City of Light & Shadow (21 page)

  There was a risk in what he was doing, though fortunately Seffy was taking most of it. What he hadn't told her was that zyvan berries, also known as death kiss berries, had no real medicinal benefit for any known ailment, though they were one of the gentlest and most pain-free methods of killing somebody. Their toxin also benefited from being virtually undetectable. That latter made them of interest to him and a favoured tool for many an assassin. Kraisch would doubtless know this. He would also know that the berries were once popular with medics for putting terminally ill patients out of their misery. Dewar was counting on the latter to allay any suspicions. It was perfectly reasonable that a kindly physician of a certain generation might seek death kiss berries to ease the passing of a favourite patient, and of course he wouldn't trust the patient's daughter with his real intent, not when he was relying on her to find the berries.

  Yes, a risk, but a calculated one.

  He had to wait longer than anticipated, and it was just reaching the point where he would have to go for a short walk before his lingering became suspicious, when the girl hurried around the corner.

  "Did all go well?" he asked.

  "Yes…" she said.

  Her tone, though, prompted him to ask, "But?"

  "He asked a lot of questions."

  Kraisch was suspicious then, damn! Dewar gripped her arm and hurried her away from the corner and the shop. "Such as?"

  "Oh, all sorts, like what was the doctor's name, what was my mother's name, what illness did she have, stuff like that."

  "And you answered him each time?"

  "Course I did; convincing as you like."

  "Good. You have the berry juice, then."

  "Well, not exactly."

  "How inexact are we talking here?" He stopped walking, which meant that she had to, as well since he was still holding her arm.

  "He says he can get some but that he doesn't have any at the shop. Wants me to go back an hour after dark and he'll have the berries for me then."

  Three hours away. And where else would a herbalist keep his stock apart from on the premises? Either Kraisch was extremely suspicious, or he had designs on Seffy that had nothing to do with zyvan berry juice. "He took the money, I suppose?"

  She shook her head. "Wanted to, but I wouldn't let him."

  "Good girl." Three hours. Enough time for Seffy to consider the risks in going back to the herbalist. Enough, perhaps, for her to decide to take the money intended for the berry juice and not come back, cutting her losses.

  "So what now?" she asked.

  "You go to his shop an hour after nightfall, as instructed."

  "Oh, I do, do I? I'm not so sure about that. I mean, it isn't what we agreed on, is it? You never said nothing about
two
trips, nor about skulking around in the dark."

  "True." His smile was a thin one, "which is why I shall of course be paying you double the sum agreed, once you deliver the zyvan berry juice."

  She stared at him for a moment, as if mulling over the new terms. "All right, I'll do it, then.
Double
, mind."

  "Double," he assured her.

  "And where will you be?"

  "Close by throughout. I'll meet you on the corner where I waited for you just now, and will give you back the money for the berry juice just before you go into the shop." He held out his hand. "I'll take care of it for now, though, just in case you lose it."

  She stared at him, her nostrils flaring, but obviously thought better of arguing, settling on a smile instead. "Fair enough." She handed across what was, after all, his money, and said, "Later, then." With that, she flounced off.

  "Yes," Dewar said quietly, watching her go. "Later…"

  A man was staring at him, trying not to be obvious and failing miserably. Damn! That herbalist was one suspicious brecker. He must have had Seffy followed from the shop. Not that Dewar could blame anyone other than himself; he should have been more careful.

  Best to get this sorted out now, see what damage had been done and then adjust plans accordingly. He strolled off in the same direction the girl had taken but walking far more slowly. The man followed. Dewar took a side road Seffy hadn't and his shadow did the same. Two shadows now; the first had been joined by a friend. Neither looked to be the intellectual type, though the newcomer was a great deal bigger, broader, and meaner-looking than the original.

  Now that support had arrived his pursuer grew bolder. The pair hurried to catch up with Dewar, who was happy to let them, anxious to let events play out. They reached him, one on either side, and bundled him into an alleyway, where they backed him against a wall.

  The smaller, stubble-chinned fellow – his original stalker – took the lead, standing directly in front of him and glowering.

  Dewar flinched before an onslaught of fetid breath as the man said, "Hand it over."

  "Hand what over?"

  "Don't come the innocent with me. The money that tart gave you. I watched it. Bold as brass you were. Well listen, and listen good. Gunnell Street is
my
manor. If any girl earns so much as a farthing on that stretch it comes straight to me. Not to you, not to anyone else, to me! Got it?"

  It was all Dewar could do not to laugh. These two weren't connected to Kraisch at all. This was just a pimp and his muscle trying to protect their territory. He relaxed and, given that there were no implications to his mission, determined to let off a bit of steam and enjoy himself.

  A man walked across the mouth of the alley, glanced in, looked immediately away and kept walking. Thank Thaiss; the last thing Dewar needed was a well-meaning passer-by getting in the way.

  "Now, hand the money over nicely and I'll just have Mitch here give you a few gentle slaps to see you on your way. Of course, if you'd rather be awkward about it, I'll let him really go to town and you'll find yourself waking up in the infirmary. So, what's it to be?"

  "No, please, I won't argue." Dewar lifted his hands in apparent surrender, palms open, clearly empty. In doing so, he moved his thumb, tensing the flexor muscles of his right forearm in a specific way, simultaneously twisting the arm slightly at the elbow. He'd been hoping for a chance to try out the new spring-loaded arm holster before crossing to the Misted Isles, and here was the perfect opportunity.

  The knife shot forward into his hand. He clasped the warm hilt automatically as it landed and followed the weapon's momentum, plunging the blade into the pimp's neck. He struck from the side, so that any blood spurt wouldn't come straight at him, and was already sliding his body in the opposite direction as he pulled the blade free. He took a few steps backwards, going deeper into the alley and away from Mitch, who, predictably, was coming for him. The enforcer had to side-step the collapsing form of his dying employer as it slithered down the wall, but, judging by the murderous expression, that wasn't going to stop him wreaking revenge.

  Dewar studied the big man's approach. It wasn't blind, it wasn't mindless. Mitch clearly knew a thing or two about fighting. But then so did Dewar. The thug had produced a club from somewhere – a crude baton of polished wood. Not as sophisticated as a razzer's puncheon, perhaps, but it still meant he had the advantage of reach over Dewar's knife.

  The assassin crouched, both hands before him, his right hand holding the knife ahead of the left, which was ready to hold, deflect, defend.

  With a quick roll of the arm, Mitch attempted a swipe at Dewar's blade with his club, but the assassin was ready for that, twisting the knife out of the way and attempting a strike of his own as the arm sailed past. He missed. Dewar danced a few steps further back. Mitch advanced, following him warily, but the assassin had counted on that. His steps back were a feint. As soon as he completed the second Dewar sprang forward, taking the enforcer by surprise and instantly stepping inside the natural striking arc of the club. His right arm drove the knife into Mitch's exposed side while his left hand grappled to hold off the arm wielding the baton. He struck a second time and a third, quick piston-like blows, before Mitch managed to swat him aside.

  Dewar rode the force of the blow, disengaging but staying on his feet and, most importantly, keeping hold of the knife.

  The big man was standing awkwardly now with his free hand pressed to his injured side, blood leaking between his fingers. He was hurting and injured, probably severely.

  "Your employer's dead, Mitch." Dewar nodded towards the livid red stain that marked one wall; a smear that led down to the pimp's lifeless body. "You're badly hurt. What's the point in fighting on? Let's both walk away from this while we still can, and you go and get yourself stitched up."

  The look in the enforcer's eye told Dewar that it was never going to happen. For Mitch, the fight had turned personal. Understandable, the assassin supposed, after someone had punctured your side several times with a dagger.

  Mitch was evidently a man of few words. "Breck you!" he growled, before straightening and lumbering forward again.

  That was a mistake. He must have realised it as soon as Dewar did. His movements were hampered, made clumsy by the severe wounds. He didn't quite stagger but gave every impression that he might be about to at any second. Dewar easily avoided the crude swing of the club. He skipped aside as the roundhouse sweep whistled past him, to move behind Mitch and draw his blade across the enforcer's throat, all in one movement and without breaking stride. Dewar kept walking towards the mouth of the alley, not bothering to look back. His ears reported the choking gasps of Mitch's final breaths and then the sound of something heavy dropping to the ground.

  Despite his best efforts at avoidance, his tunic was speckled with blood. Hardly ideal for keeping a low profile. He exited the alley and headed towards his lodgings for a fresh change of clothes and to review his plans for the evening.

 

It would have taken a man of rare paranoia to keep a constant watch on the street, but Dewar wasn't about to take any chances, so he walked past the herbalist's shop just once, paying no more attention to the target building than to any of the others around it. He saw all he needed to. Two storeys; the shop at ground level, living quarters above, probably a cellar as well – a fairly typical arrangement for Deliia. The building stood at the end of a small terrace, with a narrow road to one side. The upper storey projected out to overhang the road slightly, while the roof was tiled and gently pitched.

  He turned the corner and sauntered along the side road, climbing up a slight incline in the process. A small back yard was protected by a shoulder-high fence. No indication of any dogs, which was hardly a guarantee. The upper storey boasted a single window on this side; narrow, but he could still get through it if need be. Unfortunately, it stared straight into the matching window of the house opposite. Too exposed. He rejected the window as a potential entry point, which left only the back door.

  Breaking in at ground level carried its own risks, so timing was going to be crucial; but that door was his best option. Decision made, he continued on his way, already rehearsing the moves in his mind.

• • • •

The situation was far from ideal. His current strategy had been formulated in a hurry and Dewar hated half-baked schemes. All his professional life he'd relied on meticulous planning and precise execution. Before his exile he had been a senior member of the Twelve – the secretive society dedicated to assassination which acted as counterbalance to imperial ambition and had been an integral part of the Misted Isles' system of government for centuries. In those days such discipline had come as naturally to him as breathing.

  He was fast coming to the conclusion that the years spent hiding in Thaiburley had seen his standards slip. His former self would have been dismayed at the slipshod strategy he had formulated. Still, there was no point in ruing spirits that had already escaped the bottle. All he could do was deal with the situation as it stood. He should perhaps be grateful for this opportunity and treat it as a dry run. This undertaking had highlighted weaknesses that he couldn't afford once he reached the Misted Isles. It gave him the chance to tighten things up so that there would be no errors once the endgame began.

  The girl was due to arrive any moment, so this was his last chance to review preparations and satisfy himself that he hadn't overlooked anything. He did so quickly and could see no better alternatives. The flat but broad rucksack now hugging his back contained all the tools he was likely to need.

  Seffy met him as arranged. She looked nervous, and he wondered how close she'd come to not returning at all despite the potential reward. He smiled reassuringly and handed over the money for the berry juice, the same sum as before.

  Dewar went first, hurrying past the shop with his head down – who but a burglar or mugger would loiter in the shadows after dark? He turned into the side road and paused after a few steps, crouching to fiddle with his boot, as if dealing with a loose buckle or perhaps a stone that had worked its way inside to trouble his tender foot.

  A moment later he heard rather than saw Seffy approach, her clipped footfalls sounding loud in the still of the evening. Three knocks, a slight pause, and the door creaked open. A man's voice bade her enter. As soon as he heard the door close again Dewar moved, vaulting the fence and crossing quickly to the back of the house. He stood for a moment, back pressed to the wall, waiting to see if his intrusion had been noticed. No sign of a reaction, so he sidled along the wall to the door, conscious of how vulnerable he was to a casual glance out the window by anyone in the house opposite. The lock proved to be a decent one but nothing special. He had it sprung in seconds and slipped inside the dim interior of the house.