“Hell. Why not, Asa? We’ll all benefit.” The fire had dwindled to a bank of grey ash.
Asa scuttled to the fireplace. The group there parted surlily. Asa settled beside Shed’s mother. Old June was blind. She could not tell who he was. He placed his bundle before him and started stirring the coals.
“Nothing down to the docks today?” Shed asked.
Asa shook his head. “Nothing came in. Nothing going out. They only had five jobs. Unloading wagons. People were fighting over them.”
Shed nodded. Asa was no fighter. Asa was not fond of honest labor, either. “Darling, one draft for Asa.” Shed gestured as he spoke. His serving girl picked up the battered mug and took it to the fire.
Shed did not like the little man. He was a sneak, a thief, a liar, a mooch, the sort who would sell his sister for a couple of copper gersh. He was a whiner and complainer and coward. But he had become a project for Shed, who could have used a little charity himself. Asa was one of the homeless Shed let sleep on the common room floor whenever they brought wood for the fire. Letting the homeless have the floor did not put money into the coin box, but it did assure some warmth for June’s arthritic bones.
Finding free wood in Juniper in winter was harder than finding work. Shed was amused by Asa’s determination to avoid honest employment.
The fire’s crackle killed the stillness. Shed put his grimy rag aside. He stood behind his mother, hands to the heat. His fingernails began aching. He hadn’t realized how cold he was.
It was going to be a long, cold winter. “Asa, do you have a regular wood source?” Shed could not afford fuel. Nowadays firewood was barged down the Port from far upstream. It was expensive. In his youth...
“No.” Asa stared into the flames. Piney smells spread through the Lily. Shed worried about his chimney. Another pine scrap winter, and he hadn’t had the chimney swept. A chimney fire could destroy him.
Things had to turn around soon. He was over the edge, in debt to his ears. He was desperate.
“Shed.”
He looked to his tables, to his only real paying customer.
“Raven?”
“Refill, if you please.”
Shed looked for Darling. She had disappeared. He cursed softly. No point yelling. The girl was deaf, needed signs to communicate. An asset, he had thought when Raven had suggested he hire her. Countless secrets were whispered in the Lily. He had thought more whisperers might come if they could speak without fear of being overheard.
Shed bobbed his head, captured Raven’s mug. He disliked Raven, partially because Raven was successful at Asa’s game. Raven had no visible means of support, yet always had money. Another reason was because Raven was younger, tougher and healthier than the run of the Lily’s customers. He was an anomaly. The Lily was on the downhill end of the Buskin, close to the waterfront. It drew all the drunkards, the worn-out whores, the dopers, the derelicts and human flotsam who eddied into that last backwater before the darkness overhauled them. Shed sometimes agonized, fearing his precious Lily was but a final way station.
Raven did not belong. He could afford better. Shed wished he dared throw the man out. Raven made his skin crawl, sitting at his corner table, dead eyes hammering iron spikes of suspicion into anyone who entered the tavern, cleaning his nails endlessly with a knife honed razor-sharp, speaking a few cold, toneless words whenever anyone took a notion to drag Darling upstairs... That baffled Shed. Though there was no obvious connection, Raven protected the girl as though she were his virgin daughter. What the hell was a tavern slut for, anyway? Shed shuddered, pushed it out of mind. He needed Raven. Needed every paying guest he could get. He was surviving on prayers.
He delivered the wine. Raven dropped three coins into his palm. One was a silver leva. “Sir?”
“Get some decent firewood in here, Shed. If I wanted to freeze, I’d stay outside.”
“Yes, sir!” Shed went to the door, peeked into the street. Latham’s wood yard was just a block away.
The drizzle had become an icy rain. The mucky lane was crusting. “Going to snow before dark,” he informed no one in particular.
“In or out,” Raven growled. “Don’t waste what warmth there is.”
Shed slid outside. He hoped he could reach Latham’s before the cold began to ache.
Shapes loomed out of the icefall. One was a giant. Both hunched forward, rags around their necks to prevent ice from sliding down their backs.
Shed charged back into the Lily. “I’ll go out the back way.” He signed, “Darling, I’m going out. You haven’t seen me since this morning.”
“Krage?” the girl signed.
“Krage,” Shed admitted. He dashed into the kitchen, snagged his ragged coat off its hook, wriggled into it. He fumbled the door latch twice before he got it loose. An evil grin with three teeth absent greeted him as he leaned into the cold. Foul breath assaulted his nostrils. A filthy finger gouged his chest. “Going somewhere, Shed?”
“Hi, Red. Just going to see Latham about firewood.”
“No, you’re not.” The finger pushed. Shed fell back till he was in the common room.
Sweating, he asked, “Cup of wine?”
“That’s neighborly of you, Shed. Make it three.”
“Three?” Shed’s voice squeaked.
“Don’t tell me you didn’t know Krage is on his way.”
“I didn’t,” Shed lied.
Red’s snaggle-toothed smirk said he knew Shed was lying.
Chapter Six
Tally mix-up
You try your damnedest, but something always goes wrong. That’s life. If you’re smart, you plan for it.
Somehow, somebody got away from Madle’s, along about the twenty-fifth Rebel who stumbled into our web, when it really looked like Neat had done us a big favor, summoning the local hierarchy to a conference. Looking backward, it is hard to fix blame. We all did our jobs. But there are limits to how alert you stay under extended stress. The man who disappeared probably spent hours plotting his break. We did not notice his absence for a long time.
Candy figured it out. He threw his cards in at the tail of a hand, said, “We’re minus a body, troops. One of those pig farmers. The little guy who looked like a pig.”
I could see the table from the corner of my eye. I grunted. “You’re right. Damn. Should have taken a head count after each trip to the well.”
The table was behind Pawnbroker. He did not turn around. He waited a hand, then ambled to Madle’s counter and bought a crock of beer. While his rambling distracted the locals, I made rapid signs with my fingers, in deaf- speech. “Better be ready for a raid. They know who we are. I shot my mouth off.”
The Rebel would want us bad. The Black Company has earned a widespread reputation as a successful eradicator of the Rebel pestilence, wherever it appears. Though we are not as vicious as reputed, news of our coming strikes terror wherever we go. The Rebel often goes to ground, abandoning his operations, where we appear.
Yet here were four of us, separated from our companions, evidently unaware that we were at risk. They would try. The question at hand was how hard.
We did have cards up our sleeves. We never play fair if we can avoid it. The Company philosophy is to maximize effectiveness while minimizing risk.
The tall, dark man rose, left his shadow, stalked toward the stair to the sleeping rooms. Candy snapped, “Watch him, Otto.” Otto hurried after him, looking feeble in the man’s wake. The locals watched, wondering.
Pawnbroker used signs to ask, “What now?”
“We wait,” Candy said aloud, and with signs added, “Do what we were sent to do.”
“Not much fun, being live bait,” Pawnbroker signed back. He studied the stair nervously. “Set Otto up with a hand,” he suggested.
