Among Thieves totk-1

by Douglas Hulick

  They had taken the lantern with them. Only a single candle remained, perched on a nearby box. I set Athel’s things on a crate and looked at the candle, considering.

  It was a mixed blessing, being able to see in the dark better than anything, save maybe a cat. In alleys, on rooftops, for stalking the night, the strange gift my stepfather, Sebastian, had given me was invaluable. But at times like these, with natural light and the temporary blindness it could bring a mere glance away, my night vision was an uneasy proposition at best.

  That, and the risk of discovery, gave me pause. I didn’t relish trying to explain my examining Athel’s things in the dark should Shatters or his assistants return. The best edge was one you kept hidden, and this was mine. I’d never met anyone else who had night vision except for Sebastian, and he had given it up the night he performed the ritual that passed it on to me. I’d shared its existence with only three people since that night decades ago, and I sure as hell wasn’t about to bring Shatters into that select circle.

  No. Convenient as it might have been to step off into the darkened warehouse and have Athel’s belongings limn themselves in a faint amber glow, now was not the time to take chances.

  I moved the candle closer to Athel’s sodden possessions. I’d searched his things earlier, but not especially well. I had been counting on the questioning to give me the answers I wanted. Now, though, with nothing more than a name and a dead smuggler getting cold

  …

  I started with the clothes, wringing them out and checking for hidden pockets, lined seams, or false soles on the shoes. Nothing. The purse held a few coins-three copper owls and a silver hawk-and a scarred lead lozenge. I recognized it as an old pilgrim’s token from my grandfather’s time. It was triple-stamped with the three symbols of the emperor, one for each of his recurring incarnations. Whoever had originally owned this had completed the imperial pilgrimage route-no small feat, given it had stretched nearly a thousand miles. A series of border wars and an imperial decree had shifted the route since then, making these tokens a rare thing. I put the coins back in the purse for Shatters’s men to find, and pocketed the token.

  The contents of Athel’s shoulder satchel hadn’t changed, either: a pipe, two thin candles (broken), a leather smoker’s packet, and a wedge of moldy cheese. Feeling the need to be thorough, I broke apart the pipe, crumbled the cheese in my hands, and upended the small packet onto the crate. The pipe held nothing but char; the cheese smelled dry and old; and the packet contained some finely shredded tobacco and three long, narrow scraps of paper twisted lengthwise to form simple pipe tapers.

  I turned the shoulder satchel inside out, checking the lining and cutting open the seams for good measure.

  Nothing.

  Hell.

  I leaned against the crate and stared into the darkness of the warehouse. Back behind me, I could hear Shatters’s men cursing as they moved something unwieldy-likely Athel’s body. I also heard someone call my name.

  “Drothe?” It was Degan.

  “Here,” I called.

  I listened to him thread his way through the barrels and crates, then saw the glow that came with him. He must have taken one of Shatters’s lanterns. I squinted and purposefully turned my back to him, but the illumination still made my eyes burn. The place must have been dim enough to start awakening my night vision after all, even with the candle.

  “Anything?” he said as he came up beside me.

  “A name,” I said, blinking rapidly as my eyes gave one last fiery protest and then settled into normal vision. “Ioclaudia.”

  “Old name,” observed Degan.

  I nodded. “Know anyone who goes by it?”

  “Nope.”

  I nodded again. It would have been too much to hope for, anyhow.

  Degan waited. I remained silent. “Tell me that isn’t all you got,” he said.

  “That’s all I got.”

  Degan set the lantern down on the crate and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Why is it always like this with you? Why is it never easy?”

  “Luck?” I said. Degan didn’t smile. I sighed and reached for the lantern. “Come on,” I said, turning away. “The smell in here is-” I froze in midmotion. “Damn.”

  Degan’s hand drifted ever so slightly toward his sword. “What?”

  I set the lantern back down and leaned forward over the crate. There, on one of the pipe tapers, just visible among the folds and twists of the paper, was an ideograph.

  I picked up the taper and carefully untwisted it. No, it hadn’t been a trick of the light. The symbol pystos, along with a host of other random markings, had been inked on the scrap of paper. Pystos meant “relic.” And near it, the block symbol immus, simple shorthand for “emperor.”

  Degan bent down and peered over my shoulder. He chuckled.

  “Luck, indeed,” he agreed.

  Chapter Two

  I held the slip of paper up and slightly away from me, angling it to better catch the sunlight coming over my shoulder. It was about as wide as my ring finger and a little longer than my hand. Finely inked markings-lines, dots, odd angles, and curves-ran along the left half of the paper; the rest was blank. The ideographs for pystos and immus were jumbled in among the rest of the markings. Aside from those words, though, it looked like a bunch of insect tracks set down in ink.

  “Cart,” said Degan from off to my right.

  I looked up and found myself a step away from walking into a parked baker’s cart. I sidestepped, but not fast enough to avoid catching my hip on a corner. Bread and rolls jostled from the impact, and the baker scowled as he made sure I wasn’t helping myself to any of his goods.

  “I’m surprised you didn’t let me run into the damn thing,” I said as I came alongside Degan, rubbing where I’d connected with the wood.

  “I considered it,” said Degan, “but it seemed a shame to ruin that baker’s day just for my own amusement.”

  “There’s a saying for friends like you, you know.”

  Degan laughed.

  We were in Long Brick cordon now, with Little Docks and its warehouses ten blocks behind and receding. A trace of the sea still hung in the air, but it was quickly being overpowered by the earthier smells of the cordon: filthy cobbles, sweaty day laborers, busy women on their way to the public fountains, and yes, the aroma of freshly baked bread. Groups of children rushed around carts and ducked between legs, adding to the frenzy of the early-morning traffic. I figured at least a quarter of the children were on the dodge-lifting goods, cutting purses, or spying out marks for their older partners.

  This was the edge of Nicco’s territory-my territory-and I marked my fellow Kin as I went. A Purse Cutter here, with her small sharp knife and deft hands; a Tail Drawer there, wearing a long cloak to better hide the swords he stole from other men’s belts; a Talker across the way, all fast words and plausible stories, setting up cons for the unwary; and a dozen other dodges as well. And everywhere, the Masters of the Black Art, begging bowls in hand, their faked maladies displayed for the Lighters as they walked by. A few Kin gave me discreet nods or a small signal of greeting. Most just got on with their business. I did the same.

  Degan cleared his throat. “So…?” he said, indicating the slip of paper still in my hand.

  “Beats the hell out of me.” I folded it up and stuck it in my ahrami pouch. “Could be a code. Could be a cipher. Hell, it could even be a scrap of paper for lighting a pipe.”

  “A scrap of paper that just happens to mention an imperial relic?” said Degan. “Pretty convenient.”

  “It says ‘imperial’ and it says ‘relic.’ It doesn’t say anything directly about an ‘imperial relic.’ ”

  Degan stayed eloquently silent.

  “Yeah,” I said, “I don’t believe in coincidences like that, either, but the thing that really doesn’t make sense-”

  “You mean some of this makes sense?”

  “The thing that really doesn’t make sense,” I continued pointedly, “
is Athel. Why did he stand the knife so well?”

  “Ah,” said Degan. “That.”

  “Yes.”

  Relic hunting was one of the riskier dodges out there. The empire frowned on people lightening its holy objects, let alone selling them, and they were none too gentle with those they caught in the act. It ranked somewhere below trying to actually kill the emperor, but above desecrating an imperial shrine, and the Kin who ply the trade know just what to expect if they get caught.

  That was part of why I only dabbled in the trade; but Athel had made an art of it. He was famous for having hidden prayer scrolls in sausage casings, floating olive oil on top of sacred water in cooking jars, and wearing a vestment sash wrapped as a turban. But he’d also burned a four-hundred-year-old tract on imperial divinity rather than let the imperial relic trackers-the Brothers Penitent-find it on him. Athel hadn’t been the kind of man to fold in the face of adversity, or to risk himself needlessly. He had known how to cut his losses, which was why it hadn’t made sense for Athel to stand against Shatters for so long.

  “Why would Athel keep silent?” I said out loud. “What was the point?”

  “Money?” said Degan.

  I shook my head. “The relic was worth a lot,” I said, “but Athel knew he was dustmans from the moment I caught him. Why keep quiet if you know you aren’t going to be around to enjoy the hawks?”

  “Vindictive?” suggested Degan.

  “How do you mean?”

  “If he knew you were going to dust him, why tell you anything at all? He knew he was dead either way-maybe he just wanted to rub your nose in it one last time.”

  “That wasn’t Athel’s style,” I said.

  “People’s styles change under a knife, Drothe.”

  “Maybe,” I said, “but Shatters did more than enough to break a simple stubborn streak. You don’t put up with that kind of pain just to be petty.”

  “Petty men do.”

  I thought back to the look in Athel’s eye at the end. “He was a far cry from petty,” I said.

  Degan sighed. “All right-what about loyalty?”

  “From one of the Kin?” I laughed out loud.

  “I’ve known one or two to keep their word,” he said, eyeing me sidelong. “Some even make a habit of it.”

  “Usually to their regret,” I said drily. I looked around again, spotting a few of my fellow Kin on the street. Would any of them stand the knife for one of their fellows, let alone a local boss? Would any of them be able to stand it like Athel had?

  Once, maybe. When there had been a Dark King. When Isidore had stood at the head of all the Kin, controlling a criminal empire that spanned the underside of the true empire. The stories told how he had formed and shaped us, turning a morass of petty criminals and local bosses into a tightly run organization. Nothing was stolen that he didn’t get a cut of; no dodge pulled he couldn’t get the details on; no betrayal or cross he wouldn’t make someone pay for. Kin didn’t prey on Kin, Isidore had said, and, for a short time, until the empire-and the emperor-had taken notice, it had even been true.

  Emperor Lucien, maniacally jealous of his power in those days, couldn’t abide the thought of anyone else claiming sway over a kingdom-even a dark one-within his empire. All power flowed from the imperial throne; to set up any lesser authority within the empire without his permission was a challenge to his supreme authority. And so the aging incarnation had created the White Sashes, to set his personal hunters apart from his gold-sashed house guards and the black-belted legions. They had poured through the streets of Ildrecca and beyond, those White Sashes, dragging the Imperial legions in their wake. Kin had filled the gallows like apples in autumn orchards. Those the Whites couldn’t find rope for, they left lying in the streets. Entire families were cut down because one member was part of Isidore’s empire within the empire. And Isidore was marched through the streets and butchered like a sheep over the course of a day and a night, kept alive by Imperial magic to make sure the message struck home.

  And it had. Nearly two hundred years later, the Kin were still fractured. Where once we had a king, today small-time bosses, petty street gangs, and factional infighting were the norm. The closest anyone came to Isidore were the Gray Princes, and they were still a far cry away. Half-mythical crime lords who ran shadow kingdoms among the Kin, each Prince had people in dozens of different criminal organizations, reporting back and manipulating dodges to their agendas. No one knew how many jobs happened at their bidding, or what percentage of each take made it into their various coffers without anyone being the wiser; yet no one doubted they did. The Gray Princes ran no specific territories, had no bases of operation. But every Kin knew their names: Shadow, the Dance Mistress, Longreach, Solitude, the Piper’s Son, Crook Eye, and Blazon-legends to be avoided at all costs, if you were wise.

  But for all their genius and reach, the Princes were still pale, squabbling shadows of Isidore, just as we were all small reflections of them in one way or another. There was no pride, no center to the Kin anymore. I couldn’t see a typical member of the Kin taking what Shatters had done to Athel and not breaking. There wouldn’t be a percentage in holding out, and nowadays that was what it came down to-except, it seemed, for Athel.

  “All right,” I said, “even if I assume for a moment that Athel was keeping tight out of a sense of duty-which I don’t-it still comes down to who. Who would he be loyal to? He was a smuggler. He worked for himself. Who gets a smuggler to stand up to torture like that?”

  “Ioclaudia?”

  Back to the one name Athel had given us. I shook my head in frustration. “Maybe,” I said, “but who is she? She’s no Boman Prig, that’s for sure-otherwise one of us would have heard about her before this.”

  “Who says she has to be a notorious member of the Kin? Maybe Athel was doing it for some other reason.”

  “It’d have to be a pretty damn good reason to hold out against Shatters all night.”

  Degan stared off down the street for several paces. “Maybe Ioclaudia was family,” he said.

  “Athel’s? You mean his sister or something?”

  “Or a mother, or a lover.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t see it.”

  “No, I don’t expect you would.”

  I bit down on a sharp reply and managed a shrug instead. I wasn’t going to let myself be baited that easily. If Degan wanted to bring up my sister, he could damn well say her name. I wasn’t about to do it for him.

  “Don’t I owe you breakfast?” I said instead.

  “Changing the subject?”

  “Paying my debts.”

  Degan smiled. “Even better.”

  I did some quick mental figuring. “It’s Falcon Day. That means I need to stop by Mendross’s stall.”

  Degan glanced up at the sky. “Isn’t it a little early for you to be paying calls?”

  “By about eight hours,” I agreed, “but I’ve found that it never hurts to surprise your people now and again. Keeps them on edge. Besides, his produce will be fresher this time of day.”

  It took us less than half an hour to make our way to Fifth Angel Square. The place was home to the A’Riif Bazaar, a maze of stalls, tents, and humanity, all crammed together in an area that should have held half as much of each. The bazaar was famed for its cheap prices, cheaper goods, and excellent street food. A perpetual haze hung over the square, made up of equal parts cooking smoke, dust, and heat. Beneath the haze, the awnings and tents of the merchants created a ragged patchwork of shade and sunlight, shadows and color, through which walked a cross section of the empire itself, from native Ildreccan bargain hunters to refugees from the Djanese frontier, and everything in between.

  Presiding over it all was the square’s patron, the Angel Elirokos. The statue must have been a fine representation of the old Pardoner when it went up a couple centuries ago. Now, though, the paint had peeled off nearly a quarter of his frame to reveal the dull gray stone beneath. Only one arm, the one traditionally poin
ting northward, remained intact; the other had been missing for decades. Without his famous handful of souls, the old boy looked like a crippled beggar trying to wave down a mark.

  I’d always liked that statue.

  Mendross’s stall was near the base of the Angel, just beyond its shade. He was busy overcharging a woman when we walked up. As they dickered, Degan and I helped ourselves to some breakfast. Mendross took this in stride, but the woman seemed put out.

  “Is this why I pay so much, eh? So your friends can eat for free, eh?”

  Mendross favored us with a frown deep from within his jowls, then beamed at his customer. “Ah, no, madam! No, these fine fellows are merely sampling wares for their master, the esteemed Pandri, favored underchef to the Outer Imperial Court.”

  The woman looked Degan and me up and down and did not seem impressed. I couldn’t blame her; even without the night we had just had, I doubt anyone would have allowed us near the Outer Court, let alone into its kitchens.

  “Pah!” she concluded, and walked away.

  Degan picked up a handful of brilliant mountain strawberries and sampled one. “I think our master, the underchef, would be quite pleased with these, Drothe.” He popped another into his mouth. “Ought to slide down the thrice-blessed pipe quite nicely.”

  “Excellent timing,” grumbled Mendross. “I nearly had her.”

  I made a dismissive gesture as I stepped up alongside the merchant, leaving only a small bushel of figs between us. “I’ll give you the two damn owls you’d have made.”

  “Four. And you’re early.”

  “Three, and yes I am.”

  “Wait here. I wasn’t ready for you.” The merchant lumbered to the back of his stall and made a production of rooting around. I amused myself by tossing figs to a couple of bazaar urchins. Degan ate and watched the crowd.