Deadhouse Landing, page 13
‘So, you cannot sell it?’
‘No. She died the day before she was due to leave. Now I’m stuck with it.’
Dassem studied the eye-wateringly ugly thing, then nodded. ‘It is perfect. I will take it. I’ll want two horses.’
The trader squeezed the leather bag in his grip. ‘One’ll do.’
‘I want two.’
The trader’s jaws worked, and then he sighed. ‘Very well.’
‘And throw in supplies – a cask of water. Forage for the horses.’
The fellow was nodding. ‘I’ll go wake the boys…’
* * *
It was light, but not yet dawn, when a brightly painted cart hauled by two horses came to the recently rebuilt southern Outer Round gate. The guards, half asleep, blinked at the startling sight. One nudged his companion, saying, ‘Hey, Hurst … the carnival in town?’
Hurst rose, groaning and stamping his feet. ‘Sure looks like it, Raf.’ He leaned on the pole of his eight-foot tall halberd, muttered a bored, ‘Gate’s closed.’
The tall, lean Dal Hon leading the horses stepped up. ‘Then open it.’
Hurst turned an amused glance to his companion, sniffed, and spat to the cobbles. ‘Curfew. Order of the Protectress. Move along.’
‘I intend to move along – to the south.’
Hurst cocked a brow. ‘And how’re you gonna do that?’
‘Through this gate.’
The other guard, Raf, took out a pear and bit it; he offered Hurst a wink. Hurst was nodding. ‘All right. An’ just how’re you gonna get through the gate?’
‘You’re going to open it for me.’
Raf snorted a laugh, chewing.
Hurst offered his companion a knowing look, tapped a finger to his temple. ‘Okay … An’ why would I do that?’
The Dal Hon took a long hard breath, raised his own gaze to the purpling sky. ‘Because I’m the Sword of Hood.’
‘Really?’ Hurst said, offering an exaggerated frown. ‘C’n you prove it?’
Now the Dal Hon frowned, puzzled. ‘Prove it? How?’
Hurst shrugged. ‘I don’t know … Kill something, maybe?’
Raf choked on his pear, laughing and snorting; he slapped his thigh, swallowing with difficulty. ‘Kill something,’ he chortled. ‘That’s a good one.’
The Dal Hon lad looked from one to the other and sighed, his shoulders falling. He rubbed his forehead. ‘I see,’ he murmured aloud, as if speaking to himself. ‘My mistake.’ He rummaged at his belt and withdrew a small bag, opened it, and held out two coins that glinted gold in the rising light.
Hurst and his companion crowded forward, studied the coins, then withdrew, heads together. ‘Whaddya think?’ Hurst whispered.
‘Two more.’
Hurst nodded. ‘Right.’ He returned to the lad. ‘Two more.’
Sighing again, the lad pulled out two more coins. Hurst held out his hand and the lad let them fall into his palm. Hurst turned to Raf, but froze suddenly, setting his hands on his hips. ‘Is that a breeze I’m feelin’ there? Did you go ’n’ leave the gate open again? Dammit, man. How many times do I have to tell you? Were you born in a barn or somethin’?’
Raf took one last bite of the pear then threw the core aside. ‘Sorry there, Hurst. Guess I was distracted by the carnival and such – let’s go have a look.’
The guards withdrew into the gate tunnel. Dassem took hold of the jesses of one horse and led it after them. When he reached the outer gate, one side of the huge double doors hung a touch ajar. He pushed the hulking great thing open further and led the cart on. The guards were standing outside.
‘I am the Sword of Hood, you know,’ Dassem told Hurst.
‘Oh, sure. An’ I’m the nephew of Burn.’
Dassem took breath to speak, only to realize that there really wasn’t anything he could possibly say. He shut his mouth and moved on, shaking his head. The wooden wheels of the cart bumped and grated on the uneven cobbles.
Behind, at the gate, he heard Raf complain to his companion, ‘You know, come to think of it, I was born in a barn.’
He turned his attention to the south and the much abused and littered road that led that way – the very road King Chulalorn’s army marched up only to fall back upon last year, leaving behind the wreckage of shattered equipment, abandoned tools and weapons, and broken sandals.
Nara lay within the cart, hidden under its closed top of stiffened canvas, wrapped in blankets. She was still sweaty, but he was no longer worried that she would succumb to the fever, as the Grey Walker himself had assured him that he would withhold his hand until she was delivered to safety. Just what form this safety would take he had no idea. He had only the name.
Deadhouse.
Chapter 6
Dancer sat at a table in Smiley’s, sharpening all his knives. It was morning and the place was quiet, but then it was always quiet. Amiss sat with him. She was leaning back in her chair, a heeled shoe against a table leg, rocking. Tea lay before him in a chipped stoneware cup, cold and forgotten. He was working on his seventh blade and had finished with the whetstone before moving on to his finer grit dry-stone. After finishing both edges to his satisfaction he polished them with a few final draws across leather, turning the knife absent-mindedly; he found it a very contemplative ritual.
Amiss eyed him for a time, then ventured, ‘Don’t worry. He’ll show up.’
He drew down his mouth, shot her a glance. ‘Who?’
‘Your partner – he always shows up eventually.’
He tested the edge of the blade and sheathed it. ‘Whatever. I’m not worried.’
‘Course not. You’re just grinding your blades down to nothing.’
‘Don’t you have duties or something?’
She stretched her long lean arms overhead, grinning at him. ‘I’m off right now.’
He glowered, drew yet another thin blade from an ankle sheath, tested its edge and set to brushing it over the whetstone. ‘What’s the word on Geffen?’
‘Withdrawn. Hunkered down. As if they’re waiting for us to storm them in their stronghold.’
‘Not likely,’ Dancer answered without looking up.
‘Funny. That’s what Surly said: no need.’
He grunted at that.
‘How ’bout those lessons you promised?’
He looked up. ‘Like what?’
‘Like close-in fighting.’
He shrugged, sheathed the knife. ‘Sure. Out back, I suppose.’
Hawl entered, spotted him, and headed over. She looked as she always did: dishevelled, with tangled hair and tattered mud-smeared skirts. He wondered whether she ever washed or changed her clothes. Mages! The strangest sort. Still, Grinner didn’t seem to mind.
‘That ship,’ she announced, ‘the Twisted. It’s up for sale. We’re buying it, right? That’s the plan?’
Amiss screwed up her face. ‘That cursed scow?’
Dancer drew breath, only to realize that Wu wasn’t here and that he didn’t know what the damned fool intended. ‘Yeah,’ he managed, swallowing his fury. ‘That’s the plan.’
Both Hawl and Amiss asked, ‘How?’
He made a vague gesture. ‘Got funds hidden away. Listen, keep watch. Find out if there’re any takers. Identify them. Yes?’
The mage’s answering grin was knowing. ‘Right. Can’t have a bidding war, hey?’ She went to the kitchen, no doubt to report to Surly.
Amiss was watching him expectantly. ‘So? Where’s all this coin? In your socks?’
He sat back, his jaws clenching, and ground out, ‘It’s coming…’
* * *
By time the evening arrived Dancer was fairly vibrating with frustration and annoyance. Where was the bastard? Didn’t he understand that they had plans in motion? That he couldn’t just take off like this, without talking to anyone?
Cold soup lay before him and he sat alone. The Napan crew seemed to be able to sense his dark mood and occupied other tables.
What were they to do? Kidnap the owner and force him to sign over the papers? Then what? A splash in the harbour, no doubt. But Dancer was no murderer. He was a killer, yes, but not a plain murderer. To his mind the difference was as vast as a chasm.
It was at that moment that the front door creaked open and Wu walked in. He was humming nonchalantly to himself and slapping sand and dust from his sleeves.
Dancer surged from his table. ‘Where have you been?’
Wu froze in mid-stride, mouth open. He brought a hand to his chin. ‘Well … I should think you’d know.’
Dancer waved that aside. ‘Yes, yes. What I mean is, you’ve been gone for ages. Without word. Leaving the rest of us to manage. I had no idea when to expect you, or even if you’d come back at all!’
The lad’s wrinkled old man brows rose. ‘Why, Dancer – I had no idea you cared.’
The fury that this ridiculous fellow was able to raise in Dancer almost choked him. Through clenched teeth he ground out, ‘We’re supposed to be partners…’
From across the bar Grinner called, ‘Could you two take your lovers’ spat upstairs?’
Dancer shot the swordsman a glare, then gestured Wu to the stairs. The mage shrugged and headed up.
Shutting the office door, Dancer turned on him. ‘Don’t you ever—’
Wu shot a finger into the air with a grin that looked rather evil and maniacal on his wizened features, ‘Progress, my friend! Great progress!’
Dancer stared, stunned for a moment. ‘Really? Progress? How so?’
Wu brushed more dust from his dark jacket. He glanced round, spotted a carafe of water on the side table and took a long drink. Swallowing, he gasped, ‘The gate. I think I may have it…’
Dancer eased into a ready stance, his shoulders falling. ‘Really? It’s open?’
The Dal Hon mage raised thumb and forefinger to his eye, a fraction apart. ‘One smidgen from it.’
Dancer leaned back against the door, looked to the ceiling. ‘So … it’s not open.’
‘It will be!’ the mage insisted. He swallowed another mouthful, then waved a hand and started rummaging at the desk. ‘That’s why I came back. To get you. For the last stage.’
‘So I’m supposed to be grateful?’
Wu was studying a handful of his notes and drawings. He peered up, blinking. ‘Well, yes. But not just that. Together we’ve managed to overcome all obstacles to date. Your muscle and my brain!’
Dancer felt the hackles at his neck rising. ‘You mean my muscle and brains and your … insanity.’
The little mage looked offended, and sniffed, ‘I think not.’ He pulled a satchel from beneath the desk and shoved a handful of the papers into it. ‘We’ll need food and water.’
Dancer raised a hand. ‘Whoa. Food and water for what?’
‘For the journey. Who knows what we will find?’
Dancer crossed his arms. ‘No. Not tonight. You need to rest and we both need to prepare. In a few days. Okay?’
Wu hugged the satchel to his chest, his mouth agape in disbelief. ‘What? A few days?’
‘That gate’s been there for what … a millennium? It’s not going anywhere.’
‘But…’
Dancer raised a warning finger. ‘And no sneaking out without me!’ The little mage thumped down into the chair, the satchel still clutched to his chest. ‘Good. Oh, one last thing. Word’s come that the Twisted is up for sale. What do we do? Do we have the funds?’
Wu nodded absently, pouting, his gaze on the cluttered desktop. ‘Yes. I believe so. Arrange a meeting here tomorrow.’
‘Good. I’ll put Surly on it.’
Wu stirred, half-heartedly raising a finger. ‘Be seen ordering her and the others around. It warms the locals’ hearts to see the Napans being bossed about.’
Dancer nodded, thinking, And I wonder how Surly will take that? Maybe she’ll actually see the sense in it. ‘Okay. Tomorrow, then.’ He nodded his goodbye and pulled the door shut behind him. He would have locked it if it had a lock on the outside. Shaking his head, he went to find Surly.
After making the arrangements, he thumped back down at his table. It was long into the night when he finished the last blade.
* * *
The next morning a knock at his door woke him. He wiped groggily at his face, called, ‘Yes?’
‘Noon,’ a woman answered. Shrift. ‘The owner says he’ll come at noon.’
‘Okay.’ He dressed and went down to break his fast.
The Napan crew were already up and about, seeing to their assigned duties for the day: guarding various properties, showing the flag on the streets, and generally letting everyone know who was in charge of the bars, warehouses and flop-houses they controlled.
After his meal of stewed barley, cheese, a wedge of bread, and an apple – a meal he selected very carefully, imagining that not even Urko could ruin it – he went upstairs and knocked on the office door. He waited, but no one answered. A flush of sudden rage took him by the throat and he threw open the door.
Wu was leaning back behind the desk, feet up, fingers twined over his chest, snoring. Dancer felt a twinge of guilt over his anger and gently closed the door behind him. He crossed to the side table and poured a glass of water, set it on the desk, and loudly cleared his throat.
Wu coughed, smacked his lips, and cracked open one eye.
Oddly, the wet snoring noise continued in the room. It seemed to be coming from overhead. Dancer slowly raised his gaze to the rafters above and there lay the hairy long-limbed nacht, pink mouth agape, fast asleep. He threw a wadded sheet of parchment at it and it coughed, smacked its lips, and cracked open one eye.
Dancer experienced an odd sensation of déjà vu.
Wu spotted the glass of water and drank it. He stretched, groaning – as did the nacht above – and drummed his fingers on the desk. ‘So, what’s the word?’
‘Noon. He’s coming at noon.’
‘Excellent.’
Dancer sat on the edge of the desk. ‘And … we do have the money, yes?’
‘Oh, yes. After a fashion.’
He didn’t like the sound of that, but refrained from questioning. He already knew the fellow didn’t like to explain himself. ‘Fine. You should eat.’
‘Have Surly send up a meal.’
To that Dancer could only crook a brow. ‘I don’t think that would go over so well.’
Wu raised a finger into the air. ‘Appearances, my friend. One must maintain appearances.’
Dancer straightened. ‘Well, if you put it that way…’ He headed to the door.
Behind, he heard Wu conspicuously clear his throat, and he turned back. ‘Yes?’
The little fellow was twining his fingers together, his belly up against the desk. ‘I’ve been thinking about what to call myself…’
Dancer nodded. ‘I noticed.’
Wu gave a curt bob of his head. ‘Indeed. Like you, I think I require a new working name. But in my case something grand, of course.’
Dancer clenched his lips tight and let out a hard breath. ‘Like?’
‘Well … something with the strong hard kay sound, like Keth, or Kell. Plus, the sinister and menacing vee sound, such as Val, or Veth, or Ved.’
Dancer looked to the ceiling. Oh, good gods …
Wu was oblivious, as usual. ‘Like Vethkedell the … something or other. Murderous, maybe. Or Menacing.’
‘No.’
Wu blinked, surprised. ‘No? No to what?’
‘To that. Something else with kell and ved.’
Wu’s head shot up. ‘What was that?’
‘What was what?’
‘There. What you just said. Kell … something.’
‘Kell and ved.’
Wu snapped his fingers. ‘That’s it! Very well done, my friend.’
Dancer felt his brows crimping in confusion, and annoyance. What in the Abyss just happened? He gestured to the door. ‘I’ll have a meal sent up, then.’
Wu waved his hands impatiently. ‘No, no. Not now. Have Surly deliver it during the negotiations.’
Dancer wanted to raise his fists to him, but refrained. He sighed instead in tired resignation. ‘Fine. During the negotiations.’ He opened the door. Wu leaned back, setting his dusty-heeled shoes on the desk, and knitted his hands over his stomach, a satisfied smile taking shape on his face. Dancer headed downstairs.
* * *
The owner arrived at noon. Dancer had Tocaras and Choss tail him from the vessel to make certain there would be no interference from Geffen and his boys. He was a veteran raider, grey-haired and grizzled. He entered the common room and stood peering round in the relative dark, uncertain whom to address. Dancer was waiting next to the door and he extended a hand to invite him upstairs. As he followed him up, it occurred to him that the owner looked just as worn down as his vessel. His eyes were bloodshot, red-rimmed and sunken, and his cheeks, which showed an unhealthy grey pallor, unshaven and drawn. He looked like a man who hadn’t slept well in a very long time.
Dancer reached round him to open the office door, and Wu came out from behind the desk to invite him in.
‘Kellanved,’ Wu introduced himself, and Dancer blinked, startled.
‘Durard,’ the old fellow growled.
Wu – Kellanved? – motioned to a chair. ‘Please, sit. Care for a drink?’
‘Wouldn’t say no to a glass,’ the fellow answered, and sat with a weary sigh.
Wu – Kellanved? Dancer repeated to himself – looked to him. ‘Would you be so kind?’
Dancer went to the side table to pour a glass of their best wine, which, if he was being honest, wasn’t really all that good. Setting it before Durard, he went to sit over by the window and stretched out his legs.
Kellanved returned to the desk. ‘Looking to put the sea behind you, yes?’ he said.
Durard blinked at him, confused for a moment, then nodded. ‘Ah, right. I suppose so.’
Dancer was repeating the strange new name to himself. Kellanved … what in the Abyss kind of name was that supposed to be? It didn’t sound Dal Hon at all. And it sure didn’t mean anything – he’d just made it up.
‘Strange for someone to simply up and buy a ship, you know,’ Durard was saying. ‘Usually it’s consortiums of merchants, or groups of owners. Like partners. Or cities, a’ course.’
