitted. “Second Level Librarian Edgewick Lamplighter.”
“Second Level Librarian?” The cat, Alysta, looked displeased. “Craugh couldn’t have arranged for a more experienced Librarian?”
Wick drew himself up to his full height. He was certainly taller than a cat, had opposable thumbs, and didn’t cough up hairballs. How much experience could a cat have at spying?
“I’m the most experienced available,” Wick said. “None of the other Librarians have ever been to the mainland.”
“So you’re out on an island, are you?” The cat smiled.
No more information, Wick thought. Evidently the cat didn’t know as much as he’d thought. And now it had one more piece of information about the Vault of All Known Knowledge.
“I’d thought the Librarians were based deep in the interior.”
Wick refused to answer.
“And what does Craugh think?” Alysta demanded. “Just because you can read and write doesn’t mean you’re suited to find the lost sword.”
“Reading and writing,” Wick said, “are the two most important—” He stopped, suddenly realizing what the cat had said. “What sword?”
“Seaspray.”
Wick racked his brain. For a moment, he couldn’t place the weapon. Then it came to him in a rush. “Seaspray? Captain Dulaun’s Seaspray?”
The sword was one of legend, just as Boneslicer was. Captain Dulaun of the Silver Sea trade empires had fought at the Battle of Fell’s Keep a thousand years ago with Master Oskarr. In his own right, before the Cataclysm, Captain Dulaun had helped defend the Silver Sea holdings against the encroachment of goblinkin and anyone else that dared raise sails against them.
“It wasn’t always Captain Dulaun’s,” the cat said.
“How do you know this?”
“You’re not the only one that can read and write.”
Wick was amazed. “You can read and write?”
“It’s not that difficult,” Alysta said. “I taught my daughter to read and write.”
The image of a mother cat teaching her kitten to read filled his mind and seemed very strange. Wick was so captivated by that image that he didn’t realize the cat was speaking to him again.
“What?” he said.
The cat hissed angrily. “You’re wasting time. When we finish this, I’m going to tell Craugh exactly what I think of him for pairing me up with you.”
You’re not the only one, Wick thought.
“Now come on.” The cat took off.
Reluctantly, Wick fell into step. “Where are we going?”
“To follow the Razor’s Kiss thieves, of course.” The cat leaped over a wide hole filled with freezing water, broken ice, and mud.
Wick saw the hole too late and nearly fell in. “Why are we following them?”
“Because they know where the sword is.”
“You don’t?”
The cat shot him a reproachful look but kept moving. “If I knew where the sword was, we would go there. Now be quiet. If those men find out we’re following them, they might choose to kill you.”
Then following them at all is a bad idea, Wick wanted to say.
The four Razor’s Kiss thieves added six more to their number when they reached the livery.
Trailing after the cat, Wick circled around behind the livery to the back door. It wasn’t locked. Alysta squeezed through the gap and disappeared inside. Wick sipped a breath of cold air that bit into his lungs. The odors from inside the livery hit him, too. After a moment, he eased through the door.
“Quiet,” the cat admonished, like she was talking to a child. “And get down so you can’t be seen.”
Wick hunkered down behind the stalls. In the romances from Hralbomm’s Wing, Deodalb’s antiheroes and Decarthian spies managed to escape certain death all the time and never once doubted their skills. He was terrified to the point of being fumble-fingered. The happy buzz he’d enjoyed in the Tavern of Schemes was now a thing of the past.
Horses snorted and stirred in the paddocks. The sharp scents of oats, barley, and hay tickled Wick’s nose. He caught himself right before he sneezed.
“Don’t you dare,” the cat hissed.
Wick held a finger under his nose. He needed to sneeze so badly that his eyes watered. Only the threat of painful death kept him from succumbing. Gradually, the pressure in his head went away. He let out a tentative breath.
Easing forward again, he joined Alysta and crouched at the end of the paddock. Peering around the corner, he spotted the Razor’s Kiss thieves saddling horses while the livery boy looked on.
“You can’t just take my father’s horses,” the boy whined.
One of the thieves turned and slapped the boy down. After he hit the ground, the boy stayed there. Tears streamed from his eyes as he looked at the thieves.
“Be glad it’s just the horses we want,” one of the thieves said. “Another word from you, and your father will come here in the morning and find he has to bury you.”
The man who had hired them stood nearby. He wasn’t saddling a mount. “How long will this take?”
The thief who had slapped the boy down turned to their employer. “As long as it takes, Captain Gujhar. Not one moment sooner.”
In a crowd, the thief would have faded from view almost at once were it not for the distinctive tattoo on his cheek and the burn scarring over his right eye that pulled at that side of his face. In the cold, the scarred flesh was almost white as paper against his dark skin.
“That’s not an acceptable answer, Flann,” Captain Gujhar replied. He stood with military erectness.
Looking at the man, Wick now recognized the bearing and self-discipline. He was a man of authority, used to being obeyed.
So why is Captain Gujhar in Wharf Rat’s Warren dealing wit
h thieves? Wick wondered.
At the corner, the cat watched with supreme concentration, like she’d spotted prey. Her tail coiled and uncoiled behind her with methodical slowness. She looked ready to pounce.
Flann led his mount toward the livery’s door. “I’m here to achieve results,” the thief said. “If you think you can do it any sooner, then I suggest you be about it.” He paused, waiting.
Captain Gujhar stood silent and still for a moment. His hand toyed with the hilt of the longsword at his hip.
Even with the odds ten against, he’s thinking about fighting them. Wick was amazed. The man was either foolhardy or very good. Wick was curious as to which it was, chiefly because it was likely they were going to be enemies, or—at the very least—competitors for Boneslicer.
“No,” Captain Gujhar replied.
“Then let me be about my business,” Flann suggested. “That way we can both keep your employer happy. We handled that situation on the Cinder Clouds Islands the way you wanted us to and it very nearly cost us when that other ship appeared.”
“I don’t know how the dwarves found out about Boneslicer,” Captain Gujhar replied.
“Or how they happened to have a fighting ship at their beck and call that night,” Flann said. He grinned. “Seems there’s a lot you don’t know. You’d be better off letting us do what your master paid us to do.”
The captain said nothing.
The cold wind howled through the open door and sucked what little warmth there was out of the livery. The horses whinnied and stamped in displeasure.
“Going to wish us luck then?” Flann smiled.
“Good luck,” the captain said.
Flann pulled himself into the saddle as the horse reared and bucked, evidently in no hurry to get out into the freezing weather. Leaning forward, the thief seized the horse’s ear and bit it, hanging on till it stopped fighting.
The other thieves quickly mounted as well, then they thundered down the street, heading back into the Flowing Mountains at the other end of Wharf Rat’s Warren.
Captain Gujhar watched for a moment, then left without a word. The door slammed loosely behind him.
