CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
‘There’s been a lad asking for you,’ said the burly taverner as he sat beside Swift. ‘Seems to know who you are.’
‘I think I know why,’ Swift replied. ‘How long ago?’
‘Yesterday. Said he’d come back again today.’ The taverner scratched his unshaven chin. ‘I’m surprised to see you around,’ he said. ‘Everyone knows it was you that did the prince.’
‘Apparently,’ Swift said, flinching from the gale of garlic that Plug Lager exhaled. ‘Can I get a drink?’
The taverner’s face broke into a grin. ‘Of course,’ he chuckled. ‘What do you want?’
‘Got any good malt?’
Plug clicked his fingers and a boy trotted up to the table. ‘Fetch the best whiskey, Hop.’
The boy headed for the bar and returned with a large pot and two glasses, which the taverner took and set to uncorking the pot and pouring a measure of whiskey in each glass. ‘This one’s on the house,’ he declared, raising his glass. ‘Anyone who rids this city of a rich Kerwyn bastard drinks for free in my place. Anyone who gets rid of a royal rich Kerwyn bastard drinks the best for free!’
Swift drank several glasses with the owner of the Fat Wombat tavern, until Plug announced that he had business and left. The whiskey was melting Swift’s thoughts, so she settled into the afternoon, satisfied that there was nothing pressing, and glad to be out of the rain that had settled over the city, and waited for the youth that Plug had mentioned to return. She guessed that he was coming to give her another job, which surprised her because, to all intents and purposes, no one should have known that she was back in the city. But then, she reasoned, perhaps they didn’t know that I’d left either. Who was next, then? Then her heart skipped a beat. Perhaps the lad was her son, and not someone sent to give her a new job. Finding Runner was paramount. It would be good if he came to her.
Late in the afternoon when the rain stopped, the tavern filled with patrons, and a dark-haired youth entered. From his uncertain gait, she knew that he was looking for someone, and when his searching eyes set on her he hesitated, before finally approaching her table. ‘Are you Swift?’ he asked nervously.
‘Who wants to know?’ she asked.
‘If you’re her, I have a message from someone for you.’
‘And if I’m not, but I say I am, what will you do then?’
The youth looked at her, a measure of uncertainty in his face. ‘I don’t know,’ he reluctantly admitted.
‘Do you know what I do?’ she asked. The youth nodded. Swift studied him and saw a lad unused to heavy labour, his fresh complexion unsullied by factory work in the Foundry Quarter. He was more likely the son of a shopkeeper. ‘What’s your message?’ she asked.
‘I was asked to say, “If your skills extend so far, the accidental passing of a person considered a gift in the palace will be applauded and rewarded.” Oh, and I was to say, “A source of wealth will be found in the reeds by the old second bridge if your skills prove true.”’
Swift continued to stare at the youth, the whiskey haze softly sliding across her vision, until he asked, ‘Are you all right?’
‘Do you know what your message means?’ she asked.
‘Not really,’ he replied.
‘Who sent you?’
‘I don’t know. I was ordered by a soldier to go to the Forlorn Maiden’s inn across the bridge in the Northern Quarter. When I was waiting in the inn, someone jumped me and I was blindfolded and taken to a place where a man with a deep voice told me I had to remember those words. Then I was taken to another place where I was told that I would find you at the Fat Wombat tavern, or that the man who owns the tavern would let you know I was looking for you. Then they sat me down in another place and left me there, until I got brave enough to take off the blindfold and found I was back in the Forlorn Maiden’s inn.’
‘You didn’t recognise any voices?’
‘No. But they sounded like they’d learned from books.’
‘Want a drink?’ The youth’s eyes lit up. Swift beckoned to the serving boy and ordered two malts. Then she turned back to the youth and asked his name and age.
‘Cabbage is my name. I’m fourteen.’
‘Do you know many other boys?’
‘A few.’
‘Do you know a boy named Runner? He’s about your age and looks a lot like you.’
Cabbage shook his head. ‘Don’t think so. Why?’
‘I know him, that’s all,’ Swift said. ‘If you do run into him, tell him I’m looking for him.’
‘Are you going to kill him?’
A faint smile graced Swift’s lips. ‘No. I just want to see him.’
The waiter boy, Hop, put two whiskeys on the table and Swift reached for her money pouch. ‘No, miss,’ Hop said. ‘Mister Lager says they’re still on the house,’ and he withdrew.
‘Enjoy a free drink,’ Swift said to Cabbage. ‘There won’t be many of those in your life.’ As she sipped at her whiskey, Swift leaned back in her chair. The tavern was more than half full and she was self-conscious that she was still the only woman in the room because men were leering at her. Some patrons had to be workers from the foundries and factories, but she knew most of Plug’s customers were people who survived by the illegal Guild skills—thieving, deceiving, bashing and murdering. She looked for familiar faces, but there were none. Professional assassins, like herself, seldom knew each other, even though they were trained by the same mentors, because an assassin’s identity was most effective when it was unknown and trainee assassins were never allowed to meet.
‘Once you’re known, your career is over,’ Dagger had warned, during her training. ‘You need to be a shadow, a twinge of fear, a rumour. Reputations are best when you’re known only by your work. If anyone ever attaches you to what you do, you’re as good as dead.’ Killing Shortear had ended her anonymity. Cabbage found her by name and where she was known to frequent. People knew who she was. Her career was all but finished.
A commotion near the bar drew her attention. Four men, carrying their pots of ale, pushed through the crowd, abusing individuals who stood in their way, and as they passed her table one man’s foot caught the leg of Cabbage’s chair and he stumbled, spilling his ale. When he regained his balance, he kicked Cabbage’s chair from under the boy, spilling him onto the floor and yelling, ‘Get out of my fucken way!’ One of his companions kicked Cabbage in the ribs. Swift heard the crack and Cabbage yelped. ‘What are you looking at, bitch?’ the rakish man asked, meeting her glare. When she didn’t answer, he came closer. ‘I asked you a question,’ he snarled, and his companions closed in.
‘You gentlemen would be best minding your own business,’ a gravel voice warned from behind Swift. Plug Lager’s imposing frame pushed past two patrons and he stood beside Swift’s chair, facing the ruffians.
‘Boss doesn’t like being disrespected,’ whined one of the men.
‘Everyone who steps through my door is my guest,’ Plug said in a calm but strong tone. ‘Anyone who disturbs my guests is no longer a guest in my house.’
‘Are you kicking us out?’ the rakish figure, the man named Boss, asked.
‘Make any more trouble in my house and I’ll throw you out with my own hands,’ Plug replied, and he cracked the knuckles on his fists to emphasise his intent.
Boss hesitated, measuring the brawny taverner. Then he tipped his pot of ale over Swift’s head. Swift went to leap out of her chair, but Plug’s meaty hands clamped on her shoulders and held her in place. ‘Leave, or I let her kill you,’ Plug said, still calm, but he held Boss’s gaze as if his hands were clamped on his eyes instead of on Swift’s protesting shoulders.
Boss saw the smouldering fire in the taverner’s stare and for a moment he was tempted to ignite the fight, his expression fierce, but then he snorted contemptuously. ‘No, mate, I wouldn’t want you to let the bitch off her chain. She looks like she’d bite her way through a man’s hand if she got the chance. Your ale is shit
anyway,’ he declared. He nodded to the other three. ‘Let’s get out of this shithole. There’s a hundred places better than this.’ He looked down at Swift who was glaring at him with murder in her eyes. ‘Lucky for you your restrainer was here, eh? But there’ll be another time. You’ve got a face so butt-ugly it’ll be easy to remember. Next time then, eh?’
Swift twisted against Plug’s grip, but the taverner held her firm, saying, ‘No Swift, not worth it, not here.’ He looked back at Boss and said, ‘You were leaving.’
Boss laughed and dropped his empty pot on the floor as he walked towards the door, watched by the astounded patrons. His three companions all sculled their ales and dropped their empty pots on Cabbage as they stepped over him and followed Boss. Plug released Swift and she rose angrily, turning on him to snarl, ‘Don’t ever do that to me again.’ Then she went to Cabbage and helped him to his feet. He winced with every movement.
‘Broken rib,’ Plug said. ‘Take him down to the surgeon in Lumber Lane. Tell him I sent you. He won’t charge.’
‘Who were they?’ Swift asked.
‘Professional scum,’ Plug replied. ‘The one who calls himself Boss is Fingerbone Fromriver. He makes his mark doing standover jobs and killings for little businessmen. Some say he’s also paid by higher-up folk to do rough jobs that require no brains. He’s been in and out of the Bog Pit, and brags about it too much.’
‘He’s a dead man,’ Swift said.
‘Whoever did that would be ridding the city of another sewer rat,’ Plug told her, ‘but he’s not worth your time, Swift. You’re lucky he didn’t know who you were or he’d have tried to get the reward.’
‘There’s a reward for me?’
‘You killed an important person. The princes will pay handsomely for your head or your capture. If one’s not already issued, one soon will be. And sewer rats like Boss will be out looking for you. You’re no longer just an unknown but good assassin. You’re far more dangerous.’
Swift straightened and grinned. ‘Good. Let’s keep it that way.’
‘Yes. Let’s keep it that way indeed. On second thought, I’ll get someone to take this lad down to the surgeon. You need to leave less obviously and a little later.’
‘Are the drinks still on the house?’
Plug glared at her. ‘No. Just water. You need a clear head.’
A feminine figure in a dark-blue cloak entered the little portico gate at the side of the temple and walked briskly to the prayer space, closely watched by two guards who were holding torches. She kneeled in the dull candle light and bowed her head as if in prayer. A Jarudhan acolyte, yellow robe lit by the candlelight, appeared from a recess carrying a small phial of amber liquid and offered it to the supplicant, but when she silently refused the acolyte withdrew. A moment later, Seer Word, his blue hood up to hide his features, emerged from the recess and kneeled beside the praying woman. ‘Welcome to Jarudha’s house,’ he said quietly.
‘I have some news,’ she replied.
Word was silent, before asking, ‘And what is the news?’
‘She has the item.’
He sucked in his breath. ‘Are you sure?’
‘She brought it back from the northern tunnel.’
‘Have you seen it?’
‘No.’
‘Who else knows about this?’
The woman replied, ‘A thief who led her to it. He was in the Bog Pit with your colleague. That’s how he knew where it was.’
‘Anyone else?’
‘Her bodyguard.’
‘What do you know about this thief?’
‘Is it safe?’ she whispered.
Word lowered his hood. ‘Yes.’
The woman warily lowered her hood, her blonde hair falling loose and glowing as it caught flashes of the candlelight. ‘The thief’s name is Chase Goodenough. I asked about him in the Foundry Quarter. He’s no one important—a petty thief.’
‘He’s dangerous nevertheless,’ said Word. ‘He knows what no one must know.’
‘So what will you do?’
‘I will organise other matters, but you will make arrangements for this thief to be silenced,’ said Word, ignoring the import of her question. ‘Some unsavoury creatures have been released from the Bog Pit as a reward for their faith and you will direct them to the task of punishing certain nonbelievers.’
‘When will this happen?’
‘Within a day,’ Word replied. ‘You must excuse me, my lady, but I have matters of prayer to conduct.’ He rose and withdrew into the temple recess. Lin waited a few discreet moments before pulling up her hood. She made the sacred circle sign and rose to leave, devoted to her new mission in the name of Jarudha.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Chase eased into the warm tub water and sighed with pleasure. He ducked his head under to rinse his hair, resurfaced, wiping the moisture from his face, and ran his fingers through his locks to break up the tangles. Then he leaned against the wood and watched the steam drift through the dull candlelight.
It felt good to be in a familiar room. As brief as the journey through the Joker’s tunnels and the rescue had been, he’d had enough adventure to last for a while. He ended up finding a beige canvas bag instead of a legendary magical weapon. He’d almost believed Sunlight’s fantasy. The old tunnel that dipped under the ocean, the cleverly hidden secret door with its kangaroo-tooth locking mechanism, even the small casket the attackers stole seemed to corroborate what the old man had told him, but in the end it turned out to be an empty promise. And it almost cost him his life.
Sunlight’s granddaughter also was a disappointment, but then he expected a rich woman to be rude and distant. He was, after all, nothing more to her than a thief, one of those unfortunate creatures that survived on the other side of the river. If she didn’t have her looks, she’d be a complete bitch, he decided. At least she paid him for his work. He refused it initially, out of pride more than any other reason, but he capitulated when she insisted, reasoning it was money a rich woman like her would never miss anyway. Besides, he could buy food for Passion and Jon, and himself. He told her what her grandfather expected her to do with the bag and in so doing absolved himself of further commitment. He completed what he had promised to the old man to ease his conscience.
It was strange to have a conscience. It stopped him stealing from other poor people in the Foundry Quarter, but it drove him to break into houses and businesses over the river. Sometimes he couldn’t understand how his mind worked. He closed his eyes and let the warm water soothe him.
‘Chase.’ He opened his eyes to see Mouse sliding into the water. ‘I thought you needed company,’ she said, ‘especially after sleeping in a tunnel with the Joker.’ Chase smiled politely. ‘Besides, I missed you,’ she continued. She leaned over the side of the tub to lift a small pottery flask from a shelf and Chase watched as she poured a measure of amber liquid into two cups. She held one towards him.
‘No,’ he said quietly.
‘Go on,’ she urged. ‘Have some fun. You need to relax.’
Chase lifted a wet hand out of the water and accepted her offer, and spilled a little of the amber liquid onto his hand. She smiled coyly and returned the flask to the shelf before she took his hand to lick the spilt euphoria. She poured a little onto her own hand and offered it to him, and giggled as his tongue tickled her skin. ‘See?’ she cooed, grinning. ‘You needed this.’
‘Chase!’
He started, as if waking from a dream. ‘Chase!’ A hand shook him and he opened his eyes to a frightened face. ‘Chase! Get up! Now!’ His sister, Passion, wrenched his arm to pull him out of the bed. ‘Come on! Please, Chase!’ She bundled him towards the door.
My clothes. Where are they? he wondered, trying to make sense of what was happening. He was in the corridor. Flames. He coughed from smoke.
‘Chase! Run! Run!’ Passion pushed him. Rose appeared in the thickening haze, grabbed his arm and pulled him forward, and his ears filled with a crackling noise. They lu
rched through the back door of the Perfect Pleasures into an alley that ran along the rear of the buildings. People were gathering in the narrow space, lit by golden-red firelight. Soft rain drifted from the dark sky. Chase could see flames leaping out of the brothel’s roof to join more flames on adjoining roofs. ‘Where’s Mouse?’ he asked, remembering what had transpired. Somebody pushed past.
‘She’s safe,’ Passion replied.
He stared at the burning buildings, his mind still scrambling through the residual euphoria fog. Panicky people who were desperate to escape the fire jostled him as they pushed past. ‘We can’t stay in the alley!’ Rose yelled above the crowd noise.
Passion took his arm. ‘What about my clothes?’ he asked, as she dragged him through the crowd away from the fire.
They emerged on a side street intersecting the Main Way where an even larger crowd was watching the drama unfold. People ran back and forth carrying water buckets in a futile attempt to stop the fire spreading, but the Perfect Pleasures was already an inferno, as were the buildings either side. ‘Here,’ Rose said, hoisting a horse blanket over Chase’s shoulders. ‘It’s not pretty, but it will stop the little old ladies getting excited.’ Chase slid the blanket down to his waist and fastened it firmly.
‘We’d better go home,’ Passion suggested. ‘Jon will be worried.’ Still groggy from the drug’s effects, Chase hesitated, fascinated by the chaos and writhing flames lighting the night sky, and he only moved when Passion tugged firmly on his arm, obediently following his sister away from the chaos.
‘No one has any idea why someone would want to burn down the Perfect Pleasures,’ Rose said.
‘Competition?’ Chase asked.
‘Not any that Mister Whoreson knows of,’ Wahim replied. ‘He says he’s paid all the right people for protection and none of the other traders have problems with us. In fact, I’ve heard that a couple have offered Mister Whoreson money to rebuild.’
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