by Sam Sykes
It was difficult, yes. But it was through the labor that thieves—honest thieves—proved their worth. It demanded time, it demanded money, and sometimes it demanded dabbling with the very lowest of scum: crooked smiths, Bloodwise Brothers, and, Silf forbid, actors.
And one false slip—and there were many false slips—would see an amateur hanged, beheaded, or worse, depending on which fasha caught him.
Denaos, by necessity and elimination, had not hung around with amateurs.
Those were the days.
Bloodier days, admittedly, but still.
Those were the days when the Jackals were just another gang on the street, one head of a serpent with many, continuously devouring itself. Those were the days when the Jackals had earned their gold and their blood with labor and steel… and more blood.
Now the Jackals were a guild, a single snake with a single head. No longer a gang, but a company. No longer thieves, but businessmen. And ones who knew nothing of labor.
Why monitor a target when the organization had carefully edited dossiers illustrating the manner and posture of every servant of every house? Why pull favors when one had a network of employees to draw from, all on the company coin? And why steal or craft a disguise when one could simply wander into a shop and buy one?
Efficient. Organized. Bloodless.
Dishonest.
Denaos had plenty of time to reflect on this.
Mostly because service at Man-Shuu Yon’s Emporium of Washables for Creatures Great and Small (Bipeds Only) was so absent it might as well have been myth.
He leaned over the counter, trying to see into the darkness through a doorway that segregated a small lobby from the laundry proper. He could see racks of clothes, washtubs, scrubbing boards, and a variety of vials and jugs from which the scents of a variety of soaps and perfumes wafted. But there were no employees, no managers, and certainly no one who could answer him.
And yet, all the same, Denaos sighed and reached for a bell attached to the counter via a pull rope, next to a sign that helpfully read: “Engage all digits and apply with conviction (mental).”
He pulled the rope. The bell rang out a clear brass note. Unfortunately, that note did not read “come to the fucking counter,” so Denaos pulled it again. And again. And again and again and again until he was spewing curses along with the bell’s song.
“You are heard, consumer.”
From behind the counter, a featureless black shape rose to a towering seven feet tall. The higher it rose, the more its shape became clear: a robe fell neatly into place around a thin body complemented by four arms ending in four hands folding neatly before it. It peered down at Denaos through a tastefully framed painting of a landscape of rolling hills and apple trees.
Couthi? Denaos thought, incredulously. We’re dealing with couthi now?
“Greetings and welcome to where dreams are made after nightmares have been scrubbed clean from silk, assuming all chemicals available function as intended.”
Denaos didn’t bother to hide his wince at the creature’s chilling monotone. He did restrain himself from openly screaming when the couthi extended one of its arms to him.
“Your tender skin should have been entrusted with a scrap of paper exactly one-quarter-foot by one-quarter-foot with all pertinent details as to fabric and physiology. Please relinquish it at this moment.”
“Er, no.” Denaos held up his hands, as if to ward away the creature’s limb. “I don’t have a…” He regained his composure. “Er, I mean…” He leaned over the counter, businesslike. “I’ve come from The Oxbow.”
The couthi merely stared back, unmoving. Or at least, Denaos assumed he was staring. How in the hell would anyone be able to tell? This is why no one sensible worked with couthi.
The landscape serving as the thing’s face shifted. Denaos looked behind him to see the door closing; it unnerved him that he hadn’t heard it open. A man wearing dark leathers and a dark look came in, eyes glancing over Denaos as he took a seat on a nearby waiting bench.
“You are a patron of The Oxbow.” The couthi turned its attention back to Denaos. “This is acknowledged. What do you require, associate of the Jack—”
“Not so loud, moron!” Denaos snarled.
He cast a glance over his shoulder. The door opened and shut as a woman walked in and took a seat beside the man. He leaned closer, whispering harshly to the couthi.
“I need a servant’s uniform,” he muttered, “for the house of Teneir.”
“Your request is acknowledged,” the couthi said. “Dimensions.”
“What?”
“Relinquish your dimensions. Height. Weight. Are you not familiar with thieves’ cant.”
“That’s not—” Denaos caught himself as the door opened and closed again behind him. “Look, just get me something that would fit. A little more than six feet tall, broad in the shoulders, long in the leg. Make sure it has a veil.”
He looked over his shoulder. Another four men and two women had entered. All dressed in the same dark clothes as the first, all eyes upon the counter. The door was already opening when he turned back.
“Do you have one or not?”
“For all associates of The Oxbow, we possess anything necessary. Place both feet firmly upon the floor and proceed to count breaths while I attend to the back and locate the specified garment.”
“No, not here.” The door opened and closed behind Denaos again. “Have it delivered. To this location.” He shoved a folded-up scrap of paper across the counter. “And have it there in two hours. You’ve got runners, right?”
“We employ all flavors of human,” the couthi said, plucking up the scrap of paper. “Here at Man-Shuu Yon’s Emporium of—”
“Yes, great. I’d love to stick around and die of culture shock, but I really must go.” He knocked on the counter. “Two hours, got it? No more.”
The couthi nodded—or maybe he didn’t; it was hard to tell—and Denaos turned around to go.
Going, of course, would be difficult, considering the gang of twenty men and women standing between him and the door, glowering at him beneath sand-colored hoods.
Denaos didn’t move. He kept his hands visible and well clear of his daggers. There was no need and no way to win this fight—not yet, anyway. If the Jackals wanted him dead, he’d be dead already. The Jackals only showed up in numbers like these to send a message.
Whether that message was something more complicated than a severe beating, Denaos had no choice but to wait and see.
But he didn’t have to wait long. The door opened and closed one last time. The Jackals parted as another man—a tall, thin Djaalic wearing his beard neatly trimmed and his long hair oiled back into a tail—strode forward. He stopped before Denaos, standing just a hairbreadth shorter, and looked him over, resting a hand on the pommel of a sword at his hip.
“I have heard the name of the Jackals used here,” the man said, his voice as oiled as his hair. “Not smart. If you’re using that name, you know how it hard is to come by. And if you know how hard it is to come by, you know that no one joins the Jackals except in extraordinary circumstances.”
The fact that they were working with a Gods-damned couthi seemed to suggest otherwise, Denaos thought.
“Now, if you were once a Jackal, that’d be one thing,” the man continued. “But then, you’d know that no one ever leaves the Jackals, except in the most extraordinary circumstances.”
He looked over his shoulder, saw hoods nodding in agreement. Suddenly, his head snapped back and his hand shot out, seized Denaos by the jaw, and drew him closer. His eyes burned brightly and his voice forced out between clenched teeth.
And still Denaos still did not move.
“And if you joined the Jackals and then left the Jackals and were stupid enough to come back,” the man said, “you’d know that no one has ever done that…”
He pulled Denaos close, his breath blasting so hot on the rogue’s face that he wouldn’t be surprised to see smoke c
oming out of his nostrils. And yet when the man pulled Denaos even closer, pressed his lips to Denaos’s, and thrust his tongue into the man’s mouth…
Well, it was hard not to be surprised.
The kiss was terse and angry, the sort of thing one received shortly before going off to war or the headsman’s block. And when he was released and the man shoved him back, his face was deadly serious.
“Except,” the man said, “for the most magnificent bastard to ever have graced us with his presence.”
Denaos smacked his lips, ran his tongue around his mouth and looked thoughtful.
“Do I taste cinnamon?”
It was hard not to grin by habit. One never didn’t grin in the presence of Fenshi.
“It was that or poison,” Fenshi replied, returning the expression. “And poison is more than scum like you deserves, running into the city without telling me. I could do it, too, you know. Remember? I killed fifty-one men.”
“Fifty-one men, yes,” Denaos sighed. “Thirty in duels, twenty by poison, and one just because you hate even numbers.”
Fenshi reached out and touched the man’s face. His visage screwed up, as if he couldn’t believe he was actually here.
“Gods, I’ve missed you, Ramaniel.”
“It’s been a long time, Fenshi.”
“Indeed.” He withdrew his gloved fingers with a light slap on Denaos’s cheek. “So long I forgot that I can’t stand to look at you without fifty-one drinks in me.” He whirled about and gestured to the assembled Jackals. “Boys and girls, tonight is the luckiest night of your fucking lives, and maybe some of you will drink enough to not survive it!”
He began pointing to faces, bellowing commands like a general, not a care who heard. Just like he always did, Denaos noted. Great killer, Fenshi. Shitty thief.
“You two! Head to the Crane and clear out every layman and peasant you see! You four! Down to my den—you know the one—and grab everything liquid that isn’t water and meet us there. Anyone who isn’t there by the time I arrive will be gutted in the street. Break out Silf’s statue! Break out the coins! Ramaniel’s come home!”
A coin clinked as Denaos tossed it into the bowl carved in the idol of Silf.
“A bargain’s a bargain,” he said.
Another clink as Fenshi tossed in his own. Gold, of course.
“A bastard’s a bastard,” he said.
Denaos tossed in a silver. Silf’s grinning ebonwood face leered at him.
“Luck for the worthy.”
Fenshi dropped an entire pouch of coins onto the idol, sending it toppling over into a pool of spilled wine. The man with the oiled hair threw back his head and howled with laughter.
“WINE FOR THE MASTER!” he howled, downing the rest of his glass in a single gulp.
Denaos followed suit, along with everyone else occupying The Quarrelsome Crane’s once-clean commons room. The Jackals, hoods off and boots up, roared with laughter as they echoed the rhyme. Those who could still speak without slurring, anyway.
Now this was more like the old days, Denaos thought as he swept his grin around the room. Barrels of wine had been rolled out and lined up on the walls, their taps perpetually flowing as the Jackals staggered between them and their tables. Knives were embedded in wood where impromptu games of blade-tossing had broken out. Barmaids did their best to stay out of the thieves’ way and step over people passed out on the floor.
Dice rolled. Alcohol stained the boards. And at least three different people were having a very good, very naked time somewhere in the back.
Surely, he could be forgiven for forgetting what he was supposed to be doing for a while. Surely Rezca would understand. Surely Lenk would understand. Surely Asper…
Well, Asper would curse at him, probably smack him around a bit. At least until she got a drink in her. Or two. It’d actually probably take a whole barrel to get her to relax.
But even if she wouldn’t, he forgave himself for putting his feet up on the table next to Silf’s fallen idol and holding his empty glass out. A Jackal came scurrying up, refilling it with his own, before slinking away.
“Now this is the way it’s supposed to be.” Fenshi sighed, leaning back in his chair. “When was the last time you remember us doing business like this?”
Denaos glanced around. “Years ago. How long’s it been for you?”
Fenshi smiled bitterly, quaffed his wine. “Years ago.”
“Really? Couldn’t have a proper celebration without me? I’m flattered.”
“Flattered by yourself and only yourself,” Fenshi said. The smile left him. The bitterness remained. “This shit with the Khovura… it has us hiding like the old days. The days before the riots, when the Houndmistress still walked. Remember those, Ramaniel?”
It took Denaos a moment to remember that Ramaniel was no longer his name. It took him much less than a moment to remember the Houndmistress.
“After the riots, we ran this city. We reached a nice agreement with the fashas and the merchants. The fashas brought their goods in, the merchants sold them, the Jackals made sure nothing burned down. Simple. Elegant. Every night was like tonight.” He glanced at Denaos. “Of course, you wouldn’t know that, would you? You had to leave the city.”
“I was a wanted man.”
“Feh. Rezca was a fool to let you go. In another week, we had this city moving again. It remained that way for years.” He smashed his glass on the ground, snatched another one from a passing Jackal. “Until the Khovura came.”
“I saw the aftermath in the Souk today. It didn’t go well.”
“A few fights don’t go well and Rezca gets scared. Sends all the heads underground, tells us to stay in our dens and not show up.” He chuckled into his wine. “He’d shit himself if he could see us now. Yerk, too, nasty old smoke-eater.”
He glanced up over the heads of the assembled as the door to the bar opened and a pair of people filed in.
“Speaking of which…”
Sandal came trundling up to the table, wrapped head to toe, face smothered by a scarf and goggles shielding his eyes. He still reeked of smoke and oil and still didn’t seem perturbed when others went fleeing at his stench. Behind him was a tall, thin-looking woman with a long face made longer by the pain from the bandage on her shoulder.
“Sandal the Candle,” Fenshi said, beckoning them over. “And Scarecrow Sashe? Yerk deigns to let his people out after dark now? Or did you just do all your chores like good little boys and girls?”
The woman, Sashe, grunted her disdain in reply. Sandal rolled his shoulders.
“Hfrd Rfmfnl hn trwn,” he spoke, unintelligible through his scarf, nodding to Denaos. “Whrf yw brrn?”
“Would you fucking take that thing off?” Denaos asked. “You know I can’t understand a thing you say.”
“Only Yerk can,” Fenshi said. “And only Yerk gets the Scarecrow to do anything.” He glanced at the bandage around her shoulder. “Speaking of, looks like something went poorly for you, dear. And here I thought that crossbow of yours kept you well away from trouble.”
It probably did, Denaos thought. Or at least, it did until she decided to turn it on Kataria back in the Souk. But he wasn’t about to mention this. The Scarecrow merely grunted, seized a glass, and started chugging.
“Isn’t this glorious?” Fenshi said. “The Candle, the Scarecrow, me”—he made an elaborate gesture toward Denaos—“and of course, the pride and joy. If Anielle were here, we’d have a lovely reunion of the Debt Squad. Gods, why can’t it be like this all the time?”
“Because of the Khovura.”
It was just a mutter, barely audible over the din of the room. Yet Denaos heard it very clearly. And because he heard it, so had Fenshi. The man with the oily hair leapt out of his chair and the room fell instantly silent. His eyes settled upon a Jackal—one of the younger members relegated to pouring wine and making sure no one choked on their own vomit.
“What was that, pup?” he demanded.
“Not
hing, Fenshi,” the recruit said, turning his head down.
“Gods, man, at least have the courage to stand for what you said. I can let you keep courage, which is more than I’ll leave you with if I have to force you to repeat yourself.”
“It’s just that…” The recruit looked around for support, found none. “We shouldn’t be doing this, gathering here like this. Rezca said not to. You know… because of the trouble.”
“Trouble? TROUBLE?” Fenshi quaffed his wine and hurled the glass at the recruit. “What the fuck would a quivering rat like you know about trouble, you little shit?” He chuckled. “You flinch at a glass. You run scared from the Khovura.” He waved a hand and turned to address the Jackals. “The Khovura are nothing. A bunch of upstarts wrapped in veils. Most of you runts joined when times were good and we were on top, so any footwar looks like trouble to you.
“But how many of you remember the riots? How many of you remember the Houndmistress? Those were troubles.” He deftly leapt atop the table, reached down, and held up the idol of Silf, turning the deity’s grinning face out over the audience. “Let me tell you why we call them footwars.
“Back at the beginning, you wouldn’t know her from any other fasha’s daughter: some high-and-mighty runt with a stick. But she grew up, inherited her father’s fortunes, and decided she was going to clean up this town, starting with us. So she hired some goons with swords, ratted out a few of our dens, and cut us up in our own holes.
“As though we, the ones who had this city scrubbed of every amateur guild and gang that ever squeezed an honest citizen, were the problem. But she rallied her dogcatchers and she rooted out our dens and she put us to the noose, the cell, the ax, sometimes staved in our heads with her big stick. And the city loved her for it. They spat on our corpses and screamed her name.”
He looked at the idol of Silf and nodded slowly, as if the Patron were whispering to him directly.
“Those were hard times, my friend. Watching every friend you ever made on the street get caught and cut up and left to be eaten by rats… those were hard times. Rezca was still taking orders from the heads at that point, not giving them. So they told him to fix this problem and we formed the Debt Squad.”
