Sigan had given Rion—or Eriondrian, and hadn’t that been a surprise?—a deadline. Now, that deadline had come and gone and though Belvy was the only one speaking it out loud, he wasn’t the only one thinking it, that was sure. Such a thing, such a promise unkept, was a sign of weakness. And despite the meek behavior of those gathered around the table, Sigan knew them for what they were. Wolves. Wolves that were loyal enough, just so long as the one they were following was stronger, bigger. But let that wolf, that packleader, show weakness, let him turn his back for too long, and they would do what wolves did; use their fangs and their teeth to make their point clear.
And if that happened? Well, the lead wolf, Sigan, would have no one to blame but himself as he lay bleeding out on the ground, for men, like animals, acted according to their natures, and it was only a fool that thought any different. He didn’t care anything about killing the old man and woman, Rion’s parents, didn’t hold any sort of grudge against them. In fact, from all that he’d heard, Lord Tirinian was that most rare of creatures—a noble with a conscience. The man was known for donating money to the poor, for helping where he could, known for being one of the few that didn’t come down with a sudden case of blindness every time his eyes drifted toward the poor quarter and its desperate citizens.
By all accounts, a good man, one trying to make the world better. The thing was, the world didn’t want to be better, and it went through good men like a whore through sheets. That was its nature. Sigan might not have wanted to kill the old couple, but what he wanted didn’t matter, had stopped mattering just as soon as he’d made the promise. Damn you, Rion. He’d given him a chance, hadn’t he? And more than one. That was more than most folks in the poor district got, a damn sight more. Let the blood be on you, then.
With a growl, Sigan swept his arm across the table, and the tin plate and glass of ale went flying across the room. The glass struck the wall and shattered into pieces. Several of the men at the table jumped, startled, but they recovered quickly enough. Sigan stared at the broken glass, at his men, his massive chest heaving, his thick arms flexing, wanting to break something, to hurt something. Instead, he took several slow, deep breaths, reining his anger in. “Belvy.”
“Boss?” the man said, scared, but eager too. A knife wanting to be unsheathed, waiting to draw blood.
“Go tell Elver and the others to see it done. Rion had his chance.”
“Yes, boss.” The man was up out of his seat in a flash, moving to the door.
“Belvy,” Sigan growled, and the man stopped at the doorway, turning back.
“Sir?”
“See it done, but tell Elver there ain’t no need for them to suffer no more than they have to. You understand?”
The man’s face twitched at that, but he nodded readily enough. “’Course, boss.”
Sigan watched him go, watched the door shut behind him. The man had been close to Darby, probably too close. And as much as he might act like he held Rion responsible, that kind of anger had a way of spilling over, had a way of making a man foolish. Sigan suspected the bastard would forget what he’d told him quickly enough would—if he had his way—spend the night exacting a price of flesh from the old couple. Still, Elver was in charge, and he was reliable enough, at least so far as any of them were. He would see the thing done and done proper, so that was of no real concern.
What was of concern was that, when it was done, Belvy’s lust for pain wouldn’t be sated, not even close. And who left, when the old couple had been dealt with, to seek that price from? Rion, sure, but the man was gone, vanished from the city like some ghost, and who did that leave? How long before Belvy was sneaking in to Sigan’s own room, the knife he was so ready to use on the old man and woman seeking Sigan’s throat?
“Venner.”
A man who had, to this point, leaned silently against the wall at the side of the room, stepped forward, and as he did, those at the table shifted uncomfortably. Not that Sigan could blame them. As mean, as cold-hearted as all the bastards were, they were like sheep compared to Venner and, unlike them, Venner was completely loyal. He was also a remorseless killer, a man who followed orders without question, the man who Sigan turned to when he needed to make sure something was done and done right.
The man did not speak, only came to stand beside the table, his hands resting at his sides, but never far from the knives sheathed at his waist. “Go on and make sure Belvy delivers the news without incident. And after he’s done…well, best have a talk with him.”
A single nod, no more, and the man walked out. Sigan watched him go and felt a small sense of relief when the door closed behind him. It wasn’t something he ever would have shared with the others, but the man even made him uneasy. True, he was loyal, Sigan knew that. But he also knew that the man would kill anyone—man, woman, child, his own mother—and show no more emotion than another might stomping on a bug. A madman, that was certain. But then, madmen had their uses too.
“Well?” he demanded as he saw that the others were sitting still, as if afraid to move. After all, they knew well enough what sort of talking Venner did, and that they wouldn’t be seeing Belvy again. Not alive at least. “Eat, you bastards,” Sigan barked, “and someone bring me another ale.” He decided he would get drunk. Good and drunk. And damn Rion and Belvy and the lot of them.
Chapter Six
“I’m telling you, damnit, I felt something back there in the woods.”
“I’m sure it was just the wind,” Katherine said in a distracted tone, clearly not paying him any attention.
“Wind,” Rion muttered, but he said nothing else. For one, he didn’t know how he could communicate to her the feeling of danger he’d felt, as if something or someone had been watching him, hunting him, a feeling that had sent shivers of dread up his spine. But when he’d spun to look back at the tree line, there had been nothing. No one. But more important than that, they were in the city now, walking the streets, and the last thing he needed was to draw attention to himself by talking about demons chasing him, so he reluctantly let it go.
“So,” she said, still in that tone that said she was only half-paying attention. “Where do we go now?”
Rion frowned. The truth was that he’d never expected to make it this far, had been surprised—and more than a little relieved—when the guards had waved them through without so much as a mean look. “I uh…I’m not sure.”
She paused in the street, turning to scowl at him, and this time, at least, he had her full attention. “Not sure? What do you mean not sure?”
“Not so loud,” he hissed, glancing at the people walking by in the street. “We’re supposed to be husband and wife, remember?”
The woman stared at him, her dour expression looking as if it had been carved from stone. “Husbands and wives fight,” she said dangerously. “Everyone knows that. Sometimes, their fights are worse than others. In fact, I have heard of more than one wife who has taken a knife to her husband.”
“If actual marriage is anything like fake marriage, then I suspect he was grateful,” Rion hissed. “Now, come here before you bring half the city guard down on our head.” He grabbed her arm, pulling her to the side of the street against the wall of a tailor’s shop. “Look, Sigan is a criminal, you understand? A man like that has plenty of enemies, not least of which are honest city guardsmen—few, I admit, but there are some—who would love nothing better than to haul him into the dungeon, or to see him dead.”
“One sympathizes,” she said.
He rubbed at his temples. “Damnit, what I’m trying to say is that he moves around, you get it? A night here, a night there, always moving so that city guardsman or other crime bosses out to make a name for themselves aren’t able to find him.”
“Well,” she said, “if he’s as big a crime boss as you say, then surely there are those in the city who know where he can be found, places where his men hang out.”
“Sure there are,” Rion said, struggling to rein in his failing patience
. “The problem is that the last time Sigan and I had a conversation, he promised to see me dead. Somehow, I doubt that his men will take the time to hear me about before they start seeing who can poke the most holes in me.”
She frowned. “That is a problem,” she said. “Your problem. Our problem is that we can’t spend days looking for him. So, do you know a better idea?”
“If I knew a better idea do you think I’d be standing in the street arguing with you when, at any moment, one of that bastard’s men might happen by?”
“Then…” she prompted.
Rion grunted, shaking his head. “Fine, but you’ll feel awful damned guilty when I wind up getting my throat slit.”
“I’ll try to get over it,” she said dryly.
Rion bit back a curse, shaking his head. “This way.”
***
You’re going to die, Rion thought, as he led the woman down the street. You know that, don’t you?
Sure, he knew it. But what choice did he have? None, that was the truth of it. So he continued to scan the streets around them, wracking his memory for the closest of Sigan’s properties, telling himself that, if he were lucky, just maybe the crime boss’s men would listen to what he had to say before killing him outright. Sure, he thought, nobody’s that lucky.
Suddenly, something in his pocket grew cold, so cold that he could feel it through the fabric, as if someone held a chunk of ice against his leg. Continuing to walk, Rion reached into his pocket, wincing as he withdrew the item—the coin on which Javen’s face had shown, the same coin that had saved his life when Sigan’s man fired a crossbow at him. What in the Night? he thought, staring down at the coin. No strange demonic faces showed themselves on its surface, and there was nothing to indicate that it was anything more than just a coin, nothing save for the coolness that was even now dissipating.
Was the God of Chance trying to tell him something? Or was it simply—“Look out!”
Rion’s head jerked up at the woman’s shout, and he was shocked to see that, in his distraction, he had walked into the street. A horse-cart was bearing down on him, moments from running him over. With a cry of surprise, he leapt to the side. The driver gave a curse, tugging on the reins and pulling to the left, and Rion was saved from being trampled by mere inches.
He lay there, panting, the driver hurling curses over his shoulder as he continued down the street. “Well,” Katherine said, walking up to stand over him, “that was stupid. I thought we weren’t supposed to be drawing attention to ourselves.”
Rion looked around and saw that several people in the street had stopped to look at him where he lay and that a guardsman was walking toward them, a frown on his face.
Damn coin, he thought. Damn God of Luck. He scanned the street, frantic for some means of escape, for though they hadn’t been recognized so far, he doubted they would be so lucky, if the guard started asking questions. His leap across the street had taken him to in front of the tavern, and he grabbed Katherine’s arm, pulling her toward the entrance. “Come on.”
The tavern had no windows, so the common room existed in a perpetual gloom only partially interrupted by the flickering ruddy glow of lanterns placed intermittently on the tables. Men and women sat drinking and talking quietly. None of the raucous laughter or off-key singing that accompanied so many taverns at night, not here, for even though the owner had been clever enough to block out the sun, allowing his patrons to forget about the passing of time, still they knew. They had walked in, after all, and it was a certain sort—often unemployed, and almost always desperate—that drank in the daytime. The sort that had no time for songs and nothing left to laugh about, who were only on a mission to drown their own sorrows and their own pain as quickly as they could.
All too aware of the scene he’d caused in the street, Rion pulled the woman further into the tavern, through the thin veil of pipe smoke that lay heavy in the air, toward the end of the bar furthest from the door. Once there, he took a seat on one of the wooden stools, fighting the urge to shoot nervous glances at the doorway. The bartender, who’d been wiping half-heartedly at a glass with the rag he held, glanced up at them by way of greeting.
“An ale,” Rion said.
The man nodded and, without a word, turned and began pouring the drink.
“Friendly fellow,” Rion muttered.
“What are you doing?” Katherine demanded from beside him. “We don’t have time to sit around drinking. Or have you forgotten that the others are waiting for us?”
“I haven’t forgotten,” Rion hissed in a whisper, “and if you talk any louder, they’ll be waiting for us a lot longer since our heads will be decorating the executioner’s block. Now, we need to give it a minute for the scene we caused to die down so relax, why don’t you?”
“We?” she said, her eyes narrowing dangerously.
“Fine the scene I caused. Now just take it easy, alright?”
“One drink,” she said, sitting down. “Then we’re leaving.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Rion muttered. The bartender returned a moment later, plopping a foaming mug of ale down on the counter. Rion tossed the man a coin then lifted the mug, his gratefulness for the drink disappearing a second later when it slid its slimy way down his throat. “Damn, but that’s awful,” he said.
“Rion?”
Rion froze at the voice coming from behind him, then he turned slowly, his hand shifting toward the blade hidden under his tunic. He grunted in surprise when he saw Odrick standing there. The blacksmith’s shirt was stained with what looked like ale, and he had dark circles under his eyes. The man looked worse than Rion had ever seen him. Looks to have had a few shitty days, Rion thought. Well, they’re going around. “Odrick?” he said. “What are you doing here?”
“Night, Rion,” the big man said, running a hand through hair lank with sweat, “I was beginning to think I’d never see you again. Thank the gods, I—”
Rion grabbed the blacksmith, pulling him down onto the bar stool. “Stop with the name, alright?” he hissed. “I’m not particularly popular just now.”
“I’ll say,” Odrick said, leaning forward, and the nobleman could smell the stench of ale on his breath. “Rion, I’ve been looking for you everywhere in the city. Checking the gate, too.”
“Looking for me?” he asked, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. “Why?” Suddenly, he was remembering the way Sevrin and his men had found them in the woods. Sevrin had claimed he’d followed Rion, and though the man had had no reason to lie—after all, as far as he was concerned, Rion and the others had been about to be killed—still Rion found himself watching the blacksmith carefully, waiting for any sign that he was going to betray them. He’d always counted Odrick as a friend, but a man couldn’t be too careful.
The big man winced. “I…it’s your parents, Eriondrian.”
Rion felt his heart speed up in his chest. “What about them?”
The blacksmith glanced at Katherine, and Rion waved a hand dismissively. “She’s with me.”
Odrick’s eyebrows raised at that. “She’s…with—”
“Oh, not like that, damnit,” Rion said. “Never mind her. Tell me about my parents.”
“It’s Sigan, Rion. He…he took them.”
“Took them?”
“Aye.” The blacksmith fished around in his tunic for a moment, finally withdrawing a folded piece of parchment and offering it to him.
Rion snatched it, reading the letter, his anger building with each word. “That son of a bitch. How dare he—” He cut off as a hand fell on his shoulder and glanced over to see Katherine watching him, a look of compassion on her face.
“Please, Rion,” she said, “not so loud.”
He realized for the first time that he’d been yelling, noticed that several people in the quiet tavern had turned to watch him. Frowning, he went back to reading the note.
“What does it say?” she asked.
“He has my mother and father. He wants me to meet him at some tavern…t
he Addled Archer?” He glanced up at the blacksmith. “I’ve never heard of the place.”
“I have,” Odrick said grimly. “But I’m not surprised that you haven’t. It’s on Arching Way. Everyone knows it’s one of Sigan’s, and few enough people go there. Rion, it…it will be dangerous.”
That was an understatement. Rion knew the street well, just as he knew to avoid it, just as any fool who spent any amount of time in the poor quarter knew to avoid it. Sigan didn’t just own the tavern—he owned the whole damn street. “Dangerous or not, I’m going,” he said, rising and stuffing the parchment in the pocket of his trousers.
“Rion, wait,” Katherine said, “let’s think about this. Maybe—”
“You think about it if you want,” Rion said. “The bastard’s got my parents. Stay here, come with me, whatever, but I’m leaving. Now.”
Odrick rose, nodding. “I’m coming with you.”
Rion paused, turning to look at the man, and a thought occurred to him. “No, you’re not. And what are you doing here anyway?”
The big man shifted uncomfortably. “When you went missing a few days ago, I started looking…thinking maybe Sigan had caught up to you, after all. I had stopped by your parents’ house to ask your father if he’d seen you and was just leaving when I saw Sigan’s men on the roof. Your parents…they were taken. Since then, I’ve been searching everywhere in the city for you. I had never heard of this place before,” he said, his large hand sweeping out to indicate the tavern, “but I was frustrated and ashamed, and I thought…I don’t know what I thought.”
But Rion knew well enough. By the smell of the man’s breath, by the state of his clothes, he’d thought to drown his sorrows and his guilt in ale just as the other tavern’s patrons had. And, as far as Rion was concerned, the man had plenty to feel guilty for. “You mean to tell me that you saw them take my parents, and you didn’t stop them?”
The Truth of Shadows Page 9
