A Fool of Sorts Read online

  The man cried out in pain.

  A whistle drowned them both out, and the dogs disengaged without hesitation.

  Four steel caps surged into the home, poleaxes lowered, looks of pure malice on their faces.

  Sal ducked back behind the table, hoping by the Lady’s luck he’d not been seen.

  The naked man slumped to the floor. The puncture wounds in his arm and thigh pouring rivers of blood.

  Sal felt an ironclad hand grip him by the wrist and wrench it behind his back as he was pinned to the floor.

  “Bind that man’s wounds,” said one of the steel caps. “Get him to the mender, quickly now!” The steel cap turned to look at Sal. He wore the midnight blue tabard of the City Watch, the axe and moon sigil of the magistrate sewn proudly on his chest, the gold armband about his bicep signifying his rank as a Watch lieutenant. He had a thin mustache that perfectly outlined his leering smile.

  The woman continued to scream, and the lieutenant’s attention was momentarily occupied.

  “Madam, I dare say we apologize for any inconvenience we have caused. Compensation will be offered at the Magistrate’s Compound should you choose to seek it,” said the lieutenant, turning back to Sal. “As for you. I think the under-cells will serve quite nicely.”

  5

  Fire-Wine

  INTERLUDE, SEVEN YEARS EARLIER

  The sun rose with alacrity, cresting the horizon while Sal and Bartholomew seated themselves on a pair of stools. Red light reflected off the crystalline waters of the bay as a layer of fog peeled away from the water’s surface. The sea air tasted clean and salty and still held the chill of early morning.

  “Rumor has it you’ve got the best cockles in South Market,” said Bartholomew.

  A Kirkundan on the stool beside the Yahdrish turned. “Aliana’s got the best cockles in all of Dijvois, boy.”

  “Dijvois?” The little, old cockle vendor nearly spat the word. “Aliana has the best cockles in the known world, and don’t you doubt this, child.” Bartholomew blushed red as the sunrise.

  Sal smirked.

  “If you be wanting any cockles, you wipe that smarmy little smear right of your kisser, or you won’t be getting a lick.”

  Sal stopped smiling and sat up straight.

  The little cockle vendor turned on the fat Kirkundan. “And Finlay, you’ll shut your lard trap and sit quiet until I’ve done cooking, else you won’t be getting none neither.”

  Sal looked out on the market-round. He rather liked South Market. It was a vibrant place, filled with all sorts of different people, funny sounding languages, and strange foreign clothes. The market was right off the harbor and in the early morning, was full of fresh fish, exotic fruits, and curious spices.

  Aliana strained the cockles from the pot of boiling water and distributed the steaming shells between three baskets. She plopped a dish of vinegar and another of finely ground black peppercorns upon the bar and served out the baskets.

  Just the smell put Sal’s mouth to watering. He passed on the vinegar but sprinkled his first morsel with a pinch of pepper. The food was well worth the wait. Sal had never been out of Dijvois, but he didn’t doubt Aliana’s claim to have the best cockles in the known world.

  “How did your meeting with that loan shark go?” Bartholomew asked.

  “Anton? He’s not a loan shark, more an employer that threw me a few krom in a pinch.”

  “He’s with one of the street gangs, isn’t he?”

  “The White Eyes, but of late, he can’t stop talking about being made with the Moretti Family.”

  “Moretti? They’re a Commission family.”

  Sal nodded. “Anton’s a good earner, pays up the ladder and everything.”

  “How’d you wind up with someone like that?” the Yahdrish asked, seeming impressed that Sal was associated with someone connected.

  “He caught me picking on one of his streets down in the Narrows. Told me I could pay him back for the trespass with my thumbs, or I could cut him a percentage of my work.”

  “I see you’ve still got both your thumbs,” said Bartholomew with a smile. “You must be quite the snatcher if you’re picking for a connected crew.”

  Sal shrugged but couldn’t help a grin from spreading. “I’m not with his crew. I only do side jobs for Anton.”

  “I’m not a half bad snatcher myself,” said the Yahdrish confidently.

  Sal scoffed. “I saw that the other day in Town Square.”

  “Got out of there with the coin, didn’t I?”

  “I suppose you did, but you know, we should think about laying low for a time,” Sal suggested. “Don Svoboda will have his feelers out. He won’t appreciate being robbed. Especially not by a couple of urchins like us.”

  “Wasn’t my first Commission bagman,” said the Yahdrish proudly.

  “Really? And just how many bagmen have you knocked off?”

  Bartholomew turned to the little, old cockle vendor. “Oy, you haven’t got fire-wine, have you?”

  Aliana frowned suspiciously. “I keep some on hand for the Skjörds. You’re certain you want it?”

  “Aye, My Lady, with all my heart. Ever had fire-wine?” the Yahdrish asked, turning to Sal.

  Sal shook his head.

  The little, old cockle vendor wrinkled her nose and thudded a bottle on the bar. “Charge by the cup. Two copper each. An iron for the opening fee, seeing as this is a fresh bottle.”

  Bartholomew nodded.

  “And I’ll not have you getting deep in your cups here. You get clumsy, and I cut you off.”

  Bartholomew nodded again. “I’ll take a cup, one for my friend here as well.”

  When she’d poured them each a cup of the fire-wine, Aliana went back to preparing her next batch of cockles. Bartholomew lifted his cup, and Sal followed suit.

  “You’re going to like this,” said the Yahdrish boy.

  Sal took a drink and realized almost immediately that he had made a tragic error. The alcohol burned like fire. He panicked and burst into a fit of coughing.

  Bartholomew only laughed.

  “You actually drink that swill?” Sal asked.

  The Yahdrish shrugged and finished off his cup with a long swig. Then he nodded to Sal’s cup. Sal nudged the cup over to Bartholomew, who smiled and drank what was left of Sal’s fire-wine.

  “Whew,” Bartholomew said and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Got to love that burn.”

  Sal shook his head. He didn’t understand how the Yahdrish could drink that piss-water. He just assumed it had something to do with conditioning.

  “So, if Oldrez wasn’t your first, just how many Commission bagmen have you robbed?”

  Bartholomew smirked. “Leg-breakers are never all that fast, and most of them are so arrogant, it bleeds out their ears.”

  “Well, how many?” Sal asked again.

  “I suppose this was my third.”

  “Third! Light’s blessing, three? Are you bloody mad?”

  The Yahdrish boy laughed. “You would think they might be a bit more prepared, but these Commission types are some of the sloppiest fools out there.”

  “Sloppy?” Sal said, shaking his head. “That’s because they know no one is stupid enough to try and rob a Commission bagman. I can’t imagine that will be the case much longer.”

  “Now, hold on just a tick. Didn’t you tell me you were going to rob him yourself? I just happened to get there first.”

  “Right. Well, I was desperate. Besides, I have to think my plan, being a bit more sophisticated than a grab and run, might have gone over a touch smoother.”

  “Had a better plan, did you?” Bartholomew asked, his look skeptical.

  “Well, in any case, I was desperate,” Sal said.

  “We’re all desperate on the street.”

  Sal felt a twinge of guilt. “How long have you been doing this?”

  Bartholomew shrugged. “Long as I can remember. Ma’ taught me what she knew. You know, a bit of this and that, te
asing and picking, before she—you know. Just been me on my own the last four years.”

  “My mother passed as well,” Sal said.

  Silence hung between them for a moment, and Sal took a look at the Godstone. The massive gray slab of stone, wrapped in green ivy and carved with runes, brought a sense of wildness to the market place—a memory of the past.

  “Ever considered paying up the ladder?” Bartholomew asked. “You know, trying to get yourself made with one of the Commission families?”

  “Why would I want to do that?”

  “Why not?” Bartholomew asked, seemingly baffled by the question. “Isn’t that why you’re running with a connected guy? I mean, who wouldn’t want to get made?”

  Sal shrugged. “I guess I’ve seen enough to know it’s not worth it.”

  “Not worth it? How could you say that?”

  Sal shrugged again and skewered a cockle on his fork.

  “I’ll be a made man before long,” said Bartholomew.

  “Will you now?”

  The Yahdrish nodded. “Going to be running the Commission one day.”

  “Running the Commission? You want to be a don?”

  “Not just a don. I’ll be the don, boss of the Five Families.”

  Sal smiled. “Sure, sure. I suppose if you want it bad enough, why not?”

  “You could come along with me,” the Yahdrish boy said. “I’ll need a loyal underboss. I figure you would fill the position as good as any.”

  Sal laughed and skewered an especially meaty cockle from its shell.

  “Something funny?”

  “You are, mate. I told you. I don’t have any interest in being made, and I have even less interest in climbing the ladder.”

  “I mean it. I mean to climb the ladder all the way to the top rung. Come along with me.”

  Sal shook his head. “No, I think I’m happy right where I am. No need to stick my neck out any farther.”

  The Yahdrish shrugged. “It’s an open offer if you change your mind.”

  Sal nodded and skewered another cockle.

  “So, you said your ma’ passed, but what of your da’?” asked Bartholomew.

  “Never knew him,” Sal said.

  “You neither, eh? Guess the world needs bastards like us as much as anyone else.”

  “I guess you’re right,” Sal said, looking back out on the bay. “Listen, that name of yours is a real mouthful. You ever go by anything shorter?”

  “Ma’ used to call me Bartley.”

  “Bartley, huh?” Sal nodded. “I suppose Bartley will do.”

  6

  A Fitting Punishment

  Footsteps echoed through the stone hallway, stirring Sal from his stupor. Thump-thud, thump-thud, thump-thud. A single slender window, barred by iron, was cut high in the stonewall. The only source of light in the dark, dank cell. A full night and half-a-day he’d spent in the cell, and he’d conceived of only one plan. He would needs bull-rush the guards the moment his cell door came open. Mayhap, he could then escape the dungeon and flee.

  Should his plan fail, however, they would stuff him in a crow-cage on the Street of Rags, to starve and blister in the sun, until carrion came to pick off his flesh. If only he’d had the locket. The steel caps never would have caught him had he been able to ride away on the lighting.

  Thump-thud, thump-thud. The sound of footfalls on flagstones drew closer until they halted before the cell. A faint, flickering glow penetrated the gap beneath the heavy oaken door.

  “On your feet,” the guard said from without.

  The hinges squealed in protest as the door was opened.

  There were two jailors. Sal immediately abandoned his plan to charge them. One carried a torch and a loop of iron keys, the other a wicked looking cudgel. Neither man wore the livery of the magistrate. They were no City Watchmen, merely goalers. The jailor with the cudgel leaned his weapon against the wall and grabbed Sal roughly by the arm, placing manacles about Sal’s wrists.

  Torch in hand, the turnkey led the way, escorting Sal through a series of locked doors and stone passageways. At the arrival of each door, there followed a pause as the jailor fumbled for the proper key to fit the lock. They climbed a spiral stairwell that seemed to wind on and up endlessly. Sal felt a sinking sensation in his gut. They were in the tower of the magistrate.

  Eventually, they arrived before a door for which the jailors had no key. A thick oaken door, studded with iron. Placing the torch in an empty sconce and belting his keyring, the jailor knocked.

  A voice called out, telling them to enter.

  The room was dimly lit by flickering torchlight. The air smelled of flowery oils. Upon one wall, a patchwork of chains hung loosely, threaded between four metal rings. Directly before Sal was an ornately carved writing desk, upon it, a clay pitcher beaded with condensation so that it shined in the torchlight like a glass chandelier. Sal licked his dry lips, only then realizing how thirsty he was.

  Behind the ornately carved writing desk, a little man scribbled something on a sheet of parchment. He wore a gold livery collar that displayed the axe and crescent moon of the magistrate. As Sal’s manacles were removed, he admired the small man’s cufflinks for their flawless craftsmanship, polished silver, one a battle axe, the other a crescent moon.

  Standing beside the seated man was a stout monk with cheeks like two ripe tomatoes, a bulbous vein splotched nose, and a grey mustache. Brother Tanao.

  At the sight of the monk, Sal’s heart sank into his bowels.

  Once Sal was seated, the man opposite gingerly laid down his quill, folded his hands on the desktop, and fixed Sal with a smile that showed entirely too many teeth.

  “You may leave us,” the little man said, with a contemptuous flick of his hand.

  The jailors hesitated, but as the little man’s smile disappeared the jailors seemed to take their cue, and they turned to leave, closing the door from without.

  Brother Tanao snorted, long and loud, wiping at his nose with the sleeve of his drab brown robe.

  The little man behind the desk cleared his throat. “My name is Simon Fuller, clerk to his lordship, Carrow Beveren, magistrate of Dijvois. And this is Brother Tanao, master brewer to the Holy Vespian Order of Knöldrus Abbey. Now, then, you stand accused of the crime of thievery, and for this, you have been detained, subject to judgment upon further notice.”

  Sal opened his mouth to speak, but it seemed the little man was not finished.

  “As of this hour, Brother Tanao has informed me that you are wanted for another crime. He has also brought with him a written request for a transfer of prisoner. Written by the abbot of Knöldrus Abbey and signed by both the abbot and the duke.” Simon Fuller fixed Sal with an inquisitive look. “You are hereby transferred to the custody of the brothers of Knöldrus Abbey, to be sentenced by a court of the Vespian Order for the crime of murder.”

  The news had not hit him so hard as he would have assumed. What else could the presence of the monk have meant?

  “Right, then, what’s to be done with me?” Sal asked.

  “You’ll come with me,” said Tanao. “We will make for the abbey, soon as those irons are removed, and my charge has had a cup of that water.”

  “Brother Tanao, I would suggest leaving the manacles in place until you have reached your destination. The prisoner could pose a threat to your life.”

  “Boy, what man of God should fear death? Now, I’ll have those irons stripped, or you’ll see the true wrath of a servant of the Light.”

  Simon Fuller leaped to obey, shuffling through his keyring to find the right fit for Sal’s irons. The lock clicked sounding the latch’s release, and the clerk removed the shackles. Then he grabbed hold of the clay pitcher and poured a cup of water.

  Sal opened and closed his hands as feeling painfully rushed into them. He found it difficult to grip the wooden cup when it was handed to him. As he pressed the cup to his lips, the cold water running over his tongue and down his parched throat was the best
thing that had ever happened to him. At that moment, any worry he held for the future flitted away. All that mattered was the water and the relief it provided. He felt rejuvenated, the throbbing in his head receded, and the soreness of his throat quelled. He’d not had a thing to eat or drink since he was put in the under-cells, and he shuddered to think how long he’d have been deprived basic necessities had the monk not demanded he get a drink.

  “The jailors will escort you from the tower. Good day, Brother Tanao. I will pray for your safe travels. Do be wary of this prisoner, it may be that he is more dangerous than he appears.”

  “See that you pray for men who need such feeble blatherings, I am a man of God. To what end should I fear union with the Light? Let this man attempt to take the life from me, and you shall see what little need I have for your words, scribe. I require no guide, for the Lord that is Light will guide my way.”

  Simon Fuller seemed to not know just how to respond, and so he nodded, stood from the magistrate’s plush chair of office, and crossed the solar to open the door for Sal and the monk.

  The pair of jailors waited just outside the door.

  “They’ll not need your assistance,” the clerk said, unable to hide the contempt in his voice. “Brother Tanao knows the way.”

  “I make no such claims,” said Tanao. “For the glory, be unto the Lord that is Light.”

  As they headed down the tower stair and through the halls of the Magistrate’s Compound, it seemed Tanao did know the way.

  “How exactly does your God guide you?” Sal asked

  “Through experience,” Tanao said, winking. “I served twenty years as an under-jailor. When the former magistrate passed and a new constable was brought on, I decided it was a good time for a career change, and I joined the Vespian Order.”

  Sal smiled. Had Tanao not joined the monkhood, he might have well made a fine living as a mummer on the stage.

  Outside the compound, the usual dreary gray storm clouds covered the sky above Dijvois. The black basalt stone of the Magistrate’s Compound loomed behind them like some predatory monster. Sal was glad to be free of the compound. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder if he were any better off at the mercy of the monks than he was in the hands of the ducal court. The Vespian Order had a long history of harsh judgment and cruel treatment toward prisoners. After all, the birth of the First Inquisition took place from within their order.