A corner of the woman’s thin lips twitched upwards. ‘Fine. Let’s agree to disagree. Just be warned. Don’t bring any trouble here. All right?’
‘Just don’t forget who works for who here, all right?’
She blew a plume of steam from her tea. ‘Oh, I won’t. How could I?’
‘Fine.’ He headed for the stairs, but, struck by an afterthought, he turned. ‘Oh – and get that Urko fellow out of the kitchen, okay? He cooks about as well as a Wickan horseman.’
‘Fine. Who should replace him?’
He started up the stairs. ‘Who cares? Why don’t you hire a real cook?’ He added, grumbling, ‘Maybe we’d actually get some real Hood-damned customers in here.’
Closing the door to the office he turned and stopped short, finding the room completely dark. ‘Oh, please,’ he complained, and light blossomed as the thick shadows retreated to reveal the desk lamp flame flickering and Wu seated behind it.
‘Who were you talking to?’ the mage demanded, hunched, his tiny ferret-like eyes darting.
‘Our hostess, Surly.’
Wu straightened, lowering his hands. ‘Oh. Well, never mind then.’
Dancer leaned back against the door and crossed his arms. ‘Actually, there does seem to be more to her than meets the eye.’
Wu was rummaging behind the desk. He pulled up three canvas pouches and set them on the empty surface. Raising a finger, he added, ‘As with us, my friend. As with us.’
Dancer pushed himself from the door, advancing. ‘True.’
Wu examined the leather ties securing the pouches. ‘Nothing special that I can see…’
‘What of Warren-laid traps?’
Wu yanked his hands away. ‘I don’t detect anything … but not my field of expertise.’ He offered one sack to Dancer, who raised his hands high.
‘You’re the mage.’
‘You’re the thief.’
‘Not a thief,’ Dancer corrected.
Wu drummed his fingers on the desk. ‘Semantics.’ He picked up one pouch and examined its tie. ‘Fine. I’ll have you know that I’m the one taking all the risk here.’
‘If it’s a Telas explosion, we’ll both be consumed.’
Wu shrugged. ‘Oh. In that case.’ He pulled on the leather tie and it easily untwined. He upended the pouch. Small items individually wrapped in twists of parchment slid out on to the desk.
Both examined what looked like nothing more than a collection of sweets. Wu picked one up and studied it. ‘Writing on the parchment. Some kind of code.’
‘Seller and buyer?’ Dancer suggested.
‘Perhaps.’
Wu gently unfolded the parchment, revealing the small, hard object at its centre. Both craned forward, breaths held. Wu screwed up his eyes until only one was open. Dancer plucked the object from the wrap to examine it between thumb and forefinger. It was shaped like a pebble, oval, yet curled around itself with a narrow opening, white with tan stripes.
He refocused his puzzled gaze on Wu. ‘It’s a fucking seashell.’
Wu held out a hand. ‘Let me see.’ Dancer dropped it into his palm. Wu held it a hair’s breadth from an eye. ‘Damn. It really is a shell. Not one I know, either.’
Dancer threw himself from the desk. ‘Who the Abyss cares what kind? What is this? A scam? Did you swap these out?’
Wu threw up his hands. ‘Now, now. Let us examine the evidence here. Are these the pouches you saw?’
Dancer was pacing, cursing himself. Took the wrong Hood-damned packages! Should’ve searched her! He waved a hand. ‘Yeah. Fine. Decoys. Hood-damned decoys. Fell for it like an amateur.’
Wu raised a finger. ‘Not necessarily.’ He juggled the shell in his hand. ‘These look like a very rare type of shell. One that I have never before seen. And Dal Hon has a long coastline. Some tribes even use them—’ He cut himself off, his thick brows rising.
‘Well?’ Dancer demanded.
Wu set the shell down and opened another wrap to reveal a near-identical shell. He drummed his fingers on the desk once more, deep in thought. Finally, he breathed, ‘Well. This is awkward.’
Dancer paced. ‘How so? What is it?’
Wu tapped his fingertips together. ‘The problem is one of how to transport money – or value – on an island populated entirely by thieves and pirates.’
Dancer stopped pacing; faced him. ‘So … these are just tokens? Tokens of value these merchants agree to honour because they have no value elsewhere?’
‘For certain large exchanges, clearly.’
‘No wonder that guard laughed … So, what do we do?’
‘Change of tactics, obviously.’
‘Yes. Forget about cornering the markets. We should switch to protection and extortion. Take control that way.’
Wu sighed. ‘So much more messy. But, agreed.’ He started repacking the shells. ‘Why does everything have to be so damned difficult? That’s what I want to know.’
Chapter 3
Nedurian was fishing, as usual. His line hung straight down from the high wharf to the water. But for most of the morning he’d been far away, thinking of his last great duel – his dusk to dawn battle against the witch Jadeen in south Itko Kan. Because they were both Adepts of Rashan, the Warren of Dark, it had been a war of subtlety, countermoves, bluffs and feints, all woven in multiple layers … like a duel fought through folded night itself.
In the end, neither had managed to land a decisive blow. But he’d marked her, and she – and he touched a finger to the jagged scar that bisected his face – had marked him.
But he was in the twilight of his years, after all. In his youth she’d never have even got close. Or so you tell yourself, old man, he thought, snorting.
Shade where none should be brought him back to himself, and he peered up, blinking, at a scowling giant of a fellow standing over him. ‘What do you want?’ he asked, then shifted his attention to his line and gave it a shake.
‘Geffen wants to see ya.’
Geffen, the blackmarketeer and enforcer who pretty much ran the island – under the auspices of Mock, of course.
‘I don’t owe him one damned copper sliver.’
‘If you did, I wouldn’t be asking so damned nice an’ all.’
Nedurian considered. So far, he’d managed to stay clear of all the local gambling, loansharking, boozing and drug pits. His one weakness was women. And considering that he’d just been daydreaming about one of the most lethal females he’d known, perhaps it had been too long.
Not that he was sure he could perform anyway; it’d been a damned long time … ‘What is it?’
The fellow’s scowl of distaste deepened even further. ‘Like Gef tells me. Just come along.’
‘And if I tell you to go take a long walk on this short pier?’
The fellow snapped his fingers and four more toughs came slouching up the faded wooden slats. Nedurian knew he could handle them, of course. Easily. But then there’d be four more, and so on, and then he’d no longer be retired, would he? Sighing, he rose, dusted off the seat of his trousers, and gathered up his line.
* * *
The brawlers escorted him to Geffen’s gambling house where it stood close to the waterfront. Its sign was that of a golden gyrfalcon – a play on the man’s nickname. Of course, the place was nothing special compared to similar establishments on the mainland. Downright coarse and shabby, really, but enough to part these common raiders from their loot and shares.
He was guided up stairs to offices above. The first room held seven guards, and, after having his small belt-dagger taken away here, he was led further in. It seemed to him that Geffen, a cutthroat nasty enough to rise to the top of an island of cutthroats, was scared.
Within, the man himself stood leaning against a broad heavy table next to the room’s one window. Two personal bodyguards stood at the door. One of these shut it on the rest of the lower-ranked toughs. These two then stood close to either side of Nedurian while their employer, Geffen, looked him up and down. He in turn studied the other man: lean – almost fevered lean – greying hair pulled back in a queue, face scarred by a multitude of small cuts. A knife-fighter of particularly grisly repute. And an experienced seagoing raider, as everyone on this cursed island was.