The brats whined from their loft, their scratching so loud he could hear every scrape of grubby nails against flesh. They’d been sent home, both with the mange. Their mother was… mortified. There’d be need for an alchemist-at great expense-but the damage was done. The foul-smelling skin mould that was the curse of dogs and lowly street urchins had invaded their home, befouling their position, their prestige, mocking their pride. A bowlful of gold coins in Soliel’s temple could not reverse the disaster. And for Subly the cause was clear “The pigeons, Emancipor! I want them out! You hear me?”
She’d been in a good enough mood earlier in the day, doing a poor job of hiding her shock at his finding work so swiftly, and an even poorer job of disguising the avaricious glint that came into her eyes when he explained the financial arrangements that had already been made. For these rewards, Subly had yet to take the broom to him, driving him out into the muddy, garbage-strewn, slate-filled backyard to deal with the pigeons. She’d even allowed him an extra hour of sleep before wailing in horror at their children’s ignoble return from the tutor’s.
They could afford the alchemist, now. They could even afford to move closer to the school, into a finer neighbourhood, full of proper people thus far spared Subly’s dramatic life.
He told himself he shouldn’t be so mean-after all, she’d stood by him all these years. “Like a mountain…” And she’d had her own past, dark and messy and tainted with blood. And she’d done her share of suffering since, though not so much as to prevent her begetting two whelps during the years he’d mostly spent at sea. Emancipor paused again in his shaving to scowl. That had always nibbled at his insides, especially since neither child looked much like him. But he’d done his part raising them, so in a way it didn’t matter. Their contempt for him was truly and surely sufficient proof of his fatherhood, no matter the blood’s mix.
Emancipor washed the crusty suds from his face. Maybe tonight he’d meet the other man, the mysterious Korbal Broach. And he’d have his new uniform measured, and his travelling kit assembled.
“I want the traps set, Emancipor Reese! Before you leave, you hear me?”
“Yes, dear!”
“You’ll stop at the alchemist’s?”
He rose from the stool and reached to the bed-post for his coat. “Which one? N’sarmin? Tralp Younger?”
“Tralp, of course, you oaf!”
Add another two silver crowns to the cost, then. She’s already getting comfortable with the new state of affairs…
“Set the traps! Hood’s Herald visit those damned pigeons!”
Emancipor frowned. Hood’s Herald. Something, yesterday… He shook his head and shrugged. “Curse of the ale,” he muttered, as he turned to the hanging covering the bedroom entrance. “Dear Subly… The mountain that roars… but soon, so very soon…”
The King had shown him fear. in elder days that would have condemned Guld to the assassin’s knife. But Seljure was an old man, now-older than his years. His Highness had found tremulous uncertainty his bedmate, now that the concubines had been sent away. The king’s tight-skinned, snaked-eyed advisors remained, of course, but even they hadn’t been present for Guld’s report. Even so, if they caught a sniff-the king had shown his fear, not just of the killer in the city, but of the dark storm brewing in Stygg, and the rumbles from the Korelri Compact to the south. The king had… babbled. To a simple sergeant of the guard. And Guld now knew more about the precious Princess Sharn than he’d care to.
He shrugged to himself as he strode down the narrow, winding and barrow-humped Street of Ills, on his way to Fishmonger’s Round. Twilight had descended on Lamentable Moll, in every way, it seemed. In any case, he’d done his duty, made his report to King Seljure; he received the expected instructions to quell the rumours of the royal involvement. Lordson Hoom’s father, a landholder of some clout, had been taken care of-with a chestful of coin and promises, no doubt, and Guld had returned to the city’s quiet, tense streets.
He’d left the corporal standing guard over the posting, even though the death ward made the notice’s theft highly unlikely. Guld had been forced to await the audience with Seljure for most of the day, and now the sun was low in the sky over the bay. News of the noble son’s murder had deepened the fearful pall over the city; already the shops were closing up, the streets emptying, because tonight there would be hired killers out-shadowy extensions of noble wrath-indiscriminate with a vengeance. Tonight, anyone foolish enough to remain on the streets without good cause (or a bristling squad of bodyguards) was likely to get his entrails pulled out, if not worse.
Guld turned a corner and approached the Round. His corporal-standing nervously with a hand on his short-sword-was the only occupant left, save one skinny dog, a bedraggled crow perched atop the post, and a dozen seagulls squabbling over something in the sewer trench.
A breeze had come in from the sea, only marginally cooler than the turgid, sweltering heat in the city. Guld wiped sweat from his upper lip and walked up to his corporal.
“Anyone take the measure of you, lad?”
The young man shook his head. “No, sir. I’ve been here all day, sir.” Guld grunted. “Sorry, I was delayed at the king’s palace. Feet tired?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well then, let’s exercise them-you have the address from the notice?”
“Yes, sir. And I heard from a rat-hunter that there’s two of them, foreigners, who came in on the Mist Rider… ”
“Go on.”
The corporal shifted weight. “Uh, well, the Mist Rider last called out of Korel, and has since picked up cargo after unloading some iron, and left for Mare this morning. Oh, and the foreigners hired their manservant.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, sir, and he was the coachman for Merchant Baltro, sir. Imagine that.”
Guld scowled. “All right, lad, let’s go then.”
“Yes sir. Sorrowman’s Hostel. It’s not far.”
Dalg the Doorman grinned knowingly at Guld. “Ain’t s’prised you come, Sergeant, ain’t s’prised at all. Come to see Obler, eh? Only he’s retired. Ain’t lending money no more, least not as I can see, and-”
Guld cut in, “You have a pair of guests. Foreigners.”
“O-Oh, yes, them. Odd pair.”
“What’s odd about them?”
The doorman frowned and scratched his head. “Well,” he said. “You know. Odd. One of ’em never leaves the room, eh?”
“And the other one?”
“Not so often neither, and hardly at all now that they got their manservant. Oh, they don’t visit nobody and nobody visits them, and they eat in their room, too.”
Guld nodded. “So, are they both in right now?”
“Yes, sir.”
The sergeant left the corporal with the doorman and entered Sorrowman’s. He was immediately confronted by the hostelier, who approached with an offerings bowl and a cloth in his hands. He quickly set the bowl on a ledge and tucked the cloth into his belt. “Guardsman, can I help you?”
Guld watched the man’s long, blackened fingers begin weaving a nervous pattern as they clasped and unclasped at the hostelier’s lap. “Obler, isn’t it? Keeping honest these days?”
The man blanched. “Oh yes indeed, Guardsman. For years! Run this establishment, y’see, and do scribing on the side. I’m respectable now, sir. Upstanding and all, sir.” Obler’s eyes darted.
“I want to speak to your two foreign guests, Obler.”
“Oh! Well, I’d best get them, then.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“Oh! Very well, follow me, sir, if you will.”
They headed up the narrow, heavily carpeted stairs, strode down the hallway. Obler knocked on the door. They waited a moment, then an old man’s voice spoke from the other side.