Assassin of Dragonclaw (Nysta Book 7)

by Lucas Thorn

  “And Mistfall Ale,” she said, remembering what she’d had last time.

  “Ain’t got none of that left,” the barmaid said. “I got some from Vantro Deep, though. It’s black as you like and not too bitter. You can have some of that if that little bastard thinks it’s good enough for you.”

  “It good, Knifehand,” the goblin called.

  “It’ll be fine,” she said.

  “Then take a seat. Over there in the corner. Away from everyone. I don’t want you killing anyone else in here. I’m still finding bits of bone everywhere.”

  The elf made to walk away, then changed her mind. “Got a room I can use?”

  “A room?” Myrna blinked. “Why do you want a room? You never want a room. Don’t you have a home to go to?”

  “How much, Myrna?”

  “How long do you want it for?”

  “Couple of days, maybe.”

  “Days?” The barmaid’s face went rigid. “A couple of days.”

  “That’s right.”

  She could see Myrna’s mind ticking it over. Watched as her blue eyes squinted thoughtfully. “Would you spend more time in your room than down here?”

  “Probably.”

  “Going rate is two silver a night. But, for you, I’ll do it for one. On condition you stay out of the public room as much as possible. And you pay for any mess of yours I have to clean up.” She lifted her chin. Challenging. “I like this place, Nysta. Before you started coming here, we’d get a killing a month. Maybe two if the orks were touchy. But, with you, it’s like there’s no time to get the blood off the floor before you’re bucketing it down again. And the worst thing is, I’m getting used to it. It’s like I’m running a gang hideout. I hate gangs. I lost my husband to one. And Powell’s been good to me. I don’t know what in Grim’s name he sees in you, but I won’t have you fucking up this place for him. So, you can have the room. And if that condition’s not good enough, you can find it somewhere else.”

  “Reckon I can abide by that,” she said. “I ain’t ever looking for trouble, Myrna.”

  “I know.” She sighed at the elf. “That’s the only reason I ain’t kicking you out on your ear right now. But I got a feeling it ain’t ever gonna stop looking for you. Follow the stairs. Room’s at the end of the hall. Take the left or right, it don’t matter. Key’s in the lock. I’ll bring you something to eat and drink in a minute. Once I’ve sorted out the orks.”

  “Obliged.” She paused again. Looked down at the fresh blood sticking to her clothes. “Any chance of a bath?”

  “Bograt!” Myrna’s screech bounced off the ceiling and the goblin flinched on his chair. “Haul a bath, you worthless little creep. You like her so much, you heat it and pour it.”

  “Knifehand want bath?” The old goblin rubbed his head in confusion. “What for bath? It not right time of year. Bath make Knifehand sick.”

  “Obliged,” the elf said, nodding to Myrna as she walked toward the stairs.

  “Yeah. Just try not to kill anyone on the way to your room.” Myrna shook her head and picked up the rag. Then added spitefully; “Unless it’s Bograt.”

  The goblin hopped off the stool and limped quickly toward the stairs. “Come, Knifehand,” he said proudly. “Me make best bath ever. You want wash clothes? Me wash clothes, too. One time, me wash Eventide’s clothes. He say me wash clothes best. Better than Dragknife, who wash Grim’s clothes. Best ever, he say. Best ever. Me young, then, Knifehand. Have good leg. Can run with Wolfrunners. We run all way from Doom’s Reach to Dragonclaw in two days.”

  “Two days?”

  “Two days!” He held up four fingers, nodding his enthusiasm. “It tough run, but we run for Eventide. He say we best runners there is. Then troll broke leg. Hurt lots, it did. Now me live here. In Dragonclaw. Me open door. Make bath. Clean clothes. But me clean clothes best there is, Knifehand. Best there is. Eventide said so.”

  “Sure, feller.”

  “You want Bograt clean clothes? It just three copper for Knifehand.”

  “Three coppers?” She made the door to her room. Reached to turn the lock before taking the key and sliding it into her pocket. “Sounds like you’re taking me to the cleaners.”

  “Me not understand.” He scratched his scalp and then stared up at her. Squinted. “It Knifehand joke?”

  “Don’t sweat it, feller,” she said. “I don’t know many clothes lines.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The bath water was hot. Beer cool.

  And darkness softened the tiny room’s cramped interior.

  Too small even to be called cozy, the room’s furniture was sparse and practical. A small chest at the foot of a little cot pressed against the wall. Wall of rough pitted stone painted white to give the illusion of clean.

  Floor of wood. Few stains and charring in the corner near a coal bucket.

  Could hear the bubble of voices from the kitchen beneath.

  Couldn’t make out any words.

  Window shivering with each of the cold wind’s kisses. Thick purple curtain drawn. Frightened light climbing in from shadow-torn streets nudged at the small rips and tears in the cloth. Also through a few small cracks in the wall.

  If she drew the curtain aside, she’d see only the dull face of a ramshackle brown building opposite. One she could probably jump across to. A sheer wall with balconies and alcoves jostling for space. Draped in magelights to keep the horrors of the city at bay.

  A few men sat on a balcony just above and to the right.

  She could hear their muffled laughter.

  Smell the soft taint of bacha wafting in on sour air working its way through fractures in the stone.

  Clang of metal from down the street. Someone trying to fix a broken pipe. Beating it.

  Shouted curses.

  The elf relaxed as best she could in the round wooden tub. It wasn’t big enough to stretch out in. On a small table to her right, a plate of cold meat. She picked at it, allowing the goblin’s advice had been good.

  Chewed slowly. Churning thoughts and impressions.

  Hideg.

  His offer teasing her desire to settle in the chaotic belly of Dragonclaw. Promise of gold, which she allowed was of great appeal. The pouch he’d already given would last a while, but it couldn’t last forever.

  Bograt.

  How had he known to call her Knifehand? She’d asked him twice. Pushed him against the wall. But all he did was look confused and say he knew it was her name because Eventide said so.

  Then Myrna. The woman’s deep suspicion and resentment.

  So far, the only place she felt comfortable in the city was out on the street. Dodging gang members. Killing thugs. Either way, it felt more natural than the unwelcome inns which quickly learned to dislike her presence.

  Bringing her back to Hideg’s offer. An offer which might provide a base from which she could grow within Dragonclaw’s social structure. Figure out where she belonged.

  And maybe reach for a more comfortable future.

  She had skills. It’d taken only a few encounters with some of the city’s more violent gangs to realise there’d be few in the city to match her. And those who did would no doubt already enjoy a lucrative career within more affluent corners of the city.

  Corners she figured Hideg could perhaps provide entrance to. He looked young, but not poor. The more she thought about their encounter, the more she was certain of it.

  His clothes.

  The clean boots. Tidy hair. Even the book, which wasn’t something many could afford.

  The book had worried her at first. Usually only spellslingers had books.

  But she’d felt nothing from him to hint he was a mage.

  No, he was something else. She was sure of it.

  A rich kid on the rise. An opportunity.

  And if she did this job for him, maybe it’d lead to something else. Something better.

  The elf looked up at the cracked ceiling and allowed a few daydreams of a better future to tease. T
o mesmerise. And, finally, to rot as she couldn’t shake the feeling the whole thing stank worse than Chukshene’s spells.

  Hideg’s offer was too convenient. Too rich.

  A man with obvious connections like him would know the city’s best fighters by name at least. And the gold he was promising would lure any of them to his side.

  Yet, he’d picked someone he’d seen in a brawl. Someone he didn’t know.

  Which meant only that he considered her both deniable and expendable. Meaning also the job was mired in lies and intrigue.

  Politics, she figured.

  And her time in the Jukkala’Jadean taught her that getting involved in politics was a quick way to wind up dead. Especially if she had no idea who held the upper hand.

  She set her empty mug aside and relaxed as much as she could inside the tub. Looked at her hands and the savage scars still bright pink against her skin. Echoes of inflicted pain remained, but she knew most of it was in her head. Her hands had, for the most part, healed.

  A miracle?

  Or a curse?

  Annoyed at the reminder of dark worms coursing through her veins, she stood abruptly. Sent water splashing as she reached for a towel.

  Dried herself down, unable to lose her scowl.

  Snatched one last morsel from the plate and dropped down onto the narrow cot.

  The mattress was thin. Lumpy. But the blanket had been washed some time recently.

  She lay on her side, face to the door.

  A Flaw in the Glass under the pillow. Fingers close to the hilt.

  She wanted to get dressed, but lacked energy. She’d been awake for the past few days. Finding only a few minutes of sleep at a time. Exploring the streets.

  Staying away from Nearne and Rockjaw.

  She closed her eyes.

  And when she opened them, it was morning. Any dreams she might’ve sheltered within were lost to broken threads of memory. She woke quickly, eyes blinking against the light gleaming between curtains. Quickly and with full awareness.

  Could sense someone in the hallway.

  Standing close to her door, but not in front of it.

  Her hand crept under the pillow and wrapped tight around the vicious-looking knife. She could feel the enchantment’s cold hum and prepared to whip free of the bed and into a violent dance.

  A small cough, back of the throat.

  Then a steady knock.

  “Knifehand? You wake now?”

  Words whispered through the door.

  She rolled her eyes and let her hand move away from the knife. “Sure, feller.”

  He pushed inside, not looking at her. Instead kept his eyes on the tub as he placed a small basket beside the doorway. “Me take away?”

  “Well, I ain’t got no more use for it.”

  “I bring clothes, too,” he said, pointing to the basket. “They dry. Jacket really dirty, Knifehand. You not look after jacket. Me clean it good.”

  “Obliged.”

  The old goblin worked quickly. Grabbed the heavy iron rings on the sides of the tub and began dragging it from the room. Steadily, so he didn’t spill the water.

  Grunted once as he got it into the hall. Turned and nodded politely. “Me go,” he said. Looked thoughtful before speaking again. “Knifehand not eat porridge today. Go across road. Magnus do good baking. Me smell all morning. You’ll see.”

  And closed the door.

  “Goblins,” she muttered. Then swept onto the floor and grabbed the basket.

  Inside, her pants and shirt had been neatly folded. The jacket, with its hardened wyrmskin shoulders and patches, was too bulky to fold, but he’d done his best. As she dragged it all loose, she frowned.

  He’d cleaned everything so they looked if not new, then at least well-maintained. Polished the wyrmskin. Even stitched a few of the patches tighter and mended a few rips she’d not yet worked on. Dirt, which had been ingrained into the creases for as long as she could remember, had been picked free.

  As clean as it was, the elf could almost make out the original uniform beneath. And was struck by the sudden memory of when it had first been given to her. A moment seared into her brain.

  Her first ever pulse of genuine pride had been when it was handed to her with ceremony deep within Veil’s Temple.

  She held the jacket up, watching light slide across the black and green leather and wondered at the effort it must’ve taken. Shot a glance to the door. Sucked her teeth and allowed her lip to curl slightly.

  Outside, the goblin hauled the tub. Muttered to himself as he worked.

  She cradled the jacket, torn between wanting to thank him for cleaning her gear, and killing him for reminding her of what she’d once been.

  Jukkala’Jadean.

  A spark in the back of her mind flickered once.

  Died.

  Her violet eyes cooled to frozen slits as she dressed, all thoughts of Lostlight’s assassins wiped from her mind as blade after blade was swiftly returned to their sheaths.

  Then, taking a last look around the room, she headed downstairs.

  “Nysta!” A jovial voice called from behind the bar. Powell. Dressed in clean white shirt and black pants. Sleeves rolled up. He looked to be about forty, she thought. Maybe forty-five. Tidy. Crisp lines forming in the right places on his face. Moustache cut with meticulous care. A twinkle to his blue eyes. He belonged, she thought, in one of the richer corners of Dragonclaw. Not down near the docks in a two-bit dive. He waved at her as she came down the stairs. “Myrna said you were staying with us. That’s great. Sure, I know she gives you a bit of lip, but she’s soft on you. Really.”

  “Soft ain’t a word I’d apply to Myrna,” the elf said drily.

  He chuckled. “Nor would I if she were listening. But maybe she figures having someone like you around can’t hurt. Some of the local thugs have been pressing the door. Cutting their teeth on the bar. Clawing at things they ain’t got a right to take. Wouldn’t hurt if someone were around they couldn’t get a handle on, if you get my drift?”

  “Someone giving you shit, Powell?” A tough-looking dockworker lifted a mug. “Want I should sort ‘em out for you?”

  “Sure thing, Valen,” Powell said without skipping a beat. “They’re holed up in the Red Warehouse on Hogbreath Lane. Mind going down and asking them to lay off Myrna? They’re really soaking her head.”

  “The Red Warehouse?” Next to Valen, a smaller man winced. “That’s Skeevers territory, Valen.”

  “Not anymore,” Powell said. Tapped his nose and showed a conspiratorial wink. “Word has it they got eaten by Gloamstriders. It’s them little weasels who’ve been hammering on my door at all hours.”

  “Gloamstriders?” The small man shuddered. “They’re even worse. Evil fuckers. I heard they peeled the skin from some feller up on Ninth. When the guards found him, he was still alive. Alive and screaming. Without his skin. It’s true. My cousin’s a guard. He heard about it from the Captain.”

  “Well,” Valen wiped his jaw and looked away from Powell. “Maybe I’ll go down and chat with ‘em anyway. I ain’t scared of no fucking Gloamstrider.”

  “Sure,” Powell feigned a sympathetic smile. The kind of smile only a bartender could flash. Then turned back to the elf and waved back toward his stock. “You let me know what you want, Nysta. I’ll look after you.”

  With a shake of her head, the elf moved smoothly toward the door. “Shouldn’t make promises Myrna won’t let you keep, feller.”

  “Don’t worry about her,” he called. “I’ll set her right. It’s like I said. She’s soft on you is Myrna. You’ll see!”

  Outside, she glanced up through dull magelights, makeshift walkways, iron mesh, and clothes hung from lines. Couldn’t make out the sun, but the sky was a steely kind of blue.

  A few clouds seemed to jump between rooftops, rolling with the wind.

  Heavy clouds.

  Summer had been quick. A few rare flashes of heat clipped between sullen cool days forked by savage stor
ms. She looked down.

  The gutters were wet with recent rain.

  Not heavy rain.

  Just enough to swirl the stink of refuse and make the cobbled streets slippery.

  In an alcove nearby, the baker’s assistant shoved pastries and bread into baskets for display. A small sign promised the finest bread in Dragonclaw and the sweetest pastries. Cursing Bograt for inviting her hunger, she made her way to the stand.

  Could see Magnus out back, cleaning his kiln. Stained with sweat, his red-rimmed eyes were utterly focused on his task.

  As she paid the young boy, she couldn’t help feeling jealous of the baker. His life looked hard, but normal. He’d be heading to the back room to sleep. The elf knew he lived in a small room behind the kiln.

  He wasn’t married.

  Not yet.

  But he was trying. Trying real hard to please one of Myrna’s weekend barmaids.

  A normal life.

  “Is that all?”

  She blinked, realising she’d been staring too long into the back of their shop.

  The elf nodded. “Obliged.”

  Headed toward the market, chewing slowly on a spiced bun. Still uncomfortable with the idea of meeting Hideg but drawn by a mixture of curiosity and boredom.

  Like Magnus, she needed a job. Even a dirty one.

  Something to help put knives into the ribs of the city.

  Ribs she could prise open in search of a heart. A nice fat golden heart which would drop coins into her hand with every beat.

  She walked slowly through the streets, drifting alone among knotted crowds of people. People of all kinds. Orks. Humans.

  A troll, heavy bulbous head on a body so thin it looked like it’d snap in a strong breeze. She winced as he strode past, noxious stink in his wake. He didn’t notice. Trolls were a simple folk, with vague thoughts rattling loose inside deformed bodies. Tough to fight when roused, so it was best to just let them be.

  His barklike skin rustled. Strange eyes, buried deep inside diamond-shaped sockets. She thought he spoke as he passed.

  A word, captured on the stifled breeze, almost brushed against her ears.

  Half-turned her head, but he was gone. Carried along the bustling crowd like flotsam.