Broken Crossroads (Knights of the Shadows Book 1) (14 page)

The sergeant blinked twice. “His new slave girl.”

“Yes.”

“And he wants us to track down those responsible.”

“Yes.”

The sergeant chewed the thought over for a moment. “That's not going to help his popularity.”

“I tried to explain that, Sergeant,” said the Commander. “His Lordship seemed unimpressed.”

“I'll see if my sources have anything. Where did he get her?”

The Commander shoved a stack of parchment across the desk. “That's her description, name, bill of sale and so on. Let's try to wrap this up quickly and quietly.”

Sergeant Niath scooped up the parchment, nodded and walked out, thinking.

Probably the girl just ran away,
he thought. But running away from the palace was difficult. She could have charmed some guard and he smuggled her out. If that was the case, this should be easy enough.

So easy the Commander and his favorites, or the Baron’s own guards, should have been able to solve it by now. If they were calling him in, that meant the high and mighty couldn’t find her and they suspected something elaborate. Something that extended down to the street level. The level where the eyes of the palace seldom looked.

He examined the documents. The girl had been at the palace for three months. Bought from Constantine, a reputable slave dealer. Reputable within the confines of the profession, at least. No known connections to the big crime bosses, no allegations of kidnapping or extorting families into selling their children to him. His business did pick up after Paisleigh died a year or two ago, but that man was a rat and a smuggler and Nuad knew what else, so it’s not like he was going to live to see old age anyway. Not too likely a legitimate business rival had him killed.

Worth looking into, though. Always look for connections. Even when there shouldn’t be connections. He credited the city its ability to continue to surprise even his cynical mind with its twisted workings.

Niath thought about the timeline. Crime had begun to get worse just under three months back. And to spread from the slums where it was simply a fact of life, to the middle class areas, where it was …what did they call it? Oh, right,
an unacceptable travesty of which the Watch should be ashamed
. Can’t have street crime in the good parts of town. The merchants don’t like competition.

The Baron wasn't popular with the merchants as things were. Taxes were high with the war, neither the Baron nor the King was putting any effort into repairing the road or dredging the harbor, crime was rampant, most of the Watchmen were corrupt and bought off, and now with crimes over the last few months targeting the merchants in the wealthy sections of town, and the Watch tied up restoring his lordship's latest piece of tail…

By Nuad. Was that it?

Could this all be connected? A push by the most rebellious to sway the wealthy against the lord of the city?

That,
decided the sergeant,
could get messy.

He disliked messy.

* * *

Moread lurked in the narrow alley, his axe handle held close against his leg, waiting for a mark.

This was moving up in the world, he told himself. It clearly was in the geographic sense, since this was better than the usual neighborhoods he worked. He was also moving up as far as vocation, at least according to his boss. If you mugged somebody, you got all his stuff, and it only took a second. The three card shuffle and rigged dice scams he had been running earned poorly, and you had to put some time in to charm and wheedle the silver out of people. You spent a long time winning and losing farthings and pence before they'd throw a few real coins in. Lots of time reeling in the fish. This should be quick and profitable.

He worked to control his breathing, to will himself invisible, to blend into the shadows. The neighborhood made him nervous, but expanding was part of Smiley's new strategy. The underboss, with the characteristic impatient snarl which projected a sense that he was restraining himself with difficulty from killing you, explained that this was a “vast untapped vein” of wealth. The poor areas where they normally worked offered small return for the effort, and the prey were wary, furtive. The wealthy side of town was too full of hired muscle. This, Smiley had assured Moread through clenched teeth, a district of merchants and tradesmen, was where the profit was.

Moread repeated this line of reasoning to himself over and over, and in the moments where that wasn't enough, he remembered Smiley's expression and decided that nobody out here could possibly be worse than that.

After too long, as the shadows lengthened to evening, he heard a pair of voices approaching. A man and a woman

Perfect,
he thought
, the man will be distracted, his mind in his trousers instead of on his surroundings, and the girl will be no problem.

He waited, listening to their approach, breathing deeply and quietly, flexing his hand on the grip of his axe handle. The man was nearer to him. Good. He held his breath as they came abreast of his hiding place, then stepped out, swinging at the back of the man's head with the axe handle, all the fear and tension of waiting channeled into the blow.

Moread almost overbalanced as his weapon struck nothing. The man dodged. While the would-be waylayer wondered for a moment how that was even possible, a boot slammed into his midriff, driving the breath from his body, and an elbow crashed into the side of his head.

Things became hazy for a moment as Moread's world dissolved in a crimson swirl of pain and vertigo. There was a twisting sensation, a drifting moment of disconnect, then things swam slowly back into focus. The general pain resolved into a splitting headache, the feel of cobbles digging into his back and a heavy weight on his chest.

The weight seemed to be a boot. The man Moread hadn't hit was judiciously resting his weight on the heel of his right foot, which was on Moread's breastbone. He became aware that the toe of the boot rested lightly on his windpipe, and had the feeling that it was only curiosity that kept the man from rolling his weight forward. Far above the boot, a face considered him blandly, as though wondering just what was on the bottom of his shoe this time. Moread thought he could possibly twist free, but decided against trying. The man moved like lightning and had a kick like a mule. He would take his chances on the lack of hostility in the man's face, and the fact that the fellow hadn't killed him yet.

“Moread?”

He became aware of a second shape above him. Focusing on it, he saw a woman crouching nearby. She was very pretty, in an unobtrusive way, dark hair pulled back loosely and tied with a black band. Her mouth couldn't seem to decide between a smirk and a smile, but her eyes held a hint of sympathy. He didn't recognize her, which was odd, since she knew him, and she was certainly worth remembering.

“Who are you working for now?” she asked, her voice full of sincere concern. “Not Speedy still? How's his wooden leg?”

“No,” his voice rasped, surprising him. He didn't remember giving it any instructions. “Smiley's crew offered a bigger haul.” Why had he told her that?

“Oh, Moread.” She shook her head. “No. You don't want that. You accept those conditions, you may as well get an honest job.” She crouched, reached down and gave his shoulder a friendly squeeze, “Go back to card games. You had quick hands. Keep going this way and somebody'll break ‘em for you.”

He could only nod. Who was this? How did she know so much?

“So working closer to the Heights was Smiley's idea? You didn't think this up on your own, did you?”

He shook his head.

“Good. Working this side is a different world. Stick with what you're good at.” She stood up. “Take care.” She glanced at her companion, who removed his foot from Moread's chest. They walked away without a look back.

The robber slowly struggled to his knees, gently massaging the lump on his head and reached for his axe handle. A regulation City Watch boot came down on it.

“Now then, lad,” said Sergeant Niath, “Why don't we have a little chat?”

Moread looked up into the grinning face of the guardsman and reflected that maybe his new profession wasn't the step up he'd hoped.

* * *

An enforcer led Fingers through the florist shop sparsely filled with a few plants well beyond their prime, and knocked on the door to the back office.

“What?” demanded a gruff voice.

“Got that guy here, boss. The one you wanted to see. About that thing.”

“Good. Bring him in.”

The muscle indicated the door with a barely perceptible movement of his chin. The thief shuffled into the darkened room. He fidgeted nervously and twisted his hat in his hands. Getting called to see the boss wasn't something that boded well.

It wasn't something you refused, either, he told himself as he sensed two meaty enforcers take positions behind him.

“You sent for me, boss?”

The figure behind the desk watched him for a moment from beneath lowered brows, his fingers steepled before him.

“I hear disturbing things, Fingers,” said the man. “Things that disappoint me.”

“Like what, boss?”

The man behind the desk sighed, shook his head sadly. “You been telling stories. Talking to our friends in blue.” He stopped and fixed the man with an icy stare. “You know how much we value discretion. It hurts me that you don't show concern for the value I place on discretion.”

Fingers began to feel the world dropping away beneath him. “It's not like that, boss,” he pleaded. “It's that bald sergeant. He was gonna break my fingers. He don't respect the rules. The Watch is supposed to respect our arrangement. I paid my dues. They're supposed to lay off. You tole me they'd– “ He stopped short as the bosses eyes narrowed, sure he gone too far. He frantically tried to backpedal but found nothing beneath his feet.

“Maybe I misjudged you, Fingers. Maybe it's my fault for not explaining how important discretion is.” The boss waved down the thief's attempts to protest, “No, no. It's presumptuous of me to assume you know stuff without explaining it.

“So. Here's how it works. This sergeant comes to you and asks about some loot. You tell him enough that he goes and talks to the guy you got the loot from. So he maybe roughs that guy up and finds out where some pickpocket got the idea to go into strongarm stuff. So then he goes up the chain. Maybe some guy sells out his boss to save his own miserable skin. Or maybe he makes a deal, figuring that if this copper takes out the boss, that'll leave what we call a power vacancy that he could step in to. You see where I'm going with all this?”

Fingers, beginning to feel that he may just be allowed to walk out of this office, nodded dumbly. After all, why would the boss lecture him if he were just going to have him killed.

“You see? All it took was a little communication on my part. Now I can trust you not to talk again, right?”

“Absolutely, boss.”

“Good. I believe you, Fingers. I really do.”

* * *

Trilisean led the way into a small, dark restaurant. A southern place, run by immigrants from…well, Conn didn't really remember. Some place the bloody Jarvings had overrun. But they supposedly made decent food.

They took a small table and the waiter brought them a plate of bread and cheese and a small dish of some kind of oil with spices floating in it. Trilisean ordered a wine with some flowery, foreign sounding name and Conn ordered a pint of bitter. He was impressed when the waiter didn't explain that they didn't serve decent, local beer. You had to watch for that kind of thing in foreign places. Wine was all well and good. It'd get you drunk, but it just wasn't the same.

He ripped off a hunk of bread, dipped it in the oil and ate it. It was pretty good, more interesting than butter or bacon grease. The ale was decent.

Watching Trilisean eat, however, was the most interesting thing.

Conn had grown up on simple food. Bread, oatmeal, potatoes and turnips, and meat that was cheap and slow to spoil, like bacon, salt pork or sausages of whatever the butcher couldn't sell to the wealthier customers ground up with some oatmeal and cheap spices and stuffed into a casing. Often the meat course at supper was an illusion created by frying the potatoes in yesterday's bacon grease. Food in the army was even plainer, and often older, and he'd learned to scrounge and use spices as a disguise more than a garnish. He could appreciate a good meal, fresh ingredients cooked and seasoned properly, but to him it was an interesting diversion, a moment of enjoyment in a life of stale bread and dripping.

Trilisean was different. She was truly enthusiastic about good food. She would take a sip of wine or a bite of cheese and close her eyes for a moment and savor it before chewing and swallowing. She lingered over each taste, as though trying to extract every iota of flavor.

Come to think of it, she approached most things that way, from her new boots to a challenging puzzle or lock, or the thrill of not quite getting them both killed to the sound of somebody else's money jingling in her purse.

For some reason, he found the wide-eyed, infectious wonder and joy made up for the almost getting killed thing.