Tomorrow, the Killing (17 page)

He saw me and cut short his conversation, forging ahead at a step his bodyguards were hard pressed to match. He took my hand with two of his and nearly pumped it out of its socket. It was the same greeting he gave to everyone, but I liked to think he meant it more with me. ‘If it isn’t the Warden himself, slipped out from his caverns beneath Low Town to pay a call on his old friend.’

‘Long time, Tibbs.’

‘Too long, Warden, too long.’ He had a voice like a slick of lamp oil. ‘Not a day goes past that I don’t lament your long absence. Don’t I say that every day, Nissim, that I wished the Warden would manage us a visit?’

Nissim was the suitably sized Islander at his shoulder. He always seemed to be on the verge of speaking but never quite got there, and today was no exception. Tibbs answered his own question in the affirmative. ‘Every day I say it!’

‘I bet that’s tiring.’

‘You’re here now, and I suppose it’s up to me to make sure you come back! What’s your pleasure? Try your luck at dice?’ He blew on his closed hands and threw a set of imaginary bones. ‘No? Who am I asking – the Warden makes his own luck! How about a shot to warm the belly? Not that you need it on a night like this – I tell you, I’m on my third pair of silk underwear!’ He laughed again, and slapped me on the back hard enough to loosen teeth.

‘Actually, I was hoping you might have time for a private chat.’

‘It breaks my heart to think this is not a social call.’

‘I’ll let you stand me a whiskey, if that would keep it beating.’

Tibbs’s smile was as wide as his teeth were crooked. ‘Best done in the back, I suppose.’ He was leading me in that direction when a man filtered out from the crowd and whispered something in his ear. Tibbs towered over him, as he did most people, and had to bend nearly double to facilitate conversation. A few sentences passed between them, eclipsed by the din of the bar. After a moment he straightened up and nodded. ‘It seems I have one small piece of business to deal with before we begin.’

‘Lead on,’ I said, following him behind the counter and through a small door offering access to the catacombs below.

The basement was hard stone, nothing smooth or elegant about it. Rows of liquor bottles on iron racks, crates of the same in the corner. We went through another door into another room, more or less indistinguishable from the first – except that in the center of it a man lay bound across a small table. A crew of heavies stood over him, professionals, impersonally waiting to execute the word from high.

Tibbs doffed his hat and held it to his chest, looking on sadly. ‘Charlus, Charlus, Charlus.’ Melancholy grew with repetition.

Charlus’s eyes flickered up, then back down to the ground. ‘Hello Mr Tibbs,’ he said.

Charlus was a Tarasaighn in his early twenties, thin and dirty, all elbows and knees. I wondered why Koos had let him into the place, looking like he did. I didn’t think I’d ever seen him before, but then I don’t have the head space to keep track of every purse-cutter in the city, what with most of it filled by narcotics and regret.

Tibbs squatted down level, eye-to-eye with the captive. ‘This is the second time, Charlus.’

Charlus nodded, an awkward motion given his position. ‘I know, Mr Tibbs. I’m sorry.’

Tibbs shook his head with a sense of disappointed wonder. ‘The second time, Charlus.’

‘I know, Mr Tibbs. Like I said, I’m sorry.’ He seemed to mean it.

‘No one works the bar, Charlus. I run a reputable establishment. The highborn come here because they know they won’t be bothered.’

‘I know, Mr Tibbs.’

‘Didn’t I give you a goose last Midwinter, to take home to your woman?’

‘It was New Year’s,’ Charlie answered sorrowfully. ‘And we greatly appreciated it.’

Tibbs nodded, standing. ‘So it was,’ he said. He curled his mustaches, then pronounced a sentence. ‘Two fingers – the little ones.’

‘Thank you, Mr Tibbs! Thank you,’ Charlus said, choking with gratitude.

Tibbs ducked back down and wagged a digit in the face of his victim. ‘This is the last time I go light on you – any more trouble and it’s the chop.’ He snapped his right hand against the wrist of his left.

The top of Charlus’s head shook back and forth in the negative. ‘Never again, Mr Tibbs, I promise.’

‘Give your woman my compliments,’ he said, again assuming his full height. He nodded towards the next room and I followed him into it, Nissim and the rest remaining.

‘The Firstborn bless you, Mr Tibbs!’ Charlie yelled at our backs. ‘Bless you and keep you safe!’

Tibbs’s quarters were modest, given his tendency towards the rococo and the fact that he probably cleared ten thousand ochres per annum. Small bordering on cramped – a crumbling desk, a coat rack and a bar. A heavy safe was sunk into the corner, cash on hand to defray his operating costs, a fortune for the average citizen.

‘That boy’ll come to a bad end,’ Tibbs said, pouring two glasses of whiskey and taking a seat behind the desk.

I followed him to roost. ‘At least you’ll know you tried,’ I said, not sure if I was kidding.

Tibbs nodded thoughtfully, then focused his attention on the matter at hand. ‘If it was up to me, I’d settle into my high-back and we could toss words around all night. But I know you, Warden, and much as it bleeds my soul, you are not the sort for aimless jabbering. So,’ he set the whiskey into my hand, and clinked my glass, ‘let’s get to it.’

A sharp crack interrupted us, a scream following immediately on its heels. Again the same. I took a sip of the liquor. It tasted like the sunset, and I told Tibbs so.

‘A luxury I allow myself. Imported from Kinterre – you people can’t distill a decent batch to save your life, if you don’t mind me saying.’

I didn’t. ‘I need to know the time and location of the next shipment of Giroie choke,’ I said.

‘I don’t move wyrm.’

‘And I don’t have a seat on the royal council, but I know where the palace is.’ I could hear Charlus whimpering through the walls. You don’t need your pinky fingers, strictly speaking, to pick a pocket, but their absence certainly wouldn’t help.

‘What are you getting involved with the Giroies for? You know the son is running it these days, and he doesn’t have enough wit to fill a sock.’

‘He should be about at my speed then.’

‘It’s not like the old days. The Islanders run the docks now, them and the heretics. Been a long time since the Tarasaighns held monopoly on contraband.’

‘Come on, Tibbs, the senior Giroie wouldn’t so much as shake a Kiren’s hand – no way in hell Junior started cashing his chips with the foreign born. The Giroies still work through you swamp dwellers. You aren’t really gonna look me in the eyes and tell me that you don’t have a few friends amongst your countrymen?’

‘A few, I suppose,’ Tibbs said, with no great enthusiasm. ‘Of course, it’s a substantial favor you’re asking.’

‘It’d have to be, to make a dent in what you owe.’

‘You did me a solid, back in the day.’ He sucked at his teeth and reached out with a hard gaze. ‘Back in the day.’

‘Years and years ago – so I suppose it’s been accruing interest.’

He smirked. ‘I could put someone on it. Not like the Giroies run a tight ship.’

It’d be a foundering one soon enough, but there wasn’t any need to spread that around. The Swell Man topped me off from his decanter, then took the same liberty with his own glass. ‘What are you up to, Warden?’

‘Treading water. You know how it goes.’

‘Sounds to me like you’re making a play. It’s been a long time since the Giroies have been top-shelf, and their head’s a fool – but he’s got a fair share of men beneath him.’

‘How many is a share?’

‘More than zero, which means they dwarf your own reserves.’

‘I never had much in the way of a formal education,’ I said. ‘Arithmetic makes my head fuzzy.’

‘You know your business, Warden, I won’t say otherwise. Been running that little kingdom of yours for a while now – though having been there, I’m not at all sure it’s worth the effort.’

‘A man gets accustomed to his surroundings.’

He took off his top hat and set it on the table. Without it he seemed distinctly diminished. His hair had turned silver since I’d seen it last, and in the bad light he didn’t look like a man who’d live forever. ‘You know, I can remember when you still wore the gray. I bet there aren’t so many men who can say that.’

‘My acquaintances tend not to live so long. Read into that what you will.’

‘I’m still alive, Warden.’

‘You are indeed.’

‘Thirty years I’ve held my territory.’

‘Long time.’

‘Seen a lot of people end up sleeping in the harbor.’

‘I don’t doubt it.’

‘After you left Black House, I remember thinking you’d be one of those unfortunates.’

‘Never too late to dream.’

‘All that trouble with Mad Edward’s mob—’

‘Poor Edward. Put his faith in the wrong people.’

‘You seemed like a fellow sprinting towards a bad end.’

‘More of a marathon – same destination, though.’

‘But eventually things settled down, and I figured I’d been wrong.’

‘Don’t take it to heart – I was wrong once, too.’

‘You’ve played it smart. Kept your grip tight, never made yourself a nuisance to anyone big enough to scratch you.’

‘You’re gonna make me blush, you don’t cut this short.’

‘Now I’m thinking I was right after all. You’re tough, Warden, damn tough, and too contrary to go smooth. I think maybe you just haven’t found anybody to put you down yet – but I think maybe you’re still looking.’

‘That was a hell of a sermon. Too late for you to join the priesthood? I think you missed your calling.’

He snickered. ‘Not enough the hypocrite.’

I thought it polite not to argue.

‘This information, whatever you want it for – it won’t be good, not for you, not for anybody.’ He rolled the brim of his cup up to his lip, then rolled it back down to his desk, empty. ‘If I was your friend, I wouldn’t give this to you.’

‘But we aren’t friends, Tibbs. You’re just a guy I do business with.’

After a moment he nodded sadly and flipped the hat back on his head with one smooth motion. ‘How could we be otherwise, since you never come to visit? I’ll send a man around tomorrow with what you need to know.’

I
walked into the Hen and Harpy early the next morning. It took up the first floor of a red-brick building in a quiet corner of the Old City. It was not a particularly nice restaurant – the décor and menu had remained unchanged since the plague. But then it didn’t need to recoup its costs. It needed to advertise that the Giroie family had money and age, and it did that effectively. The kitchen was closed, but a man sat at the bar, pouring coffee into a porcelain mug. He was dressed like a maître d’, but beneath his coat could be seen the outline of a knife.

‘I’d like to speak with Artur.’

He took a long look at my frayed shirt. ‘And who would you be?’

‘I’d be the Warden.’

He took another look at my frayed shirt. He was having trouble squaring it with my name, though what exactly he expected from the attire of a slum kingpin, I wasn’t sure. ‘Is Mr Giroie expecting you?’

‘Not unless he can see the future.’

‘So then you’re hoping he has a break in his schedule?’

‘Praying for it.’

Humor confused him, and it was a while before he answered. ‘I’ll have to send up and see if he’s available.’

I nodded and set down to wait. The concierge detailed a serving boy, then returned to his seat and his coffee, sipping slowly, pinky extended. When Senior had run the joint the bottom floor of the Hen was guarded night and day by thugs in bad suits, big guts and bigger arms, split even between friendly and threatening. I hadn’t liked them, but I’d liked them more than their replacement, a silk-clad twit who’d simper while slitting your throat. After a couple of minutes a firm set Rouender with no pretensions of belonging in the service industry took me up to the top floor.

If you followed the Giroie line back far enough, you’d find a man. A real fierce motherfucker, two-fisted and vicious, the kind you wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley, or a lit one, or anywhere else for that matter. Savvy enough to catch the angles others missed, with the balls to take advantage of them. A man who’d carved an empire at the edge of a blade, who’d locked onto it with both hands and held it against all comers. Who’d inscribed his name deeply enough into his territory that it had become an inheritance. You could have seen traces of this man in Artur’s father – not the full allotment, but something of his progenitor’s savagery and cunning, rough patches beneath the polish.

Not so Junior – in him the blood had finally gone false, watered away to nothing. As far as he was concerned the family business was just that – he’d have been as comfortable running a merchant consortium or a winery. Had he been cognizant of his own weakness, he might have been OK, content to hold on to what his ancestors had earned, hopefully pass it down to a son who was hewn a little closer to his forebears. But Artur was a snake who thought himself a lion, and the Giroie family wouldn’t last him. It had genteeled itself out of existence.

He was still high on his recent success, having swallowed up some unaffiliated street gangs a few weeks back. I doubted he’d have long to enjoy it. There were plenty of players out there larger than the Giroies, and it didn’t do to draw their attention just to add a few blocks of territory. But then, Junior had a hard time seeing past his next meal. I’d known him for years – he used to hang around the restaurant, his father’s lieutenants bringing him candy and paying him compliments, a spoiled child who’d become a callow youth.

His office was altogether too elegantly outfitted for a man who, bottom line, made his living off choke and leashed whores. He was sitting at a table about the length of a coffin, and didn’t bother to get up as I came in. The top of it was one smooth sheet of translucent crystal, because who doesn’t want to be staring at another man’s thighs while conducting business?

‘Warden,’ he began happily. ‘A pleasant surprise.’ Artur was the wrong sort of pretty for his industry. Muscled but soft, with blond hair trailing to his shoulders and an outfit that seemed cut from a courtesan’s bed sheet.