Weight of the Crown

by A. C. Cobble

  “There’s no evidence any of the families are doing serious plotting,” finished Amelie, “at least, not against Saala or Brinn. It’s in their best interests that the war is prosecuted successfully. It’d be foolish to distract Saala while he’s facing the Coalition. The highborn families have more at risk by losing the war than anything else.”

  “We don’t really know anything, do we?” asked Ben, fighting to keep the frustration from his voice.

  “General Brinn has been here for years, and he’s no amateur when it comes to political machinations,” responded Amelie. “He hasn’t figured out who is behind the attacks. We’re not going to do any better just by looking at these family trees and jotting down the gossip Seth feeds us. If it’s an outside party, which is how it seems to me, then none of these documents will tell us anything.”

  “The Coalition, you think?” asked Ben.

  “Brinn told us that Lord Jason killed King Argren,” responded Rhys. “If he’s still involved in these latest attempts, why are they unsuccessful?”

  “Finding out who is behind the attacks would be helpful, but it isn’t our goal,” said Prem. “We know Saala isn’t here, and I understand why you want to uncover these assassins, but when you find a steep ravine in the forest, sometimes it’s best to go around instead of searching for the bottom. We can turn our efforts to finding a ship, and let the highborn in Whitehall fend for themselves.”

  Ben rubbed his arm and glanced around his friends

  “We do have one option,” advised Rhys. “I wish we had more time to survey the location, but there’s a tavern where, ah, some creative business endeavors are commissioned. If we want to find assassins, it’s the place to go.”

  “Prem has a point,” acknowledged Ben, “but we’re not going anywhere until we find a ship, and that’s not happening tonight. I think our best bet is trying to hitch a ride with the South Continent’s emissary, and she’s not here yet. We could sit around and go over these lineage documents again, or…”

  “Let’s go find some assassins,” said Prem.

  Rhys coughed, and the former guardian raised an eyebrow at him.

  “It’s going to be dangerous,” he mentioned.

  “I suppose you’d better look after me then, shouldn’t you?”

  Frowning, Rhys glanced to Ben for assistance. Ben could only shrug. He certainly wasn’t going to tell the long-lived guardian that she needed to stay in the bedroom because the tavern was too dangerous.

  “There’s, ah…” mumbled Rhys. He rubbed a hand across his face. “It’s a bit unusual for girls looking like you to be in this place. Maybe you can, ah, try to look a bit less pretty?”

  Ben groaned.

  “We’ll do our best, Rhys,” said Amelie, scowling at the rogue.

  “Is this where I think it is?” queried Towaal.

  “It is,” confirmed the rogue.

  “I think I’ll go over these boring genealogy documents one more time,” declared Towaal.

  “The Flatulent Frog,” read Amelie flatly. She glanced at Rhys. “Really?”

  “I didn’t name it, you know,” responded the rogue. “They probably named it something they thought would discourage interest from the city watch.”

  “I think the smell is accomplishing that,” retorted Prem, her voice nasal from where she was pinching the bridge of her nose.

  “You two always complain that the names of taverns make no sense,” chirped Ben. “Well…”

  Prem eyed him askance, her fingers still sealing her nostrils.

  “You can’t do that the entire time we’re in there,” advised Rhys. “We need to blend in.”

  “I need more to drink before we go in that place,” griped Amelie.

  Rhys threw up his hands. “It’s not like you’re being forced to come along, you know! Ben and I can handle this ourselves.”

  Amelie glanced at Prem. “Do you think…”

  Suddenly, the curtain to the tavern was shoved open, and a drunken man stumbled out, barely supported by a slender girl under his arm. The man’s face was red, his eyes glassy, and his chest bare underneath a shoddily embroidered wool coat.

  It appeared the girl was wearing the man’s tunic, and from what Ben could see, nothing else. And he could see plenty. The man tugged at the tunic, pulling the loose fabric aside to expose one of her bare breasts. The girl playfully slapped the man’s hand away and they staggered down the street, disappearing into a narrow doorway two buildings down.

  Ben let out a low whistle, and Prem quickly answered Amelie, “I think we should stay with them a little longer. I’m told this place is dangerous.”

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” grumbled Rhys. He strode forward, pushing the curtain aside and ducking from the lantern lit streets of Whitehall into a dim, swirling menagerie of smoke, scented perfumes, bubbling drunken conversation, frantic music, and naked flesh.

  Ben stepped in after Rhys and slowed, trying to keep his jaw from dropping to his chest.

  The Flatulent Frog was a bigger space than it appeared outside, and it was lit only by a handful of mirrored lanterns hanging on the walls. The low lights illuminated dozens of girls standing atop tables, wrapped in thin, brightly colored scarves and nothing else. They danced in time to a quick beat played by a trio of drummers in one corner. Drunken men stumbled about the room, calling to each other loudly or bursting into spontaneous song. Smoke from a giant hearth and a dozen pipe-wielding patrons hung in the air, stirred by strange contraptions on either ends of the room. Two boys spun spits which sprouted large, canvas paddles. Ben watched, confused, until he realized the devices were meant to circulate air through the tight confines of the tavern. It kind of worked.

  “Let’s get drinks then watch the crowd,” suggested Rhys.

  Nodding, the girls fell in behind him, Ben behind them. He stayed close, nervous that handsy patrons would accost Amelie and Prem, but to his surprise, none did. The men’s eyes were fixated on the undulating bodies of the girls on the tables. Unmolested, Ben and his friends made their way to a sticky-looking bar in the corner where Rhys ordered a pitcher of ale.

  “No wine?” Amelie whispered to the rogue. “Do you think that will make us stand out in this place, or is it no good?”

  Rhys frowned at her when the barman returned with the pitcher. “You can order whatever you like. I got this pitcher of ale for me.”

  Amelie blinked at him, uncertain if he was joking or not.

  Ben caught the barman’s notice and ordered two wines and an ale. He knew Rhys never joked when it came to ale.

  Finally, properly outfitted with drinks, they sat around one of the tables near the middle of the room that wasn’t occupied by a naked, dancing girl. The front of the room held the door to the place, and the back had the bar. One side wall was dotted with two hearths, the other with dark booths. A staircase near the bar led upstairs, and Ben could only imagine what happened there.

  Rhys leaned across the table and in a low tone explained, “The booths are where all of the business takes place.”

  “So, we just sit back and observe?” asked Prem

  “We do,” confirmed Rhys. “We observe and let ourselves be seen. Watchers are paying attention, and they’ll want to see if we belong before they’re willing to discuss business with us. Assassins will not show themselves just because someone asks.”

  Ben looked around the chaotic tavern and wondered how anyone could pay attention to anything in the place. At the table next to them, he heard the familiar clink of coins and looked to see a pile of copper, silver, and even a few gold discs sprinkled across the rough wooden surface. Standing above them was a naked girl. She was gyrating her hips in time with the blistering pace of the drummers’ music. Surrounding her at the table were a group of men who stared up at her, entranced by her movements. Occasionally, she would bend down in one of the men’s faces and give an extra wiggle or a seductive touch. The men howled and whooped every time she did, and another rainfall of coin would sp
lash down on the table.

  “Ben!” snapped Amelie.

  He turned and blinked at her. “What? I was just watching the room.”

  “Ben, Prem has been asking you a question.”

  “Ah…”

  “I was asking if you’d ever been to a place like this before,” said the former guardian. “Rhys claims these kinds of taverns are common in all cities.”

  Ben flushed. “They’re not common in Farview.”

  Satisfied, Prem sat back and crossed her arms under her breasts, giving Rhys a stony-look.

  “This is where the business is conducted,” complained Rhys. “I can’t help that.”

  Amelie scooted her chair closer to Ben and leaned over, whispering in his ear, “Keep your eyes off these girls, and I’ll give you something to look at later.”

  Ben swallowed and nodded. Easier said than done. To distract himself, he sipped at his ale and studied what he could see of the patrons in the booths along the walls. Unlike the tables in the center of the room, there were no girls dancing there, and while everyone had drinks, none of them seemed drunk like the rest of the crowd.

  “Be surreptitious,” warned Rhys when he noticed Ben’s gaze. “These aren’t the type of folks you want to be caught staring at.”

  Ben nodded and then smirked when he saw Amelie was now watching the gyrating girls. Their provocative movements, the swirling colors of their scarves, and he had to admit – mostly the nakedness – was hard to tear your eye away from. He did it, though, forcing himself to concentrate on the business at hand.

  “Rhys,” he hissed, “look at that.”

  The rogue followed his gaze and nodded. “A fence. Close, but not what we’re looking for.”

  A small man had appeared at one of the booths and, back turned to the room, had removed a golden bowl from underneath his cloak. The bowl was polished to a brilliant shine, and even from a distance, Ben could tell it was etched with intricate designs and studded with gemstones. Without a doubt, it was worth a fortune. A year of wages for a craftsman, at least. Not the kind of wealth you typically flashed in such a rough tavern.

  No one paid the man any mind, though, and after several moments of negotiation, he slid the bowl onto the table and scooped up a small purse before turning to leave. The bowl vanished into the shadows of the booth. A thief pawning his stolen merchandise. Rhys had been right.

  With proof the rogue hadn’t merely made up the nature of the tavern to get an opportunity to drink and look at naked girls, the companions were able to look past the insanity of the place and began to study the room in earnest.

  Ben was facing the booths and saw brisk custom there, as individuals would skulk in, meet quickly with the seated, shadowy figures, and then scurry back out once their business was conducted. The comings and goings were lost in the general revelry of the room. If the city watch walked in, their eyes would immediately be drawn to the dancing girls, and the figures in the booths would have time to filter out the back or stop their illicit activities before being noticed. The distraction worked. Ben hadn’t even seen the booths until after they’d ordered their drinks.

  “These girls make a fortune,” remarked Amelie.

  Raising an eyebrow, Rhys replied, “Are you thinking about—”

  Ben stared hard at the man, and the rogue coughed discreetly.

  “Ah, yes, they do,” Rhys continued. “A life of crime pays rather well, but easy come, easy go. Thieves, assassins, pirates, and the like are never able to hold onto the coin they’ve accumulated.”

  “Why is that?” questioned Prem.

  “An assassin can’t exactly settle down and live a normal life,” answered the rogue. “Neighbors, wives, and friends ask questions. You can lie to them, but that means there will always be a certain amount of distance between you and those around you. Don’t get me wrong. It is done. Then, the men who live those secret lives come to a place like this. They are understood. They can have a connection to another person without having to lie. They can spend their coin without awkward questions about where it came from. Even assassins need human connection. It doesn’t come cheaply, though. These girls will go to their grave with a man’s secrets, but they’ll do it decked in silver and jewels.”

  “And not much else,” muttered Amelie.

  Rhys winked at her.

  “Is that why you come to places like this?” asked Prem. “Are you trying to find a connection?”

  “No,” claimed Rhys, waving his hand toward Ben and Amelie. “I have friends. I come to places like this for the ale and the naked girls.”

  The former guardian snorted and returned to sitting with her arms crossed, watching the rogue.

  After a moment, Rhys began shifting uncomfortably under her gaze and finally suggested, “I think we’ve seen enough. Are you ready to get some information?”

  “How?” asked Amelie.

  “We talk to a broker.”

  “A broker?” asked Ben.

  Rhys nodded. “Assassins never meet their clients. At least, the professional ones do not. It’s for both the protection of the assassin and the client. Typically, instead of direct contact, a client finds a broker, explains the job and their budget, and that broker will hire the right assassin. Client and assassin never know who each other are.”

  Ben frowned.

  “It makes sense when you think about it,” explained Rhys. “If I know who my client is, it gives me the opportunity to attempt to blackmail them. If the client knows who I am, they could rat me out to the city watch or a rival instead of paying me.”

  “I understand that,” said Ben, “but it seems like an awfully lot of people do know who you are, Rhys. That thief Casper back in Fabrizo, half the mages in the Sanctuary…”

  The rogue grinned. “I’m a bit of a special circumstance.”

  “Oh, boy, here we go,” muttered Prem, rolling her eyes.

  “I’ll spare you the details,” said Rhys, “but it is worth knowing my situation is different from the way things are normally done. The Sanctuary is a client like no other.”

  “Okay,” said Ben. “So, how do we find a broker?”

  “She’s right there,” said Rhys, pointing at a little old lady who was making her way across the room to one of the booths. In her hand was a dainty tea cup, and she moved with the glacial patience of the very old.

  “Her?” wondered Amelie.

  “Her,” confirmed Rhys.

  They stood and followed the woman, arriving at her booth as she slid into it and set her tea cup down in front of her. She smiled up at them toothlessly and bobbed her wrinkled, white-haired head in greeting. Without speaking, she gathered her tea cup in her hands and blew on it to cool it off.

  “Come on, Lucinda,” chided Rhys. “I know that’s filled with cold grog and not hot tea. Who are you trying to fool?”

  The woman coughed, spluttering the grog, or tea, and her look went from friendly and maternal to hard and angry. “Who are you, then, and why do you know my name?”

  “I know a lot of things,” said Rhys, slipping into the booth next to the woman.

  She shifted away from him, and suddenly, Amelie gasped. “She’s a—”

  “I know,” Rhys said. “She’s a mage.”

  The old woman stopped moving, only her eyes flicking between Rhys and Amelie.

  “A runaway mage,” clarified the rogue. “That’s an important distinction, at least to someone trying to hide from the Sanctuary. Right, Lucinda?”

  The old woman finally recovered enough to sip her drink, which turned into more of a gulp, and then another. When she sat it down, the tea cup was empty.

  “That’s a bold accusation, young man,” she rasped.

  “It’s not meant to be an accusation,” replied Rhys. “Merely a fact. I have no issue with mages, runaway or otherwise. I have no fear of them, either.”

  The old woman’s shriveled lips pursed together, like she was consider making her own threat, but instead she simply asked, “What do
you want?”

  Rhys smiled at her.

  “Come on, son. You know the mood in the city. The Citadel is days away from being stained red. Every highborn in this place is looking for knives. I have business to conduct. You came to find me. Now we’re talking. Spit it out.”

  “Who is sending the assassins at King Saala and General Brinn?” asked Rhys.

  The woman’s mouth fell open.

  “You said you wanted to get right to business,” reminded Rhys. “That’s the information I want to know.”

  The old woman shivered and then responded, “I don’t care how good you think you are. That’s not the kind of job you want. King Saala is an actual blademaster, surrounded by an army, and there thousands of soldiers in the Citadel around Brinn. Only a fool would attempt either job.”

  “Several fools have,” reminded Rhys.

  “They have,” acknowledged the woman. “They’re dead now. Isn’t that proof enough? Take my advice, and stay away from that business.”

  “Who is hiring them?”

  The woman shifted before finally admitting, “I don’t know.”

  “No one has come to you for help on these jobs?” pressed Rhys.

  Glaring at him, the woman snapped, “No professional in Whitehall is stupid enough to get involved in that business. I haven’t been approached, and I’ll save you the trouble. None of my competition has been approached either. If someone did come to us with an offer, we’d say no.”

  “Foreign blades,” said Rhys, glancing at Ben and his friends.

  “That’s my assumption,” agreed the woman. “None of my boys have been asked, and none of the regulars in the city are missing. They all know it’s a stupid risk and not worth any amount of gold. I told you, I don’t know who the attackers are.”

  “What is your best guess?”

  The woman stared at Rhys, pondering her choices.

  Amelie slipped five thick gold coins across the table, drawing the old woman’s gaze. “Does the Sanctuary know you are here and what business you’re conducting? We’d prefer to be nice, but…”