The Colour of Vengeance (37 page)

“Every time we did a job ya know what the word on the street was? Black Thorn killed this fuck, Black Thorn stole that. Boss wanted it that way, hell it’s why he fuckin’ took ya on in the first place, wanted someone ta take the blame fer all the shit. Figured when the bounty on ya head got high enough he’d turn ya in himself. Bet ya didn’t know that bit did ya? Henry did.”

Long ago Betrim had figured Swift out. The lad was smart and no mistake, quick as a viper and had a certain type of charm about him that drew in some. Thing about Swift though, was that he lied. Lied so much it was near impossible to tell truth from those lies. Back when they were crewing together his lies had seemed fun at times and even useful at others. Now though… now Betrim wanted to stop his lying for good by giving the bastard an unhealthy dose of axe to the face.

“So many times,” Swift said, “I had ta listen ta folk tell me how the Black Thorn couldn’t be killed. Survived everythin’ from burnin’ ta drownin’ ta stabbin’. Hell one bastard tried ta tell me ya survived a hangin’ in front of his eyes.”

Betrim grinned. “That one’s true as it happens.”

Swift spat. “Well the only reason you’re alive now is ‘cos it never suited me ta kill ya before. Coulda done it anytime we was crewin’ together but never felt the need. Now I reckon I want folk ta know once an’ fer all it were good ol’ Swift killed the Black Thorn.”

Betrim nodded. “Right ya are.” He whipped his left hand forwards, throwing the knife at Swift just as Swift threw his own knife at Thorn. Betrim’s aim had always been off, ever since he’d lost his second finger, the knife flew past Swift’s midsection, scoring the leather of his armour. Swift’s own knife was dead on target and would have put a whole in Thorn’s throat if his momentum hadn’t carried his left shoulder into the way. As it was Betrim found a small knife sticking out of the meat of his shoulder, hurt a bit but the Black Thorn had been through far worse. He pulled the knife out, threw it away and charged Swift with axe swinging.

The first two attacks Swift brushed away but the third damned near took his arm off at the shoulder, only the lad’s backward momentum saved him. He tried to counter with a sword stroke of his own but Thorn stepped inside his guard, put a bloody shoulder to his chest and pushed with all his strength. Swift flew away, hitting the ground heavy and rolling to a stop in the dust of the street. As he picked himself back up Betrim could see the bastard was grinning from ear to ear, a nasty scrape made his right cheek bloody.

“Ya know, I almost thought killin’ you would be as easy as them two. S’pose I shoulda known better,” Swift goaded.

Thorn went for another throwing knife but Swift was quicker; his hand whipped out and Betrim felt something sharp stick in his left leg. He pulled the knife out but Swift was already on him, the bastard’s sword came crashing down and Betrim barely got his axe in the way in time. He pushed the sword away, punched Swift in the chest and head-butted him once in the face. Truth was Betrim would happily have butted him a few more times but Swift was no fool, he got his sword up and forced Thorn to stumble away lest he be skewered.

Swift wasn’t looking nearly so confidant now he had fat drops of blood leaking from his nose. Truth was he was damned lucky his nose hadn’t broken. Thorn glanced sideways at the Haarin; he was still watching, standing over the motionless form of Henry. Betrim knew the moment the Haarin decided to get involved and it became two on one he was finished. His best bet was to do for Swift quickly, unfortunately that was easier said than done.

Swift’s sword flashed out in Betrim’s direction and he dodged to his left, the next attack he blocked with his axe and stepped in close again, sending a heavy three-fingered left fist into the smaller man’s kidney. Unfortunately for Betrim Swift once more had a knife in his left hand and it plunged once into the meat of the Black Thorn’s back, just below his right shoulder blade. Thorn pushed Swift away but felt hot blood running down his back, soaking into his tunic. The wound wasn’t deep enough to do any real damage but it was his third knife wound of the night and all three were still bleeding. Truth was Betrim was already starting to feel a little light headed.

He pushed off with his right leg and leapt at Swift, a wild swing of his axe. The bastard stepped to the side and kicked at Thorn’s leg as he landed. His leg gave way and Betrim fell to his knees. Before he could regain his feet Swift was there. He punched the Black Thorn in the face once and danced away, his sword trailing across Betrim’s right arm as he went. Again it wasn’t a deep cut but it was painful enough to force Thorn to drop his axe. Swift was there before Betrim could react.

The blooded bastard laughed as pointed his sword at Betrim’s head. “Told ya, Thorn. I’m jus’ better…” Swift gagged and spat blood over Betrim’s face. He swayed a little and looked down at the length of metal protruding from his chest, his own Haarin’s sword.

“Bollocks…” Swift said and tumbled over to his left, crashing down amongst the dust of the street.

Betrim looked up to find Henry staring at Swift’s body. She was pale and looked near as tired as he felt but a smile played on her scarred lips, a smile Betrim had never seen her wear before. For the first time in all the time he’d known her Henry actually looked peaceful. Thorn had to admit it was a strange sight considering she’d just killed a man.

Henry limped over and placed Betrim’s right arm over her shoulders then helped him to his feet. Truth was he needed it; there weren’t many times he could say he’d gladly have slept in the middle of the one of the busiest streets in all of Chade but this was one of them.

Betrim looked down at Swift’s corpse. Henry knew exactly where to place the sword, right through the bastard’s rotten heart. Thorn looked up to find the bodyguard watching them, watching Henry. She stared back with a strange look in her eyes.

“Thanks,” Henry said.

The Haarin nodded once and walked over to the corpse of his charge. He put one foot on Swift’s back and pulled his sword free before wiping the blade and re-sheathing it. Then he turned and walked away.

Forcing his eyes open was probably the hardest thing Anders had ever done and after recent events he was fairly certain that was saying a lot. He looked up at the rough wooden ceiling and tried to force his mind to figure out where he was. Unfortunately his mind rebelled on the grounds that it was feeling far too sober and Anders knew from long experience without a drink to coax it into submission there was simply no arguing with his brain.

He drifted for some time with the swaying of the room, his head a haze of half-formed memories that swamped him, none of them coming into focus. His father drifted into view, shouting at him, exiling him, never blinking. He saw the woman in blue pushing him out of the window and he saw her saying
sorry
as she turned and ran away. He saw Drake Morrass standing over his broken body with a wry smile on his lips, he saw Drake telling him he wasn’t allowed to die.

Seemed as though there was a weight on Anders’ chest, heavy and rough making it hard to breathe.

Anders watched the Black Thorn jump off the ship in Solantis and followed him as he was chased. He saw Henry’s face after they escaped the fighting pits, he saw her bloodlust fade as she realised just what she had started. He saw his father’s face again, still unblinking but this time sentencing him to death, sending him to the Boneyard. He watched the glee on Lish’s face as she chopped off his finger and showed it to him.

Anders heard a clicking, rasping sound. Sounded like a death rattle and sounded close. He thought perhaps it might be his own.

He witnessed the dead, a creature out of myth and legend and horror stories to scare children. He witnessed a wraith; its cold, grey face floating out of the mist begging to steal the warmth of his body. He witnessed a black rose naked and beautiful and as rotten as the man who held it. He witnessed terror, pure and powerful, rise from a room like a miasma of despair.

He witnessed his own death.

This time Anders’ eyes snapped open of their own accord. The same wooden ceiling greeted him, the same feeling that the whole room was swaying, the same weight on his chest, the same clicking rasping sound. Again his mind rebelled claiming it wasn’t nearly drunk enough to deal with the world. This time Anders silenced it with the promise of imminent booze. It took every ounce of strength Anders had to lift his head, to look down at his chest. Four night black eyes stared back at him set above two massive hairy fangs and surrounded by eight green-black legs. Anders let out a strangled whimper. The spider responded by moving a few inches up his chest. Now he could see the ugly beast without lifting his head and he could see his own terrified soul reflected in the beast’s eyes. It dawned on Anders that he may well be dead and this could in fact be one of the many hells people always spoke about. The spider’s fangs moved up and down against each other and again Anders heard the rasping sound.

A door opened somewhere nearby. “Still guarding our guest, Rhi?”

It took every bit of courage Anders had to speak and still his voice came out in a strangled cry. “Drake, help!”

Drake Morrass walked into view and sat down on something, his golden tooth glittered as he smiled. “Rhi here was very worried for you, Anders. Insisted on keeping vigil day and night. Dedicated, ya might say.”

“Help,” Anders squeaked.

“I don’t think she’s eaten since you arrived such is her dedication and obvious worry. Unwilling to leave you even for a moment,” Drake grinned down at Anders. “Reckon she’s probably a bit hungry by now.”

“Drake!”

The pirate captain laughed. “Go on. Shoo.”

The spider leapt from Anders chest, obeying Drake without hesitation. How anyone could train a spider confused Anders, why anyone would train a spider was completely beyond him.

Drake slowly helped Anders sit up. He was in the captain’s own cabin aboard the
Fortune
on a hastily constructed bench surrounded by a mound of pillows and blankets. His chest was bare and bandaged and hurt like he’d been recently stabbed. Rose was not in attendance.

“Wine?” Anders asked.

Drake laughed and wandered off to his personal drinks cabinet, coming back with something that looked considerably stronger than wine. He poured Anders a cup and helped him drink it. Tasted like whiskey and the expensive kind at that. That one bottle probably cost Drake somewhere in the region of twenty gold bits.

Anders’ mind congratulated him on the attaining of alcohol and got to work processing the situation.

“I’m alive,” he said as the information started to trickle down to his mouth.

“Just starting to realise that, are you?” Drake asked.

Anders sighed. “I really wish you’d stop saving my life.”

Drake took a swig from the bottle of whiskey. “And I really wish you’d stop getting yourself killed. You’ve far from outlived your usefulness to me.”

Anders grunted and nodded at the bottle. Drake poured some more into the cup and placed it in Anders’ hand. It took a hell of a lot of effort and almost more pain than made it worth it but Anders lifted the cup to his mouth and downed it in defiance before motioning for Drake to refill it.

“So what happened? You know… after I was stabbed,” he asked.

Drake smiled. “I’ve got some conflicting reports as to some of the specifics. Seems an Arbiter showed up at some point.”

“Kessick?”

“Hah. I wish. No, some other Arbiter. Built up quite a body count if what I hear is anywhere close to truth. A friend of yours named Ben took him down…”

“Six-Cities Ben?”

“That’s the one. Mace to the back of the head apparently,” Drake said. “Didn’t kill him though, tough bastard managed to survive it. From what I hear I doubt he’ll survive what Iron Beth has planned for him.”

“How long ago?” Anders asked.

“Two weeks, give or take. She set sail back to her foggy little paradise with the Arbiter in chains and swamped in drugs. I would not want to be in his shoes. Beth has an… interesting reputation.”

Anders was afraid to ask the real question on his mind so he buried his mouth in the cup of whiskey.

Drake sighed. “They’re alive. Both of them. Your little murderess Henry the Red stuck Swift in the back with his own Haarin’s sword. They’re also the reason you’re still among the living. They dragged you back to the docks and insisted I patch you up. Seems they know about your working for me. I think you might have some apologising to do when you go back.”

Anders eyes flicked up and he tried to hide the pleasure he felt. “I’m staying with them?” he asked.

“Of course,” Drake replied, his face carefully neutral. “I told you to look after Thorn and so far you’ve done a piss poor job of it. I expect you to do better from now on.”

“They’re still here?”

“Mhmm,” Drake grunted. “Can’t think why. It’s almost as if they’re waiting for someone.”

Anders could barely suppress the grin that threatened to take over his face. “Is Chade back to normal yet?”

Drake took another swig of whiskey and smiled. “Oh no. The merchants are back and trade has resumed as befits a free city but I decided to do away with normal and opted for change. Rose is now in charge.”

“Of the council?” Anders asked.

“There is no council. I got rid of it. The eunuch was quick to agree with me but Lady Fairweather opposed my decision. Shortly afterwards she suffered from a sudden and unexpected case of being stabbed to death. She did not recover. So I dissolved the council, gave Rose my not unsubstantial portfolio of property which she added to that of her own after claiming it from her dearly, and recently, deceased brother. She now owns roughly… all of Chade minus the slaving guild and is therefore in direct control of the free city.”

Anders laughed. “And you, of course, are in direct control of her.”

Drake shook his head. “Not at all. After recent events the mercantile would not be pleased with the pirate captain Drake Morrass having anything to do with the running of their free city. I have therefore washed my hands of the politics of Chade,” he mimicked washing his hands, “and set sail for clearer waters. Or at least I will be setting sail as soon as you get off my fucking ship.