A Discourse in Steel (12 page)

“What was that?” Egil asked.

“Just making a point with the man,” Nix said. “A Vathari merchant acted strange in the Bazaar when I described the teeth and tats. Seemed frightened.”

“Gadd seems right to me. And makes the gods' ale.”

“Seems right to me, too. But right sometimes goes wrong. It needed said.”

“Well enough.”

They both swirled their drinks, but neither drank, which struck Nix as a terrible waste of Gadd's ale. They waited and watched. Egil shook his dice, rolled them on the bar. Nix checked and rechecked his gear, the contents of his satchel, stocked with various items from Gadd's cellar so he could feed the magic key. He gave one of the amethyst amulets he'd bought in the Bazaar to Egil.

“It'll protect you,” he explained to the priest.

“From what?”

“Venom, among other things,” he said, then started their routine. “It won't fix your lack of charisma, alas.”

Egil put the lanyard over his thick neck. “I'm wearing it only in hopes it protects me from annoying small men.”

“Annoying?”

“Also small.”

“I'm small only when compared to a certain lumbering oaf whose company I endure only—
only
—in hopes that one day some small amount of my charm and wit might transfer to him, thereby rendering him only half a dolt.”

“You neglect ‘annoying'?”

Nix tilted his head. “Annoying I concede. And thanks. I needed that.”

“Aye.”

Over the course of the day Tesha moved the Tunnel's workers out in pairs or threes, usually mingling with exiting patrons so as not to arouse suspicion. Veraal's men started to come in around the fifth hour—all of them armed and armored, in at least leather jacks—and by the tenth hour, most of the Tunnel's workers were gone and the only “patrons” were Veraal and his six men.

“I got two more with crossbows right outside,” Veraal said, puffing on his pipe, his eyes hard in the nest of his wrinkles. He had a large sack that held two chain shirts and a large bunch of smoke leaf. “Best I could do for mail on short notice. Lady'll like the leaf, though.”

Nix examined the used mail. His shirt looked too big and Egil's too small, but they'd have to do. Nix gave both of them to Egil to carry in his pack. They'd put them on before entering the sewers. Nix introduced Veraal to Tesha, who thanked him for the leaf, and Gadd, who flashed his pointed teeth. Kiir and Lis had remained behind, too. Nix turned to Kiir.

“You should go,” Nix said to her. “It might not be safe here.”

Kiir smiled, her hair falling over her face. “I want to be here when you come back.”

“As do I,” Lis said. She had her long dark hair pulled back in a horse's tail.

Nix was touched. Kiir leaned forward and kissed him on the mouth. Lis kissed Egil's cheek. The priest put a hand on her hip and smiled at her, but Nix could see Egil's mind was elsewhere.

“Mere and Rose are upstairs, fifth room on the right,” Egil said to Veraal. “You'll want to put a couple men on the door and one inside, in case Mere needs something.”

“Of course,” Veraal said.

Nix and Egil shook his hand.

“You boys certain about this?” Veraal asked. “Real certain?”

“Certain,” Egil said.

Nix shrugged and smiled.

“Good luck, then,” Veraal said.

Egil snorted. “When have we ever had that?”

Nix and
Egil exited the Tunnel, cold sober, a bit before Ool's clock sounded the second hour past midnight. The last time they'd been on the streets at that hour they'd been hunting Blackalley. Now they'd be the hunted.

As then, the streets were emptied but for the occasional drunk slouched in a doorway. The sound of laughter, conversation, and the clink of tankards sounded through the shutters of taverns they passed. They moved quickly in the direction of the Warrens, hunched in their cloaks, looking over their shoulders from time to time as if fearful of being followed.

“Make anyone yet?” Egil whispered.

“Not yet—”

Motion drew Nix's eye, about a block away, dark shadows crossing the flickering light of the streetlamps.

“And there they are.”

“How many?” Egil asked.

“Two,” Nix said. “One on each side of the street. About a block back.”

Egil put a fist in one of his palms. “Let's find a spot.”

“Aye.”

They continued on toward the Poor Wall and their tail crept closer.

“Ballsy,” Egil said.

“Sloppy,” Nix answered. “With them this close, you're going to have to move fast.”

“I can move fast.”

“I guess we'll see.”

They eyed the alleys as they walked along, looking for a likely spot. Ool struck two, summoning bad memories for both of them.

“Fakkin' alleys don't look the same at this hour anymore, do they?” Nix said.

“Truth,” Egil said.

“Minnear's full again tonight, too.”

Egil grunted. “Well, you're not planning to grease up any alleys with corpse tallow, are you? Then let's not worry about it.” The priest indicated an alley to their left. “This goes through to Crooked Way. It'll do.”

“Aye.”

They ducked down the wide, unlit alley that separated a two-story draper's shop and a cordwainer's store. Neither building had windows or doors that opened onto the alley. Barrels, some scrap wood, and piles of compost and rubbish lay at intervals along the alley's length, which went on for thirty paces before opening onto Crooked Way.

“Run along, priest,” Nix said, and shoved his big friend deeper into the alley. “They'll be along quick. You don't want me to have all the fun.”

Egil sprinted toward Crooked Way, the tread of his boots like hammer blows on the cobblestone. Meanwhile Nix crouched behind the barrels near one wall, falchion drawn.

He didn't have to wait long. The streetlamps painted the shadows of their pursuers across the road in front of the alley. They were hustling, but slowed at the alley mouth and peeked around the corner, wary. Seeing no one, they stepped into the alley mouth, peering into the darkness.

“Shite,” one said. “No doors. We lose 'em?”

“We go round to Crooked Way,” the other one whispered. “Pick them up there.”

As they turned to leave, Nix intentionally bumped a barrel. The sound caused both men to whirl around and draw their swords, the blades short and wide.

The moment they did, Nix bolted. He feigned a stumble as he pelted down the alley.

They cursed and gave chase, as he'd known they would.

“Check the barrels for the big one!” one of them said to the other.

“Not there!” said the other, barely slowing.

Halfway down the alley, Nix whirled and filled his off hand with the haft of his hand axe. The two men skidded to a stop, one bumping into the other, the leader nearly falling. Both breathing hard.

Behind the men, Nix saw Egil's shadow reaching across the alley mouth. Nix backed off from the men, as if frightened.

“What do you want?” he said, letting his voice quaver. “Why're you following me?”

Behind them Egil slid down the alley, as quiet as a spider.

The men shared a look and the shorter one with the beard nodded.

“No one said we couldn't kill 'em,” he said.

Nix backed off another step. “Kill me? What is that now?”

The men put on hard faces and spaced themselves in an arc before Nix, blades at the ready.

“What is this now?” Nix said.

“You cross the guild, you pay in blood,” the taller of them said, and lunged forward, stabbing at Nix's abdomen.

Egil and Nix burst into motion at the same instant. Nix sidestepped the stab, stepped forward, and slammed the back of his hand axe into the man's temple, sending him to the ground with a groan. The other man bounded forward, stabbing at Nix's chest, but Egil snatched a fistful of the man's shirt, then the seat of his trousers.

Surprise raised the man's voice an octave. “What in the—”

The priest spun and slammed the man headfirst into the alley wall. A meaty thud and he went limp. The priest threw him atop his fallen guild brother, their limbs an awkward tangle.

“I think they're in love,” Nix said.

Egil checked the one he'd dropped.

“Dead?” Nix asked.

“No,” Egil said, and looked up at Nix with raised eyebrows.

Nix frowned. “No point in killing the slubbers if we don't have to. They're down, so we're clear of eyes. Putting the Upright Man down is how we send the right message.”

“Aye,” Egil said. He stood, kicking one of the guildsmen for good measure.

“You're lucky slubbers tonight,” Nix said to the two downed guildsmen.

Egil said, “Some of your boys won't be getting off so easy.”

“You were as loud as a cart ox coming down that alley,” Nix said.

“It's well that your blather drowned out my approach then.”

“Blather? I thought it more a ballyhoo. I was acting.”

“I'm staying with blather.”

“Really?” One of the guildsmen groaned so Nix kicked him in the head. The man went quiet. “Fair enough. Blather it is, then.”

They drew their hoods and walked quickly through Dur Follin's streets, violence on their minds. They saw other pedestrians now and again as they moved west, very brave or very foolish souls with no fear of Blackalley, but they avoided them. Their path took them under the smooth, sharp-cornered limestone spire of Ool's clock, the tallest structure in Dur Follin save the Archbridge. The sound of the perpetual cascade that powered the clock's inner workings sounded like a gently snoring giant. Graffiti covered the limestone. Some of the vulgarity was creative enough to make Nix smile.

Egil led them, knowing from his discussion with Merelda where they should enter the sewers, which weren't proper sewers at all, but the Undercity, a honeycomb of underground chambers and passageways dug by the ancient civilization upon whose bones Dur Follin had been built. Some of the passages had been expanded and put to use by the city as sewers, aqueducts, or storage, but many had been commandeered by whatever squatter could take and hold them. Nix knew firsthand that certain vile cults used the Undercity to build shrines to gods whose worship was illegal even among the otherwise tolerant citizenry of Dur Follin. Nix had never seen a convincing map of the Undercity, wasn't sure that one could be drawn. Rumor said the layout of the Undercity changed from time to time when the sorcery used to build it ran amok. Rooms and halls disappeared, shrunk, or expanded, or new ones materialized where before there'd been none. No one even knew how deep the passages actually went. Some said they connected under the Meander with secret tunnels that led down from the Archbridge's monumental pylons. Some said they extended down deep and then expanded east under the Deadmire. The foolish said they extended down to the center of the world, where demons of the earth plotted the fall of men.

Nix figured he and Egil would explore them in detail one day, provided they lived to see sunrise.

Egil led them down Broadstreet, which ran roughly parallel to Mandin's Way. Several grated openings dotted the wide avenue, all of them locked, all of them leading down to the Undercity. Egil led them to the nearest, in a part of the street ill lit by the streetlamps. Dark shops with closed shutters rose on either side. The street was empty but for them. Not even the Watch.

“Right here,” Egil said.

Stink rose from the grated hole, the reek of old rot and new sewage. Graffiti decorated the cobblestone near the rusted, hinged grate, much of it worn away by the weather, but some still visible.

I pissed down this grate.

Dark down there. But not as dark as my heart.

Jherek is a bunghole.

A large padlock fastened one side of the grate to a U-shaped bar set into the stone of the street. Nix could've picked it, of course, but it would've taken longer than they could spare. Besides, he wanted to try out his new toy.

He reached into his bag, withdrew the magical key and an apple, then whispered a word in the Language of Creation. The key warmed in his hand and the bit yawned. Nix held the apple before the key's mouth.

“Give us a carrot,” said the key.

“A what?”

Egil snorted.

Muttering, Nix shoved the apple back into his satchel and pulled out a carrot he'd taken from Gadd's cellar. The key took a bite and chewed.

“Doesn't it shite in your satchel?” Egil asked.

“No it does not. The magic of the key consumes what it eats. The food partially powers the magic. All of which you'd know if you weren't a simple hillman of limited faculties.”

“At least I don't have a key shitting in my pack.”

“Didn't I just say it doesn't shite in there? And it's not a pack. It's a satchel.”

“So you say.”

Smiling, Nix stuck the sated key into the padlock. He felt it vibrate as it squirmed itself into shape, then gave it a turn. Tumblers fell and the lock opened with a satisfying click. Nix looked back, holding up a finger, waiting for it, waiting…

“Gewgaws,” Egil harrumphed.

Nix grinned and tried to pull up the gate. He stopped trying before he ripped something.

“Maybe I'll just get the lock,” he said, and detached the padlock.

“Grates are for simple hillmen, I guess,” said Egil.

Nix stepped aside and the priest bent down and grabbed the grate. With only a mild grunt of exertion, he lifted it out of its seating. The screech of metal on stone broke the quiet of the night. Nix glanced around in alarm, but the street remained deserted. He put the key back into his satchel, took one of the silvered rods from his pack, and lit it with a matchstick, taking care not to confuse his ordinary matchsticks with the magical ones he'd used while summoning Blackalley.