The two Yarimese assassins looked at each other.
“Ya coming?” the blacksmith asked patiently.
Dranth stood up slowly and stepped carefully over the gunwales, trying not to look down at the green sea looming between the boats. He stepped onto the deck and slid on the salt spray, but managed to right himself before falling. He turned quickly and pulled Yabrith over, then gestured impatiently at the blacksmith, who chuckled and disappeared around the bow of the boat.
The two men of Yarim followed him quickly, only to discover when they rounded the bow themselves that they were staring at a corridor of boat bows, all aligned nose to nose with one another, bobbing gently in the tide. While a few of the boats were open skiffs, most of them were trawlers and houseboats, with dark cabins in which flickering lights beckoned ominously.
The blacksmith reappeared, six boats away.
“You gents coming in?” he asked solicitously. “Or are ya planning to swim back?” He laughed aloud, then vanished into the black hold of the houseboat. Dranth and Yabrith inhaled collectively, then slowly began to pick their way between the moorings, balancing carefully, as the red light on the sea faded to gray with the coming of night.
36
Within the dark hold ahead a candle was flickering.
Dranth peered within. “Do come in. It’s impolite to linger in doorways.”
The voice was rich and deep, but with a knife’s edge to it. It issued forth from the blackness of the ship’s hold, disembodied. Dranth looked for the source, but the shadows were too heavy, and kept shifting as the boat rocked. He steadied himself and stepped through the opening. Around the small open room other candles began to spark into light. Dranth, no stranger to such meeting tactics, remained still, waiting for the illumination to drive some of the shadows out. He could see shapes in the comers, far enough away from the candleflames to avoid clear sight, but near enough to present a show of numbers. At least one of them was the blacksmith, from his outline. By his estimate there were eight people in the room in addition to himself and Yabrith, who was still lurking outside the opening. He snapped his fingers, and his henchman stepped into the room.
The flickering candle that had been alight the whole time began to glow brighter as other wicks in it were lit. Dranth saw that this was being done by a slight man with red hair and thin, sharp features, all except for his eyes, which were enormous and owlish; they glowed like beacons in the dark. As the radiance in the room expanded, he could see the man was wiry and not particularly tall, with fair skin mottled by the sun and vaguely pocked with age, and perhaps drink. “And who is calling this fine evening?” the red-haired man asked. “Dranth, from the Raven’s Guild,” the guild scion said. “I come under the auspices of the Golden Measure.” Some of the dark figures around the room exchanged glances, but the red-haired man merely nodded. The countersign was one known only to guild hierarchs of all types, and would only be recognized by the leaders of such organizations, whether they were tradesmen, craftsmen, merchants, or thieves. Dranth had used it to confirm what he already suspected; the man at the table was the leader of the Spider’s Clutch. “Do you now, Dranth from the Raven’s Guild?” the red-haired man said idly. “And what is it you want?”
“I’m looking for John Burgett.”
“Aye, you’ve found him,” said the man. “And to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit? This is the first time one of your guild has come in person; generally we have just communicated with your mistress by bird.”
Dranth’s dark eyes took on an impatient gleam in the half-light. “I have a proposition for you that was too important to trust to any messenger.”
“Really now?” said the man who called himself John Burgett, amused. “We’re honored, of course. What is this weighty proposition? And why didn’t your mistress come herself if it’s so important?” He pointed at two stools near the table. “Please, sit. You’re looking a little green around the gills.”
Dranth did not know if the guildmaster was testing him, or if word had just not reached the distant shores of Golgarn, but he decided the risk of revealing the truth was minimal, given the geography.
And given the poison gourds he had stashed about his person, a toxin to which he and Yabrith were both immune, but that would be released upon any attack against him. He sat, nodding to Yabrith to do the same.
“Esten is dead—murdered,” he said flatly. The words cost him dear; he still had a gnawing pain in his gut at the very thought. “I speak for the guild now.”
The shadows in the room exchanged glances again. There was even an intake of breath from one comer, Dranth noted with some satisfaction. His mistress’s reputation had been well known. And well deserved. Only the red-haired man appeared unmoved. “I’m sorry to hear that,” said Burgett. “What is your proposition?”
Dranth crossed his hands on the table board in front of him. “I seek your help in the planting of some information valuable to a friend of mine,” he said directly. “A simple task, really, and easy to accomplish, especially given the Spider’s Clutch’s proclivity for moving headquarters.”
Burgett smiled broadly, revealing remarkably white teeth.
“Aye, we do that indeed,” he said. “Like our namesake. I assume you’ve seen dock spiders, or perhaps their desert-dwelling cousins, who spin webs of singular artistry in eaves or between fence posts or on pylons? Someone comes along with a broom or a cloth and destroys this beautiful creation with, a single sweep, and yet the next morning there it is again, in the same place or another, equally magnificent?”
“I suppose,” said Dranth dryly.
“Well, such is the need of our guild. Unlike your own, which I hear is able to operate in plain sight, due to the weakness of the leaders of your province, we are a poor band, struggling under the oppression of the crown. With all the trade in the port of Golgarn, every other blasted person on the street is a soldier or military sailor, skilled at fending off piracy and other sea crimes. In short, Dranth, Golgarn is crawling with the law. Not much for a self-respecting guild to do but operate in the shadows and learn to be adaptable.”
“Understood,” Dranth said. “And if you agree to help me, I may be able to assist in changing that situation.”
The shadowy figures exchanged glances again.
“Is that so?” said John Burgett. “That’s a tall order. Let’s hear the details of your proposition.” Dranth sat back. He reached into his cloak and pulled forth a packet wrapped in leather. “You will begin meeting again in one of your former eaves, fence posts, or pylons—some place that has been raided before and was known to have been a hideout of yours, where your proverbial web was swept clean. It doesn’t matter where, as long as the crown has known of it. Then you will arrange for them to know of it again—and they will raid it again. When they do, you will have scattered, naturally—but they will find various booty, perhaps weapons, perhaps contraband, but most especially, they will find these documents.”
“And if I could read these documents, what would they say?”
The boat shifted, and Dranth’s stomach lurched. The men from the Spider’s Clutch didn’t seem to notice.
“They are maps,” he said, “maps of tunnels five miles beyond Golgarn’s northwest border, where the Firbolg are encamped, massing for an attack.”
The only sound in the room was the creaking of the ship and the slapping of the waves. Then, to a one, the shadows began to laugh.
“Firbolg?” said John Burgett in disbelief. “Are you certain they are not also in league with hobgoblins and trolls?”
Dranth did not laugh in return.