Self-Made Scoundrel (29 page)

“It’s what he’s good for,” Drink said. “He’s fine not being vouched for. He’s also not a Valleyman.”

“He.…” Derk squinted. “What?”

“He doesn’t follow the Goddess.”

“He’s not the only person in the Valley who doesn’t hold the Goddess high,” Derk said. Most of the people in the Valley did, but there were people like the ones at the Temple of the Ever Burning Sun, spirit workers. Most of them lived in the Freewild but they came into towns and villages to trade and for festivals occasionally. It wasn’t a reason to not deal with someone. The Church encouraged tolerance.

“The Cup of Cream is based on the idea the Goddess was the first Taker. She made something that wasn’t hers, hers.”

“I thought we were keeping the Church out of this,” Derk said, narrowing his eyes. “Which is it? Is the Church good or bad?”

“The Church is one thing. The belief in the Goddess is another.” Drink gulped her beer. “If you can’t see the difference, you’re not as clever as Hock says.”

“But Hock says I’m clever,” Derk said, taking the opportunity to turn the conversation back to him and the Cup taking him in. “More then clever. Good at making things wind up in my pocket.” Derk leaned forward in his chair, using the knife the kitchen had provided to sever one of the legs off of the roasted rabbit. “You need more smart people. More planners. And you need new people who are eager to please, eager to impress.”

“Oh, and you think you can impress me?” Drink said.

“Maybe you have to impress me,” Derk said, taking a bite out of the roasted rabbit. It was a bit dry but still tasty. “I mean, I know what I’ve done, which is more than you might think. I’ve tracked down and killed Freemen. I’ve recovered lost property. I’ve retrieved jewelry for pretty ladies, I’ve run street games and slept in feather beds and in doorways. I’ve snuck in and out of bedrooms, kitchens and great halls. I’ve killed. I’ve drawn blood and made men disappear. What have you done?” he asked.

Now Drink smiled and Derk wished she hadn’t. It wasn’t a cruel smile or even an ugly smile. It was a smile that would lead to something terrible, Derk knew it.

“And what is the most impressive thing you’ve ever done?” Drink asked. Derk watched as she picked up her mug and took a gulp. He wondered if she was getting drunk yet. With a name like that, probably not.

Derk narrowed his eyes and smirked swallowing his bite of food. “I haven’t done it yet,” he said.

“Ah, looking to the future, I see.” Drink poured another mug, nodding to herself. “And why do you even want to be in the Cup?”

“You can get more done with a few people,” Derk said. It was the simplest way he could say it.

“Get some friends,” Drink retorted.

“I have friends,” Derk shot. “More than a few. Some of which you might want to meet.”

“Well, just give me their names and where I can find them and I’ll be on my way.” Drink held her drink out to the side, seeming a bit exasperated.

“Do you not like me for some reason?” Derk asked. He heard seats scrape behind him as people got up and left, people yelling farewells, the sound of the temple bells ringing in the distance. His food was cold now and he didn’t want it. Before she could answer he put his arms on the table and leaned forward, looking over the table and into his drink. “I don’t need for you to like me, or for Hock to like me, or Paint. Hock came to me. He told me about the Cup. About how you work together when you have to, to get what you want. How you part ways. How you don’t always do things for yourselves, out of selfishness, how together you can all see the bigger picture. More than just yourselves.”

“What is the bigger picture, Derk?” Drink asked. Her voice was quiet but keen and Derk was trying to make sense of all they had said to each other in the last few moments. He looked up at her, his eyes meeting hers.

“The bigger picture is…everybody wants things.” His voice trailed off. The Valley, his childhood, the life he was living now. His old friends, Sindra, Gam. Jezlen. He thought about the hands which had tried to hold him down, the ones he had pushed away. The ones he had held and kissed and the ones which had slapped him. “I want things. The Barons and the magistrates and others want to take from me, from other people. I can take too. But I also want to give. In my own way, on my own terms.”

“You seem to think very highly of yourself,” Drink said.

“Someone has to,” Derk said. “It has to start somewhere. And I’ve reason enough.

“I think you’re just lonely,” Drink said.

“Don’t mean I’m not good.” Derk was tired of talking in circles with Drink. “Look, just tell me what to do to get your approval or, I don’t know, slit my throat or whatever it is you do to people who know about the Cup but aren’t in. Well, try to slit my throat, I won’t go down quietly.” He took another sip of his beer and then set it on the table, hard. “Hems, I’ll fight you to get in. I don’t care you’re a woman.”

“Don’t you have anything better to do than get yourself killed and try to roost with us? We don’t need no simps, us big crows are doing just fine.”

“Well, it’s clear you don’t feel the Cup is important. Just let it all die off. Nothing to leave to anyone, is it?” Derk finished his drink and thought about leaving but the look Drink gave him made him stay, made him lean back in his seat. “Who brought you in? Isn’t there an old saying, ‘A family without children is a grave waiting to be filled?’ Is that it?”

“I always heard it was a ‘A mam without a babe is a dead woman.” Drink said. She stopped drinking for a moment. “Do you have any children?” she asked

For the first time since he had walked in Drink didn’t look angry. Something about her face looked sad or wistful but she set her eyes on him, waiting for an answer. Derk shook his head. “No,” he replied. “I don’t.”

“The truth is, of course, everyone makes their mark, their difference. And everybody dies. Only the marks remain. It only follows a few can make a bigger mark together. Deeper.” She poured the remains of the pitcher into her glass and drained it, the two of them sitting there, not saying anything. The barkeep called out the last call for warm bread and the sound of people leaving and paying and talking grew for a few breaths.

Derk looked at the plates. She agreed with him. He didn’t know what to say, concerned any remark would set her against him again so he just sat there, waiting and wondering where Hock and Paint were. Drink finished one of the other cups and stood up, wiping her hands on a napkin.

“Can you take orders?” she asked. Drink was shorter than Derk had expected, wearing light colored britches tucked into her dark brown, leather boots. She still wore a woman’s belt, laced in the front. At her neckline he saw the glint of a rosary, the pendant tucked away under her tunic.

“I can,” he said, sitting up straighter. “I can give them too.”

“You looking to be in charge?” she asked. There was a hint of a smile on her lips, the same smirk bordering on cruel.

Derk laughed and shook his head. “No, I don’t want to be in charge of no one or nothing, not for long anyway.”

“You laugh too much, Derk,” Drink said. “I can’t figure out if it’s a good thing or a bad thing.” The woman pulled a stick out of the pouch she wore at her hip and brought it to her mouth, clenching it between her teeth. A faintly herbal smell wafted through the air and Derk was reminded of the sticks Asa used to chew, all those seasons back. Drink motioned for Derk to follow her and Derk got up and grabbed his bag, slinging it over his shoulder as he followed her to the bar.

“I’ve a job for you,” she said, the stick threatening to fall out of her mouth as she spoke. Even her hands had freckles on them, Derk noticed, as she handed a few coins to the barkeep to pay for the food and drink. They walked past a card game and a few people throwing darts before the slipped through the doorway and into the late spring evening.

The breeze was chilly but the night was warm, and the few people milling around the singing halls and bars mostly walked without cloaks or jackets. Derk pulled his hat out of his pocket and pulled it over his head just to make sure it wouldn’t fall out as they walked. Drink inhaled deeply, still chewing on her stick, the scent more sweet than medicinal now.

“I hear you’ve got a woman, grey in eye and garment,” Drink said. Derk stiffened slightly, putting his hands on his pockets. They walked, back to where Paint kept a place from what he could tell. “What’s she do in the Church, eh? Light candles? Lead prayers? Count allotments?”

“Look, I ain’t going to involve her in any schemes, I won’t,” he said, holding a hand up in protest. He didn’t like the way she asked. Hock had brought up how having someone in the Church could be useful, but Derk said no and quickly. He knew better. He was careful not to mention anything about Sindra beyond the fact she existed since even that seemed to perk up ears and raise eyebrows. “She knows a bit about what I’ve done,” Derk said, his tone meant to tell Drink Sindra knew general ideas and not specifics. “But she doesn’t want any part of it.”

“So, she’s not the one you spoke of before,” Drink said, pulling the stick from her mouth and smirking. She spat to the side before the stick found its way back between her thin lips and white teeth. “Don’t be so touchy,” she murmured. “I will say this, speaking as a person who’s been in relationships before, if she don’t like it, she don’t really like you, Derk.” She smiled at him in a way which wasn’t meant to be comforting. Derk frowned, thinking about what she said. “In any case,” she continued, turning onto the other main street. More respectable and mundane stores fell behind them as they walked. “She’s a priestess. They don’t sit on the Seat or fear the Sword. But they still make sure the Seat is in place and the Sword is sharp.

“I want you to go into the temple and steal the offering from the collection plate,” Drink said.

Personal Gain

Derk stood there, not sure he heard correctly. Drink was still strolling down the street, leaving Derk a few paces behind her. Finally he ran to catch up, falling in beside her and continuing down the busy street.

“What?” he hissed, trying to keep his voice down. Just the idea of stealing from the plate made him feel guilty, made his heart thump in his chest. “What?” he asked again. “Are you missing a bit in the brain box? Why?”

“Just do it,” she said. “It’s easy. I doubt they’ll even have anyone watching the plate.” She was so nonchalant about the whole thing as if she was asking him to buy a pitcher of beer at the bar and not steal from the Church.

“But they need the money!” Derk said, quietly. He was afraid someone would hear them and turn them in. “Why?”

“Do they really?” Drink said. “They grow food and get donations from farmers. They brew beer and sell grey ale to bars for coin. The Church has their own flocks in Tyeskin Barony. Food, drink, coin, clothing. They have everything they need and more, Derk. And we still give.”

“The clergy still has to pay gate taxes,” Derk pointed out. “Entry taxes. And they help the people. They offer help, charity. Peace, comfort. The food they get, they share.”

“Is that what your bed mate tells you from the pulpit of her bed?” Drink laughed.

“It’s what I’ve seen,” Derk said. He left Sindra out of it. Sindra was a good person. She wasn’t involved in the charities her temple performed but he knew Churches gave food during lean times. A quiet refuge from the day, the peace of a priestess’ blessing. These were good things they gave.

“Every temple isn’t the same,” Drink said. She stopped and faced him. The stick was still danging from her mouth, making her shadow look strange on the ground. “Who do you care about more? The Church or yourself?”

Derk drew in his breath, sharp and quick, sticking his jaw out. This was the task Drink was setting before him. He thought about the times he had visited Sindra, the jobs he had done for the Church. They had always paid well. Sindra never seemed to want for anything. He knew not every Church was able to thrive under the Barons. The temple at Cartaskin Keep had been subject to the whims and patronage of the Baron and that had waned. If it happened to one temple, it could happen to others. But in all his travels in the Valley he had never seen a temple in serious need, its priestesses wanting for food or clothing. People loved the Goddess and they loved Her servants who were kind and gentle. They still charged for people to sleep in their basements and the incense they burned…how much money had Derk spent over the years for scented prayers and a bit of roof to sleep under.

How much would even be in the collection plate? Not a lot, he supposed. It was late, after supper and vesper bells had already rung. Would it be missed? Did he want to be involved with people who stole from the Church? But what of what Drink said? She wasn’t lying about the things the Church was able to do and entitled to in the Valley. All these years, he had never questioned it. What were the chances of Derk working for the Church ever again?

Drink was shoving the question in his face. He didn’t want to falter, have her think he had the heart of a mouse. “Where should I go once I’ve got it?” Derk said, trying to keep his voice steady and mostly succeeding.

“Bring it to Paint’s,” Drink said. “All of it. And don’t take forever. I’ll come looking for you.” She smirked at him and turned, her eyes lingering on him before she continued down the street, toward Paint’s home.

“Chew Her Hems,” Derk cursed, looking down the street in the direction of the temple. He knew where it was. The temple had been the first place he went to on his own. A temple was a bit of familiarity, a place of comfort no matter where he was in the Valley. He knew where the collection plate was. It would be easy, almost too easy. It was set on a table against the wall in the foyer, before entering the temple proper. He had walked in, dipped his fingers in the holy water and dropped a coin into the collection plate. His coin had probably been collected by now.

The walk to the temple seemed to take both an eternity and pass too quickly, his heart beating faster the closer he drew. Sweat popped on his brow despite the cool evening. The weight of his dagger felt heavy hidden away under his shirt and he prayed he wouldn’t have to use the weapon. Why would he? If a priestess caught him, would she fight back? What if there were people in the temple? They might attack him. And if Sindra heard? The chances of getting back in her bed and her good graces would be destroyed. Still his feet moved, drawing him closer to the temple.