Thick as Thieves (8 page)

“Are you all right?” Vorgell bent near to breathe more deeply of the masculine scent of sweat and skin. He could feel Madd’s body casting off heat, and he wanted nothing more in the world than to feel his skin slide slick and wet against the other man’s.

“What’s wrong with you? Of course I’m all right. You’re the one who was fighting! I’m surprised you’re not bleeding!”

Madd was still breathing hard, but he didn’t try to struggle out of Vorgell’s grip on his shoulders. Vorgell moved close, only stopped short by his cock—erect again—touching Madd’s belly.

He smiled at the glare he received for that trespass. “I’m glad you didn’t run away after all. If you’d run, I might have lost you. I rather like having a partner.”

His words earned him a smirk of triumph. “The moonblind trick worked pretty well, didn’t it?”

Vorgell could barely breathe he was so ensnared by Madd’s dark eyes, shining and lined with a fringe of thick lashes. The moon, not the sun, glowed in those liquid depths. Everything about the young witch male invited thoughts of bedsheets and night and the tender joys of the flesh. Vorgell was torn between wanting to keep this man safe and wanting to plunder him like a lovesick swain.

“They might still be looking for us,” Madd said. “I suggest we keep moving.”

“I suppose we should.” Vorgell didn’t want to back off, but he did.

“You’re the only man I know who could take on four bounty hunters all at once and walk away the victor.”

“Is that what they were?” The men had looked different. The darkly dressed pair and then two more rudely dressed men on the roof.

They began walking again, headed toward more populated streets. “They were bounty hunters. Mercenaries wear a red badge.” Madd tapped two fingers to his breast, above the heart.

“Are mercenaries more dangerous?”

“Killing them is. Mercenaries belong to the Brotherhood of the Red Death. You can’t call yourself one if you don’t belong. Thing is, if you kill a mercenary, every other mercenary puts you on his list. You don’t want to piss off mercenaries. But mercenaries are expensive… they have some kind of code, and they cost a lot. They’re hired by people looking for assassins and secrecy. Baron Flemgu is cheap. He probably put out a call offering a small reward to take us alive. Mercenaries don’t bother with that kind of thing, but bounty hunters do.”

Vorgell nodded and made a note to avoid killing men with red badges in the future.

“Bounty hunters are bad enough. There are lots more of them. We need a new place to stay,” Madd informed him unnecessarily. Vorgell had figured that part out already. “We have a few coins left, but I was hoping to eat.”

“What we really need are better weapons.” A sword or an axe would greatly elevate their chances of surviving the next encounter. He now regretted not taking a sword from one of the downed attackers.

“Weapons cost more than rooms. I suppose we could do like last night and beat someone up to take theirs, but”—he lifted his head at the sounds of an altercation nearby—“I think I can come up with something better.”

Madd jogged toward the disturbance, and Vorgell followed, weaving through the growing crowd. A tavern fight had spilled out onto the street. A screaming woman smashed a crock of beer over some man’s head while onlookers laughed. Madd bumped into one of the better-dressed men in the crowd, earning a sharp word, whereupon Madd stumbled back, almost groveling in apology. Vorgell had to lift an eyebrow at that. Then Madd grabbed his arm and they hurried away. When they rounded a corner, he saw Madd laugh. In the young man’s hand jostled a hefty leather purse.

“You didn’t just—”

“I did, and be glad of it. My picking should yield us good coin.”

It probably would. Vorgell looked back over his shoulder, but no one appeared to be following. “You little thief,” he said to Madd.

“I didn’t survive in Gurgh by licking the shoes of noblemen who thought themselves above getting dirty. I got in with a rough crowd my first time here. Learned a few tricks, mostly how to strike quick, fight dirty, and run. I usually only pinch from people who proposition me.” The look Madd gave him told Vorgell he was sincere.

Vorgell shrugged. “I attacked defenseless villagers and carried off their goods—or them. Can’t say I ever stole a purse, but I’ve made off with a strongbox or two.” Right now he wished he had some of that gold. Not that he’d ever kept loot for long. He’d spent buckets of gold on drink, horses, and gifts for his lovers, and even, once, a high-priced slave he’d later released and sent home. His cock perked again at the memory. “Does that purse have gold enough to buy me a sword?”

“Yes.” Madd had been peering inside, counting the coins. “And I know just the place. Follow me. We need to get there before dark.”

Beneath lowering gray clouds, they trotted toward the city wall and the Rottingpike Gate, so named because of the large number of corpses from executed criminals adorning stakes upon the battlements. It was a foul-smelling passage that faced a stone bridge across the smaller of two rivers between which Gurgh sprouted like a bloated, rotting corpse itself. The bridge was called the Cutthroat Bridge—again because of it being rather too well-known for people being slain upon it and tossed over into the river. Vorgell knew this much but little more. He had only been in Gurgh for a short while before leaving by this same bridge, headed for the wilderness of Stormfell.

Just as Vorgell was sure they were leaving the city by the bridge, Madd turned abruptly just past the Rottingpike Gate and followed a narrow road that hugged the foundations of the outer wall. Unpaved and rutted, the track clearly led to nowhere good. Shacks lined the way, most fronted by crumbling facades and inhabited by beggars. The road ran down to the river bank and made a sharp bend so that it passed beneath the stone arch of the bridge.

“This is where you stay close to me and look like you would enjoy eating human flesh,” Madd suggested. He tugged his cloak higher and tightened his hold on the package he bore.

Vorgell soon saw why. The river beneath the bridge was shallow and the rushes lining it were tall. Toward the bridge’s pilings, the ground was drier and the shadows deeper. A hovel made of salvaged timber hulked behind a group of men standing around a fire. Vorgell found his hand creeping toward the sword he did not yet have. The knife would have to do.

“Where the hellcrap you going?” someone challenged. Three of the men walked toward them.

Madd stopped walking. He looked more annoyed than afraid. “I’m here to see Tagard Stormraven. I’m one of his thieves.”

The apparent leader of the men flicked his gaze to Vorgell. “Are you now? Well, he’s not.”

“No, he’s just mean.”

“I’m with him,” said Vorgell.

“There’s a toll, you know,” the man said. “Ten coppers.”

Madd snorted and pointed a thumb at Vorgell. “How about he stabs you ten times?”

All three men stepped back with expressions ranging from surprise to disbelief at Madd’s audacity. However, none of them appeared willing to chance Vorgell having a knife. “Go on, then. But if you’re smart, you’ll cross the river instead of trying to come back this way.”

“I plan to!” Madd informed them as he and Vorgell strolled past.

Vorgell kept a tight grip on his knife and a close watch behind them until he was satisfied there’d be no attack from the rear. The road soon entered a narrow town built between the wall of Gurgh and the river. The town itself resembled Gurgh, unfolding as a maze of poorly paved streets fronted by businesses and houses, many of which were of stone or sound timber and in good repair. Behind and above the town’s buildings loomed Gurgh’s somber, oppressive gray walls, and above those roiled clouds heavy with distant thunder.

“I didn’t know this town was here,” Vorgell said.

Madd looked around. There were more taverns than shops, and all of them looked disreputable. “Not many good citizens come to Thieves Wart. It’s got a bad reputation. The people here don’t like authority, and the place is pretty much run outside the law.” He stopped in front of a building of crumbling yellow stone. The sign above displayed a crude drawing of a sword. “In here.”

Vorgell followed and ducked into a room that smelled of dust and possibly something moldering under the floorboards. The few weapons on the walls did not look impressive. The man seated at a modest wooden table looked even less so. He was stocky and had a milky eye. Looking up from his work and seeing Madd, the man’s mouth pursed as if he’d sucked a lemon.

“He’s not in.”

Madd simply walked up to him. “Tagard’s never in. I need to see him, Bly.”

“Can’t if he’s not in.”

Madd leaned forward on the table. “Bet he’s in if I say I’m here to make good my debt.”

“Still not in,” Bly avowed, looking back down at the scroll upon which he was pressing letters with his well-shaped stylus. “Come back tomorrow.”

“Won’t be back tomorrow. Might well be dead.”

Bly straightened and looked directly at him. “Doesn’t change the fact he’s not in. Tell me what you want. Last I heard you got out seven months back. Some lord whose skull you cracked open before you made off with his purse. Took a bit of work to put that to earth.”

“And I’m grateful, Bly. Tagard did me right. But I’m in a spot again and—”

“And that’s why he’s not in.” Bly frowned and rubbed his balding head. “He did you a favor, Maddog, because the Circle asked it of him… but he can’t help you out of every fix.”

Vorgell’s ears drank in every word. He had known Madd’s life had rough roots, but not that he was an outcast. Like him.

“Who’s after you now?” Bly asked.

“Baron Flemgu’s bounty hunters. Maybe wizards. I don’t know.”

Bly sighed. “You know we don’t mess with wizards.”

Madd slumped and looked grumpy again. “Well then at least let me buy this man a sword, so we can defend ourselves from bounty hunters.”

After a long look at Vorgell, Bly nodded. “Come on back.” He led the way into a rear room, where weapons glinted on the dark polished walls like stars. The room smelled of leather and oil. “Tagard really isn’t in, you see. But I can sell you a sword. Military, I suppose?”

“I want good steel, light and flexible,” said Vorgell, fairly certain he had more expertise than Madd when it came to choosing weapons. “I can handle a longer blade than most, but I want a hard edge. You don’t have any Scurrian axes, do you?”

Madd simply spread his hands when Bly looked to him.

In the end, Vorgell tested many swords and pronounced one worthy of purchase. He personally doubted it would be worth the gold to purchase a sword for Madd. The young witch had never been trained with blades and might well prove a handicap in battle. Vorgell was poised to say as much until he caught sight of Madd holding a short sword and allowing Bly to adjust his stance. Madd’s sharp little face looked… determined. Vorgell valued determination. Determined men learned.

If they were to be true partners and have each other’s backs, he needed Madd to wield a weapon.

Madd and Bly bickered over the price. Vorgell detected the glances Bly directed his way, the sober weighing by a kind of prickly intelligence. Some sort of investment was on the man’s mental scale, with Vorgell’s worth being added to Madd’s. Whatever the reason, the price soon fell into the range they could afford.

“There’s a house—not the one you remember,” Bly said to Madd and waving Vorgell over, “a different one—but you can stay the night in safety, unless you’ve been followed. I leave that on you.” He laid a large brass key on the table. “Two cross streets down, go left. Third door to the right.”

“Many thanks, Bly,” Madd said as he took the key. He swallowed then said, “Tell Tagard I really will make good on what I owe.”

“You know Tag. He takes the long view. Dead men don’t return favors.” As they prepared to leave, Bly resumed sitting at his desk. He found a flint somewhere and struck a spark with his knife and lighted the single candle there. “Try to avoid fights if you can.” His good eye locked on Vorgell. “He’s more likely to kill himself with that steel than kill anyone else.”

Vorgell turned back as they left and gave the man a grin. Now that he was well-armed, he had every intention of protecting Madd even from himself.

Chapter 8

T
HEY
exited onto streets gone gray with dusk. There were still people about. Most looked beaten down and threadbare. Madd eyed them with resignation.

“I keep ending up back here,” he said.

Vorgell waited for him to say more. He didn’t. They started walking, soon veering onto a street that angled toward the river. Madd’s slender body looked tense, like a string wound too tight, ready to cut the next thing to come too near.

“Can we afford to eat?” Vorgell wondered. The witches had not fed them, and they’d had nothing to eat since the pies that morning. He was hungry.

Madd looked into the purse. “Barely.” He shoved the nearly empty pouch into his belt, where it could be held snug against his body. The rain that had been threatening all day began to fall. The houses in this quarter were not nearly as promising as they’d been before, which had not been all that good to begin with. Only a few windows showed flickers of light.