“You seek the map,” he said. “It’s not here. Calm yourself, and I will tell you all you wish to know.”
Infidel straightened up from her fighting crouch. She was still seething. The hunchback held his ground as she moved toward him. I was certain the creature had misplayed his hand. She paused before him, reaching out to grab his cloak. But, instead of yanking the hunchback off his feet, she wiped her muddy face, using the gray tatters of his cape like a towel. Ordinarily, these dingy rags were the last thing anyone would use for cleaning, but after you’ve rolled in Commonground muck, pretty much everything is more sanitary than you are.
I was heartbroken when she dropped the edge of the cloak. She was bleeding, her own blood this time. Her right eyebrow sported a gash at least an inch long. There was a knot just above this big as a hen’s egg. Her nose was bleeding from both nostrils. When she spoke, I could see blood pooling around her gums.
“I’m listening,” she said.
“Bigsby sold the map to a man named Ivory Blade. You know him.”
Infidel nodded. “He’s King Brightmoon’s top spy.”
“Correct. The king was quick to recognize the importance of the map. Even now, a ship of his warriors is under sail, heading for the Isle of Fire.”
I suddenly put two and two together. I knew why the Black Swan hadn’t been free to give Infidel the Three Goons.
The hunchback continued: “Blade has been recruiting local talent to aid in the quest. I intended to offer the services of Patch. Now, I intend to offer you.”
“I’m not yours to offer,” said Infidel.
“You need not play coy,” said the hunchback. “We share a mutual goal. We each have our reasons for wanting to reach Greatshadow’s lair. The simplest path forward is to assist the king’s team. He’s assembled the finest warriors at his command, masters of both physical and spiritual warfare. Earlier this evening, you sought to hire the Three Goons. You’ll still be able to fight by their side; you just won’t have to pay their wages.”
Infidel shook her head as she walked away from the hunchback. “I’m not really a team player. I could get along with the Goons for a couple of weeks, but put me together with a bunch of knights and priests and I kill someone.”
“Indeed,” said the hunchback. “You’re perfectly suited to such a task.”
Infidel toed around the shattered slivers of barrel that littered the floor.
“You see a knife around here?” she asked. I saw she’d also lost my saber; it was probably out in the middle of the bay.
The hunchback produced the blade from his pocket and held it toward her.
“This knife belonged to your friend,” he said. “You think of it as your last link to him.”
She scowled as she snatched the knife from his grasp. “What are you, some kind of mind-reader?”
“Yes,” he said. “Your thoughts are not a secret from me, Infidel. I could deceive you and not reveal this fact. But, I want you to know that I am not without my talents. If we form a partnership, we each have something to gain.”
Infidel kicked most of the muck off her leg, then slid the knife back into her boot. Dark sludge bubbled up around the hilt as it sank into the sheath. “Thanks, but no thanks. I’m not looking for any new friends.”
“I’m not offering friendship, Infidel. Only an alliance.”
She stared at him. “It seems unfair that you know my name, while you get to remain a mystery. Who the hell are you?”
The hunchback chuckled. “Who indeed? As difficult as it may be to believe, I’ve lived my life without a name. I was cast out to die at birth.”
“How tragic. But you still must have a name.” Infidel said. “A relic like you can’t have made it this far without someone calling you something.”
“And yet, it is so.”
“Well, today’s your lucky day. From now on, you’ll be called ‘Lumpy.’”
The hunchback cocked his head, unsure if she was joking. I was pretty sure she wasn’t. Infidel didn’t like her own nickname much, and compensated by sticking others with bad ones. After her debut at the Black Swan, people called her Ripper and she liked it. Then, a month later, she’d been sitting at the bar when a wild-eyed man in a black robe burst through the door, shouted, “Infidel!” then broke his knife stabbing her in the back. The name might not have stuck, except the scene repeated itself about nine times over the next year. Everyone at the bar started calling her Infidel, and eventually I made the switch as well. She’s never volunteered what she did to piss off the fanatics, and I’ve never asked. The rule is, what happens outside Commonground, stays outside Commonground.
The hunchback rubbed his chin as he contemplated his need for a sobriquet. “You called me a relic. This will suffice.”
“Relic?” she said with a smirk. She thought it was a lousy name.
The hunchback nodded.
“Well, Relic, it’s nice meeting you, but it’s been a long day, and I’ve got a headache like you wouldn’t believe.”
“I believe you,” said Relic. “I feel your pain.”
“Whatever,” she said, heading toward the door with a dismissive wave. “Have fun on your dragon hunt.”
“Lord Tower is leading the quest,” said Relic.
Infidel froze in her tracks. Her eyes widened. I wasn’t surprised she knew who Lord Tower was; he was easily the most famous knight in the Shining Lands. Still, what did that matter to her?
Relic said, “He’s carrying a weapon that can actually slay Greatshadow.”
“Which one?” she asked, not looking back. “The Gloryhammer?”
“Something much, much more dangerous.”
Infidel pondered this, shook her head, then kept walking.
“After Tower slays the dragon, your job will be to kill the knight.”
Infidel spun on her heels. She eyed Bigsby, who’d uncurled sufficiently from his fetal ball to stare at her. “Go fix me a tub of boiling water,” she said. “And find me soap. Lots and lots of soap.”
Bigsby nodded as he stood, then scampered off.
Infidel leaned against the wall. She spat a gob of pink spittle into the middle of the floor.
“I’m not promising anything,” she said. “But let’s hear your plan.”
CHAPTER FOUR
For the third time since I croaked, I watched Infidel strip off her ruined clothes, dropping the tar-black rags into a growing pile of goop. The candle-lit tub of steaming water before her filled the air with a pale haze. I was intrigued that Bigsby had such fancy private quarters. The fishmonger may not have flashed his wealth around in public, but his bathroom was opulent to the point of stupidity. Did a bath brush with a gilded handle scrub his back better than a plain wooden one? Even his toothbrush was studded with gems. And why did he need all these bejeweled bottles of perfumes and ointments? As Infidel moved around the room, my consciousness floated through a black lacquer cabinet decorated with inlaid mother of pearl. Even though it was dark in there, I thought I spotted an ivory wig stand sporting a curly blonde wig. What a very odd thing for a bachelor like Bigsby to have spent money on.
I did, however, admire his bathtub, a long, deep vessel carved from a single block of polished black marble. It was large enough that I, with my lanky frame, could have stretched out comfortably. Bigsby must be able to swim in it. Infidel sank beneath the surface, resting there a moment as the muck that still clung to her hands, face, and hair began to dissolve. She reached for a bar of bright white lye soap and the bath brush. The steamy air grew foul with the low-tide stench, cut through with the burning fumes of the lye. The bathwater quickly turned dark gray; I could no longer see her clearly through the haze.
Perhaps I’ve never seen her clearly. The truth is, while I’ve known Infidel all these years, I know so little about her. I’ve kept few secrets from her. I’ve talked about growing up in the monastery, and about my convoluted family history. I’ve freely shared my innermost thoughts on politics, religion, and the human condition. She, in return, has revealed that her favorite color is black (despite my insistence that black isn’t a color), that she likes dogs more than cats, and that she hates carrots. Everything else I know about her, I’ve learned by observation. She’s obviously from the Silver City; her speech has become much rougher and more colloquial over the years, but she still has traces of the accent and a vocabulary that hints of good breeding. It’s not unusual to meet young men from wealthy families visiting Commonground, seeking vices they can’t find at home. But most women in Commonground are usually coming from the other end of the economic scale. It’s hard to imagine what she was looking for when she came here — or what she was running from.