The Man in Shadow

by Taylor O'Connell

  Sal reached into his pocket and crushed a bit of the cap between his fingers, giving the residue a good even coat. He grabbed hold of the locket and focused his will.

  “Now, I’ll have you—”

  Sal’s upright palm began to flicker and flash with blue sparks. He slowly built up the charge, until bands of crackling electricity snaked and slithered about his hand and wrist. Sal turned his hand and faced the open palm toward the closed backdoor and unleashed a bolt of blue lightning. The bolt struck the door with an earsplitting crack.

  The proprietor shrieked. A hole burst through the door with a splintering of shrapnel.

  Sal released the locket, his breathing heavy, heartbeat rapid, muscles tight. The controlled casting had taken a toll, but it would be best if he gave the illusion that it had been nothing—the most basic of his magics.

  Pumphrey cowered on the ground, face to the floorboards, his arms over his head as though to fend off a blow. “Name of the bloody Light!” he cursed between sobs. “Fell light, black magic.”

  Sal reached down and held out a hand for Pumphrey. The little man accepted his hand shaking and holding back sobs.

  “Well then,” Sal said. “How about it, I help you, you help me?”

  “What is it you want from me?”

  “Seven suits, measured and cut to my standards, one in the Kirkundan fashion. Nine shirts, five silk, four linen. I’ll need shoes as well, leather, sturdy build. I’m certain you know of a good cordwainer that could accommodate?”

  “I—you want suits, seven suits?”

  Sal nodded. “Seven suits, nine shirts, a pair of shoes.”

  The little man looked as though he disbelieved Sal. “I’ve been taken by your kind before. Commission types came here with the same offer as you. They told me I’d get protection. You see, my brother started this little shop with me, but he got himself some debts. Well, that snake Alonzo Amato, he came knocking one day. Told me he had bought up my brother’s debts. That Alonzo, he told me no one would ever dare come collecting from this place so long as I allowed his Don to become my partner.” The little man shook his head. “And you know what? All they asked for was half—only half of everything I earned—everything I worked for. Only, once they started collecting their half, they didn’t take half, oh no, they took everything. Told me a business like this should be making twice what we were, and they were only taking their just due. When things slowed down even more, that Don started keeping a tab. Told me I owed him the usual rate, but my interest had doubled. You tell me, how’s that fair? How can a man make a living like this?”

  “I get it,” Sal said. “You’re not the first. The gangs have been extorting protection rackets all about the city for ages. It’s part of how they’ve managed to become so powerful. They pretend to be men of the people, then they turn the tables and take from the very people they vow to protect. I’m not one of them. Like I said, I’m not made, and I don’t ever plan to be.”

  The little man shook his head, pacing. “You expect me to believe you’ll take on the entire Commission in my defense, for—for what, a few suits?”

  “Seven suits,” Sal corrected. “And nine shirts—”

  “Yes, yes, five silk, four linen, and a pair of sturdy shoes. It’s a damned fool claim if I ever heard one,” Pumphrey said with a shrug. “But what choice do I have?”

  “Ay, well, I suppose you could reject me, and wait for Alonzo and his boys to come collecting on their own. Though you do that, you’ll like as not live to see Soluns.

  The little man scowled. “If I take your offer, how can I be sure you’ll be able to help?”

  Sal nodded toward the hole in the door.

  The proprietor scrunched his nose, brow wrinkled, his lips pursed. Then he sighed. “Seven suits and nine shirts. Do you have a preference of colors? And of the sleeves, how long the slash, what pairings would you prefer? Your jackets, shall they be one button, or two?”

  “Apart from the Kirkundan cut, I want whatever’s newest and most fashionable. I want to look rich, the son of a lord, perhaps.”

  The little man arched an eyebrow but didn’t press him farther.

  “I’ll need the Kirkundan suit made by this afternoon.”

  “It can be done,” said Pumphrey. “I’ll hold to my end, so long as you hold to yours. I had a mind to skip town after Alonzo last came calling. Might be that is still my best choice.”

  Sal took hold of the locket and focused his energy into the opposite palm. Sparks crackled.

  “Enough!” the little man shrieked. “I’ve seen what you can do. There is no need to bring down more destruction upon my little shop.”

  Sal released the locket. The sparks vanished, and the little man calmed noticeably.

  “Now then,” said Pumphrey, snatching up a measuring stick. “Best be at it if I’ve only a few hours. I’ll have to alter something that I have laying around for the first suit. Can’t be helped.”

  And before Sal could think to object, Pumphrey was at him with a measuring stick.

  15

  The Thumb And The Eye

  INTERLUDE, SEVEN YEARS EARLIER

  The alley mouth had as well have been on the other side of the city as far away as it seemed. Each step was worse than the next. It wasn’t the walking, nor the knowledge of what was coming; it was merely not knowing when or how it would come.

  It was stupid to worry, really. There was only one way he was going to come. The question was: would he come at all? Sal wasn’t sure if he’d mind being stood up, this once, at the least.

  He forced himself to keep walking, step after step, he breathed in, breathed out, and stepped on, watching, waiting, and jumping at the slightest shift of every shadow. The cobblestones of the alley were harmless, the cracked stone and crumbling brick walls, brown, black, and faded gray, spotted with yellow lichen, and pale green ivy sprouts. He focused on the end of the alley, the blackness of the alley mouth, as though it was the only means to an end, the only way to squirm free of panic’s grip. He would seek that black orifice, desperately claw his way into the darkness for therein lied the light at the end of the tunnel.

  Like a rat, he scurried forth, with eyes flitting to every corner, all senses on high alert—one foot, then the other. He could hear the rapid pumping of his heart through the plugs in his ears. The sickly anticipation of what was to come, comingling with the desire to have it done, formed a toxic mixture in his belly that was of itself anathema.

  The scrape of leather boots on cobblestones forced his hackles to rise. Then he saw it—a figure at the end of the alley. The Norsic kid moved like a man following naught but intuition. His legs propelled him as though he were some sort of corporeal automaton, and Sal knew by watching that Odie had been right about the tracer.

  Sal froze, at the sight of the Norsic kid, a wave of fear rushed through him. He shivered, his flesh chilled, and his muscles went tight.

  “Men will run, or men will fight,” his uncle had once told him. But Sal had not found that to be the case. For him, it was not a question of running or fighting, but a question of action or inaction. He wouldn’t run, he’d been in enough fights now to know that. The real question was whether he would rise up or shut down, once the first punch had been thrown.

  Sal forced himself to take another step, and then another.

  The tall blonde Norsic turned and perked up like a hound that had spotted its quarry.

  Another pang of fear passed through Sal, the cold hand of panic gripped his throat tight, making it hard to breathe.

  The Norsic swept a strand of long straw blonde hair behind his ear and leered in a way that made Sal’s bowels tighten.

  Sal clenched his fists and stood as tall as he was able, taking another step closer, positioning himself just right. It would all come down to where they were standing, in the end.

  “You come to pay your protection tax again?” the Norsic asked, taking a step closer to Sal.

  Sal steeled his nerves, squaring up with
the larger kid.

  “All alone tonight, I see. I must have already missed the Yahdrish. For someone with such shit for brains and so few talents apart from running his mouth, I’ll admit, you seem to use him well.”

  Sal quit trembling. He could feel the heat coming on, the boiling in his blood. Whatever else Bartley was, the little Yahdrish was Sal’s friend.

  Sal moved forward, not with the slow caution of prey, but the malicious intent of a predator.

  The Norsic’s smile was cocksure, he had the size, and only the gods knew whatever else hidden up his sleeves. If he was getting tracers made by a Talent, he might have access to a plethora of devices—talents were known to cook up all sorts of useful oddities.

  Even worse for Sal, there was nowhere to run. If his plan failed, he would have to take the Norsic head-on, or run the other way down the alley, and hope he was faster than the Norsic kid.

  “Vincenzo, isn’t it?” Sal asked, knowing well what the Norsic bastard’s name was, but hoping the mention of his name might slow him just enough.

  “Told you already, you can call me, Don Vincenzo.”

  “Ah, yes, that again. How about Don Fop? Don Sodder, perhaps?”

  Sal seemed to have struck a nerve because the Norsic charged without warning.

  “Fuck!” Sal shouted in surprise as he stumbled back a step. “Now! Bartley—the net, now!”

  The net dropped from the building above, a vacuous black behemoth of a fishing net. It spiraled down as it fell, the eight lead weights pulling the ends wide, until it landed upon the Norsic kid, and collapsed on him in a tangle of weaved cords.

  The Norsic scrambled about as he fell to the alley floor, flailing and writhing in his attempt to free himself.

  “Look, mate,” Sal said as he approached the netted Norsic, “we know about the tracers.” The kid looked up, and Sal knew he’d been right. “So, you know that gives us no choice, don’t you? We’ll have to end you. Magickers can only be trusted when they’re dead. Isn’t that what they say in Skjörund?”

  “I’m no magicker,” the Norsic growled.

  “No? So, you have the tracers made then, do you?”

  The Norsic didn’t deign to answer, but his flailing ceased. It seemed he had accepted he would need a touch of help to cut free of this one.

  “Right, then,” Sal said cheerily, as though they’d not just squared up for a fight. “How about you stop all of this protection tax nonsense? I mean, how long do you think it’s going to last? You can keep beating the coin out of us, each time hoping we decide to put a knife in your eye.”

  Sal bent down and pulled the pigsticker from his boot sheath.

  The sight of the long slender blade sent a shiver through the Norsic kid, but he didn’t beg. He merely lifted his chin and snarled, the weaved cord of the fishing net pressing into his skin.

  Sal extending the blade slowly, until the point of the knife was a hairsbreadth from the Norsic’s eye. “Or, you can stop chasing us down for the take, and just join us on the get.”

  The Norsic stared at the blade, eyes narrowed, jaw gritted.

  “Well, what will it be? Should I take the eye? Or will you just join us? You can have one-third of the cut from every score. All we ask is that you play your part, and swear never to put another cause before the good of the crew.”

  The Norsic kid sighed before he spoke, yet when he did, all defiance had been sapped from his voice. “Sounds a fair enough deal. But what’s to keep me from turning around and slitting your throats?”

  “Your own greed, Sal said. “You kill us, you’re out all the coin we could have potentially made with you. And I know you’re smart enough to realize this; otherwise, you’d have simply killed us the first time, rather than made tracers and kept us on the payroll.”

  “Seems you’ve thought it through,” said the Norsic.

  “Well then,” Sal asked. “What’ll it be?”

  “Might be, I’ll take my chances with you lot.”

  Sal nodded and lowered the blade, then bent down to sheath it, when he heard a scuffling noise coming from behind.

  “Ahhh!” Bartley shouted as he charged down the alley. The Yahdrish rushed past. His arm swung back, and he thrust forth a fist, thumb first.

  “Bartley!” Sal shouted, reaching for his friend, but too late.

  Vincenzo cried out and clapped a hand to his face. “Gods! What the bloody—my eye! You stuck your thumb in my fucking eye!”

  Bartley raised his fists high. Arms spread wide, he arched back and roared like a dragon.

  “Bartley!” Sal shouted, but the Yahdrish kid seemed not to hear him through his bloodlust.

  “Nobody fucks with the Shadow Guild,” Bartley screamed and charged the netted Norsic.

  The Yahdrish and the Norsic collided in a jaw snapping crush of muscle and bone. Bartley wrapped his arms about the squatting Norsic, but within a heartbeat, the little Yahdrish was thrown to the cobblestones and dragged beneath the net.

  Vincenzo drew back a fist and struck Bartley hard in the face.

  Blood sprayed, and the little Yahdrish let out a garbled squeal.

  Sal rushed in and brought a knee up to the side of the Norsic’s head with a solid thud.

  As the Norsic’s head whipped away, Sal scrambled to relieve Bartley from Vincenzo’s grasp, but he’d have done as well to pull Bartley free from the jaws of a shark.

  The Norsic dragged the little Yahdrish back into the entanglement and raised his big fist once more.

  Sal thrust the point of the knife just before the face of the Norsic.

  And time seemed to stop.

  The Norsic kid exhaled and slowly lowered his fist.

  Bartley rolled on his side, and with some effort, managed to get to his belly and squirm free.

  “Now then,” Sal said. “Everyone calmed down some?”

  The Norsic gave a slight nod, and Bartley spat a bloody globule to the cobblestones from where he laid on his side.

  Sal used the pigsticker to cut the Norsic free, sheathed the knife, and helped him to stand before he went to check on Bartley and explain that Vincenzo had already agreed to join them.

  When the little Yahdrish was on his feet, he extended a hand to the Norsic. “I’d say it’s fair if we called it a draw,” Bartley said through cracked, bleeding lips, blood streaming down from his swollen nose.

  “Uh, sure,” said the Norsic kid accepting the handshake with a grin.

  “You can call me Bartley.”

  “Vinny,” said the Norsic.

  “Welcome to the crew, Vinny,” Sal said.

  “Ay, welcome to the Shadow Guild. Now, how about a drink?” Bartley asked. “I know of a great place just up the way.”

  “Sounds like a fine plan,” said Vinny, still holding a hand over the eye that Bartley had jabbed. “But, uh, what in Sacrull’s hell is a Shadow Guild?”

  16

  A Red Dress

  Sal brushed the hem of the Lady’s stone dress as he and Vinny passed beneath the archway of the bridge tower façade.

  “A fine cut of cloth that is,” said Vinny between bites of a folded flatbread, stuffed with some kind of meat and greens, all wrapped in paper. “How is it you came across such a thing? Nicked it off some lord’s estate, did you?”

  Sal grinned, adjusted his jacket, and turned up his nose. “How dare you, peasant. Why I ought to have the fine men of the City Watch summoned to give you a good beating for suggesting such a thing. What is that thing you’re eating anyhow?”

  Vinny examined the folded flatbread holding it up at eye level, shrugged, and took another bite. “Some old Miniian woman sold it to me. Can’t remember what she called it, sujuck—sojock—something like that—good stuff, anyhow.”

  “Stinks,” Sal said, waving at his nose. “What kind of meat is that?”

  Vinny shrugged and continued to eat as they walked along the bridge, sticking to the righthand side.

  Sal looked out over the choppy black water and put a hand on t
he parapet. “What of the mark?” Sal asked. “What carriage did he take?”

  Vinny smiled broadly, bits of green stuck in his teeth. “They took the town coach.”

  “The town, but that would be the six-horse. That means two drivers?”

  “Ay, two drivers, that it does.”

  “But that’s bad, isn’t it?”

  Vinny shook his head. “It was a lucky thing for us. If Lord Cheese was any less of a swank, he might have taken the two-horse, and our man would have been left back at the stables.”

  “Ah, I see,” Sal said, as understanding struck. “So, it was the second driver that had the gambling problem.”

  Vinny shrugged. “I got who I could, let’s just be happy it’s all worked out.”

  “You did well, Vin, and I didn’t mean to imply otherwise. Tell me, what of the guard?”

  “Ponder and Amos,” Vinny said, his grin growing.

  “Another stroke of the Lady’s luck,” Sal said, returning the smile.

  Ponder, and Amos were the two fattest guards on duty with the Bastian family. A fact that would serve Sal and Vinny well.

  “And the jeweler, did he give you any trouble?” Sal asked.

  “Anyone ever given the big man trouble?” Vinny laughed. “Odie told the jeweler to get in the back, and the man practically jumped to obey. Would have trussed himself up if he could have managed it, too. Might be you could have found a part for him, he was really quite enthusiastic to help.”

  Sal smirked. “The big man does tend to have that effect on people.”

  As they passed beneath the archway of the High Town bridge façade, one of the steel caps eyed Sal in a way that sent a shiver down his spine. Sal told himself it was his new clothes that had drawn the steel cap’s eye, yet he was anything but certain.

  They headed along the Kingsway and wound up High Hill, then into an alleyway that led them onto the brick streets of the Agora.

  “How long do we have?” Sal asked.

  “Maybe half an hour,” Vinny said, with a shrug, a mischievous smile spreading slowly up to his cheeks. “You know how Lord Cheese gets when he’s out on market. Do you think he’ll want some shoes and a mink shawl to go with his new dress?”