Drunken men in papier mache masks and costumes ranging from Dragon Knights to hill-men filled Mama Horne’s. Rik found the latter disturbing simply because they reminded him of Vosh’s death and the fact that he might be next. On a night like tonight any assassin wearing his tribal colours would just blend into the mass. None of the hill-men wore Agante colours but that did not mean much.
When he came through the door with Rena and pressed on into the throng, he was delighted to see half a dozen Foragers were in the saloon and looked more or less alert. Toadface gave him the thumbs up, and even Handsome Jan stopped fondling one of the bar-girls long enough to wink at him.
“Wait for me down here,” he told Rena. “I have some business upstairs.”
“Not another girl?”
“No. It’s business with Weasel and the Barbarian.”
“Don’t take too long about it then.”
“I’ll do my best.” He shoved his way upstairs to the private room they had booked earlier. He felt a little drunk but nothing that some coffee and water would not soon solve. He knocked on the door and heard the Barbarian bellow. “What’s the password?”
“There is no password, you moron. It’s me, Halfbreed.”
“That’s good enough!” The door opened and Rik was hauled inside by one massive hand. Weasel sat at a table with the books piled in front of him and a loaded pistol on top of the pile. The Barbarian breathed beer fumes all over Rik.
“So you finally showed up, did you? Come to get your share of the cash.”
“We haven’t got it yet,” said Rik. He checked to make sure his gear and the package of costumes they had bought earlier were where they should be. He strode across to the windows. They were shuttered and the atmosphere was close, filled with the stink of tobacco, beer, cold meat and unwashed bodies. He threw the shutters open and looked out. The noise of the street rushed in: music, singing, the bang-bang-bang of a string of fireworks being set off, the constant pealing of bells as even the priests celebrated Solace evening, the Promise of the Dragon Angel and the delivering of her chosen people from the Shadow.
Rik surveyed the streets below from the balcony. They were crowded. He looked up. You could drop from the rooftop onto the balcony, he reckoned, if you had a line wrapped around the chimneys up there. He looked at the balconies on either side. A brave man could leap from them onto this one, if he was prepared to risk his life. He glanced across the street. A sniper might be able to take a pot-shot from those windows across there, except that they were all already filled with revellers.
“I wish we had some caltrops to scatter on this balcony,” he said.
“Why?” Weasel asked.
“What are they?” roared the Barbarian.
“Nasty little spikes, set in spheres, stick into your foot if you are not careful,” said Weasel. “You think somebody might try to surprise us from there? Nobody knows we are in this room.”
“Except Mama Horne and half her staff.”
“Too late to change it now.”
“Maybe,” said Rik closing the doors. Briefly he considered moving the furniture to block the balcony entrance but then decided not to bother. If for any reason he needed to make a sudden exit, those nearby balconies were the only way out. He realised exactly how on edge he was now. He was proceeding with all the caution of a thief on the run in Sorrow. It was an instinctive reaction, he thought, and he trusted his instincts in matters like these. He had been right often enough about such things in the past.
“Relax, Rik,” said the Barbarian. “Nothing is going to go wrong.”
“I am glad that you are so confident. I will feel much better when the books are gone and we have our gold. I’ll feel better yet when we are back in camp with it,” said Weasel.
“I’ll second that,” said the Barbarian.
“I see the lads are downstairs,” said Rik.
“It’s good to have them on call if need be,” said Weasel.
“If there’s any trouble, I’ll handle it,” said the Barbarian.
“If there’s any trouble, you’ll probably cause it,” muttered Rik under his breath. He was more or less resigned to going ahead with the sale now. There was no way out of it that he could see unless he wanted to fight with Weasel and the Barbarian and attempt to take the books by force.
That was not something he could do. Aside from the fact it was madness, they were his friends and comrades. Killing them by stealth was not something he could consider for more than a passing moment, even if he could get away with it, which was doubtful. It looked like it was plan number two, he thought with more than a hint of trepidation.
There was a knock on the door.
“You get that,” said Weasel. The Barbarian strode over to one side of it. Weasel took the other. Rik strode to the door, decided that it was thick enough to stop a pistol ball, and said; “Who is it?”
“Somebody with an interest in books,” said a muffled voice. It was familiar. It sounded like Bertragh. Rik unlocked the door and stepped away from it. He had his pistol in his hand now, and a knife in the other.
The door swung open and a small figure stood there. It was wearing a very basic Solace costume and a mask in the face of some pig-faced demon. It had a small travel bag in one hand. Several massive burly figures garbed as ancient knights flanked it. The pig mask cocked to one side, and Bertragh’s voice said; “My, we are ready to do violence, aren’t we?”
“Come inside,” said Rik. “You can bring two of the bruisers with you. The rest can wait outside.”
Bertragh shrugged and entered. Two of his men followed. The rest looked like they were about to, but the factor sent them back with a gesture. Once in the room, he removed his mask and glanced around. “What delightful quarters.”
Rik locked the door. Weasel and the Barbarian placed pistols at the heads of the two bodyguards and took away their weapons. Bertragh studied this unworriedly. He beamed cheerfully and had there not been a bright, almost feverish gleam in his eyes, Rik would have said he was totally relaxed, so relaxed in fact that Rik suspected him of having been smoking witchweed.
“There’s no need for that, really,” said Bertragh. “We are all friends here.”
“Sometimes misunderstandings happen, even between friends,” said Rik. “Sometimes they can be fatal, and we are trying to avoid that.”
“A laudable ambition but quite unnecessary in this case.”
Weasel and the Barbarian gave the bodyguards a thorough search and then backed away. They carried a fair number of small pistols suitable for concealment, as well as larger ones, and two blades. Rik sat down in the chair on the other side of the desk. He gestured for Bertragh to take the seat in front.
“Now we can do business,” he said. “You have the gold?”
Bertragh reached inside his jacket. Instantly Weasel and the Barbarian were ready, pistols levelled.
“Carefully,” said Rik. He toyed with the pistol on the table-top. Almost accidentally it pointed at Bertragh. “We want no misunderstandings now.”
“Quite,” said the factor. “I am now going to take off my money belt. Please try not to shoot me while I am doing it.”
Rik found himself almost admiring the little man’s calmness and good humour. Clearly he was no stranger to high stakes negotiation. Bertragh hitched a broad canvas belt above the level of his britches, untied the drawstrings and let it fall onto the table with a heavy thunk. He opened it and a number of gold coins fell out. A large number. Rik picked one up weighed it in his hand. It felt like gold. It looked like gold. He scratched it with his knife. If it was gold plated the plating went deep.
“Those are gold regals,” said Bertragh. “You have my word on it.”
Rik believed him. He had held regals before and this was what they looked and felt like. They would pass with any merchant in the land. Of course, people would start asking questions if common soldiers started spending them. Rik mentioned this.
“I am sure your friend there,” Bertragh indicated Weasel with a jerk of his thumb, “can get some of his friends downstairs to change them.”
Weasel gave an almost imperceptible nod. Rik was not sure he wanted the coins changed just yet. They were a lot more portable the way they were.
