The Hand That Takes Page 11

  “Careful,” Bessy warned. “Food’s hot.”

  “And if a diddler diddles your mum,

  you’ve a right to feel it’s wrong.

  Piddle on the diddler, it’s what he deserves.

  Piddle on the diddler, we’ll all take turns.”

  Bessy moved on to the next table, and Sal dug into the stew. It was hot, as she had warned, and burned his tongue on the first bite. Still, it was delicious. The broth was white, creamy and rich, the pike flakey and tender, the potatoes buttery and soft, the leeks sweet and savory. Sal relished every bite. He’d finished half the trencher before he looked up and realized Bartley and Vinny were staring at him, their ales untouched.

  “Piddle on the diddler, do what’s right.

  The diddler won’t put up a fight.”

  “Something wrong with your drinks?” Sal asked.

  “Our drinks?” said Bartley. “Sacrull’s balls, what’s wrong with you? How can you eat after seeing that?”

  “Might be I’m just hungry,” Sal said, returning to the stew.

  “A diddler often diddles his own;

  it chafes the gods deep to the bone .

  Piddle on the diddler, the man is sick.

  Piddle on the diddler, it is no trick.”

  Sal found the singer to be louder than he was talented, filling the already noisy room with an unnecessary racket that made it difficult to hold a conversation.

  Vinny cleared his throat and Sal looked up from his meal.

  “Well?” Vinny said.

  “Sorry, what now?” Sal asked through a mouthful of potato.

  “A diddler’s riddle is done alone.

  He’ll touch himself till he’s full grown.

  Piddle on the diddler in the name of the gods,

  he’ll diddle himself by all the odds.”

  “Bloody hell,” snapped Vinny. “You going to spill it before evenfall? If Anton’s killer didn’t come through the trapdoor, how’d he get in?”

  “Ah, nearly forgot what we were talking about,” Sal said, and took a drink of his ale. “Unless this killer knows black magic, I believe it’s safe to say he entered the loft through the trapdoor.”

  “Hold on,” said Vinny. “That’s not what you said a turn ago.”

  “For when a diddler diddles a dame,

  to his house there falls great shame.

  Piddle on the diddler if you know what’s good.”

  “No, what I told you at Anton’s is that the killer hadn’t entered the loft knives drawn. He didn’t storm up the stairs and through the trapdoor stabbing at Anton like some amateur. Rather, when he went through the trapdoor, it was under a false pretense.”

  “What do you mean?” said Bartley. “The killer got there first and lay in wait?”

  Sal shook his head. “I don’t think he did. Guessing from where Anton was lying, he’d only just let the killer through the door.”

  By the look on Vinny’s face, he seemed to have grasped what Sal was saying, but Bartley was not quite so sharp; the look on his face was one of puzzlement.

  “Piddle on the diddler, as right you should.

  A diddler tries to shrug the blame,

  but all who know will curse his name.

  Piddle on the diddler, for all do see

  the diddler’s ways bring infamy.”

  “Why would Anton have let a killer into the loft?” Bartley asked.

  “And if the diddler diddles your sis,

  well, go on now, give the diddler a kiss.

  Don’t piddle on the diddler, give him a pass.

  Don’t piddle on the diddler lest you keep the lass.”

  “Well,” said Sal, “he would if he thought the person to be a friend, yeah?”

  Bartley nodded.

  “Now, everyone knows there is no crime

  half so bad as a woman diddled in the blind.

  Though before you go piddle, consider you this:

  If not for that diddler, who’d diddle your sis?”

  “Makes sense,” said Vinny. “If Anton had been expecting a friendly sit-down he wouldn’t have been armed. The bastard could have walked up close enough to smell Anton’s breath before he drew his knife. Still, who?”

  Who was a good question, but Sal thought he had a pretty good idea.

  “ ‘Hypocrisy!’ the diddler would scream,

  for diddling is not all diddling seems.

  He’d point the finger; they’d fall to their knees.

  The diddler would smile, for the diddler’d be pleased. ”

  Sal looked at Vinny and arched an eyebrow, but Vinny only shrugged. He turned to Bartley. The little Yahdrish frowned and shook his head.

  “You can’t think of anyone that might have wanted Anton dead?” Sal asked. “How about anyone who might have wanted Pavalo Picarri dead?”

  It seemed realization struck them both at once.

  “Sacrull’s balls,” Bartley cursed.

  The three sat and drank their ales in silence, pondering this latest observation and all the implications which inevitably followed.

  “At long last the diddler would be

  vindicated and piddle free.

  He’d hold up his hands, and he’d make a big scene.

  Then out from his mouth would come the obscene.

  ‘Everyone’s a diddler, you fools, don’t you see?

  We all ought to piddle on you, not me.’ ”

  A few of the patrons about the taproom clapped and whooped.

  “Again!” shouted a man from the other side of the room.

  “I’ll get Bessy. She ought to know we’re ready for that second round,” Bartley said as he stood.

  “Order a bottle of something with a kick,” Vinny said as Bartley turned. “Fire-wine, boyo. I find myself in need of something stronger than the house ale.”

  Bartley nodded, turned back around, and collided headfirst with another taproom patron.

  The man cursed and struck out with a fist.

  The punch took Bartley in the jaw, and the little Yahdrish dropped to the floor like an empty wineskin.

  Sal and Vinny jumped to their feet, flinging curses at Bartley’s attacker like crossbow quarrels.

  The man stopped without raining any more blows upon Bartley. Instead, he backed up a step. His companion closed in, chest puffed, fists clenched tight .

  Both men were bigger than Sal, closer to Vinny’s height and build, if not bigger. It was just his luck that they should want a fight.

  Sal looked at the second man’s tightly clenched fist and noticed a black mark between thumb and forefinger. He studied the tattoo and saw it was a black cross, the symbol of the Moretti crime family. The two looking for a fight were made men.

  Sal readied himself for physical confrontation. He planned to distract one of the men and try not to get bloodied too badly before Vinny could finish with one of them and make his way over to help with the other.

  “The fuck you think you are?” said Vinny.

  “Bugger yourself,” said the Moretti man who’d hit Bartley.

  Vinny made his move, and Sal quickly followed suit.

  Made men or not, Bartley was one of Sal’s own.

  “Hold it right there!” shouted Bessy as she moved between Sal and Vinny and the instigators. “I’ll not have any brawls in my taproom.”

  Vinny’s blood was hot, and when in that state he didn’t much care to be told to stop. “That Sacrull damned craven hit Bartley.”

  “I saw the whole thing from across the room,” Bessy said, chin up, chest out. “I’ll not have it. The four of you can call off whatever this is or expect service at my inn to come to an end. Danilo, Bruno, I suggest you make your way from my premises. Don Moretti would be most displeased to hear you were causing trouble in one of his protected establishments.”

  Without protest, the two men turned and made their way to the door.

  Only then did Sal notice how quiet the place had gotten. It seemed all eyes had been fixed on the sc
ene they’d been making.

  “I suggest the two of you help that one to his feet,” Bessy said, motioning to Bartley.

  Bartley was conscious, yet even after they had lifted him, he stared into the distance as tears came to his eyes.

  “I only—,” Bartley sniffed, “I only wanted another round.”

  Bessy smiled gently. “You’re a lot of fools, you are, picking a fight with a pair like Bruno and Danilo. They’re made men, you know?”

  “No one touches one of ours,” Vinny said, still shaking with anger. “Don’t care if they’re made men or monks of the Light.”

  Bessy let out a little chuckle, then went back to the kitchen and returned moments later with three ales and a bottle of fire-wine.

  “Ales are on the house,” said Bessy with a wink. “Bottle is three silver. And, Bartley, if your injury should need looking after, stop by my room come evenfall. Might be I can do something for the pain.”

  Bartley seemed to come to, his eyes going wide as a stupid grin formed on his bruised face.

  10

  Mother

  Interlude, Eight Years Earlier

  S al fidgeted with the twine that tied the cheesecloth over the jar, then tucked the jar under his arm and took a deep breath. He told himself it was only a door handle, wrought iron plated with bronze.

  Sal told himself it was just a door handle, but he knew better.

  He reached, hesitated, and felt his hand begin to shake. All he had to do was grab and turn, grab and turn. Sal lifted his hand again, reached, and grabbed hold. He felt cold sweat forming on his brow and in his armpits.

  The handle turned of its own accord.

  Sal was nearly tugged off his feet. He lurched forward and ran headlong into Uncle Stefano.

  He backed up a step and froze, his heart pounding like thunder as Stefano stepped into the hall.

  “I—I—Uncle—”

  “She’s not feeling well,” said Uncle Stefano. “No reason for you to bother her now with your stammering, boy.”

  “But I— ”

  “Run along. She needs her sleep.”

  Sal kept his eyes averted from Uncle Stefano’s glare. Instead, he focused on his uncle’s silver ring: a crest with the five colors of the Commission families and the falcon of Stefano Lorenzo. Sal raised the jar from the crook of his arm. “But, Uncle—”

  “Salvatori?” said Mother, from within the room.

  Uncle Stefano’s nose wrinkled, and lines formed at the corners of his eyes.

  “Stefano, send him in,” said Mother in a voice weak as watered wine. “I want to see my boy.”

  Uncle Stefano motioned with his head as he stepped out, and Sal entered the dimly lit room. The curtains were drawn. Her room no longer smelled of meadowsweet as it once had, but rather of the smoke from an oil lamp that burned on the bedside table.

  Mother lay in the bed, propped up by pillows. The down covers were pulled nearly to her chin. She looked drawn. Her eyes were sunken, red-rimmed as though she’d been crying.

  Sal edged to where her thin hand motioned him. He held up the jar so that she could see it.

  The smile she gave him was as false as the smile he gave her in return.

  “A bit of honey from my honey boy,” Mother said.

  Sal untied the twine and peeled back the cheesecloth covering. The golden honey smelled sweet, with a hint of clove and cinnamon.

  “Light’s name,” Sal cursed. “I’ve forgotten the spoon. I’ll come right back.”

  “Nonsense,” said Mother, dipping a finger into the jar. “Why else should we have hands if not to feed ourselves? Go on, give it a try.”

  Sal did as instructed, scooping a gob of sticky honey with a finger. Mother smiled—actually smiled—then broke off a piece of the honeycomb and popped it into her mouth.

  It was the first real smile she’d given him in a long time, and it made his stomach flutter as though he’d swallowed a thousand butterflies .

  And quick as it had come, the smile vanished, along with the butterflies.

  “Is there anything you need?” Sal asked.

  “I have all I could ever hope to ask for,” Mother lied.

  “Is there something I can do?”

  “You can tell me how you’ve been, and how your sister has been. She’s not come to see me of late.”

  “Nicola is the same as ever. She did threaten to pack her things and leave just the other night. She and Uncle had another spat over the name.”

  “She won’t take the name?”

  “ ‘Over my dead body’ were her exact words, I believe.”

  “And you? How have you been?”

  Sal shrugged. “I might do best to follow if Nicola does leave.”

  Mother frowned. “Surely you don’t mean that. Your uncle only wants what is best for you.”

  “Best for me, or best for him?” Sal asked. “Uncle has made it quite clear he’d rather I wasn’t around. I’m never allowed a word. Whenever he—”

  “Your uncle has been good to us, good to you.”

  “In a way,” Sal said grudgingly.

  “You have no reason to be ungrateful,” Mother said, her tone bordering on scolding. “Now, come here. Give me a kiss before you go.”

  Sal edged closer and pecked Mother on the cheek.

  She grabbed him and pulled him in for a weak hug. “I love you, Salvatori, more than you will ever know,” Mother whispered. “Great things are in store for you, and nothing will change. Not now, not ever. You will be a great man someday.”

  Mother let go, and Sal straightened up.

  “Would you that I were more like Uncle Stefano?” Sal asked.

  “Your uncle has made something of himself,” Mother said. “In his own right.”

  “I could be like Uncle Stefano,” Sal said. “I could.”

  “Salvatori, my sweet honey boy, you will be so much more than your uncle. There is so much more to you that you don’t know, but you will. You will be a great man someday.”

  “I will, Mother,” Sal said, tears rolling down his cheeks. “I promise I will. You’ll see.”

  Mother smiled. “I know you will, love. I know you will.”

  11

  South Bridge

  W ith the first sip, Sal recalled how aptly named fire-wine was. He’d known what to expect, but had forgotten just how badly the stuff burned. Fire-wine was a Skjörund drink, preferred in the icy north for its warming properties, and preferred by Sal’s crew for the nostalgia it brought.

  From what tales told of the stuff, fire-wine was the breath of dragons cooled with ocean ice and barreled by monks living high in the Ironfall Mountains. It tasted like peppered honey poured over coals, and it put hair on a man’s chest thick enough to shame a bear. Or so the stories went.

  Sal found it all to be complete and utter horseshit. In his opinion, fire-wine was the piss of sour old men cooled with the blood of the unworthy and barreled by cross-eyed crones. The taste was difficult to discern through the pain. So far as the chest hair was concerned, Sal had yet to unbutton his shirt to check.

  The liquor felt like liquid fire as it rolled over his tongue and slid down his throat. Even after the burning had reached his stomach, the sensation had not left his mouth. As Sal coughed, fearing he might make sick, Bartley and Vinny laughed, the first sign of positive emotion either had shown since finding Anton .

  “Sacrull’s balls, Salvatori,” Bartley said mockingly. “I knew you were a maiden, but I’d thought that was only with the girls.”

  Sal started to reply, but before he could get out the word eunuch he launched into a fit of coughing.

  “It’ll put hair on your chest,” said Vinny, snatching the bottle from Sal and taking a swig.

  “Foul,” Sal managed to say between coughs. He took a swig of his ale, hoping to wash down the taste of the fire-wine, but the instant he did, he knew he’d made a terrible mistake. The line of fire from tongue to stomach reignited.

  From the looks on his frie
nds’ faces, they had noticed his dilemma. Seemingly unable to contain their mirth any longer, Vinny and Bartley burst into new fits of laughter.

  At that moment Sal hated them, but within half a turn he was laughing about it as well. The alcohol had helped, dampening his worry and revealing a sense of joy he’d thought lost.

  For a good hour the trio drank, talking and laughing all the while. Vinny ordered them another three rounds of the house ale in quick succession, while Bartley and Vinny continued to pass the bottle of fire-wine until the thing was half gone and Bartley looked ready to make sick all over again.

  After a short break for drink and food, the singer resumed strumming his lute and started singing “The Queen’s Old Goose,” a seemingly silly song about a queen and her pet goose. In truth the song was a social commentary, written about King Tadej the Younger, great-grandfather to the current Duke Tadej. King Tadej the Younger was said to have been an incompetent ruler and an incapable lover. It was rumored that his wife, Queen Jessabelle, ruled the kingdom in his stead, pulling his strings like some master puppeteer. The song told most of the history of King Tadej’s reign, hinting at his follies through analogies. The greatest of his follies was the loss of his kingdom to the king of Nelgand. Altogether the song was a masterpiece, even when sung by a less-than-talented musician.

  When the singer reached the verse about the loose goose being noosed by his own goose with his own noose for being loose with his goose, Sal laughed and sang “ ‘A noose,’ they cried, ‘a noose, a noose!’  ” along with the rest. It felt good to laugh, like he was somehow lighter, the stress of the morning passing easily as a cloud in the wind. As though he didn’t have a single problem in the world. As though he’d not found an old acquaintance dead on the floor just that morning.

  With that thought, the black clouds returned. Sal was no longer in the mood to laugh. No longer in the mood for bawdy songs and drinking. The full weight of realization had come down on him.