That was the end of the banter. He was smarter than he looked.
Onderishta stopped walking beside him. Next time. Next time.
* * *
Tin Pail knew the blow was coming but she didn’t brace for it. She didn’t roll with it, either. She just took it.
Rumor had it that Harl had been deadly with a hatchet in his younger days, but today, he was a sporting man. Today, he held a hammerball paddle.
They were on the roof of the club he owned—at least, he acted like he owned it, but he acted like he owned the whole city, so who could fucking tell—and Tin Pail was forced to kneel at the edge. Behind her was a four-story drop—high enough to kill or cripple her but not escape. Not that she cared to try.
Harl set a hammerball on the tee beside him. They were hollow, with some sort of animal bladder at the center, covered with yarn and leather, and sealed with rubber, making them fast, and light, and stiff enough to bounce hard if they hit hard.
Harl’s first shot struck her just above the navel. She gasped at the pain and reeled, almost tipping back off the roof.
The only other sound came from Paper Mouse, her top lieutenant. He cried out in fear when he thought she might fall. Tin’s bodyguard stood off to the side, his face impassive. He did exactly what he’d been told to do, which was nothing.
Harl sneered. He snapped his fingers and one of his heavies set another ball on the tee.
Tin Pail leaned forward, making her face impassive. She would not reel back at the next shot. If Harl wanted to kill her, he was going to have to throw her off, because fuck him.
The second ball struck the bony part of her right hip. Was he aiming for her crotch? She kept her hands at her side and made no noise this time. Harl fucking Sota List Im was not going to see her flinch again.
The third ball grazed her ear as it went by, and the pain from that one was different but no less intense. The fourth ball struck her right cheek just below her eye. This time, she reeled—she couldn’t help it—but straightened herself quickly. The pain was disorienting and she thought her cheekbone might be broken.
“You are a fucking moron,” Harl said in Carrig. His next shot glanced off her right bicep.
Tin Pail took it without complaint. Paper Mouse had the common sense to be staring shamefaced at his feet, his three front braids hanging over his eyes. Her wild-haired bodyguard stood near the rack of hammerball paddles—Harl kept several close in case his heavies needed to ruin someone’s day—staring out across the city.
The sharp crack of paddles against balls echoed. All around them stood practice lanes for the local hammerball courts, and Harl was dressed in the thin, eggshell-white cotton trousers and tunic of a player. His feet were bare as if he’d just come off the grass, and his pale Carrig skin had obviously not been touched by the sun in weeks.
He laid the paddle on his shoulder, but Tin quashed the hope that her punishment was over. His hair was kept short and neat, and his chubby cheeks made him look like someone’s kindly merchant uncle. He didn’t even carry a knife or a hatchet anymore.
That air of respectability had been purchased with more than gold. It had taken blood, too. Salashi blood, like hers. “The lot of you are fucking morons. Imbeciles! All you had to do was make the exchange—to take what I was giving you—and you fucked it up.”
The roof door swung open with a creak, and a gigantic man lumbered through. Tin Pail knew him well.
“You!” Harl waved the newcomer over. “Second Boar, you made the pass?”
The big bald Salashi shrugged. “There was no mistake, boss. I made the pass.”
“You!” Harl gestured at Paper Mouse. “You speak Carrig?” Paper nodded. “What happened? How the fuck did you lose my package?”
Paper glanced at Tin, then looked at the floor.
“Well?”
Tin said, “I told him not—”
The boss whirled on her. “I’m not asking you! I’m asking him!”
“I told him not to speak,” Tin said. “I’m in charge, so I’m responsible.”
“Well, well,” Harl said. He looked around the room at his heavies, all dressed like sober, respectable magistrates, all staring at her like hungry dogs. Few were Salashi. Most, like Harl, were foreign friends. Carrig. “Someone who knows how to run a crew. Why don’t you answer my question, then? What the fuck happened?”
“He was attacked and robbed in the crowd.” Tin kept her voice neutral. Any sign of what she really thought about Harl’s plan to make the switch would piss him off further.
“Then you sent the wrong man!” Harl’s eyes bulged and his cheeks wobbled as he shouted.
He sighed, lifted his paddle, and looked down its length. Tin glanced at her bodyguard, but he was still. Harl wasn’t ready to kill her yet.
But he wasn’t done talking, either. “I can’t believe my uncle exiled me here, to live among these shit-eaters. These refugees.” Tin Pail’s back stiffened, but Harl didn’t seem to notice. “You have no idea what’s important and what isn’t. No idea how to behave among your betters.”
While watching hammerball volleys below, Tin Pail’s bodyguard absentmindedly picked up a game paddle. While Harl continued his tirade, Second Boar lumbered toward him. Her bodyguard glanced up at his approach and set the paddle down. Second snatched it out of the rack anyway, shaking his head at the stupidity of the world. Her bodyguard turned toward him, the silver chimes in his red beard ringing faintly, but he had been ordered to do nothing, and he followed orders.
Harl pointed at Paper Mouse with his paddle. “This little shit rag lost my package, but you know what? I don’t blame him. He’s nothing. He’s just another dumb, horny ape climbing through the branches of this blasphemy of a city.” He stalked toward Tin. “I blame you.” Harl pressed his forefinger against Tin’s head and pushed, making her lean toward the edge. “You trusted him with this job. You. That makes you responsible for this fuck-up. Tell me your name.”
Tin Pail felt a chill run through her. Everyone became very still. “Tin Pail,” she said.
“I don’t mean your stupid street name. Don’t you Salashi use Stupid, child of Stupider? Lazy, child of Useless? Don’t you and your brother work for me? Tell me your real name.”
“My real name is Tin Pail.”
“That’s what I thought you’d say. Get out. Take your dumb, horny ape and your sweaty, stinking northerner. You have three days to find my package, contents intact. Second Boar, go with them.” Harl gave his paddle to one of his boys. He didn’t need it to threaten people. “If you don’t have my package by then, you might as well throw yourself into Undertower. It’ll be an easier way to die than what I have planned for you.”
In the street, Tin Pail spat into the gutter. Her blood was bright against the skywood deck.
Her bodyguard—she still couldn’t bring herself to say his name aloud, or even think it—offered her a linen cloth, almost certainly stolen from Harl’s club. She wiped her lips clean, then tossed the cloth aside.
A few passersby gave them guarded or suspicious looks. One didn’t throw bloody cloths in the street in Upgarden, not unless you wanted to risk a fine. One also didn’t wander the streets with a wild-haired Katr barbarian as a bodyguard. The cosh tended to notice that sort of thing.
Not that it mattered. Fuck the cosh. The people in the Upgarden decks were petals waiting to be plucked. They were nothing.
“First, we go to Low Market,” Second Boar said. “The thief will want to sell, and we should put out the word what will happen to anyone who buys.”
Tin Pail waved him off. “Do what you want. I’m going to get my brother first.”
She found Wooden Pail exactly where she expected him to be, in a Low Apricot brothel called The Pelican Baths. He was wearing nothing but his steel necklace and his crazy smile. Tin figured he must have just woken up, because the girls were still asleep.
His smile faded when he saw his sister’s face.
“What the fuck happened to you?
”
“It went wrong last night, and Harl is pissed.”
“I should have been there.”
“Yes, you fucking should. Get dressed.”
Wooden padded naked across the room toward the mannequin where his clothes were hung, but before he touched them, he fixed his hair in the mirror.
Tin went to the balcony and looked down at Low Market, which was directly north and below the Low Apricot decks. It was also open to the sun—at least, the upper parts were—having been built into Suloh’s and Yth’s massive pelvic girdles.
Second Boar could do as he pleased. Her people were already there, visiting full hospitals, canvas stalls selling medicinal tea, and everything in between. If their thieves were smart, they would stay far away from the Low Market decks. But they weren’t smart. They’d stolen from her.
Wooden joined her on the balcony, wearing white silks trimmed with gold. He hadn’t just been whoring. He’d been shopping, too. Ah, well, if they didn’t find this ear for Harl, it wouldn’t matter how much he’d spent.
Unless…
Wooden strapped on his long, slender knife, and his crazy smile returned. “I see you have a new boy in tow. One of Harl’s?”
Tin started toward the door. “He is. Where we’re going next, we’ll need him.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Sailsday’s Regret was usually shuttered on Sailsday. Patrons took their regrets elsewhere. After closing, a little old woman swabbed away the sweat, blood, and brandy, tables were brought out, and the spot became an ordinary—if somewhat spacious—tea shop.
Not today. Today was Last Day, and the tea shop tables were still packed away. The platform hall would be a true platform hall again tonight, and once again, the crowds would be huge.
In fact, some had already begun to celebrate, laughing and drinking on the promenade, getting their hands painted, or shopping for a tunic to dance in.
So, the staff of Sailsday’s Regret was quite busy loading casks of brandy and prepping for the evening when Second Boar lumbered in and pulled the manager aside. They spoke for only a few minutes, then Second returned to Tin Pail and her people.
For such a big man, he had an oddly high voice. “I’m going into the office, but Harl wants me to stick with you. Don’t leave High Apricot without me.” He went into the wooden building at the back of the platform and shut the door. The big gorilla was probably taking a nap.
The manager sent one of his cleaners on an errand. The only words Tin could make out clearly were Low Market. Clearly, Second Boar wasn’t going to take on that mission himself. Tin was surprised. She hadn’t pegged him as the type to give orders.
Tin gestured for the manager to approach. The manager bustled over, looking annoyed until he noticed her expression and the way her hand was resting on the hammer in her belt. He smiled and bowed.
They spent the afternoon pulling tray boys aside as they showed up for work. All were eager to help. None had seen anything useful.
In between those conversations, she had little to do except drink tea with Wooden and imagine the terrible things she would do to the thieves when they caught them.
* * *
Fay Nog Fay nervously drummed his fingers on the tabletop, waiting for Second Boar’s crew to do something interesting.
He’d tried to sleep when Onderishta ordered him to, but after three hours, he’d jolted out of a dream in which the constables collared him and presented an order—from the High Watch, no less—that he be shipped to the slave pens of Carrig.
It was stupid thing to be afraid of. Onderishta assured him that she couldn’t get along without him and would never let him be taken away, but he’d lived his whole life enduring little reminders that he did not belong.
At least he didn’t carry a slave’s brand. His parents were the ones who’d fled their homeland for a new life. They were the ones who wore long sleeves in all weather to hide the slavers’ marks. They were the ones who’d spent twenty years futilely applying for skin graft surgery to remove them. As for Fay, not only had he never set foot in Carrig, he’d never even left Koh-Salash. He might have looked like a foreign friend, but in his heart he considered himself Salashi.
He stood out among all these dark-skinned people. He knew that. He also knew some thought he ought to be kicked out of the bureaucratic service to open a position for one of the “Heirs of Selsarim.”
His only real protection came from Onderishta, and he had just fucked things up for her when he’d lost the package Second Boar sold.
So, there he was, sitting in Onderishta’s spot in the tea shop across the promenade from Sailsday’s Regret, brooding about how vulnerable he was, when Second Boar returned with a crew of hungry-looking heavies.
Plus one wild-haired Katr barbarian.
While the heavies milled around, giving each other hard looks, the barbarian stood at the edge of platform and stared out at the crowds. Most passersby wouldn’t meet his gaze for more than a moment, but he did not hesitate to stare at anyone, even the glowering ironshirts at their posts.
Fay didn’t meet his gaze either, but the barbarian stepped over the rail and crossed the promenade, heading straight for him. Despite the summer heat, the man wore a long coat with a fur collar—the Katr loved their fur. They displayed it like jewelry in any climate. At least he had the sense to go without sleeves. Fay would have bet good silver coin that, under that long coat, the barbarian wore some sort of illegal long weapon.
The man came up the short stair and walked directly to Fay’s table, then sat opposite him without invitation. Fay couldn’t hide his surprise at being singled out. Did the man know he was an investigator, or was he looking to chat with another non-Salashi?
The owner approached nervously. He knew Onderishta well and would send a message if Fay was in danger. The intruder said nothing. He just laid a coin on the table and tapped the empty teapot beside it. The owner scooped up the money and, with a worried look at Fay, retreated to the kitchen.
It was rare to meet humankind with blue eyes, but the barbarian had them. To his surprise, Fay found them beautiful and a little mysterious. The barbarian’s red hair and beard were matted and untidy—the result of deliberate neglect—but he was handsome in his own way: broad-shouldered, muscular, and covered with tiny scars.
The tea and an extra setting arrived. The barbarian refilled Fay’s cup, then his own. They sat in silence, drinking their tea and regarding each other. Fay could not sense contempt or admiration in the Katr’s expression, just a sullen, casual regard. He had no idea what the man thought of him, although he didn’t imagine it was flattering.
The silence went on long enough that it became weird, and Fay wondered if he had been enlisted in some sort of competition to see who would give in and speak first. Since Fay didn’t care one whit about any game except the one he and his boss were playing with Harl, he yielded and said, “Thank you for the tea.”
The barbarian nodded. A faint chiming came with the movement, and Fay realized the man had tiny bells tied into his unkempt beard and hair.
“Are you lonely?” Fay was not usually interested in men, but exceptions could be made, especially if it helped Onderishta’s case.
“A true man is never lonely,” the barbarian answered in his thick, harsh accent.
Fay rolled his eyes. The worst thing about dealing with criminals every day—aside from the fact that they’d cut out your guts for a laugh—was that their macho bullshit was so fucking boring.
“True men just hide it better than most.”
That earned a laugh. The barbarian lifted his cup in salute. “Sometimes, what others believe to be true about us is all the truth that matters.”
Interesting. “My name is Fay Nog Fay. What’s yours?”
“I am called Killer of Devils.”
Fay couldn’t hide his surprise. “That’s not a street name.”
“No, it is not.” The barbarian set his cup down and leaned back. “Too boastful for your local street rats
, yes? In Katr, our true names are spoken only when we are children at our mother’s breast and adults beneath the bedcovers. Our community gives each of us a public name for the rest of the world. A name we earn.”
“Do you have a lot of devils in your country? To kill?”
“They come often. They build houses beside our watering holes, fences across our grazing land, and towers atop our holy sites.”
“Ah. And now you’ve come to a city full of devils. But here, you’re the foreigner, right?”
Killer of Devils nodded. “That is true. I am now the foreign devil, but few here seem to mind.”
Fay felt the sting of that, as though this foreigner had been reading his thoughts and knew he had been made welcome where Fay was not. “What work do you do?”
Shit. He’d wanted to change the subject and had pushed too fast. If he was going to ingratiate himself with someone in Harl’s organization, he couldn’t afford to be clumsy.
Killer leaned forward. “You know the answer to that question, just as I know who you are and what you do, Fay Nog Fay. You have no secrets here.”
The hair on the back of Fay’s neck stood on end. Would staking out Sailsday’s Regret be the mistake that got him killed? Onderishta didn’t even know he was here.
Fay held himself very still. He wasn’t a fighter, but he could run like a—
“Do not run.” Killer held up his hand, then refilled their cups. Once again, he seemed to be reading Fay’s thoughts. “You have nothing to fear from me. In fact, I come to you in hope that we might benefit each other.”
Fay kept both feet flat on the floor. If the barbarian made a move for him, he’d drop to the floor and roll under the rail. “In what way?”
Killer set down his cup a little too hard, then leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I know you are searching for a certain package. Do you know what is inside it?” Fay didn’t answer. “Neither do I. However, if I find it before you do, I may decide that I want nothing to do with it. If I needed to get in touch with you, to tell you where and when you could locate the package, how would I do that?”
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