The Thief Who Pulled on Trouble's Braids (9 page)

“When you come back, don’t bother knocking. The door knows you now, and I won’t want to be disturbed.”

“All right. But you should really get some rest. You look like three miles of bad road. When was the last time you slept?”

He waved that away. I wanted to ask him about Bosch’s hair, but he was so wrapped up in what he was doing that I didn’t. It would wait. I wasn’t in any rush to confront Bosch again. As I was slipping out the door, Holgren looked up from the tome he was studying.

“Amra?”

“Yeah?”

“Be careful.”

“Always.”

I closed the door. I was off to see Daruvner.

Chapter Fifteen

Fengal Daruvner had been my fixer and fence almost as long as I’d been in Lucernis. I’d met him within weeks of stepping off the boat. He had given me my first contract. He’d always been fair and trustworthy, within the limits of his own self-interest. I’d brought him a lot of swag over the years. We put meat on each other’s tables.

He was a large round man with the red cheeks and nose of someone who likes his drink. He never picked up a glass before noon, and never put one down after. Behind his jolly, fatherly banter was a sharp mind. He’d survived a long time on the wrong side of the law, and he’d made so few enemies as to barely count. And those he did make ended up at the bottom of the Ose, like as not. He knew everyone, and everyone knew him. He was part of the fabric of the city. Or at least the undercity.

He ran a rank eatery on Third Wall Road. The best thing that could be said about the food was that it was cheap, and the portions were huge. I found him there, ensconced at his table in the back. His runner, a kid named Kettle because of his girth, sat behind him, dozing. Daruvner had one of his nieces on his knee, telling her some outrageous story. I couldn’t remember which one she was. There were five and they all looked alike except for a bit of height difference.

He saw me as I came through the door and waved me back. I guess that meant he knew me intimately enough for Holgren’s fetish to have no effect. That, or Daruvner had his own magic. Or both. I weaved my way through the crowd of late night diners to his table.

The little girl ignored me, but then his nieces always ignored everyone but Uncle Fengal.

“Amra! I see you’ve got the Havelock curls! I must say it hasn’t improved your looks.”

“I just wanted to look more like you, Daruvner. You’re always saying bald is beautiful.”

“For a man, yes. For you?” He leaned back and considered. “It makes you look like a penitent. Or an ascetic. It makes you look haunted, girl. Haunted and holy.”

Kettle opened one eye, winked at me, closed it again. Cheeky kid.

I sat down at Daruvner’s table. “That’s me,” I said. “Saint Amra of the second story. Got anything to drink?”

Daruvner whispered in his niece’s ear. She giggled, slid down off his knee, and ran off to the kitchen. Daruvner poured winter wine into two of the thimble-sized glasses it was meant to be drunk from.

“To your friend Corbin.”

“You heard?”

“Of course.”

“To Corbin,” I said, and sipped appreciatively. It was a little sweet for my taste, but fine. Silence stretched a bit.

“Speaking of Corbin, I got a note from Locquewood that there’s a package waiting for you at his shop.”

I waved that away. “I’ve been indisposed. I’ll sort that out when I have time.”

He chuckled. “Indisposed. That’s one way of putting it.”

“So did you know, or just suspect?” I asked.

“About you being taken to Havelock? I found out the day after. I made some inquiries, talked to a friend who owes me a favor. There was nothing I could do for you.”

“Why?”

“Because you were being held on a nobleman’s order.”

“No, I mean why did you try to help?”

He stared at me. Then he shook his head. Then he started laughing.

“What? Did I say something funny?”

“No. That’s just it, Amra. It’s not funny at all. But what can you do but laugh?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I know you don’t. Otherwise I might be insulted.” He downed his thimble, scratched his ample belly. Gave me a mild stare. “How long have we known each other?”

“Six, seven years?”

“Eight years, almost to the day. How many commissions have I got for you?”

“I don’t know. Dozens.”

“Thirty-eight commissions. All of which you have fulfilled, to the very letter. You’ve never held out on me and you’ve never double-crossed me. And when you work solo, you invariably come to me to fence anything that needs to be fenced.”

“I’m sure I’m not the only one.”

“Don’t be so sure. The ones who are as clever as you, eventually they either get too clever and try to keep a commission for themselves, or they find out they aren’t as clever as they thought, and get caught. And get dead.”

“Like Corbin?”

“Like Corbin? I don’t know. I don’t know the details, but dead is dead. The point is you’re something special. To lose you would be a blow to my business. And to me personally. So I tried to see if I could pry you out of Havelock. I couldn’t, but it seems you managed to spring yourself. Though I hear that you might just have been safer inside.”

“That’s why I’m here.”

He sighed. “I suspected as much. I have a cousin in Isinglas who can set you up. I know it isn’t Lucernis, but what is?”

“No, Daruvner. It’s not that. I’m not going anywhere.”

He lifted his eyebrows. “Are you sure?”

“Very. I have some business that won’t wait.”

“So what do you need from me?”

“A name.”

He shook his head. “I don’t know a name, Amra. You would know better than I who’d want you dead.”

“Not that name. I have a good idea who’s paying. I want to know who inked the contract.”

Murder for hire is a nasty business, even in law-challenged Lucernis, and treated appropriately. Every contract went through layers of intermediaries, to keep any of the nastiness from sticking. But somewhere under all those layers was someone who held the money, and wrote out the contract. I’d never had cause to wonder who that was. Until now.

“That... that could be very dangerous information, Amra. I’m not sure I should tell you. I can’t see how knowing will help you at all. Quite the contrary.”

I shrugged. “Let me worry about that. It will never come back to you, that I promise.”

“It isn’t that. It’s just—these are not nice people, even for such as you and me. You are an artist in your way, and I am a businessman. But these people, they are killers. In their core, you understand?”

I smiled. “Whatever you might think I look like, I’m no saint, Fengal Daruvner. I’ve seen death, and caused it.”

“But it isn’t your trade. You don’t strangle old ladies in their beds to secure inheritances. You don’t knife cheating husbands, you don’t hurl barren wives down flights of stairs. That sort of ruthlessness is not in you, Amra Thetys, no more than it is in me. The man attached to the name you want, he is as bad as they come.”

“So you know him.”

“I once saw him cut a man’s throat. The poor bastard was eating his dinner, and they were laughing and chatting, and then in the blink of an eye he slit the poor sod’s neck from ear to ear. And then he pushed the dying man out of the chair, sat down in it, and finished the bloody food.” Daruvner shook his head. “Do you know what he said to me? He said, ‘Needs more salt.’”

“What’s his name, Daruvner? It’s not like there’s no-one else to ask.”

“You won’t listen, will you? His name is Gavon, then. Guache Gavon. He owns the Cock’s Spur, down in the Rookery.”

The Rookery was a part of Lucernis that had turned cancerous over the centuries, home only to the destitute and the desperate. Morno’s reforms weren’t even a rumor in its narrow, labyrinthine, garbage-choked streets, and the Watch didn’t dare set foot in it. People called it the Twelfth Hell. And the Cock’s Spur was one of the public houses that was considered to have a ‘bad’ reputation there. It didn’t surprise me that the owner also had a side-line in murder for hire.

“Thank you, Fengal.”

“Don’t thank me for telling you something likely to get you killed.”

“Fine then. But I owe you.”

“Do you mean that?”

“Yes.”

“Then make me a promise.”

“If I can.”

“Don’t go alone.”

“Fengal—”

“I mean it, Amra. Don’t go down there without someone to watch your back. Literally. I can scare up someone capable and trustworthy if you give me a couple of hours.”

“Who did you have in mind?”

“The mage. Holgren Angrado.”

“He’s busy right now.”

One eyebrow rose.

“He’s already helping me, in exchange for something you don’t want to know anything about. Trust me.”

“Well he’s sensible enough to know I’m right about this. Don’t go to the Rookery without him.”

“Fengal, I’m a grown woman.”

“You owe me, and you promised.”

“Not yet I haven’t.”

“But you will.”

And a quarter hour later, I did. I was tired of arguing. Daruvner usually gets what he wants, if for no other reason than he has the patience of a stone. In any case, Daruvner proved to be right.

Chapter Sixteen

I hadn’t told Daruvner why I wanted Gavon’s name, and he hadn’t asked directly. He was too polite for that. Or he knew better than to ask questions he didn’t want answers to. He suspected I planned to kill the man, to make a statement. Which had its appeal, admittedly, but it wasn’t what I had planned. Would-be assassins would certainly be put off if I killed the man who inked the contract on me, but I just don’t have the stomach for cold-blooded murder. Daruvner was right about that. Oh, I could argue the morality of it with myself all day, and make a perfect case for putting a knife in the heart of a man who made a living being the middleman for murderers and their clients, but I couldn’t fool myself. If I had to I could do it, but I hoped I wouldn’t have to.

Instead I was going to try something a little more tricky. I was counting on the fact that a fixer, even a fixer for assassins, would have to honor any contract if he wanted to stay in business.

I just hoped to Kerf that it worked. If it did, no one would dream of trying to cash in on the bounty that had been put on my head. If it didn’t, I’d almost certainly be dead. Either way, my problems would be over.

But before all that, I had a funeral to attend.

~ ~ ~

The City of the Dead. From the outside it looked like some mad prince’s idea of a fortress, massive white walls stretching up and up, though there were no sentry towers. There was only one gate, a thing of impressive impracticality made of oak timbers a foot thick banded with iron and inscribed with arcane symbols that throbbed with power. Next to the gate in a half-dozen languages was a notice:

The Gates Close Half a Glass Before Sunset.

Be Ye on the Outside Before Then.

No Littering

No Blood-Spilling

No Hurdy-Gurdy Music

No Fornication

It made me wonder. Was all of this to keep the dead safe, or the living? The answer, as I was to find out later, was a little of both. And neither.

Once in the gate I was surrounded by mausoleums. Some were little bigger than doll houses, others dwarfed my rented rooms. Headstones and statuary squeezed higgledy-piggledy in between.

There was one gravel path. I took it, but the task of finding Corbin’s funeral was daunting. The place was a giant maze.

“It’s over there, on the hill with the large, not terribly well done Weeping Mother statue.”

I spun around. It was the boy in the penitent’s robes.

“What is?”

“Your friend’s funeral.”

“Who the hells are you?”

“Arhat,” he said, as if that cleared everything up.

“What do you want, Arhat?”

“To pay my respects. I... failed your friend, in a manner of speaking. I’m sorry.”

“Failed him how?” I asked, but he just shook his shaved head and said “Now is not the time.” And then he disappeared. Literally, before my eyes.

I just stood there for a second. I mean, what would you do? Myself, I blew out a big breath of air and cursed.

“Lucernis,” I muttered to myself as I made my way up to the hill he’d indicated, “gets weirder every damned day.”

I was a little late. They’d already had the ceremonial meal and were cleaning up from that. Which was fine; as much as I cared for Corbin, he wasn’t smelling like a flower, and despite the careful makeup he looked like what he was- a corpse propped up in a comfy chair at the head of the funerary table. It reminded me of nothing so much as some sort of gruesome child’s tea party, but like I said, I’m not from Lucernis. Where I come from, somebody dies, you bury them if you have some land or burn them if you don’t. You say a few words, and then get back to the business of living and grieving. Or celebrating, as the case may be.

Osskil sat on his brother’s right, and three other men I didn’t know took up the other seats, except for the one at the foot of the table. The one reserved for spouses or significant others. That one was empty. I wondered if Estra knew of the funeral, or if she’d simply chosen not to come.

The men were all of advanced age, with impressive facial hair. They looked so alike they had to be brothers. They were dressed in finery that looked just a tad threadbare. Professional mourners, I supposed. The other noble houses weren’t going to be sending representatives; Corbin was an embarrassment. They’d all just politely ignore the whole thing.

Osskil rose and bowed when he saw me, but addressed himself to Corbin.

“Your friend Amra has come, Corbin. I told you she would. She’s a bit late for the meal, but perhaps we can persuade her to have a drink with us?” The other men nodded and smiled encouragement.

“A drink would be very welcome,” I managed, and Osskil made a bottle appear and filled glasses for everyone, including Corbin of course.

“Perhaps we could persuade Amra to give us a toast, Corbin?”

“Oh, I don’t think—”

“A toast! A toast!” The other men quickly started up, and Osskil gave me a look that more or less said, ‘Give the dead man a toast, you mannerless savage.’ And so I did.

I raised my glass, cleared my throat, and said “Corbin knew—” A glare from Osskil. “—that is to say, Corbin, you
know
that I am not one for public speaking. You, ah, are a good man. I am lucky to count you as my friend.”

A chorus of ‘Hear her! Hear her!’ from the others. I had no idea what else to say. I cast a desperate glance at Osskil and he nodded and put back his drink, so I did as well, expecting wine.

It looked like wine, and tasted like wine for the most part, but there was something else to it and my head almost immediately began to spin and my heart started thumping up in my ears. I looked at Osskil again and he tilted his head toward his brother.

Corbin sat, grinning, at the head of the table. He was looking straight at me, and I knew that grin. It was one he reserved for the petty, hilarious misfortunes of others. No malice in it, just good humor. Then he looked over at his brother, and his face sobered. He raised his glass to Osskil and nodded, and Osskil did the same.

And then the world rushed back in, and Corbin was just a corpse once more. But his cup had tumbled to the grass. Empty.

Then it was time to bundle him up and stick him in his tomb. They just lifted him, chair and all, and walked him into the mausoleum. Put him in a patch of light from a stained glass window. Put a delicate little wrought-iron table next to him, and loaded it up with food and drink. And that was that. Or so I thought.

Osskil was the last one out. I heard him whisper ‘Farewell, little brother’ and saw him kiss the top of Corbin’s head. Then he came out and closed the door.

The thief in me wondered where the lock was, and said so out loud.

“What need for locks in the City of the Dead? The dead know their own, Amra, as you have seen. You are welcome here, for Corbin has acknowledged you. And if an interloper were to dare disturb his rest, well, that’s what the Guardian is for.”

“The Guardian? I thought that was just some kind of granny tale to keep the kids out of the graveyard.”

“Most assuredly not. The Guardian of the Dead is as real as you are, and ancient, and hideously powerful. The strictures posted at the gate are there to keep us living safe from it.”

“Even the one about hurdy-gurdy music?”

He smiled. “Perhaps not that one. I suspect it’s there just to preserve a sense of class.”

“So blood, fornicating and littering all make the Guardian upset, eh?”

“Absolutely. Especially blood. Never, ever spill blood here, Amra. The Guardian
will
notice, and investigate. You don’t want to meet it.”

“No offense, Lord Osskil, but I’m just the slightest bit sceptical.”

“Look over there. You see that mausoleum, the one with the gargoyles doing unspeakable things to each other? That’s the final resting place of Borkin Breaves.”

“The richest man in Lucernis?”

“Indeed he was. Still is. Inside his crypt I know for a fact are sacks and sacks of gold and jewels. I was at the funeral when they carted it all in. I was just a boy, then.”

“You do realize who you’re talking to, right?”

He gave me a sober look. “Please don’t think about trying to rob Breaves’ crypt, Amra.”

“Why the hells not?”

“Besides the fact that it is incredibly gauche to rob the dead, you mean? Because when Breaves was put into his tomb, there were no gargoyles adorning the edifice. No adornment of any sort, in fact. It was just a big, ugly, plain marble cube. People were scandalized.”

“Oh, please,” I said. “You’re saying the Guardian transformed those who tried to rob the tomb into that?”

“The Guardian has a vile sense of humor. Go and take a look. I know you won’t take my word for it.”

“Absolutely.”

The other men had packed up all the funeral oddments and were waiting for Osskil.

“Farewell, Amra. Thank you for coming. It meant much to Corbin.”

“It meant a lot to me as well.” I stuck out my hand and he shook it, then held onto it for an extra beat.

“Call upon me when you are ready to move on Corbin’s murderer. Please.”

“All right.”

He moved off down the hill with his group of rented mourners, and I ambled over to Borkin Breaves’s tomb. The gargoyles were indeed doing things to each other, and by the looks on their disturbingly human faces, nobody was having much fun with it. Didn’t prove anything, of course. I didn’t believe a word of it. But then I doubted there was even a single gold mark in the mausoleum, either.

There was one gargoyle down low, half-obscured by weeds. Something about it made me take a second look. I pushed back the milky stalks and stared right into the scream-frozen face of Tolum Handy.

Tolum Handy was a thief who worked with Daruvner, same as me.

He’d disappeared the year before.