Thief's War: A Knight and Rogue Novel (16 page)

“But if they’re setting a trap for us, we’ll never see it in this light. We ought to come back after sunrise.” My voice was almost loud, now. I inched forward, trying to position the tottering stack of broken crates behind me. “We should come back when it’s light, or we might fall into—”

I saw him start to swing, and it took all my self-control not to duck. I’d thought to aim my staggering fall backward into the crates, but his fist hit my jaw with a force that wiped out thought.

A hard hand dug into my arm, the cobbles smacked my rump, and lights like a bonfire’s sparks swam before my eyes. My hearing came back first—a series of rattling crashes, and Tossman cursing furiously. ’Twas almost as loud as I’d hoped, but the wood didn’t seem to be crashing around me.

My vision slowly returned. One of the other thugs was extracting himself from the remaining crates. “I didn’t want him falling into them,” he was saying. “It’d make too much noise.” Another crate toppled as he spoke, knocking into the building’s wall on the bounce.

The man who’d stopped me from falling into the pile hauled me to my feet, and I swayed as the world tilted around me. My jaw hurt even worse when I grinned.

Tossman was beginning to repeat himself, so he finally stopped swearing and took a deep breath.

“Show me how they got you out of this alley. Now.” His expression made further threats unnecessary. And he hadn’t bothered to lower his voice.

I’d given them all the warning I could.

I led Roseman’s thugs down the alley, dragged the bin aside—noisily—and showed them the loose board behind it.

Tossman eyed it, no doubt considering how easy ’twould be for even a child to hit someone’s head with a club as they wiggled through the opening. I wasn’t surprised when his gaze turned to me—though ’twould be just as easy for me to hit someone over the head after I’d crawled through. He reached out and pulled my collar around so the glowing gem showed, then nodded curtly.

“No point trying to surprise them now. So we’re going to forget about fancy plans and just go in and kill them. And since Sevenson was the one who warned them, he gets to go first.”

I half expected to be struck down as I squirmed through the narrow gap, but no club descended. Early morning light had begun to seep through the cracks in the walls and roof, showing me nests of blankets scattered over the floor. We had surprised them. There was no sound in the warehouse, except for thumps and grunts as Roseman’s men pulled themselves in after me.

I wasn’t fooled into thinking the orphans had gone, however. The silence from the shadows between the tall piles of crates was not that of emptiness, but of waiting.

I knew some of these children, and I liked them, but my skin was crawling by the time the last of the thugs had joined me.

I had no scorn for the wary looks the others cast into the dim passages between the stacks—even though they had clubs, and knives drawn.

“We stick together,” said Tossman. “This way.”

He led them down the central aisle, past several stacks, then plunged abruptly into one of the dark corridors between them. After a startled moment, his men rushed after.

I hesitated, but if they should catch one of the children, I could do nothing to hinder them out here. I followed them in, around the mostly square pile of crates, kegs and bundles, and out on the other side. We stepped into the central corridor again, a bit breathless, with nothing to show for our detour.

Tossman glared around him.

“I told you,” I said. “No one home.”

“Piss on you,” Tossman said.

A chorus of ghostly giggles proved me wrong. The thugs spun, searching for the source of the sound, weapons raised. But they also stepped closer together.

“They’s hiding up in the crates,” one of the thugs said. “We’ll never catch ’em up there.”

Even a grown man, climbing a tottering stack of boxes, could be brought down by a crate pushed down on top of him, or a small hand reaching out to grab his ankle.

Tossman turned and started toward the center of the warehouse.

“Soon as we see one of ’em, we’ll surround the stack he’s on. Then we’ll unload the crates till we nab him.”

Those towering piles of cargo had been assembled using the blocks and tackle that dangled from the rafters above them—a labor that usually took at least four men, two to pull on the lifting rope, and another two on the pile to maneuver the crates. Which left only four men to “surround” them. But ’twas not my expedition, so I held my peace. If they were wise, the children would never even show—

’Twas at just that moment a girl with tangled dark hair stood up on a keg, and hurled half a brick at us. It struck the man next to Tossman on the shoulder, but any sound he made was lost in the others’ shouts as they rushed to the girl’s pile and started around it…and a hail of stones erupted from the other side of the corridor.

One hit my back, and another my knee. Children they might be, but they threw cursed hard! They’d the advantage of height, too, as they proved when the thugs swarmed toward the stack that held them, and started to climb.

Several were knocked down by stones that struck their heads and faces. The rest were half-way up the pile when a second hail of stones flew from the crates on the other side of the warehouse.

’Twas hard to dodge, stranded on a pile of crates, and more men fell. No doubt adding to their bruises as they bounced down the stack. Blood streamed down several faces, four more men were limping, and another clutched an arm that looked to be broken. And still children popped out of crevasses between the crates to send stones flying in among us. I dodged one that might have cracked my head, and was struck in the back once more.

But since I’d not been climbing up with the others, not many stones were aimed at me.

“Out of this,” Tossman shouted. “The front doors! Now!”

They were already half way through the warehouse, and there seemed to be fewer children in the outer stacks, but the thugs still ran a gauntlet of stones.

I followed, moving a bit slower than they. One man, struck in the head, went down. Two of his cohorts grabbed his arms and dragged him on, shielding their heads with one arm as they ran.

I was using both arms to protect my head, and several stones bounced off them, and off my ribs. But despite the pain, and the panic that came with it, I slowed my pace still more.

Tossman was hammering on the door, screaming orders to the men outside.

Dawn light flooded in as the doors swung open, and thugs hurtled out into the street. A barrage of stones followed, banging on the wooden walls like a drum roll, and the doors closed.

I stopped in the center of the corridor. Two stones whizzed past me, clattering across the floor. Another struck my thigh.

Slowly, I pulled my hands away from my head and held them out, empty, weaponless.

One more stone sailed past, but I kept my arms down and stood still. ’Twas one of the bravest things I’ve ever done, for a stone to the head can kill a man. After several long moments, where the only sound was my own heartbeat thundering in my ears, I heard the muffled thumps of someone climbing down from a pile, and light footsteps behind me.

I turned, slowly still, for to alarm them could mean my death…and then relaxed as I saw Timasus coming toward me.

He might only have one eye, but the mind behind it was sharp enough to make up the difference. He studied the glowing gem at my throat and grimaced.

“Got Master Fisk too, do they?”

“Yes.” Roseman had held hostages with these collars so often that even the children knew of it. I wondered what had become of the others so ensnared, but I hadn’t time to ask that now. “I can’t talk long—if I don’t go out soon, they’ll be even more suspicious. If I give you a note, can you get it to Fisk?”

“Might be we could,” Timasus said. “Iffen that message told us how we could hit the Rose.”

“What? I just warned you about this ambush! Surely that pays any debt I owe.”

The boy was already shaking his head. “That’s not the agreement. You said you’d find some way for us t’ hurt Tony Rose. And you hasn’t! So why should we do more for you?”

It appeared I had no choice with them, either. “Very well. If you deliver messages between Fisk and me, I’ll find some way for you to strike at Master Roseman. They think they have me trapped, so they talk in front of me—and Fisk is probably learning even more. But you must take care when you approach him. Roseman hates you. You’ve evidently done him some damage.”

“All we can,” said Timasus cheerfully. “And you’ve got a deal. We should be able t’ reach Master Fisk when he leaves the house. Inside we can’t, but the next time he comes out we’ll get your note to ‘im.”

“Thank you.” ’Twas all I’d time to say, but relief swept through me like a lightning bolt. I may even have matched Timasus’ hungry grin, as I reached into my pocket for the small slip of paper.

It had taken me almost a week to study the Rose’s ledgers. There were nearly a dozen ships he wanted me to audit, with transactions going back for decades. Even looking over the last five years took a long time…and I didn’t just study the last five years. By the time I’d finished, I knew where the goods the captains fenced for Roseman came from, where they were selling them, and how much money they might have skimmed.

The one thing I hadn’t learned was where the Rose’s profit went. The totals were set up to be copied into another account book—but like the books that dealt with the “city tax” he collected, or any other scams he might be running, those were ledgers I wasn’t allowed to see.

Every night, Roseman put the books I was working on back in that locked room. Every morning they were brought out again. There was no entrance into that room from the corridor, which made it doubly secure. I thought there might be a window, but I couldn’t be certain—and the nightly guard patrols made burglary from the outside dicey.

I’d never been allowed even a glimpse past the door, and judging by the sums I was seeing, from just a small part of Roseman’s operations, it could have been a mammoth vault. But something about the sound when it closed told me it wasn’t a closet or a vault, but a decent-sized room. I was more and more convinced it was an office. The real office, where the real work was done.

Which was, no doubt, why Roseman kept the magica key on his person at all times.

I couldn’t get into that inner office, but as I worked with the ledgers of his fencing operation a plan began to form. I couldn’t see any way for Michael and I to escape from Roseman without help, and—though I hated to admit it—the most effective source of help would be the High Liege’s Guard. The best way to get the guard to come, would be to give the nearest honest commander…not just evidence, but evidence of so much corruption, and so much power, that he’d be willing to bring the better part of an army with him. If he just sent a few investigators the Rose would know who’d betrayed him…and Michael and I would die.

Most of that evidence was stored behind a lock Jack said was unpickable—and now that I’d met the Rose, I was even less eager to burgle any place he owned. But I could still start gathering evidence.

* * *

The Rose and Wiederman left town for some meeting. It was disguised as a party, but from the way they talked it was a meeting, and an important one—and he took his magica key with him. Soon after they’d gone, I told Jack I was ready to start talking to ship captains.

“And I hope you realize that if I show up with a procession at my heels, they’re going to know I’m not really a trusted accountant.”

I gestured to the hallway, where my oversized guard unit milled. Though they were guarding the ledgers more than me. With Roseman gone the account books were stored in Roseman’s outer office, to which Jack had a key.

“Of course.” Jack shut the outer-office door, and locked it. “You’ll have one guard, known to the captains, to affirm your identity when you present Master Roseman’s letter of authorization. After that…” His eyes lingered on the glowing stone at my throat. “I have every faith in your good sense, my lad.”

I wasn’t his, or a lad. Not anymore.

* * *

I keep an outfit in my wardrobe that will let me pass as a clerk. And one that will let me pass for a dock worker, and another that would let me pass for a rich man’s valet—no mean feat, when you live out of a traveling pack. When Roseman’s men brought our possessions from the chandler’s shop, my case of lock picks was missing, along with Michael’s sword and both our knives. My backup picks, beneath the thin false-bottom of my pack, had escaped notice—which told me that Jack wasn’t the one who’d searched our gear. But I still wasn’t surprised when a servant arrived in the morning, bringing a coat and britches that would let me pass for the kind of accountant the Rose would employ. Jack was a stickler for details.

I went down to breakfast in my new clothes, and had just finished eating when Jack came in, carrying a letter sealed with Roseman’s crest. It was, unimaginatively, a rose. And the thorns weren’t as prominent as I thought they should be.

“Ready?” he asked. “Excellent. I’ll walk part way with you.”

My guard for the day joined us in the entry hall. He wore the Rose’s black and red livery, and didn’t look as thuggish as most of them did. His name was Kitchell, and he told Jack that he’d delivered several messages to Captain Rigsby.