Thief: A Fantasy Hardboiled (Ratcatchers Book 2) (10 page)

“To him…well, I’ll talk to him soon enough. To you, I say this: Heden cannot be in two places at once.”

Vanora shook her head, like a fly was buzzing around her. “What does that mean?”

“The list of his enemies is growing longer. He cannot make sure you are safe, and stop the count at the same time.”

Vanora stared at this old man while she processed this. It was a riddle. She hated riddles.

“I hate riddles,” she said. “The inn is safe,” she said, looking at the building behind her.

It was the abbot’s turn to shake his head. “Young lady,” she liked that, “the count and his allies stay away from here, now, because they don’t know who owns the place. They made a try for you once,” Vanora was impressed he knew that, “it didn’t work. They have no idea why. They’re afraid of acting from ignorance, afraid of discovering this place is more than just a retired godbotherer’s inn. But once Heden returns, they’ll find out that’s exactly what it is. And neither you, nor Heden, nor this place will be safe.”

Vanora stared up at the old man. “You told me not to leave! What am I supposed to do?”

“I don’t have all the answers.” The abbot looked at the door behind her. “You seem a resourceful young woman.”

Vanora frowned. “I’ll tell him you said this,” it was half-threat, half-promise. She felt as though Heden would not agree with this man, teacher though he may be.

“Do not,” the abbot said. “As soon as you bring it up, you put him in danger.”

“Why?!” she asked, angry at more riddles.

“They have ways of learning what Heden knows,” the abbot said. “It would be difficult for the count’s men to take Heden. But having done it, it’s very easy for them to find out what he knows. And
if
they believe he knows where you are, they
will
take him. They will waste dozens of men doing it. If they believe he has no idea where you are, they won’t bother.”

Vanora’s mind went still. This made sense. Everything the old man had been talking about now fell into place.

“That’s why you came to the inn,” she said, and was surprised at how calm she felt.

The abbot nodded. “I’m afraid so. He wants to protect you, but you have to protect him. Go somewhere else. Somewhere safe.”

She shook her head. It didn’t matter how much sense he made, she was going to be here when Heden returned. “I’m not leaving.”
Miss Elowen put me in
jail. “Heden saved me.”
I opened my eyes and I wasn’t in the jail. And he was there
. “I’m going to be here when he gets back.”

The abbot just stared at her for a long while, his lips pressed together.

“In any case,” he said, and took a deep breath. “I have to go back to the church for vespers. It takes a long time for me to get there and there will be many people there looking for my help.”

He turned and stepped into the street, and walked in the direction of the massive granite cathedral that loomed over the city.

Vanora watched him waddle away.

It was a small library. A few dozen books, one door, no windows. A small table and chair, an unlit lamp. When the door was closed, like now, no light got in. But the room was small enough that if you moved carefully, even in the darkness, you could avoid bumping into anything.

A flash of white light announced the presence of a runic circle activating on the carpeted floor. Trapping someone within.

“Ow,” a voice said. Then a sound that might have been a polder pressing his palms into his eyes and rubbing them.

The figure struck a nail. The small fire revealed a polder in hard leather armor, blonde curly locks bobbing as he shook his head and blinked madly. His eyes still hurt but he was able to look down and see the binding circle he was trapped in. Anyone watching closely would see the flame flickering, as though held in a trembling hand being flexed in a vain attempt to stop the tremors.

“Pigfucker,” he said as he turned around to examine the circle, about four feet across. “Prick, arse, rancid cunt. Ow!” this last as the flame burned his finger and he shook it out.

Silence for several moments, then; “Shit.”

Time passed. With no visual cues and nothing else to do, he counted breaths. He felt his skin crawl. He sweated. He didn’t used to sweat when he was caught. He used to be cool as a gravestone.

He lost count of the time, only noticed when he heard a noise, like something heavy landing on a pillow.

He knew someone was in the room with him. The lantern on the table flared to life revealing a young—to his eye, he often found it difficult to tell a human’s age between 15 and 50—human female. Unlike most women in Corwell, she didn’t wear a dress. She wore black leather pants and a black and red corset vest.

She was short, with dark, arched eyebrows and black hair. There was a streak of color in it, blue or red…it was hard to tell with his eyes still burning. Wide lips painted dark red against pale skin. Her figure reminded Aimsley of the goddess figurines people found among the ancient Gol ruins. She seemed relaxed, but her eyes flashed with danger.

“Got you,” the woman said, arching one perfect eyebrow. She seemed relaxed, but poised. Aimsley’s instincts told him she was ready for murder.

His eyes darted, looking for an escape, for anything. He was trapped inside the circle. There might be a way out, but he’d need time and some luck to figure it, and he’d run out of both.

He pointed at the woman in black and red.

“You’re Hapax Legomenon,” Aimsley said. “The Lens’
occultus quaesitor
.”

She ignored him and counted on her fingers.

“The Cold Hearth’s fixer is a polder,” she said, “that’s you I figure. The Darkened Moon’s is a woman named Noor. The Guild of Blackened Silk’s is an assassin named Garth.”

“He’s not an assassin,” Aimsley said, “he’s just a prick.”

“A guild fixer killed one of our librarians to cover their tracks after stealing a codex,” she said.

“You got a lot of librarians,” Aimsley sneered.

Hapax Legomenon’s eyes narrowed.

“This one was a friend of mine. And the
quaesitor
doesn’t have a lot of friends.”

“I know the feeling,” Aimsley said.

“Whoever did it, I figured they’d be back,” she nodded at the circle and relaxed a little. Content to enjoy the upper hand.

He was trapped. The ward was specially configured for him, or someone like him. He’d probably stolen the codex and probably killed the librarian. He seemed to do a lot of killing these days, though his blackouts meant he didn’t remember.

For some reason he thought of the priest he met outside the wode. It wasn’t the first time the man had intruded into his thoughts. The priest who stole the count’s whore and kept her safe in his tavern-fortress. What would he say?

“I’m sorry about your friend,” he ventured. He tried to imagine what it would feel like if he really was sorry about her friend. It wasn’t easy. But there was maybe a little twinge of feeling in there. Might help his performance.

Using the same pocket-magics he used to hide his dirks, she produced a large red gem, a fire diamond, held it between her middle finger and thumb.

“Won’t work,” Aimsley said, shaking a little. He wasn’t afraid, but he couldn’t control the tremors or the sweats. “I know maybe six people in the guild now. Don’t know their assignments.”

Hapax Legomenon nodded. “Yeah,” she said, “but I don’t give a shit about the guild.” She locked eyes with the polder. “I want to be certain you killed my friend. Then….”

Aimsley realized he was in a half crouch. Undignified. And stupid, there was nowhere for him to go. He had to get her to drop the ward. For this, there was nothing except the old standby; bargaining.

He stood up, straightened his vest. Tried to recover some of his dignity. Put his hands behind his back to hide the shakes. “I might have done it,” he said.

“Might?”

“I kill a lot of people,” he said.

Her eyes narrowed. “The fire hurts. It
is
pain. Normally I don’t enjoy it, doing that to someone, but I really want to put you under all of a sudden.”

“Let me out,” Aimsley said, trying not to sound panicked. He played his own voice back in his head.
Not bad
, he thought.

“What?” the wizard asked.

“I didn’t come here to kill anyone, I came here for information. I came here to make contact with you. This is your library, isn’t it?” He knew it was.

She stared at him. “You…you want to trade. I’ve got you by the balls, and you want to make an offer.”

“The count has a way to make deathless,” Aimsley said.

“There are no more deathless,” Hapax Legomenon said automatically.

“I’ve seen it. It’s some kind of black smoke. Dust. I think he’s trying to use it to take over the city.”

Hapax thought, nodded. “If he’s the only person in all Orden who can make deathless,” she said, “he’ll take over more than the city.”

“Uh-huh,” Aimsley said, smiling. “So maybe I give you some, and you tell me how it’s made. Fair trade.”

Aimsley saw the opening. Saw the
quaesitor
think. Watched as she searched her mind. This was his opening. She cared about more than just revenge.

“It can’t be priestly magic,” she said. “The link between the gods and the deathless is broken.”

“I don’t think it was priestly,” Aimsley said. “I think it’s sorcery.”

Hapax shook her head slowly. “If there was a way for a wizard to make deathless,” she looked at him, “I’d know about it.”

“What else is there?” Aimsley asked.

“Alchemy,” Hapax said.

Aimsley smiled. “Know any good alchemists?” he said.

“All of them,” she said, then nothing for a few moments.

“Nah, I’ll just kill you,” she decided. “Watch the
Aduro Vera
burn your mind out.”

Aimsley produced the small glass marble, held it up. This got her attention.

“If I break this,” he said, “here, inside the ward, the smoke in the glass will get inside me. It’ll kill me. It’ll break my bones and turn me inside out and I’m
guessing
,” he stressed, “the ghoul that’ll be left won’t be trapped by your wards. I’m guessing you made this ward to catch me. And the ghoul will tear you apart.”

“I can handle a ghoul,” she said.

“Let’s find out,” Aimsley said. Strangely, he found the threat easy to make. He didn’t mind the idea of oblivion. Didn’t mind it at all. Looked forward to it more and more. He just didn’t want to do it himself. Alone. This would be a good way to go, though. Dramatic. Memorable. Better than dying under the fire of truth. Fuck it.

“I let you out and you give me the death smoke,” she asked, thinking.

“They call it night dust. Yeah. Fair trade.”

“I think,” she said slowly, “that if I drop that ward, you’ll make a break for it and screw our bargain.”

Aimsley considered this. “Sure. But if you don’t let me out, even if you can handle a ghoul, then you’ve got nothing. No polder thief and no night dust.”

Hapax Legomenon considered the offer. It was clear she wanted the dust. Of course she wanted the dust. Things like night dust was why the Orders employed the
occultus quaesitoria
.

She stood up. Stood between the ward with the polder in it, and the door. “Just so you know,” she said, putting her hands on her hips, “Once I drop that ward, I’m taking the dust from you.”

“You think you can?” Aimsley asked, frowning sarcastically.

“Let’s find out,” she said, and dropped the ward. Her eyes suddenly flared with green fire.

Freed, Aimsley grinned furiously.
Die fighting the Quill’s best agent
, he thought as he leapt into the air, a dirk suddenly in each hand.

Not bad way to go.

People came and went from the inn. The Hammer & Tongs. He looked at the symbol over the door. Couldn’t remember how old he was the first time he saw it. Couldn’t remember his first time inside. Couldn’t remember when it became the place he went, the place they always went when they were done.

The people coming and going seemed happy. As though whatever was going on inside were normal for a tavern. He ran his hand over the beard he’d grown in the last week. There was a knife in his pack he kept sharp for shaving, but he hadn’t felt like using it. Now he wished he had.

He looked over his right shoulder at the spires of the cathedral that dominated the city. The journey south from the forest had dulled his anger, but proximity to its source sharpened it again. He resisted the urge to go to the church, resisted the urge to hate. There was time enough for that.

He crossed the busy street and climbed the three steps that led to the doors of the inn.

He didn’t know what he expected to see when he walked through the doors. He realized he expected to see Ghannt the demi-thyrs barkeep and owner, Parl and Stewart and Zaar and Reginam and everyone else.

Instead what he found was a normal, if somewhat sparse, tavern common room. Nothing like the ratcatchers inn he’d known years ago. A dozen guests in a common room fit to serve five times that number. He noticed they were all being attended by girls. Young girls. He frowned.

A man at a table near the door watched him. He wore light armor, a sword at his side, leaned back on two chair legs, balancing himself. Muscle to protect the girls. The man nodded at him, he didn’t react.

He walked up to the man’s table and stood there, watching the people eating, drinking, being served. It seemed loud, unnaturally loud, compared to the last time he was here.

He turned to the muscle.

“How’s the nose?” he asked.

The man stopped picking at his teeth. “What?” he asked blankly, then his eyes went wide and he momentarily lost his balance.

Ignoring the flailing guard, he crossed the common room floor. Marveled at the business being done within, at the serving girls. There were about half a dozen of them. He did a quick mental calculation of the Rose Petal’s staff, wondered how many of them would be on their own time at any given moment.

A serving girl exited the kitchen and glided toward a table with two men waiting.

“What’s your name?” he asked the girl, stopping her.

The girl curtseyed, skillfully he thought.

“Martlyn” the girl said. She had long curly red hair, seemed dyed. Large brilliant green eyes and olive skin. A suspicion grew.

“Martlyn” he repeated, “how long as this inn been open?”

“Two days, your lordship,” she said, bowing her head deferentially. “Still working the kinks out,” she said.

He looked at the ceiling. “Are there…rooms?”

“Wol,” she said, and put a hand on her hip. Her posture subtly changed to produce a certain effect in men. “Not officially. Not for the night.” She smiled at him. It seemed a genuine smile. “But for some coin, an arrangement can be made for,” she surveyed him, “an hour? You seem tired.”

“Coin,” he nodded, his suspicion confirmed.

“You’re not bad-looking, you shave that beard,” Martlyn said.

“Thank you,” he said, nodding. “How much for an hour?”

“Two crowns,” she said without hesitation. The men at the table waiting for her were growing impatient.

“Two…,” there were signs of surprise and alarm, but he restrained himself.

“Worth every copper!” she said, feigning insult. He felt as though she should feel embarrassed or ashamed, but the opposite. The longer they talked the more she seemed to be enjoying herself. He considered himself a hard man to fool. This added to his already substantive confusion.

“Where’s Vanor…Violet?” he asked.

“Oh you fancy Violet?” Martlyn asked. How old was this girl? She looked nineteen but that didn’t mean anything. “She’s a bit busy,” Martlyn said skeptically. “Got lots to do, running the place. Don’t think she’s taken a customer since we opened, but if ah, you’re someone special to her I can let her know.”

He nodded. “Do that,” he said, and started toward the stairs.

“Hey!” Martlyn said. “No one’s allowed up there without paying!”

“Good,” he said, climbing the stairs.

“Wait,” Martlyn said, thinking. “You’re…,” she looked at his back disappearing up the stairs and snapped her fingers.

“Uh-oh,” she said.