The Thorn of Dentonhill (11 page)

The Lower Trenn Street Ward was a large stone monstrosity sitting on the southernmost point of Aventil neighborhood, a remnant of a fortress from over a thousand years before, when the city itself ended where Waterpath now ran. Over the centuries, it had served as a garrison. It had been the home for generations of dukes of Maradaine. It had been a prison, had held the royal treasury, and had even been a great library. It had then been abandoned, a hiding place for the city's most wretched, a place of crumbling decay in every sense.

Only for the past fifteen years had it been the Ward, a hospital and asylum for those same wretched. It was as good a place as it could be, given that the duke and the Council of Aldermen gave it barely enough crowns to keep operating.

Veranix pounded on the great wooden door, having laid Maxianne's unconscious body down on the stone steps at the entrance. After a few minutes, a young doctor came to the door, carrying just a candle for light. He was at best only a few years older than Veranix, wearing a leather smock over his shabby clothes. He looked down at Maxianne, then back up. Veranix stayed in the shadows, only letting himself be seen enough so the doctor would know he was there.

“What happened to her?” he asked.

“Effitte,”
Veranix said, “Probably been doing it for years.” The doctor crouched down, opening her eyes and holding the candle close to her face.

“Still get too many of those. Was she talking at all?”

“Some,” Veranix said. “Her name is Maxianne.”

“You bothered to learn her name before you rolled with her,” the doctor said derisively. “And you brought her here afterward. You should put your name in for a saint.”

“Not like that,” Veranix said. “A dealer had used her and left her. I just found her.”

The doctor looked up at him and gave a begrudging grunt of approval. “You should have called a Yellowshield.”

“Didn't think there was time.”

“I meant for you, friend.” The doctor pointed to his shoulder.

“It only looks bad.”

“I know what bad is—”

“Tend to her!”

The doctor pressed his hand to her head. “Not much fever. She has a chance. But if her head isn't gone, she'll just go get another taste once she's on her feet.” He picked up her limp body and draped it over his shoulder.

“Maybe so,” Veranix said. “But she deserves to get on her feet.”

“Why should this buzzed doxy deserve that, friend?”

“They all deserve it, doctor,” Veranix said. He opened the metal box and took out the journal. He closed the box and tossed it over to the doctor. “That's a bit of what the Ward deserves. Use it well.”

The doctor opened the box, his eyes going wide when he saw the money inside. “Hold on, friend!” he called, but Veranix was already gone.

Veranix knew he was hurt, that he shouldn't waste any time, but he was already at the Lower Trenn Ward. He couldn't help but climb up to the fifth floor and look. With a few painful leaps, blood oozing from his shoulder, he was outside the iron-barred window.

There were too many beds, cramped next to each other in the large hall. Even with candles burning throughout, he couldn't see all the way to the other end of the room. It seemed the beds went on forever, full of oblivious, insensible people.

Many of them lay with their eyes open. Some were sitting up, or even moving around. None of them spoke.

His eyes went to his mother's bed. She was sitting up, staring vacantly at the other side of the room. Her hair had recently been cut down to nothing. Veranix forced himself not to be angry about that. She had always kept her hair long, in the Racquin tradition, braided down her back. Wigmakers bought hair from the Ward, especially from these patients, and it helped keep the place running. He still hated seeing it.

What he hated most was seeing her so still. She used to have such grace, her every muscle used to move in such fine-tuned perfection. If any part of her mind was still in there, trapped without voice or words, it must be screaming over the soft lump of nothing her body had become.

He wanted to be able to go inside. To hold his mother's hand and tell her he was there. It didn't matter that she wouldn't be able to speak or even squeeze his hand. She would know he was there, he was certain she would know.

He didn't dare. Colin had made it clear—painfully clear—that Fenmere had eyes on her. Anyone visited her, Fenmere would know. Fenmere had kept her alive almost three years in this state as bait, just to see if there was anyone out there to catch.

For all that time, Veranix had been waiting. He couldn't stand waiting much longer.

Veranix bit his lip to keep from crying. He turned away, not being able to bear seeing her for another moment. Tears pouring down his face, he climbed up to the top of the Ward, and launched himself toward home.

It took the last of his strength to get back to campus. His makeshift bandages had soaked through with blood, and his thoughts were hazy. He was barely able to stand when he reached the back window of the carriage house. He rapped lightly on the window, not for the sake of staying quiet, but because it was all he could manage. The window opened, Kaiana's face full of anger as she hissed at him.

“I can't believe you actually—oh blessed saints!” All her rage melted away as soon as she saw him. Veranix nearly fell over, but she grabbed him, her powerful arms pulling him into her room.

“You should see the other guy,” Veranix managed to say. Then everything went dark.

T
HREE MORNINGS IN
a row now, Fenmere had woken up to bad news. This morning it was waiting in his front parlor. He was going to have to dress properly to greet this problem. He rubbed his eyes and pulled himself out of the bed, pointedly ignoring the outstretched hand of his manservant.

“Set the main table and offer breakfast to our guests, Thomias,” he told the servant. He went over to the chamber basin and relieved himself. “Have Gerrick and Corman join us at the table as well.”

“Very good, sir,” said Thomias, who had moved over to the wardrobe.

“Be about that, then,” Fenmere said. “I'll dress myself.”

“As you say, sir,” Thomias said. He gave a small bow and took the basin as he went to the door.

“And Thomias,” Fenmere called after him, “serve the Imach coffee instead of tea.”

“Of course, sir,” Thomias said. He left, shutting the door behind him.

Fenmere growled to himself as he took out a red silk shirt from the wardrobe. These people needed to be reminded who he was, what he could do. Napolic coffee and Turjin silk would drive it home. He laced up the shirt, and took out the matching vest, his fingers fumbling with frustration as he clasped its gold buttons. He had to force himself to calm down before he went over to the mirror to comb any tangles out of his beard. His hands still shook with rage as he picked up the comb—pure walrus ivory from Bardinæ—and he could barely manage to use it.

“Get a hold of yourself,” he muttered to his reflection. “You are Willem Fenmere, and no one messes with you.”

He stared into his own eyes and said it again. He kept saying it until he believed it.

Fenmere came down the stairs to his dining room, where his guests had already begun breakfast. Only four seats at the end of the long table were being used. On one side were old Gerrick and Corman. Corman was a brains and numbers man, but he was also big and broad shouldered. Fenmere never used Corman as muscle, but he looked the part.

On the other side were the mages from the Blue Hand Circle, Fenrich Kalas and Lord Sirath. Kalas dressed the part of a gentleman, with his dark hair and mustache groomed a little too neatly. Kalas always gave Fenmere the impression that he was playing a role, deliberately putting on a mask of how he was expected to behave around “normal” people. Lord Sirath was an impossibly thin man. Fenmere had known more than a few wizards, and they were always skinny, but not like Lord Sirath. His skin looked pale and stretched, almost colorless, and his dark eyes were deep sunken into his head. He didn't look so much like a man as a walking skeleton, save for the bright shock of red hair, which he kept long and unkempt. Unlike Kalas, Lord Sirath never bothered putting on airs of any sort.

Both the mages were eating voraciously, though Kalas was doing it with a sense of manners. Lord Sirath was like a wolf feasting on the deer he had just felled. Gerrick and Corman watched them eat in transfixed horror. Gerrick had pushed his own plate away.

Fenmere steeled his nerves and approached the table.

“Lord Sirath,” he said brightly as he approached. “I'm so pleased you could join us this morning.”

“Mmm,” Sirath grunted. He grabbed the loaf of bread sitting on the table and tore off a hunk with his bare hands. “You fix it?”

“Fix it?” Fenmere asked, sitting at the head of the table. He waved a finger to one of the butlers, who came and poured a hot, steaming cup of the Imach coffee. “By ‘it' you mean . . .”

Kalas pointed his fork at Fenmere. “What Lord Sirath means is, have you recovered the items he has paid so handsomely for? And the answer is, no, you have not.” Fenmere bottled up his stewing anger. He did not like Kalas's tone. He did not like people pointing anything at him, even forks.

“No, we have not,” Fenmere said. He sipped the coffee with deliberate slowness to control his feelings. “Unless there's been developments in the night that I've yet to be informed of, Mister Gerrick?”

“No, sir,” Gerrick said. “Not in terms of recovering the stolen goods.” Fenmere caught a glance from Gerrick that told him other things did happen last night, and they were not good.

“We have had very good dealings with you in the past, Fenmere,” Kalas said. “Thus we counted on you to be able to handle these items with the level of delicacy which they require.”

Fenmere smiled pleasantly at his guests. “A snag. A minor one, to be sure.”

“A pest!” Lord Sirath rasped. “A thief!”

“That he is, Lord Sirath,” Fenmere said. A butler came and brought over his plate. “But we do have certain assurances with this pest, and this merchandise.”

“It is not merchandise!” Kalas snapped.

“No, of course not,” Fenmere said.

“But our thief will not realize that,” Corman said. “Given the unique nature of your . . . goods, he can't possibly understand what he actually has. In all likelihood, he will try and sell the things he stole, and any fence who tries to move the items will inevitably lead back to us.”

Kalas scowled. “Presuming he is local to this neighborhood.”

“We do have influence outside of Dentonhill,” Corman said. “We are pushing our contacts. Everyone knows that no common thief will get away with stealing from Willem Fenmere.”

“Common, hmm,” Sirath said. He stabbed a fork into the sausage on Gerrick's plate and shoved it into his mouth.

“We will take care of him,” Gerrick said cautiously. “We have our own talent for this sort of thing.”

“Talent, indeed,” Sirath said, while chewing on the sausage.

“Yes,” Fenmere said. “Believe me, Lord Sirath, we will look in every bramble for this particular thorn.”

Kalas had finished his own meal, and was using a spoon to scrape all possible remnants off the plate. “We are anxious to see the results of your search. We did try searching ourselves, tracking the items by our own means. Unfortuntately, the trail became . . . muddled.”

Corman leaned in to Fenmere. “The incident at Saint Polmeta's.”

“I'm aware.” Fenmere said. “We have taken care of the mess there.” Kalas's boys had torn two priests to ribbons, and Fenmere had convinced one of his men at Constabulary to pin it on Francis, who was already too dead to complain.

“Thank you for that,” Kalas said. “After everything you have done, we'd hate to decide you were of no use to us.”

Fenmere wanted to slap Kalas in his smug, hollow-cheeked face, but that wouldn't do. “I would remind you, Mister Kalas, you came to us for this delivery because you had failed in your own attempts to smuggle it into Maradaine. Multiple attempts. Let alone everything else we do for you.”

“Speaking of,” Corman said, “our books do show you have been delinquent in payment for our latest delivery of, the . . .” He faltered, as Sirath was staring hard at him, baring his teeth.

“Livestock,” Kalas supplied. “Yes, we have been. Which is why we are being so forgiving now, giving you an opportunity to rectify your error. We need them by the evening of the thirteenth.”

“What is today, Corman?” Fenmere asked.

“The tenth, sir.”

“Three days, then.” Fenmere put on his best smile. “I'm sure my people will come through in that time—”

“Find my items!” Sirath hissed. He stood up from the table, grabbing the other half of the bread loaf he had mangled earlier.

“So commands Lord Sirath.” Kalas nodded as he stood up.

Gerrick coughed loudly. “I was wondering, Lord Sirath. Where is your estate?”

“What?” Sirath spat out, turning back to Gerrick.

“I was curious,” Gerrick said. Sirath fumed, his eyes piercing, but Gerrick held his ground. This was why Fenmere loved Gerrick so much: no one scared him. “As you are a lord, there must be an estate to go with the title. What are your parentage and holdings?”

“Bah! I need no parentage or holdings!” Sirath spat, and the plate sitting in front of Gerrick shattered. Despite being struck by eggs and porcelain, Gerrick did not flinch.

“As you say,” Gerrick said. Sirath stalked out toward the main door.

“Three days, Mister Fenmere,” Kalas said. “The Circle of the Blue Hand cannot spare any more. Good day to you.” He nodded and followed Sirath out.

As soon as the door closed, Fenmere let out the breath he wasn't even aware he was holding. “That went poorly,” Fenmere said. “What else is there?”

“The Thorn struck again last night,” Corman said. “Mister Nevin is waiting in the back courtyard.”

“Nevin?” Fenmere asked. He jogged his memory. “Dealer boss?”

“Yes, sir. Shall we?” Corman got up from the table, leading the way.

Gerrick followed behind, wiping off his coat. “Ridiculous!” he muttered as they went into the kitchen. “You can't just decide on a whim to call yourself ‘Lord this' just because you feel like it!”

“That's the part you're angry about?” Corman said.

“I'm angry about a lot of things,” Gerrick said, “but that just finishes it. It's pretentious and presumptuous. Why the blazes does he think he's better than us, and why should we take it?”

“The Circle makes a useful ally, Gerrick,” Fenmere said. “We'll put up with that. At least until we rectify matters on our end.”

“Great wizard or no, if he keeps up that attitude, I'll put a knife in his belly.”

“Not today, Gerrick,” Fenmere said, hard as stone. He led the way out through the kitchen to the back courtyard, where Nevin waited. Nevin's face was a mess of bruises, one arm in a sling. He managed to look contrite and angry at the same time, holding his cap in his good hand, while his eyes burned.

“Mister Fenmere, sir,” he said. “Sorry to say, I let you down.”

“You had a run-in with the Thorn,” Fenmere said.

“He came to my flop. My boys, it seems, gave me away. I'll attend to that.”

“I'm sure you will, Nevin. You get a good look at him?”

“Afraid not, sir,” Nevin said. “Gave him a right good scrap, though. Weren't for his fancy rope, I'd have had him.”

“Rope?” Fenmere asked. His blood began to boil again. “He was using a rope?”

“Oy, yes. Threw me out the window with it.”

“He's using it?” Fenmere said half to himself. “That confirms it. The Thorn is a blasted mage!”

“He is?” Nevin asked. “That explains what my boys said.”

“I've underestimated him, then,” Fenmere said. He clapped Nevin on his good arm. “You gave him a good fight, though?”

“Best I had, sir,” Nevin said. “Wasn't good enough.”

“All right,” Fenmere said. Nevin was the right sort. Fenmere knew better than to punish him further for just getting beat. “You take care of the squealers you've got, you hear?”

“Trust me. They'll be wishing they were in the river by noon.”

“Good man.”

“He threw my flat, though, sir. Found my lockbox.”

“You lost money?” Fenmere said.

“A few hundred, sir, but that's my problem. I'll round that back up.” Fenmere nodded. Nevin cleaned up his own messes, and took responsibility. He wished he had more men like Nevin. “But my book was in there as well.”

“The book's in code, though, right?” Gerrick said. “Shouldn't matter.”

Fenmere thought it through, stroking his beard. “The Thorn is clever, and we've been underestimating him. He might break the code.”

“He does, he'll know when the next
effitte
drop-off is,” said Nevin. “That seems to be what he cares about.”

“You're sure about that?”

“That's what my boys told me. He was on a tear about keeping
effitte
from crossing Waterpath.”

Fenmere paced around the courtyard. “When is the next drop-off for Nevin, Gerrick?”

“Two days from now. Midnight in the park. I can move things around with—”