Unbound (53 page)

It was a damn good lock. Most thieves wouldn’t have even bothered with it. Would’ve moved along to something easier. But Shev wasn’t most thieves. She shut her eyes, and touched the tip of her tongue to her top lip, and slid her picks inside, and started to work the lock. It only took her a few moments to tease out the innards of it, to tickle the tumblers her way. It gave a little metal gasp as it opened up for her, and Shev slipped her tongue and her picks away, eased the knob around—though she was a lot less interested in knobs than locks, being honest—worked the door open a crack, and slipped through, just as she heard the boots on the stairs, and felt herself grinning in the darkness.

She hadn’t wanted to admit it, least of all to herself, but God she’d missed this. The fear. The excitement. The stakes. The thrill of taking what wasn’t hers. The thrill of knowing just how damn good she was at it.

“Best fucking thief in Westport,” she mouthed, and eased over to the table. The satchel was just where Crandall had said it’d be, and she slipped the strap over her shoulder in blissful, velvet silence. Everything just the way she’d planned.

Shev turned back towards the door and a board creaked under her heel.

A woman sat bolt upright in the bed. A woman in a pale nightdress, staring straight at her.

There wasn’t supposed to be anyone in here.

Shev raised her gloved hand. “This is nothing like it looks—”

The woman let go the most piercing scream Shev ever heard in her life.

Luck’s a treacherous bitch and won’t always play along. Then cleverness and caution and plans will only get a thief so far. Boldness will have to take you the rest of the way. Shev raced to the window, raised her black boot and gave the shutters an almighty kick, splintered the latch, and sent them shuddering open as the woman heaved in a whooping breath.

A square of night sky. The second storey of the buildings across the way. She caught a glimpse of a man with his head in his hands through the window directly opposite. She thought about how far down it was, and made herself stop. You can’t think about the ground. The woman let blast another bladder-loosening scream. Shev heard the door wrenched wide, guards yelling. She jumped through.

Wind tugged, flapped at her clothes, that lurching in her stomach as she started to fall. Like doing the high drop when she was tumbling with that travelling show, hands straining to catch Varini’s. The reassuring smack of her palms into his and the puff of chalk as he whisked her up to safety. Every time. Every time but that last time when he’d had a drink too many and the ground had caught her instead.

She let it happen. Once you’re falling, you can’t fight it. There’s an urge to flail and struggle but the air won’t help you. No one will. No one ever will, in her experience.

With a teeth-rattling thud she dropped straight into the wagon of fleeces she’d asked Jens to leave under the window. He looked suitably amazed to see her floundering out from his cargo, dragging the satchel after her and scurrying across the street, weaving between the people and into the darkness between the ale-shop and the ostler’s, the shouting fading behind her.

She reeled against the wall, gripping at her side, growling with each breath and trying not to cry out. The rim of the cart had caught her in the ribs, and from the sick pain and the way her head was spinning, she reckoned at least one was broken, probably a few more.

“Fucking ouch,” she whispered through gritted teeth. She glanced back towards the building as Jens shouted to his mule and the wagon rolled off, a guard leaning out of the open window, pointing wildly across the street towards her. She saw someone slip out of a side door and gently push it closed. Someone tall and slim, a strand of blonde hair falling from a black hat, and a satchel over her shoulder. Someone with a hell of a walk, hips swaying as she drifted quietly into the shadows.

The guard roared something and Shev turned, stumbled on down the alley, squeezed through the little crack in the wall and away.

Now she remembered why she’d wanted to stop, and run a Smoke House.

Most thieves don’t last long. Even the good ones.

* * * * *

“You’re hurt,” said Severard.

Shev really was hurt, but she’d learned to keep her hurts as hidden as she could. In her experience, people were like sharks, blood in the water only made them hungry. So she shook her head, tried to smile, tried to look not hurt with her face twisted up and sweaty and her hand clamped to her ribs. “It’s nothing. We got customers?”

“Just Berrick.”

He nodded towards the old husk-head sprawled out on the greasy cushions with his eyes closed and his mouth wide open and his spent pipe beside him.

“When did he smoke?”

“Couple of hours past.”

Shev gripped her side tight as she knelt beside him, touched him gently on the cheek. “Berrick? Best wake up now.”

His eyes fluttered open and he saw Shev, and his lined face suddenly crushed up. “She’s dead,” he whispered. “Keep remembering it fresh. She’s dead.” And he closed his eyes and squeezed tears down his pale cheeks.

“I know,” said Shev. “I know and I’m sorry. I’d usually let you stay long as you need, and I hate to do this, but you got to get up, Berrick. Might be trouble. You can come back later. See him home, eh, Severard?”

“I should stay here, I can watch your back—”

More likely he’d do something stupid and get the pair of them killed. “I been watching my own back long as I can remember. Go feed your birds.”

“Fed ’em already.”

“Feed ’em again, then. Just promise me you’ll stay out till Crandall’s come and gone.”

Severard worked his spotty jaw, sullen. Shit, the boy really was in love with her. “I promise.” And he slipped an arm under Berrick’s and helped him stagger out of the door. Two less little worries, but still the big one to negotiate. Shev stared about, wandering how she could be ready for Crandall’s visit. Routes of escape, hidden weapons, backup plans in case something went wrong.

The coals they used to light the pipes were smouldering away in the tin bowl on their stand. Shev picked up the water jug, thinking to douse them, then reckoned maybe she could fling them in someone’s face if she had to, and just moved the stand back against the wall so she could reach for it easily, coals sliding and popping as she set it down.

“Evening, Shev.” She spun about, trying not to wince at the stab of pain in her side. For a big, big man, Mason sure had a light tread when he felt the need.

Crandall ducked into the Smoke House behind him, looking even more sour than usual. She watched two of his thugs crowd in behind him. Big-Coat with his big coat on and Hands-in-Pockets with his hands still stuffed in his pockets.

The door to the yard creaked open and Pock-Face sidled through and shouldered it shut. So much for the escape route. Shev swallowed. Just get them out fast, and say as little as possible, and do nothing to rile them. That was the trick to it.

“Black suits you,” said Mason, looking her up and down.

“That’s why I wear it,” she said, trying to look relaxed but only getting as far as queasy. “That and the thieving.”

“Got it?” snapped Crandall.

Shev slipped the satchel out from under the counter and tossed it to him, strap flapping.

“Good girl,” he said as he caught it. “Did you open it?”

“None of my business.”

Crandall pulled the satchel open. He poked around inside. He looked up at her, with far from the expression of delight she’d been hoping for. “This a fucking joke?”

“Why would it be?”

“It’s not here.”

“What’s not?”

“What was supposed to be in here!” Crandall shook the satchel at her and the frowns his men wore grew a little bit harder.

Shev swallowed again, a sinking feeling in her gut like she was standing at a cliff edge and could feel the earth crumbling at her feet. “You didn’t say there’d be anything in it. You didn’t say there’d be some champion screamer in the room either. You said get the satchel, and I got it!”

Crandall flung the empty satchel on the floor. “Thought you’d fucking sell it to someone else, didn’t you?”

“What? I don’t even know what
it
is! And if I’d screwed you I wouldn’t be standing here waiting with nothing but a smile, would I?”

“Take me for a fool, do you? Think I didn’t see Carcolf coming out of here?”

“Carcolf? She just came . . . cause she had a job . . . in Talins . . .” Shev trailed off with that same feeling she’d felt when her hands slipped from Varini’s and she’d seen the ground flying up to greet her. Crandall’s men shifted, one of them pulling a jagged-edged knife out, and Mason gave a grimace even bigger than usual and slowly shook his head.

Oh, God. Carcolf had finally fucked her. But not in a good way. Not in a good way at all.

Shev held her hands up, calming, trying to give herself time to think of something. “Look! You said get the satchel and I got it, what else could I do?” She hated the whine in her voice. Knew there was no point begging but couldn’t help herself. Looked to the doors, the thugs slowly closing on her, knew the only question left was how bad they’d hurt her. Crandall stepped towards her, face twisting.

“Look!” she screeched, and he punched her in the side. Far from the hardest punch she’d ever taken, but as bad luck had it his fist landed right where the wagon had, there was a flash of pain through her guts and straight away she doubled up and puked all down his trousers.

“Oh, that’s
it
you fucking little bitch! Hold her.”

The one with the pocked face caught her left arm, and the one with the stupid coat her right and stuck his forearm in her throat and pinned her against the wall, both of them grinning like they hadn’t had so much fun in a while. Shev could’ve been enjoying herself more as one of them waved his knife in her face, her mouth acrid with sick and her side on fire and her eyes crossed as she stared at the bright point.

Crandall snapped his fingers at Mason. “Give me your axe.”

Mason winced. “More’n likely it’s that bitch Carcolf behind all this. Nothing Shevedieh could’ve done. We kill her she can’t help us find what we’re after, eh?”

“It’s past business now,” said Crandall, the little rat-faced nothing, “and onto teaching a lesson.”

“What lesson will this teach? And to who?”

“Just give me your fucking axe!”

Mason didn’t like it, but he made a living doing things he didn’t like. Wasn’t as if this crossed some line. His expression said
I’m real sorry
, but he pulled out his hatchet and slapped the polished handle into Crandall’s palm anyway, turning away in disgust.

Shev twisted like a worm cut in half but she could hardly breathe for the pain in her ribs, and the two bastards had her fast. Crandall leaned closer, caught a fistful of her shirt and twisted it. “I would say it’s been nice knowing you, but it fucking hasn’t.”

“Try not to spatter me this time, boss,” said Pock-Face, closing the bulging eye nearest to her so he didn’t get her brains in it.

Shev gave a stupid whimper, squeezing her eyes shut as Crandall raised the axe.

So that was it, then, was it? That was her life? A shit one, when you thought about it. A few good moments shared with halfway decent folk. A few small kindnesses done. A few little victories clawed from all those defeats. She’d always supposed the good stuff was coming. The good stuff she’d be given. The good stuff she’d give. Turned out this was all there was.

“It is a long time since I saw prayer bells.”

Shev opened her eyes again. The red-haired woman she’d dragged into her bed that morning and forgotten all about was standing larger than life in Shev’s smoke room in that ripped leather vest, peering at the bells on the shelf.

“This is a very fine one.” And she brushed the bronze with her scabbed fingertips. “Second dynasty.”

“Who’s this fucking joker?” snarled Crandall, weighing the hatchet in his hand.

Her eyes shifted lazily over to him. Or the one eye Shev could see did, tangled red hair hanging across the other. That hard-boned face was spattered with bruises, the nose cut and swollen and crusted with blood, the lips split and bloated. But she had this look in that one bloodshot eye as it flickered across Crandall and his four thugs, lingered on Mason a moment, then away. An easy contempt. As though she’d taken their whole measure in that one glance and wasn’t troubled by it one bit.

“I am Javre,” said the woman. She had some strange kind of an accent. From up north somewhere, maybe. “Lioness of Hoskopp and, far from being a joker, I am in fact often told I have a poor sense of humour. Who put me to bed?”

Pinned against the wall by three men, the most Shev could do was raise one finger.

Javre nodded. “That was a kindness I will not forget. Do you have my sword?”

“Sword?” Shev managed to croak, the forearm across her throat easing off as its owner turned to sneer at the new arrival.

Javre hissed through her teeth. “It could be very dangerous if it fell into the wrong hands. It is forged from the metal of a fallen star.”

“She’s mad,” said Crandall.

“Fucking loon,” grunted Hands-in-Pockets.