The Hand That Takes Page 12

  “This is fucked,” Sal said.

  Bartley looked up from his ale. Vinny arched an eyebrow.

  “First Pavalo,” Sal said, “now Anton. Who’s next?”

  Vinny shrugged. “Who said there need be more?”

  “Anton’s corpse did,” Sal said.

  “How so?” Bartley asked.

  Sal glanced at Vinny, but he seemed not to understand either. Sal sighed. “One body would mean that person was the rat. Luca would be expected to kill the rat. But two bodies,” Sal said, shaking his head. “Two bodies means Luca is cleaning house. Tying up all the loose ends on that botched job to make certain things don’t come back on him.”

  Bartley looked like he might be sick.

  “Could be happenstance,” said Vinny.

  Sal put a hand over his pocket where the locket hid. “They were both involved with the High Keep job. A job that went all wrong after we ran headlong into the City Watch. Now, I’m certain you both recall the way we left Luca. He was sure we had a rat in the crew.”

  “Could be one of them was the rat,” Bartley said, “and the other was killed for something else.”

  That sounded unlikely to Sal. He was confident the deaths were related, and the commonality lay in the botched heist. Sal was certain of that. “It’s Luca,” he said. “It has to be.”

  Vinny frowned, and Bartley covered his mouth.

  “How can we know?” Vinny asked.

  “We wait for the next body to drop,” Sal said. “If Luca is cleaning house, we’ll know it soon enough. ”

  “And if no one else turns up dead?” Bartley asked.

  “Then we know they died for something else,” said Sal. “That, or you can assume one of them was the rat, and go on living life. All the while hoping Luca doesn’t decide to put a knife in your back.”

  “Seems to me we’re overreacting some,” Vinny said. “We still don’t know anything.”

  “You don’t think Luca would kill someone over what happened at the High Keep?” asked Bartley.

  “I’d expect him to kill all of us, just in case one of us was a rat,” said Vinny. “But fact of the matter is, we don’t know why Pavalo and Anton are dead. Anton had a lot of enemies, and Luca wasn’t one of them so far as I know.”

  “So what do we do in the meantime?” said Bartley.

  “The best thing to do is to lie low,” Sal said. “We sit tight and wait for the information to come to us. Wet work isn’t just done. Maybe nobodies like Pavalo get done on the quick, but if someone is going to do a made man, they would need permission from somewhere up the ladder.”

  “And?” Bartley asked.

  “And soon enough, word will make its way down,” Sal said. “When it does, we’ll know something.”

  “And if word doesn’t come down?”

  “Then we will know things were done outside the proper channels,” Sal said, “and we will know we have something to worry about.”

  “And if Luca does us first?” Bartley asked.

  “Then you won’t have much more to worry over, yeah?” Sal said.

  Bartley shifted uncomfortably in his seat and Vinny took a swig of the fire-wine. Bartley snagged the bottle from Vinny and took a pull.

  “Listen,” said Vinny, “we’re not going to learn what happened until word starts to make the rounds. Or Salvatori can go speak to his uncle and find out if permission was given.”

  Sal shook his head emphatically, and stopped when it made him dizzy enough that he thought he might get sick. “Not my uncle. I want to stay clear of him for a tick. At least until talk of the High Keep job has died down some.”

  “Right. So I guess until then we’d do well to make the best of the situation,” said Vinny.

  When Vinny didn’t offer an explanation, Bartley prompted him. “Meaning?”

  “We have work,” said Vinny. “I say we head out and collect.”

  “I think it would be a bad idea,” Sal said. “Who do you think they will go after once they learn someone’s been out collecting on a dead man’s name?”

  “No one will know. We go and make the collections, keep everything. How would anyone ever find out who it was?” said Vinny.

  “Lady’s sake, Vinny, you can’t do it, because it isn’t done,” Sal said.

  “Don’t see why not,” Bartley said. “Seems like a sound plan.”

  “Right, then. See there, majority rules,” said Vinny.

  Sal wanted to smash their heads together. Though if they cracked open, Sal expected he would find them empty of brains. He had to take a deep breath to settle his rising frustration.

  “Look,” Sal said, calmly as he could manage, “We’ve already been over this, it would be against the Code. You never collect on the name of a dead man unless you’re claiming the stake, and you can only do that with the approval of the Commission.”

  “The Code?” said Vinny. “You keep bringing it up, but, Salvatori, you’re not a made man, I’m not a made man, and Anton is bloody dead. We don’t have to follow the Code. We’re outside that life.”

  Sal swallowed the string of curses that came up. “You’ve never dealt with these guys, Vinny. If the crow-cages scare you, then the stories my uncle has told me will make you piss your underclothes. Don’t try to collect without claiming a stake. Let me talk to my uncle for you, and he can get you with the right people. Do this thing the right way.”

  Vinny glared at Sal, a drunken belligerence showing in his eyes. He turned to the Yahdrish. “That makes you and me, Bartley. Two-way split on the night’s profit, no tax. We’ll get away clean and have a little coin in our pockets by false-light. No one out there knows Anton is dead.”

  “Aside from Anton’s killer,” said Sal. “It’s a fool’s errand. If you’re found out, it’ll mean death.”

  Vinny took a swig of the fire-wine, then looked pointedly at Bartley. “Let’s go, before the storm starts up again.”

  Bartley fiddled with his clay mug.

  Vinny motioned toward the door with his head, but Bartley looked down at the floor.

  “Bartley?”

  “I don’t think it would be a good idea to break the Code,” said Bartley.

  Vinny slammed his fists on the table. He looked at them both with eyes like flint. Then he stood up, spat, and headed for the door.

  Sal considered going after him but thought better of it. Vinny might be only half Norsic, but Sal suspected that was the half that came out when he drank.

  Bartley reached for the fire-wine and took a long swig.

  Watching Bartley sway in his seat made Sal realize just how drunk Vinny likely was. Collecting protection tax that deep in his cups was dangerous in its own right. Not to mention everything else wrong with Vinny’s plan. For a second time Sal considered going after his friend, and again he remained in his chair as a thought occurred to him.

  “What if it was the Commission that was responsible?” Sal said.

  Bartley was rubbing at his eyes, a stupid smile plastered on his face. “A what?” he said, nearly polishing off the bottle with another long draw.

  “The Commission. What if Anton did something wrong? What if he was killed because of something he did?”

  “Anton, yeah, he’s dead—dead as they get. Sacrull’s balls, but I never thought he could have died. Not after that poleaxe.”

  Bartley went to take another drink of fire-wine, but Sal snatched the bottle from the Yahdrish’s hand. He set the bottle on the floor and told Bartley it was time to head up to his room. Bartley, for his part, told Sal to shove a thick something up his wet somewhere. Sal was able to decipher the meaning of the slurred words without the accompanying hand gestures, though Bartley had provided them for clarity’s sake.

  When Bessy next passed, Bartley ordered them another round, only this time, instead of asking for the house ale he asked for kagish, a Shiikali wine known for its dry taste and cheap price.

  When he’d finished his kagish, Sal’s thoughts were swimming through a sea of m
olasses. He could only imagine how Bartley felt. When Bessy stopped by once more, she didn’t ask what they wanted to drink, merely bent down and whispered something into Bartley’s ear.

  The curly-haired Yahdrish sat bolt upright and seemed to sober up in a heartbeat.

  “We should head up,” Bartley said once Bessy had walked away, a bead of drool running from the corner of his mouth into the patchy scruff on his chin.

  “What’d she say to you?” Sal asked, though he thought he had a pretty good idea.

  Without another word wasted, Bartley stood and began to hobble toward the staircase. Sal followed suit, hoping he didn’t look nearly so drunk as his companion.

  Once in the room, Bartley went for the drawer where he kept his ebony box. Sal began to salivate. As Bartley crumbled the golden-brown powder into the pipe, Sal used a bit of flint to light the handlamp. He handed Bartley the lamp, which the Yahdrish used to ignite the skeev, and soon the room was filled with white smoke that tasted acrid and burned his eyes.

  Sal felt a rush of euphoria, not so intense as it had been in the past, but enough to settle his craving. He’d seen people who’d developed an addiction to skeev, heard of how they needed to do the drug or they’d find themselves in a bad way. They would develop the sweats, followed by the shakes, stomach cramps, and intense thirst. The effects usually lasted one to three days, depending on the degree of the skeever’s addiction. A mender had told Sal that it was the vomiting that most often killed them.

  Sal had never experienced any of the adverse effects of skeev aside from the need to continually up the dose to achieve the same high. However, looking at Bartley’s sunken cheeks, red eyes, and yellowing teeth, Sal wondered if the drug wasn’t taking a toll on his friend. Had Bartley ever experienced the sweats or the shakes? Until then Sal had never thought to ask.

  Bartley was loading another bowl of skeev, crumbling the mushroom cap between his fingers. Only a portion of the golden-brown powder found its way into the pipe; the rest of what Bartley ground up in his drunken state fell to the floor, wasted. Despite this, the skeev had somewhat sobered him. It was one of the strange effects of the drug: the more one used, the more it seemed to counteract the effects of alcohol.

  “Where do you buy your skeev?” Sal asked.

  Bartley paused. “Looking to start buying for yourself?”

  “I’m only curious. The stuff has been in Dijvois for years, and yet in the last couple of span, it’s become far more prevalent. Might be worth investing some coin on the distribution end.”

  “A business opportunity?” Bartley asked.

  “Could be someone is already making a big play on the market,” Sal said with a shrug. “I’ll have to ask my uncle if he’s heard of any deals being made within the Commission.”

  “My guy’s name is Ticker,” said Bartley. “He might know something. He’s been in the business awhile now.”

  “Right. Well, if you can put in a word for me, I’d much appreciate the gesture.”

  Bartley put the flame to the bowl of the pipe, drawing on the stem in short, sharp inhalations. When he exhaled, a cloud of white smoke rolled from his open mouth. He coughed and handed Sal the pipe and lamp.

  “What about Luca?” Bartley said, as though continuing a conversation they’d been having.

  “What of him?” Sal asked, confused by the question.

  “You know, what if Luca was behind it.”

  “Lady’s sake, Bartley, where were you the last few hours?” Sal said. “I thought it was decided. We don’t know for certain, so we’re going to wait and see what we hear. ”

  “No, I mean what about your job?” Bartley said. “Aren’t you supposed to be working a job for Luca?”

  “Lady’s tits,” Sal cursed. He’d nearly forgotten about the scouting job.

  “What’ll you do?”

  “Not much I can do but finish the job,” Sal said, gritting his teeth.

  “Right, then,” said Bartley. “If there is nothing to be done about it, suppose we’d best do nothing. Now, are you going to smoke that, or do you mean to have your way with it?”

  Sal touched the lamp flame to the pipe. As he inhaled, the powder flickered cherry red. His lungs burned, and he coughed violently as he exhaled in short, stuttered breaths. Then came the feeling, a sort of pressure behind his eyes, a rush of euphoria at the back of his skull. His world spun, but he hung on to the feeling, taking the ride for the pleasure of it. He passed the pipe back to Bartley and set the lamp on the bedside table. Bartley placed the pipe in the box and snuggled the box back into its proper place in the dresser drawer.

  “I best be off, then,” Bartley said. “You’re welcome to stay here if you need a place to sleep, the bed ought to be free for the nonce.”

  “What’s this, then? It’s only midday, what’s all this talk of beds?” said Sal. “And just where are you going? If you’re going to join Vinny, know that’s a fool’s errand.”

  “If you don’t want to use the bed, sleep on the floor. Midday or not, you look as though you are going to sleep,” Bartley said. “As for my business, it’s a man’s business.”

  Suddenly it dawned on Sal where Bartley was headed.

  “Bessy?” he asked.

  Bartley couldn’t help but crack a smile. “She has two hours before the dinner bell, and I mean to make the most of them both.”

  Sal took his cloak and one of Bartley’s blankets and returned to his makeshift bed among the rushes. He curled up like a cat, and before he knew it, sleep took him.

  H elp me , it said.

  But Sal couldn’t move, paralyzed as though he’d petrified. Dumb, yet not deaf. Bereft of feeling but not of sight.

  Help me, it moaned.

  Sal couldn’t turn away, couldn’t close his eyes. He tried to open his mouth, but found it shut tight. He was forced to stare into the sightless, cloudy blue eyes of the corpse.

  Help me, pleaded the corpse, though the blood-crusted lips never moved, the pale, waxy face twisted in an eternal grimace.

  There is nothing I can do, nothing I could have done, Sal thought.

  You should have helped, replied the corpse. It held up bloody hands, the flesh torn to ribbons from palms to elbows. Should have helped.

  What could I have done? You were dead. Dead before we found you.

  The hands spasmed as they reached out. Should have helped.

  The hands came closer, black and red, scarce looking like hands at all, but Sal couldn’t move, couldn’t look away. He was forced to watch, eyes wide, as the hands came closer, Anton’s lifeless eyes staring into his.

  Help me, said Anton’s corpse. It must be you.

  Cold, dead hands grabbed him by the throat, and though there was no pain, he could no longer breathe. As Sal panicked and tried to thrash for air, Anton looked into his eyes. Only, the face of the corpse no longer belonged to Anton. Somehow it had changed. The face now belonged to his mother.

  Should have helped, it said.

  Sal burst awake. With a surge of will, he forced his face away from the cloak that had nearly suffocated him. He rolled onto his back, gasping for air. Sheathed in sweat, he shivered as a chill ran through him.

  He looked around, and though it was dark, he quickly realized he was still lying on the floor of Bartley’s room. It had only been a dream. He wondered how long he’d slept. A few hours, at least, as the sun had set and the Lady White was in full bloom.

  Sal used the blanket to wipe the sweat from his face and arms, brushed the dust and straw from his cloak and slipped it on. He sat on the bed and tried to relax. After he’d caught his breath, he decided to light a candle, and with the light found himself moving to the dresser drawer where Bartley kept his carved ebony box.

  The feeling of being watched crept up the back of Sal’s neck, but when he looked over his shoulder, there was nothing behind him but faint light and flickering shadows. Bartley must still have been in Bessy’s rooms. Sal turned back to the drawer. The brass knobs of the drawer
were cold to the touch, but it slid open quietly, if reluctantly.

  Jade was set in the relief of the Dahuaneze goddess carved into the lid of Bartley’s box. Sal brushed the back of a finger along the hem of the goddess’s dress for luck, the same as if she were the Lady White, and lifted the ebony box from the drawer.

  Sal had accepted the Lady White as his patron years ago. It had been shortly after the incident at the Moretti card game that Sal had decided to break all but his final tie to his uncle. He had put aside his uncle’s god for a goddess of his own.

  It was said she was the child of Tiem and Sacrull, wife and son of Solus. The Lady White was the result of lust, rape, and betrayal. Unwanted by her mother, she was cast from the world and made to find a new home. Unwilling to live with her father in the Under Realm, she chose the heavens. But Solus would not have her in his sky, the constant reminder of betrayal that she was, and so she avoided his eye, never showing her face in the sky of day. Instead she made night her home, providing light to those who, like her, had been cast out into the dark.

  Sal placed the box on the straw-stuffed mattress and lifted the lid with a twinge of guilt. He thought he sensed something or someone. A presence of some kind. He whipped around. His eyes searched all about the small room, but again he saw naught but shadows dancing in time with the movement of the flame.

  Inside the box were six golden-brown caps of skeev, a roll of wicking, a pipe, and a shard of flint. It took him mere moments to crumble half a cap into the pipe, light a handlamp, and fill the room with a cloud of thick white smoke .

  Sal sat on the straw mattress and propped his back against the wall, a feeling of euphoria coursing through his entire body. When he closed his eyes, it was as though someone began talking to him, calling him, urging him to open his eyes.

  There was no sound aside from the noise inside Sal’s head, yet he heard the call nonetheless. Like the prod of a hot iron, the feeling made him stir.

  His eyes shot open, and for the third time since waking in Bartley’s room, Sal sensed a presence. He searched the room, unable to determine where the call had come from. He was alone, and yet he couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched.