The Thief who Pulled on Trouble's Braids ebook

THE THIEF WHO PULLED ON TROUBLE’S BRAIDS

Amra Thetys: Book 1

MICHAEL McCLUNG

Copyright © 2017 Michael McClung

All rights reserved

DEDICATION

Always and ever, for my crazy chickens.

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Epilogue

Amra’s World

CHAPTER 1

hen Corbin showed up banging on my door at noon one sweltering summer day, I can’t say I was particularly happy to see him. It should come as no surprise that one in my profession tends to sleep during daylight hours. And since I tell no one where I live, I was more than a little annoyed to see him.

“Hello, Amra,” he said with that boyish smile that tended to get him past doors he wasn’t supposed to get past. He stood nonchalantly at the top of the stairs, one hand on the splintered wooden railing. Well, what was left of the railing. Most of it had disintegrated before I moved in. He was looking ragged. Dark bags under his eyes, stubble that had gone beyond enticingly rough to slovenly. The yellow-green shadow of an old, ugly bruise peeked above his sweat-stained linen collar. His honey-colored locks were greasy and limp.

“Corbin. What the hells do you want?”

“To come in?” He kept smiling, but glanced over his shoulder.

“If you bring me trouble, I’ll have your balls.” But I cracked the door a bit wider, and he slipped past me into the entry hall.

“Take your boots off if you’re going to stay, barbarian. You know how much that rug is worth?”

“Depends on who’s buying, doesn’t it?” He sat down on the bench in my tiny foyer and worked his laces loose. “Nice robe,” he said with that silky voice of his, but I could tell his heart wasn’t in it. I pulled my wrap tighter, and he chuckled.

“Don’t worry, Amra. The knife sort of spoils the effect anyway.”

I’d forgotten I was still holding a blade. I don’t answer my door without one. Come to think of it, I don’t do much of anything without one. I made it disappear and frowned at him.

“You can’t stay here, and I’m not lending you any money.”

He stretched, wiggled the toes of his stockinged feet. “Money I don’t need. A place to stay, maybe, but your garret isn’t what I had in mind.” He looked at me, and I could tell he had something gnawing at him. This was no social call. “You have anything to drink? I’m parched.”

“Yeah. Come into the parlor.”

I’m not terribly feminine. I’ve a scarred face, a figure like a boy, and a mouth like a twenty-year sailor. In the circles that count, I’m recognized as good at what I do, and what I do is not traditionally a woman’s profession. I was a few rungs up from pickpocket. Still, in the privacy of my own hovel I enjoy a few of the finer, more delicate things. Silks and velvets. Pastels. Glasswork. When Corbin walked into the parlor he gave a low whistle.

“Amra, this is positively decadent. I expected bare walls and second-hand furniture.” He wandered around, peering at paintings, books, the tiny glass figurines I kept in a case.

“Shut up and sit down. You want wine?”

“Have anything else?”

“No.”

“Then I’d die for some wine.” He sprawled out on the huge Elamner cushion I used for seating. He stretched his legs and smiled. I shook my head, and went to dig around in my sorry excuse for a pantry. I came up with a couple of relatively clean glasses. When you live alone and don't entertain at all, ever, doing the dishes is a relatively low priority. I uncorked a palatable Fel-Radoth that was better than he deserved. But it was too early to punish myself with swill.

I poured a couple, handed him one and leaned against the wall. He took his and put it back in one gulp. I shuddered, snatched up the Fel-Radoth and corked it.

“What?” he said.

I put the bottle back in the pantry and came back out with a jug of Tambor’s vile vintage. It was barely fit for cooking with. I dropped it in his lap. “Remind me never to give you anything worth drinking again.”

He shrugged and began sipping straight from the jug.

“You don’t want to borrow money. You don’t want a place to stay. What do you want, Corbin?”

He sighed, reached into his voluminous shirt—I’d thought he’d looked a little lumpy—and brought out something smallish, wrapped in raw silk. About the size of my two fists put together. He held it out to me. “I need you to hold this for a while.”

I didn’t take it. “What is it?”

“Ill-gotten gains, what else? But I earned it, Amra, and a lot more besides. This is all I managed to come away with, though. For now.”

I took it from his hands. Reluctantly. I was surprised at the weight. I knew without looking that it was gold. I unwrapped it, discovered I was right. It was a small statuette, one of the ugliest things I’d ever seen.

I held a bloated toad, two legs in the front and a tail in place of hoppers in the back. Pebbly skin. Two evil little emerald eyes, badly cut. It was devouring a tiny gold woman. She wasn’t enjoying it. The artist must have been familiar with torment, though, because her small face was the very picture of it despite the crude overall rendering. All but her head and one arm were already in the belly of the beast. Her hand reached out in a disturbing parody of a wave. I don’t think that was the effect the artist intended.

“Where did you get this ugly bastard?” I asked him.

“Doesn’t matter. The place collapsed around my ears as I was leaving anyway.” He leaned forward. “It was part of a commission, Amra. There were a dozen other pieces. I got them all, and it wasn’t easy.”

“Where are all the rest?” I asked.

He scowled. “The client double-crossed me. He’s got the others, but he wants this one bad. Bad enough that I’ve got him by the balls.” His face brightened and he chuckled. “I’m getting my original commission, plus a bad faith penalty. All told, it’s three thousand gold marks, and I’ll give you a hundred just to look after this thing for a few hours.”

I frowned. I’d known Corbin for three years; he was a good thief and a good man. Thin as a blade, with one of those faces that sets girls blushing and whispering to each other behind cupped hands, and prompts women to cast long, speculative glances. He had the longest lashes I’ve ever seen on a man or a woman. He was an easy drunk, and so drank little, though he was free with rounds. He had fine-boned hands and honey-blond, wavy hair, and when I told him ‘no’ one night when his hands got too free, I didn’t have to back it with a blade and I never had to tell him again. Maybe once or twice I wished I hadn’t been so firm, but as regrets go, it was a mild, melancholy one. The ‘what if’ game isn’t much fun to play.

That said, Corbin was not the smartest man I’d ever met. Not stupid; stupid thieves don’t live long. But his cunning was situational. When it came to people, he seemed never to really understand what they were capable of. Or perhaps he just didn’t want to believe what people were capable of was the rule rather than the exception.

“Amra? It’s easy money.”

“Too easy,” I replied, taking a sip of wine.

“Gods above, woman! I thought you might want a little extra moil, and I need somebody I can trust. But if it’s no—” He reached for the statuette, and I slapped his hand away.

“I didn’t say no.”

Corbin smiled, showing his remarkably straight, remarkably white teeth. It made me want to throw the ugly thing back in his face. But a hundred marks wasn’t something I could walk away from. I should have, of course. Just as he should have cut his losses.

“One condition,” I said. “Tell me who you’re squeezing.”

He didn’t like that. The customer was supposed to remain anonymous. It’s the closest thing to a rule there is in the business. He frowned.

“Oh, come on, Corbin. You said yourself they tried to screw you out of your fee.”

“True. Why would you want to know, though?”

“Because if I’m going to stick my toe in the water, I want to know what’s swimming around in it.”

“And whether it has teeth. All right, fair enough. It’s some Elamner by the name of Heirus. All I know is he’s rich as sin. He’s rented a villa down on the Jacos Road. It backs onto the cliffs. He’s got hired blades all around him, and a hunchbacked little flunky named Bosch that does all the dirty work. Bosch is who I dealt with. I never met the Elamner himself.”

I’d never heard either name. “Is this Bosch a local?”

“He’s Lucernan, but not from the city I don’t think. A Southerner by his accent.”

“One more thing. Where did the statues come from?”

“I took them from an old, old temple in the Gol-Shen swamps. Like I said, the place doesn’t exist anymore. I barely got out with all my limbs and digits. It wasn’t the best time I’ve had.” He took another swallow of Tambor’s Best and corked the bottle.

“Any other questions?”

“For a hundred marks, I’ll watch your back if you want. They tried to stiff you once; why wouldn’t they try again?”

“The first time I got sloppy. I still can’t figure out how they knew where I stashed the other pieces. I’d swear I wasn’t tailed. I brought that one along to the meet, to show the goods. They were supposed to pay out then and I’d tell them where the statues were. When I got there nobody showed up and when I went back the rest of it was gone.” He grinned that easy grin of his. “I guess I fouled up their plans a bit by bringing that one along instead of leaving it with the rest. It was just an impulse. A virtuous impulse that paid off. Like I said, I’ve got them by the balls this time.”

I wasn’t so sure of that.

“So now you’re supposed to bring it and you won’t. What’s to stop them from trying to beat it out of you?”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ve arranged a nice safe place to conduct business, and a long tour abroad after. For my health.”

I grunted. I’ve been called a pessimist. And a suspicious bitch. And then there were those who weren’t interested in compliments. But this wasn’t my play, it was Corbin’s. I’d back him to whatever extent he wanted me to. A hundred marks and friendship had earned that.

“Whatever you say, Corbin.” I hefted the idol in my hand. “When will you come get this?”

He stood and stretched. “Midnight, or a little later.”

“And if you don’t show up?”

“If I’m not here by dawn, the statue’s yours. Melt it down, though. Make sure there’s no chance they get it on the open market.” He went back to the hall and started lacing his boots.

“What about you?” I asked.

“What about me?”

“If you don’t show up.”

He shrugged. “Take care of Bone for me. You know where I live.”

“I don’t like dogs.”

“No, you don’t like being responsible for anyone but yourself. For the meltdown value of that thing, though, you can put up with Bone. Besides,” he said, “he likes you. Oh, and Amra? This one is lovely.” He held up a tiny blown-glass hummingbird he’d filched from my cabinet, stuck it in his pocket with an incorrigible smile. And with that he was out the door and clumping down the rickety steps.

I locked the door behind him. Nothing had better go wrong. Bone was a massive brute of a mongrel. Who slobbered. Copiously. I wasn’t having that all over my house.

I took another look at the statuette. It was just as ghastly. The gold wasn’t particularly pure, and the carving was crude. Ancient grime darkened the creases. There wasn’t much polish to it, so I assumed it hadn’t been handled very much or very often.

A half-dozen frog-aspected gods, godlings and demons came to mind, but none of them were less than four-legged, and only two were man eaters. I shrugged. It either belonged to some backwater cult nobody’d ever heard of, or it was something from before the Diaspora. If it was the first, it was worth nothing more than the meltdown value. If it was the latter, it could be worth much, much more. To the right person. Given Corbin’s experience, I thought the latter was more likely, but I’d melt it down just the same if it came to that.

I put the ugly little statue in my hidey-hole and went back to sleep. I dreamed that I could hear its labored breathing there in the wall, punctuated by the shrieks of its meal. And when I woke just after sunset, it was with a miserable headache and a mouth that tasted like I’d been on a three-day drunk. What, you've never been on a three-day drunk? Take a big bite out of the next dead cat you see lying in the gutter; you'll get the idea.

CHAPTER 2

eeling restless and out of sorts, and with a handful of hours before midnight, I washed and dressed and went out into the night. My headache was a nasty little needle spearing both temples.

Downstairs, I could hear the swirling and clacking of bone tiles from the gaming tables of the Korani Social Club. Endless rounds of push were played down there by gruff old men far from their island home. Once a month they had a dance, and the peculiar music of a three-piece hurdy-gurdy band moaned and shuddered and wheezed up through the floorboards. Otherwise they were good neighbors.

I walked a bit in lantern light through the Foreigners’ Quarter, along streets that looked more dangerous than they really were. Lucernis had grown beyond all thought of being quartered long ago, but the name had stuck. I liked it there. It was close enough to the harbor to catch a breeze in summer, which in Lucernis was worth the rotting fish stench that came with it. And the Foreigners’ Quarter was home to all stripes and classes.

I had the least trouble there of anywhere in Lucernis. But a woman walking alone still has to watch herself and her surroundings, and I regularly put up with a nominal amount of abuse and innuendo. I dress like a man and have the figure of a boy, and if someone gets close enough to see my face and figure out my gender, they’re also close enough to see a few of my more prominent scars. It’s usually enough. If not, I’ve spent a lot of time working up competence with knives.

I wandered down through the Night Market, past every imaginable type of hawker, and grabbed a meal from Atan. Atan is a burly Camlacher street vendor who smells of the charcoal stove he’s habitually bent over, face red and shiny from the heat. He doesn’t use any ingredients that are too foul or too rancid. He keeps the gristle quotient to a minimum. I’ve never gotten sick off it, though I’m never entirely certain what I’m eating.

“What kind of meat tonight, Atan?”

“Edible,” he grunted, fanning the charcoal.

“Sounds like something my mother would have said.”

His broad, craggy face grew even more morose than was usual. “Yes, compare me to a woman. Why not? I cook, I must not be a man.” He shook his head.

I think all Camlachers must have a touch of the morose, as if they’d fallen from some great height and were bitter about having to slog down in the mud with the rest of humanity. Comes of being a defeated warrior race, I suppose. Grey-eyed Atan should have been handling a broadsword, not meat skewers

“Nothing wrong with being a woman,” I told him. “But then I’m biased, I suppose.”

“Yes. Next time I will wear skirts and use the powder for my face. Go away, you.”

“Good night, Atan.”

He waved me off. I ate abstractedly, walking down Mourndock Street, not really noticing the food. Slowly the headache faded.

I didn't really notice the old lady, either, until it became obvious she'd planted herself in my path. She was wearing a threadbare but clean dress, an embroidered bonnet perched on her iron-grey hair. She was even shorter than me. I tried to move around her, and she shifted to check my forward progress once again.

“My pardon,” said the crone. “You seem troubled.”

“Whatever you're selling,” I replied, “I'm very much not in the market.”

“You seem troubled,” she said once more, and I noticed her piercing green eyes. Everything else about her shouted ‘granny,’ but those eyes said something different. Something closer to predator. I pulled back. “I’m fine, thanks.”

“Oh no, I don’t think so. I see a darkness in those pretty hazel eyes of yours. And I see shadows gathering behind you.” Her hand shot out and grabbed my wrist.

“You’d best let go of me, Gran. I don’t want to make a scene on the street. But I will.”

She wasn’t hearing me, wasn’t really paying attention to me anymore. Those green eyes had suddenly turned a stormy grey. Bloodwitch. I was having a conversation on Mourndock Street with a bloodwitch. Bloody fantastic.

“I See blood, and gold,” she said, her voice gone all hollow. “I Hear a mournful howl. Fire and Death are on your trail, girl, and behind them the Eightfold Bitch makes her way to your door. One of Her Blades has noticed you. But will it find your hand, or your heart? Unclear, uncertain....”

Twisting away from her, I broke contact. My hand itched to have a blade in it, but that would have been foolish. Bloodwitches are nasty enemies. “Kerf’s balls, woman, what the hells are you talking about?”

She smiled, a little wanly. Her eyes were slowly losing their grey sheen.

“Oh, you have a world of trouble coming down on you, girl. Come see Mother Crimson when it gets bad. You’ll find me in Loathewater.” She moved to pat my hand, but I retreated. One more cryptic look and she was gone in the pedestrian traffic.

“Kerf’s crooked staff,” I muttered. “Aren’t fortune tellers supposed to tell you how lucky you are?” But I knew my own words for what they were – bravado. I needed a drink. Bloody bloodwitches. I’d rather deal with mages any day, if I had to deal with magic at all. At least mages generally didn’t bother with cryptic nonsense.

Of all those with powers—mages, bloodwitches, even daemonists—it was bloodwitches that bothered me the most. Mages could alter reality to suit their will, and daemonists gained power from the inhabitants of the eleven hells. But mages were few and far between, and I'd heard more than once that whatever power they drew on to work their magic was weakening. Daemonists, for their part, were hunted down wherever they were found, and for good reason. They all eventually tried to open a hell gate, it seemed, and the world had enough problems without hordes of demons, daemons and daemonettes wandering around it at will. Fortunately, opening hell gates took considerable time and effort, and the process was, apparently, not something you were likely to miss if you were anywhere near it.

Bloodwitches, though... They were strange, and their powers were disturbing.

Let's just say I disliked the idea of someone being able to turn all the blood in my veins to rust. Add to the fact that some of them could see the future, or make the dead speak, and you'll understand why they weren't often invited to parties.

I spent some time at Tambor’s wine shop, at one of the outside tables, sipping vinegar from an earthenware cup and listening to gossip.

When Tambor’s closed I was in a sour mood. I’ve never been good at waiting. I can do it, but I don’t like it. I was worried about Corbin and more disturbed by what the bloodwitch had said than I cared to admit or think about. I had no idea who this Eightfold Bitch was or could possibly be, but I knew bloodwitches were the genuine article. I'd had the misfortune of seeing one at work in Kirabor, once. I'm really not squeamish, but seeing what she'd done to half a dozen men had left me tasting my dinner a second time.

With an effort, I filed it all away for later rumination. If there was trouble on the way, it would come whether I worried about it or not.

About an hour before midnight I made my way back home to wait for Corbin, feeling aimless and surly. And worried.

Midnight came and went. I read; my mother had taught me letters before she died, and Lucernis had some of the finest and most poorly guarded private libraries of any city I knew of. But then, who steals books? Besides me, I mean. If you can read, you’re probably wealthy enough to buy your own.

It was one of those slightly racy romantic histories from the past century. Normally I’d have enjoyed it, but my mind wasn’t on it. I kept reading the same passage over and over, and it kept slipping away from me. Finally, I tossed the book aside in disgust and settled for pacing.

Three hours after midnight my creeping suspicion had filled out into an atavistic certainty that Corbin had come to a bad end. But all I could do was wait out the night.

CHAPTER 3

ock crowed while the sky was still black. I was out the door. Whatever had happened was probably long over and nothing I could do about it, but I couldn’t just sit there. A heavy dread was slowly churning my guts. There were only two places to go. I decided to start with Corbin’s house, and check at his mistress’s if he wasn’t there.

It was a long walk to his hovel off Silk Street, through streets mostly deserted. Few hacks worked at that hour, and fewer were likely to take me where I wanted to go. There was a baker’s boy stumbling late to work, white apron trailing unnoticed on the filthy cobbles; I didn’t have to be a seer to know he had a beating in his near future. There was a lamplighter on low stilts, snuffing white-yellow flame with his telescoping pole. There was the odd wagon creaking and rumbling its way towards Traitor’s Gate Market, down cobbled streets. But mostly it was just blank dark windows and shuttered doorways, until I turned onto Silk Street proper.

Silk Street is where the boys and girls, and men and women in Lucernis practice the oldest profession. At that hour, there were far fewer wares on display, and those that were tended to be coarse stuff, made increasingly coarser as grey dawn seeped into the sky. Those left working were ones who had a quota to meet, a figure that had to be reached to avoid a beating or an eviction or the symptoms of one withdrawal or another. The ones who were willing to accept rough trade. One trollop in a soiled satin ball gown, his blue chin bristling out from under streaked face powder, cast aspersions on my manhood when I ignored his proposition. I would have found that amusing on several levels in other circumstances.

I had avoided their fate when I was younger. Bellarius, where I had grown up and almost died countless times, was not kind to its poor. I'd made theft my profession, and discovered quickly I was good at it. But it made me uncomfortable to see how I might easily have ended up. It always did. I deepened my scowl and ignored the various opening ploys, trudging past with my hands in my pockets.

As always, when the tired come-ons had no effect, they turned to jeers and catcalls. Anything to elicit a response. They faded behind me as I turned off Silk Street on to the nameless, barely-more-than-an-alley where Corbin’s hovel was. The entire street was lined with narrow wooden houses, two and three stories high. Some needed paint; most needed to be torn down. Almost all of them were built far too close together. A few of the houses were so close to each other you couldn’t have walked between them sideways. It needed only a small fire and a stiff breeze to all go up.

As I got closer to Corbin’s pit, I could hear howls, and a rough old voice screeching in anger.

“Shut it! Shut up, you mongrel! Shut it, Gorm take you!” The sound of something breakable being hurled against something less breakable. The howls went on and on, heart-breaking. I’ve heard wolves calling to each other across snow covered hills, mournful and lonely. This was nothing like that. This was grief made audible. Other dogs in the area had begun picking it up, and other voices, rough and querulous with interrupted sleep, yelled protest in several languages. A door slammed. I broke into a trot. For people like me, there are damned few coincidences. Expecting the worst helps to keep you from getting sucker-punched—and in my world, there are always fists waiting to hammer on the unwary.

I saw the old man first. The one who'd used Gorm’s name in vain. Not that there’s any other way to use it, Gorm being dead and all. The old man was a greasy grey smear of nightshirt and skinny, hairy legs with knobby knees. He was swinging something that would have been a truncheon if it was shorter, would have been a club if it was thicker. His back was to me; I couldn’t see what he was beating. Then I came up on him and saw that it was Bone. The geezer was bringing his stick down on Bone’s spade-shaped head, again and again. The dog kept howling, and refused to flinch. Behind Bone was something wet and lumpy.

The mind takes in images in little snatches, and sometimes they make no sense at first. It looked like the dog was guarding a pile of garbage. I saw the red, and knew it for blood, and knew from the quantity of it on the cobbles that someone had died badly. But these little pieces of knowledge didn’t fit together right away. There was just the gut anger at an old man beating a dog.

I plucked the stick from his hand on a back swing and rolled it around across his windpipe. He squawked and gagged and clawed at the stick. I pulled him back a few steps, turned him around and planted a boot in his scrawny backside, letting the stick go with one hand. He sprawled to the cobbles, hacking. I guessed he’d stay down for a bit, so I went to check out the dog.

With his skull-thumping at least suspended, Bone had turned his attention to the bloody lump. He was nuzzling what I recognized as a hand. When it flopped back down to the street, I saw that the last three fingers were missing. Cut off cleanly, at the last joint. Of their own accord, my eyes travelled to the corpse’s face.

It was Corbin. He lay huddled at an unnatural angle, maybe a half-dozen steps from his own doorstep. Bone started up that soul-splitting howl again. Shutters were opened here and there. Cautious heads popped out, saw blood, disappeared again as if by magic. I felt a numbness take hold. I turned back to the old man.

“You see a body in the street, and all you can think to do is beat the dog that disturbed your sleep?” I squeezed the stick so hard the tendons in my hand began to creak in protest. He gabbled something unintelligible and began to scramble away from me on his backside, looking like something between a lizard and a crab. His yellowed eyes were wide. Like all bullies, he was a coward at heart. I was surprised he’d worked up the nerve to beat Bone. The mutt was eighty pounds of brindle-covered muscle, with a face that was fashioned for malign animal intent.

I let him scuttle away into his ramshackle house across the street, and I let Bone keep howling. There was nothing to be done about either. As for Corbin, I didn’t cry for him. Bone was doing enough of that for the both of us. I squatted down next to him, realized I was still holding the old man’s courage stick. I threw it at his front door.

I figured I had at least a few minutes, and probably much longer, before what passed for the law in Lucernis made an appearance.

CHAPTER 4

omebody gets cut up at night in Lucernis, maybe the corpse disappears before dawn, before awkward questions start getting asked. Nobody sees anything. Nobody wants to get involved. Not in a neighborhood like Corbin’s. Not usually, anyway.

I took a good look at what they’d done to him. Maybe I had an idea I would like to reproduce it in reasonably accurate detail. Maybe I just wanted to know what I was up against. I don’t know. But when I moved to look over the damage, Bone stood between me and Corbin.

“Too late now. Where were you when it happened?” I realized that was actually a good question. I put my hand out to him, murmured soothing nonsense. He sniffed. I suppose he recognized me, because a little of that murderous look went out of his eyes. But he wasn’t letting me manhandle what was left of his master. I settled for gently rolling Corbin over on his back. Which earned me a rumbling growl.

The damage was extensive. Somebody had worked him over with a knife. It looked as if maybe some of it was controlled, precise. Like his missing fingers. The rest just looked like Corbin had tangled with somebody in a vicious barroom brawl. Slashes on his arms, his face. Rents in his shirt suggested he’d been stabbed maybe half a dozen times, two or three of which, depending on how deep they went, could have been immediate life-enders. I’d know more if I could undress him, but I didn’t really need to know any more, and it wasn’t worth struggling with the damn dog over. Maybe he was the wiser. It was done, and maybe all that was left was to mourn.

I stepped back from the body and looked around. The sky was perceptibly lightening. No crowd yet. They’d show up after the law did. I walked over to Corbin’s house.

The flimsy door gaped. It had been busted open from the inside; that much I could tell. The lock was engaged; the frame had given way first. I supposed an eighty-pound dog could eventually have battered his way through, given sufficient motive. I glanced inside. Heavy furniture, a little dust. I hesitated. Whatever had happened, it hadn’t happened in there. With the neighbors peering out behind curtains, I decided to leave it for the constables.

I ended up wishing I hadn’t. The constables came around the corner as I was walking back to Bone. They knew where they were going, and they knew what to expect. Somebody had probably sent their kid down to the local watch station.

It was a pair. A fat, balding one and a young one so tall he looked stretched. Neither wore the entire uniform; Baldy had forgot or forgone his tabard, and Too-tall had substituted his deep blue woolen trousers for a paler, cooler, more wrinkled pair of linens.

Too-tall glanced at me, at the dog, at Corbin. He sighed. Baldy said, with a voice like gravel, “Can you shut that mutt up?”

“No.”

He whipped out his cosh and laid it across Bone’s head with a speed that belied all his fat. Bone went down in mid-howl. I took a step forward, fists tightening. I caught myself. Baldy pretended not to notice. He slipped the billy back through the leather thong at his belt and said, “So what happened here?”

“I don’t know. I was passing by. I heard the howling. I saw a man beating on something, so I came up behind him and took his stick away. Then I saw the body. I stayed around until you showed up.”

“Just a concerned citizen, eh?”

“That’s right.”

“You know the deceased?”

“No.” While Baldy questioned me, Too-tall was going over Corbin’s corpse. Checking pockets, checking wounds. I watched him from the corner of my eye.

“Let me see your hands.”

I held them out, palms down. He took a good look at my nails. No blood. He swirled a fat finger; turn them over. I obliged. No blood in the creases. Baldy looked at me, clearly not believing a word I said. He probably would have worn the same face if I’d mentioned that water was wet.

“Any weapons?”

“Yes.”

He put his hand out, and I gave him two of my more obvious knives. He gave me the eye that he probably used on husbands that beat their wives, kids that cut purses, day-laborers that thumped their bosses and made off with the strongbox. The one that said he knew I was holding out on him. I kept his gaze. Finally, he shrugged. “Why don’t you go stand over there by the wall.” It wasn’t a suggestion. I went. He put my knives in his belt and turned to his partner.

“Arwin? Anything?”

“Well, he’s dead, sure as shit. Somebody carved him up like a midwinter roast.”

“Better let’s move him out of the street.”

They hauled Corbin over to the edge of the street, then Too-tall—Arwin—went back and dragged Bone over next to him. They had a muttered conversation, then Arwin went inside Corbin’s house, and Baldy started knocking on doors, questioning neighbors. The geezer came out and started pointing his finger at me. He got in Baldy’s face. Baldy took it for a while, then jabbed one fat finger right into the old man’s sternum so hard he stumbled back, face ashen. Baldy said something, and the geezer retreated back inside his hovel, but I could see him twitch aside dusty curtains every so often.

I could have slipped off, easily enough. I think Baldy half-expected me to. I don’t think he would have cared, especially. It was just another dirty little murder in a bad part of town. He didn’t pin me for it. He was just suspicious on general principles. If it hadn’t been for the damned dog, I would have taken off. But I could see his barrel chest rising and falling. And Corbin had paid me to keep it that way.

Then Arwin came out of Corbin’s hovel, and by the look on his face I could tell things had changed somehow. He called his partner—Jarvis, apparently—and when Jarvis lumbered over, showed him something small enough to fit in one closed hand.

I heard Jarvis mutter “Isin’s creamy tits,” and then “better get the inspector.” And I knew things were about to get much more complicated.

Jarvis made it plain that he now cared very much whether I disappeared, so I settled up against a garden wall that had been whitewashed sometime back in the reign of Orvo VII. Bone started to stir, and when Jarvis looked like he was going to beat him down again, I volunteered to take care of the dog. He shrugged. I hauled Bone up in both arms and carried him over to my spot, and kept a careful hand on his thick leather collar. Old boy was dazed. He kept licking his chops, and he’d developed a tremble. It wasn’t that hard to keep him down.

We waited maybe half an hour. The sun rose higher, and the heat climbed. There was no shade. Arwin had gone off at a trot. Jarvis continued the door-to-door. A couple of night watch I could handle. An inspector would be much trickier. I was reasonably certain there weren’t any little posters tacked to a wall in some constable’s office featuring my face, but I didn’t relish someone with brains and authority knowing what I looked like. Sometime down the road, one and one might be added to make two. But it was too late to do anything about it now. And I wanted to know what they’d found in Corbin’s house.

The hansom pulled up about eight o’clock. There were no official seals on the doors. Arwin jumped out, folded down the two steps, and then a slight, middle-aged man stepped down. His hair was iron grey, cropped short and brushed forward over his long skull. He had a vaguely horsy face; prominent front teeth that his lips didn’t quite cover. His eyes were mild and blue in a face that was very dark for a Lucernan. He was dressed soberly, in deep maroon velvets that were too heavy for the season. They were immaculate, but a bit threadbare. I could see where his white hose had been carefully darned. His shoes were black and polished, well-made but worn. The buckles were plain silver. He wore no jewellery.

His only concession to the climbing heat was a stiff collar undone. He glanced at me, and I knew he’d just filed away my face in the library of his mind, for future reference. He spent a minute or so with the body, then went inside Corbin’s house. Jarvis followed him in, leaving Arwin outside.

They spent quite a while in there. By that time a crowd had begun to gather. Jarvis came out and spread a blanket over the body, then went back inside. Three more constables showed up, and Jarvis poked his head out to tell Arwin to go home and get some sleep. Arwin shrugged. He didn’t leave.