The Hand That Takes

by Taylor O'Connell

  He’d not seen or spoken to Lilliana since the day at the safe house. He could only imagine the sorts of terrors she’d experienced over the past three nights.

  After they had landed on the bridge, the lieutenant falling to his death, Sal had somehow found the strength to get to his feet, lift Lilliana, and carry her up to High Hill. He’d been shirtless, only a jerkin over his bare chest, streaked with blood that had streamed from his broken nose, a half-naked noblewoman in his arms. No one had stopped them on the Bridge of the Lady, nor on the Kingsway. Not until they had reached the black iron gate outside the Bastian estate had anyone dared question him.

  The guards would have likely killed him when they realized the woman in Sal’s arms was their lord’s daughter, but Lilliana had managed to croak out enough of an explanation that the gate guards had sent Sal off with no more than cross words.

  That had been the thanks he received for what he’d done, and it had been no less than he deserved.

  Sal followed the Tamber until he reached South Market. He was supposed to meet with Vinny and the others at the Rusted Anchor but needed to head home for his coin purse. As he stepped inside, the smells of lavender and of pottage simmering in the hearth set his mind at ease.

  Home was a place where he could be happy, a place where he could leave behind the worry and sorrow of the outside world. He walked over to the kettle of pottage and spooned out a bite.

  He was savoring the taste when he saw Nicola seated at the table with the lord’s get she’d fancied of late, Oliver Flint. Sal frowned and nodded to them, and was headed for the stairs when Nicola called his name.

  “Someone’s come by looking for you,” Nicola said.

  Sal’s throat tightened, his mind imagining the City Watch. “Who?” he asked.

  Oliver Flint smiled. “A girl, mate. Good-looking lass, to boot. Even despite the—the, uh, bruising.”

  “Lilliana Bastian?” Sal asked.

  “Was that her name?” said Nicola.

  “Lilliana Bastian?” asked Oliver. “Was that Lilliana Bastian? No, truly?”

  “I don’t understand,” said Nicola. “Who is this Lilliana Bastian?”

  “The daughter of—”

  “What did she say?” asked Sal .

  “Not much,” said Nicola. “Asked if you were in. When I told her you’d gone out for a bit, she asked me to give you this.” Nicola held up a cloak. Black wool with sable fur trim.

  Sal ran his fingers over the tight weave of the wool and felt the softness of the sable lining. “She left this for me?”

  “I don’t think she meant it to be mine,” said Nicola with a smile. “You must have done something nice for this girl?”

  Sal shrugged and took the cloak up to his room. He laid the cloak on his bed, took a few krom from his coin purse, and slipped them into the pocket of his jerkin. He opened the drawer of his dresser, moved aside a linen shirt, and put a hand on the locket. It was cold to the touch, and he shivered as tendrils of electricity trickled into his hand. Sal dropped the locket back into the drawer atop the parchment letter with the red wax seal. Then he slipped into his new sable-lined cloak and walked downstairs.

  Before he left, he turned to Nicola and her nobleman. “I’m headed out to meet some friends,” Sal said. “I wish the pair of you an enjoyable evening.”

  Nicola opened her mouth, but Oliver spoke first. “Of course, mate. You take care, now.”

  Nicola looked from Sal to Oliver and back to Sal. “I suppose we will, then.”

  Sal smiled, nodded, and turned for the door.

  “ B lack sable, eh?” the big man said, stroking Sal’s new cloak with the back of a massive hand.

  “Sable?” said Vinny. “Lord Salvatori has a new sable cloak, does he?”

  “A man can treat himself, can’t he?”

  “I see,” said Valla. “And rather than treat yourself to a whore, you’ve gone and treated yourself like a whore. But I’ll tell you what. You make sure I’m the first you come see when you’re looking for a nice stable to settle down in, and I’ll take good care of you. I don’t pay so well as some, but no one puts an angry hand on one of my whores and lives to touch his next.”

  Sal smiled and shook his head as he looked about the taproom. There was never a singer in the taproom of the Rusted Anchor, merely the clicks and clacks of rolling dice and the quiet mutterings of men at cards, accompanied by shouts from some of the rougher drunks. The floor needed sweeping, and the tables were topped with a sticky residue from years of spilled drinks. Still, it was comfortable enough, a place to stay warm and dry.

  “I’m surprised they even let you in this place anymore,” Valla said, giving Sal a knowing look, “and not just because you dress like a whore.”

  Sal shook his head. “I didn’t come here to talk about that,” he said seriously.

  “Well, now we’re all here,” said Vinny, “what’s the word on the City Watch?”

  Valla elbowed Odie, who had been staring at Sal’s new cloak. The big man stirred, blinked twice, and arched an eyebrow.

  “The steel caps, you big oaf,” Valla said.

  Odie grunted.

  “The source,” Valla said, dangerously quiet. “You said you had a bloody source on the fucking City Watch.”

  “Oh, right,” said Odie, shaking his head. “Well, you’re not going to believe it, but word is, Luca was the rat on the High Keep job.”

  “Goddamned Norsic,” Valla cursed. “Big as an ox and twice as thick. Of course he was the fucking rat.”

  Odie looked at them each in turn, wide-eyed and innocent as a child. “And no one told me?”

  Valla shook her head contemptuously. “And what of our end? Does anyone know we were involved with those steel caps at Luca’s safe house? Has anyone put our names on the street?”

  Odie shook his head. “No one left that safe house alive, apart from that lieutenant. And, well, Salvatori took care of him before he went spreading any names. Though that’s just the thing.”

  “And just what thing would that be?” said Sal .

  “Your name,” said the big man. “Seems you were seen on the Bridge of the Lady when that lieutenant took his little fall.”

  Valla arched an eyebrow, and the big man shrugged.

  “You’re going to want to lay low for a while,” Valla said. “And you’ll want to talk to that uncle of yours. Might be he can smooth some things over.”

  “I might well do that,” Sal said. “I do appreciate the forewarning. Never been fond of the look of those crow-cages.”

  Odie nodded.

  “Well, that’s nothing to worry over,” said Vinny. “Surely your uncle can take care of it. He could put word out that you were never even near the bridge that night.”

  “I take it your source would have told you if any warrants were issued?” Sal asked.

  “She would,” Odie assured him.

  “Well then, it’s nothing we need worry over. For now, I say we drink to the fact that we’re all still breathing.” Sal held up his ale, and the others joined him.

  “To life,” said the big man.

  “To not fucking dying,” said Valla.

  Vinny scoffed, and they drank.

  “Well then, now Luca’s gone, you all are going to be needing a crew to run with,” said Valla.

  “What’s your point?” Vinny asked. “You saying you’ve got something lined up?”

  “I’m saying I’m to be made before the next moon. I’ll have the backing. All I need now is bodies to fill the roles.”

  Sal and Vinny shared a look.

  “I’m going to run a full crew,” Valla said. “I want the three of you to fill the first half.” There was a moment of silence, and Valla shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “Well, don’t you all fucking clamor to be the first.”

  The big man shrugged, and Vinny pursed his lips.

  “I’ll need to think on it,” Sal said.

  “Fuck you,” Valla said, standing. “Fuck all of you.”<
br />
  “Vallachenka Smirnichezk,” said the big man, nodding toward Valla’s empty chair, “there’s no need for tantrums. Take a seat and—”

  “No, fuck you and your seat. I don’t drink where I’m the only one with at least half a set of these,” Valla said, grabbing her crotch and snarling like a mad cat.

  “Sit down,” said Vinny, shaking his head, the hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

  “Fuck you too, Vincenzo, you half-Norsic mutt.”

  Vinny put a hand on his chest as though Valla had damaged his delicate sensibilities.

  It was all in good fun, but Sal thought it best to stop it before someone got hurt. No good ever came from poking at sharks with sticks. “Val, don’t forget what we came here to do.” He reached across the table and put a hand on the bottle of fire-wine.

  Something in Valla’s eyes changed when she saw the fire-wine.

  Sal nodded as Valla met his gaze, then she sighed and took a seat.

  “That fucking Yahdrish,” Valla said, shaking her head. “I never even liked the little weasel.”

  “As bad a thief as he was at everything else,” said Vinny, taking the bottle from Sal and uncorking it. “A bad thief, but a good friend.”

  Vinny took a swig and passed the bottle to Valla.

  “I never much liked any of their breed,” Valla said, “and that Bartholomew was no different. But he sure as Sacrull’s hell didn’t deserve what he got, and neither did that barmaid was with him.” Valla closed her eyes, wiped at a tear, and took a drink, then passed the bottle to Sal.

  “He was the first real friend I ever had,” Sal said, then he too took a swig right from the bottle. The fire-wine burned like Sacrull’s hell all the way down. He really never could understand why Bartley liked the stuff so much. He took a second drink, for Bartley, and passed the bottle to Odie.

  “To Bartholomew Shoaly,” said Odie, raising the bottle. “For Pavalo Picarri, Fabian Abrami, and Antonio Russo,.” Odie drained what remained of the fire-wine in one fell swig .

  “To old friends,” said Sal, clearing his throat and raising his ale. “To us.”

  Thus ends

  The Hand That Takes

  Fall of the Coward, Book One

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  A FOOL OF SORTS

  Fall of the Coward, Book Two

  ONE

  OUT FROM THE SHADOWS

  Rainfall pounded the weatherworn limestone of Knöldrus Cathedral. A pair of adjacent spires protruded endlessly heavenward as they pierced the black storm clouds and vanished beyond. Between the two towers, a rose window of brilliant stained glass, illuminated by flashes of lightning. Gargoyles perched about the façade, glaring down in judgment, runnels of rainwater pouring through their open maws, splashing upon the cobblestones below.

  Hidden beneath the shadows of the cathedral, broken down on all fours, Sal felt the wet stone underhand. Acid burned his throat as he heaved forth another spurt of bile. A shiver racked him, pain so severe it felt as though a hole had torn through his stomach.

  Too weak to stand, he crawled, fingertips digging into mud-sheathed cobblestones until the massive doors of the cathedral loomed before him. Sal reached a trembling hand and grasped the oversized bronze knocker, using it to right himself. A resounding creak echoed through the nave as the heavy door swung open. Candlelight cast flickering shadows to dance across the limestone walls.

  Still shaking, Sal took a cautious step into the cathedral.

  His racing heart slowed as a sigh escaped him. He’d made it. He’d not been caught, not been seen. A miracle, no doubt. He wouldn’t have been hard to spot, dropping into the mud and vomiting as he had. Still, it seemed he’d not been pursued.

  Sal walked farther into the cathedral but rested at the first pillar, allowing it to support his weight. He looked back over his shoulder. The door had swept shut behind him. No one had pursued, not the man, nor his victim, nor the blood-curdling scream the victim had unleashed. The scream swallowed by the storm and the night. Sal doubted anyone had heard, anyone but himself.

  He had to press on, had to find someone to help. His wet boots were slick on the floor. He reached for the next pillar, staggered, and slipped on the flagstones.

  Sal put his hands out to catch his fall, but it was too late. His face hit the floor with a wet smack.

  “Another skeever?” said a man with a rather shrill voice.

  “A lost lamb seeking shelter from the storm,” answered a deeper voice.

  “You should have thrown him out,” said the first man. “See how he sweats, his body craves the substance.”

  “Is it not our responsibility to care for the sick? Give me your destitute, your—”

  “Do not quote scripture to me. I know the book as well as you, Jacques. But these skeevers cannot be trusted. Stealing and lying are but second nature to their kind.”

  Sal was parched, sick to his stomach, and exhausted. He wanted to be out of the damp sheets, but he dared not move should they notice he’d woken.

  “By the Light, the young man has yet to commit any acts of sacrilege,” said the man with the deeper voice. “As for the stealing, how can one steal what is gladly given?”

  “You make mock, but take note when I tell you no good comes of keeping company with this sort. Where did you find the creature, looting the larder?

  “Far from it. Phillip here found him in the Cathedral, searching for a place to pray.”

  “I’d name you fool did I not know you for a liar, Jacques. Phillip, you’re young, new to the order, you do not yet understand how things work. The election is coming. You would do well to distance yourself from men such as our Master Infirmarer. Wiser, place yourself favorably among men of import, men who may soon occupy positions of influence come the casting of the votes.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind,” piped up a young voice. “Though, the election is a fortnight away and nothing is certain as of yet. I am young as you say, but even initiates have heard the stories. When the brothers of Knöldrus Abbey cast the stones, there is no telling where the votes will land.”

  “You dare threaten me?” said the man with the shrill voice.

  “The boy meant nothing by it, Brother Leobald. No one here doubts your political ambition. Though, one might wonder as to your interest in this young man.”

  “I care not for the skeever nor your bandying of words. If you wish to say something to me, Jacques, say it to me now.”

  “I would say only this. We are in the infirmary. I am here because I am Master Infirmarer. Phillip is here because he brought in the patient, and the patient is here because he is in need of my arts. Remind me, Brother Leobald, why it is that you are here?”

  Sal heard a loud scoff. “When I am abbot, we may find we have a new Master Infirmarer.”

  “I thank you for the warning, and it shall be duly noted. If a time truly comes when our brothers name you abbot, you may find I will not be difficult to remove. Now, if you don’t mind providing me the same courtesy, as I see the patient may not be so asleep as we had assumed.”

  Sal cursed to himself, wondering what had given him away .

  “Remember what I said, Philip,” said the man with the shrill voice. “You do yourself no favors backing the wrong man.”

  “You may leave as well, Philip,” said the man with the deeper voice. “Idle hands make waste.”

  Sal peeked when he heard the door close, but the exposure to light sent his head spinning, and he quickly closed his eyes.

  “
As I suspected,” said the man with the deep voice. “I shall leave you to the dark. The door will be locked from without. Do try to get some sleep. I’ll return come dawn’s break.”

  Waking in sheets dampened by sweat, Sal took in his surroundings. The space was spare, adorned with a single stained glass window and a sconce holding a lone beeswax candle that had melted to little more than a stump. Morning’s light shone through the stained glass, casting resplendent hues of red and yellow on the adjacent wall. Three other beds, identical to the one he occupied, were crammed within. The clothing he’d worn the night before hung atop a rack near the hearth.

  The door crept open, and a man entered. He had a tonsured pate and wore the drab, brown robes of a brother belonging to the Vespian Order. He was tall, thick-chested, and broad of shoulder, built more like a soldier than a man of the cloth. His features were strong, rigid, as though chiseled from the very stone of the cathedral.

  “Ah, you’re awake. Are you well?” The man’s resonant tone rang of familiarity, one of the monks from the night before, the Master Infirmarer.

  “Better, though my head feels like it’s to burst.”

  “No surprise,” the monk said with a slight chuckle, “you took a nasty spill. I had feared you would be addled. It’s good to know you still possess the ability to speak.”

  Sal felt his brow. A sizable knot had formed above his left eye. A slight tremor coursed through his body. Would that he had a cap of skeev to soothe the throbbing in his skull. “You’re a Master of the Vespian Order?”

  “I am,” replied the monk. “My name is Jacques. I am Master Infirmarer of Knöldrus Abbey. What might your name be, my son?”

  My son. The words cut deep. He was no man’s son. “My name is Salvatori Lorenzo.”

  The monk gave him an inquisitive look. “Lorenzo, you say, who might your father be?”

  Sal hesitated, then smiled in hopes that the heir of humor would soften the awkwardness of his reply. “Would that I knew myself.”