The Hand That Takes Read online

  Bartley had occupied the first room on the left for nearly three years, long enough that the inn’s help had ceased tidying up the room. Which was a real shame, because if there was one thing Bartley’s room could have used it was a good tidying up.

  After he’d helped Bartley into dry clothes and bandaged his leg wound with a clean linen shirt, Sal searched for a place to sit and decided on the bed. Once comfortable, Sal reached into the pocket of his jerkin and received a jolt of energy as his fingers closed around the locket. Cold tendrils coursed through his body, tingling in a tantalizing way. For an instant he thought he heard a faint voice, words whispered in the wind.

  He considered telling Bartley about the locket then and there, but decided the Yahdrish really didn’t need to know. With his mouth, it would only be a matter of time before half the city knew about it.

  Bartley limped to the dresser and opened one of the drawers. He withdrew an ornately carved box. It was Bartley’s most prized possession, a box Sal had seen many times before, made of ebony wood and jade. He’d gotten it from a trader out of Dahuan, and the carving on the lid was of a queer Dahuaneze goddess. According to Nabu Akkad, she was a goddess of the night or some such. From Nabu’s descriptions, Sal had taken the goddess to be similar to the Lady White.

  Bartley set the ebony box on the bed next to Sal.

  “You’re going to get the straw damp,” Bartley said. “Come now, off the bed.”

  “Talk to me like your dog, and I’ll find something to stick through that hole in your leg,” Sal said, putting a fist up as though he meant to fight.

  “Come at me, and I’ll find a hole to stick my leg through,” Bartley said with a smirk. “Now then, for the reason we have all gathered here today.” Gingerly, as though he were unveiling a holy relic, Bartley lifted the lid of the ebony box. A damp, musty, almost footy smell filled the room. White silk lined the inside of the box. Within lay a wooden pipe and three caps of skeev, golden-brown mushroom caps that had been dried and cured until fit to crumble. Bartley removed the pipe and a cap and handed them to Sal.

  “Why don’t you do the honors. I’ve just remembered I want to write out a list for when the errand boy comes on the morrow.”

  “You have an errand boy?”

  “He’s the runner for the inn, but I’ve learned that if I hand him a list and enough coin, he’ll get the goods without too much fuss.”

  As Bartley limped back over to the dresser, Sal began to crumble the cap between his thumb and forefinger and into the bowl of the wooden pipe. Beneath the golden-brown layer of skin was a brighter yellow, the meat of the mushroom. The cap crumbled like a clod of dirt and left a dull yellow residue on Sal’s fingertips. He packed the skeev down in the bowl and waited for Bartley to finish writing out his list.

  Bartley lit up a handlamp. Then he limped back to Sal and accepted the pipe.

  A faint crackling and a smell like burning leather filled the air as Bartley put flame to the skeev and inhaled. He blew a cloud of white smoke in Sal’s face and smiled impishly before handing the pipe back to Sal along with the handlamp.

  Sal put the pipe to his lips and the flame to the skeev. When he inhaled, the acrid taste of smoke filled his mouth. He swallowed, holding the smoke in his chest while he set down the handlamp. He laid the pipe back in the ebony box and blew the white smoke full in Bartley’s face.

  “Oy,” said Bartley, rubbing at his eyes. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Sal only laughed. Everything slowed down, and at the same time everything grew brighter, the colors more alive. Sal felt a rush to his head, and then euphoria spread throughout his entire body.

  Bartley waved him off, scooped up the ebony box, and limped back to the dresser. “Could go for a full day of shut-eye,” Bartley said, as he limped back to the bed and lay down.

  “You ought to clean and re-dress that wound first,” Sal said, his head spinning, his body weightless. “Here, I’ll do the—”

  Bartley snored. His eyes were closed, his arms folded across his chest, his mouth open wide as he slept.

  Sal decided to see himself out.

  He made his way downstairs, and walked quickly past the taproom as the singer started into the final verse of his song. Stepping out the inn door, Sal was thrilled to find that the rain had stopped falling.

  In the east, a faint glimmer of pale orange light began to brighten the dawn sky. Merchants and stall vendors were coming out into the streets to start the new day. Sal didn’t bother picking any pockets. Too tired for any more excitement, he walked in the shadows and stuck to the alleyways when possible.

  S lowly he opened the door, willing it not to make noise as he slunk inside. The house was quiet and dark, apart from the dawn light that crept ever brighter, and the smoldering hearth that glowed a faint red. Sal spooned out a bite of pottage from the cauldron that hung over the hearth.

  The pottage steamed in the morning air and smelled of baked apples and gravy. The taste was savory and a little sweet, though it burned Sal’s tongue and the roof of his mouth something awful. He nearly spit the mouthful to the rushes but forced himself to swallow. The food was like a hot coal as it burned down his throat and sank into his stomach. He tried to stifle a cough, but the effort only made it worse. He went into a fit of coughing. He cursed himself for making so much noise and stood stock still, listening for any sounds of movement.

  After a moment Sal assured himself he’d not woken her. He headed for the stairs, and as he put his hand on the railing, he looked up to see her standing at the top .

  “Name of the Light, what are you doing skulking home at this hour?” Nicola stood with her hands on her hips, the same way their mother used to stand when she was scolding him. “And what is that smell? Salvatori, have you been smoking with those dock rats again?”

  “Sweet sister, what brings you out of bed at such an early hour?”

  “Not that I could have slept through your racket, but I’m headed out for the morning. I’m gathering wild herbs today. It’ll mean a day out of the city walls, if you’d care to join me.”

  “I’d rather remain within, at the least for a few hours of shut-eye.”

  Nicola gave him a dark look, something else she’d inherited from their mother.

  “I hope you haven’t been getting into trouble.”

  “You know I would never cause trouble. Harmless as a nettled thresher, I am.”

  “Nettled threshers are poisonous.”

  “Are they, now?” Sal asked with a grin.

  “I can smell the skeev from here,” Nicola said, shaking her head.

  Sal could still taste the acrid smoke on his breath and feel the residue on his fingertips. The skeev flowed through him like liquid euphoria. He shrugged, walked up the stairs, passed his sister, and slipped into his room, a small four-cornered space with a bed, a night table, and a window overlooking South Market.

  Sal’s eyes arrowed in on the bed. He wanted nothing more than to sink into the straw mattress and never wake, but before he lay down he saw something lying atop the blanket—a letter, folded in three parts, sealed with a dab of red wax, and stamped with the sigil of a dragon.

  Feelings Sal could not quite name began to boil up within him.

  “I found that on the floor, under your bed,” Nicola said behind him. “I noticed you hadn’t opened it.”

  Sal picked up the letter, walked to the door, and shoved it at Nicola before he slammed the door.

  He lay down, the room spinning ever so slightly, his body melting into the bed. The urge to reach for his pocket was stronger than ever, as though the locket called to him, the words too faint to comprehend yet too urgent to ignore. He slipped a hand into his jerkin pocket and brushed the smooth surface of the gold with thumb and forefinger.

  The locket was warm to the touch, almost hot—a sensation so unlike before. Rather than probing, the tendrils of energy seemed to pull Sal into a tight embrace. The contact stilled the throbbing in his head and slowed hi
s beating heart from a gallop to a canter.

  Then he heard thunder, smelled a storm coming in the air, but when he glanced out the window he saw a bright, sun-filled morning, not a dark cloud in the sky.

  His entire body felt lighter, a surge of electricity coursing through his veins. He stood and walked toward the window. He could hear the storm, feel it in his very bones. Only, when he looked out the window, he could see no signs of a storm brewing. Down below, business in South Market was in full swing.

  Sal opened the window and was hit by the crisp morning air as it rushed in, reeking of fish and humming with the music of a multitude of tongues. The market square was lined with stalls. Merchants cried their wares: “Cockles! Get your cockles here!” or “Bonefish! Fresh bonefish!” Old crones haggled over lampreys, and copper-skinned foreigners hauled wheelbarrows of walleye, crappie, and perch.

  And nowhere did Sal see any sign of the storm that he felt.

  Mayhap he was experiencing a side effect of the skeev. He considered sitting down at the foot of his bed, when his eyes were drawn to the Godstone.

  Standing at the center of South Market, like a great gray pillar wrapped in ivy, the ancient Godstone remained the only piece of history in Dijvois that predated the First Empire. Before the armies of the First Empire occupied Pargeche and built the port city of Dijvois, the land was peopled by the ancestors of the Pairgu, nomadic tribes that moved around the country based on the seasons.

  Sal had never given the stone much thought, despite the view he’d had from his room for some years. It might have been the skeev that caused him to wonder about the stone and what it had meant to the ancient peoples. A fruitless pursuit in any case, as no one alive truly knew what the Godstones were used for.

  Locket in hand, he stared at the Godstone. There was a clap of thunder, a crack so loud Sal nearly jumped from his skin.

  He was pulled off his feet by a force so jarring it felt as though he’d swallowed his tongue.

  It was a sensation like riding a bolt of lightning: Whiplash as he tore through the air. Weightlessness, with a touch of vertigo.

  Wind whipped at his face, and the next thing Sal knew he was tumbling headlong across the cobbles, coming to a halt at the foot of the Godstone.

  Someone shouted in surprise. As Sal scrambled to his feet, people murmured. He looked about, taking in the shocked faces of the market-goers surrounding him. Like a hare fleeing for its life, Sal darted for the nearest alley mouth.

  He ducked into an alcove and propped his head against the brick wall, his breath steaming before him like dragon smoke. Leaning his back against the wall, Sal slid to the ground and hugged his knees. He closed his eyes and tried to figure out what had happened.

  He took some time to run over it in his mind, but it had happened so fast. It was all such a blur. He felt at the pocket of his jerkin. The locket was still there.

  Shaking, Sal got back to his feet. He took the long way home, avoiding the crowd in the market. No matter how he tried to puzzle it out, nothing could explain what had happened.

  Nothing—but magic.

  3

  End

  T he entire city bustled with the sort of excitement that came only with holidays. Sal had felt it from the moment he’d woken. It was the day of End, the day that signaled a change of seasons. More importantly, it marked the end of the duke’s yearly pilgrimage.

  Sal joined Bartley and Vinny outside the Hog Snout just before sunup. Sal had slept a day and a night through, and felt twice the man he had the morning before.

  After a good sleep, he’d managed to think rationally on the incident with the window. Much of what he’d experienced in South Market, and with the Godstone, must have been a figment of his imagination. No doubt it had been that skeev. Bartley had gotten his hands on some bad skeev, which had caused Sal to hallucinate and fall out his window. He was lucky not to have been hurt by the fall.

  Still, there was something strange about that locket. It wasn’t much to look at, simply a piece of tarnished yellow gold. Old gold, his uncle would have called it. It was simply a locket with three vertical stripes etched into the surface. When Sal had nicked the thing, he could have sworn all three stripes were colorless, merely lines carved into the metal like some rune. Only, that morning Sal had seen that one of the lines was red—a vibrant blood red that he couldn’t believe he’d not noticed before. There was also a change in the way the locket felt. It was no longer cold to the touch but lukewarm, inviting rather than repulsive.

  Nevertheless, still uncertain what to do with the thing, Sal had decided to leave the locket in his dresser drawer when he made his way to the Hog Snout.

  “How’s Anton?” said Sal. “Any word?”

  It seemed the botched heist, coupled with the news of a possible rat in the crew, had taken its toll on all of them. Vinny, who was usually irritatingly good-looking, had dark rings under his eyes. His fair Norsic skin was wan, his long blond mane matted and greasy.

  “Spoke with Odie just this morning,” Vinny said. “Anton is breathing. Hasn’t woken up, but he’s alive.”

  Sal felt a strange mix of emotions. Anton was alive. Just that morning, Sal had come to grips with the idea of Anton not living. Still, it was good news.

  “Can’t believe he lived,” said Bartley, shaking his head. “I saw the blow he took. Thought he’d been split in two.”

  As rough as Vinny appeared, he looked ages better than Bartley. The little Yahdrish was outright pallid, his eyes bloodshot with heavy shadowed bags beneath them. He’d been on the pipe early. More than like, it was the first thing he’d done that morning, something that was happening more often than not of late.

  It hurt Sal to see him that way, but what could he do? There was no changing other people.

  “Too bad he’ll miss End,” said Bartley. “A real shame, that.”

  “Who knows, there may be no day of End. Rumor is, the duke won’t winter in Dijvois,” said Vinny. “Gods know there are warmer places in Pargeche to spend a winter.”

  “I wouldn’t blame the man,” said Sal. “Come the first snows, I’ll consider someplace more southerly myself.”

  “Nym and Krathus are supposed to be quite nice this time of year,” said Vinny in a mock-pompous voice.

  “I can’t see us prospering in Nym,” said Sal. “I imagine thieves either starve or hang on small islands. Though in Krathus I hear it’s so warm a man could sleep naked on the streets.”

  “Don’t know that I’d recommend it,” said Vinny. “The women of Krathus get one look at your shriveled worm, and you’ll wind up celibate for good and all.”

  “It’ll never happen,” said Bartley.

  “It had better happen,” said Vinny. “A worm’s not used, it’s liable to fall off.”

  “Not your worm,” said Bartley. “The duke’s court. They wouldn’t move court. The duke has to winter in Dijvois.”

  “And why is that?” Vinny asked. “He’s the duke. He can hold court wherever he damn well pleases.”

  “Haven’t you heard?” Bartley asked. “The duke’s health is failing. They say we’ll have a new duke before the year is out.”

  “A new duke?” Sal asked. “Is it truly so bad as that? I’ve heard nothing of Tadej taking ill.”

  “It’s been months now,” said Bartley. “Almost didn’t leave Krathus at the break of summer.”

  “Truly?” Vinny asked. “Might be I’ll put my name forth. That Nelsigh king, he might have heard of me, you know?”

  Sal laughed, but Bartley was in no fit state for japes.

  “The bloody king of Nelgand?” said Bartley. “How would he have heard of you?”

  “I suspect you’re right, Bart,” said Sal. “They’d never move the duke’s court. It’s just not plausible.”

  As the oldest and most significant city in all of Pargeche, Dijvois had always been the seat of the sovereign. Since the fall of the First Empire, the Pairgu kings had ruled their land from the throne of the High Keep.
>
  “Well, gents, where shall it be?” said Bartley. “Gold Gate, or the Bridge of the Lady?”

  Sal and Vinny exchanged a look, and they both began to laugh.

  “What’s so funny?” Bartley asked.

  On the day of End, there were two places in Dijvois where the population gathered en masse, the Gold Gate and the Bridge of the Lady, but the Gold Gate was as far from High Hill as anywhere in Dijvois, which made all the difference.

  Sal shrugged. “Not really an option, the way I see it.”

  “But we go to the Bridge of the Lady every year,” Bartley said, “and so does every other cutpurse in this city. Don’t you think they’ve wised up on the bridge? Besides, there’ll be thrice the steel caps on the bridge as there will be at the Gold Gate, you can count on that.”

  Sal and Vinny once again exchanged a look.

  In order to reach the High Keep, the duke’s retinue would be forced to enter the city through the Gold Gate, then make their way through Low Town, across the Bridge of the Lady, onto the Kingsway, and up High Hill.

  Bartley turned an even brighter shade of red. “I swear on the blood of Sacrull, I’ll kill you both if you don’t explain what is so damn funny.”

  “You, my friend,” said Vinny.

  Bartley balled his hands into tight fists.

  Sal smiled at the thought of little Yahdrish attacking Vinny with only his fists. Even sober, and without an injured leg, Bartley was outmatched. Vinny was built like a typical Norsic. He stood two heads taller than Bartley and outweighed him by a good six stone. Droll as the mismatched fight would be to watch, Sal couldn’t allow it.

  “Listen,” Sal said, putting an arm around Bartley’s shoulders. “The Gold Gate is in Low Town, yeah?” Bartley hesitated before he nodded. Clearly he still feared he was the butt of some jape. “Well, think on it. If the gentry and nobility have to make their merry way down from High Hill, cross the Bridge of the Lady and brave the terrors of Low Town, just to get down to the Gold Gate, where do you think they’ll gather in greater numbers?”