Rogues
Page 52
“Or someone equipped with sorcerous apparatus,” agreed Mister Fitz. He reached inside his sooty robe and withdrew an energistic needle from some hidden interior pocket, holding it tightly inside his gloved fist so that its shocking light could not escape, nor the energies within curdle Sir Hereward’s mind or vision. “They might also have a different aim in mind, apart from the ivories. Montaul has many riches, and many enemies. In any case, it is doubly unfortunate, for use of sorcery may … wake something in one of the ivories. They tremble on the verge of immanence at the best of times. We had best hurry.”
Sir Hereward nodded, stepped out of the fireplace, and began to walk cautiously towards the door out to the countinghouse, his bare feet silent on the flagstones. Mister Fitz rustled at his side, the light of his eyes like a hooded lantern in a mine, illuminating the way just enough for safe movement while creating shadows at every side that hinted at terrible things.
“Are you sure the moklek is asleep?” whispered Hereward as they drew closer.
“No, I think it is merely resting,” said Mister Fitz. “Don’t tread on its tail.”
As they ascended the four steps to the door to the countinghouse, skirting the pygmy moklek, it suddenly stood up, turned about very daintily on the spot, and made a plaintive whuffling noise with its trunk.
Sir Hereward stopped in midstep and tightened his grip on his dagger. It was fine Trevizond steel, and very sharp, but whether he could punch it through the weak spot in a moklek’s head above and between its eyes was very much a moot question. Particularly if it had to be done while trying not to be disemboweled.
“There, there,” said Mister Fitz, reaching out to stroke the trunk that came questing out to them. “All will be well.”
“Are you talking to me or the moklek?” whispered Sir Hereward.
“Both,” said Mister Fitz. “It is a youngster, and scared. There, there. All will be well. Say hello to the moklek, Hereward.”
“Hello,” said Sir Hereward. He reached out gingerly with his left hand and joined Mister Fitz in gently stroking the moklek’s trunk.
“You had better come with us,” said Mister Fitz. “Follow along.”
The moklek made a soft trumpeting noise and took a step forward. Sir Hereward hastily jumped up a step and bent down to whisper in Mister Fitz’s ear.
“Why are we bringing the moklek? You didn’t want a monkey. Surely a moklek is no better?”
“It is a very smart moklek,” said Mister Fitz. “As opposed to a particularly stupid monkey. And it may prove useful. As I said, its presence provides an opportunity. One that may be lost if we don’t procure the ivories quickly.”
Sir Hereward sighed, hefted his dagger, and sidled through the open doorway and along a short corridor into the countinghouse proper. He had expected this large chamber to also be dark, but it was filled with moonlight, courtesy of a large, ragged round hole in the eastern wall where something sorcerous or immensely acidic had melted through a three-foot thickness of good red brick.
The person presumably responsible for this absence of wall was in the middle of the room, opening drawers in Montaul’s trading desk, a massive piece of powerful but ugly furniture that had dozens of drawers in great columns of polished mahogany on the left and right of the actual writing surface, a slab of Perridel marble characteristically veined with gold.
She whirled around as Hereward took another step though he thought he’d been extremely stealthy, and, in the next instant, he had to parry away not one but two thrown daggers, that flew clattering to the wall and the floor. She followed that up by jumping to the desk and then to the ceiling, running along it upside down by virtue of Ikithan spider-slippers, dropping on Hereward from above in a move that he fortunately recognized as the vertical shearing scissor-leg attack of the long-defunct but still influential warrior nuns of the Red Morn Convent, and so was able to adopt the countermove of swaying aside and delivering two quick punches to the head as she descended. One of the punches was with the pommel of his dagger, and so particularly efficacious. The thief, as she must be, dropped to the floor long enough for Sir Hereward to press a knee on her back and place the point of his dagger in the nape of her neck, angled so that it would strike through to the brain with little effort.
“Move and you die,” he rasped. “Also, we are not guards, but visitors like yourself, so there is no profit in employing any unusual stratagem or sorcery you may be considering.”
“You are trespassers then,” said the woman coolly. She was dressed in thieves’ garb, entirely in dark grey, a single suit of it like a cold-weather undergarment, complete with a padded hood. Even prone, she was clearly tall, and lightly built, but as evident from her jumping, made of corded muscle and sinew.
“As are you,” said Sir Hereward. “What are you looking for?”
“Trespassing against the guild, I mean,” said the woman impatiently. “I have bought the license to steal here. But if you release me and go now, I will not take you to the Thief-Mother’s court for the doubtless inevitable separation of thumbs from hands.”
“Ah, a professional thief,” said Mister Fitz. “We are not, however, here to rob Montaul. We are reclaiming stolen property.”
“Oh,” said the woman. “You are agents then?”
Sir Hereward grew still and his grip on his dagger tightened, ready to drive it home. A human’s brain was so less well protected than a moklek’s as he knew well. It would be an easy and quick death. Not that his and Mister Fitz’s occupation was necessarily secret, it was simply that only their enemies tended to know who they were.
“Agents?” asked Sir Hereward, his voice flat and dull.
“Of the Barcan Insurance? Or the Association of Wealth Protection?”
“Insurance agents,” said Mister Fitz. “Yes … but from far away. We have been tracking a stolen cargo for some considerable time. Now we believe it has arrived here.”
“Then we can come to an agreement,” said the thief. “My name is Tira, Thief of the Seventh Circle of the Guild of Thieves in Kwakrosh, Lesemb, and Navilanaganishom. Who might you be?”
“I am Sir Hereward,” said Hereward, though he did not ease off with his knee or remove his dagger. “My companion is known as Mister Fitz. Where are the guards from the courtyard outside, before we get to talking about agreements?”
“Asleep,” said Tira. “I sprinkled Nighty Dust down on them from my shadow-stilts, as they gathered to gossip about tomorrow’s battlemount races.”
“And the wall here, was it dissolved with a spray of Argill’s Discontinuance of Stone, or something else?” asked Mister Fitz.
“Argill’s,” confirmed Tira. “And the wall of Arveg’s menagerie across the courtyard, though I must confess that was an error. The mixture was stronger than I thought and the wind came up. But the creatures are docile, I presume made to be that way. There is nothing to fear from them.”
“You have invested considerable coin to enter here, on stilts and dust and dissolving,” said Mister Fitz. “You seek some particular treasure?”
“Montaul is known as a very warm man,” said Tira.
“Please answer the question,” said Sir Hereward.
“The new ivories,” she said, after a moment’s pause. “The guild has a buyer for them. But I guess that’s what you are after, too, is it not, arriving so soon on their heels?”
“Yes,” said Sir Hereward. “But not all of them. Only fourteen are … covered by our contract. You can have the others. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” said Tira.
Hereward removed his dagger, leaned back, and stood up. Tira rolled over and looked up at him. Her hood was drawn close about her face, and though her skin was dark, her nose and cheekbones had also been painted with a grey stuff almost the same color as her curious garment, to dull any shine. As far as Hereward could tell, she seemed fair, or as fair as could be without facial scars, and she looked younger than he had expected. Her eyes were hidden behind a strip of a dark red gauzy cl
oth loose-woven with hundreds of tiny holes, allowing her to see while offering some protection against such things as a basilisk’s gaze, unless it got nose to nose, by which time its petrifying properties would be of the least concern. The fact she was wearing it suggested that she had not spoken the truth about dissolving the wall to the menagerie by accident.
“I could have got free, you know,” she said.
“Doubtless,” agreed Sir Hereward politely, though he thought quite the opposite. “Where are the ivories?”
“Not here,” said Tira. “Or so I had just discovered when you came.”
Sir Hereward looked around the room. Apart from Montaul’s trading desk with its drawers askew, there were three lesser perching desks for his clerks, a cabinet whose doors were open to show the papers and parchments piled within, and a great chest with its padlock awry and its lid back. Mister Fitz was already inside the chest, rummaging around.
“Nothing of consequence,” said the puppet. “A fallen coin or two in the corners. I should say it was emptied in some hurry. Hereward, go and see if Montaul is in his rooms upstairs.”
Hereward nodded and ran up the circular stair in the corner, returning a scant minute later with a shake of his head.
“Chamber’s empty. Like a monk’s cell up there, thin blanket and all. But our watchers … they were supposed to blow their screech-whistles if anyone left, damn them!”
“Oh,” said Tira. She made a motion with her fingers, indicating the sprinkling of dust. “They were your watchers …”
Mister Fitz jumped out of the chest and went to the door that led out to the gatehouse, his back bent from the waist, his round head close to the ground. At the door itself, he sniffed the ground, dust swirling around his papier-mâché nose, though its carefully molded nostrils did not inflate.
“One of the godlets has begun to manifest,” he said shortly. “Some hours ago, I judge. We must presume it now controls Montaul’s actions and follow before it can fully emerge upon this plane and ease the way of its fellows from the pantheon of ivories.”
“Godlet?” asked Tira. “What godlet?”
“The ivories are not simply treasure,” said Hereward, as he went to the door and unbarred it, using only his left hand, the dagger ready in his right. “At least the fourteen we seek. Did you make the gate guards sleep as well as those in the western court?”
“No,” said Tira. She retrieved her thrown knives and went to stand by the knight, Mister Fitz bringing up the rear, his sorcerous needle still hidden in his gauntleted hand.
“You would think they would enter,” said Sir Hereward, “given the noise within. Moklek and basilisk, and all your rummaging about. Ready?”
“They are not valiant, nor young,” said Tira, readying her knives to throw. “Go!”
Sir Hereward pulled the door back. Tira stood with knives poised, then slowly lowered them. Sir Hereward moved past her, and looked down at the two desiccated bodies that lay on the steps. They were more vaguely human-shaped parcels of dust wrapped in mail than bodies, their swords lying next to withered hand-and-arm bones that would have not disgraced some revenant a thousand years dead.
“It needed life to stabilize its presence,” said Mister Fitz, bending down to sniff again at the bodies of the guards. “They were convenient.”
“Do you know which one it is?” asked Sir Hereward. There were fourteen ivories, and fourteen godlets, but of that number, one was far more to be feared than any of the rest.
“No,” answered Mister Fitz. “It has left no obvious signs or declarations, and we cannot spare the time to take a sample of whatever essence it may have excreted. “
“I like not this talk,” said Tira. “If I had not seen these two, I might think you sought to scare me from my rightful theft.”
“You need not come with us, lady,” said Sir Hereward over his shoulder as he ran to the gate, ignoring the small night postern they had planned to use, for it would not be broad enough to permit the moklek’s passage. Mister Fitz ran after him but jumped to one of the torch brackets above, and peered through an arrow slit, taking care not to draw too close to another ensorcelled band of gold set there to slay any child, monkey, or ensorcelled rat that might otherwise be able to creep inside.
Behind them, the pygmy moklek gingerly investigated the wizened bodies with its trunk, gave a snort of disgust, and trotted after the knight, thief, and puppet.
“I am no lady,” said Tira, as she helped Sir Hereward lift the bar of the gate. “I am a Thief of the Sixth Circle of the Guild of Thieves in Kwakrosh, Lesemb, and Navilanaganishom!”
“I thought you said the Seventh Circle,” said Sir Hereward.
“When I return with the ivories,” said Tira. “I merely anticipated my elevation. In truth, I did not expect any complications with godlets.”
Mister Fitz dropped down as they opened the postern.
“There is some commotion by the harborside,” he said. “It will be the godlet. Quickly!”
Montaul’s house lay on a low hill directly above the harbor, so that he could watch the arrival and departure of his ships, the foundation of his riches. A cobbled road ran down to the long, semicircular quay where four ships were tied up at the jetties that thrust out from the quay like fingers from a hand. A few other vessels were some distance away, bulky trading cogs lying at anchor under the shelter of the mole, a long breakwater of great stones that protected the harbor from wind and wave, with a hexagonal fort at its seaward end, built to protect the port against pirates and naval foes. The fort could fire forge-heated red-hot shot from the cannons on its walls, and explosive bombs the size of a puncheon from the great mortar that squatted in the center of the fort like a fat spider in a hole. Except that, as with many other civic buildings in Kwakrosh, it was somewhat neglected, and only fully manned in time of obvious threat, the good worthies of the town council not wanting to recognize that by that point it would be too late.
Sir Hereward, Mister Fitz, Tira, and the pygmy moklek ran down the harbor road, fleet shadows in the night. The moon lit the street in stark relief, casting silver shadows and reflecting off the puddles left by the earlier rainstorm, illuminating the drunks asleep in the doorways of the warehouses closer to the quay—drunks who upon inspection in the morning would be found to be no more than husks within their layers of rags.
“It must be after a ship,” called out Sir Hereward. “But the wind is against the mole and the tide on the flood, no ship can leave harbor tonight.”
“Not under sail,” answered Mister Fitz. He pointed ahead to the most distant jetty, where there was the sound of screaming, suddenly cut short, and a yellow lantern winked out. Behind it, the dim outline of a long but relatively low ship with only a single stubby mast could be seen.
“The hexareme?” asked Sir Hereward, sidestepping a particularly deep-looking puddle in an area of missing cobbles. He referred to the state ship of Kwakrosh, a relic of the past, that was rowed out once a year for the Grand Mayor to perform the ritual throwing of the flotsam, a floating basket of spices, wine, cloth, smoked herring, and a very small amount of silver currency. This was then fought over by all the bumboaters, fisherfolk, and semiaquatic layabouts of the harbor in joyous anarchy, a mark of respect for the ancient days when the town had been no more than a village of wreckers.
“But it has no rowers, no crew,” said Tira, who ran easily at Sir Hereward’s side.
“If the godlet is strong enough, it will bend the oars by energistic means,” said Mister Fitz. “I am heartened by this.”
“You are heartened?” asked Sir Hereward. “If it is strong enough to row a hexareme of sixty benches against this wind and tide, it is too strong by my measure!”
“It indicates a certain stupidity, a singleness of purpose,” said Mister Fitz. “It wants to return to Asantra-Lurre, not knowing or caring that the kingdom is no more, and a thousand leagues distant besides.”
“What is it?” asked Tira. “Do you mean Montaul?”
They reached the quay as he spoke, cobbles giving way to the smooth planks of the boardwalk. Two watchmen in the livery of the town guard stared at them nervously, their lantern-adorned halberds held high over the starched and dehydrated body of one of their companions, her arms frozen in the act of trying to fend off some horror that had come upon her.
“Who … who goes there?” stuttered one of them.
“Friends,” called out Sir Hereward easily as he ran past, momentarily forgetting he was covered from head to toe in soot, was barefoot, had a dagger bare in his hand, and was accompanied by a sorcerous puppet, an obvious thief, and an albino pygmy moklek.
“Oh good,” said the watchman nervously to their backs. He raised his voice to add, “Uh, pass friends.”
Up ahead, there was a great squeal of long-unused timber moving against bronze, and the splash of water as the hexareme’s starboard oars all came out at once, the port side being up against the jetty.
“We must board before it shoves off,” said Sir Hereward, increasing his pace, bare feet pounding across quayside to jetty. The hexareme’s oars were tumbled together for the moment, but were already lifting and shifting, energistic tendrils of bright violet visible through the oar ports as the godlet sought to properly organize the rowing benches, like a team of octopi sorting toothpicks.
“Do we want to be on board with whatever is doing that?” asked Tira.
“The godlet’s mind and power is bent upon moving the ship,” said Mister Fitz, who had jumped to Sir Hereward’s shoulder as the sprint became too fast for his short legs. “While it is focused upon that task, we have a better chance of dispatching it to whence it came.”
“Almost there!” panted Sir Hereward. He jumped to the gangway and ran up it even as the starboard oars dug deep and the hexareme groaned and moved diagonally away from the jetty, mooring ropes at stern and bow singing as they stretched taut. There was a great crash as the gangway fell, the pygmy moklek jumping the last few feet, the deck resounding like an enormous drum as it landed.