The Man in Shadow

by Taylor O'Connell

  “I suppose time will tell. We won’t know until we’re six feet under anyhow.”

  Valla frowned. “I talked to Vincenzo. He told me you’ve had him working a job. Scouting, wasn’t it?”

  Sal nodded. “Vincenzo has a big mouth.”

  “Scouting the Bastian estate?” She asked.

  Sal nodded once more.

  “You bloody forget about Bastian, you hear?”

  Sal was taken aback by the outburst. “Why should I stay away?”

  “Because I fucking said too.”

  Sal stopped walking and looked Valla square on. “I can’t do that, Val. This is important.”

  “I don’t know how you think this works, but my life currently depends on how long you stay alive. Therefore, it is very fucking important to me that you live. Understand?”

  “No. I can’t say I do. Though, you’ve not done much of a job explaining.”

  “How about this for an explanation. Continue to fuck around with Lord Hugo Bastian or his estate, and you are going to get me, and everyone else killed. How is that for fucking clear?”

  “What do you know that I don’t?” Sal asked

  “That Vincenzo isn’t the only one who has been scouting that little lord, and the other crew doing it won’t want competition. Bastian fucked with the wrong people, and soon enough, he’s going to get what’s coming to him.”

  Sal quickly grew concerned.

  “Who, Val? Who is it Bastian crossed?”

  Valla sighed. “The whole fucking Commission. Moretti alone has had five of the black crosses scouting Bastian and his estate the past fortnight.”

  “A fortnight and you’re only just now telling me this?”

  “I only just fucking learned about it. Besides, you didn’t bother to let me in on your own plans with the Bastian estate. How should I have even known to fucking warn you?”

  “So, what’s he done?” Sal asked. “Why Bastian?”

  “Haven’t a clue,” Valla said with a shrug. “I overheard most of what I know. I’m still new enough I’m not informed on much. Alonzo is about the only one keeps me cued into anything, and I wouldn’t dare ask him.”

  “What’s Don Moretti got planned with the Bastian estate?”

  “Weren’t you listening? I’ve told you every-fucking-thing I know. Whatever it is, it’s big, and you’d do best to stay clear. Keep low, eyes on the horizon, and an ear to the ground.” Valla said, quoting the old adage.

  “I need to go,” Sal said, thinking of Lilliana.

  “Go? Go where?”

  “The Bastian estate,” Sal said, turning and limping east.

  “What are you—Sacrull’s bloody balls, did you not listen to a fucking word I said? You’re not going to the fucking Bastian estate you mule. You’re going to that mender of yours, and then we’re meeting Alonzo about that job.”

  Sal shook his head. “You don’t understand. I have to do this. I won’t lose her.”

  “Fuck sake, you’re talking about the Bastian girl, aren’t you?”

  Sal continued to limp, gritting his teeth against the pain.

  “Salvatori,” Valla said behind him.

  Something in her voice made him turn.

  “I can’t let you do that,” Valla said.

  “I have to go.”

  “You don’t fucking understand,” Valla said, putting her hands at her sides. “I can’t let you go.”

  As he stared Valla down, Sal clutched the locket, a faint residue of the crushed skeev still coating his fingertips.

  He focused his will, and thin bands of blue sparks began to flicker about his open palm. “I’m going,” Sal said, “whether you like it or not.”

  “Fuck you then,” Valla said, her eyes going wide as she looked at Sal’s hand. “Fuck should I care if you get us all killed anyhow?”

  The black iron gates loomed into view as he limped, exhausted and in pain, nearly ready to collapse.

  “Halt!” called out one of the gate guards.

  The other planted his spear, brow wrinkling.

  Sal knew them both and was fairly confident they would pose no threat. Surely, if he explained the urgency of the situation, they would let him pass.

  He grabbed hold of the locket, just in case.

  As the energy flowed into him, Sal opened his mouth to call back, but noticed the horses, a town coach in tow. The pair of guards within the grounds quickly unlocked and unlatched the crossbeam. The black iron gate swung open, and the guards parted ways as the carriage passed through.

  The curtains to the coach window were drawn shut. Sal did all he could to flag down the driver by yelling and waving, but the man ignored him and continued on without looking back.

  When Sal turned back around, he saw the gate was shut. The four guards, two on either side of the gate, back in position.

  “What do you want?” said one of the guards, a hand on the cudgel he wore at his hip.

  “Please, I need to speak to Lilliana, or Lord Hugo, someone, whoever’s not just left in the coach.”

  “Oh yeah, and what did you need to speak to them about?”

  “Look, you know me,” Sal said.

  The gate guard squinted at Sal but didn’t seem to recognize him, beaten and bruised as he was.

  “Don’t think I do know you.”

  “Lord Salvatori?” said someone from behind.

  Sal turned to see Marco Horvat approaching on foot. He was not alone, but with another familiar face, though, Sal couldn’t make out from where he knew the other man. The two lordlings approached in a cocksure manner, swaggering with noses held high.

  “Lord Marco,” Sal said, putting on a fake Kirkundy accent.

  “My Lord, are you well?” Marco asked as actual concern showed behind the vacuous façade.

  “Quite well, Marco, I merely slipped down a flight of stairs.”

  “It must have been a tall flight of stairs,” said the other lordling.

  Sal still could not recall the other’s name, though, Sal was certain he knew the young man from somewhere.

  By the uncertain look in the lordling’s eyes, it seemed he was thinking something along those same lines.

  “What might bring you to the Bastian estate this fine afternoon?” asked Marco.

  “I have information for Lord Hugo that he would find most pressing. I should give the message to Lilliana, in any case.”

  “I am on my way to see her now. Would you like me to convey the message for you?”

  “I’d rather it was me,” Sal said. “It is a rather sensitive issue.”

  “And Lilliana is my betrothed, surely whatever you mean to tell her can be shared with me.”

  “I know you,” said the other lordling, his eyes narrowing.

  “That’s nice,” Sal said, ignoring the nobleman. “Look, Marco, I’m sorry, but this is something I need to tell—”

  “Lorenzo, right?”

  Sal froze, his heart kicked into a rapid pounding.

  “Sorry?” said Marco.

  “Lorenzo,” said the other lordling.

  Suddenly, Sal realized how he knew the nobleman—Quinten Guthro, son of Lord Quiben Guthro. Father and son had been at Stefano Lorenzo’s estate more than once, and worse, Sal had met them both.

  “Yeah, this is Lorenzo, Salvatori Lorenzo,” said Quinten.

  Marco Horvat looked bemused. “No, sorry, this is Salvatori, uh, Ewan, was it? From Kirkun—” Marco stopped speaking, a dark look in his eyes as they narrowed on Sal. “A flight of stairs was it?”

  Sal took a step back. Gods how his leg was hurting him. The pain made it hard even to think.

  “I tell you, Marco, this one’s name is Salvatori Lorenzo. He’s a common thug. The son of Stefano Lorenzo. Surely you know that name, at least?”

  “A gangster, is he not?”

  “A bottom feeder of the worst sort,” said Quinten Guthro.

  The little prat—Sal was no fan of Stefano himself, but hadn’t this lordling and his father been in S
tefano’s solar conducting business, not a fortnight past?

  The gate guards stirred. One drew his cudgel, while the other readied his spear.

  “What was the news you had for my betrothed, Ewan?” Marco asked, taking a step closer to Sal. “It was Ewan, was it not, Salvatori Ewan, of Azure Lake?”

  Sal took another step back. The locket gripped tight in his sticky blood-sodden hand.

  There was no chance he was going to fight his way out of this without magic, not with two lordlings and four armed guards.

  Even if he called on the lightning, he might strike them all down, but he’d likely kill himself in the process.

  Running was not an option, either. He had to do what he came there to do. He had to warn Lilliana and Lord Hugo.

  “Lilliana is in danger,” Sal blurted.

  Marco narrowed his eyes. “Is that a threat?”

  “A warning,” said Sal.

  “And why would Lilliana be in danger?”

  “For the better part of a year, Lord Bastian has pushed for higher embargos and stricter control of trade and import inspections. All with the intent of cutting off the supply of outlawed drugs within the city. I suspect this has caused a certain amount of tension within a certain faction of the city, and I believe that faction plans to put an end to the tension.”

  “And how do you know this?” Marco asked.

  “I’m privileged to information not readily available to others.”

  Quinten stood shoulder-to-shoulder with his lordling pal. “You see, Marco, I told you. He’s a—”

  “How do I know I can trust you?” Marco asked as the gate guards moved in to hover just behind the pair of lordlings. “You’ve been lying about your name. Why should I not have these men hold you here until the steel caps can come along and throw you beneath the compound?”

  “Because I’ve been beneath the Magistrate’s Compound,” Sal said. “And the under-cells didn’t hold me long. This time would be no different. My name is Salvatori Lorenzo. I don’t care if you trust me, Lilliana will. Tell her my name, and give her my message. Tell her not to leave the sight of Damor Nev. Tell her they are going to make another move, and neither she nor her father is safe.”

  As Sal spoke, he felt light-headed. He wanted to sit down, but there was no time for that now.

  Marco looked him up and down, seriously examining his features. Sal could only imagine how he looked after the beating he’d taken from his uncle’s men.

  “You had best leave,” Marco said. “Come now, Quinten.”

  At that, the lordlings made for the gate. The guards within the estate had been watching the engagement from behind the black iron bars. They quickly scrambled to unlatch the crossbar, as Marco and Quinten reached the gate.

  Sal watched them cross the threshold of the estate grounds, and stride up the long drive. He had a sinking feeling in his stomach. The sort that told him something bad was about to happen.

  The fact was, even if Marco told her, he didn’t know if she would listen. He hoped she would—hell—he hoped Marco would deign to tell her. Might be if the message came from Marco, Lilliana would be more apt to listen anyhow.

  “Best be on your way,” said the gate guard, his cudgel resting on his shoulder.

  The man wasn’t wrong. Sal had best be on his way. There was still much and more to do. So, why did the thought of leaving feel so wrong?

  26

  Dead Fish

  “One really ought to treat their body less harshly,” Alzbetta said, the smoke of incents curling about her head. “This is truly an act of self-mutilation if I have ever seen one.”

  “I do what I can,” Sal said, sitting up. “I imagine my business has kept you well-stocked this past year.”

  “Even in a time of scarcity, there is no shortage of second-story work,” Alzbetta said, a hint of scolding in her tone.

  Sal flashed his most charming smile, but Alzbetta had a look that could melt his charm like butter. For a woman twice his age, she was still quite beautiful and very much out of his reach.

  “For all your scolding, you’ve never turned down my coin.”

  “Blood washes easily as shit, and it doesn’t stink half so bad,” Alzbetta said with a wink. “Though I dare say, chew on it too long, and it leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.”

  Sal cleared his throat.

  Alzbetta arched an eyebrow.

  “Sorry,” Sal said. “I had this feeling that someone was shoving something down my throat.”

  Alzbetta scoffed. “Fine then, I’ll take your blood money and say nothing of it.”

  “A bit late for that, is it not?”

  “Aye, and we should leave sleeping dogs lay, or is it lie—or are the dogs dead? I can never remember. Suppose that doesn’t really matter, you know the saying.”

  “Can’t say I do,” Sal said with a wink. “But go on.”

  “Well, speaking of dead dogs,” Alzbetta said, leaning in conspiratorially. “What is it you plan to do about Don Giotto Scarvini?”

  Sal shook his head. “I’d not have expected Dominik to go running his mouth about that one.”

  “It wasn’t Dom. You had the conversation at my bloody table, remember? Just because you didn’t say the name, doesn’t mean I didn’t know who you were speaking of. Besides, I have my sources. You’re not the only pincushion in this city that has need of my needles.”

  “What have you heard?” Sal asked.

  “Don Scarvini has put out a bounty. Five thousand krom a head for his son’s killers, and for the men who tried to kill him, he’s offered ten.”

  Sal whistled. “Ten thousand krom?”

  Alzbetta cocked an eyebrow. “I should think I’d be a touch less impressed and a bit more frightened were it me at the other end of that bounty.”

  Sal shrugged. “Do you think he’s good for it? I mean, I know he lives like the king of Nelgand, but are his pockets truly that deep?”

  “From what I hear, it’s not his coffers he’ll be pulling from. They say the son is offering up the coin. Giovani—if I’m not mistaken—an earner, I believe, is the term.”

  Twenty thousand krom, backed by Don Scarvini’s youngest son—a man younger even than Sal—had Sal and his crew underestimated Giovani Scarvini? It could be he was even more dangerous than the father.

  “Any word from Dominik?” Sal asked.

  “He’s gone deep underground,” Alzbetta said. “You don’t need to be worrying about him.”

  “But you don’t know where?”

  Alzbetta gave Sal a skeptical look. “Underground—and I think it best we keep it there.”

  Sal nodded. “You’re probably right.”

  He didn’t like the look she’d given him, but it was comforting to know she wasn’t going to be loose with Dominik’s location.

  “And what of me? Am I all healed up?”

  Alzbetta flashed a coy smile. “I’ve done the best I could, better than you’d get anywhere else, but I fear, even then, there was nothing I could do for that face. The gods bestow their gifts as they will, boy, and I’m merely a healer. If you want a miracle, go see a priest.”

  Sal laughed as he stood and winked before reaching for his coin purse.

  Nearly every seat around the table was full by the time Sal reached the safe house on Blackwynch Road. They were familiar faces—all of them. Alonzo wore his handsome vulpine smile. His usual bruisers, Danilo and Bruno, were there, as were the snatchers from before: the hook-nosed Yahdrish, Eliso, and his red-haired companion Fergus.

  As Sal took his seat, Valla gave him a look that sent a chill down his spine and lodged a lump in his throat. Sal didn’t know what it was, but by the look Valla gave, he knew something was seriously wrong.

  “Late is the hour,” Alonzo said from the head of the table, his hands lifted in a benevolent gesture.

  “I apologize,” Sal said. “I was somewhat indisposed, as it were.”

  “And you think it’s all right to keep us waiting?” Danilo asked,
his words coming out more nasally than usual.

  Sal imagined Danilo still held a bit of a grudge for what had happened in the Agora. His nose had yet to fully recover, or look much anything like a nose at all. Beneath the mess of bruising that still covered his face, Danilo’s nose was more of a disfigured lump with two holes for breathing.

  “Settle down,” said Bruno.

  “No, I agree, with Danilo,” said the Yahdrish. “This nib keeps us waiting, and you only make a quip? He shouldn’t even be here.”

  “I know you think your scales have good and hardened,” said Bruno as he turned to Eliso, “But I’ll bet we turn you over, your underbelly’s greener than a turtle’s ass.”

  Sal hadn’t expected that from Bruno. Bruno Carbone had every reason to hate Sal. If anything, Sal would have expected Bruno to agree with the other two.

  “No reason we need a nib for the job,” said Fergus running a hand through his fire-red hair.

  “Oh, and you’re fucking in charge now, are you?” Valla asked.

  “I do believe that unique distinction was relegated to me,” Alonzo said, quelling them all to silence with one look. “Now, if you would all remain inaudible, I would divulge the evening’s stratagem.”

  “What’s this all about, Lonzo?” Danilo asked, his tone petulant as well as nasally. “And what the fuck do we need these other assholes for, anyhow?”

  They were seven in all, a common enough grouping: three snatchers, a cat’s paw, two bruisers, and a lead. It was a grouping Sal was quite familiar with, give or take a bruiser or a snatcher, the seven-piece was a flexible set. A good-sized team for just about any big job.

  “Watch your fucking tongue,” Valla snarled. “Or I’m like to take it.

  “Watch your mouth,” said Danilo. “Or I’m like to fill it.”

  “Try me.” Valla pulled out one of her knives and cleaned the dirt from her nails. “That goes for any little pink thing you want to waggle my way, tongue, or else wise.”

  “That won’t be necessary, my dear,” said Alonzo. “Danilo has never thought so far ahead as to consider the impact of his utterances upon the psyche of the recipient. Men with limited comprehension of the nuances within vernacular do not intentionally sling barbed insults, they merely do so, unintentionally, due to the directness of their nature. You see, my dear, when sweet Danilo offered to fill your mouth with his, how did you—oh yes, his waggling little pink thing, he was, in his own way, paying you a compliment of the highest sort.”