The Five Faces (The Markhat Files) (10 page)

He glared but froze. The knife in his hand was no match for my fancy revolving guns and he damned well knew it.

“One more time. I’m looking for a man with a fondness for wide-brimmed hats and dog fights. He speaks with an accent. Feather wants to know his name. Spill it and I’ll forget about bricks and knives and charging you two boneheads another two crowns just for being stupid.”

“Feather sent you?” The knife vanished. “Hell, I didn’t know…”

Short-and-Fat spat blood and cussed. “You want to know anything about dog fighting, you ask at the Bloody Troll,” he said. “I don’t have any use for that bunch.”

“Good for you.” I slipped one gun, my left, back into its pocket, but kept the other handy in case anyone was feeling heroic. “That coat stinks.”

“I likes it,” muttered the tall man. Confusion played across his face, and I realized he was a frequent sampler of his own product. “Feather sent you?”

“Explain it to your friend,” I said to Short-and-Fat. “Keep up the good work, gentlemen. We’re always looking for management material down in the ranks.”

Short-and-Fat cussed. His partner, bless his weed-dulled heart, graced me with a gap-toothed smile.

“Feather sent you?”

I laughed, doffed my hat, and got the hell out of there not quite at a jog.

Feather’s name loosened tongues and opened doors all morning. I learned more than I really wanted to know about the weed trade down on the docks.

The new bunch was organized, give them that. The Docks appeared to have been split up into five-block squares. Feather ran the section from Lank Street to the wharf. Tickle had the next section, which began at the sewer canal by Bane and ended at the burned-out husk of a tannery. Goat held sway to the north, and I didn’t go any farther than that.

Feather and crew issued paper receipts. They made it clear anything that cost their bosses money would cost someone on the street their life.

Try as I might, though, I couldn’t get the names of anyone who outranked Feather or his pals. As far as the street dealers were concerned, the bosses were Feather and Tickle and the like. Who they answered to wasn’t even a matter of speculation, even when prompted with coin.

Still, I had a few names for Evis. I owed him that much. And maybe the organization’s structure was one Avalante could identify.

By noon, I decided I’d pushed my luck pretending to be part of the new management. Even amid the confusion left in the wake of House Lethe’s sudden retreat, tongues had had time to wag, and running into one of the men I’d pretended to know was more likely every minute.

So I traded the stinking, dark alleys for the stinking, bright streets and asked around for a place called the Bloody Troll instead.

Finding the place was the work of an hour. The Bloody Troll moved a lot. The first two places I found were empty. The third was a now a net-maker’s shop. The fourth was still smoking here and there from the fire that left nothing behind but a single charred barstool.

My fifth stop was my last. The Troll was squeezed between a pair of none-too-sturdy warehouses. Behind them all ran the River, so close I could hear the occasional hard smack of its sluggish face upon the underside of the wharves.

The Troll sported a single door and a lone window. The door was closed, and the window was shuttered despite the midday heat. From the warehouses came the sounds of workmen shoving crates and cussing, but the Troll was deadly silent.

I tried the door. It opened, its rusted hinges creaking like the gates of Hell.

“Need some oil around here,” I said, stamping inside.

I hadn’t seen that many crossbows since the War ended. Big, old, two-handed Mausers. Sleek but deadly Carnate Specials. Big, plain back-country Skinner Widowmakers. There was even a restored Old Kingdom Granny Brackett in the bunch, aimed at my head and fully capable of pinning my skull to the wall if that nervous-looking finger were to twitch.

I smiled my biggest smile.

“I’ve always thought it would be a damned shame to die thirsty,” I said. “I don’t suppose I could get a beer before the festivities begin?”

I kept my hands in plain sight. Five arms and a gun for each wouldn’t be enough to save me if they started loosing bolts.

“I don’t know you,” said a voice. I couldn’t see the speaker’s face for the ring of archers. I didn’t know any of their faces either, but I could see fear etched on every one.

“He’s one of them,” said one of the bowmen. “Dammit, boss, he’s got to be one of them.”

“I’m just me,” I said before anyone else could chime in with agreement. “Markhat’s the name. I’m a finder, got an office on Cambrit. Chuckles hired me two days ago. Said I should meet him here. He didn’t mention getting shot as part of the deal.”

“Chuckles is dead,” said my hidden friend. “Along with his crew.”

I did a marvelous job of pretending to hide the shock I didn’t feel.

“Dead? You sure?”

I watched crossbows begin to waver and dip.

“Somebody tore him open and showed him his guts.”

I cussed some, just to show the fellas I was just an earthy working stiff like them.

“Keep him covered,” said my friend, who I surmised to be the boss. “For all we know he gutted Chuckles himself.”

“I didn’t. First, I’m a finder, not a killer. Second, I never gut people before they pay me. Third, I need that beer now more than ever. Any chance I’ll live long enough to drink it?”

The man stepped out of the shadows.

He was my age, maybe a few years older. He was muscular and he wore his shirts a size too small so everyone could appreciate his physique.

I disliked him instantly, but I kept my smile.

“What’s your first name, Markhat?”

“Markhat. First, last, and middle. Saves me a bundle on stationary.”

“I’ve heard of a finder named Markhat,” said a worthy by the bar.

“I’ve heard he’s a real smart-ass,” added another.

“They say he’s friends with that witch-woman Mama Hog,” said a third.

That did the trick. The boss man glared, but his was the only crossbow still aimed at anything vital.

“So Chuckles hired you,” he said to me. “Hired you for what?”

I shrugged, sensing where the conversation was heading and realizing there was no turning back. “He wanted a name.”

“Now I want it,” he said. His voice was as flat and as empty as his eyes.

“I get paid for what I do,” I said. “Tell you what. Assuming we’re talking about the same name, I’ll charge you what I came here to collect. Deal?”

“You do see this crossbow?”

I pulled out a pistol. I didn’t aim it at him, didn’t raise it, but I let him see me put my finger on the trigger.

“I see it. Bet I can get off two shots, maybe three, before I bleed out. I won’t miss. You won’t live. My fee for names tonight is an even hundred gold crowns, payable in full, right this damned minute. Or we can spill some blood. Your call. Piss or get off the pot.”

Silence. One of the bowmen broke wind, and another guffawed, and boss man rolled his eyes and pointed his crossbow at the warped plank floor.

“Go get a hundred crowns,” he growled. Feet shuffled.

“And a beer,” I added. I slipped my pistol back in my pocket. “Why don’t we sit down and have a drink like gentlemen?”

Chapter Nine

Evis, ever the gracious if deceased host, poured me another beer.

“So you gave this brute a name? What name?”

“Hell yes, I gave him a name. What choice did I have? They were sure Chuckles hired me to find out who drew the five faces under his name. A shrug and an ‘aww, shucks, I don’t know nuffin’ wasn’t going to get me out of there alive.”

I took a long draught of Evis’s fancy, imported beer. It was a summer wheat beer, a little light for my taste, but still much better than the bitter swill they’d been pouring at the Bloody Troll.

“The name?”

I wiped my lips. “I told him the man behind the drawings calls himself Jerle Mistorm Cooper.”

“Who the hell is that?”

“Why, Mr. Prestley, I thought you knew your history. Jerle Mistorm Cooper, born 1878, invented the cotton gin before dying of sheer satisfaction in 1952. Where would we be without his genius? Pantless, that’s where.”

“So when these heavily armed dog-fighting enthusiasts realize you handed them the first name you could remember, what’s to stop them from looking you up and registering their complaint with your services?”

“Lucky me. The Watch has set up shop right at my door. A band of thugs with crossbows won’t even be first in line if they decide to come after me.”

Evis keeps his eyes covered with dark spectacles, even in candlelight, but I knew he was giving me a ‘what the hell’ look behind them even though I couldn’t see past the smoked glass.

“Not a smart move,” he said after a while.

I shrugged it off. I couldn’t tell Evis I’d also told the men I knew the name was a false one, because then I’d have to tell him I knew the man’s base of operations was in a dilapidated, old wall watchtower on the north side of town. And if I told Evis that, I’d have to explain how I knew such a thing, and that would lead to my night walk with Stiches, and her true identity, and if the alternative to all that was enduring one of Evis’s incredulous stares, so be it.

And if the dog-fighting crew took a run at whatever lurked in that hulk of a tower, well, that wouldn’t bother me one little bit.

“So you’ve incurred the wrath of the dog-fight gangs,” he muttered. “And the weed dealers. And probably whoever is running the trade these days.”

“Not a bad morning’s work.” I finished off my beer. “You got any idea who chased House Lethe out of the docks?”

You get to know somebody well enough, you learn their tells. Evis swirled the contents of his glass around. He doesn’t do that often, but when he does, I know he’s hiding a handful of kings or sorting his truths.

I’d have been injured had I not just done the same thing.

“New gang. Out of Prince, we think. Head man is a bit of a giant. Bad news. They’ve killed everyone they couldn’t buy and killed about half the ones they bought anyway.”

“Avalante eats gangs for lunch.”

“Not this one. We think they’ve got a wand-waver or two in the mix.”

I whistled. “You said it. Bad news.”

I couldn’t tell Evis the Corpsemaster was living under his roof as Stitches. If she saw a reason to stay hidden, it was probably a damned good one.

“Surely you know another ancient wand-waver or two.”

He shook his head. “We spent a century courting the Corpsemaster. She may have been an amoral bitch, but she wasn’t insane. The rest of the old ones are, to the last.” He emptied his glass. “We’re on our own.”

“Stitches is pretty good.”

“She’s no Corpsemaster.” Evis rose and began to pace. “Stay away from that end of things. This new bunch—there’s something more than just a grab at the weed trade going on.”

“Like what?”

“Chase your dog, Markhat. You’ll live longer.”

A soft knock sounded at his door. Evis smiled a weary smile, toothy in the candlelight.

“That would be Gertriss reminding me we have a date,” he said.

I stood. “Let it never be said I ever stood in the way of the pitching of woo.”

Evis laughed despite himself. “You’re welcome to join us. The
Queen’s
head chef is cooking tonight.”

“Another time. I have dogs to find.” I grabbed my hat and coat as Evis opened the door.

Gertriss darted in, giggling. Then she saw me.

“Hello, boss, didn’t know you were here.”

“I was just leaving. You two kids don’t stay out too late. Rannit has a Curfew, you know.”

“Do tell.” She grabbed Evis by his elbow. “Unless you have other instructions?”

“Nope. Take the evening off. See you tomorrow, or in fifteen years when I get out of prison, whichever comes first.”

I hoofed it out of there.

The day staff, ever helpful, quietly suggested I leave via one of Avalante’s concealed exits. It seems the Watch was outside, nosing about in the shrubs on the off chance I came strolling out of Avalante’s wide doors.

So I departed by another way, unmolested by Captain Holder’s surly blue-caps. I exchanged my Avalante carriage for a working man’s cab a few blocks away, in case the Captain had eyes stationed on the Brown River Bridge keeping a lookout for handsome finders being conveyed by Avalante’s sleek ponies.

If there were Watchmen on the bridge, I didn’t spot them. I asked a bridge clown if he’d seen anyone new loitering about, and after I flipped him a coin, he shook his head before capering off to harass a mail-coach.

Still, I changed cabs twice before I reached midtown, more out of habit than significant suspicion. While the Watch might be keeping my house and my office under surveillance, they’d have no way of knowing where I was bound.