The Thorn of Dentonhill (5 page)

Instinct told him to hold off, let the old man and the money go. Taking on two thugs was risk enough.

The old man pushed off from the pier into the darkness.

“I hate this,” the bruised thug said.

“Let's get this thing and get out of here,” the other said. The two of them found the rope and began to pull. After a few minutes of straining, a heavy, wet sack emerged. Just as they got it onto the pier, Veranix shot the first arrow at the bruised man. Before even seeing where it struck, he drew a second and shot it at the other one.

The shots weren't as true as Veranix hoped; the bruised man took one in the knee, the other in the arm. Both men cried out, and one dropped to the ground. The other drew out his sword with his good arm. Veranix leaped to the street, another arrow nocked. He snapped out another shot, and struck the man in the left shoulder.

“You're gonna get it for that, whelp!” the man said.

“Why don't you just kick the sack over instead?” Veranix said, drawing another arrow. “You're not getting off the pier this way.”

“I'm gonna kick you! Come on, Bell!”

Bell, the bruised man, did his best to stand up again, as the other ran at Veranix. Veranix shot the arrow. It sailed past the charging man, who closed the distance faster than expected. Veranix had to drop the bow and flip backward to avoid the slash of the man's sword.

Last night, Veranix had to run away. Tonight he had no intention of running. Last night, he was in a small room with no space to jump and dodge. Here he was in the open. Last night, he was unarmed. Tonight, he had his staff. It was in his hands when he landed on his feet again.

Two slashes of the sword were easily parried, the cheap weapon barely making a nick on his staff. Veranix kept moving, doing flips and jabs, never giving his opponent a still target.

“Get him, Francis!” Bell shouted.

“I'm trying!” Francis replied, desperately swinging at the empty space Veranix was just in. “He bounces around like a sideshow freak!”

Veranix struck him on the left side. “Don't be insulting, Francis.” He blocked another attack, and then kicked at Francis's knee. “I was never in the sideshow.” Francis crumpled. The staff greeted him in the chin as he dropped, and he fell backward. Veranix leaned over his unconscious body. “I was always the main attraction.”

Bell was up, weight on one leg, his sword out, but he hadn't come closer.

“You again?” he asked.

“I didn't have theater tickets,” Veranix said. “This show is much more interesting.”

“You can't have the sack,” Bell said. “No chance.”

“Nasty bruise,” Veranix said. “Punishment for losing me last night?” With a magic-assisted jump, he did a double flip and landed on a support post near Bell. It was pure showmanship, intimidation. It worked. Bell's face gave away his fear.

“Exactly.” He pointed his sword at Veranix, but still didn't close the distance.

“Must have really flamed Fenmere, then,” Veranix said. “I take that sack, he'll be fit to burn.”

“Not just him. You have no idea,” Bell said.

“I've got forty thousand ideas,” Veranix said. “If I give you a matching bruise on the other side of the head, you think he'll forgive you?”

“You'll have to kill me,” Bell said. His face was pale and clammy, and he was straining just to keep his sword up.

“Then I'd lose my favorite thug,” Veranix said. “Besides, who will tell Fenmere that I took his package?”

“Who are you?” Bell asked.

“Just the constant thorn in Fenmere's side.” Veranix said.

He leaped at Bell, knocking the sword out of the way with the staff while kicking his face. At the same time, he magicked the floor beneath Bell to become slippery. Bell crumpled and crashed, dropping the sword, the breath knocked out of him. Veranix stayed standing on his chest.

“He'll . . . find . . . you . . .” Bell managed to get out. “Destroy you . . . your family.”

“He already did,” Veranix said, and cracked the staff across Bell's head.

Veranix grabbed the sack. Surprisingly, it was nearly dry, and was much lighter than Veranix expected. With another burst of magic, he leaped to a rooftop and headed west.

V
ERANIX PUT SEVERAL
blocks between himself and the docks before he stopped on the roof of a church. He climbed up to the belfry and looked back down to the street. No sign of anyone pursuing him. No sign of anyone looking up. He figured he was safe, at least for the moment.

He laughed quietly to himself. Souring a forty-thousand-crown deal was more than just giving Fenmere a bloody nose. That was some real damage, even if it wasn't specifically hitting the
effitte
trade.

Veranix examined the sack. It was soft and light, like a laundress's bag, no jars or glass vials. Veranix doubted that Fenmere spent forty thousand on washing his suits. It definitely wasn't
effitte
, though, that was certain. He untied the knots holding the sack closed.

Inside the sack were a cloak and a rope.

That was unexpected.

For forty thousand crowns, there had to be more than just a cloak and a rope. Maybe Fenmere was smuggling something fragile, and these were used to protect the real merchandise. That made sense.

He grabbed the cloak and pulled it out of the sack. As soon as he touched it, he had a heady, giddy feeling. Energized, like he had just drunk several cups of tea. Or like he had pulled in
numina
without doing anything with it. He dropped the cloak, and the feeling went away. He touched the cloak again. Again, he felt it, definitely a
numinic
charge flowing up his fingers.

There was more to it, though. Veranix could sense it, though he wasn't sure what he was sensing. His first thought was that the cloak was magical, but he dismissed that idea as ridiculous. Magicked things were incredibly rare, even forty thousand wouldn't buy them. There was something about them, though, that had an aspect of magic. He wished he had Delmin's gift for sensing
numina
.

He put down the cloak and picked up the rope. Again he felt a charge of magical energy crackling through his fingers, a connection between him and the rope. As easy as thinking about it, the rope came out of the sack, sliding into his lap. He could feel the rope, as if it were a part of his body, an extension of his arm.

There was a commotion on the street below. Someone was pounding on a door. “Open up!”

Veranix was startled, and the rope reacted. In an instant, it shot up, wrapping around one leg, an arm, a wooden crossbeam, the other leg. Before he realized it, Veranix was tied tight to the beam.

“Open!” yelled the man below. Were they knocking on the church door? Was it Fenmere's men, looking for him? Would the reverend of this church let them in? Everyone else in Dentonhill was in Fenmere's pocket, why not the clergy? Veranix couldn't move, and every panicked thought just made the rope constrict tighter. He thrashed and pulled, but the rope moved with him, binding him further.

The pounding stopped, and the door opened. “Missed payments, Orly.”

“I know,” an old man's voice said. “I've got some of it, but . . .”

“No but, Orly.” The sound of flesh hitting flesh. The old man cried out.

No one was coming for Veranix. That calmed him down, and the rope relaxed slightly. Not much, but enough that he could move. He twisted his left arm around behind his back, at an angle he could manage thanks only to his grandfather's training. Painful, but he gritted his teeth and ignored it. The maneuver gave him a bit more mobility, and he was able to pull his arm out of the bindings.

Arm free, he grabbed on to the wooden crossbeam and pulled his body forward, sliding it out of the rope.

“No, I—” the old man cried out. “Please . . .”

“Too late for that.” More beatings.

That wouldn't stand. Veranix put his hand on the rope, and focused, like he would to use any magic. He didn't need to pull in any
numina
for this, the
numina
was almost falling into him. The challenge was to hold it back, tame it, shape it, force it to do what he wanted instead of overwhelming him.

The rope unwound, dropping him from the crossbeam. Veranix landed on his feet.

“This is what happens when you don't pay!” The beater's words were accentuated with punches. Veranix stood up and looked down to the street. The shop door stood open, the commotion inside clearly heard. Veranix spotted a house a few doors over, where someone looked out his window and then shut it.

What was wrong with the people in this neighborhood?

He couldn't see the beater, not from up here. No way to get a clear shot with his bow. If he wanted to stop this, he'd have to go down there. If he did that, he could be spotted. After stealing forty thousand crowns' worth of . . . whatever he stole, he didn't need to risk pursuit or capture.

“Please, I can get it!” Hit. Hit. “Please!” Hit.

“Too late for that.”

Veranix had to go down there.

Veranix looked across the street and spotted a drying post on the roof of the building. He flirted with the idea of getting the rope looped around it so he could swing down to the ground. As the thought formed, the rope shot forth, wrapping tight around the post. Amazed, Veranix jumped out of the belfry, swinging on the rope toward the shop door. With the rope and his own magic, he slowed his descent to a gentle landing, the rope coiling back to his side as his feet touched the ground.

A muscle-bound goon held Orly, the old shopkeeper, up against the wall as he pummeled his face. The old man didn't look like he could take much more, blood gushing from his mouth and nose.

“Enough of that,” Veranix said. The rope responded to his urges, flying into the shop and wrapping around the goon.

“Who?” the goon said as he looked at Veranix.

“Let's take it outside.” Veranix yanked on the rope, half with the strength of his arm, half with magic. The goon was pulled off his feet, rocketing to the door. Veranix jumped out of the way at the last moment, and the goon shot out to land on the dusty cobblestone street. Veranix willed the rope to coil around his own body like a bandolier.

“You're going to pay!” the goon said.

“I don't have any coins.” Veranix drew his staff. “Will this do?”

The goon was not ready for someone who would give him a real fight. Veranix leaped in, staff spinning. He cracked the goon across the head, then flipped away. Dazed, the goon punched empty air.

“I'll—”

“You'll leave old shopkeepers alone,” Veranix said as he landed. He took hold of the rope again and magicked it to wrap around the goon. It flung out stronger and harder than Veranix intended, choking around the goon's neck. The goon clawed at it, desperate to breathe. Veranix tried to pull back, but the
numina
was flowing hard, a raging river. Veranix felt himself getting lost in the wash of energy pounding his senses. He had to get control, anchor himself.

Veranix felt the rope constricting around the goon's neck. Veranix forced the
numina
thundering through his body to submit, to be shaped by him rather than let it shape him. The rope was an extension of his arm, and he would have control over his arm.

He pulled the rope off, coiled it back. The goon dropped to the ground, unconscious but still breathing.

Veranix glanced back at the shop. The old man had gotten to the door. He looked terrible, face bruised and bloody, but he gave a nervous nod to Veranix. Then he shut and latched the door. Veranix hurled the rope up to the church belfry and pulled himself back up there.

He coiled the rope and picked up the cloak. Whatever they were, Fenmere was willing to spend a lot to get ahold of them. Their value was obvious to Veranix, but why would someone like Fenmere, whose business was mostly girls and drugs, be interested in them?

Veranix decided he needed a rested head to answer that question. He stuffed the cloak and the rope back in the sack, and headed for home.

W
ILLEM FENMERE NEVER
slept much, and he was usually awake before dawn. This morning, as soon as he woke, his butler told him Bell and Francis were back and there was trouble. Fenmere hated being woken for bad news.

He threw a robe on over his sleeping gown and went down the back stairs to the kitchen. Men like Bell and Francis did not come into the front rooms, especially if there was trouble. If there was trouble, then there damn well better be blood. He didn't need them bleeding all over his rugs.

Blood there was. Francis was laid out on a counter, covered in it. Gerrick patched him up as best he could. Gerrick was no doctor, but he was good enough at stitching the boys. Gerrick had been around for as long as Fenmere could remember, his most trusted captain. Fenmere nodded at Gerrick in approval. No need wasting good money on a surgeon.

Bell was a mess as well, his face had even more bruises than he left with, great deep purple stains. His leg was tied off above the knee, pants soaked with blood. He sat at the small table in the back corner. Fenmere sat down with him. Thomias, his butler, silently put a cup of dark tea on the table. Fenmere took a few sips. Bell, for his part, was wise enough to keep his head down and not speak until he was spoken to.

“So where is it?” Fenmere asked eventually.

“Gone, boss.” Bell barely looked up, his head beading with sweat.

“How many were there? Five men? Six?”

“Just the one, boss.”

“One?” Fenmere roared. “One guy did this to the two of you?”

“It was the same guy from the night before, boss!”

“The same guy? You saw him? You saw his face?”

Bell shook his head. “Not his face. He wears a hood over it. But the same guy for sure. He remembered me.”

“He talked to you?” Fenmere said. “Who is he?”

“He's a kid. I'm telling you, a scrawny kid. Seventeen, eighteen tops. But he's all fast and flips around.”

“You got beat by a scrawny kid?” Fenmere got up from the table and paced around the kitchen, fuming. “Listen, Bell, there is one reason you are staying alive, and that's because you have a sense of what this kid looks like.”

“There's something else, boss. I think he might be a mage.”

Biting his lip, Fenmere sat back down. He had to get a grip on himself. “Maybe that's it, then. That's why he went for the stuff. Maybe he's one of the Blue Hand Circle, they took it from you so they don't have to pay me for it.”

“I don't know, boss,” Bell said.

“What don't you know?”

Bell screwed his face in thought. “I don't think he knew what the stuff was. He just wanted to hit you.”

“Where are you getting that?”

“This kid, it's personal with him. He said you killed his family. He said he's going to be a constant thorn in your side.”

“I've killed a lot of families,” Fenmere growled. “I've had more than a few thorns in my side before. And I always pull them out. We're going to find this thorn, Bell.” He waved over to Thomias to bring him some more tea. “Tell me about him. Maybe a mage, you think?”

“I've never seen anyone jump like this one, boss. Plus he must have done some tricks to escape us the other night.”

“What else about him?”

“He fights with a bow. And a staff.”

“Bow and a staff?” Fenmere asked. There was something odd about that. Something familiar, he couldn't put his finger on it.

“Wasn't there something with some street sellers getting hit by an archer?” Gerrick asked. “For the past few months, I think.”

Fenmere nodded. That was probably what he was thinking of. “Nobody fixed that?” Street captains and dealer bosses should have found out who was hitting their boys and buried him in the ground.

“Nobody found out much. Figured it was the usual trash trying to score some
effitte
buzz. Not a player.”

“Well, this ‘thorn' is a player now. Wouldn't you say, Bell?”

“Aye, boss.”

“All right.” Fenmere took another drink from his cup. “Get yourself cleaned up, then get word to Kalas over in the Blue Hand that we need to talk to him.”

“You want me to go over to the Blue Hand?” Bell asked. He looked more afraid than ever.

“Yes.” Fenmere spat the word out. “Go over there. Someone has to tell Kalas what happened. It's either you or Francis. You want Francis's job?”

“What's Francis's job?” Bell's expression was fluctuating between fear and confusion.

“Francis is busy bleeding to death. Unless you want him to go over to the Blue Hand for you, Bell?”

“No, boss,” Bell said. He got up and nodded to Gerrick and Thomias, gave another reverent nod to Fenmere, and left out the back door.

Fenmere finished his tea. “Good. Now where is my breakfast?”

Bell knew this whole trash was his fault. That kid, he had busted into the cannery, and Bell had let him slip away. Then he hit the drop, and Bell had let that all go to blazes. Stupid kid, ruining everything.

Bell couldn't walk to the Blue Hand Circle's chapterhouse, not with his leg still a mess. He had been lucky to make it back to Fenmere's place. Bell laughed dryly to himself. Honestly, he'd been really lucky to walk out of there.

Bell waved to a horsecab. The driver slowed down, fear in his face as he saw Bell. Bell didn't recognize him, but he knew people in these streets knew him, knew what he did, knew he had a post close to the man himself. That meant the cabs blazing well stopped for him.

“Where to, boss?” the driver asked, his voice shaking.

“Price Street, just past Lowe.”

“Right away, sir,” the driver said, snapping his whip. North of Lowe probably took the driver out of his regular beat, and for anyone else, he probably wouldn't bother, not without forcing extra coin. That wasn't going to happen right now.

Bell settled back in the seat. The Blue Hand Circle. He knew this whole business was going to be trouble. He should have kept out of it. Bell muttered a few curses. He had wanted the cannery office. He had wanted the placement, the extra prestige. He had wanted to show the man he could be more than muscle and pickup. He had been doing good until this special package for the Blue Hand.

Bell could feel his hands shaking. Had to settle his nerves.

Stupid kid.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his small
hassper
pipe and his pouch of leaf. Not much left. He'd smoked a lot of it yesterday.

He packed a few leaves into the bowl of the pipe. When did he stop burning last night? Had to have been ten or eleven bells. His head was completely clear when the drop turned left. He had been good. That kid just hit them hard and fast.

He looked about the carriage. There were two lamps hanging, but both were dark.

“Hey.” He knocked hard on the front of the cab, startling the driver. “You don't got your lamps burning.”

“No, sir, no,” the driver said, glancing back. “Sorry, sir. Got to save on the oil, sir, so I don't light them in the daytime.”

Bell grunted in disapproval.

“I could stop here at the bakery, sir,” the driver said, sweat forming on his brow. “They're sure to have something I can light a taper with, all right?”

“Good,” Bell said. He kept a grin off his face. He had no intention of making an incident, and would have been fine with not smoking until after he had arrived at the Blue Hand's chapterhouse. If the driver wanted to be of service, though, Bell would not refuse. The driver reined in the horse and jumped out of the cab.

He decided he would tip the man well at the end of the drive. What had Mister Fenmere said? “Occasional magnanimous acts cement loyalty far more than fear alone.”

While the driver ran into the bakery, Bell thought that perhaps, if he was lucky, Mister Fenmere would let him keep his overseer position in the cannery office. That would be magnanimous, wouldn't it?

The driver ran back out of the shop, lit taper in hand. “Here you are, sir, hope that helps you out, sir.”

“Thank you,” Bell said. The driver spurred the horse forward. Bell lit his pipe, and pulled in the deep, rich smoke. That was better. He snuffed the taper and let the
hassper
ease his cares.

Bell's hands were still shaking, but he didn't care as much anymore. Not until the cab pulled up near the chapterhouse.

From the street, anyone not knowing would think it was just another gray stone row house, no different from any other on the block, or on the next street over. A small wooden sign hung over the door, with the blue handprint in the center. Most of the houses on this block were professionals: barristers or surgeons or secretaries, and all of them had similar wooden signs, so it did not make the house stand out.

The driver, pulling to a stop on Bell's signal, did not take any special notice of the house either. No one would, unless they knew about the men who lived in there.

Bell took out a half-crown and paid the driver. “There'll be that over again if you stay here until I'm out.”

The driver looked as if the last thing he wanted to do was wait for Bell, but despite that he said, “As you wish, sir.”

Bell took a moment, standing on the stoop and finishing off the last of the
hassper
. It wasn't helping anymore. Nothing would help, save getting the blasted deal over with.

Bell knocked the last bits of ash onto the ground and put the pipe into his pocket. With his heart pounding, he went up the steps to the front door and knocked.

The wait was interminable. He could feel beads of sweat dripping down his face. He had an itch creeping its way up his back. Were the Blue Hand doing that? Just watching him through the upstairs window and messing with him? They certainly could.

That would be petty, even for them.

The door opened slowly, revealing a young man with blond hair and dull eyes. Bell had met this one before, but couldn't remember his name.

“You one of Fenmere's?”

“Yeah, that's right.”

“Where's the package?”

That cut straight to it. Bell took a deep breath. “See, something happened—”

The door shut.

Bell stepped back down the stoop. Was that it? He had delivered the message. That should be good enough. He cautiously took two more steps down to the street.

The door opened. “Get in here.”

That was not the voice of the young man. Bell swore under his breath. He turned and went up the stairs.

It was Kalas, the neatly groomed gentleman with close-cropped hair and a tiny mustache, and wearing an impeccable midnight blue suit. Bell imagined the Circle brought him out because he at least knew how to talk to people. Kalas gave a quick wave of his fingers, summoning Bell up. Bell worried that Kalas was about to pull him in magically, like he was a hooked fish. Kalas had no such plan, and Bell walked in through the door on his own power.

The door slammed shut when he entered. That was magic.

The place smelled like it always smelled, like dead cats and roasted onions. Bell didn't want to know why. Kalas walked over to a lone chair in the foyer and sat down, brushing bits of dust off his coat.

“So, Mister Bell,” he said, glaring at Bell with his piercing dark eyes. “You say that ‘something happened.' Please define ‘something.'”

“The delivery got hit,” Bell blurted out.

“Hit?” Kalas said. “Which means what, exactly?”

“Your items were stolen.”

Kalas narrowed his eyes at Bell. “By who?”

“This kid who's been nibbling at Fenmere's gigs. He just happened to hit this one.”

“Hmm.” Kalas drummed his fingers. He said nothing more for some time. Bell wasn't sure what he should do.

Kalas sprang to his feet, surprising Bell and making him stumble back against the door. Kalas called out through the house, “Lord Sirath!”

“Eating!” came a hoarse reply from down the hallway. Bell shivered. He had seen that man eat before. He didn't want to take a single step in the direction of that voice.