The Spell of Undoing (9 page)

‘Absolutely not!’ Fontagu said crossly to Tab. He always got cross when he was frightened. ‘Count me out. There is nothing you can say to change my mind.’

An hour later, Tab was creeping along a wall, keeping to the shadows. She came to a sudden stop. Somebody bumped into her from behind.

‘Fontagu!’

‘You said to stay close,’ came his nervous reply.

‘Not that close!’

Fontagu grumbled, backing off an inch or two. He looked furtively about in all directions. ‘This is a big mistake,’ he hissed, not for the first time. ‘They'll slit our throats and make us beg for mercy!’

‘Probably not in that order,’ said Tab, but she kept her voice too low for Fontagu to hear. She had to admit it was a crazy plan. Even stage one was crazy: that is, enter the Thieves’ Quarter unarmed and at night. It was well known that the city watchmen themselves avoided the quarter after dark, unless they were at least a squadron strong, or on a suicide mission.

Tab gave Fontagu a quick look. Once again, she nearly laughed. He had donned a thief's outfit, as he called it. He wore baggy pantaloons, a gold-braided vest with brass buttons and puffed sleeves, a head scarf, and – as usual – a fake wooden sword painted silver to look real. Tab had had a big job talking him out of wearing an eye patch.

‘You read too many trashy stories,’ she had told him in exasperation.

It wasn't hard finding the tavern called
The Purple Wart,
partly because some enterprising owner had paid to have a gigantic nose bearing a wart, complete with little wart hairs, erected above the main door. By some magic, the wart even changed colour, from red to blue to glorious purple.

‘Charming,’ said Tab, eyeing the monstrosity. ‘You sure that's the place?’

Fontagu nodded. ‘Can I go now?’

‘Sure.’

‘Really?’ Fontagu seemed surprised.

‘Yep,’ said Tab. ‘If you want to walk all the way back through the Thieves’ Quarter by yourself wearing those ridiculous clothes, be my guest.’

Fontagu straightened up and looked down his nose at her. ‘My clothes are not ridiculous,’ he said.

‘I take it that means you're coming with me?’

Fontagu sniffed. ‘As concern for a child of your tender years is always my first priority, I do believe that in this case my presence is required, in spite of the obvious danger to my person.’

‘Could you repeat that?’ asked Tab. ‘No, don't bother. I'll remind you of it later if I need to.’

Fontagu bristled but said nothing.

Tab checked the street. All was clear. ‘Ready?’ she asked Fontagu.

He gulped and nodded. He appeared to have something wrong with his voice.

Tab hurried across the street to the tavern and pushed open the door. The hubbub dwindled gradually. All eyes were fixed on Tab and Fontagu, and not all of them were friendly. In fact, very few of them were.

Tab took a deep breath and headed across the room. According to Fontagu, who seemed to have an uncommonly detailed knowledge of the Quentaran underworld, the man Tab sought kept a booth at the back of
The Purple Wart
once or twice a week.

She was almost across the room when a thickset troll stepped out of an archway in front of her. His broad shoulders blocked out the door. By the smell of him, he was a drainer.

Tab looked up into the troll's mad, blazing eyes. She swallowed. No one in their right mind messed with a troll. Especially one with such disgusting breath and so many teeth.

‘Er, hello … ’ said Tab, sounding as friendly as she could.

The troll thrust out his hand and growled. His blubbery mouth twitched. Tab got the definite impression he was about to bite off her head, when –

‘Leave her be, Vrod,’ said a voice.

‘Sweet meat, good eating,’ the troll said. His voice sounded like gravel being crushed.

A hand tapped Vrod on the shoulder and the troll stepped grudgingly aside, though he never took his mad eyes off Tab.

Tab shifted her gaze to the man now standing before her. His eyes suddenly flashed in recognition. ‘You?’ he said in amazement. It was the same man who had tried to steal the magicians’ icefire gem more than a year ago, the same man she had locked in the pantry.

Great, Tab thought to herself. Just great.

She started to back away. ‘Uh … I think I made a mistake.’ She turned, intending to dart for the door.

‘Seize her!’ yelled the man. She felt vice-like arms close around her and she was lifted off the floor. ‘Bring the other one too.’

Tab heard Fontagu's whinnying whimper close behind as they were taken to a booth against the far wall. Tab was shoved into a seat and Fontagu squeezed hurriedly in next to her, looking as if he was ready to burst into tears. ‘Don't hurt me, please, please don't hurt me,’ he wailed over and over.

‘Vrod,’ said the tall man. ‘Shut him up. Nicely.’

Fontagu suddenly found a wad of phlegm-smeared cloth had been shoved in his mouth. His eyes widened indignantly but Vrod leaned down close to his face. Fontagu tried an unsuccessful smile.

‘That will do, Vrod.’ The tall man seated himself opposite them. His eyes narrowed as he looked at Tab. ‘I don't take kindly to being locked in a closet and left waiting for the tender attentions of magicians!’

‘Sorry about that. But I did set you free. You know, the string –?’

‘Ah, yes. The string. I suppose I do have you to thank for that. Imprisoned me, then freed me. Well, in that case, drinks all round.’ He shouted orders. When he turned back he saw a look of such confusion on Tab's face that he burst out laughing.

‘Come now, we must have honour among thieves. There is so little any place else!’

‘Does that mean you're not going to kill us?’

‘Kill you? Why, perish the thought. Not only do I owe you my life, twice over – for I would never have made it out of there alive had I had the gem with me! – but I bow before a greater thief than I.’ And he did just that. He stood up and bowed to her in a princely fashion.

Tab squirmed uncomfortably.

Fontagu gurgled something. ‘I think he's trying to say he helped,’ said Tab. Fontagu nodded vigorously. The tall man saluted him.

‘Now tell me why a slip of a girl like yourself, and one such as he’ – he indicated Fontagu – ‘would take such a risk as to come to a place like this at night?’

‘Are you Lord Verris?’

The tall man blinked. ‘I am he indeed. And at your service.’

‘Then I need your help,’ said Tab. ‘Quentaris needs your help … ’

__________________________

**
Indeed, a whole new vocabulary had sprung up this last year:
uppermost
meant the topmost sections of the masts, including the crow's nests or lookouts;
uppity
meant someone who thought they were too good for plain folk, and should be a sky sailor;
uptime
meant the duration of one's stay amongst the sails and rigging; and
uptowner
had come to mean those sailors and officers who lived permanently aloft like the former roofies, rarely coming down, except in death; even the adjective
uppish
had come to mean something quite fine, or splendid.

Verris left the Sailors’ Guild headquarters with a spring in his step and misgivings in his heart.

Thinking back on his conversation with Captain Bellgard, he hoped that he hadn't been duped by the girl. For sure, she had risked much in coming to see him, and had already lost her job at the guild for trying to convince the magicians. But if he had read her wrong, then he and his crew were about to become a permanent part of the Sailors’ Guild – a
submissive
part, one that had to take orders.

On the other hand, if he were right, he would soon be head of a semi-independent yet-to-be-named new guild. Navies were good at keeping their ships afloat – a full-time job in itself. It was a bit much to expect them to be specialists in
two
areas at the same time.

Hence the need for a corps of marines. And a Marine Commander. Once, long ago, the marines had been the navy's fighting force, going where the navy could not always go: on sea
and
on land.

He found Borges and told him about the deal he had struck with Captain Bellgard.

Borges stared at him, aghast. ‘And what was wrong with our old guild?’

‘And which one would that be?’ asked Verris merrily.

‘The Thieves’ Guild!’

‘Ah, that one. Well, let me ask you, Borges, when was the last time we had good pickings and lots of work?’

Borges stroked his beard, glowering. ‘You know damn well. It was before we stepped foot in this accursed city!’

‘But why? We could ply our trade here, could we not?’

Borges stared at Verris like he was mad. ‘And go where?’ he demanded. ‘We're trapped in this rat cage like everybody else, with no boltholes, and no escape! If we knocked over a big job, the City Watch would track us down in a minute.’

‘Exactly my point,’ said Verris. ‘There's no future in it, unless we want to become petty crooks, and that's not my style. So we're branching out.’

Borges gave him a helpless look. ‘But why this?’

‘Because we're good at it.’

‘The Venerable Lightfingers won't like it. Some people are happy with the old ways.’

Verris shrugged nonchalantly. ‘He can have the Thieves’ Guild all to himself. Him and the other beg gars.’ Verris rested a hand on Borges’ shoulder. ‘The rest of us will do very nicely as marines.’

Borges sighed resignedly. ‘If you say so.’

Verris looked up at the straining sails. Taut ropes hummed and cross-spars creaked, and the wind whistled through the rigging. They were making good speed.

Orders had been issued to tack towards a dense cloud bank on the eastern horizon, but only because Verris had pushed the matter and because Captain Bellgard was enjoying the thought that soon he would have a lord at his beck and call, though he hadn't quite decided whether to make the former Prince of Thieves a petty officer, or something even more subservient.

Bellgard was no fool. He had seized the chance with both hands. He had heard the story of the girl with bad dreams and did not credit it for a second, but Quentaris was undeniably undermanned, especially by experienced fighters. If he won this bet, he would have two hundred extra hands on deck, plus an even larger number of small-time crooks who would probably feel comfortable working under Verris.

And if he lost, well, they would have another guild on Quentaris but a fighting force just the same. Of course, he would have to put up with Verris as some kind of equal, but really he quite liked the man. He would never admit it, but he had a grudging respect for the man who stole from the rich and, just as often, gave half of it to the poor.

Bellgard scowled at himself. He must be getting soft.

Verris and Borges looked out over the portside battle ments. Verris mused that he would be much happier when they drew close to the cloud bank, for in truth he
needed
Tolrush to attack. And with that thought in mind, he had marshalled his forces.

Overhead, within easy reach of his signal, was a clog – a small wooden cabin attached by rope to a crane high above, one of several upside machines used to swing sky sailors quickly from one mast or spar to another, in case of emergency. Verris had managed to commandeer three such cranes. With these, his combined fighting force of roughly three hundred men and women could be swiftly deployed to any point on Quentaris’ perimeter.