Chapter Two
I took the corner fast—so fast that I slipped in the small pile of fish entrails someone had dumped inside the entrance to the alley. I managed to catch myself against a crate in the process and keep running. The maneuver gained me a palmful of splinters, but it was a hell of a lot better than the alternative being offered by the pair of Petyr’s Cutters running a block behind me.
I dodged past barrels and around fallen timbers, unsure whether to be grateful for the detritus or not. It could hide me and foil my trail, but it was also slowing me down. If I lost much more ground to my pursuers, all the switchbacks and trash in the world wouldn’t keep them off my blinders.
I burst out of the alley and into what passed for a piazza in Dirty Waters—basically an irregular open space set off by a laundry on one side and a tavern on the other. Weak light spilled out of the tavern, illuminating a collection of ramshackle tables and benches, all set on an uneven patio made up of stray boards laid out on the ground. Men sat at the tables. Two of them looked up as I staggered past, my eyes already burning from the faint light. Neither man moved to interfere.
Small blessings.
I was most of the way across the piazza, heading for a gap in the buildings on the far side, when I heard a shout of triumph behind me.
Petyr’s boys. Had to be.
I redoubled my efforts, pushing tired limbs and battered muscles as best I could. Between the trip up from Barrab and the ambush on the quay, there wasn’t much left to draw on; but given the alternative was to turn and fight and—most likely—lose, I headed into the alley and prayed I wouldn’t stumble over some fresh hazard.
If I could only find a handy bolt-hole, or a Rabbit Run, or maybe a Thieves’ Ladder to . . .
There. I came around a turn to find a gift from the Angels themselves: a tall, sloping pile of garbage directly ahead of me. If I could get enough purchase to run up it and leap to the overhanging gutter beyond, I might be able to . . .
Pain flared along my back as I picked up my pace, reminding me I was doing good to be moving at all. I’d been striped across the back on the quay, just before we’d been forced to rabbit: now a line of fire extended from below my shoulder blade, down across my ribs, to my hip. While I still wasn’t sure if it was a cut or one hell of a bruise—my hand had come back red when I’d reached around to check the wound, but there’d been no way to tell whether the blood was mine or someone else’s—I did know I would have ended up in two pieces if it hadn’t been for Degan’s sword lying across my spine.
One piece or two, though, there was no way I was going to be making that leap.
I skirted the garbage pile, tripped over a decaying mound of fur that might have once been a dog or a cat, and fell. My knee landed on something hard and I let out a gasp. Then I was up and running again, but not for long. Thirty paces on, the alley ended in the back of a building.
I looked around. Dawn, I expect, was pushing itself toward the horizon somewhere to the east, but here in the slums of Dirty Waters, deep under the shadow of the city walls, it was still dark enough for my night vision to function.
I studied the alley in the red and gold highlights of my sight and felt my heart sink. The wooden wall before me looked weathered and worn, but that didn’t mean it would give way easy. I could still be trying to kick a hole in it when my pursuers arrived. The buildings to either side were brick, tall and without doors. There was a single window high up to my right, but it was boarded over.
The sounds of voices and stumbling feet—and more ominously, of bared steel scraping up against stone—came to me from back along my path. They were getting closer.
I took a step toward the garbage. Maybe if I could bury myself in it quickly enough, I could . . .
No, wait. Even better.
To call the gap in the wall near the garbage pile an alcove would have been generous. At best, it was a space where two buildings failed to meet, just behind the stinking pile and well in the shadows of the buildings that formed it. That I had initially missed seeing the gap spoke well of its potential; that I had missed it with my night vision was even better. If I couldn’t see it, it would be nearly invisible to the normally sighted Cutters on my tail.
I hoped.
I stepped over to the alcove, drew the long knife from my boot, and slipped into the small space as best I could. It was a tight fit, especially with Degan’s sword strapped to my back, but I wasn’t in a position to complain.
I heard smaller things shifting and scuttling away as I invaded the gap. Something hard poked me in the side, while something soft ran up my shin before deciding to jump off at the knee. My right leg and part of my hip were left sticking out into the alley.
I settled in and listened and wondered how Fowler and Scratch were faring. Whether they were even alive.
It had been an ugly fight, even by Kin standards. Scratch had dropped two of Petyr’s men at the outset, and Fowler another, but the odds never shifted in our favor. By the time I’d driven one of the Cutters into the harbor, more of Petyr’s people had begun to arrive. Steel and strategy quickly gave way to fists and fury, with elbows and teeth and worse coming into play in a vicious blur. When I finally managed to look up from the man who’d tried to lay my back open—I ended up pushing his eye into his head, along with four inches of my rapier’s cross guard—it was to see Fowler riding the back of another Cutter, her legs wrapped around his waist as she plunged her dagger down and into his chest. Even as I watched, another woman began to move to flank her, while a dozen yards away Scratch, his left side a study in blood, swung his sword like a scythe as he tried to fend off the three coves who were driving him backward toward a stack of barrels.
There were too many Cutters: too many on the quay, and too many more on their way. Soggy Petyr owned this corner of Dirty Waters, and he was clearly willing to empty it out to take me down. If we wanted to survive, we needed to fade.
And seeing as how they’d been sent after me in the first place . . .
I’d made noise when I left—a lot of it. I shouted, stomped my foot, banged my rapier against my dagger and yelled for Fowler and Scratch to run. Then, pausing long enough to gather a dark glare from Fowler and a handful of not nearly so intimidating looks from the Cutters, I’d bolted.
Three of Petyr’s people had followed, three more had stayed behind. Not the numbers I’d been hoping for, but I wasn’t in a position to be picky. At least this way, Fowler and Scratch would stand a chance of breaking free and taking to the back ways or rooftops. I hoped.
As it was, I’d heard an ominous yell and a splash as I ran up the street and ducked down an alley. The voice had sounded like Fowler’s, but between the distance and the sound of my feet, it was hard to be certain. With luck, the sound had been her getting the better of her attacker and throwing them into the harbor, and not the other way around.
The crunch of brittle wood beneath shoe leather brought me back, and I drew farther into my hiding spot. A moment later, I watched as a figure came into view on the far edge of the garbage pile. A second figure followed. The third man had stumbled over an inopportune stool I’d managed to tip into the road and hit his head on the corner of a horse trough. I knew this because he’d been close enough to splash me with water—and worse—when he’d gone down. Damn, but that bastard had been fast.
Both of the remaining Cutters were moving slower now, casting their gazes across the shadows and listening for vanished sounds of my flight. I let them pass. Darkness or no, they’d be able to make out the end of the alley in another dozen steps. Once they did, they’d come about and begin working their way back. And while my hiding spot was good, I didn’t doubt their chances of finding me once they stopped worrying about the chase and instead began to search.
Which meant I needed to deal with them before they turned around.
I crouched down in my little crevice and counted their steps.
One . . . three . . . five . . .
Far enough.
I crept forward, using my night vision to avoid any bits of garbage or debris that might give me away. In my right hand, I could feel my grip on my knife turning clammy with sweat, and was suddenly grateful for the wire wrapping on the handle. This was going to be hard enough without having to worry about the weapon slipping at the last moment.
In most instances, when you want to knife someone in an alley and aren’t worried about niceties, you simply step up behind him and do your best Hasty Tailor. But in this case, there were two very good reasons I couldn’t stitch the Cutter a dozen times in half as many seconds. First, because he was wearing a doublet—and not just any doublet, but one that looked to have originally been a nobleman’s formal piece. Oh, the fine trim and the buttons had all been pulled off and sold ages ago, but that wasn’t what I was worried about: no, even from here, I could see that his secondhand brocade was still holding its shape, which meant it was lined and stiffened with either horsehair or wool. Both of those could easily turn, if not stop, a dagger thrust. Not necessarily a problem if you had the right blade—say, a good stiletto, or even a finely tapered assassin’s spike—but I had neither. Instead, I was holding a broad, leaf-shaped dagger better suited for street fights than delivering the steel cure.
And secondly, both men were Cutters. The name wasn’t an accident: they made their living swinging steel. If I took too long dusting one, the other would simply turn around and carve me up before I had a chance to close the distance.
No, I needed to do this quiet, and by quiet I meant quick. A fast, definitive thrust to a place I could reach, even when the target was a good two heads taller then me. Say, the soft spot just behind and below the right ear. Nice and quiet and clean. Which was exactly where I stabbed him.
Almost.
I don’t know if I made a noise or if he had a sudden premonition, but either way, he decided to turn around just as I was thrusting upward. It didn’t save him—it was too late for that—but it did make for a sloppy job.
Maybe a deep-file Blade could have done it: could have stabbed, caught and lowered the body, all while moving on to the next man. I’ve seen professional assassins do more with less. But I was no Blade, and in any case, I was in no shape to catch a falling cove taller than I was.
So I simply I let the bastard gasp and drop.
The other Cutter was already turning by the time I had my blade free of his friend. I didn’t hesitate: Screaming so as to not give myself time to think, I launched myself at him, hoping like hell that my body was faster than his sword.
We collided with a mutual grunt. I felt my dagger bite. I drew it out, brought it forward, then out, then forward. Repeat. Repeat again. And again. And again. Until I finally realized that the only thing holding him up was my arm, which I didn’t remember wrapping around his back.
I dropped my free arm and stepped away. The Cutter fell to the ground. This one, at least, hadn’t been wearing a doublet.
I bent over, put a bloody hand on my knee, and took a long, shaking breath. Everything hurt. Everything felt heavy.
Angels, but I was tired.
“Not bad,” said a voice from behind me.
I spun around, knife up, teeth bared.
Please, I thought, let there only be one of them. I can only handle one.
There were two.
The bigger—and by bigger, I mean vastly wider—of the two held up his hands. He had thick fingers and a curling black beard.
“Ho-ho. Easy, friend. We’re just here to watch.”
“And maybe applaud,” said the other. He was a taller, slimmer version of the first, with the same hooked nose and clipped accent. No beard.
Brothers?
I ran through all the local assassin teams I knew. The only pair of siblings who worked together regularly in Ildrecca were the Knuckle Brothers, and these weren’t them. Not that I’d ever met the Knuckles, but it was well known on the street that Croy Knuckle preferred farthingales and wigs when he worked, and there wasn’t so much as a chemise between the two men before me.
So, not the Knuckle Brothers.
Then, who?
“A bit of applause never goes unwanted,” agreed the heavier man. He eyed me up and down, then clapped his hands twice before rubbing them vigorously together. “Two less to worry about, eh, Ezak?”
“The balance grows in our favor,” said the tall one.
“Only marginally, dear coz. Only marginally.”
“Balance?” I said.
The first man’s smile widened even farther. “Of vengeance, of course.”
I stared at the two men. They were dressed well, if used—that is to say, what they wore was of good, secondhand quality. The few patches I could see were all done carefully, with fabric that had been selected to match the color or pattern of the original as closely as possible. There wasn’t a weapon visible between them, which disturbed me even more.
Not Cutters, then. Or at least, not Petyr’s, if the two lying on the ground were any indication.
I bent down slowly and wiped first my knife, and then my hand, on the shirt of the man at my feet. I didn’t take my eyes off the pair. Both men nodded approvingly.
“See, Ezak?” said the broader of the two. “Cocksure and wary at once. Oh, how I wish Ambrose were here to see this.”
“He could gain a fortnight’s worth of education in just a few minutes watching this,” agreed Ezak.
“And it’s not as if his Capitan doesn’t need the work.”
“’Neath dame Moon’s steely light, I prowl the byways of the night,’” recited Ezak. “Aye.”
Oh. Actors.
I relaxed and stood up.
“Glad I could adjust the balance for you,” I said, not knowing or caring what they meant. I moved to push past them. The last thing I needed was to get distracted by a pair of Boardsmen.
A thick hand settled down on my shoulder. “Hold, now, friend,” said the first man. “I think we might be able to do each other a favor here.”
I stopped and stared at his hand. After a moment, it crept back from my doublet and returned to his side.
“I don’t need any favors,” I said. “And I’m not inclined to do any, either.”
“Of course, of course. Nothing’s free, after all. But I was merely thinking—”
“Don’t think.”
The thicker man smiled. “Yes, of course. You’re a busy man. I can see that.”
I was four paces along when he spoke to Ezak, his voice pitched perfectly to reach me.
“Mind you, coz,” he said, “I’d give a night’s share of the box to see how he makes it through the city gates looking like a slaughterhouse.”
“Especially with Soggy Petyr’s men scouring the streets between here and Low Harbor,” returned Ezak, his voice finding me with equal ease. “Too bad we weren’t the only ones to see him run past the tavern. I fear some of the others back there might sell him out.”
“Aye, it’s a risk. But what am I saying? Any man who can handle two such desperate coves as these can find his way across the Waters and through the Gate.” He snapped his fingers. “Why, it’s a good thing I didn’t offer a change of drapes and a sly walk into the city: I’d like as not have insulted the fellow!”
“Never insult a Kindred cousin,” advised Ezak.
“From your mouth to the Angels’ ears, dear coz.” I could almost hear the theatrical nod of his head.
I took two more steps before I came to a stop. I flexed my hand and felt the fingers stick against the palm from the Cutters’ blood; felt the throb of the splinters in my other hand; felt my legs trembling beneath me whenever I stopped moving. I knew my pants were covered in a mixture of mud and blood, that my doublet and jerkin were stained with the same. I could strip to my shirt, but I expected there would be some of my own along the back even then.
With a cloak, at night, I might be able to make it past a patrol of Rags like this, but in broad daylight, at a port gate? Forged passport or no, my appearance would get me a seat in the rattle box—or worse. And I didn’t have time to wait for night again; not if I wanted to get ahead of the news, let alone start people looking for Fowler and Scratch.
As for Petyr’s men . . . that gauntlet didn’t exactly appeal.
I turned around. The broad man feigned surprise; Ezak smiled outright.
“Fine,” I said. “Get me clean drapes and a way into the city, and I’ll consider your proposal.”
“You’ll agree to the proposal, sir, or get nothing. No payment, no performance.”
I looked pointedly back the way I’d come. “If we stay here much longer, the only performance we’ll be doing is for more of Petyr’s people. Get me off the street and something in my belly, and we can talk.”
“Done!” His beard split with a wide grin. “‘And so away, ’neath stars’ sparkling light, lest misfortune claim us in the night.’”
Actors. Angels help me.
We Kin are nothing if not a particular lot. Even before Isidore had formed us into a more-or-less cohesive body-criminal two centuries ago, the darker elements of the Empire had been naming and defining themselves for ages. Every con, every tool, every target and kind of criminal has a specific term associated with it. Just as a carpenter or a fisherman has his jargon of the trade, so we Kin have our cant: our gutter shorthand that lets us talk business quick and easy and on the sly. If you hear talk of a Capper foisting the langrets, know that false dice are being palmed and switched about on the board. Should a fellow be referred to as a boman Talker, walk the other way before you are “talked” out of every hawk you own. Customs are marks, Magsmen the cardsharps and professional nobles who prey on them, and a cross drum, the tavern where they meet to split their loot.
Actors, by contrast, fall somewhere between the well-lit world of the Lighters and the darker realm of the Kin. Entertainers to nobles and the mob alike, Boardsmen are nevertheless not part of proper society: they have no set address, produce nothing tangible, live and work at odd hours and in strange ways. They are never who they seem onstage, speak in a strange, almost canting tongue at times, and frequent both the highest and lowest circles at once. Most have, at one time or another, done Kindred work, be it something as simple as a bit of cardsharping or swag shifting (traveling troupes can take on stolen goods as “props” in one town and sell them off in another without notice), or as involved as playing an extended part in a local gang’s “production” of Barnard’s Law. But one thing is certain: Actors are not Kin proper. They can be charming and clever, demanding and egocentric, resourceful and restless, but above all, they are unreliable.
Which was what I kept reminding myself as I sat, a cup of fortified honey wine in my hand, and listened to the heavy man’s story wind down.
“And that, in a nut, sir,” he concluded, “is our predicament.”
I looked at the circle of faces around me. There were a dozen in all: seven men and five women. Most were expectant, several were carefully neutral, and at least two seemed dubious. One—the oldest woman, who was busily mending a shirt off to one side—looked downright hostile, when she looked at me at all.
I was inclined to agree with her.
This was madness.
I turned my eyes from the rest of the troupe to the man before me. “And what do you want me to do about it?” I said.
Tobin—the broader of the two men who had met me in the alley, and who had proved to be the troupe’s leader—spread his hands. We were in the hayloft of a livery stable. Tobin had rented it out as a combination sleeping ken and make-do rehearsal hall. I had, in honor of the hope I represented, been given the sole chair in the place.
None of them had figured out who or what I was, and I hadn’t offered to tell. Let them think me just another Draw Latch. It made things less complicated and kept expectations low.
“I saw how you moved, the pad of your step,” he said. “You’re a Getter if I ever saw one. And no friend of Soggy Petyr’s, from what I can fathom, either. ‘A friend of my foe be mine foe as well; but let a man stand ’gainst one who stands ’gainst me, and ever after shall I—’”
“Save the soliloquy, or whatever the hell you call it,” I said. “Just because I slipped the steel to a couple of Petyr’s men doesn’t mean I’m willing to go up against him for you.”
“Told you’d he’d tell us to flog off,” muttered a voice from the back of the troupe.
“Did I say I wanted our friend to challenge our tormentor?” declared Tobin to the room. He turned to Ezak. “Did I even imply such a thing?”
“You did not.”
“There, you see!” he said, turning back to me. “No such thing, sir. No, I merely ask that, in return for the bounty of our aid and hospitality, you retrieve something of ours that has been wrongfully—nay, foully—taken.” He smiled a smile that was likely worth three hawks on a good night. “A pittance of an exchange, I should think.”
Their “bounty” so far had consisted of a basin of water to wash myself and my wound—the skin had split open from the blow to my back—some linen bandages, a cleanish shirt and coat, and the promise to help get me into the city. In return, they wanted me to lighten Soggy Petyr.
It seemed that Petyr had branched out: he was now in the business of “holding” and “insuring” certain property that came through the warehouses he owned. Tobin and his troupe had landed in Dirty Waters a week ago, fresh from a command performance in I-Hadn’t-Bothered-To-Pay-Attention-opolis. Unfortunately for them, most of their property—including the chest holding all of their plays—had passed into Petyr’s hands and never left.
Props could be replaced, and costumes could be remade from secondhand drapes—but plays, well, those were another matter entirely. A troupe’s collection of plays was built over the course of years: unique works written, purchased, cribbed and even stolen, all for the sole use of the company. A signature piece could keep a troupe working for years, while a successful new play could open avenues of patronage and success that might have seemed unattainable just a season ago. If the actors were the scheming, turbulent, brilliant heart of the troupe, then the plays were its soul. And a company cannot survive without a soul.
The problem was, recent personal issues with Petyr aside, I didn’t have the time or resources to crack the Petty Boss’s ken and make off with a trunk full of paper just now. Not with news of Crook Eye galloping its way up from Barrab even as I sat here.
But it was equally clear that Tobin wasn’t going to take no for an answer—not when he had something he knew I needed.
I slipped an ahrami seed into my mouth. I took my time, letting it settle beneath my tongue, releasing its juices and seeping into my system. It would do them good to sweat a bit, to think about what their options were if I said no. I embraced the flood of awareness and ease that came over me, listened as their feet shuffled in the straw.
Finally, I bit down. Then I stood up. The troupe shifted unconsciously, widening the circle around me. Tobin was the only one who didn’t give ground.
“Breaking into a roosting ken is hardly a pittance,” I said slowly. “Dirty Waters or no, Petyr’s a local power. He won’t leave the door standing open for someone like me; especially not me, considering what I did to his people.”
“But surely—” began Tobin.
I held up my hand. “I’m not finished.” I looked around the room, making sure I had their attention. “If you give me some time—a few days, maybe a week—I can get your chest for you.” Along with Petyr’s ass, depending on who I put on the job. “But it’s not something I can do right now, not on short notice.”
Toban scowled. “We weren’t planning an extended engagement in the Waters.”
“And I wasn’t planning to wash the blood of Angels know how many coves off me, let alone buy my way into Ildrecca from a bunch of Boardsmen, but there it is. I’m playing it the best I can. I suggest you do the same.”
“And how do we know you’ll come back and do what you say?” This from the same doubting voice in the back of the troupe.
I didn’t take my eyes off their leader. “You could have turned me over to Soggy Petyr in exchange for your property. Maybe even have gotten more than your plays back. You didn’t.” Tobin’s eyes narrowed. He dipped his chin a fraction, telling me he’d thought of that idea and discarded it. “That would have been the easy way, but not the honorable one,” I said. “I don’t forget things like that. My word to you is good.”
The old woman snorted. “A thief’s word,” she muttered, not even bothering to look up from her sewing.
It suddenly felt as if the entire room was holding its breath. I sensed more than saw every pair of eyes, save Tobin’s, shift first to the old woman and then back to me.
I took a slow breath myself and forced a smile.
“Almost as bad as an actor’s honor, isn’t it?” I said.
The tiniest corner of her mouth turned up.
The room relaxed.
“It’s settled, then!” pronounced Tobin. “In exchange for aid and succor, our good Getter here will deliver us our property within the seven-night.” He extended his hand and helped me to my feet. The sudden movement made me feel light-headed, but I didn’t resist. As I stood, his other hand came around and across my back—above my wound, thankfully—drawing me closer.
“But know this, thief,” he muttered in my ear, his smiling lips barely moving. “I’m trusting you with the well-being of my troupe. If you fail, it’s no rain off my hat—I’ll get the scripts another way, if I must. But if you put any of my people in danger, or tell Petyr who sent you, I’ll make sure you pay. Cousins we may be, but I’ve closer relation than you, and they carry long knives of their own.”
I smiled as I returned the embrace. “I wouldn’t have it any other way,” I said. “Not any other way at all.”