The Thorn of Dentonhill (23 page)

Thomias knocked on the glass door. “Sir? They . . . they're asking for you.”

“Are they?” said Fenmere, not turning to look at his servant. “Very well. How have they . . . comported themselves?”

“One of them left to go to the bakery. They have asked for the cook to prepare some breakfast.”

“Of course they have,” said Fenmere. He took another pull off the pipe. He put on a large smile as he turned around. “Whatever they need, Thomias. They're our guests.” He patted Thomias on the shoulder genially. Thomias scuttled off down the back stairs, toward the kitchen, as Fenmere headed to the parlor.

The room was normally a testament to Fenmere's success: walls and doors of dark mahogany, shipped up from the southern archduchy of Scaloi; plush chairs from the Kieran Empire, in the High Age style of the eleventh century; Imach carpets, intricately woven masterpieces; five paintings commissioned from Len Hovath and a sculpture by Corrin Essel. The room was a display case, showing his guests how much he had accumulated over the years of enterprise. Now it was sullied by Lord Sirath and his companions.

Sirath sat in one of the chairs in the corner of the room, lounging with an infuriating air of disdain and disregard. He was lying back, with a platter resting on his stomach that contained nothing but chicken bones. Sirath was sucking on the bones, taking in every possible bit of edible flesh. Kalas was in the middle of the room with another member of the Blue Hand, a young man who looked as hateful and haggard as Kalas. Fenmere had heard his name was Forden, but he didn't care to know too much about the man. The two of them were playing Doubleback Dice with Fenmere's board, the board that was a gift from Baron Hemlier, the board that had been another item on display. No one had ever played a game on that board before. Both of them had glasses of Fuergan whiskey sitting half empty next to the board, sweating moisture on the wooden table.

“Nearly five bells,” Kalas said without looking up. “We should have had news by now.”

“We should have,” Fenmere said, nodding. “We knew the Thorn was a tough customer. Clearly he gave the Three Dogs quite a challenge.”

“Failure,” muttered Sirath.

“What's that?” Fenmere asked. Sirath snorted and focused his attention back on the chicken bones.

“He gave them failure,” Kalas said. “These were supposed to be professionals, I thought. Some of the best assassins in the city.”

“They are,” Fenmere said. He picked up the bottle of Fuergan whiskey, glancing at the label. As he feared, it was the fifty-year-old Astev bottle. He brought it over to the sideboard and poured out a glass for himself. He gave a silent prayer to a few saints that Sirath and the rest hadn't thought to raid his cellar, where the truly rare and valuable liquors were.

“We should have sent Kent or me,” Forden said. “At least to observe.”

“There's no need for that,” Fenmere said. He sipped the whiskey. “More people would have just got in the way of the Dogs.”

“So you say,” Kalas said. He gave the dice a roll and moved his pieces across the board, claiming two pieces.

“Blast,” the young man said. He looked over at Fenmere. “We don't know if your Dogs even found the Thorn today. Or if they did, that they would return with the items.”

“Of course they will,” Fenmere said. “They were told we needed to recover the stolen goods. Perhaps that is what the delay is.”

“What do you mean?” Kalas asked.

“Killing him would be quick,” Fenmere said. “But if they had to get him to tell where the goods are, that might take some time. Then they would have to go recover the goods.”

“So you're suggesting that they have captured him and tortured him,” said Kalas, nodding. He rubbed his chin, thinking the idea over. “That makes sense, but wouldn't they have sent word?”

“Men like these aren't ones to send status reports,” Fenmere said. “They come when the job is done.”

“Or lost,” Sirath said. He discarded the plate of bones on the floor, having sucked out every useful morsel he could.

“These men don't declare a commission lost as long as he still breathes,” Fenmere said. “Out of honor, they would pursue him for as long as it takes.”

“We do not have ‘as long as it takes,' Fenmere,” Kalas snapped, his face reddening. The veins on his forehead bulged. “Tonight the circumstances are ripe.”

“Yes, I know, Kalas,” Fenmere said, glaring hard at the mage. “You have said so several times.”

“And yet you fail us,” Sirath snarled.

Two men came into the parlor. The first was presumably Kent, the other mage from the Blue Hand, who walked in like it was his own home. He carried a paper bag full of bread, still steaming fresh, casually eating a handful of it, leaving crumbs on the floor. The other man limped in, clutching his side, bruises along his face.

“Found this one out in the street,” Kent said. “He's got nothing, but he smells of the stuff.”

Forden dashed over to the injured man, moving his face in close, seeming to sniff at him. Lord Sirath went for the bread, tearing the bag out of his associate's hands.

“Yes,” he said. “He's been in contact with our things.”

The injured man responded by clocking Forden with the back of his fist. “Get off, freak.”

Forden raised a hand at the injured man, but Kalas whistled at him, and he backed down.

“You're one of the Dogs, then?” Fenmere asked.

“Right. Name's Samael. You're the man with the contract, then?”

“That's right,” Fenmere said.

“I told this one,” he said pointing to the mage who arrived with him, “I only would talk to you.”

“Talk now,” said Sirath.

“The Thorn showed up, just like you said.”

“Is he dead?” Fenmere asked.

“Of course he isn't dead,” Kalas said. “If he were, this one would have brought back our things with his head.”

“Unless he's pulling a trick,” Forden said.

“I just love being called ‘this one,'” Samael said. “It's such a sign of respect.” He walked over to the young mage. “What do they call you, eh, bloke? I ain't met a mage who can survive a knife in the chest, or an arrow. So you want to go for a run, mage?”

“You think you could ‘run' me, then?”

“I think you've never been in a real scrap, life on the line, teeth and hands against another man.” Samael grinned. He turned to Fenmere, giving no heed to the mages. “That's the thing about the Thorn. He knows how to hold his own, push himself. He knows what do when his life is on the line.”

“Tough one, he is?” Fenmere asked. “He must be if he got away from the three of you.”

“That's right. Took out Pendall, killed Coleman, and ran me over with a horse.”

“Where did he get a horse?” Fenmere asked.

“Stole it from a dead constable.”

“He killed a stick?” Fenmere whistled low. “I didn't think he had that in him.”

“Nah, that was Cole. But the Thorn has the stones to do what he has to.”

“This is all fascinating,” Kalas said. “But the point is that the Thorn got away, and our goods are still lost.”

“Failure!” Sirath said. “Kill him.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Samael said, holding up his hands. “No need to be doing that sort of thing.”

“I agree,” Fenmere said. “I'm never one to kill something I can use again.” He crossed over to Samael, looking him in the eye. “You are of use, aren't you?”

“Like blazes I am, boss.” Samael held out a finger at Sirath and the other Blue Hand mages, as if just by pointing he could hold their magic at bay. “I know where he goes. I know where he runs to.”

“And why didn't you follow him?” Kalas asked.

“Could barely walk, mate, let alone run the seven blocks to catch him.”

“So, where does he go?” Fenmere asked. “Where does he run to?”

“What's it worth?” Samael asked.

Fenmere liked that. Cocksure, even in the face of death, willing to push just a little harder to get something out of it. “How about a chance to redeem yourself, and a little more work? That would be worth your while, no?”

“Where?” Sirath snarled.

“To the campus, University of Maradaine,” Samael stammered out, suddenly spooked and backing away from Sirath. “I saw him go over the wall.”

“So, possibly a student, or someone on the staff,” Kent said.

“Or even a professor,” Kalas said.

“Rose Street Princes and the other Aventil gangs are bending over backward to disavow him,” Fenmere said. “Makes sense if he's on campus.”

“So we need to go get him and our things,” Kalas said.

“Right,” Fenmere said. He put down the glass and paced the room. “Crossing the wall, it's not easy, but I've got some boys who can do it. They'll put on a good hunt. Samael, you're going to take them, and search hard and dirty. Shake it up and make some noise. At this point we need to show everyone—not just the Thorn—that you don't make noise in my part of town without getting it visited back on you. That includes the blasted campus.” He was getting hot, blood boiling. “Too long we've respected that wall, but it's time to put an end to that. The Thorn isn't going to hide on the other side, and he sure isn't going to run me out of my neighborhood or anywhere else!”

Fenmere glanced about. The only people in the room were Samael and the Blue Hands. None of his own men. No one who cared, no one who was invested in his business. Just four poor allies and one hired killer. He felt Kalas's hand on his shoulder.

“Actually, Willem,” Kalas said with a familiarity that Fenmere found infuriating, “I think we have a better way to achieve our goal here, one which will make less noise. At least, the kind of noise that would turn undue attention this way.”

“What would that be?” Fenmere asked.

“The Circle has academic contacts, favors to be called in. Nothing you have to worry about.”

“We'll find him,” Sirath muttered. “Breakfast first.” He left the parlor, heading toward the kitchen. The two young Blue Hands followed, with Kalas taking the bread. He stopped and turned back to Fenmere.

“We will still need our arrangements for tonight, though,” he said. “Come on, now, Willem. You must be famished. I know I am.”

Fenmere stayed in the parlor for another minute before he realized Samael was still there. He took another moment before addressing the assassin.

“Stick around today, Samael,” he said. “Despite their confidence, it might be best to have additional plans.”

“That'll cost you, sir.”

“I know that,” Fenmere snapped. “It'll be worth your while, though. And you'll get another crack at the Thorn.”

“Does that mean I'm invited to breakfast, Mister Fenmere?”

“If you want.” He sighed as he headed to the door. “I'll warn you, though, watching these mages eat can really ruin your appetite.”

Hetzer was woken up by someone pounding on the door. He had crashed out in the basement pad under Kessing's general store. He liked sleeping there because it was usually quiet. Hardly any Princes ever stayed there, besides Colin's crew. No one ever pounded on the door this early.

Blearily, he opened the door a crack. Jutie was there, looking sweaty and nervous. He had a bird with him. She stood out like a fire in a dark alley. Dark brown skin, wide nose, narrow eyes. Napa girl, if ever he saw one. Honestly, he hadn't seen many, not in Aventil. Mixed-blood and foreign-borns didn't really live in the neighborhood, staying to the Little East in Inemar and the dregs out in the western neighborhoods. She was dressed in working clothes, linen shirt and rough canvas pants and heavy boots, and she was carrying a satchel. She was a pretty one, though. The way Jutie was shaking, Hetzer thought the kid was looking for a private place for his first roll.

“What's up?” Hetzer asked.

“Colin here? This bird has a drop for him.”

That was a surprise. “Bird with a drop? You check her for weapons?”

“W-weapons?” Jutie stammered.

“Yeah, weapons.” Hetzer was amazed that the kid didn't think of that.

“Let me see the cap,” she said.

“Right, let a strange girl just walk in his pad.” Hetzer sneered at Jutie, who cowered at his look. “Jutes, you know better than that. She could work for the sticks.”

“She don't work for the sticks, I think.”

“Right. Or she could be with the Waterpath Orphans, or the Kickers, or . . .” Hetzer gritted his teeth. Jutie just brought a strange girl to the cap's pad. He shook his head.

Lamely, Jutie said, “She's got a drop for him, is all.”

“Stupid,” Hetzer said. “Get in here.” He opened the door a bit more and grabbed the bird by the wrist. He pulled her inside, and slammed the door shut again just as Jutie squeezed through. The bird was rubbing her wrist, glaring at him as he latched the door.