Even as she thought it, the enforcer reached out and grabbed her left arm. A skin-prickling wave washed over her and the common room began to spin and waver. Then it disappeared with a nauseating wrench.
Sabira squeezed her eyes shut to keep from vomiting and focused on the enforcer’s hand on her arm. As soon as she felt him relax, she knew the teleportation was complete. She didn’t have to open her eyes to guess where they were, especially once she’d gotten a good whiff of the rank air.
The sewers beneath the Marketplace. More specifically, the run-down area of the cloacal system claimed as a hideout by Hosha Sollego’s Quickfoot Gang. Judging from the faint echo and fainter breeze, they were in one of the many large rooms that could be found throughout the sewers, their original purpose lost in time and long forgotten.
Slitting her eyes open—the semidarkness would only disorient her further, something Sollego was probably counting on—Sabira grabbed the enforcer’s wrist with her right hand and twisted sharply, simultaneously driving her left elbow into the man’s prodigious gut. The blow had all her weight behind it, and it was enough to break the enforcer’s hold and drive the air out of him in a surprised whoosh.
Momentarily free, she thrust away from him, loosening her shard axe from its harness. She whirled around to face the others she knew must be there.
There was no one. Instead, a soft sound from above drew her eyes upward, just in time to see a thick net descending upon her from out of the gloom. She dived to the side, slashing at the heavy rope with the axe-blade of her urgrosh as she did so, but the net was too slack and too big for either maneuver to have any effect. As the weight settled on her and bore her to the damp floor, she heard an amused chuckle.
She twisted her head—the only part of her body that could do more than wriggle under the magical rope—toward the source of the laughter and found herself staring at Sollego himself. A smallish man who would pass unremarked in a crowd, the Quickfoot leader sat cross-legged on the floor across from her. With one hand, he absently stroked the head of an iron defender, as if the dog-like collection of iron plates, spikes, and bars were some sort of beloved pet instead of a construct whose sole purpose was to fight and kill for its master.
Sollego’s face was half hidden by the ridiculous eye masks his gang favored, but Sabira would recognize those rheumy blue eyes anywhere. She saw them often enough in her nightmares.
“Sabira. I can’t believe you’d come back to Stormreach without stopping to pay me a visit. And here I thought we were friends, you and I. I’m so very disappointed to learn otherwise.”
Sabira attempted a shrug beneath the pressing weight of the net, which seemed to be getting heavier with every breath. The combined odors of kobold scat and sun-spoiled fish were filling her nostrils, making breathing not only difficult, but decidedly unpleasant.
“Patience is a gambler’s best friend, Hosha. A stakeman’s, too. I would’ve had the money in another quarter-bell.”
Give or take.
Sollego’s smile widened.
“A song I never tire of hearing, my dear. Because it always ends with more money in my pocket.” He looked over her head at the enforcer. “How much did she owe before this latest disappointment, Heith?”
“The original loan amount was five platinum dragons. She was three months in arrears, so as of this morning, she owed eight dragons, two galifars, three sovereigns, and one crown.”
So, the muscle had a brain. If Heith was any indication of the sort of men Sollego surrounded himself with, Sabira was going to be forced to rethink her estimation of the gang leader. Perhaps his continued freedom was due to something more than the incompetence of the Stormreach Guard.
A possibility that did not bode well for her.
“And now?”
“Now her interest rate doubles. Assuming you’re kind enough to give her until Lharvion to pay her debt, she will then owe you … ten dragons, one galifar, and four crowns.”
A small groan escaped Sabira, not entirely due to the ever-increasing pressure of the net against her chest and lungs.
“I’m sorry, Heith, there was some noise—probably a rodent of some sort. How much did you say she’d be bringing me?”
“One …”
Though it shouldn’t have, the first kick took her by surprise, as the toe of Heith’s boot slammed into the vulnerable space between rib and hip.
“Two …”
Another kick to the same spot, and Sabira could not contain a sharp yelp as pain blossomed in her side and stars flashed momentarily before her eyes.
“Another rat? We really need to see about getting this placed cleaned up.” Sabira’s eyes were squeezed shut against the spreading fire in her kidney, but she could hear the smirk in the gang leader’s voice. “Too much noise always makes me lose count. Start again, please.”
Sabira tried to curl into a ball, to present as small a target as possible, but the heavy net made it impossible. It was all she could do to try and relax as she waited for the next blow—tensing up would only make it hurt worse later.
“One …”
He started at her feet this time, and Sabira clenched her teeth to keep from screaming as the small bones were mashed between his bulky boot and the slick stone floor.
By the time he’d started counting off crowns, she had at least one broken rib, several deep muscle bruises, and what was probably a ruptured spleen. She’d bitten through her lip in her effort to stay silent throughout the beating, and warm blood slid down her throat, threatening to choke her.
“Four …”
Even on the edge of consciousness, Sabira knew the last blow would be the worst, and she grasped her shard axe with all of her remaining strength, trying vainly to draw vitality from its leather-wrapped haft.
“… and one last …”
A kick to her throat, nearly crushing her windpipe.
“… copper …”
One to her cheek, shattering her jaw.
“… crown.”
The last kick hit her temple, and Sollego’s laughter mixed with a sound of rushing wind in her ears to follow her down into darkness.
Sabira woke to feel her head being lifted gently and someone carefully pouring a thick liquid that tasted like overripe Orla-un berries past her mangled lip and down her near-ruined throat.
As warmth spread through her, Sabira’s eyes fluttered open to see Heith bent over her. Her first reaction was to push away, but he was too strong and she was too weak.
“Relax,” he said, tightening his grip on the back of her neck. “It’s just a healing potion.”
He laughed at her quizzical look.
“Can’t very well pay back your debt if you’re dead.”
True enough. And here she’d actually entertained the thought that he might have been healing her out of the kindness of his heart.
She could feel a deep, aching throb as bones began to knit themselves back together and flesh scarred over, a month’s worth of healing occurring in a matter of moments. But despite being able to move again—a fact she ascertained by jerking out of Heith’s grasp and scrambling to her feet—the pain from her beating was still there, evident in every tender breath, every jagged step.
Heith laughed again as she glared at him.
“The pain will fade in a day or so. Just a little reminder to inspire you on to bigger and more profitable assignments. Sollego won’t be this generous again.”
He didn’t have to finish the thought, but it was clear enough. If this was the gang leader’s idea of generosity, she didn’t want to know what he was like when he was feeling uncharitable.
Sabira didn’t respond, merely brushed the dirt off her clothes and cast about for her shard axe. It seemed to have disappeared, along with Sollego, his iron defender, and his magical net of oppressing stench. She swallowed and nearly choked on a sharp, sinking sensation that had nothing to do with her injuries.