“Anything?” called Rambles from inside.
The head began to shake, then paused. Slowly, he twisted until he was looking up at me. He had a broad nose and a prominent jaw. No obvious scars, but I could tell it was a fighter’s face—hard, solid, not afraid to be hit. He saw my rapier poised above him and smiled slowly, showing small, even teeth.
“We won’t be catching him tonight,” he said in the deep, gravelly voice I knew from the sewers; the voice I now had a face to put to. “Not without a lot of pain and trouble, anyhow.”
“Shit!” said Rambles. “We need to know how much he heard. Who he was working for.”
The man raised an eyebrow. I pretended to study my rapier, then shook my head. He shrugged, glanced inside, and gave me a questioning look. Could he go back in?
I debated. I was in a good position, wanted answers, and might not get a better chance. However, I didn’t know whether or not Rambles had people moving toward the roof even now. Nor could I count on Rambles’s going easy on me just because we both worked for Nicco. Our mutual dislike aside, it was obvious he had a side deal going with the man below me, if not an outright partnership. Depending on how much or how little Nicco knew about it, Rambles might not be inclined to let me walk away.
No, best to get away while I could. Sticking around, no matter how tempting, could get me in far worse trouble than I cared to court.
“Name?” I said to the man.
He considered a moment. “Ironius,” he said. “You?”
I grinned and said, “Tell Rambles his favorite Nose said, ‘Bene darkmans.’ ” Then I leaned back from the edge, vanishing from his sight, and took to the roofs. I didn’t get down off them until I was safely inside Stone Arch cordon.
Chapter Twelve
I spent half the night trying to find Nicco after that, only to learn that he had left town at sunset. He had retired to his villa outside the city with a new whore and left strict instructions not to be disturbed. I had been tempted to hike out there regardless, but the off-duty bodyguard I’d spoken to had made it clear I would be wasting my time. At best, I would end up with a pair of sore feet, at worst, a mouthful of loose teeth.
No one was getting in to see Nicco; the man took his whoring seriously.
Still, if I couldn’t get to him, neither could Rambles. Not the best solace, but it would have to do, at least until sunrise. And in the meantime, I could go see a man about a rope.
Entering the Raffa Na’Ir cordon is like walking into the Despotate of Djan, except you don’t have to sail across the Corsian Passage or brave the wastes of the southern Imperial Frontier. In the Raffa Na’Ir, there are no carved angels watching over the squares, no temples to the three incarnations of the emperor. Instead, small rectangular plaques are set in the walls at every street corner, each depicting a member of the family of wandering gods the Djanese worship. Immigrant Djanese throng the streets, buying, trading, stealing, and living much as they would in their own land, save they are even more aware of the imperial sons and daughters who walk among them. In the camp of the enemy, one must always be vigilant.
I made my way through the darkened ways of the cordon without concern. The empire was in one of its intermittent periods of peace with the Despotate of Djan, meaning resentment toward Imperials was at a low ebb. That didn’t mean I wasn’t a target for theft, confidence games, or even a simple social tap across the back of my head, but no one was likely to dust me just because of my parentage. During war, the risks went up, but, even then, the locals knew it was better to dust Imperials outside the cordon rather than in it. They were here on sufferance, after all.
I found Jelem sitting in front of the Café Lumar with four of his countrymen. Lamps hung from the wooden lattices overhead, providing a patchwork of soft light and deep shadows on the patio. Each man had a small brass cup and matching pot full of coffee at hand. Two had water pipes within easy reach as well. Even from the street, I could smell the mixture of burning herbs and ghannar—a mild narcotic favored by many of the Djanese.
They were playing aja, a Djanese game involving marked bone chits, dice, and a complex system of betting I’ve never been able to get the hang of. In my opinion, there are less confusing ways to lose money.
I paused at the edge of the patio to let my eyes adjust. Jelem looked up and smiled, his teeth shining white in the walnut darkness of his face. As usual, he had an air of disinterest about him, as if nothing were quite important enough to demand his full attention. He half sat, half lay in his chair, the long, dark fingers of one hand idly playing with a chit while his other hand stroked the needlework on his crimson vest. His slippered feet, just visible beneath a long cream-colored tunic, were crossed at the ankles. Even the sharp lines of his face seemed to blur and soften in the lamplight. But for all the ease and dispassion his body implied, it was his eyes that I paid attention to—two flat, dull chips of blackness, as hard as the rest of him seemed soft; calculating eyes; magician’s eyes.
“Bene darkmans, Drothe,” said Jelem. “I hear you’ve been looking for me.” The other men at the table looked at me the way they might acknowledge a cockroach that had just crawled from beneath the table.
Relations between the Kin and the Zakur, the Djanese underworld in Ildrecca, have always been guarded. They pay their share to us (mostly), and we leave them alone (mostly). My artifact smuggling occasionally puts me in closer dealings with the Zakur than most other Kin, but it doesn’t mean I have any more clout with them. They’re Djanese; I’m Imperial. It’s a basic fact neither side forgets.
Jelem is one of the few exceptions. He’ll work for anyone if the price is right.
I nodded to Jelem. “Bene darkmans,” I said. “Can you drag yourself away?”
Jelem glanced down at the unclaimed pile of coins in the middle of the table, then at the chit he had placed before him a few moments ago. “Now isn’t the best time, Drothe.”
My face remained expressionless as I reached into the bag I was carrying and drew out the rope I had retrieved from my rooms—Tamas’s rope. I tossed the coiled mass onto the table.
I hadn’t known what would happen, just that I wanted to get Jelem’s attention. It worked.
The rope landed on the chit in front of Jelem, shattering the bone with a loud crack. Pieces flew across the table, skipping off coins and sending gamblers scampering.
“Whoreson Imperial!” they shouted at me in Djanese. “Camel fucker!” “Gods damned stealer of shit!” Then there was the usual litany about my parentage. But none of them came at me. I was here to see Jelem, and they knew better than to cross him.
I pretended not to understand what they were saying and instead watched Jelem. Of all the men at the table, only he had remained seated during the display. He quietly regarded the smoking rope, then reached out to gingerly pick it up between the knots.
“I’ll be sitting out the next few hands,” said Jelem in Djanese as he pushed out his chair and stood up.
The other men grumbled and glared at me as they returned to the table, dark eyes simmering with anger. I gave them a sneering smile in return and turned away.
Jelem and I settled in at a small table against the outside wall of the café. A boy stuck his head out of the front door to see what all the commotion was about, and I waved him over. I ordered in Djanese: a pot of coffee for myself, another for Jelem, and whatever light fare they had in the kitchen. The boy ducked back out of sight, and I let myself relax into the thin cushions of the chair.
I remained silent as Jelem examined the rope. He ran it lightly through his fingers, over and over, always avoiding the knots, whole or charred. Now and then, he mumbled something to himself, or to the rope—I wasn’t sure which.
Through the wall, I could hear soft, rhythmic music and the low hum of voices coming from inside the café.
“I see some of the spells have been used,” said Jelem at last.
“I can vouch for that firsthand.”
Jelem glanced up at me, raising
an eyebrow in appreciation. “Not Nicco’s, I assume?”
“Not his style.” I frowned. “Why?”
Jelem shrugged. “He’s one of the few people I can see affording this. But yes, if he were after you, you’d either be dead or two days away from the city by now.”
“The Blade’s name was Tamas,” I said.
“Any idea who hired him?”
Our coffee arrived then. Jelem and I regarded each other as the boy filled our cups and left.
“That’s why I’m here,” I said.
“Ah,” said Jelem. He looked back down at the rope, tsked, and set it aside. Then he took a long sip of coffee. “This isn’t good.”
I knew he wasn’t talking about the coffee.
I’m told there are a lot of different ways to categorize magic, but, when it comes to the Kin, we have only three labels that matter: legal, illegal, and imperial.
Legal glimmer is something we ignore. There’s no money in it. Between the Imperial Cult, which has things like blessings, the comforting of souls, and “miraculous” salves sewn up, and the Sodality of Street Mouths, which has a lock on mending spells, wart removal, luck charms, and other day-work glimmer, there’s no room to maneuver.
Illegal glimmer, though, is another story. It’s been one of the monetary cornerstones of the Kin for ages. Need someone hurt without leaving a mark? A stone building fired? A rival’s shipment to rot on the docks? There are people who can speak that kind of spell—for a price. A high price.
And for an even higher price, a piece of portable glimmer can be made—magic that anyone can use; magic that can hurt or break or kill with hardly any effort on the user’s part; magic that was banned three centuries ago after the Golem Riots of Nimenia. Magic that will, in short, get you hanged if you’re found with it on your person.
As for imperial glimmer, well, even we know better than that. Tweaking the imperial nose with a bit of rope like Tamas’s is one thing, but playing with magic that was gifted to the emperor and his court by the Angels, magic that could level buildings or burn a forest to the ground in a matter of minutes? Let’s put it this way: People who make or use portable glimmer die; people who play with imperial glimmer become examples—lasting examples, for decades or longer.
Tamas’s rope was the portable kind of glimmer.
“I need to find out who sent the Blade after me,” I said. “Finding the person who made that rope might help. You know portable glimmer, so . . .” I let the sentence trail off meaningfully.
“Not possible,” said Jelem, his eyes focused on the coffee in the cup before him. “Yazani, or Mouths as you like to call them, don’t leave their names on the things they make. At least, the smart ones don’t, and I suspect whoever made this rope is smart.”
“Then how do the Paragons track them down?”
Jelem shrugged. “I’m not an imperial magician: I don’t know.”
I poured myself another cup of coffee.
“However . . .” Jelem said.
I grinned. I had suspected there was more to it than a simple “no.”
“That doesn’t mean I can’t take a look at the rope itself.”
“For a price?” I said.
“Even so.”
“How much?” I asked.
Jelem spread his hands in a single, elegant motion. “Hard to say. It will depend on how complex the magic is. Once I have a better idea of who glimmered the rope, I can better—”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “I thought you said you couldn’t tell who made it.”
“I did.”
“But—”
Jelem held up a hand. “Bide.”
I leaned forward in my chair. “Don’t you tell me to bide. If you’re playing me—”
“No,” said Jelem, pointing past me. “Bide. Your food is here.”
I looked up and almost put my face into the plate coming past my shoulder. It veered away at the last moment, and the boy smiled apologetically as he adjusted his arm to place my dinner before me.
It was a salad of nuts, leafy greens, and sliced fruit, all tossed with a spiced oil. He set down a stack of flat bread beside it, along with a bowl of chopped peppers and softened beans marinated in red vinegar. Typical Djanese fare.
As the boy bowed and walked away, I suddenly realized just how hungry I was. I tore into the repast with relish. Jelem laughed indulgently, commenting on the superiority of Djanese food compared to imperial fare. I shrugged noncommittally, as my mouth was too full to answer.
After a few minutes, I slowed my pace somewhat. A new pot of coffee arrived, and I used its sharp flavor to cut the sweet heat of the salad oil. Now that I was bothering to taste it, the food was excellent. I said as much to Jelem.
“Of course,” he said, smiling broadly. “You think I would frequent just any café?” He leaned in closer. “Besides, the owner is my wife’s second cousin—their whole family are excellent cooks. Ahnya would never forgive me if ate anywhere else.”
I smiled in turn. The image of Jelem’s small, delicate, yet fiery wife, Ahnya, berating the Mouth for snubbing her family was a picture I could easily imagine.
I leaned back in my own seat, tore off a small strip of flat bread, and decided to take advantage of Jelem’s relaxed frame of mind.
“You were saying,” I said as I dipped the bread into the beans and peppers, “something about Tamas’s rope?”
Jelem sighed and closed his eyes. “I had said I could not find out who made the item, which is true. What I can do, however, is try to find out how they made it. There are only so many ways to gather magic and weave it into something like this.”
“And how does knowing how it was made help us?” I said.
Jelem opened his eyes and regarded me with the same expression he might use for a pheasant that had asked why it was being eaten. “ ‘How’ tells us which style of magic the maker used,” he explained. “ ‘How’ tells us what degree of ability the maker had. ‘How’ tells us how much, roughly, someone is willing to spend on killing you. And ‘how’ tells me—maybe—how to make more of these charming little baubles.” He tapped the rope. “The magic is keyed to the runes. That ought to make it easier to unravel.”
I looked at the pieces of paper—scraps, really—sticking out of the knots. On a hunch, I reached into my pouch and pulled out the strip of parchment I had taken off Athel the Grinner’s body.
“What can you make of this?” I said.
Jelem took the battered slip of paper in his long fingers and held it up to the light of a lamp hanging above us.
“It means nothing to me,” he said after a moment. “Why?”
I took back the paper. “I haven’t been able to figure out what’s written on it. It just occurred to me it may be some sort of notation or script used in glimmering.”
“If it is, I’ve never seen its like before.”
“I’ve been getting a lot of that lately,” I said. I looked at the paper again in the dim light. It looked the same as before—dots, dashes, squiggles, and angles, with the hint of something legible here and there. Except for “imperial” and “relic,” though, nothing on it made sense.
“Is it important?” said Jelem.
“It had better be,” said a familiar voice off to my right. “Otherwise, he’s been doing a lot of chasing for nothing.”
I looked up to see Degan stepping onto the porch of the café. He brushed the brim of his hat in Jelem’s direction; the Mouth smiled lazily in return.
“Sometimes, nothing is the best thing to chase,” said Jelem.
“Drothe’s ‘nothings’ usually carry swords,” said Degan, “and come with several well-armed friends.”
“Ah,” said Jelem. “That kind of nothing.” He sat up in his chair. “In that case, I think we have ‘nothing’ further to discuss.” Jelem laid his hand on the rope. “We are agreed?” he said.
“We’re agreed.” I didn’t have much of a choice. “Just don’t screw me too bad on the price. And make it quick.”
Jelem stood, sketching a graceful bow while tracing a complex spiral pattern in the air. “As the Scions of the Great Family allow,” he said. He took the rope, coiled it, and walked back over to his game.
I turned to Degan as he took Jelem’s vacated seat. “I’ve been hoping to catch up with you,” I said.
“Must be your lucky night,” he said, tearing off a piece of flat bread and running it through the beans. “Or mine.”
“I have a name to run by you.”
“Oh?”
“ ‘Ironius,’ ” I said, letting the name of the man we had heard in the sewers of Ten Ways and I had seen at Rambles’s drop into the space between us.
Degan froze, the bread poised before his mouth. Without looking at me, he set it back down and stood up.
“We’re leaving,” he said. Before I could answer, he had turned away and begun walking. I hurried to my feet and followed.
Degan led me through Raffa Na’Ir cordon and out, then into the Hounds, all in silence. I was nearly running at points to keep up with his long, quick stride. Finally, I stopped in a small piazza and leaned a hand against the fountain in the center. I was breathing hard.
“Enough,” I said. “Here is good enough.”
Degan stopped and looked around, as if not realizing where he had brought me. Perhaps he hadn’t. He came over and scooped up a handful of water from the basin in the fountain, sipped, then spit it out onto the bricks of the piazza.
“How’d you come by that name?” he said.
I hesitated for half a second, debating about pushing him to talk first. The hard look in his eyes persuaded me otherwise.
“He was with Rambles,” I said.
“Nicco’s Rambles?”
“Do you know any other Rambles?” I said. “They were in Ten Ways.”
“Doing?”
I told him about the conversation I’d overheard, about Rambles’s apparent arrangement with Ironius, about my brief meeting with the latter on the roof. “Ironius and the woman are working Ten Ways,” I finished. “Have been for a while. It sounds as if they’re trying to unify the local gangs for some reason.”
Among Thieves Page 14
