Sure enough, I soon passed through a cramped courtyard I recognised, and from there ducked into a dead-end lane, whose ramshackle houses leaned madly inward as though eager to touch roofs. Everything about those crumbling abodes spoke of poverty and desperation. In most cases, that was undoubtedly what lay behind their crooked portals. The door I opted for, however, was sturdy and — to the trained eye — doublelocked and reinforced. Though its occupant wasn't quite rich, the penury of his location was carefully chosen and studiously maintained.
I rapped three times. After a few moments, a narrow hatch slid open, just wide enough for a pair of wrinkle-skewed eyes to peep through the gap.
"Hello, Franco," I said.
Franco had been old when I first came to Altapasaeda. He'd been around for so long that there were those who claimed he'd invented the very concept of crime. However, to say his best days were behind him was an understatement. They were so far in the past that probably even he didn't remember them. It didn't stop him from keeping a voracious eye on the city's underworld, though — that being the first and most crucial reason I'd sought him out.
"Easie Damasco," he said. "Not a face I ever expected to see again. Not still attached to your body, at any rate."
"Not dying is becoming my trademark."
"Strange, though." Franco wrinkled his nose. "You smell like you've been dead for a week. Dead and rotting in a sewer."
"Partly true, at any rate. Can I come in?"
The disembodied eyes looked me up and down. "I think not."
"I have money."
He considered again; the rectangle of wizened face tilted to one side. Finally, I heard the sound of locks being opened, and a bar being shifted aside. The door opened a crack. "Then you can buy a new cloak and boots before we go any further," he said.
"Fine by me." Franco was one of the better outfitters for criminal endeavours in Altapasaeda. That was the second reason I'd come here. It made sense to combine my mission with a little shopping expedition. Over the last few months, I'd hocked or lost most of the accoutrements of my trade, and I felt oddly naked without them. In any case, it wouldn't hurt to be prepared for whatever trials my enforced mission threw up.
I wasn't convinced Franco was in any position to offer me sartorial advice, though. He wore a stained and faded poncho over a shirt once gaudily pink, now mostly grey, and — although he was indoors and it was night — a wide-brimmed hat, slanted rakishly upon his snow-white hair. It bobbed dangerously as he led me down a narrow passage and through another locked door, and almost tumbled off altogether when, in the tiny room beyond, he ducked to unlock a hatch in the floor. Franco only clasped his hat decorously, unhooked a lantern from the wall and started down into the shadows.
I'd been fortunate enough to witness the wonder that was Franco's Cellar of Crime on a couple of occasions before now. If anything, it was more astonishing and overstocked than ever. Not a single bare brick could be seen, and there was barely floor space enough to manoeuvre through the trove. Franco's stock consisted mostly of clothing, armour and a quite staggering range of weapons. Amidst these more predictable items, however, were countless less obvious accessories of the criminal trades: caltrops, poisons and acids, mantraps and snares, face paints and false beards, paste gemstones… it was enough to make my head spin.
Forcing my attention to the racks of clothing, my eye fell immediately on a full cloak of deepest charcoal grey. There were other, showier outfits, but they were all in black, a shade guaranteed to stand out on even the darkest night and reserved for foppish would-be thieves.
"That one. The grey," I said, and couldn't help feeling a little pleased at the twinkle of approval in Franco's rheumy gaze.
I added a shirt and trousers of similar colour, and a particularly dapper pair of boots. I completed the outfit with a short, narrow-bladed dagger that sheathed neatly against my hip. It wasn't a weapon for fighting, but it had the potental to give someone a nasty surprise.
When I'd finished changing, Franco had me stuff my old clothes into a sack, pointing out that, "It will make them less bothersome to burn."
I looked around the overburdened walls, trying to guess what else I might need. "I'll take that rucksack, as well," I said, "two — no, three — sets of lock picks, needle and thread if you have them, and a length of your finest climbing rope."
Franco plucked a coil down from a hook. "How's this? Hawser-laid single line, a sisal core with cotton overwrap. I made the grapnel myself, you won't find a better."
"Excellent." I took it, crammed it into the pack with my other purchases.
"That'll be three onyxes. I've rounded up, since you've left me the task of exterminating your revolting cast-offs."
He'd rounded up by at least an onyx, but I didn't have time to argue. As I handed over the coins, I said, "There's one more in it for you if you'll share a little information."
Franco eyed me slantwise from beneath his absurd hat. "Go on."
"What's been happening to the city these last few days… do you know who's behind it?"
"Of course I know. I also know what he'd do to me if he found out I'd talked to you."
Encouraged by my new outfit, I struck my most threatening pose. "And what do you think I'll do?"
"Damasco, I've known you since you were barely old enough to pickpocket. You'll talk a lot, eventually re alise you're as intimidating as cold soup, and give up."
He had me there. "Look, Franco, I'm in a fix. I need answers. Alvantes is leaning on me and…"
"What?" Franco looked at me with horror. "You're working with the Boar? Have you gone completely mad, boy? We both know people who'd gut you for just saying his name."
"It's a long story. One I'd like to end sooner rather than later. If you could just give me something to go on, point me in the right direction…"
Franco shook his head wearily. "All right, all right," he said. "I heard a rumour… something going down on the South Bank, some kind of a meet. I don't know where and I wouldn't tell you if I did."
"Thanks, Franco." I offered him the fourth coin.
"I haven't done you any favours. The city's under curfew. If anyone sees you, they'll kill you on sight. You want advice worth paying for? Get out of Altapasaeda. Never look back."
"You know Alvantes. He'd track me down if it was the last thing he did. Still. I appreciate you looking out for me, Franco."
"They can cut your throat and dump you in the river for all I care," he said, starting back up the stairs with the noxious sack containing my old clothes slung over one shoulder. "I just don't want you stirring things up, that's all. They're more than bad enough already."
From the edge in his voice, I could tell he meant it. In fact — and this shocked me more than almost anything could have — he sounded scared. What did it take to unnerve Franco? He was the closest anyone could be to untouchable in the world of Altapasaedan crime. He'd been staring down death for as long as I'd been alive.
As he let me out the front door, I said, "I'll be careful, Franco."
"You won't. But try, for all our sakes," he said — and the door slammed shut.
It was some distance to the South Bank, almost the breadth of the city. Worse, I could hardly hurry, or take the main roads. I moved through back alleys wherever I could, jogging from shadow to shadow and each time pausing to listen, straining my eyes against the darkness.
Once I had to duck into an arch as riders thundered by. Twice I had to sneak past groups of armed men lurking in the shadows. Both times, they were clustered at a junction, where they could see in all directions. Had they been paying more attention to their work and less to talking and drinking, I wouldn't have stood a chance.