A Fool of Sorts Read online

  “Oy, what’d you go running off for?” Odie asked.

  Sal turned. He was surprised to see Odie, as he’d forgotten all about the big man the moment he’d eyed Lilliana across the market-round.

  “Odie, I—”

  “Don’t go and wet your small clothes, boy. Only, japing. Had a pretty thing like that to chase, I wouldn’t be standing here, now would I? No, the reason I come over is, now Valla’s made her blood, she’s gone and started a little crew of her own. Looking for a cat’s paw, you see?”

  Sal flinched. He’d been on plenty of jobs and played a lot of roles, but never the cat’s paw. It was a role reserved for the quietest and coldest of snatchers, a hybrid role consisting of second story work, sentry duty, and clean up. Simple enough if things went smoothly, but things seldom went smoothly, and if a passerby stumbled too close, Sal would needs remove them from the situation. He didn’t think he had the stomach for that kind of work—no, knew he didn’t have the stomach for it. He’d killed before, three men in all, and he’d spent near half a year attempting to forget what he’d done. Justified or not, his hands were stained with blood, his sleep plagued with night terrors, his soul fragmented.

  “I’ll needs think on it,” Sal said.

  “Don’t go thinking too long. Valla will be expecting an answer within the week.”

  Odie grabbed one of Sal’s oysters, put the shell to his lips and slurped, then wiped his mouth with the back of an overlarge hand. The big man winked and set off, parting the crowd as he walked, head and shoulders above the rest.

  Sal pushed the remainder of his meal away, no longer hungry. As darkness clouded his thoughts, he felt an overwhelming desire to climb inside a shell and hide until the end of his pathetic, miserable existence.

  The morning market was in full swing when Sal stood from his stool. Gentry and merchant class, for the most part. Still, much of the nobility sent servants to the market in their stead, and yet, Sal felt a beggar among the crowd of well dressed, clean cut, and freshly bathed High Town locals. Keeping his head low, Sal slunk through the sea of people. Although, even down as he was, when a young nobleman brushed shoulders with him, he couldn’t help but pick the man’s pocket with a soft touch.

  Once out of East Market and on the Southwalk, Sal chanced a look at his takings, three coins in all, a gold krom and two iron dingés. Not a bad take for a moment’s work. He pocketed the krom and rubbed the dingés together between thumb and forefinger as he walked.

  He crossed the Tamber at South Bridge, stopping on the Big Island to take a piss over the parapet and into the bay before he stepped into Low Town.

  The Rusted Anchor took its name from the great pitted hunk of steel planted just outside its doors. Sal passed the anchor and turned the corner of the alehouse. The shadowed alley smelled of salt air and rotting fish. He put a hand to the locket about his neck, his mind on the pigsticker tucked in his boot.

  “Ticker,” Sal said. “Tick, you there?”

  A sliver of a shadow split from the alcove some ways down the alley. “Who’s asking?”

  “Salvatori,” Sal stammered. “Salvatori Lorenzo.”

  “Lorenzo? Haven’t seen you in a time. Thought you’d died. What do you want?”

  “A cap. I—I need a cap.”

  Ticker stepped fully from the shadows, his skin pallid, face drawn, creases forming at the corners of his mouth, his eyes rimmed red, and his cheeks sunken. “Just the one?” Ticker asked and smiled, showing stained yellow teeth. “Two silver.”

  “I’ll need a leaf and wicking if you have it.”

  A look of irritation passed over the dealer’s pale features. “Coin first,” Ticker said, holding out an open palm. “Two and a copper.”

  “At that rate, I’ll take two caps.” Sal put the gold krom in Ticker’s hand and winked.

  Ticker smiled. He turned and walked back to the alcove he’d emerged from. When he returned, he held a bundle of rolled tobacco leaves and a length of wicking, along with two golden-brown mushroom caps.

  The sight of the skeev caps set Sal’s heart pounding and his mouth salivating.

  Ticker handed him the rolled leaves and the wicking, then the caps.

  “Now if that’s all, bugger off.”

  Sal smiled. “With pleasure, M’lord, but first I needs take care of business. You wouldn’t happen to have a flame handy?”

  Ticker made a sound of disgust as Sal unrolled a leaf and began crumbling the skeev inside. “Not here, you don’t. You want to bring the whole City Watch down on me?”

  “The steel caps don’t care about a little skeev,” Sal said. “Besides, when’s the last time you saw a steel cap in the Shoe that wasn’t on the hunt for a taste?”

  “That’s just the point. You think them steel caps pay for their fun? One of them bastards catches the scent, I’ll be cleaned out.” Ticker went back to the alcove and returned with a shard of flint.

  Sal tucked the wicking and leaves away and gently slipped the caps into his jerkin pocket, then took the flint.

  “Now, fuck off,” said the dealer.

  “Always a pleasure, Tick.”

  Sal left the alley behind the Rusted Anchor and skulked along the Bayway, peeking into alleys until he found one to his liking. It wasn’t deserted, but close enough to count. The alley’s sole occupant was curled up in a heap of tattered rags and what looked to be old fishing nets.

  Sal took out his half-filled tobacco leaf and skeev cap and resumed crumbling the golden-brown cap into the leaf. His fingertips were soon coated in a thin layer of the powder, making them dry and coarse. Once filled, Sal rolled the leaf, using his saliva to seal the bind.

  He frayed the end of the waxed wicking so that it would take to the flame more readily and swiped the flint across the brick of the alley wall, the wicking positioned to take the spark. By the third swipe, he heard a hiss and smelled burning. He cupped his hands about the wicking, blowing softly upon the burning red cherry. When the cherry bloomed into full-fledged flame, Sal put the rolled leaf between his lips, his mouth salivating like a rabid dog.

  Slowly but surely, he brought the wicking to the end of the tobacco leaf, rolling the joint and breathing in quick, short inhalations until the tip burned evenly. The alley soon filled with a smell like tobacco and burning leather.

  When the rush hit, the entire world slowed. Color became more vibrant, as though bursting to escape the confines of reality. Sounds sharper and cleaner. Smells more pleasant and easily identifiable. The sense of euphoria quickly spreading throughout his body with a warm, tingling sensation.

  Sal laughed, unable to contain his joy and the pure sense of relief that swept over him. He took another hit, held his breath, and exhaled through his nostrils. He leaned against the wall and continued to take long, deep inhalations until half the leaf had burned away. At that point, he snuffed the rolled leaf on a brick and pocketed the remainder of the joint for later.

  It wasn’t until he’d left the alley that the guilt began to set in. He’d gone nigh on a month without the stuff. He’d survived the cravings, the sweats, and sickness that accompanied the parting, and in an instant, he’d thrown himself right back into the mix.

  The great rust-red anchor stood tall as a man, the top loop wide enough for Sal’s arm to pass through. By his best estimate, the thing must have weighed forty stone. Might be four men the size of Odie could move the thing, but so far as Sal knew, the anchor had been there since the beginning of time and would remain until the end.

  There was no sign nor painted name above the door to the Rusted Anchor alehouse. It was the sort of place that cultured a specific breed of clientele, and rarely, if ever, welcomed outsiders. It was a dockside den for dicers and card slicks, known for its watered ale, oily wine, and poxy whores.

  From within, the Rusted Anchor smelled of stale beer and sweat. Smoke hung in the air like a gray cloud. Paint peeled from the shiplap walls to reveal moldy, bug-eaten wood. The rushes so old and dry, they were fit for kindl
ing. A cacophony of voices, cursing and blaspheming in a multitude of tongues, filled the crowded space. All about the taproom, hard-looking men diced or played at cards, winning or losing their fortunes at the flip of a coin.

  Sal brushed past a stoop backed man, catching sight of a familiar face across the room as she tossed a pair of dice.

  “Care for a roll on the straw, honey?” said a red-haired woman, grabbing Sal’s crotch and giving his manhood a playful squeeze.

  Sal nearly jumped from his skin in surprise.

  The red-haired woman laughed in delight. “Touchy one. What do you think, Brella, should we take him upstairs?”

  A blonde woman, older than the red-haired girl, but prettier of face, laid a hand on Sal’s arm, gently massaging the muscles beneath the linen. “Might be we could have some fun with this one.”

  “I—”

  “Come now, there’s no reason to be so scared,” said the redhead. “We won’t bite.”

  The blonde took his hand and began to lead him toward the stairs, while the redhead nibbled at his earlobe and whispered. Sal felt a tremor run down his spine, and he shivered. His manhood swelled rapidly, his self-control began to erode. As terrified as he was excited, his mind whirled. He had the sense to know it would be a bad decision, and yet, he found another part of him felt to go along with the women was the most sensible thing in the world.

  “No,” Sal said, planting his feet. “No, I think I’ll needs pass on the opportunity.”

  The blonde laughed, and the redhead grabbed him by the crotch once more. “Oh, honey,” the redhead said with a vulpine smile. “Seems to me you’ve got a hitch in your step, and there’s only one cure for such an ailment.”

  “No,” Sal repeated. “No, I’ve other business to attend.”

  “So, attend your business after you’ve attended us,” said the blonde, unwilling to relinquish her grip on Sal’s hand.

  Not wanting to look an utter fool struggling with the pair of whores, Sal relented, allowing the blonde to lead him toward the staircase. He sighed. “Listen, ladies, I don’t want to be presumptuous, but before we begin, I need to know if the pair of you can afford me.”

  The women stopped and shared a look of bemused smiles.

  “Afford you?” asked the redhead.

  “My going rate is twenty krom for the hour, another twenty for each subsequent hour. But seeing as there are the two of you, I could cut you a deal, say thirty krom for the first hour and twenty-five for each hour that follows?”

  The blonde laughed, but the redhead narrowed her eyes, a surly look spreading across her visage.

  Sal kept his composure and did his best to remain stone-faced.

  Just then, a big man with a shaved, tattooed head approached. “Fuck’s the problem here?” said the pimp, a blue vein bulging at his temple.

  “This one wants to charge us for a hump,” said the blonde.

  “The fuck,” said the pimp, his face reddening. “The fuck you say?”

  “Just what you heard,” Sal said defiantly. “A man’s got to make a living. I can’t afford to be giving my services away for free, even to a couple beautiful ladies with such class.”

  The pimp looked to be as confused as he was angry. “Look here, you scrawny fuck. You take up my girl’s time, you pay for it. End of story.”

  “Your girls? These ladies belong to you? There seems to have been a terrible misunderstanding. You see, I hadn’t realized you’d laid claim upon them. By all means, take them.”

  Sal slipped free of the blonde’s grip and made for the taproom, but the pimp grabbed him by the collar and slammed him up against the wall, driving the air from his lungs and sending a dull ringing between his ears.

  “You-pay-now,” said the pimp through gritted teeth.

  A woman cleared her throat.

  While keeping Sal pinned to the shiplap, his feet dangling off the ground, the pimp turned to look, revealing the slender form of Valla.

  “You don’t want to mess with that one, Dirge,” said Valla in a cool, collected voice. “That there is Stefano Lorenzo’s nephew.”

  The man named Dirge kept Sal where he was, his feet dangling off the ground. He turned his big ugly face back on Sal, his breath smelled a mixture of rotting onions and sour wine. “You owe me for the fucking time you wasted, for my girls and me. I want the fucking opportunity cost compensated as well.”

  Ugly and foul-mouthed as he was, it seemed the pimp was not so dim as he looked.

  “Opportunity cost?” Sal said, feigning ignorance.

  “For every fucking sale my girls missed out on while you was wasting their fucking time.”

  “You must not have heard me, Dirge,” Valla said. “Leave the boy be, and go on with your day.”

  The pimp twisted Sal’s collar tighter. “Mind your own, bitch. Now then, fuck hole, what do I have to break to get me money?”

  “Let him down, now.”

  “Or what, bitch?”

  “Or? I think you mean and, Dirge. Let the boy down, and you leave here with your balls firmly attached.”

  The pimp scoffed. A spray of spit showered Sal’s face. “The fuck you think you’re gonna do, bitch—” Dirge screamed, his grip releasing Sal’s collar as both hands went for his crotch.

  Swift as a silverfish, Valla had closed the distance to Dirge with such feline grace that her movement was nearly untraceable. She had unsheathed the knife at her hip, ducked, and slashed.

  The pimp dropped to the rushes, thrashing like a beast in its death throws. His shriek was like that of something primal.

  The taproom was silent, all attention focused on the man thrashing on the floor in a pool of his own blood.

  Valla stepped over Dirge with a playful hop and took Sal by the hand. As her fingers closed about his, Sal noticed Valla had a new tattoo.

  “Sorry, ladies, this one’s mine,” Valla said.

  The pair of whores stared in stunned silence as Valla led Sal to her table.

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” Sal said.

  “What? And left you to Dirge?” Valla said, taking a seat and patting the chair next to her. “Are you not appreciative of my interference?”

  “No, of course, I appreciate you rescuing me, and all,” Sal said, taking the seat next to Valla. “I only meant that you are going to likely be in a spot of trouble for that.”

  “From who? I own the majority share of this shit hole now, and the City Watch is paid well to stay clear. From who should I fear repercussions?”

  “You own most of the Rusted Anchor?” Sal asked.

  “A new investment, I plan to buy out the remaining shareholders in short order and move on from there.”

  “You seem to be doing well for yourself. I noticed you’ve got something else new,” Sal said, nodding to the tattoo of the black cross on her hand. “One of Don Moretti’s soldiers now, are you?”

  Valla’s smile was cocksure. “Made my blood a few months back. What can I say? All those years sucking Alonzo’s little cock finally paid off.”

  Sal scoffed. “Certainly seems that way, but at what cost, I wonder?”

  “Oh no,” Valla said. “No, no, not going to get into this with you, Salvatori. I didn’t spare your life so that you could criticize my career choice and bring down my evening. If I wanted that sort of company, I’d have sat at table with my father. Besides, after the stunt you pulled in this place, I’m impressed you’ve got the gall to show your face inside these walls. You never did tell me why Don Moretti didn’t kill you.”

  “Right, forget I asked,” Sal said.

  “I will,” Valla said with half-lidded eyes. “Now, what are you drinking?”

  Sal hadn’t planned on drinking, as his purse had lightened significantly after buying the caps. “An ale might do the trick.”

  “Good, tell them I’ll have another,” Valla said, making a shooing motion. “They’ll know what you mean.”

  Sal stood hesitantly, slightly irritated at himself, and slightly
more so with Valla. As he walked toward the bar, he snuck a peek at the entryway and saw only the pool of blood where Dirge had been lying in the rushes. There was no other sign of the pimp or his whores.

  “A house ale, and another one for Valla,” Sal said to the barman.

  The barman looked at him slack-faced.

  “Another what?”

  “Another for Valla.”

  “Yeah, sure, another what?”

  Sal sighed and rubbed his eyes. He looked to Valla’s table, but she had moved to a dicing table and was throwing the bones as Sal looked in her direction.

  He turned back to the barman and pointed in Valla’s direction. “That woman there. The one who near cut that pimp’s balls off not half a turn ago.”

  “Ah, the boss lady. Why didn’t you say?” He turned to the tap, two clay mugs in hand, and filled them until they overflowed with heady foam.

  Sal reached for the mugs, but the barman didn’t release his grip.

  “Is there a problem?” Sal asked.

  They stood there, awkwardly staring at one another, each with a hand on the mugs. “The boss drinks free,” said the barman.

  Sal nodded and tried again to take the mugs, but the barman refused to relinquish them.

  “The boss drinks free,” the barman said once more, his face devoid of emotion.

  Sal sighed. “Give ‘em over already, would you.”

  The barman shook his head, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. “A copper for the ale.”

  “Boss said it was free. Need me to call her over?”

  “Oh,” said the barman, realization sweeping over him. “Boss said that, did she?”

  Sal nodded.

  The barman pushed the mugs into Sal’s hands, slopping ale and foam on the bar and Sal’s jerkin. Without another word, the barman moved on to wiping the bar with a dirty rag.

  “What took you so long?” Valla said.

  Sal only shook his head, thrusting the mug at Valla. By then, it seemed she’d done her dicing and made it back her usual table.