“Tragic.” Maeres lifted a hand, cupped his fingers, and a man came from the shadows to stand at his shoulder. A dry rustling accompanied his advance and stopped when he did. I didn’t like this one at all. He looked too pleased to see me. “Another fire with no survivors.”
“Well . . .” I didn’t want to contradict Maeres. My eyes slid to the man beside him. Maeres is a slight fellow, unremarkable, the kind of little man you might find bent over the ledgers at some merchant’s office. Neat brown hair, eyes that are neither kind nor cruel. In fact, remarkably similar to my father in age and appearance. Maeres’s companion, though, he looked like the sort of man who would drown kittens recreationally. His face reminded me of the skulls in the palace catacombs. Stretch skin over one and press in some pale staring eyes, and you’d have this man, his smile too wide, teeth too long and white.
Maeres clicked his fingers, snapping my attention back to him. “This is Cutter John. I was telling him as we came in just how unfortunate it is that you’ve seen my operation here.”
“O-o-operation?” I stuttered the question out. Victory could be measured now by a lack of soiling myself. Cutter John was a name everyone knew, but not many claimed to have seen him. Cutter John came into play when Maeres wanted to hurt people more creatively. When a broken finger, amputated toe, or good beating wouldn’t suffice, when Maeres wanted to stamp his authority, set his trademark upon some poor soul, Cutter John would be the man to do the work. Some called it artistry.
“The poppies.”
“I didn’t see any poppies.” Row upon row of green things growing, here under Builder-lights. My Uncle Hertert—the heir-apparently-not, as Father liked to call him—had made countless initiatives to cut the opium supply. He’d had town-law out on boats patrolling God knows how many miles of the Seleen, convinced it came upriver from the port of Marsail. But Maeres grew his own. Right here. Under Hertert’s nose and ready to go up everyone else’s. “I didn’t see a thing, Maeres. I ran into a door, for godsakes. Blind drunk.”
“You sobered up remarkably well.” He lifted a golden vinaigrette to his nose, as if the stink of me offended him. Which it probably did. “In any event it’s a risk I can’t run, and if we have to part company we may as well make it a memorable event, no?” He tilted his head at Cutter John.
That was enough to let my bladder go. It wasn’t as if anyone would notice, soaked and reeking as I was. “C-come now, Maeres, you’re joking? I owe you money. Who’ll pay if I . . . if I don’t pay?” He needed me.
“Well, Jalan, the thing is, I don’t think you can pay. If a man owes me a thousand crowns he’s in trouble. If he owes me a hundred thousand, then I’m in trouble. And you, Jalan, owe me eight hundred and six crowns, less some small amount for your amusing Norseman. All of which makes you a small fish that can neither swallow me nor feed me.”
“But . . . I can pay. I’m the Red Queen’s grandson. I’m good for the debt!”
“One of many, Jalan. Too much of any denomination waters down the currency. I’d call ‘prince’ an overvalued commodity in Red March these days.”
“But—” I’d always known Maeres Allus for a businessman, a cruel and implacable one of a certainty, but sane. Now it seemed that madness might be spiralling behind those dark little eyes. Too much blood in the water for the shark in him to lie quiet any longer. “But . . . what good would killing me do?” He couldn’t ever tell anyone. My death wouldn’t serve him.
“You died in the fire, Prince Jalan. Everyone knows that. None of my doing. And if a hint of a rumour floated behind Vermillion’s conversations, a whisper that you might have died elsewhere, in even less pleasant circumstances, over a matter of debt . . . well then, what new heights might my clients reach in their efforts not to disappoint me in future? Might there be ladies of ill repute who would recognize Cutter’s latest bracelet and spread the word as they spread their legs?” He glanced towards Cutter John, who raised his right arm. Dry bands of pale gristle encircled the limb, rustling against each other, dozens of them, starting at his wrist and reaching past his elbow.
“Wh-what?” I didn’t understand what I was seeing, or perhaps some part of my brain was sensibly stopping me from understanding.
Cutter John circled his own lips with one finger. The trophies along his arm whispered together as he did so. “Open wide.” His voice slithered as though he were something not human.