Sworn in Steel (5 page)

I’d found him all right: dead, my dagger in his eye, three of his men scattered about him on the floor.

After that, it had been all about getting out of Barrab and beating the news back to Ildrecca. Wolf, the Azaari bandit and smuggler who’d served as our guide through the hills down to
Barrab, had proved invaluable in this respect. Word had gotten back to the rest of Crook Eye’s people in Barrab somehow, and our trip out had proved more of a challenge than anticipated. It
wasn’t until we were well away from town and into the hills that I’d had the luxury to wonder where Wolf had been while I was meeting with Crook Eye, to realize that he hadn’t
reappeared until after we’d found the bodies. To remember that he was a knife fighter, and that Crook Eye had been killed with a short blade.

By then, though, it was too late: Wolf had already disappeared.

Fowler’s constant strain of “I told you so” had nearly been unbearable on the way home.

I kept to Ildrecca’s thoroughfares and streets as much as possible. The back ways would have been faster, but I didn’t know the twists and turns here well enough to take full
advantage of them. Besides, I was familiar with the kinds of things that could happen in strange alleys, and I didn’t have the time to deal with them now.

I wondered again what had happened to Fowler and Scratch, whether or not the Oak Mistress and her man had made it. Despite Tobin’s hurry to be gone and Ezak’s cautions, I’d
done a quick nose of the blocks surrounding the actors’ barn, including a stint along the Slithers. I hadn’t been hoping to run into Fowler so much as to spot a specific pile of stones
here, or maybe a pattern scratched into a wall or doorpost there—any of Fowler’s thief’s markings or signs that could tell me she was alive and on the streets. But none of the
marks I saw were hers, and the few coves I risked talking to hadn’t heard anything of use. The best I’d been able to manage was to sketch a few reassurances for her below some
windowsills and leave a tuft of pigeon feathers stuck into the doorjamb of a tavern to let her know I was looking for her.

I passed out of Five Bells cordon and cut across a corner of Needles. It was market day, so I avoided the main square and its retired stoning-pillars. Instead, I ducked and dodged my way through
the secondary streets, past carts heavy with silk and linen and wool, ignoring the calls of the fabric merchants and their barkers. Faint hints of stale piss and wood ash—trace odors left
over from the dying process, not fully faded yet—were overlaid by the heavier scents of mules and men sweating in the summer heat.

It wasn’t until I was almost out of the place that a new scent caught my nose: cardamom and cumin, along with a hint of citrus, all of it riding on the dark, scratchy smell of grilled
meat. My stomach answered the call, and I realized that except for two boiled eggs and the fortified wine provided by the Boardsmen, I hadn’t eaten since before boarding the caïque.

Mouth watering, I tracked the scent to a street vendor tending a rough metal grate set atop a fluted brazier full of coals. He was just off to the side of a narrow lane, not far from another
cross-street. There was a small crowd around him, watching and waiting as he deftly drew pieces of cubed lamb from a pot of spiced yogurt marinade, threaded them on a reed skewer, and placed them
on the grate. As each skewer was finished, he speared half of a young onion on the end, gave it a quick sear, and served it up with workmanlike nonchalance.

I placed an order for two, looked about me, and then changed it to four at the last moment. He put the extra meat on the grill without a thought. Since this wasn’t my cordon, and I
didn’t want to attract attention, I waited until mine were done, rather than taking the next four that were available, which would have been the habit of most Kin.

A pair of skewers in each hand, I walked over to the nearby lane and hunkered down against the wall, shifting slightly so that Degan’s sword wasn’t rubbing against my bandage. Taking
a small, hot onion in my mouth from one, I carefully placed two of the other skewers across the bowl of the beggar beside me.

“Care-foo,” I said around the onion. “‘S hop.”

The beggar looked at the offerings and nodded vigorously, a ragged smile on his face. He made the sign of imperial blessing with the remaining three fingers of his bandaged right hand, then
clasped both of them together in thanks. He was the picture of a pitiful, starving mendicant, grateful for the bounty that had so suddenly befallen him.

That is, until I looked him in the eye; then, for the briefest instant, I saw the cold calculation and hard-edged doubt that lived there, the tallying of costs and benefits, of risks and option,
that were signified by my simple gesture. What did I want? Could he touch me for more? Was this all a setup? But it was only there for an instant, because once he realized I was looking at
him—that I was actually
seeing
him—he was quick to mask his heart and avert his gaze.

But still, he knew I’d seen the real man.

I let the beggar look away and consider, as I swallowed the onion and took a piece of lamb. The char on the outside contrasted nicely with the sweet moisture the yogurt had imparted to the inner
meat.

The beggar reached out and pushed at one of the skewers but didn’t pick it up.

It was a feint. I saw his other hand slip into his rags. Knife? Nail-studded club? A sap of some sort? It didn’t matter. I wasn’t about to provoke a Master of the Black Arts in his
own alley if I could help it.

I swallowed my lamb and gestured at the blisters on his leg. They were a vile, yellowish white, filled with seeping matter. “Nice work,” I said. “Soap and vinegar?” It
was a standard formula among those who practiced the Gimping and the Scroffing Laws: Rub a layer of soap on your skin, dribble some strong vinegar on it, and display the resulting
“blisters” to best possible effect.

As for this fellow, he seemed to be a bit of an artist: It looked as if he’d added some kind of pigment beneath the soap, giving the blisters a slightly greenish tinge. It was an
impressive effect.

All traces of the pitiful cripple vanished at my words. He cast me a sharp look, even as he tucked one of the skewers away in his rags and brought the other to his mouth.

“What’s the dodge?” he said, using his chewing to mask his words. “You a Nose or a Whisperer or something?”

I smiled. “Or something.”

“I don’t know you.”

“No. Just passing through.”

“Then keep passing.”

“I plan on it. But I’ve been on the fade for a bit. Taking the waters. Thought I might suss out the local talent for some mumbles.”

He tore off another piece of lamb and glanced up and down the lane. Looking for support, or worried about being seen talking to someone he wasn’t supposed to? If he was an Ear for a local
Nose, his talking to me could raise uncomfortable questions once I’d gone.

“What’s the dodge?” he asked again. “Why poke at me?”

“Old habits,” I said honestly. After being away for over a week, I wanted . . . no, needed . . . to know what was happening on the street. I had my own people to check in with, of
course—people who did the job I used to do—but they weren’t here, and I didn’t want to spend the time it would take to cross the city and find them right now. “I just
want to get a sniff of what’s on the wind,” I said. “And you Masters are some of the best hounds I know for that.”

The beggar looked at me for a long moment, then nudged his bowl. I dropped a hawk and five owls in it—a rich price for something I hadn’t even gotten yet. He scooped up the coins
before they had stopped rattling and nodded.

“Small or broad?” he said.

“Broad.” I didn’t have use for the local gossip; I needed citywide. “But I need something small first.”

He eyed me warily but nodded nonetheless.

“I’m looking for word on someone named Fowler Jess,” I said. “She’s been out of the city but should have slipped back in last night or this morning. Short, blond.
Loud when she’s angry.”

“She Kin?”

I nodded.

The beggar shook his head. “No whispers about a short angry woman, loud or otherwise.”

“How about someone named Scratch?”

The beggar’s face soured. “Is he short and loud, too?”

“Just the opposite.”

“Nothing.”

I considered. It was a long shot, but . . .

“There’s also an Azaari named—”

“I thought you wanted broad news,” said the beggar, “not a daily roster of comings and goings.” He tapped the bowl again. “The gazette costs extra. Make up your
mind.”

“Fine,” I said, letting it go. I could put people on it once I got back into friendly territory. “Broad news, then.”

The beggar took another cube of lamb and worked it around in his mouth, watching me. Thinking. I pretended not to mind and nibbled at my skewer with a dry mouth.

“Crook Eye’s dead,” he said at last.

I didn’t quite choke, but it was a close thing. I managed to cough, then swallow, before saying,
“What?”

“Crook Eye. The Gray Prince. Heard he was killed someplace south of here.”

Already? How had the word gotten here this fast? I figured I had another day at least, even after the delay caused by Soggy Petyr and the Thieves’ Gate.

“When?” I said. This had to be the beginning; I had to be on the leading edge of the wave.

“Dunno. Suppose he died recently. Otherwise it wouldn’t be new news, now, would it?”

“No,” I said. “Not when was Crook Eye dusted: when did you first hear the news?”

“Oh.” He stared off toward the street. The fingers of his right hand—even the ones bound down and hidden under the stained bandage—twitched as he walked his mind back in
time, counting the hours. “Four.”

I let out a slow breath. “Hours?”

“Days.”

Days?
That wasn’t possible. Crook Eye had still been alive four days ago. I’d only talked to him three days ago, for Angels’ sake!

“Are you sure?”

“That Crook Eye’s dead, or that I heard it four days ago?”

“Both.”

“About him being dustmans?” The beggar shrugged. “The street’s been humming with it, so I believe it. As for when I first heard . . . yeah, four days ago.”

Shit. This didn’t make any sense. Who had called him dead before he died?

I swallowed, not wanting to ask the next question, but I didn’t have a choice.

“Who dusted him?” I said.

“That new Prince, Alley Walker. Used to call himself Drothe or something. Guess he’s impatient to make a name for himself.” The beggar shook his head, missing the grimace I
made at the latest tag the street had hung on me. Alley Walker? Really? That was almost as bad as the one I’d been hearing before I left: Shadowblade. Ugh.

“Who told you?” I said.

The beggar started at the question. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“Piss off.”

Not a surprising reaction. He didn’t know me, which meant I was stepping beyond more boundaries than I could count. If we had a history, if I’d had him on my string for maybe six
months or a year, I might have been able to ask about his sources and expect and answer. But to do it like this, after giving him little more than threats and a free lunch?

Still, I needed to know.

“Fine,” I said. “How about this instead: don’t tell me who, just tell me where. Give me the cordon where the news first started to spread, and I’ll take it from
there.”

“Fuck you, Nose. You want to find the tip of the root, do your own digging.”

Wrong answer.

I was crouching, he was sitting. That made it an easy thing to turn and let my knees fall across his hip and thigh, pinning him against the ground. And it was just as easy to let my elbow clip
him across the side of his jaw as I did so.

His head rolled with the blow, lessening the impact, and his right hand came up. There was an expensive-looking, finely honed dagger in it. The dagger started to come up. And stopped.

The end of my skewer had found his throat first. I could feel the vein in his neck pushing gently against the tip of the wooden spike. There were still two pieces of lamb on it.

We sat there, his leg pinned beneath me, his body against the wall, my wooden skewer pressed to his neck, and glared at one another.

“Be smart,” I said.

He took a breath, swallowed, and lowered his steel. I let up on the kebob but didn’t remove it completely.

“All right,” I said, my own breath sounding ragged. “Here’s the tale: I don’t want trouble with you, let alone your brothers and sisters—”

“Too late.”

“—but I’ll take it if it means I have to go hard to get some answers. I’m not asking for your best whisperers or looking to hunt them down. All I want to know is where
you heard the mumble, and where your mumblers heard it.”

“Why?”

“Because most days, I’m still called Drothe.”

The beggar’s eyes went wide.

“Now you know who to set your guild after if you want me,” I said. “The last thing I need right now is trouble with Ildrecca’s Masters of the Black Arts, but you can
understand my position. I have to find out how far this has spread, and who started it.”

He nodded.

“Where’d you hear it?” I said.

“Came out of Rustwater, from what I can tell. There, and maybe Stone Arch.”

I scowled. I used to operate out of Stone Arch, back when it had been near the heart of Nicco’s old territory. Now it was split up among a couple of bosses. One of those bosses also owned
Rustwater.

Rambles.

Rambles and I had never gotten along, even when we’d both worked under Nicco, which was ironic when you considered we’d both ended up betraying the Upright Man. The last time
I’d seen him, Rambles had been rolling around on the street, puking his guts up—mainly because I’d kicked him in the groin. It was only fair, though: He’d had a sword to my
throat moments before.

Since then, he’d managed to carve out enough territory and get enough coves under him to become an Upright Man in his own right. True, I was even higher among the Kin now, but there comes
a point where simply dusting someone because he annoys you as a person isn’t a reason enough for the act. Unfortunately, Rambles had reached that point. For now.