The Iron Ring (22 page)

“But . . . I haven't been . . . I mean I've been quite certain to . . .”

Sahand cocked an eyebrow at him. “I seem to recall you acquiring
three
gnolls for me some time ago, but then you seemed to have
misplaced
one, is that not correct?”

Hendrieux's heart sank. “Yes. But . . .”

Sahand ran a thick hand along the short silver stubble that adorned his chin. “You will be needed for another pickup from our supplier tomorrow night, Captain. Given your propensity to misuse my resources for your own personal reasons, I am leaving Gallo here as an advisor. I am
also
leaving more men to secure this tumble-­down hovel of a slaver's prison you've acquired. I'll not have my operations compromised by some foolish thieving guild that gets angry over losing their favorite alchemist. Do you understand?”

Hendrieux, pale, bowed deeply. “Yes, Your Highness.”

Sahand got up, his bodyguards falling into position around him. “One more thing, Captain—­if I hear of you jeopardizing my aims to protect your worthless hide again, I'll have you staked out in a crow-­cage with your eyes torn loose.”

With a solemn nod to Gallo, Sahand turned and strode from the room, his cape swirling after him.

When he was gone, Hendrieux collapsed into a chair and let out a long, slow breath. His fingers twitched with a desire to go back into the tower and dive into another pot of Cool Blue. Gallo just stood there, watching him like a hangman on Traitor's Day.

 

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

COVERT AFFAIRS

T
he Horse District occupied the northernmost corner of Freegate, clustering around Grand Avenue as it left the city and made for the Pass. Here, horses and livestock from the broad pastures of the North were brought for sale and trade. Accordingly, the district was a sprawling array of corrals, barns, stables, and racetracks, all of which were as full of vagabonds and fugitives looking for untended haystacks to sleep in as with horse traders and drovers. The wealthier members of the Drover's Guild paid the Watch to make regular sweeps of their property and pummel the ne'er-­do-­wells found there with sufficient savagery that they either died or deigned not to return. The rest of the guild, however, spoke of their unwanted guests with the same benighted resignation they reserved for rats and other vermin, and resolved not to leave anything of value out that wasn't securely bolted down.

It was in the hayloft of a barn owned by one such horse trader that Artus tried to get a good night's sleep. This was made inordinately difficult by the two other drifters present in the hayloft, who, together, snored loudly enough to make a spirit engine sound like a lullaby. Artus knew better than to ask them to keep it down—­there was an unspoken pact of silence among barn-­trespassers, born from the simple realization that one didn't know if the fellow sleeping next to you was in the barn just because he was broke or because he had just murdered his whole family and was on the run. If you didn't ask, you didn't find out, and everybody lived much longer, happier lives on the average.

Artus had been in this particular barn before, on his first trip through Freegate. He was just a few months older than twelve then and didn't know anything about the big cities of the West. Freegate had been a shocking experience—­more ­people and more buildings than he had ever seen in one place. He'd been robbed of all his money on his first day, beaten on his second, and wound up in this barn on the night of his third. He had cried a lot then. He knew better than to cry now—­you weren't supposed to weep and carry on in barns either.

It was cold in the hayloft, despite the piles of straw under which he had burrowed. He could see his breath in the moonlight; it was a clear, cold night, and the thin mountain air left his throat dry and cracked. He wondered what Reldamar and Hool were up to. He hadn't seen Reldamar since he'd been ditched, and he hadn't seen Hool since this morning. They were probably up to something.

“Probably getting even with Hendrieux,” Artus grumbled to himself. He thought he had at least as big a stake in getting back at Hendrieux as Tyvian or Hool—­
he'd
been on that spirit engine, too, after all. Sure, he didn't have any children who were kidnapped or have any partners who'd betrayed him, but still . . .

Artus sat up. He was never going to get to sleep with his fellow vagrants' thunderous snores shaking the shingles off the barn anyway, and decided to see if the accommodations were any better under the grandstand at the racetrack down the road. He climbed down to the barn floor and crept outside, keeping a careful eye out for the trader's guard dog, though not because he was afraid of being attacked. The dog had been so consistently fed by various vagabonds through the years that it was fat and very friendly. It also happened to be quite insistent on
being
fed, and failure to do so meant it would bark its head off. This would, in turn, attract the trader who, though equally as fat as his dog, wasn't half as friendly and frequently had a poleaxe with him.

Since Artus had no food, he did his best to cross the yard to the gate without stirring so much as a clod of dirt. The dog, slumbering underneath the front stairs of the house, did not wake. At the gate, his eyes still fixed on the sleeping dog, Artus carefully moved to lift the hook . . . and stopped.

Someone was coming up the road beyond the yard, their steps jingling with the sound of armor and a sword. Not wishing to risk an encounter with a watchman, Artus peered through a crack in the gate to watch the person pass. It was not, as it happened, a city watchman at all.

It was Hacklar Jaevis.

The bounty hunter looked paler than before and even more weather-­beaten, but was otherwise the same. He was walking in the middle of the street, which was strange given the quantity of mud there, and was wearing a purse openly on his hip, which was even stranger given the concentration of sneak thieves and muggers in the area. Granted there wouldn't be many who would challenge the likes of Jaevis, but it was still a risk. If nothing else, Artus was fairly certain that a talented cutpurse could nab the money and outrun the bounty hunter before having his throat slashed.

Every fiber of Artus's body shook with terror at the thought of Jaevis, here, alive. He knew this meant trouble for Tyvian and for Hool, too. How was he still alive? What could he be doing walking through the Horse District at this time of night? Watching Jaevis's silhouette recede into the dark of the winter night, Artus slipped silently out of the yard and began to shadow the bounty hunter through the muddy streets, ignoring the sound of his mother's voice in his head that told him, over and over, that this was the stupidest idea he had ever had.

Every step Jaevis took made a thick, sloshing noise in the mud—­a sound that Artus used to cover the sound of him creeping along some ten paces behind. Every minute or so Jaevis would turn around and check behind him. Artus, who had picked up a talent as a tail when living on the streets of Ayventry, barely managed to dart into an alley or behind a cart before being seen each time. With each occurrence, however, his heart raced faster and faster. The gravity of his situation was becoming more and more clear—­one trip, fall, or stumble, and Jaevis would see him. If Jaevis saw him, it would make the second night in a row where he was almost stabbed to death in a Freegate alley.

Still, it was Jaevis. It was crazy, but he just
had
to know what the bounty hunter was doing here.

There was a sudden thunder of hooves and a squeak of undergreased axles; a coach drawn by a pair of dun-­colored draft horses rounded a corner and headed straight for Jaevis, who stopped walking and shielded his eyes from the glare of the large feylamps mounted on the coach's roof. The horses pulled up short at the coachman's guttural command right in front of the bounty hunter, and Artus prepared for a string of colorful, Illini expletives to be hurled at the driver. None came, however.

“Ozmar?” Jaevis asked.

“Jus' get in, dummy,” the coachman returned.

Jaevis frowned and pointed at the coach. “They are in there?”

“Nah, I'm a bloody taxi come to pick your ugly self up!” the coachman sneered. “ 'Course they're inside, ye bloody fool. Get
in
!”

Artus, still hidden at the edge of the road, was too confused to guess what was going on, but whatever it was clearly fell into the category of “strange and probably no good.” He watched as Jaevis, apparently satisfied with the coachman's assurances, walked to the door of the coach and climbed inside. They were about to have some kind of secret meeting.

Whatever happened, Artus knew he had to get aboard that coach.

A man's voice—­not Jaevis's—­called from the curtained windows of the cab, “Ozmar, just drive us around—­don't stop for anybody.”

Artus stole out of the alley and crouched by the back wheel. There was no way to get in the cab, that was for sure. He heard Ozmar crack the whip and the coach lurched into motion and began to pick up speed. Artus trotted after it in the mud and noticed that the cargo rack at the back of the coach was completely empty. Doubling his pace into a full sprint, he nimbly leapt atop the empty rack and, clinging for dear life, was carried off with the coach as Ozmar gave the horses another crack of the whip. They soon were moving at a fast clip down the muddy, dark streets of the Horse District.

Artus took a moment climbing into a more comfortable position on the cargo rack, ensuring that he wouldn't fall with an errant bump or rut in the road, and then crept up to the rear wall of the cab and placed his ear just outside the small ovular window there. Over the thunder of the hooves and the rattle of the suspension, it took him a few seconds to fully distinguish the voices inside.

The first one he heard was Jaevis's, which was in mid-­sentence. “ . . . know you are who you say?”

The other man spoke again. It was more jocular and refined—­the voice of a man who did not lead a hard life. “I assure you, Mr. Jaevis, that I vouch for my Galaspiner friend's honesty in this matter. You know my reputation—­that should be good enough. I would like my fee, please.”

Artus heard a faint jingle—­the money purse. “You count. Hacklar Jaevis is no cheat.”

A third person spoke—­a young man's voice, healthy and with good humor. “That's a rather large fee for arranging a meeting, isn't it?”

“You are asking me to betray the friendship of a very dangerous man who happens to be in a very bad mood,” the unidentified man said. “The price is fair considering the risks to my person.”

“You want Reldamar. I will get him,” Jaevis stated.

The young man chuckled. “Straightforward—­I like that in a fellow. Yes, I want Tyvian Reldamar.”

“Dead?”

“Tsk-­tsk—­bearing a grudge, are we? Alive, if you please; no payment if the man dies. My esteemed colleagues and I wish to study him, not bury him.”

The first man—­the one who had set up the meeting, the one who knew Tyvian—­chuckled lightly. “I should warn you both—­Reldamar is seeing enemies everywhere at the moment. He's expecting poison in every teapot, for Hann's sake. He will be difficult to catch unawares, if at all.” Artus's ears perked up at that. It sounded familiar somehow . . .

“I will catch,” Jaevis grunted.

The first man snickered, “It is my understanding, sir, that the last time you went up against Reldamar ended with you at the bottom of a river with a blade through your guts. Use caution, or he'll unravel our whole little plot here, and then, my friends,
all
our geese are cooked.” Where had Artus heard something about poisoned tea? Gods, it was right on the tip of his tongue!

“I've got an added stipulation,” the young man said, “Mr. Jaevis, it is my understanding that you were recently contracted by the Defenders to apprehend Reldamar, is this not correct?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I would like
my
contract to supersede that contract. Get him before the Defenders do, before Hendrieux does, and definitely before Sahand does. My Esteemed Colleagues would be most grateful.”

“Jaevis will see it done,” the bounty hunter said.

“If you are interested in paying an additional fee,” the first man said, “I know where Reldamar will be, and I know that a
fourth
party is already interested in getting their hands on him—­she is your chief competitor in this region, I believe.”

The young man grunted. “I can't say I'm surprised—­you can never trust the Kalsaaris.” He laughed. “Listen to you—­in bed with everybody. To think I once thought you and Reldamar were friends!”

“Of course we are,” the man said, “This isn't personal, it is strictly professional. Reldamar will understand, I'm sure . . . well, eventually, at any rate.”

The revelation hit Artus like a pitcher of cold water: the man was Carlo diCarlo, Tyvian's friend. Tyvian's friend who had just acted as a broker between Hacklar Jaevis and some creep who wanted to “study” Tyvian. Artus didn't know what that might entail, but it sounded pretty awful.

The coach hit a large bump, causing Artus to thump up against the back of the cab with an audible grunt. The three ­people inside immediately fell silent. Artus crouched down in the luggage rack, holding his breath.

There was a trio of thumps on the roof of the coach, and Carlo yelled out the window, “Stop the coach!”

Ozmar brought the coach to a halt, but even before it stopped moving, Jaevis opened the door and leapt out. Artus took a leap off the back and tumbled in the mud. Scrambling to his feet, he heard the bounty hunter draw his blade and bellow, “Spy!”

Artus ran full tilt down the road, his feet slipping and sinking in the mud. He heard the young man yelling, “Don't let him escape! Kill him!”

Artus darted sideways down a narrow street just as Jaevis made a quick slash where his ankles had been. This bought Artus another two paces on the angry Illini, but he didn't need to look back to know how close his pursuer was—­he could hear the bounty hunter's armor jingle and could feel his massive frame barreling after him. Artus made another turn and another, and another, but Jaevis didn't fall behind; the weight of his armor didn't seem to be slowing him down by much.

Artus didn't know the layout of Freegate well—­it was not a very logically planned city, and he had spent a collective six days here in his life. What he did know was that the coach had been skirting the edge of the city, where the Horse District had the room for its more space-­intensive businesses. If he turned right, he figured it would take him closer to the center of town, where things were more congested and the chance of finding help or a place to hide would be greater.

Turning himself in the proper direction, Artus passed by a series of butcher shops, slaughterhouses, and abattoirs. The smell of blood and raw meat was thick in the air, but the road quality improved from mud to cobblestones. Behind him, Jaevis was puffing air like an angry beast. “You . . . will . . . die . . . boy . . .”

Artus ducked down an alley that dead-­ended in a high fence. He leapt, caught the edge, and swung himself over just before the bounty hunter's sword embedded itself in the top beam. Jaevis's roar of rage was enough to keep Artus running, even though he felt safe.