Wu threw up his hands. ‘Now, now. Let us examine the evidence here. Are these the pouches you saw?’
Dancer was pacing, cursing himself. Took the wrong Hood-damned packages! Should’ve searched her! He waved a hand. ‘Yeah. Fine. Decoys. Hood-damned decoys. Fell for it like an amateur.’
Wu raised a finger. ‘Not necessarily.’ He juggled the shell in his hand. ‘These look like a very rare type of shell. One that I have never before seen. And Dal Hon has a long coastline. Some tribes even use them—’ He cut himself off, his thick brows rising.
‘Well?’ Dancer demanded.
Wu set the shell down and opened another wrap to reveal a near-identical shell. He drummed his fingers on the desk once more, deep in thought. Finally, he breathed, ‘Well. This is awkward.’
Dancer paced. ‘How so? What is it?’
Wu tapped his fingertips together. ‘The problem is one of how to transport money – or value – on an island populated entirely by thieves and pirates.’
Dancer stopped pacing; faced him. ‘So … these are just tokens? Tokens of value these merchants agree to honour because they have no value elsewhere?’
‘For certain large exchanges, clearly.’
‘No wonder that guard laughed … So, what do we do?’
‘Change of tactics, obviously.’
‘Yes. Forget about cornering the markets. We should switch to protection and extortion. Take control that way.’
Wu sighed. ‘So much more messy. But, agreed.’ He started repacking the shells. ‘Why does everything have to be so damned difficult? That’s what I want to know.’
Chapter 3
Nedurian was fishing, as usual. His line hung straight down from the high wharf to the water. But for most of the morning he’d been far away, thinking of his last great duel – his dusk to dawn battle against the witch Jadeen in south Itko Kan. Because they were both Adepts of Rashan, the Warren of Dark, it had been a war of subtlety, countermoves, bluffs and feints, all woven in multiple layers … like a duel fought through folded night itself.
In the end, neither had managed to land a decisive blow. But he’d marked her, and she – and he touched a finger to the jagged scar that bisected his face – had marked him.
But he was in the twilight of his years, after all. In his youth she’d never have even got close. Or so you tell yourself, old man, he thought, snorting.
Shade where none should be brought him back to himself, and he peered up, blinking, at a scowling giant of a fellow standing over him. ‘What do you want?’ he asked, then shifted his attention to his line and gave it a shake.
‘Geffen wants to see ya.’
Geffen, the blackmarketeer and enforcer who pretty much ran the island – under the auspices of Mock, of course.
‘I don’t owe him one damned copper sliver.’
‘If you did, I wouldn’t be asking so damned nice an’ all.’
Nedurian considered. So far, he’d managed to stay clear of all the local gambling, loansharking, boozing and drug pits. His one weakness was women. And considering that he’d just been daydreaming about one of the most lethal females he’d known, perhaps it had been too long.
Not that he was sure he could perform anyway; it’d been a damned long time … ‘What is it?’
The fellow’s scowl of distaste deepened even further. ‘Like Gef tells me. Just come along.’
‘And if I tell you to go take a long walk on this short pier?’
The fellow snapped his fingers and four more toughs came slouching up the faded wooden slats. Nedurian knew he could handle them, of course. Easily. But then there’d be four more, and so on, and then he’d no longer be retired, would he? Sighing, he rose, dusted off the seat of his trousers, and gathered up his line.
*
The brawlers escorted him to Geffen’s gambling house where it stood close to the waterfront. Its sign was that of a golden gyrfalcon – a play on the man’s nickname. Of course, the place was nothing special compared to similar establishments on the mainland. Downright coarse and shabby, really, but enough to part these common raiders from their loot and shares.
He was guided up stairs to offices above. The first room held seven guards, and, after having his small belt-dagger taken away here, he was led further in. It seemed to him that Geffen, a cutthroat nasty enough to rise to the top of an island of cutthroats, was scared.
Within, the man himself stood leaning against a broad heavy table next to the room’s one window. Two personal bodyguards stood at the door. One of these shut it on the rest of the lower-ranked toughs. These two then stood close to either side of Nedurian while their employer, Geffen, looked him up and down. He in turn studied the other man: lean – almost fevered lean – greying hair pulled back in a queue, face scarred by a multitude of small cuts. A knife-fighter of particularly grisly repute. And an experienced seagoing raider, as everyone on this cursed island was.
Geffen, meanwhile, was shaking his head. ‘You don’t look like much. But there’re people who say you’re a mage to be reckoned with.’
‘People should keep their damned mouths shut.’
This brought a thin smile to the man’s lips. He gestured to the table. ‘Like you to take a look at something for me.’
‘We haven’t discussed my consulting fee yet.’
Geffen just gave a look that seemed to say Now, now. He flicked a leather wrap aside from something on the table. Nedurian crossed over, peered down. It was a dagger.
He leaned his hands on the table – careful to keep them far from the weapon – and bent closer. ‘Nothing special. Typical knife.’
‘Been trying to backtrack the last person to hold that,’ Geffen said while Nedurian studied the blade. ‘Half the island’s wax-witches, sea-soothers, and warlocks have shambled through here for a peek. They all did the same thing: took one look, went pale as ghosts, turned and walked away.’
Nedurian stroked his chin. ‘Really? I don’t see anything unusual.’
‘Take your time.’
It wasn’t his speciality, but he raised his Warren for a look. He passed his hands over the blade, sensing for anything, and felt it immediately. This weapon had been exposed to powerful magics some time in the recent past. The lingering energies were clear. The aura, however, was also very odd. Like no Warren he’d ever seen before, in fact.
‘Strange…’ he murmured.
‘A coupla’ warlocks said that too,’ Geffen offered. ‘Before they bit their lips and fled.’
Nedurian frowned. He refined his probing, dug deeper in the lineaments of the traces, struggling to examine their character.