he reckoned it was a good one.
Strong, with hard bones in it, a fierce line of jaw and a lean neck, a blue vein showing up the side. Dangerous, he reckoned, though that wasn’t such a clever guess since he’d seen her slit the back of a man’s knee with small regret. Still, there was something in the way her narrow eyes held him that made him nervous. Calm and cold, as if she’d already got his full measure, and knew just what he’d do next. Knew better’n he did. She had three long marks down one cheek, old cuts still healing. She had a glove on her right hand, and scarcely used it. A limp too he’d noticed on the way here. Caught up in some dark business, maybe, but Shivers didn’t have so many friends he could afford to be picky. Right then, anyone who fed him had the full stretch of his loyalty.
She watched him eat. “Hungry?”
“Somewhat.”
“Long way from home?”
“Somewhat.”
“Had some bad luck?”
“More’n my share. But I made some bad choices, too.”
“The two go together.”
“That is a fact.” He tossed knife and spoon clattering down onto the empty plate. “I should’ve thought it through.” He wiped up the gravy with the last slice of bread. “But I’ve always been my own worst enemy.” They sat facing each other in silence as he chewed it. “You’ve not told me your name.”
“No.”
“Like that, is it?”
“I’m paying, aren’t I? It’s whatever way I say it is.”
“Why are you paying? A friend of mine…” He cleared his throat, starting to doubt whether Vossula had been any kind of friend. “A man I know told me to expect nothing for free in Styria.”
“Good advice. I need something from you.”
Shivers licked at the inside of his mouth and it tasted sour. He had a debt to this woman, now, and he wasn’t sure what he’d have to pay. By the look of her, he reckoned it might cost him dear. “What do you need?”
“First of all, have a bath. No one’s going to deal with you in that state.”
Now the hunger and the cold were gone, they’d left a bit of room for shame. “I’m happier not stinking, believe it or not. I got some fucking pride left.”
“Good for you. Bet you can’t wait to get fucking clean, then.”
He worked his shoulders around, uncomfortable. He had this feeling like he was stepping into a pool with no idea how deep it might be. “Then what?”
“Not much. You go into a smoke-house and ask for a man called Sajaam. You say Nicomo demands his presence at the usual place. You bring him to me.”
“Why not do that yourself?”
“Because I’m paying you to do it, fool.” She held up a coin in her gloved fist. Silver glinted in the firelight, design of weighing scales stamped into the bright metal. “You bring Sajaam to me, you get a scale. You decide you still want fish, you can buy yourself a barrelful.”
Shivers frowned. For some fine-looking woman to come out of nowhere, more’n likely save his life, then make him a golden offer? His luck had never been anywhere near that good. But eating had only reminded him how much he used to enjoy doing it. “I can do that.”
“Good. Or you can do something else, and get fifty.”
“Fifty?” Shivers’ voice was an eager croak. “This a joke?”
“You see me laughing? Fifty, I said, and if you still want fish you can buy your own boat and have change for some decent tailoring, how’s that?”
Shivers tugged somewhat shamefacedly at the frayed edge of his coat. With that much he could hop the next boat back to Uffrith and kick Vossula’s skinny arse from one end of the town to the other. A dream that had been his one source of pleasure for some time. “What do you want for fifty?”
“Not much. You go into a smoke-house and ask for a man called Sajaam. You say Nicomo demands his presence at the usual place. You bring him to me.” She paused for a moment. “Then you help me kill a man.”
It was no surprise, if he was honest with himself for once. There was only one kind of work that he was really good at. Certainly only one kind that anyone would pay him fifty scales for. He’d come here to be a better man. But it was just like the Dogman had told him. Once your hands are bloody, it ain’t so easy to get ’em clean.
Something poked his thigh under the table and he near jumped out of his chair. The pommel of a long knife lay between his legs. A fighting knife, steel crosspiece gleaming orange, its sheathed blade in the woman’s gloved hand.
“Best take it.”
“I didn’t say I’d kill anyone.”
“I know what you said. The blade’s just to show Sajaam you mean business.”
He had to admit he didn’t much care for a woman surprising him with a knife between his thighs. “I didn’t say I’d kill anyone.”
“I didn’t say you did.”
“Right then. Just as long as you know.” He snatched the blade from her and slid it down inside his coat.
The knife pressed against his chest as he walked up, nuzzling at him like an old lover back for more. Shivers knew it was nothing to be proud of. Any fool can carry a knife. But even so, he wasn’t sure he didn’t like the weight of it against his ribs. Felt like being someone again.
He’d come to Styria looking for honest work. But when the purse runs empty, dishonest work has to do. Shivers couldn’t say he’d ever seen a place with a less honest look about it than this one. A heavy door in a dirty, bare, windowless wall, with a big man standing guard on each side. Shivers could tell it in the way they stood-they had weapons, and were right on the edge of putting ’em to use. One was a dark-skinned Southerner, black hair hanging around his face.
“Need something?” he asked, while the other gave Shivers the eyeball.
“Here to see Sajaam.”
“You armed?” Shivers slid out the knife, held it up hilt first, and the man took it off him. “With me, then.” The hinges creaked as the door swung open.
The air was thick on the other side, hazy with sweet smoke. It scratched at Shivers’ throat and made him want to cough, prickled at his eyes and made them water. It was dim and quiet, too sticky warm for comfort after the nip outside. Lamps of coloured glass threw patterns across the stained walls-green, and red, and yellow flares in the murk. The place was like a bad dream.
Curtains hung about, dirty silk rustling in the gloom. Folk sprawled on cushions, half-dressed and half-asleep. A man lay on his back, mouth wide open, pipe dangling from his hand, trace of smoke still curling from the bowl. A woman was pressed against him, on her side. Both their faces were beaded with sweat, slack as corpses. Looked like an uneasy cross between delight and despair, but tending towards the latter.
“This way.” Shivers followed his guide through the haze and down a shadowy corridor. A woman leaning in a doorway watched him pass with dead eyes, saying nothing. Someone was grunting somewhere, “Oh, oh, oh,” almost bored.
Through a curtain of clicking beads and into another big room, less smoky but more worrying. Men were scattered about it, an odd mix of types and colours. Judging by their looks, all used to violence. Eight were sitting at a table strewn with glasses, bottles and small money, playing cards. More lounged about in the shadows. Shivers’ eye fell right away on a nasty-looking hatchet in easy reach of one, and he didn’t reckon it was the only weapon about. A clock was nailed up on the wall, innards dangling, swinging back and forth, tick, tock, tick, loud enough to set his nerves jangling even worse.
A big man sat at the head of the table, the chief’s place if this had been the North. An old man, face creased like leather past its best. His skin was oily dark, short hair and beard dusted with iron grey. He had a gold coin he
