The Man in Shadow

by Taylor O'Connell

  Hamish, a thickly muscled Kirkundan with a head of curly red locks, flashed Sal an ugly smile. “Fuck are you doing down here?”

  Bartley grabbed Sal by the elbow, but he shrugged the Yahdrish off. He knew what Bartley wanted him to do, but the ring wasn’t going to get them out of this one. In fact, the ring was practically guaranteed to get them killed. Benito and Hamish seemed off, perhaps drunk or at the least, deep in their cups. But even in that state, they would never fall for the little rouse, and would no doubt know just where Stefano’s ring had come from.

  “Came to get a haul for my uncle’s cellar,” Sal lied.

  Benito regarded them with a raised brow. “Who are they?” the fat Pairgu asked Sal.

  “Just the help,” Sal explained. “Needed some extra hands to carry everything.”

  Hamish cocked an eyebrow and looked at Sal and Bartley’s empty arms. “What’s in the sack?”

  “Fire-wine,” Sal said brazenly.

  “Fire-wine?” Benito said the word like a curse.

  Hamish laughed and clapped Sal on the back. “Fire-wine!” said the Kirkundan brute as he made for Vinny. “Give us a bottle, will you?”

  Vinny froze but quickly seemed to gather himself. He winked and unslung the bag from his shoulder. “Here we are then,” Vinny said and slipped a bottle free of the grain sack.

  Benito smirked as Vinny handed Hamish the fire-wine.

  “Get a move on it, then will you,” said Hamish, nodding the trio past as he and Benito rejoined their companions.

  Once they were off the docks, past the harbor loading-round and up onto the Bayway, Bartley began to whoop and holler with joy.

  “Wouldn’t you know it,” Bartley said. “We didn’t even need that ring after all.”

  Vinny laughed. “No thanks to you, runt.”

  “Bugger yourself,” said the little Yahdrish. “Weren’t for me finding that fire-wine, we would never have gotten off the docks.”

  “If it weren’t for you dolts and the fire-wine, I could have just told them it was grain,” Sal pointed out. “But it doesn’t matter now, we’re out of there, and we’ve got the lockbox, that’s what matters.”

  “And we’ve got a sack full of fire-wine to celebrate,” said Vinny.

  “Here, here,” said Bartley slapping Vinny on the back, the prior transgression already behind them.

  “Sorry, mates,” Sal said, biting his lip. “I, uh, I’ve got somewhere to be.”

  “Somewhere more important than celebrating with the Shadow Guild and a bottle of fire-wine?” asked Bartley.

  Sal winked. “You be careful with that swill.”

  Sal hoped he wasn’t too late. The little job with the ship had taken longer than expected, but he was fairly certain he had until sundown before the carriage left. Oddly enough, Stefano had yet to tell him of the meeting.

  Sal had overheard the argument between his uncle and his manservant, and it had seemed Stefano was quite intent on taking Sal to the Commission meeting, and yet, Sal still had a strange feeling about the whole thing. A feeling as though something was wrong.

  He reached the gates of the Lorenzo estate and walked along the drive. When he spotted his uncle’s town coach, the horses already hitched, the driver’s seated upon the bench, Sal picked up his pace. Surely, his uncle would not leave without him. Stefano had seemed so adamant about taking Sal when he’d spoken about it with Greggings.

  When Sal was within a few paces of the manor house, the massive oak doors opened, and his uncle emerged.

  Walking alongside Stefano, was none other than Tristain, and suddenly it occurred to Sal who the boy was that his uncle meant to take to the Commission meeting.

  Sal stopped before the front steps, and Stefano eyed him suspiciously but did not speak. This was the man Sal had known to expect. The uncle who had never paid him the time of day. The uncle who meant to leave it all to his ward, this Tristain.

  Sal passed Stefano and Tristain, as they walked down the steps and into the carriage of Stefano’s town coach. Tristain turned and gave Sal a knowing look.

  Sal didn’t wave them off. He didn’t even deign to watch them trundle down the drive on their way to the big important meeting. Instead, he grabbed hold of the brass ring of the falcon’s head knocker and pulled open the massive oak door.

  Greggings stood within, seated upon one of the cushioned chairs in the foyer.

  “Master Salvatori?” said Greggings.

  But Sal did not bother to answer. He crossed the lavender tile of the foyer and headed up the grand staircase. He rubbed at a tear that had come on as he padded down the hall and slammed shut the door of his bedroom. He thought of shouting in rage, of letting his anger free with one tremendous roar, but as soon as the thought came on, the feeling left him.

  He sank down onto his bed and rubbed at another tear as he pulled his uncle’s ring from his pocket. The ring was pure silver. It bore the crest of the Commission. At the center of the crest was his uncle’s sigil, the Lorenzo falcon.

  Sal turned the ring over in his hand, feeling the weight of it. It was such a small thing, yet the power it contained was vast—not a piece of jewelry, but a key—a key that opened nearly any door within the city.

  If Stefano had not yet noted the rings absence, he soon would. And when he did, it would be best for Sal to be rid of the thing. His uncle would not take kindly to a theft of that magnitude. Best if he returned the ring and avoided his uncle’s discovery altogether.

  Besides, the ring hadn’t done much anyhow. It was Sal’s charm and wit that had gotten them off the docks, not the ring. He ought to just put the ring back and avoid—

  And that was when it hit him. It might be that the ring had not yet outlived its usefulness. It might be he could find a use for the ring after all.

  24

  The First Repercussion

  The edges of the letter were worn from years of handling. Yet the red wax seal stamped with the dragon sigil had remained intact and undamaged after all these years. The mystery behind that dragon was more intriguing to Sal than any thought of what the letter might say. He thought he knew what it would say—naught but hollow words of apology—for her inadequacies—for leaving him. And still, he couldn’t help but wonder: why the dragon? It could be that his mother had explained that quandary within the contents of the letter. Perhaps, he ought to open the letter.

  Sal laid there on his back, blanket bunched by his side as he stared at the letter for a time. He slipped his pigsticker from his boot-sheath and put the point of the blade on the red sealing-wax.

  Thump, thump, crack!

  The doorframe split, and the door swung open so hard it nearly broke free of its hinges.

  Sal toppled off his bed but managed to land on his feet in the scramble. He crouched, pigsticker at the ready.

  Two men entered, one of them laughing as he passed through the splintered door frame. They were familiar faces—made men—the both of them. Two faces Sal didn’t care to see. Two men, Sal had known a long, long time. Both of them as big as they were mean and ugly as they were dumb.

  “Easy, boyo,” said the lead man, Hamish Skein, “Not here to hurt you. Just didn’t feel like waiting for you to open the door when we could open it ourselves.”

  Hamish had a head of curly red ringlets that fell to his shoulders, though the man hardly had a neck, his barrel chest and broad arms were as powerful as a plow horse.

  “Weren’t much of a door,” said Benito.

  Though he was of a height with Hamish, Benito Ricci didn’t share his counterpart’s powerful-looking build. To look at Benito, one would think the man was as slow as he was fat. Benito certainly was fat; twenty-Two stone was the claim. And still, Sal knew from experience that of the two men, Benito was the more dangerous. He was the strongest man Sal had ever seen, aside from Odie, and even at twenty-two stone, the man could still outrun Sal in the blink of an eye.

  “What’s with the poker?” asked Hamish. “You threatening us?”


  Sal sheathed the knife back into his boot, stood, and held his hands in the air so Hamish could see his palms. The appearance of those two could only mean one thing.

  “If I’d have known the pair of you were coming by, I would have left the door unlocked. You know you boys are always welcome. Might I say, Ham, those ruby-red locks are looking lovely. And, Benito, how’s the goiter? I see it’s grown somewhat since our last face-to-face. Might be, if you grew some hair like Hamish—”

  “Fuck yourself, Salvatori.”

  “Ahem,” Stefano Lorenzo cleared his throat as he entered the room. “I won’t abide that talk, Hamish. You want to speak like a porter I can put you back to unloading ships.”

  “Uncle, how nice to see you,” Sal said.

  “Don’t patronize me, boy.”

  “I’m sorry. Would you prefer I’d told you to fuck yourself and let me get back to sleep?

  Benito moved like a snake—striking before Sal could react—he was grabbed by the collar and lifted an inch from the floor.

  “You ought to show some respect,” said Hamish, cracking his knuckles.

  “Drop him,” said Stefano.

  Benito did just that, without a moment’s hesitation.

  Sal fell to his ass, but quickly found his feet and brushed himself off.

  Stefano took a step closer. His thugs, standing at either side, crossed their arms, frowns fixed on their ugly faces.

  “Lady’s tits, uncle,” Sal cursed. “Wasn’t it you taught me manners?”

  His uncle looked to the bedside table where Sal’s pipe laid. He scrunched his nose as though he smelled something rotten. “I’ve no respect for skeevers who turn face.”

  Sal’s pulse quickened. Did Stefano know about the attempt on Don Scarvini?

  “Turn face—Uncle, when have I not been loyal?”

  “Do you make mock?”

  “This once, I mock nothing,” Sal said.

  Stefano shook his head, his jaw clenching.

  “Right, then, how about you tell me. What in the bloody—”

  His uncle struck him across the mouth with a backhand.

  Sal put a hand to his face and took a deep breath to cool his temper.

  “You speak of manners! It’s high time you learned some respect, boy. I’ve word of what you’ve done. Disrespect can run no deeper.”

  Sal waited. Would his uncle kill him here and now? No, if he knew about Dominik and Don Scarvini, Sal would already be dead. This was something else.

  “To think I raised you in my own house. Fed you from my own table, clothed you, educated you, and this is how you repay me? You mean to make your blood by another Family.”

  Everything fell into order just as suddenly as his door had been kicked in.

  “Don Moretti,” Sal said.

  “You would make me your enemy, boy?”

  “I would never—Uncle, you know I would never.”

  “No? Why then would you agree to make your blood for the Moretti Family?”

  “That’s what this is about? You know I had no choice in that.”

  “You’ve always a choice. It comes to how willing you are to deal with the consequences of your actions. Well, have you the stomach?”

  “That’d depend on how much I’m being asked to swallow. I’m no whore, after all.”

  His uncle struck him with a backhand.

  Sal moved his head with the blow, to soften the contact. But it didn’t do much. He could feel his rage heating, just beneath the surface now, threatening to boil over any moment.

  “I warn you, Uncle.”

  Stefano struck him once more. “You warn me, boy?” Stefano shouted, lashing out again, and again, and again.

  Sal staggered back. A ringing sounded in his ears. He shook his head, gritted his jaw, took a step toward his uncle, and punched. Fire surged through his knuckles as his fist struck his uncle’s nose.

  Blood sprayed. Stefano’s eyes widened incredulously, and his hands clapped over his nose

  And then they were on him—Benito and Hamish both—they rushed Sal—like two bulls trampling a child in the street. They’d come on faster than thunder followed lightning, and in a flash, Sal saw naught but blackness.

  25

  Exposed

  Sal blinked. Light streamed into his vision, awakening colors and textures. He blinked once more, his breathing shallow, pain flowing through him. He winced, closing his eyes and coughing. He moaned, his ribs throbbing.

  Sal tried to relax, but his entire body ached, the hard ground was like the torturer’s rack. He opened his eyes once more, and this time, a face came into focus.

  “Valla, that you?”

  “Who else?” Valla said, helping Sal to sit upright. “Gods, you’re a bloody mess.”

  Sal bounced his eyebrows, regretting the action immediately, as the pain set in.

  “What happened?” Valla asked.

  He winced, sharp pangs of pain struck with every movement.

  “A visit from my uncle. You know how carried away he can get when we rough house.”

  “You let that old man do this to you?”

  “Not exactly. The bloody lip might have been due to my uncle. Most of the rest was given to me courtesy of Hamish Skein and Benito Ricci.”

  “And you didn’t cook them on a spit for the attempt? Fucking curious, that.”

  “It’s not so curious as that,” Sal said with a shrug. “They got the jump on me, knocked me cold faster than I could put up my arms.”

  “Seems your wit is intact, much as it ever was. Anything broken?”

  Sal wiggled his toes and bent his knees just slightly. His wrist hurt like all hell, but it bent with a full range of motion. His ribs, on the other hand, were most definitely broken. Each breath he drew nearly sent him into tears.

  “Might be a rib,” Sal said.

  Valla nodded and slowly helped Sal to his feet.

  “Gah!”

  “Oh, don’t be such a lily petal,” Valla said and pulled him to his feet.

  Once up, Sal checked his ribs, feeling each one with a tender prodding.

  “Looks to me, you’ll not bleed out,” Valla said. She raised an eyebrow, frowning slightly at the corners of her mouth. “Still, I have to wonder why you didn’t just call upon the lightning to do your bidding. Hamish and Benito are a mean pair I’ll grant, but they’re only men.”

  “Like I said, they got the jump on me.”

  Valla nodded, but her visage told a different story.

  Everything still hurt, and his head ached something awful. He needed a bowl, but when he looked at the bedside table, the carved box and the wooden pipe were both missing. He limped to the table, using the mattress as support. He looked all about, to make certain it hadn’t fallen on the floor or rolled beneath the bed.

  No luck, the skeev was gone.

  He looked at Valla, but her hands were empty, and there was nowhere on her person she was going to be hiding the ebony box, he was certain of that.

  In a flash, he recalled the way his uncle had looked at the pipe, the way he’d wrinkled his nose.

  Sal cursed under his breath—that was the last of his skeev. He felt panic come on. Without skeev, the locket was useless.

  He looked up, Valla was staring at him, a quizzical look in her green eyes.

  “What are you doing here, anyhow?”

  Valla grimaced. “Some fucking way to thank me.”

  “I—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—how are you feeling? Your stomach and all?”

  “That Talent stitched me up enough to keep my fucking insides inside.”

  Sal grinned. “Betta does good work, yeah?”

  Valla nodded, putting a hand on her side where she’d been stabbed just the other night.

  “So, how’d you come across me anyhow?” Sal asked.

  Valla shrugged. “Happy coincidence, really. I came with a message. Happened to stumble across you lying here. Thought the least I could do was get you on your feet.”

&nbs
p; “Oh, and what is it?”

  “Those things attached to your legs, you know, each one has five little toe—”

  “The message, Val.”

  Valla sobered up in a flash. A look of grim repose replaced coy joviality. “Summons,” she said. “Alonzo. He’s calling up a crew.”

  “Tonight? What’s it about?”

  Valla shrugged. “They’ve kept it pretty hush. Whatever it is, it’s big. Alonzo wants us at the safe house, tonight, hour of the wolf.”

  Sal nodded. “I know a mender might be able to lend me a hand.”

  “You want help getting there?”

  Sal smiled. “My, we sure are in a helpful mood today, aren’t we?”

  “I can’t stop myself from lending aid when I see a helpless fucking creature,” Valla said. “My tragic flaw, really.”

  Sal sighed. “Best be off then. No sense wasting time if we’ve only until the hour of the wolf.”

  Valla helped him limp out of the room and down the hall, his arm over her shoulder to support his weight. The stairs had been every bit as painful as he’d feared, but once through the taproom and out on the street, things were slow going, but manageable.

  “Word about Don Scarvini is all over the Commission. Seems the name on everyone’s lips is Dominik D’Angelo,” Valla said, tilting her head slightly as she spoke the name.

  “Right well, Dominik knows to keep his head low. He’ll stay out of sight.”

  “You fucking simple?” Valla said. “We went after a don of the Commission. Worse, we fucked it up.”

  “And what does that mean?” Sal asked. “Dominik’s name is out there, but what are we going to do about it now?”

  “Look, hitting that Scarvini warehouse, it was like kicking a hornet nest, but even killing Don Scarvini and all of his sons might not call off the hornets. Might be we just kicked a new nest, this one even bigger than the first.”

  Sal didn’t know what to say. If Valla was right, everything they’d done had merely set them back even farther. It was not the sort of news he’d wanted to hear.