Mountain of Daggers (7 page)

The girl scrambled out of bed, snatched her garments from the floor and wriggled into a short chemise. Her eyes flashed angrily at Konrad as she scurried out into the hall, a crumpled bodice clenched tightly in one hand.

“What is it?” Helmuth growled. He waited until Konrad stepped inside then closed the door. “You ruin my sport.”

Konrad balled his hand into a fist but didn’t raise it. “Your assassin was caught! I paid
you
to kill the captains, not hire a killer.”

An amused grin grew across the bounty hunter’s face. “So? He doesn’t know who we are.” He tossed the silver-hilted sword onto the unmade bed and pulled his hair back. “I admit I’m disappointed.” He twisted the hair into a tangled ponytail. “I didn’t spend months tracking him all the way from Ralkosty just to lose out on the bounty. You’re fortunate you approached me right before I found him.”

“But he didn’t get the letter!” Konrad objected furiously. “Now she’s—”

“So we change plans,” Helmuth interrupted with a shrug. “A small setback, nothing more.” He removed a small crossbow from a table and set it on a brass-bound trunk beside the bed. “You look terrible. Go downstairs and get some food, bring back a bottle of wine, and we’ll decide our next move.”

Konrad took a deep breath and ran his hand over his face. He opened his mouth to speak, then shut it, turned and left the room.

Several minutes later, his hands full with a plate of food and two bottles of wine, he pushed the bedroom door open with his shoulder. “I was thinking,” he said, closing the door with his foot. “We could use some of the docksmen…”

Helmuth sat motionless in his chair, his mouth hung open in an expressionless stare.

“You all right?”

The bounty hunter made no reply.

Konrad set the plate down and touched the man on the shoulder. “Helmuth?”

The blonde man fell limply to the floor, a metal quarrel jutting from his back. Konrad dropped the bottles, sending a plume of wine and broken glass gushing across the polished wood. A black raven feather protruded from the hollow metal tube.

Terrified, Konrad looked around. The room was empty, and the shutters closed. Turning to run, he slipped on the blood and wine-soaked floor. He slid and nearly fell, but regained his footing, dashed across the room and burst into the hall, knocking over a patron, as he raced down the stairs. Shouted curses followed him as he shoved his way through the bar and fled out into the chilly night.

He bolted down the narrow streets, dodging traffic and ignoring the shouts of guards. His legs faltered. His breath came in raging gasps and a burning pain shot through his side. He stopped and slouched against a shop front and sucked air in heavy gulps. As the red haze faded from his vision, he forced himself to look around.

A wooden sign creaked in the wind on rusted rings. ‘Spielder’s Mercantile.’ Konrad smiled; he was almost home. He dabbed the sweat now coating his face and bald head and began walking toward his house.

He made it a block before a familiar tingle danced up his neck. He jerked his head around and glanced over his shoulder to see a lone cloaked figure walking down the street behind him. Red shadows hid the figure’s face, but the determination in his pace rejuvenated Konrad’s fear. He cut through an alley and hurried across a small square, then risked another glance behind. He was still being followed. Konrad’s heart pounded faster and he dodged into the maze work of alleyways.

#

After some minutes, Konrad skidded around a corner and came face-to-face with a dead end. He spun around to double back, but stopped. The steady sound of boot steps echoed from the alley walls.

Trapped.

He swallowed and looked frantically around, then ducked into a door niche. Pressing against the door, he struggled not to pound on it and draw his pursuer’s attention. He held his breath and prayed not to be seen, listening as the footsteps came closer. And closer. And closer. Then stopped. Konrad gulped, straining to hear anything in the sudden silence.

“Mister Amkire.”

Konrad nearly screamed. He slowly turned his head and forced himself to look. A dark-haired gentleman stood in the alleyway, his rich parchment clothes now hidden under a dark cloak. “Count Eichefurt.” He forced a slight chuckle. “You surprised me.”

The count nodded, but said nothing.

“Count,” Konrad’s voice shook. “I think someone’s following me. A…a…cutpurse or some brigand. Can you look back to make sure no one’s there?”

The count didn’t move. “There’s no one back there. We’re alone.”

“But I heard him!”

The count nodded. “You did. The fact remains, we’re alone.” He let fall a long black feather. It drifted down and settled at Konrad’s feet.

Konrad’s gaze lifted from the feather to the count’s face. The count narrowed his eyes. Konrad bolted. The Black Raven’s cane cracked against Konrad’s knees as he fled past. He stumbled and fell, sprawling onto the filthy cobblestones. The cold brass tip of his attacker’s cane pressed into the side of his throat.

“Did you really think I wouldn’t find you?”

“It was Helmuth,” Konrad sputtered. “He tracked you down. It was his idea. I had nothing to do with it.” Tears streamed down his face. “Have mercy. Please.”

“You went along with it,” Ahren said, his voice cold.

“I’ll pay you,” Konrad blubbered. “Whatever you want! Please don’t kill me! I’ll do anything!”

Ahren shook his head. “Miss Khamleir and I have an arrangement, and I am a man of my word.”

“Please, I—”

The Black Raven twisted the round knob of his cane and a slender stiletto point sprang from the tip. The pick-like blade jabbed into Konrad’s neck.

Blood gurgled into his throat and out his mouth. He clutched the wound, trying to staunch the pulsing flow of silky blood pouring between his fingers. Gulping like a fish, he tried to scream, but only gurgled. His killer stood above him, watching with apathetic eyes. Coldness crept in, the world dimmed and faded to nothing.

#

Ahren let out a sigh as Konrad’s twitching body fell still. He pulled back on the knob, retracting the blade into the shaft, then locked the mechanism before pushing the handle back to its normal position.

Stepping around the pool of dark blood now filling the narrow lane, he picked up the black feather, and tucked it in the dead man’s doublet. A satisfied smile grew along his lips as he turned to leave the alley, slowly strolling like a gentleman should.

Tomorrow, he would tell Viveka that it was done. She had told him to report back immediately. And as much as he would love to pay a late night visit, he had more pressing business. Tonight, he would sleep well for the first time in days. Tomorrow, he would collect his reward.

Race for the Night Ruby

“You have the hands of a sailor,” the whore whispered as Ahren took the glass from her. She ran her long fingers along his. “Yet delicate.” She released his hand and gazed up at him with vivid green eyes, the only part of her face not hidden by a red silk veil.

Ahren couldn’t help but smile at the whore’s advances. Fortunately, she couldn’t see her small victory through the gray veil concealing his nose and mouth. The Nadjancian fashion did more than just protect the wearer from the stench of the watery streets, it gave anonymity. Something a wanted man, like Ahren, could always use.

She dropped a nugget of incense into the brazier, adding to the thin sweet haze filling the room. “We could be good together.” She leaned closer with the catlike grace of a courtesan, pressing her bare breasts against him. “Magical.”

A short weasel of a man stepped through the curtains, followed by a pair of whores. The youth of their eyes, and small pomegranate breasts, suggested they were no more than fifteen. Tiny golden bells jingled from their thin veils.

“Ah, Black Raven,” Mashkov said, flopping onto a cushioned chair. “I am glad to meet you.”

“That name, as is our business, is private,” Ahren said.

Mashkov scanned the small chamber. “We are alone.”

Ahren nodded to the girls doting over their master.

“Ah.” His eyes gleamed with amused understanding. “Leave us!” Silently, the women stood and slipped through the heavy velvet drapes to the hall.

Ahren surveyed his surroundings. The carved walls, adorned in thick red curtains, left dozens of crevices for a spy hole. He didn’t like it.

Mashkov poured himself a glass of vodka. “I see you have met Karolina.” He motioned to the doorway. “You like her? You can have her every night during your stay.” He knocked back the glass and set it on the small table between them.

He was stalling. Ahren could smell it. In his two years since joining the Tyenee he had met many of its reputable members; killers, extortionists, smugglers. Yet Mashkov, the ruler of Nadjancia’s brothels, was one of the most famous. So far, Ahren had yet to be impressed.

“And how long is my stay?” he asked, removing his gray veil and sipping his drink.

“Straight to the point. They warned me about that,” Mashkov chuckled. “Not long. Have you ever heard of a dubrald?”

Ahren nodded. “A night ruby. A magic gem that makes the user invisible. The dream of every thief. I can’t think of anyone I’ve ever heard of actually possessing, or even seeing, one.”

“Baron Rusukny.” He refilled his and Ahren’s glasses. “Rumor has spread that the baron, through luck and fortune, has somehow acquired a night ruby.” He unrolled a map on the table between them. The artist’s crude drawings didn’t take away from the floor plan’s massive size. “He keeps it here, in his house.” Mashkov pointed a ringed finger to a small room on the fourth floor. “It’s well protected. The baron’s longtime feud with the Grevenik Family has made his home a veritable fortress, complete with armed guards.”

Ahren leaned closer, running his finger across the inked parchment hallways. A circled
X
marked where guards were often posted. The city’s canal streets bordered two sides of the house, meeting at the northwest corner. The same corner which held the room he needed to enter. “It’ll take me three weeks.”

“You have
one
week.”

Ahren’s brow rose.

“Word of an artifact such as this has drawn a lot of attention.” He leaned back in his chair stroking his thin moustache. “My sources say that a local group called The Children of the Rat has already begun plotting for it.”

“The Tyenee usually doesn’t concern itself with local gangs,” Ahren said, returning to the map.

“True.” Mashkov nodded. “But their leader, a man named Krisah, has aspirations higher than just a neighborhood, or even a city. He’s a growing irritation that will soon be dealt with.”

“Irritations like that are best handled before they become annoyances,” Ahren didn’t hide his contempt. A general of the Tyenee shouldn’t be so careless. His finger tapped an inked window on the fourth floor. “Who drew this map?”

“One of my agents.”

“I’d like to talk to this man.”

“I’m afraid that isn’t possible.”

“Why?”

“Because he was found in an alley with this in his back.” Mashkov held up a broken black and green glass knife. The swirled glass was beautifully crafted into an ideal grip. Its jagged, broken end showed to have once been a tri-bladed stiletto. “The blade shattered inside him.”

Ahren’s heart grew heavy as he eyed the handle. “Polnoch.”

“We've been trying to recruit the bastard for years, but all we've got from him are more of these,” Mashkov said handing it over.

Tingles of discomfort slithered up Ahren’s spine. Polnoch’s reputation as a thief and assassin was near mythical. In fact, aside from his signature weapon, nothing else was known about him. He set the handle on the table, happy to be rid of it. “Well, at least we can tell he’s human.”

“How?”

“The handle is too long to be quellish.”

“Maybe he’s just a smart quellen trying to throw us off track,” Mashkov snorted. “Regardless, with Polnoch on the hunt, we can’t afford to wait.”

“How long can you give me?”

“The new moon is in nine days. On a dark night like that, you can be guaranteed one of our adversaries will try for it then. You have to get to it first.”

#

Ahren flexed his muscles as best he could, trying to combat their urge to cramp inside the small, uncomfortable box. Slowly, he rolled onto his left side to find a short moment of comfort before new joints and muscles joined the protest. With a deep sigh, he listened to the ferryman’s oar paddling through the city. He felt the boat slow.

“What do you want?” a man asked, his voice muffled by the wooden lid.

“Good evening,” the ferryman called. “I am here to fetch your master. He wishes to go gambling tonight.”

“He said to be here at nine. You’re half an hour early.”

“My apologies. I did not wish to be late. May I moor my boat and wait for him?”

Ahren held his breath. The guard’s reply could be the difference between failure and success. With only nine days to plan the heist, there had been no time for a contingency.

The guard finally broke the silence. “Fine. Pull inside and wait.”

Ahren let out a sigh as he heard the clanking chains and a soft cascade of water pouring from the moss-covered portcullis. The boat edged forward and turned before coming to a stop.

“Wait here,” said the guard. A heavy door slammed shut, quickly followed by the sound of a bar sliding into place.

“Okay, we’re alone,” the ferryman hissed. “Get out.”

Ahren crawled out from the hollow seat box and put the cushioned lid back in place. The lantern dangling from the narrow boat’s bow cast a flickering light across the stone room. Water still trickled from the raised iron portcullis behind them and a narrow stone dock ran along the walls over a foot above the watery floor. A single iron-bound door sat in the stone wall to his right. “Well done,” he said, handing the ferryman a bag of gold.

The ferryman slipped the purse under his vest. “Go now. If anyone catches you…”

“You don’t know me. I don’t know you.”

The veiled ferryman nodded.

Ahren stepped from the boat onto the low steps leading from the brackish water, careful not to slip on the thin skin of slime left from high tides. His soft leather shoes made no noise as he hurried past the door to the back of the chamber where a barrel of rubbish rested against the wall below a square hole no more than a foot and a half across. He pulled his veil tighter to block out the refuse’s stink, and stuck his head through the opening.

Bits of debris and mold clung to the chute’s rough stone walls. High above, Ahren could see evenly spaced slivers of light from the trash chute doors on each floor. The third and last one, fifty feet above, was his target: the fourth floor. Ahren slid on a pair of gloves, then pulled himself over the angled bottom and crawled inside the shaft.

The uneven stones gave Ahren’s fingers more than enough purchase to climb. However, the tiny ledges held their own surprises: splinters of broken glass, rusted shards, or slick bits of rotted food lay inside each of the narrow crevices. The soft rain of debris from his questing fingers forced him to keep his head low, preventing him from seeing where he put his hands. He pushed his toes into the crags as he climbed, driving his back against the jagged wall behind him.

The baron’s affinity for gambling was well known throughout the city. Arranging for Yevin, the owner of Nadjancia’s most notorious gambling halls, to send the baron a personal invitation to sit at his table this night had been a simple task for Mashkov. The brothel owner’s rise to power in the Tyenee was now apparent. It seemed everyone owed him a favor, or would do one for cheap. Ahren couldn’t help but be impressed. However, the diversion wasn’t without its drawbacks. With the baron gone on this moonless night, Ahren’s competitors would inevitably take advantage of it themselves. He just had to get to the night ruby first.

He had made it to the opening on the second floor when he heard the iron door in the dock room below grate open.

“Come Konstantin, we haven’t got all night.” Boot steps on stone echoed up the shaft.

Ahren braced himself against the wall and remained still.

“Take my hand, Baron,” the ferryman said.

“You’re early,” Baron Rusukny replied. “I wish more of your kind were as prompt.”

“It is my duty to serve you, my lord.” The ferryman’s overly sweet tone bordered on mockery.

A sharp stone digging in Ahren’s back forced him to shift his weight, knocking down a small shower of dust and filth. He clenched his teeth as the miniature avalanche poured down the shaft into the room below.

“Konstantin,” the Baron yelled. “I’m waiting.”

“I’m here father,” called another voice. Ahren had never met the Baron’s eldest son, but his reputation as a duelist was legendary throughout the city. Despite his foppish appearance, few men would dare cross swords with him. Water splashed as Ahren heard the second man step into the boat.

“To The Golden Wheel,” the Baron ordered. The paddle swished, taking them away. The heavy door boomed shut, and Ahren was once again alone. He let out a long breath, and continued his climb.

After several long and tiresome minutes, Ahren reached the fourth floor. He pressed his ear to the wooden door.

Silence.

Carefully, he cracked it open and peered inside. The empty halls were a welcome sight. He pushed the door open, crawled through the small opening, and lowered himself to the floor. An uncurtained window at the end of the hall offered little light. Only the glow from lights across the canal illuminated the moonless scene outside. Ahren unclasped his filthy cloak, wiped the clinging refuse from his gloves and shoes, then wedged it back inside the chute. Its stink would only give him away.

He shut the small door and crept silently down the hallway. Dark silhouettes of statues and suits of armor, like silent sentries along the walls, added to his paranoia.

Light suddenly spilled into the hallway ahead as a door squeaked open. Ahren dove behind a copper statue as a man in green and gold stepped into the hall. His hand resting on his sheathed rapier hilt, the guard turned in Ahren’s direction. Pressing himself into the shadows, Ahren remained still as the sentry strolled past.

Ahren waited several seconds after the guard had left before releasing his breath. At no time during his surveillance had he spotted patrols on this floor. He scanned the hall again, before slipping from his hiding place.

He turned at the hall’s end and made his way down another long passage lined with paintings and unlit sconces. His eyes locked onto a heavy door at the end, the last obstacle before the prize.

A brass keyhole perched above the thick door handle stared back at him. Removing his gloves, Ahren knelt before it and drew a roll of doeskin from his pouch. He unrolled the soft leather, exposing a large collection of picks, shims, and various delicate tools. Gently, he slipped a pair of slender picks into the opening and stopped. Something wasn’t right.

Ahren withdrew the picks and examined the keyhole again. From the outside, the lock appeared simple, yet well made. The vertical slot, capped with a round hole, was perfectly cut into the decorative pattern swirling across the brass plate. He saw nothing unusual, but something made the small hairs along the back of his neck tingle.

He ran his finger along the hole and realized what troubled him. No one used it. The edges of the polished plate, where brass met wood, were dull, and the subtle tarnish where servants’ rags could not clean it suggested the lock had been there for a while. However, the keyhole’s edges were sharp and unblemished. No brass lock, no matter how well maintained, could escape the tiny scratches and dulled corners from a key sliding in and out. It was a trap.

Ahren conducted another search of the door for other keyholes, then ran his hands along the carved doorframe. Within one of the crags of the ornate wood he found a hidden hole nestled in the molding. He eased his picks into the new lock and worked the mechanism. The bolt’s hard click echoed down the hall. Ahren slid his tools back into his pouch and opened the door.