Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Acknowledgements
REPORT TO THE BOSS
“Nose.”
The voice came from somewhere far, far away—maybe ten whole feet behind me. Turn around? No, ignore him instead; he’d go away.
“Hey, Nose!”
Still there? Angels, this person couldn’t take a hint! I made an eloquent, sincere, and highly profane gesture without turning, and continued on my shuffling way.
“Dammit,” said the voice. Something heavy laid itself on my shoulder and spun me around.
Habit and adrenaline kicked in. As I turned, I let the small dagger (the poisoned one) drop from my wrist sheath into my left palm. At the same time, my right hand sought out my rapier.
There were two of them and they were big—obelisk big, blot-out-the-sun big—and they were good.
One blocked my left arm and took away my dagger, a bored look on his face. The other put his hand on my right wrist and stopped the rapier in middraw.
I knew them.
“Niccodemus wants to see you, Nose,” said Salt Eye. “Now.”
ROC
Published by New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
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First published by Roc, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First Printing, April 2011
Copyright © Douglas Hulick, 2011 All rights reserved
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For Jamie, who always believed, even when I didn’t.
In memory of my father, Nicholas Hulick, who read to me and never said no when it came to getting another book. I miss you, Dad.
A Brief Note on the Use of Cant in this Book
The various forms of “cant,” or thieves’ argot, in this book are inspired by records of actual use from various places and times throughout history, from Elizabethan England to twentieth-century American-underworld slang, and many places in between. I have been liberal with both the meaning and forms of many of these words, changing them as I deemed necessary for the story and world. In some places, I have altered either the definition or use of a term; in others, I have left them much as they were historically used. And, not surprisingly, I have also made up certain canting terms from the whole cloth.
So, in short, you will find cant both correct and incorrect, documentable and fanciful, in the following pages. For those who know nothing of the patter flash, I hope it adds to the story; for those who are familiar with it, I hope any creative license on my part doesn’t prove too distracting.
Chapter One
Athel the Grinner wasn’t grinning. In fact, he didn’t look that good at all. A long night of torture will do that to a person.
I knelt beside him. He was naked, his arms lashed across the top of a barrel, the rest of him collapsed behind. I avoided looking at the bloody mess that had once been his hands and feet.
“Athel,” I said. Nothing. I slapped the smuggler lightly on his sweaty cheek. “Hey, Athel.” His eyelids fluttered once. I wove my fingers into his hair, took hold, and raised his head so he could see me. If any of the sympathy or pity I felt showed on my face, so be it. I don’t have to like what I do sometimes. I said his name again.
Athel’s eyes opened and began wandering around the shadowed room. I waited for him to notice me in the candlelight. He did.
“Drothe?” he said. His voice was slow and rusty as he spoke my name. I could tell he was having trouble focusing on me in the flickering light.
“Grinner,” I replied, “want to tell me something?”
“Wha . . . ?” His eyes began to close.
I gave his head a shake. “Athel!” His dark eyes snapped open, feverish in their intensity. I leaned forward and locked my gaze with his, trying to hold his attention by force of will.
“Where’s the reliquary?” I said.
Athel tried to swallow, but coughed instead. “Already told you it’s coming. I just . . .”
“If it’s coming,” I said, “why did I have to chase you halfway across the city? Why did I have to drag you off that skiff as it was launching into the bay? Doesn’t seem like you’ve been playing straight with me, Grinner.”
Athel shook his head, his hair tugging gently in my hand, and grinned weakly. “Wouldn’t cross you, Drothe—you know that.”
“But you did,” I said. I tapped one of his ruined fingers, making him gasp. “You told me earlier, remember?” I let him think back on the pain and remember why he had decided to talk the first time. “You’ve put me in an awkward position, Athel. I have a buyer and no reliquary for him. Th
at undercuts my reputation. That makes me unhappy. So, either you tell me where to find that reliquary, or I come back after my people have done some more persuading.”
I could tell he was thinking about it. His eyes glassed over, and his jaw wobbled softly as he argued it over inside. If the Angels had any mercy, they would let him crack the rest of the way right now. I knelt next to what was left of him and waited, hoping it would end here.
When Athel finally came back up from wherever he had been, I could see the Angels weren’t on my side tonight. Despite all he had gone through, he was still able to summon up a piercing look and give me the weakest shake of his head.
I placed his head gently back on top of the barrel and stood.
“I need to know who he sold it to,” I said. “I need a name.”
“I’ll get you one. Don’t worry,” said a voice from the darkened warehouse around us.
Shatters came walking into the candle’s circle of light, his two assistants behind him. One was carrying a bucket of seawater.
The Agonyman was small, even shorter than I, with broad shoulders and no neck to speak of. His hands were long and expressive, like an artist’s, and he was constantly cracking his knuckles as he walked. Shatters stopped beside me and smiled a cruel, hungry smile. “He’s close to the edge now. Won’t take much more to get him babbling like a drunken whore.” He popped a thumb joint for emphasis.
The assistant with the bucket stepped forward and emptied it over Athel. The smuggler sputtered, then howled as the salt water reached his ravaged hands. I turned away as the other assistant began sorting through the torturer’s tools that had been set aside during my interview.
“Let me know when he’s ready.” My voice came out thick. “I’ll be outside.” Shatters’s laughter followed me through the shuttered warehouse until I opened the door and stepped outside.
I blinked in surprise at the sunlight that struck me in the face. Dawn already? I squinted at the soft glow that seemed to suffuse every tower and building of the Imperial capital. Ildrecca tried its hardest to look peaceful and serene in that light, but I’ve known the city too long to be fooled so easily. Nice try, old friend.
Bronze Degan was across the street, leaning in a doorway. I went over.
“Anything?” he asked.
“Not since the last time I went in.” I gestured to the sun in the east. “When did that happen?”
“Not too long ago.” He yawned. “How much longer?”
I felt myself yawn in return. I hated that. “Hell if I know,” I said.
Degan grunted and rearranged himself in the doorway. Half again as tall as me, with fair hair and skin, broad shoulders, and a lean build, he seemed to fill the entire space on his own. Some of that came from the cut of his clothes—the flowing, long green linen coat, left open to show off the copper-colored doublet beneath, the matching full-cut breeches, the wide-brimmed hat—but just as much came from the man himself. He had an air of easy, capable confidence about him that caused people to give him a healthy berth even in the most crowded city streets. Of course, it didn’t hurt that a bronze-chased sword hung at his side, either—a sword that marked him as a member of the Order of the Degans, an old mercenary order in an even older city. No one entered into that select brotherhood of sell-swords without plenty of personal cachet to begin with.
I slid into the doorway beside Degan, sat down on the stoop, and dug out two ahrami seeds from the pouch around my neck. They were small and oval, the size of my largest knuckle, and darkly roasted. I rubbed them between my palms to let them absorb some sweat. A sharp, acrid smell, with subtle hints of cinnamon, earth, and smoke, rose up from my hands. I felt my pulse quicken at the aroma.
“Breakfast,” announced Degan.
I looked up. “What?”
“I’ve decided you owe me breakfast.”
“Oh?”
Degan gave me a wry look as he silently counted off three fingers.
“Ah,” I said. “Well, I suppose you earned it.”
Degan snorted. There had been three men with Athel the Grinner when I’d finally tracked him down—three very large men. For me, they would have been an impossible barrier; for Degan, they were little more than an inconvenience. If not for him, I’d never have made it out of that plaza, and Athel would still be grinning.
“Thanks,” I added. It was something I didn’t say to my friend nearly enough, and something he didn’t worry about hearing. We’d been running the streets together long enough to have moved past words and gestures like that.
Degan shrugged. “Slow night. I needed something to do.”
I smiled and was just slipping the ahrami seeds into my mouth when a muffled scream came out of the warehouse. Degan and I looked up and down the street, but there was no one to hear Athel’s cries—or, at least, no one who felt inclined to investigate. I shuddered in the silence that followed.
I had been planning on letting the seeds sit in my mouth for a while, to savor the quickening of my pulse in anticipation. Now, I simply bit down. The ahrami filled my mouth with smoky, bittersweet flavor. I chewed quickly, swallowed, and waited for them to hit.
They came on fast, as the straight seeds always do. One moment I was tired and half asleep; the next, I felt revitalized. The cobwebs that had been draping themselves across my mind for the last several hours receded, replaced with a sense of alertness. I could feel the worst of the tension drain out of me. My back loosened, and the pressure that had been building behind my eyes faded away. The fatigue was still there—I wasn’t going to be running across the city again any time soon—but I didn’t feel as raw as I had a few moments ago.
I sat up a little straighter and worked the kinks from my shoulders. My mind was settled, my pulse was steady, and my eyes were sharp once more.
I shook the bag around my neck before slipping it back under my shirt. Only a few seeds left. I’d have to restock soon.
We settled back and waited. I thought I heard a few more screams, but the city was coming alive by then and the yells seemed softer than before, so it was hard to tell.
One of Shatters’s men came out to get me just as the ahrami was starting to wear off. By the time I made it back into the warehouse and stood at the Agonyman’s side, the rush had faded completely, leaving me in a less than charitable mood.
“Well?” I said.
Shatters was rinsing his hands and forearms in a large bucket of water that had been set atop a crate. “Gotcher name.”
“And?” I said.
“Amazing how good this feels after a long night,” he said, nodding toward the water. “Ya get warm, working on a man that long.” Shatters glanced at me sideways. “Makes you appreciate the simple things, you know?”
I stayed silent. I suspected I knew where this was going, but I wanted to let him get there on his own.
“Like hawks,” said Shatters. “Hawks are simple things.”
“Oh?”
He nodded. “You want something, you give a person hawks and he gives it to ya. The more you want it, the more money you give him.”
I nodded. This was going where I had thought it would: Shatters was trying to shake me down.
“Pretty simple,” I said. “Except we already agreed on a price.”
Shatters paused as he leaned over the bucket. I noticed that the water had taken on a reddish tint. “This took longer than I expected,” he said flatly. “I figure if something takes that long to get, it’s worth a higher price. A man don’t hold out like Athel did for sheer stubbornness.” He ran a finger through the water. “You want to hear what he had to say, you’ll hatch some more hawks.”
“Or?”
“Or he won’t be telling no one nothing ever again, and the name walks with me.”
“I see.”
Shatters grinned. “Smart lad.” He bent down to rinse his face.
“Smart,” I agreed as I grabbed the back of his neck and shoved his head down into the water. I shifted my weight to keep him there,
steadying the bucket with my other hand as he struggled.
As a rule, I don’t mind renegotiating—hell, it’s part of doing business with people like Shatters. Kin are always trying to line their pockets with a few extra hawks. But there’s a right way and a wrong way to do it. The right way involves respect and a little give and take from both sides; the wrong way usually involves demanding more money “or else.” Unless I’m the one offering it, I hate “or else.”
Even underwater, Shatters was loud. His assistants came running. I barely glanced up as they came into sight.
“First one of you raises a hand goes dustmans,” I said. They both skidded to a stop, torn between my threat to kill them and their duty to their master. They eyed me, Shatters, and each other in turn.
I knew I had them the moment they hesitated. “Fade,” I said. Still, they stood there. I looked up from Shatters’s flailing and met the larger man’s eyes. “What are you, a couple of Eriffs? Don’t you know who I am? I said, fade!”
The larger man ducked his head and turned away. The smaller one paused and eyed the distance between us, considering. I showed my teeth.
“Come on, pup. Try me.”
He left.
Shatters’s struggles had begun to weaken by then. I raised his head out of the water long enough for him to get half a breath, then shoved it back under. Pause, repeat, and again. Near the end of the fourth dunking, I let go and stepped away.
Shatters fell sideways with his head still in the bucket, spilling water over himself and the floor. He lay there, coughing violently, his body convulsing with the effort. I knelt down and relieved him of his dagger as he vomited up water and bile.
“The name,” I said when he was done.
Shatters spit. “Screw,” he said.
“That’s not a name,” I said. I stood and pushed his face into his own vomit with my foot, crushing his nose against the floor in the process. “Try again.”
Among Thieves Page 1
