Bloodmage Page 8
“Apply as much pressure as needed,” she said, showing her white teeth in an approximation of a smile. “Find out where it came from, but more importantly, who supplied it. Whoever finds those responsible will receive my personal thanks. Do not disappoint us.”
She dismissed the crowd with a flick of her hand. Like scolded children they began to shuffle out, but Choss stayed behind with Vinny.
“Idiots,” said Don Jarrow as he and Vinny approached. “I’m surrounded by fucking idiots. I should have Vargus kill every single one and start over.”
The Naib looked towards the door expectantly, waiting for the signal. He’d race out and cut off all of their heads if Don Jarrow gave the order. He’d probably be able to do it as well.
“Perhaps,” mused the Dońa. “But it would take a while to find so many replacements. Besides, it’s going to get messy before it gets better, and some of them will not survive. We can recruit more competent people afterwards.”
It sounded like a veiled form of mercy, but he suspected she was merely being practical. Choss doubted she knew anything personal about any of their senior jackals. To her they were tiles on a Stones board, nothing more.
“You’re right,” said Don Jarrow, shaking his head. “So, Vinny, how much did we win?”
“A lot,” said Vinny, handing over a red notebook. It contained a list of the bets from last night. As owners of the arena Choss and Vinny couldn’t place bets, but they could advise others. Of course the house took a small cut of all bets made on the night, so it was in their best interest to give solid tips. Vinny dealt with the money and Choss told them who would win. They made a good team.
Choss never bet against Gorrax and had told Don Jarrow to bet heavily against his own man. He’d been reluctant, but had finally agreed, bowing to Choss’s superior knowledge of the fighters. Despite the grisly end, the Vorga had been the last one standing, so all bets were still valid. A lot of people had not even bothered to claim their winnings. Maybe they couldn’t stomach the idea and didn’t want the money. Maybe they just wanted to forget everything about that night.
“That’s good,” said Don Jarrow. “It will help cover some of the cost of the clean-up.”
“When can we reopen the arena?” asked Choss.
Don Jarrow shook his head. “Not for a while. The stink of this will hang around. We can’t just brush it under the rug. Four dead fighters is one thing, but with so many other dead bodies, everyone is watching. I also heard what happened to the crowd.” The Don didn’t ask for more details, which was just as well, because Choss didn’t have any answers. Even so, that it had been noted meant Don Jarrow was thinking about it. It would come up again in the future.
“I need a drink,” said Don Jarrow, heading for the back door with Vargus in tow. “I’ll send someone when there’s news,” he added, dismissing them. Vinny walked towards the front door but turned around when he saw Choss hadn’t moved.
“I’ll catch up,” he said, keeping his eyes on the Dońa. Daxx glanced at him briefly, and Choss felt the Naib’s eyes take in every detail, weighing him up. Fighters did it all the time when stepping into the ring. They tried to absorb everything about their opponent. They made a big list in their head, adding up all the good points and bad, and marked it against themselves. Sometimes the score came out low and the fight was very short. Other times the score was even and the outcome came down to grit and most often luck. The outcome was normally decided before the first punch landed.
Daxx didn’t like the tally in his head as he tensed and reached for one of his swords, but the Dońa waved him back. “There’s no need. Choss and I are old friends,” she said, which wasn’t even slightly true. They’d never had one personal conversation in all of the years he’d known her. “Call me Sabina,” she said, but he didn’t and never would.
“How bad is it? The situation with the other Families?” he asked, knowing that acting so friendly was dangerous, but he’d nearly been where Daxx was standing, acting as her Naib. If she said they were friends he’d play along and use it to his advantage.
The Dońa tapped her blood-red lips with an emerald fingernail. He idly noticed it matched the colour of her silk dress. “It’s not good. Despite losing one of our fighters, many think we were responsible. They don’t trust us to resolve the situation.”
“So they’ll send their own people,” he guessed and she inclined her head. “Is there anything I can do to help?” he said, not caring that he sounded desperate.
The Dońa cocked her head to one side. “You’re very single-minded.” She knew he only cared about the arena.
“We were so close. The fights were bigger than they’d been in years. You said it yourself. You said we were ready to step out of the shadows.”
“I did. People with real wealth in the city were paying attention, mostly because they saw the potential profit, but they were interested. It would’ve been good business for everyone,” admitted the Dońa.
“If I solve this problem with the venthe, will you try again? Will you speak to the right people?”
The slight edge to her voice told him she was losing patience. “As I said, whoever solves this problem, before it escalates into something with the other Families, would have my personal thanks.”
“Your word on that, Dońa Jarrow?” asked Choss. He knew he was pushing it, and Daxx bristled, but the Dońa ignored her Naib. A ghost of a smile briefly touched her lips. Choss hoped that meant she liked him being forthright and wasn’t about to give Daxx the order to cut off his head for overstepping a boundary. Finally she spoke.
“You have my word. I will do everything in my power to restore the arena to its previous glory.”
He extended his hand and she stared at it for a moment before shaking it. Her grip was surprisingly gentle but it felt as if he were holding on to a block of ice. Choss quickly let go and turned to leave but then remembered something.
“What happened to Gorrax?”
Even though the Dońa’s expression didn’t change, he saw a subtle shift behind her eyes.
“I like you, Choss, and I like that you’re bold, but don’t push it. The Vorga is gone and he won’t be coming back.”
He wanted to say more, to ask her to show mercy or to bargain for his friend’s life. But he’d already tried her patience. To try again would be pointless and might anger her further. He had no way of knowing what she would do to Gorrax or if he was even still alive. So he said nothing, promised to say a prayer to Nethun for his friend, and walked away with guilt burning in the pit of his stomach.
CHAPTER 9
Munroe stared at her victim in horror. His head dipped towards his chest and a thin trail of blood trickled from one corner of his mouth. She heard a final gasp of breath, then silence returned, engulfing the bedroom as if her ears had been wrapped in a blanket. Her nose detected something unpleasant and she quickly realised the smell was coming from the recently deceased.
Trying not to gag she stumbled away, her legs colliding with the back of a table. With arms whirling through the air she toppled backwards, knocking something onto the floor that shattered with a crash of breaking glass. Munroe scrambled to her feet, but stayed in a crouch, eyes darting between the closed door and the open window.
Somehow the sound of her fall hadn’t drawn any attention from the rest of the house. Just to be sure, she stayed frozen in place, head tilted to one side, listening for even the slightest sound that was out of place. The creaking of the old wooden house seemed very loud. Somewhere nearby, liquid dripped onto a hard surface and outside she heard an owl on the hunt, but nothing else.
With a relieved sigh she straightened up, dusted herself off and looked around the room. Apart from the dead body pinned to the wall, and the shattered lamp beside the table, nothing looked out of place. Using a shirt from her victim’s chest of drawers, she soaked up the oil, swept the glass into a cupboard and dried the soles of her boots until everything looked perfect. Apart from the farting corpse.
It was only later, when she’d had time to think it through, that Munroe came up with half a dozen other things she could have done with the shirt.
Unfortunately it landed on a small table beside the bed where another lamp burned. With a faint whoosh the shirt ignited and oily black smoke began to curl up towards the ceiling. At this point she considered climbing back in and trying to put out the fire, but as she gripped the window ledge with both hands the lace curtains surrounding the bed ignited. The fire ran along all four sides of the bed and then the second lamp cracked, spilling more oil.
“Maker’s ballsack!” she said, slipping down the tiled roof. She nearly fell off into the garden but managed to dig her fingers at the edge. Eventually her dangling legs found the top of the narrow ladder she’d left resting there.
Wasting no time Munroe slid down the ladder, her hands and toes gripping the outside. She heard a faint crackling from above and warm orange light filled the window as the curtains caught fire. A small cloud of black smoke drifted out of the window, growing thicker by the second.
Scurrying with the ladder under one arm she ran across the open lawn, not even trying to hide. All eyes would be on the house soon enough and it was the last place she needed to be seen leaving in a hurry. Even as the ladder was settling against the outer wall Munroe scrambled up, pivoted on top and threw it into the street. She jumped down, tucking and rolling before coming to her feet, a little muddy but without injury.
With a quick twist and a few subtle shifts of her wrists the ladder broke into two pieces, which she then pulled apart until a dozen pieces of hollow timber littered the ground like a child’s puzzle. Munroe scooped them up into a cloth sack she’d left in the shadows, then pulled on a felt cap and musty red coat. Taking a bottle from the sack she splashed a generous amount of cheap ale onto the front of her jacket, threw the sack over her shoulder and set off down the street, swaying and pretending to drink from the bottle.
Sounds of panic and alarm reached her ears and as she turned a corner Munroe risked a glance back at the house. The window and now part of the roof had caught fire, with more flames running along the edge of the building. Cursing her luck she continued on her way, pretending to be drunk and completely ignorant of what had happened.
Over the course of her life Munroe had come to realise that while some women drew more attention, she still received a fair number of admiring looks from strangers. Going against what her mother had wanted she’d not gone into the trade, despite assurances that men would be queuing up, day and night, to bed her. The idea of dealing with that many cocks every day had the opposite effect than her mother intended, contributing to Munroe’s aversion to earning money by lying on her back.
Unfortunately Munroe still hadn’t quite worked out what she did want to do with her life. Her current employer treated her well, her accommodation was comfortable and she could buy whatever she wanted within reason, but she was trapped. Just because there weren’t any bars on her windows, it didn’t mean it wasn’t a prison.
This latest endeavour to create a new life certainly made people pay attention. As soon as Munroe walked through the front door of the Hangman’s Noose every person in the room stopped what they were doing and stared at her. As she crossed the room towards the door at the back any jeers or catcalls died on the lips of even the drunkest sailor.
Once she’d closed the back door behind her, the familiar hum of conversation resumed. With a sigh, she slowly walked towards the door at the end of the corridor, dragging her feet and delaying what was about to happen just a little longer.
She knocked loudly three times, paused, then knocked twice. It wasn’t code, just another small delay.
“Come in,” said a muffled voice.
The room beyond had previously been used to store barrels of beer, but many years ago it had been converted into a temporary office. Those in the know came back here when they wanted to speak to a representative of the Silent Order, the league of assassins.
The man normally found behind the plain desk was a scribe. He recorded the details of clients’ grievances and then dropped them off at a secret location. The Order would then assess the requests and if any were to their liking the client would receive a note with a price, a location to drop the money and a date. Sometimes it was only days away, other times it could be weeks or even months ahead. But the Order’s reputation guaranteed that by the given date the target would be dead.
As far as anyone in the front of the tavern knew, Munroe had replaced the former scribe. The truth was more complex.
“Please sit,” said the grey-haired man, gesturing at the chair in front of the desk. Munroe knew he wasn’t a scribe, but beyond a first name, which was probably a fake, she knew very little about him. He terrified her slightly, well actually quite a lot, but she did her best to hide it.
The only thing that mattered was he’d given her details of the three trials she needed to pass before the Order would consider taking her on as an initiate. Last night had been the final and most difficult test.
Munroe slumped into the chair, her face crinkling up into a pained expression. “Ben, before you start, let me just say, it wasn’t my fault.”
“Really? Then whose fault was it?”
Munroe shrugged. “I did finish the job.”
The lines on Ben’s face deepened as his expression became incredulous. “You were supposed to kill him and make it look like an accident!”
“Maybe he burned down his own room.”
“House, Munroe. You burned down his whole damn house!”
“Oh.”
“Yes, oh.” Ben settled back in his chair, shaking his head sadly. “What’s even worse are the statements his servants gave to the Guardians.”
Munroe winced and didn’t want to ask, but Ben folded his arms and waited. “What did they say?” she finally asked.
“As soon as one of them smelled smoke they raced upstairs to rescue their master. With great effort they broke down his bedroom door to find him impaled against the wall.”
“I can explain that. He fell,” said Munroe.
“Really?”
“Yes, I swear.”
Ben wasn’t convinced. “Onto the horns of a Sorenson bust, in his own bedroom.”
“It was just bad luck. I startled him and he tripped and fell. Besides, who keeps a bull’s head on their bedroom wall?”
“Oh, so it was his fault. Is that what you’re telling me?”
“Well, no. But he was already dying at that point.”
Ben raised an eyebrow. “What?”
“It was his heart.”
“I thought I’d made it clear you couldn’t poison him.”
Munroe bit her lip. “I didn’t. I crept into the room but the floor creaked. I startled him and he was so surprised he started clutching his chest and wheezing. Then he tripped and impaled himself.”
Ben winced and rubbed at his eyes. He seemed unable to look at her. “And the fire?”
Munroe carefully considered her answer. “All right, I’ll admit to that, but it was an accident. I broke an oil lamp and then accidentally started a fire. I was going to try and put it out, but then it spread quickly, so I ran.”
Ben shook his head sadly and Munroe desperately tried to think of something to say in her defence. In the end she settled for knowing the truth. “How bad is it?”
Ben raised one eyebrow again. “How bad do you think?”
“Well, I passed the other tests, right?” she asked.
Ben was slow to respond. “Yes, but I’d be willing to bet
gold against copper that accidents were also partially responsible for your success.”
Munroe ignored the barb. “Two out of three isn’t too bad,” she said, hoping he’d see her side of the situation.
Ben rolled his eyes. “We’re called the Silent Order for a reason. Most of the time when we carry out a job, no one knows if we’ve really been there. We’re just a shadow on the wall, a whisper on the wind. We’re not con-men, cutthroats or penny-pinchers. Most of the time, people think our marks died of natural causes. Our reputation is one of the reasons we can demand any price. Your final test was to kill a difficult target and leave no trace.”
“But you told me that sometimes you leave a calling card. So people know it was the Order when a message needs to be delivered.”
“That’s true,” said Ben, reluctantly conceding the point.
“And those are always elaborate kills, that leave no doubt that it was murder.” Ben made a noncommittal noise, but Munroe took it as assent. “Then surely we could just say this was one of those.”
Ben shook his head. “No, we can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Anyone can burn down a house, Munroe. Even when we tell others we’ve been there, we’re always subtle about it. The other members of the inner circle had doubts about you from the start, but I told them to give you a chance.”
“Which I appreciate—”
“This time we all voted no.”
“Ah. Cock.”
Munroe slumped down even further in her chair feeling utterly defeated. Months of training had been wasted. Countless hours of exercise to tone the muscles in her arms and legs she hadn’t known were even there. Endless days of running, stretching, climbing and learning how to fight in close quarters. Long tiring nights crawling over rooftops, tiptoeing across bridges and learning how to move without making a sound. All of it meant nothing now. She would never become a member of the Silent Order. She would have to go back to her old life at the Emerald Dragon and accept her place in the world.
“So, what happens now?” she asked.