‘Come for a smoke?’ asked Shev.
Carcolf smiled. ‘I like to keep a clear head. How can you enjoy life otherwise?’
‘Guess it depends whether your life’s enjoyable or not.’
‘Mine is,’ she said, prancing around the place like it was hers and Shev was a valued guest. ‘What do you think of Talins?’
‘Never liked it,’ muttered Shev.
‘I’ve got a job there.’
‘Always loved the place.’
‘I need a partner.’ The Prayer Bells weren’t all that low down. Even so, Carcolf bent over to get a good look at them. Entirely innocently, it would appear. But Shev doubted Carcolf ever did an innocent thing in her life. Especially bend over. ‘I need someone I can trust. Someone to watch my arse.’
Shev’s voice came hoarse. ‘If that’s what you want you’ve come to the right girl, but …’ And she tore her eyes away as her mind came knocking like an unwelcome visitor. ‘That’s not all you’re after, is it? I daresay it wouldn’t hurt if this partner of yours could pick a lock or a pocket, either.’
Carcolf grinned as if the idea had only just come to her. ‘It wouldn’t hurt. Be good if she could keep her mouth shut, too.’ And she drifted over to Shev, looking down at her, since she was a good few inches taller. Most people were. ‘Except when I wanted her mouth open, of course …’
‘I’m not an idiot.’
‘You’d be no use to me if you were.’
‘I go with you I’ll likely end up abandoned in some alley with nothing but the clothes I’m standing in.’
Carcolf leaned even closer to whisper, Shev’s head full of the scent of her, which was a far stretch more appealing than rotten onions or sweaty redhead. ‘I’m thinking of you lying down. And without your clothes.’
Shev made a squeak like a rusty hinge. But she forced herself not to grab hold of Carcolf like a drowning girl to a beautiful, beautiful log. She’d been thinking between her legs too long. Time to think between her ears.
‘I don’t do that kind of work any more. I’ve got this place to worry about. And Severard to look after, I guess …’
‘Still trying to set the world to rights, eh?’
‘Not all of it. Just the bit at my elbow.’
‘You can’t make every stray your problem, Shevedieh.’
‘Not every stray. Just this one.’ She thought of the great big woman in her bed. ‘Just a couple of ’em …’
‘You know he’s in love with you.’
‘All I did was help him out.’
‘That’s why he’s in love with you. No one else ever has.’ Carcolf reached out and gently brushed a stray strand of hair out of Shev’s face with a fingertip, and gave a sigh. ‘Is that boy knocking at the wrong gate, poor thing.’
Shev caught her wrist and guided it away. Being small didn’t mean you could let folk just walk all over you. ‘He’s not the only one.’ She held Carcolf’s eye, made her voice calm and level. ‘I enjoy the act. God knows I enjoy it, but I’d rather you stopped. If you want me just for me, my door’s always open and my legs shortly after. If you want me so you can squeeze me out like a lemon and toss my empty skin aside in Talins, well, no offence but I’d rather not.’
Carcolf winced down at the floor. Not so pretty as the smile, but a lot more honest. ‘Not sure you’d like me without the act.’
‘Why don’t we try it and see?’
‘Too much to lose,’ muttered Carcolf, and she twisted her hand free, and when she looked up the act was on again. ‘Well. If you change your mind … it’ll be too late.’ And with a smile over her shoulder deadly as a knife blade, Carcolf walked out. God, that walk she had. Flowing like syrup on a warm day. How did she get it? Did she practise in front of a mirror? Hours every day, more than likely.
The door shut, and the spell was broken, and Shev let go that weary sigh again.
‘Was that Carcolf?’ asked Severard.
‘It was,’ murmured Shev, all wistful, a trace of that heavenly scent still battling the mould in her nostrils.
‘I don’t trust that bitch.’
Shev snorted. ‘Fuck no.’
‘How do you know her?’
‘From around.’ From all around Shev’s bed and never quite in it.
‘The two o’ you seem close,’ said Severard.
‘Not half as close as I’d like to be,’ she muttered. ‘You clean the pipes?’
‘Aye.’
Shev heard the door again, turned with a smile stuck halfway between carpet-seller and needy lover. Maybe it was Carcolf come back, decided she wanted Shev just for Shev-
‘Oh, God,’ she muttered, face falling. Usually took her at least a little longer than that to regret a decision.
‘Morning, Shevedieh,’ said Crandall. He was trouble of an altogether less pleasant variety. A rat-faced little nothing, thin at the shoulders and slender in the wits, pink at the eyes and runny at the nose, but he was Horald the Finger’s son, and that made him a whole lot of something in this town. A rat-faced little nothing with power he hadn’t earned, which made him tetchy brutal, and prickly spiteful, and jealous of anything anyone had that he didn’t. And everyone had something he didn’t, even if it was just talent, or looks, or a shred of self-respect.
Shev hitched that professional smile back up though it was hard to think of anyone she wanted less in her place. ‘Morning, Crandall. Morning, Mason.’
Mason ducked in just behind his boss. Or his boss’s son, anyway. He was one of Horald’s boys from way back, broad face criss-crossed with scars, ears all cauliflowered up and a nose so often broken it was shapeless as a turnip. He was as hard a bastard as you’d find anywhere in Westport, where hard bastards were in plentiful supply. He looked over at Shev, still stooping on account of his towering frame and the low ceiling, and gave an apologetic twitch of the mouth. As if to say, Sorry, but none of this is up to me. It’s up to this fool.
The fool in question was peering at Shev’s Prayer Bells, and without bending down, mouth all twisted with contempt. ‘What’s these? Bells?’
‘Prayer Bells,’ said Shev. ‘From Thond.’ She tried to keep her voice calm as three more men crowded past Mason into her place, trying to look dangerous but finding the room too tight for anything but uncomfortable. One had a face all pocked from old boils and eyes bulging right out, another had a leather coat far too big for him, got tangled with a curtain and near tore it down thrashing it away, and the last had his hands shoved deep in his pockets and a look that said he had knives in there. No doubt he did.
Shev doubted she’d ever had so many folk in her place at once. Sadly, they weren’t paying. She glanced at Severard, saw him shifting nervously, licking his lips, held out her palm to say, Calm, calm, though she had to admit she wasn’t feeling too calm herself.
‘Didn’t think you’d be much for prayer,’ said Crandall, wrinkling his nose at the bells.
‘I’m not,’ said Shev. ‘I just like the bells. They lend the place a spiritual quality. You want a smoke?’
‘No, and if I did I wouldn’t come to a shit-hole like this.’
There was a silence, then the pock-faced one leaned towards her. ‘He said it’s a shit-hole!’
‘I heard him,’ said Shev. ‘Sound carries in a room small as this one. And I’m well aware it’s a shit-hole. I’ve got plans to improve it.’
Crandall smiled. ‘You’ve always got plans, Shev. They never come to nothing.’
True enough, and mostly on account of bastards like this. ‘Maybe my luck’ll change,’ said Shev. ‘What do you want?’
‘I want something stolen. Why else would I come to a thief?’
‘I’m not a thief any more.’
‘Course you are. You’re just a thief playing at running a shit-hole Smoke House. And you owe me.’
‘What do I owe you for?’
Crandall’s face twisted in a vicious grin. ‘For every day you don’t have a pair o’ broken legs.’ Shev swallowed. Seemed he’d somehow managed to become more of a bastard than ever.
Mason’s deep voice rumbled out, soft and calming. ‘It’s just a waste is what it is. Westport has lost a hell of a thief and gained a very average husk-seller. How old are you? Nineteen?’