Thief: A Fantasy Hardboiled (Ratcatchers Book 2) Read online

  Aimsley reached out, looking like he was sick. But once the glass was in his hand, he relaxed and drank and the warm liquid burned its way down his throat and everything was back to normal. He’d hate himself later.

  Brick smiled. “What you got for me?” he asked.

  Aimsley lit a nail and took a drag, rested it on his drink, and went back to brooding over the shere board.

  “What’s the count up to?” he asked.

  “Oh you heard about that too? Fast. News travels fast.”

  Aimsley said nothing, fingered various pieces on the board. Placed a single, short, thick polder finger on one and idly tipped it back as though it might look more promising from a different angle.

  “I don’t believe it,” Brick sniffed, filling in the silence Aimsley left. “Thirty odd people aced by the castle. I don’t believe it. Truncheon’s man said something about the count and a deal and some kinda little glass reliquary makes deathless. Didn’t make no sense. Count’s getting wily now that we’re all backed up against each other. I reckon he thinks he can get me and the Midnight Man to go at it. Fuck him.”

  “Hey boss, what the fuck?” a high pitched scratch of a voice interrupted. Dugal. Aimsley ignored him.

  The wiry toady who materialized out of the smoke with a drink in each hand was only a little taller than Aimsley. He looked down his sharp nose at the table where two drinks already sat.

  “Thought we were going to ah…,” the Brick and Aimsley both ignored him. The little thief shrugged and turned, putting the two drinks on a wench’s platter as she walked by. He pulled a seat from another table and sat down.

  “What’re we talking to this one for, boss? What’s he done for us lately?”

  Aimsley looked up at the Brick, held out a hand, palm up, and gestured in the general direction of Dugal. “Really?” he asked.

  “Hey you got something to say to me little man, you say it to my face.”

  “When I think of anything worth saying to you, I will,” Aimsley said, turning his attention back to the shere board. He was going to lose this game. He finished his drink and immediately wanted more.

  The Brick saw this and pushed his drink forward. The bastard. Aimsley pulled it toward him, but didn’t take any.

  “Hey fuck you, yeah?” Dugal said, without much rancor.

  “Shut up, Dugal,” the Brick said without looking at him.

  “You ever get tired of this one’s shit boss, you just let me know,” Dugal said. “I’ll do it, yeah? I’ll drag him like a nail and leave his body for the cats.”

  The Brick laughed a little at this. The only sign of laughter was his bulk shaking and some teeth showing. You had to know what to look for.

  “I don’t know why you bring him around,” Aimsley lamented to the shere board. “He’s everything that’s fucking wrong here,” he said. They both knew he meant the guild, and not the inn. Dugal was dangerous. He’d use poisons no one else would use, he’d fight like a desperate rat. He’d do anything just to impress Brick, risk his own life, foolish stuff. No discipline, no training.

  “I’d say I do it to annoy you, but you know that already,” the Brick said.

  “You’re a piece of shit, Dal. You know that, right?” Aimsley said, giving his master a glance.

  “Hey you can’t say that to him,” Dugal leaned forward, and looked as though he was going to point at Aimsley, then thought better of it and sat back. Looked up at the Master of the Cold Hearth. “He can’t talk to you like that boss. And he called you by your name, too. He can’t just do that, you got to earn that shit.”

  “He can call me whatever he wants,” Brick said, a curl of his lips and a gleam in his eyes. “He can say whatever he wants and if you don’t like it,” the big man’s thick head turned to look at the little thief, “why don’t you make him stop?”

  Under the gaze of the mountainous head and its tiny, all-seeing black eyes, Dugal shrunk.

  “You’d be top man if you could do it,” the Brick said, turning back to the polder. He crossed his huge arms. “Get all the best jobs.”

  Dugal sulked and started talking to himself. “He ain’t top man,” he said. He knew they were both listening. “Ain’t been top man for years, who gives a shit about him? Fuck him. Ain’t even in the guild anymore.”

  “Why’d you ask about the count?” Brick asked.

  Aimsley didn’t say anything for a minute. Then he moved a piece on the shere board and sat back.

  Brick, without looking, picked up another piece and moved it.

  Aimsley let out a defeated gasp, followed by a “fuck you,” and went back to looking at the board.

  “Whatever happened at the castle,” the polder said, concentrating, “was real. Really happened.” Aimsley knew nothing about it, but based on his experience the night before at the priest’s inn, he knew enough.

  “How the fuck you know that?,” Brick asked.

  Aimsley reached into his pocket and pulled out one of the black marbles. He carefully placed it on the shere board with a tiny ‘clack’ and held it under his finger for a moment. Then he rolled it forward.

  It danced along the shere board, bumping into and bouncing off the wooden pieces until it came to rest on the other side of the board in front of the Brick.

  “Black gods,” Brick whispered, his eyes wide. He didn’t touch the thing. Aimsley made his move. Brick didn’t notice.

  Brick looked from the marble up to Aimsley and grinned from ear to ear.

  “Fucking fixer,” he said. “Best fucking fixer in the city. Count pulls this,” Brick nodded at the glass marble sitting on the shear board, “scares the Truncheon half to death, has him shitting in his pants, and you only go and fucking get one from him.”

  He looked around the Mouse Trap. No one was really paying attention. That would be rude.

  “Best fucking fixer in the city,” he said proudly to anyone who might listen. “Best the guild’s ever had,” he looked back at the marble. “How’d you get it?” he asked.

  Aimsley told him.

  Brick blinked. “Last night?”

  Aimsley nodded. He glanced up at Brick. “Your move,” he said.

  Brick grunted and quickly moved a soldier in, blocking Aimsley’s white Prelate.

  “Yeah,” Aimsley said. “I hadn’t heard about the thing at the gallows this morning.”

  “Cyrvis’ boiling bollocks,” Brick said in wonder. “He’s moving fast. Is it safe?” He pointed to the marble.

  Aimsley shrugged. “I had it all last night, this morning. Just don’t drop it.”

  Brick picked it up, examined it in wonder. Something occurred to him. He sucked his teeth in thought.

  “No one made it out of the courtyard gallows alive,” he said.

  “Not surprised,” Aimsley said.

  “And this inn, this closed up in last night…any scarves make it out?”

  “One,” Aimsley said. “I braced him for that. The rest got torn apart.”

  “So the count don’t control these things. Whatever comes outta here,” he said looking again at the swirling black dust, “it kills what it wants.”

  “I thought about that,” Aimsley said. “You might be able to use that. But you need to move fast. Count has enough of those, he’s not going to care about you or me or the Midnight Man or the ragman.”

  Brick nodded. “So where’s he get them?”

  “No idea,” Aimsley said, still looking at the game. “I went to his club this morning, try and see him, talk to his men.”

  “Count would love to get a visit from you,” Brick said smiling.

  “Well he weren’t there in any case. He’s picked up.”

  “Picked up what?” It was unusual for Brick to be slow, but this was an unusual situation.

  “The whole thing. He’s not out of the club anymore. He’s moved his whole operation.”

  “What the fuck?” Brick asked, more obviously affected by this news than by the rest. “Where the fuck did he go? What’s he playi
n’ at?”

  “Hiding, best I can figure,” Aimsley said. He picked up a priest and then, obligated to play it, regretted it. “Getting ready to go to war.”

  “Fuck him,” Brick said. He put the marble back on the board, rolled it back to the polder, who picked it up more out of annoyance, to clear the board.

  “Work that,” Brick said. “Find out what it is, where he gets ‘em. Talk to Calvus. How many are there? Did he find them? Make them? Reckon Calvus owes us. We don’t got a lotta time.”

  Aimsley appeared to ignore him, moved the priest finally, and said half to himself, “Calvus works for you, you fucking talk to him. Send Dugal. Send anyone. I don’t talk to your employees for you. I’m the fixer.”

  Aimsley was a tight and didn’t mind. Picked up his second glass and drained his drink and when he put it down, the Brick smashed a hand into the table, causing Aimsley to jump. The Brick wiped the two empty glasses and all the shere pieces off the board, leaned into the polder’s face and shouted.

  “Then fix it!”

  Chapter Fourteen

  She sat alone at a table by the fireplace. It was afternoon, so there was no fire and with her cloak on and hood pulled up she was sure no one could see her face. That was important.

  She watched for two turns. The Fool was nowhere near the most expensive tavern in the city, but it was known for food that was ‘sufficient’ in taste and portions, the number of people it could seat, and its friendly atmosphere. No fights, no drunkards, no thieves, no nobs. Artisans and craftsmen ate and talked here. Families.

  It approached an hour of her at the table nursing an ale she didn’t want. She counted the number of tables again, figured how many patrons they could serve. Watched the barkeep, the maids. Saw how they communicated, how they served the patrons. How they got paid. What people ordered. How long it took. Watched the barkeep, watched how payment worked. She figured it all over and over. She had to rely on her memory. She wished she could write it all down, but that wasn’t possible. Not yet, at least. She smiled at that. Soon.

  Coming in had been difficult. She was afraid of the confrontation and afraid she didn’t know what she was doing. She just assumed she could figure it all out, but standing outside the door she’d gone all clammy with fear that it would never work. That she’d not understand anything. That she wasn’t smart enough.

  Once seated, that fear evaporated. It wasn’t that complex. She laughed to herself. Couldn’t be that complex, Lian did it. She started to feel giddy. She could do it. She could really do it. Lots of people did it. It wasn’t hard.

  She watched Lian serve and take orders. There were three maids working the tables. All girls, all about the same age. Customers liked being served by pretty girls, that was obvious. She smiled again. Pretty girls could be arranged. Pretty girls were no problem.

  The bartender had been watching her not drink for a few moments. She knew he’d do something about her sooner or later and it looked like her time was almost up. She’d planned on going to two or three inns and taverns, but now she was excited to get started.

  The bartender barked at Lian and nodded toward the table by the fireplace. Lian, tall, with long brown hair almost down to her ass, frowned and tucked her serving plate under her arm. She walked reluctantly to the table by the fireplace.

  “You want anything else?” she said, sighing as she did so.

  “How many people work in the kitchen?”

  Lian curled one lip up as though she smelled something offensive. “What?” Her voice was nasal and sounded like a whine.

  With a flick of her wrist and a shake of her head, the stranger at the table snapped back the hood.

  “Vanora!” Lian cried. Then she put her hand over her mouth and looked around to see if anyone heard her. No one seemed to, or if they did, they didn’t seem to care.

  “Hey Lian,” Vanora said, smiling sweetly. “Sit down.”

  “What are you doing here?!” Lian asked, whispering.

  “Sit down,” Vanora said again. The smile dropped. “How many people work in the kitchen?”

  “You’re gonna get me in trouble!” Lian hissed, looking to see if anyone was watching.

  Vanora half laughed, half frowned. “How?”

  “I don’t know,” Lian looked at the bartender. He seemed to think a little girl wasn’t much threat and maybe they knew each other, and was content with that.

  “What if father finds out?” Lian whined, but she sat down.

  Vanora looked at her quizzically. It was such an incongruous statement to make. But slowly, light dawned. Lian was not the brightest and their father was…difficult. Even though Lian was 19, a woman by anyone’s judgment, she was still instinctively afraid of their father.

  Vanora’s eyes unfocused for a moment and she stared at nothing. Lian had the life Vanora always wanted. Or thought she wanted. Their father’s favorite, a real working life, earning her own keep. And now with one statement Vanora realized that whatever else had happened, she no longer lived in fear. She was afraid of the count, she was afraid she’d have another attack, but these were real. Lots of people were afraid of the count. Her father was just a man. And not much of one at that.

  She watched her older sister fret. “How is he going to know? Unless you tell him.”

  Lian looked confused. She didn’t know how their father would find out, but she had a hard time imagining him not finding out. “I don’t know,” she sulked.

  Vanora shook her head. “You’re so stupid, Lian, I swear by the black brothers.”

  Lian flared hotly at this. “I am not stupid! Don’t you say that to me you whore.” She gasped and her hands flew to her mouth.

  Vanora sighed and rolled her eyes. “Yes, Li. We both know what I…,” she stopped. She found it difficult to say. She waved her hand dismissively, the way she’d seen Miss Elowen do. But she’d never found it difficult to say before. “But I’m not here for that right now.”

  Lian looked at Vanora’s blue dress. “Why are you dressed like that?”

  Vanora looked at her dress and frowned. She liked the simple blue dress Heden gave her. It reminded her of her mother.

  “What’s wrong with it?” Vanora asked, fingering the material.

  “Normally you’re dressed like a nob.”

  Vanora sighed. Now she understood.

  “I thought you were at the Rose Petal.”

  “I was,” Vanora explained patiently. “But I’m not right now. Right now I’m here in the Fool talking to you.”

  Lian gave up and slumped in her chair, waiting for Vanora to tell her what to do.

  “Now,” Vanora said, and she smiled wickedly at the thought of what she was about to do. “Do you want the man behind the bar there to know you invited your sister, who is a trull, to visit you at work?” She nodded at the bartender and watched as Lian’s face dropped. Lian had no way of knowing it was a bluff. Vanora would never get her sister in trouble and the bar keep wouldn’t have any way of knowing what Vanora did anyway.

  Lian looked at her hands, folded in her lap. “No.”

  Vanora sat back in her chair, triumphant. “No you don’t. Good girl.” Lian sniffed derisively at that.

  “I want to know what goes on behind that door,” Vanora said, nodding to the kitchen door.

  Lian screwed up her face. “Why?”

  “Never you mind,” Vanora said. She decided something. “Actually, you’ll show me.” She stood up. Lian followed suit, her pretty face crinkled with worries. Even though Lian was three years older and fully a head taller, and prettier, and her father’s favorite, she was always looking for someone to tell her what to do.

  “I don’t understand,” Lian said, avoiding the gaze of the bar keep as they navigated the space around the tables to the kitchen door.

  Vanora giggled to herself. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to get you in trouble. If anyone asks, tell them I’ve come for a job.”

  She pushed open the door to the kitchen, revealing the hot, thi
ck air and noise beyond. “You have to tell me what everyone does,” Vanora said, holding the door open for her sister. “It’ll be easy. Oh, and something else.”

  Lian walked into the kitchen and turned around, waiting for Vanora. Her younger sister was already counting the people in the kitchen, and noting what utensils they used. She couldn’t be sure, but it looked like Heden had all the equipment they had here. She came back to the moment and looked with real fondness at her worried sister.

  “How do they figure out what to charge for the food?” Vanora asked.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Never been in here before,” Fandrick said. “Nice.” He looked at the floor. “’cept for the blood and…,” he gestured at the corpses, “all this.”

  The Hammer & Tongs was closed. Given that it was an hour after midday, Aiden guessed the inn never opened. There was no one in the place, for one thing. No owner. No staff. He walked around the bodies. The blood on the floor was tacky and pulled at his boots as he walked.

  “Someone going to clean all this up?” he asked of no one in particular.

  “Who runs this place?” Rayk asked the regular watchman who brought them here.

  Teagan shifted the sword on his belt. “Priest named Heden,” he said.

  “Don’t look like no one’s been in here for a while,” Fandrick went on, walking around the common room, staying away from the bodies and the blood, keeping his boots clean. He admired the large bookcase that took up the far wall of the room.

  “He never opens it up,” Teagan said. The tall, lanky watchman leaned against the serving bar, his long legs crossed at the ankles. His half-smile seemed a response to a joke only he understood. Aiden could tell the man considered all this a nuisance, and why not Fandrick and Rayk were unlikely to get anything from him they couldn’t get in a dozen other places.

  “Why not?” Fandrick asked.

  Teagan shrugged. “Dunno,” he said. “Don’t know the man. He’s friends with my boss.”

  “And your boss is…,” Rayk asked.

  Teagan looked at the ceiling and sighed. “Domnal. Watch captain over on Salter.”