Assassin of Dragonclaw (Nysta Book 7) Page 10

  “He shouldn’t have touched me. Told him not to.”

  “Then you killed his brother and four others who got in your way.”

  The elf sighed. “You’re remembering the wrong thing, Myrna. I’m talking about when I walked in. Before all that.”

  “You spoke to Powell. You told him you had no coin.”

  “Asked if I could pay later. I’d been to a dozen other places before I got here. Was trying to forget a few things while healing old wounds. Wanted a quiet place to sit. To drink. That’s all. Figured when my hands finished healing, I’d make enough to cover any debts.”

  “He should’ve told you no.”

  “Maybe he should’ve. But he didn’t. Took something special from me as a marker.”

  “Special?” Myrna couldn’t prevent the snort. “It was just an old box.”

  The elf touched a hand to the pouch which protected it now. “All I had left of my husband.”

  “Husband?” The woman blinked. “You were married?”

  “Long time ago. In a place far from here.”

  Strangled voice. “What happened to him?”

  “He died. Was killed by some fellers who lived long enough to regret it.”

  “Oh.” She leaned back into the corner as though trying to sink into the shadows. “I’m sorry, Nysta. No one deserves to lose someone they love. And maybe you can see that’s why I don’t want to lose him. Especially not for some stupid market gossip.”

  “Even if it were true, I wouldn’t take your gold. Powell trusted me. Ain’t many people in Dragonclaw who’d trust me like that without wanting a whole lot more in return. Reckon I owe him enough not to stick a knife in his back.”

  “I want to leave this city,” Myrna said. “I want to go far away. But he refuses to leave. Says he put all his gold into it and won’t let them take it from him. Like you, he’s got too much pride. He’s stubborn. Can’t see they’ll take it from him one day. And when they do, maybe they’ll kill him. Leave him lying in the street for the Alley Rats to pick over. These rumours? I know they spread them. I know it. Who else would be that cruel?”

  “Who’s that, Myrna?”

  “His family. His cursed fucking family. His uncle, mostly. They can’t understand why he wants nothing to do with them. That he grew sick of their games. Instead, they believe he’s plotting against them. It’s all so stupid.” She wrung her hands, twisting them tight. “We should’ve left. Should’ve gone to Doom’s Reach. We could’ve opened an inn there and been happy instead of always looking over our shoulder waiting for someone like you to slit our throats.”

  “Someone like me?”

  “You know what I mean. Your kind.”

  The elf’s lip curled a little to the scar on her cheek. “Maybe I’m a new kind, Myrna.”

  Myrna finally pulled her fingers apart and studied the elf.

  Dragged a hand across her cheek, smearing grime across pale skin. “I hope so, Nysta. I really hope Powell didn’t make a mistake in trusting you.”

  “And if that’s your way of thanking me for earlier, then don’t sweat it.”

  “I was getting to that!”

  “Should’ve got there sooner,” the elf said as she rolled off the bed. Started the quick process of brushing her hands across the many knife handles both seen and unseen. Her stomach had finally had enough of listening to the sausage vendor ply his trade. Also, her head hurt trying to figure out what Myrna was trying to say. Was she grateful? Did she want Nysta to do something about Powell’s family? Either way, the elf had her own problems. She had to figure out how to get to the alchemist, Damis. Had to first find out where he was holed up. Then how to get in. Her stomach growled again. “Anything else you want, Myrna?”

  “No. No, I guess not.” Hesitation. “Thank you. I mean it, Nysta. I really do. No matter what I think of what you do, it’s not always what I think you are. If that makes sense? I don’t know why you really helped us. But, thank you. I know you said we don’t owe you, but I think we do.”

  “Sure.”

  “Where are you going?”

  The elf swept from the room. “To put something more than words in my mouth.”

  For some reason, Myrna’s gratitude irritated her.

  She hadn’t killed the small gang for gratitude. Or even a reward.

  Had it been because she wanted to defend Powell and his inn? Not really. If it burned down today, she wasn’t sure she’d care too much. Plenty of inns in the city, and she’d managed to try most of them since finding ways to trickle coins into her pockets.

  Had she killed because of the terror she’d seen in Myrna’s eyes as the scrawny kid held her tight?

  Not that, either.

  It’d just seemed like something she’d wanted to do. She’d seen the three men. Seen their dead friend. Just figured she wanted to kill them.

  No reason she could put words to.

  Maybe, if she thought about it more, she could convince herself it was because she was defending her home. But Nearne had made it clear she already had a home.

  The room at Powell’s was only temporary. And what did she keep in the tiny little room?

  Nothing.

  She wore her belongings in her pouches. In her pockets. Sheaths.

  There was nothing to defend.

  Was there?

  It was hard to tell the time of day in the winding narrow streets, especially when the meagre light provided by the sun was almost gone. The first threads of fog were caressing the rooftops above and would soon descend.

  Magelights, dim for most of the day, were flickering brighter. Ready to defend the city from the dark.

  She paused in front of the small stand, absorbing the fragrant smell and digging in her pouch for a few precious copper coins.

  The day seemed to have moved quickly, she thought.

  And nothing so far had gone how she’d wanted it to go.

  First, she’d gone to meet Hideg only to find herself in what had seemed to be a trap.

  Then the job he’d offered was one which promised much but looked too easy to be true.

  And on the way back from that meeting, someone tried warning her off. Someone who’d managed to evade her like she was a child running through the streets.

  Made her feel stupid just thinking about it.

  Then, just a few hours ago, she’d been killing the last members of a local gang inside Powell’s inn. Dragged one into the street to cut his throat in front of everyone passing by.

  The old bastard’s blood was still drying in the street behind her.

  Killing them hadn’t been a part of her plan for the day.

  Since coming to Dragonclaw, nothing seemed to go how she thought it would.

  A trend which looked set to continue because, as she watched in growing confusion, the sausage seller wrapped the sausage in a square of soft bread and handed it to her.

  She frowned. Why was it inside bread?

  Sweat dotted his wide red cheeks as he used a small ladle to drizzle steaming red sauce over the top of the creation in her fist. Smell of onion and chilli hit hard.

  Was this a joke?

  Her violet eyes flicked up to his and she saw no hint of humour there. Just the tension of someone who’d seen her slit a man’s throat and was now worried she’d do the same to his if she felt like it.

  He froze, ladle dripping. Words tumbled through his teeth like dry spiders. “Is everything okay?”

  “What meat’s in this?”

  Wincing, the man struggled to know whether the truth would get him killed or not. “It’s genuine yak meat. Fresh, I promise. My brother cut this one up only last night.”

  “Yak? You sure it ain’t a dog?”

  “Dog?” His cheeks reddened even further and a spark of anger whittled at his fear. “What the fuck would I use dog for? That’s yak! And only the best damn cuts, too. Better than what the Duke himself is eating tonight, I’ll wager. Dog? Do I look like an Alley Rat to you? Go on. You eat it. Take a bite!
You tell me that’s dog. If you think that’s dog, then you can fucking well cut my neck right here. Dog. Grim’s teeth in a fucking basket. Dog, she says.”

  “Relax, feller,” she said at last. Shrugged. “Figure this day’s just been one strange snag after another.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  The Red Claw worked out of the west side of the city. But it was a big city, and the west side wasn’t exactly small. The Red Claws had a large volcano, for sure, but also small blockhouses. Probably owned warehouses. More than one other tower.

  Add to that, they’d be offering protection to dozens more. Protection those towers couldn’t afford not to pay for. And the price wasn’t always in coin. Towers had plenty of rooms which could be used by the gang.

  Attics.

  Basements.

  Lots of places an alchemist’s lab could be set up in secret.

  Each more unlikely than the last.

  Maybe she could’ve asked Hideg more questions. But despite her distrust of the man, she wanted the job. Needed it.

  So, she’d nodded along and not asked too many questions.

  Which left her having to look for answers in places people don’t like to talk.

  In the third tavern, she found a tired-faced old man serving behind the counter. Reached out and grabbed him by the arm when he did his best to ignore her.

  “Feller, I’ve about had enough of not being listened to,” she said. “So I’ll ask one time. Real polite. Then, if I don’t like what I hear, I’ll take this knife and I’ll put it through your forearm. Pin you to this bar. I’m looking to get hold of some Shadow. You’re going to tell me who can sell it to me. You’re going to tell me before I count five.”

  “Look, this ain’t-”

  “One.”

  “-the kind of-”

  “Two.”

  “-place you can just-”

  “Three.”

  “-barge into and-”

  “Four.”

  Whatever he saw when he looked into her violet eyes as she said that last icy number broke him. Broke him fast. So fast he blurted words in a rushed tumble. “Okay, okay! Don’t hurt me. Okay. It’s the Fish you’re looking for. Okay? The Fish. You want to speak to the Fish.”

  “The Fish?”

  “Yeah. Fritjof. They call him the Fish because he smells like fish. He don’t mind about that. He ain’t a bad sort. It’s why I didn’t want to tell you nothin’.” He sighed. “Didn’t want you taking your kind of trouble to him. He don’t deserve it.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Three streets back. On the corner there’s a store selling cloth. You know, silk and shit. Can’t miss it. Next to that, the Red Goose Tower. Can’t miss that. It’s a big fucking red piece of shit. Go on up on level five. Green door. That’s the Fish’s house. I ain’t seen him around lately, but there’s enough traffic in and out. So, he’s always home. He never moved away, you see. After what happened…” He pulled himself free and stuck his hands on his hips. “You go and get your shit from him if that’s what you’re really after. But if you hurt that boy, you better know he’s got some tough friends. Maybe tougher than you.”

  “I doubt that.”

  Then, as she spun away and out the door; “Long-ear, you sure as fuck don’t want to test that attitude of yours.”

  His words failed to irritate.

  Outside, evening reflected the bartender’s sullen mood.

  Magelight cast heavy shadows across the walls. Water dripped from above. Whether it was rain or from the leaking pipes, she couldn’t tell. Didn’t really want to know. She dodged it as best she could and headed toward the Red Goose Tower.

  Crossed a small bridge between the first and second street. The bridge humped the back of a sickly little stream whose putrid stench made her wince.

  Looking to where it curved through the city, she saw a skinny mutt making its way along the side.

  A few kids threw stones at it.

  It shied away, trotting faster, but didn’t seem bothered.

  As though the chase of violence was nothing new.

  The old man hadn’t lied, and she saw the gaudy shop on the corner. Shook her head at sight of it. Bright cloth flapped in the growing breeze.

  Illuminated by a nearby oil lamp.

  A cacophony of colour which assaulted more than delighted.

  Shuddering, she sought the tower he’d said was next to the shop.

  Tall and rigid, the straight-lined structure oozed brutality. Dominated the street. The entrance was open.

  Three skinny figures slunk down the street. Another two huddled in front of the entrance, crouched over a pair of small cups.

  They batted at each other like cats who couldn’t decide if their fight was serious or play. Slurred through drugged lassitude, a language invented in the moment. Yet the meaning was clear. Each word uttered spoke of desperate need to drink more of the alchemist’s mysterious brew.

  The elf had seen such sights too many times to be interested. Not just in Dragonclaw.

  In Lostlight it was all too common. She’d spent a while doing the same. A blur of months which passed in a haze she could barely recall.

  All of which ended in a sharp explosion of blood pouring over her hand.

  Jaw tight, she stepped into the light beside the shop and aimed herself at the Red Goose.

  The two addicts didn’t even notice. Kept touching each other with careful aggression. Murmuring softly. Changing tone. A lover’s quarrel? It was hard to tell.

  Inside, the atrium was strewn with trash. Mostly pots and jars. An old man squatted on the edge of the debris, polishing a few small jugs. Would probably sell them somewhere. He didn’t look up.

  Stairs led upward. Solid stone. Where some had crumbled away, they were repaired with brittle wood. Spots of mould and whitewash peeling from the walls.

  The smell inside the atrium was musty and the air completely still. Dust motes floated in the magelights, lost among small clouds of insects. Open to the sky, she could see dark clouds drifting. A windmill in the corner turned with reluctant creaks. Pumped water from a well into copper pipes which ran through the building like a metallic web.

  She passed dozens of doors. Most were locked. Some were barred.

  A few were open.

  A young child, maybe five years old, sat in the mouth of one open door. Looked at her as she passed. Wide blue eyes. Big cheeks. He had a coloured wooden toy pressed to his gums and his gaze didn’t change. He didn’t look interested. Didn’t look afraid.

  Didn’t smile.

  Just watched as she walked past.

  An old lady, hands on hips, tutted. Slammed her own door when the elf aimed her gaze.

  On the fifth level, the elf had to walk carefully. The walkways were mostly roped together or kept in place with wire and nails. Each step let out a squeak and the wood floor bowed beneath her weight.

  She didn’t look down.

  Went straight to the green door.

  It opened on first knock.

  “Yeah?”

  Surly mixed with distrust. And boredom.

  Three things which suddenly ignited a dreadful impatience in her gut. And churned the icy ball.

  She kicked the door open, sending the heavyset man staggering three steps back with eyes wide and arms flailing. He went for a short club at his hip and only stopped when she hissed up in front of him, jagged edge of Tooth of the Fergunakil hard against the side of his neck. “You feel it?”

  He swallowed. Bead of sweat dribbled onto the blade. Bristles rasped against the razor edge. “I feel it.”

  “The rain.”

  “What?”

  “Can you feel the rain? It’s coming.”

  His breathing paused.

  Thought she was an addict who’d lost her mind. Fear sweated from his brow.

  Suddenly afraid as he realized she’d be capable of anything. “Ah, shit.”

  “Makes me feel the cold more,” she said. “And nothing warms the skin like f
resh blood. So, feller. You gonna try for it? You might make it before I rip your throat open. Doubt it, though.”

  His hand stopped moving toward the club. A thick length of wood strapped with iron studs. Fingers twitched before he moved his arms high. Palms out. “I’m easy.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Depends who you ask. Most of the guys call me Headjam, on account of them thinking I ain’t got anything up here if you get what I mean. I don’t care what they think, though. The Fish, he calls me Spud. But my ma calls me Tati.”

  “Well, Tati. Where is he? Where’s the Fish?”

  “Right in the room there. You gonna hurt him? You don’t need to hurt him, long-ear. He ain’t all that bad.”

  “Yeah. So I heard.” She sucked on her teeth. “I ain’t here to kill him. Also ain’t here to kill you. But I will if either of you don’t give me what I want. Or try to stop me getting it. You understand?”

  “You’re looking for some Shadow?”

  “Nope.”

  “Coin? We ain’t got much. Couple of silver, maybe.”

  “Ain’t after your scraps.”

  “What, then?” Frustration.

  “That’s between me and the Fish. Now, you move on in there. Nice and slow. Don’t get any stupid ideas.”

  “Believe me, I ain’t thinking a fucking thing.”

  He moved slowly into the room, nudging it open with his hip rather than drop his hands. Didn’t even test her patience as she slid around behind him, knife never moving from his skin.

  Showed he wasn’t as stupid as the locals thought by allowing her to lead him inside the dim-lit room.

  Three steps in, she winced. “The fuck is that stink?”

  “Yeah,” he said. Shrugged heavy shoulders. “Takes a bit of getting used to.”

  When the old bartender had said Fritjof smelled of fish, he wasn’t telling the complete truth. He didn’t smell of it. He reeked of it. Old rancid fish which had rotted in a puddle of shit.

  Using the knife to guide Tati out of her way, she looked down at the man called the Fish and had to resist gagging in disgust.

  He was flopped on a couple of cushions beside a stack of crates. A small candle burned on one. Wax dribbling in a wide crescent.