Broken Crossroads (Knights of the Shadows Book 1) (17 page)

“When you do find ‘em,” said Conn, “don't let ‘em know how much of that we hand out for free.”

* * *

Sergeant Niath lurched into the Commander's office. He hadn't shaved, hadn't eaten. Hadn't been to bed or changed his uniform in two days. After a night chasing shadows in the park, he'd endured a morning of abuse from indignant noble families who suddenly realized that crime wasn't just something that happened to other people.

It took all his reserves of control not to make a career-ending observation, or even better, administer a career-ending broken nose in return. He wasn't used to talking to people he couldn't hit if they got abrasive or insulting or just stupid.

He stopped two paces in front of the Commander's desk and waited for the man to speak. Waited while the man read over some reports, waited while the man took a big bite of the pastry on his desk. Waited as the Commander took a long sip of tea, calculated to taunt and enrage those without tea.

He took a deep breath and didn't leap over the desk, grab the Commander by the hair and bang the man's forehead on the oak until his arm got tired.

The sergeant was congratulating himself on his restraint when the Commander finally spoke.

“What do you have to report on the investigation, Sergeant?”

“Nothing of substance.”

“The gentry are expressing outrage at the attack on two young nobles in a very exclusive neighborhood.”

“They are,” the sergeant agreed.

“And they feel that too many resources are being wasted looking for the Baron's missing concubine.”

“They do.”

“And you didn't think those facts were something I needed to know?”

“I didn't think you needed me to report the bleeding obvious. And you seem to know these facts

despite my lack of report, so I'd say that validates my opinion.”

The Commander shifted uncomfortably, waiting.

If he's waiting for the ‘sir’ on the end of that sentence,
thought the sergeant,
we'll all die of old age.

“Do you have any leads, Sergeant?”

“Not yet. My usual informants are being a bit tight lipped on this one.”

“So what have you done?”

For the first time since he'd entered the Commander's office, Sergeant Niath smiled. “I went out and got a few unusual ones.”

* * *

Trilisean sat crosslegged in the shadow of a chimney, her cloak spread beneath her against the chill of the slates. She waited motionless, watching the gates of the estate across the broad street.

It was the home of Enenth “Digger” Diathorn, known publicly as a florist. He was known privately as the head of organized crime in a large section of South Laimrig, from the canal to the old Farmers' Gate, on the west road out of the city. His nickname was said to have come from the number of shallow, unmarked graves he'd filled with rivals on his way up the ladder.

She wasn't casing the place for a burglary. One would have to be stupid to steal from Digger. She wasn't afraid of the man, exactly, but he was a bad man to cross, and there was no point courting that kind of trouble. She was watching his house because he was Smiley's boss. And Smiley was Moread's boss.

And it was Market Day.

After Sergeant Niath had left her with his ultimatum, she had done some thinking. All the contract work she'd gotten from Fayl had come on Feast day, the day after Market Day.

So the decision to offer contracts must be made no later than Market Day.

Moread wouldn't have turned to mugging without Smiley's order, and Smiley was a tough enforcer, an efficient underboss, but he wasn't the kind of innovator who'd come up with such a shift on his own. That had to have come from the Digger.

But not everything could have. Digger couldn't have ordered an attack in the Old Gardens. He probably didn't care about burglaries. There had to be others working with him.

Someone had called a meeting each week, and after that meeting, the nature and severity of crimes changed. And if one wanted to meet and discuss sowing chaos, it would be easy to travel and meet in the crowds and traffic of Market Day without being noticed.

But where did he meet, and with whom?

When you don't know what's going on,
she thought,
find someone to follow. Maybe they know.

An hour after sunset, the gate of the estate opened and a closed coach emerged.

I am so good,
she thought.

She rose and followed the coach by rooftop. Less traffic and fewer witnesses up high. The coach led eventually to a crumbling, abandoned estate, near the old port. Nobody used that side of the harbor much since it had silted in and river traffic was down anyway. There was no gold and no interest in dredging it.

So. Where to go from here. She knew one of the conspirators, and where they met. That was something. Maybe enough for Niath.

But she wanted more. She wanted a list of names. She wanted enough that Niath and his watchmen could crush the movement. As much as she hated to admit it, the sergeant was right. Whatever this cabal had planned, the price would be heavy in blood, and it would fall hardest on those least able to roll with the blow.

But there was no way to know what lay beyond that wall. There would be guards. Not a problem if she'd scouted ahead, but not worth walking into blindly.

So…wait until she saw people enter or leave, and take notes. Not as exciting as robbing the place, but duty calls.

Duty.

She wrinkled her nose in distaste.
Start doing things like this without even being paid, and people might start expecting it.

Still, if you're going to do a thing, do it right
. Professional pride demanded it.

If they kept the meeting secret, they'd leave with their identities hidden. Well wrapped up. Unmarked coaches. Cloaks. Big, floppy hats.

The only way to really find out who was in there was to go over that wall and see. She looked at the roof across the street, next to the manor. High enough and close enough to see over the wall into the courtyard, and to leap to the wall if all was clear. Sloping tiles, and a wider street to jump than she'd like, but nothing she hadn't done before. If anyone could do this, then Niath wouldn't have come to her.

Only a few laborers were on the street, making their way home, bearing their shovels or picks or whatever it was workmen used. A few hired muscles wandered just outside the wall, making sure the passing laborers didn't take too close an interest. She waited until the hired thugs wandered out of sight, then backed up the roof, took three quick steps and leapt across.

She landed lightly, flexing her knees to absorb the momentum, let her weight settle, adjusting for the slope of the roof. Perfect.

Until a loose tile gave way and slipped off.

She felt herself sliding, scrambled for purchase on the fog- slick slate, spread her weight as best she could to slow herself as she slid down, then rolled off the roof with a silent curse.

Trilisean dropped as gracefully as she could, landing on her feet, letting her knees bend and falling on her side, rolling as she hit the cobbles, taking the impact on the meat of her shoulder and hip, protecting her head and hands and knees and elbows. Bruised flesh would heal, broken bones might mean the end of a career.

She came up in a crouch as she finished her roll. She hadn't made much noise.

But the falling slate had.

Two guards rushed out of a gate in the wall. Trilisean turned and saw two more appear at the far end of the alley.

She cursed. Four men, two on each side, less than twenty paces away. She tensed to spring, waited for them to move, to show her the opening.

The two who'd come from the gate moved forward, the other two spread out to cover the street, prevent any flight.

“And you thought it was just a cat,” said the first man to his comrade.

“Looks like one,” said the second. “And we all know what curiosity does to cats.” He pulled a long, curved knife as he walked. His companion let a length of leather-wrapped iron bar fall from his sleeve into his hand.

A glance over her shoulder showed that the other two had also drawn weapons. That didn't matter much, the ones who were closing would show her the opening. She forced her breathing to slow and deepen, taking the fear and channeling it into energy for the rush.

As she watched the two thugs advance, she saw a dark shape detach from the shadows, a shovel poised over its shoulder.

She cringed. A workman trying to play hero would stand no chance against four of the organization's leg breakers. He might give her a chance to escape before they worked him over and dropped what was left in the harbor, but she didn't want that on her conscience. Not that she'd admit to having one, but she preferred to work alone because she accepted the consequences of her choices, and didn't want anyone else to have to.

But the shadow didn't give the war cry and stomping charge of the amateur. It accelerated over five fluid steps, and delivered a quick, strong swing of his shovel at the head of one of the advancing enforcers. The shovel clanged on the enforcer’s skull and the man crumpled to the cobbles, his limbs spilling like a loosely tied sack, his knife clattering away.

The second man spun as he heard his comrade's head ring, advancing lightly on the balls of his feet, feinting high with his weapon and striking at his enemy's knee.

The shadowy apparition seemed to fall for the first attack, raising his shovel to defend, but then snapped the head of the tool down, batting the attack aside, and brought the butt end of the shovel around, punching it into the thug's stomach.

The enforcer grunted and collapsed to his knees.

Trilisean's face broke into a grin. Only one man moved like that.

“You can't let me out of your sight for one night?” she asked.

The other pair started forward, but Conn hurled his shovel like a javelin, making them pull up short to avoid it.

“Let's go!” Conn shouted.

“Reading my mind,” Trilisean agreed, springing to her feet and dashing off.

She led Conn through a series of quick turns down some dark, narrow alleys. After a few blocks, they emerged onto a busy street, and blended with the crowds.

* * *

“So,” said Conn, handing Trilisean a glass of wine. “How much did you find out?”

“Not much,” she admitted, taking a long sip. “I know where they meet. I know one of the principals.”

“Time to plan our next step.”

“We need more. I can give Niath what I have, but if we want to stop this mess– “

“Oh, we can't stop this mess,” Conned grinned without mirth. “It's coming. And it's going to be a glorious mess.”

“So if we can’t stop it, what is this plan of which you speak?”

“Maybe we can't stop this mess, but I think we can steer it a bit.”

* * *

Niath leaned on the crumbling rail of the King's Bridge and drummed his fingers. The nobles were organizing. They were finished with the Baron. The bloody fool had been letting the city slide into the abyss for years and they did nothing. Now that they were feeling the bite, even a day's delay was too much.

They wanted action. No, he sneered, they
demanded
action. And they wouldn't get it. The Watch was stretched too thin, tied up with chasing the Baron's missing tart, the mire of politics preventing anyone from taking charge and accomplishing anything. There would a coup.

And it would be a bloody mess. As useless as the Baron was, he had legitimacy. Nobody else did. Nobody had a clear claim. Nobody had enough backing that the others would fall behind them. It would be an ugly struggle, and the vultures would have a feeding frenzy.

* * *

“Ioresh!” Conn called to his young apprentice. “You still want to play soldier?”

“Aye!”

“Well, go round up a half dozen students you can trust. Men who can keep their heads and follow instructions, even if they aren’t the best swordsmen. And bring ‘em here tonight.”

The young man's face broke into a grin as he turned and walked out of the room. Conn sighed. The boy was older than he'd been, he reminded himself. But the Jarvings hadn't given him much choice. Well, it's not like there was much choice now.

Better to take a little risk and try to steer this mess than to hunker down and live with the consequences. He walked to the storage room and looked over his own little armory. He gathered up a bundle of arrows, bodkin points for defeating mail, and a file.
It's not the worst plan I've ever worked,
he thought
.

“This is madness,” said Trilisean.

“But it's my kind of madness.” Conn grinned.

“No argument there. But say this works– “

“Say it does.”