Charming anecdotes aside, the cordon is one of the oldest of the old. Search through ancient maps and records of the city and you find incarnations of Ten Ways running back to the well before the reign of the Undying Dorminikos, when it was the cordon of choice for the wealthy and learned. Almost all of the buildings are much more recent, of course, but there were times late at night, in the cellars that passed for wine dens here, I’d have sworn I heard the voices of eight hundred years of history dripping from the walls. Maybe it was the cheap vintages combined with the smoke, but I can’t believe that so much time, and so many souls, can pass through a place and not leave bits and pieces of themselves behind.
“Do you know where to find this Dealer?” asked Degan. I had told him I was looking for a fence named Fedim, but not why.
“Not yet,” I said. “Right now, we walk and watch. I need to relearn the lay of the land. If we’re lucky, some of my old contacts may still be around.”
“And if we’re not lucky?”
“Some of my old contacts may still be around.”
“Why do I have the feeling that it’s going to end up being an unlucky night?” said Degan.
I ignored him.
Much of the cordon was as I remembered it. The main thoroughfare, Solace Way, was broad for Ten Ways and narrow for any other part of Ildrecca. Nearly half of its cobbles were missing, and the rest were covered over with mud and refuse, making the footing tricky. Side streets were little more than alleys, and the alleys little more than near-accidental spaces between buildings. What little sky we could see was smudged over with smoke, hiding the stars.
The buildings themselves were a jumble of old and not as old, all running to ruin. Roughly one in five was missing a roof, walls, or some other critical portion of architecture. Here and there, I saw a flower box, a tiny garden, a newly painted lintel—attempts by the Lighters to make their fragment of the cordon more respectable, more homey. While it might have made them feel better, to me it only underscored the desolation of the place.
I felt eyes upon us the whole time. We needed no sign, had to speak no word to be spotted as outsiders by the Kin of Ten Ways. Street traffic was low this time of afternoon. I saw no one following us, but I didn’t believe that to be true for a moment.
I paused on corners and in doorways, asking after old names, slipping the occasional coin to jog memories. Most of my former contacts had either vanished or become tight-lipped. I wasn’t local anymore, and that meant I wasn’t to be trusted. I couldn’t turn up anything on Nicco, or Kells, or even on the Dealer I had been sent to find, Fedim.
Finally, when I had paid three different Kin to track down one of my more reliable sources from a decade back—a Whisperer named Elek—only to find he had died six months ago, I lost my temper.
“So who the hell has taken over for him?” I demanded of the ragpicker who had informed me of Elek’s demise—after I had paid her for the privilege.
“That’d be, ah . . . ah . . . ” she began, before breaking into a nervous coughing fit.
“Eliza,” said a dark voice off to the side.
I looked over and saw a cloaked figure sitting in a doorway. His outline was barely visible, so well did his clothing match the shadows.
“Silent Eliza?” I asked.
The man nodded, or should I say, the cowl of his hood did.
“Where is she standing now?” I asked.
“Rose and Castle.”
I knew the tavern. I tossed a copper owl his way, saw him pluck it out of the air. He chuckled as I walked off down the street. Degan eyed me as we went, but he refrained from saying anything.
Silent Eliza was anything but; she was loud, raucous, and still one of the best Ears there was in Ten Ways. When people think you are too busy talking to listen, they let things slip. It cost me more than I would have liked to get the information from her, but a jug of wine and a handful of hawks passed under the table got us directions after an hour or so of listening to her go on about . . . everything.
The sun was just beginning to edge below the horizon when we left the Rose and Castle. We had only gone a few blocks before Degan nudged my arm.
“That’s the third one in as many blocks,” he said.
“What?” I said.
“Ahrami.”
I looked down and found myself slipping the pouch back beneath my shirt. Sure enough, I could feel a seed under my tongue, softening.
“And?” I said.
Degan shrugged. “Nothing.”
“It’s not as if I enjoy being here,” I said.
“Of course not.”
“I worked my ass off getting out of this damn place. Coming back is the last thing I wanted to do.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“And then being charged four damn hawks by ’Liza for the location of Fedim’s shop?” I said. “That’s just insulting.”
“I didn’t say it wasn’t.”
We walked on, turned a corner.
“So, what’s bothering you?” asked Degan.
“I just told you,” I said.
Degan nodded. “So you did.”
“Then leave off.”
“Of course.”
We cut down another alley. It was darker than the others we had been taking, the buildings closer on either side. My night vision began to awaken, highlighting the squalor around us in deep amber. The smell of urine and rotting meat grew stronger.
“So,” said Degan.
I kept silent, instead eyeing the shadows as we walked.
“So,” he said again.
Damn!
“Look, I’m here to lean on a Dealer for Nicco, all right?” I said. “Let’s just focus on that and get it done. The sooner I’m out of this hellhole, the better!”
“I just—” began Degan, but he stopped as a shape slid out of a doorway farther down the alley. A moment later, three more forms bled from the shadows to join it. Behind us, someone cleared his throat.
We were surrounded.
Degan didn’t hesitate. He stepped forward, his sword sliding from its scabbard in easy time with his movement. “Front,” he said as he moved to meet the four figures lined up across the alley.
“Be my guest,” I said as I turned and lugged out my own sword and dagger. Thankfully, there were only two coming from behind.
My night vision showed one of the men to be carrying a heavy-looking club, its end studded with broken glass and metal; the other held a pair of knives. They came forward carefully, moving to bracket me in the narrow space.
Behind me, I heard the first songs of steel on steel as Degan met his four. He was taking the fight to them, making them react instead of deciding how to best surround him. I needed to do the same, but I didn’t relish the idea. I was no degan.
I edged toward the one with the knives, my rapier held out before me, my dagger low at my left side. His weapons had the speed, mine the reach. If he came into my range, I had first strike; if he stayed out, I had to deal not only with him, but eventually with his friend as well. Time was on his side.
He stepped back a pace, smiling, his knives flickering dully in my night vision. No dummy there. I took another step. He retreated again. I took one more. When he retreated for the third time, instead of following, I pivoted and launched myself at his friend with the club.
Neither of them had been expecting it, least of all the man with the club. His eyes grew wide as I came in, and he took an involuntary step back. Bad idea. By the time he had his weight resettled and was starting to swing, I was already inside.
I ducked in under his arm as the club came down, my sword raised to ward off the blow. Wood met the steel of my guard, sending shock waves down my right arm. Even as my grip on the sword wavered, I brought my left around and buried the dagger up to the cross-guard in his right kidney. He grunted. I twisted the blade inside him. He grunted again. Then he began to fall forward.
I pulled on my dagger. It wouldn’t budge. Leaving it, I stepped to the side, only to find
the Cutter with the daggers closing on me, fast.
One slash passed inches from my face, and I felt another pluck at a fold in my shirt. I leapt back and just managed to dodge a thrust to my left side.
Too close, too close, too damn close!
There was no room to bring my rapier up, no way to back up faster than he could come forward. I pointed the tip of my sword down, brought the guard up, and made a moving vertical bar of steel between us, frantically blocking his thrusts and slashes. It was good in the short term, but, sooner or later, he would get past it.
The Cutter came on, pressing me hard. I blocked once, twice, and then punched at his face with the guard of my sword. I managed light contact—nothing solid—but it surprised him. He hesitated, and that was all I needed.
In an instant, I had my wrist knife in my left hand. I lashed out, not worrying about hitting him so much as letting him know it was there. He took a hasty step back.
I let out a shallow breath. I was at sword range again. I took my own step back and brought my rapier in line.
The Cutter was still busy scowling at this latest development when Degan spoke up from behind me.
“Are you almost done?” he said.
“Let me check,” I said. I smiled at the man with the knives. “Are we done?”
He looked at me, then past me into the growing darkness. I saw his eyes go wide. Then he was running away.
“I’m done,” I said, and turned around.
Degan stood amid four corpses. Not one of the bodies had more than a single fatal wound. All things considered, I couldn’t blame the Cutter for running.
“Just here to lean on someone, then?” said Degan, picking up the conversation where we had left off.
I came over and looked at the bodies. “This is local color,” I said. “They’re too rough to be any of ’Liza’s brood, and no one else I’ve talked to has the clout to gather up this many Kin on short notice.”
“Just a robbery, then?” said Degan.
“Yes.”
“You’re positive of that?”
“Yes,” I said.
Degan eyed me across the corpses.
“It was a damn robbery!” I said.
“I stand reassured.”
We began moving down the alley again.
“Of course,” said Degan, “if it wasn’t a robbery, things could get worse. And if that happens and I get pulled in . . .”
“You’re too smart for that.”
Degan tipped the brim of his hat in mock salute. “Of course. But if I should go temporarily insane . . .”
“Fine,” I said. “If that happens, I’ll pay for your time. Standard rate.”
Degan shook his head. “Not this one, Drothe. If the job gets you back into Ten Ways, it’s deeper than I’d like. Hawks won’t cover it.”
I looked over at my friend. “You can’t be talking about an Oath?”
Degan blinked in surprise. “Hardly,” he said. “It’s not that dire.”
I let out a sigh of relief.
For all the years I had known Bronze Degan, and for all the things I had heard about degans as a whole, there were still things I did not understand about them as a group. That they were the best Arms you could get, there was no doubt. Nor did you have to worry about a degan turning on you once you paid him. But sometimes, they took the legends about their group’s origins a little too seriously, even to the point of assuming the first degans’ names. The man standing next to me in the alley was not the first, nor would he be the last, to be called Bronze Degan.
The Oath was another holdover from when the degans had been a potent force in the Dark World. Back then, an Oath had bound them to you and you to them, with the degan being able to call on you at any time to pay off your portion of the promise. And repayment could be anything the degan named. The oldest Kin, repeating the tales of their grandfathers, tell how the power of the Oath was so strong that promisers turned on their own families rather than risk the consequences.
Nowadays, the Oath was a formality, a shadow of the original degans’ prowess, just as Bronze Degan was a distant reflection of the first man to bear his name. But the Oath was still not lightly given, or taken. After all, who wanted a degan pissed at him if he decided he didn’t want to fulfill his end of the bargain?
“No,” said Degan, smiling. “A night out with your sister would be enough. Along with the standard rate, of course.”
I glowered at my friend. Degan had had an eye for Christiana since the first time he’d met her. And while Christiana might have turned her nose up at any of my other associates, I knew that when it came to Degan, she would make an exception. It had been that obvious. The sheer idea of my sister—who had tried to have me killed—and my best friend together not only terrified me; it made my skin crawl on a more personal level. I just couldn’t tell if that sensation came out of brotherly concern for Christiana or friendly concern for Degan.
“I’ll pay you triple,” I growled. Degan laughed again.
A few turns later we were at Fedim’s.
Fedim’s place fronted as a pottery shop. A few unimpressive jugs and goblets had been set on a table near the door. I resisted the urge to turn the table over, mainly because I doubted it would draw more than a shrug from the Dealer. Most fences at least make an effort to appear legitimate, but, given the quality of what he had out, it was obvious Fedim had given up that pretense long ago.
I wondered briefly what I would do if the Dealer wasn’t in. It had taken the better part of a day just to find his shop. What if word had gotten to him ahead of us and he had gone to ground? I didn’t relish the thought of having to spend more time looking for him.
As it turned out, Fedim was easy to find—his entrails led from just inside the door, straight to his belly, ten feet away.
Chapter Seven
No money was missing, either from Fedim’s purse or from the cash box behind the counter. The back room was empty, save for a bed and the Dealer’s personal effects.
“Must keep the swag somewhere else,” I said as I came back into the front of the shop.
“Either that, or it was taken.” Degan was standing near the entrance, peering out through a gap in the curtain that served as a door.
“And the hawks were left? No, this is a message.”
“From?”
“From whoever I’m supposed to find.”
“I thought you were supposed to find Fedim.”
“Change in plan,” I said.
I stepped over to Fedim and looked down at him. As Kin went, he was fairly unremarkable with his olive complexion, thinning hair, and long nose. Acne scars covered the left half of his face. If he hadn’t been lying dead on the floor, I doubt I would have remarked on him at all.
“This is bad,” I said.
“What a surprise,” said Degan.
“No.” I nudged Fedim’s lifeless form with my foot. “It’s worse. I was supposed to do this after I was done with him.”
Degan nodded. “You’re right,” he said, “this is bad.” Then a wry smile slid onto his face. “Still, it’s ironic, no?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Ironic.”
Before we had found him, Fedim was a minor problem that needed solving. Now that he was dead, he was a big embarrassment. That was the first little bit of irony: If I killed Fedim, it was business; if someone else dusted him, it was an insult to Nicco’s strength.
The galling part was, no matter what I did, word would get out: Nicco couldn’t shield his clients. Open season on Nicco in Ten Ways. This was exactly what he had been trying to avoid, exactly what I had been sent to prevent. If the person or persons responsible weren’t brought down hard and fast, Nicco’s reputation would fall instead—and so would my head.
That was the other piece of irony: Since I was supposed to have killed Fedim, it was my responsibility to track down whoever had dusted the Dealer and return the favor.
Drothe, the Avenging Angel—I didn’t care for the sound of that.<
br />
I was staring at Fedim, wishing his soul a long, frustrating journey to the Hosting Grounds, when Degan snapped his fingers twice. I looked up to see him flatten himself against the wall beside the doorway. He held up a single finger, then pointed toward the door.
Translation: a visitor.
I looked around for somewhere to hide, then thought better of it. Instead, I sat myself on a table in easy view a few feet past Fedim’s body. I drew my rapier and placed it across my lap for effect.
The sound of leather scuffing on dirt came from beyond the curtain. A throat cleared.
“Fedim?” It was a male voice, half whispering. “Fedim?”
The curtain moved aside to admit the craning head of a young-looking man. What little hair he had was in full retreat from his forehead and shaved down to a thin black stubble. His narrow features were screwed up into a squint that quickly collapsed when he spied the body on the floor. He looked at me and made to bolt, but Degan already had hold of the man’s neck.
Degan dragged the man the rest of the way inside. To his credit, the man didn’t cry out—not that it would have done him any good. Screams were almost as common as cockroaches around here.
Our visitor was small, though still slightly taller than I, and thin. No, not thin—lean. There was strength beneath those baggy clothes and ill-fitting belt—Degan actually had to work to keep his hold on the man. He had a cloth satchel in one hand that he clutched to himself.
“I didn’t see anything!” the man said quickly. “You weren’t here.”
“That’s too bad,” I said.
He stopped his struggling and tilted his head as far to the side as Degan’s hold would allow. Already, there was the beginnings of an opportunistic, almost carnal gleam in his eyes.
“Huh?” he said.
“I need someone who’s seen something,” I explained.
He looked down at Fedim, licked his lips.
“Such as?” he asked.
“Such as who dusted the Dealer, here.”
“Not you?”
“Not me. Or him.” I indicated Degan with my sword.
“Truth?” the man asked.
Among Thieves: A Tale of the Kin Page 7
