Pathfinder Tales: Lord of Runes (4 page)

Past the tenements, I stepped into a beggars’ alley. After the stink of cheap wine, the second thing I noticed was that all the beggars were missing bits—a hand here, a nose there. They wore the rags of their old uniforms, and every one had a Worldwound badge or two.

Somebody tugged on my jacket. It took an effort not to jump back when I saw it was a dwarf, but he didn’t look the assassinating type. His peg leg looked like it’d been broken off a barstool. Fire had puckered the better part of his face, leaving a silky rope of beard hanging off one cheek. “Spare a silver, Sarge? Couple pennies?”

Nobody’d called me “Sarge” for months. I’d almost forgot what the demon on my shoulder was supposed to mean. I’d only kept the insignia because it looked wicked. Back in Sarkoris, it said that my job was to keep soldiers like these alive and fighting. I didn’t always do a good job of that.

I reached for my purse, and the other beggars moved in. Their eyes glittered with hunger. I poured the coins into my hand and did the arithmetic. I plucked a few more from the secret pockets in my jacket until all I had left was my lucky penny from Ustalav. Nobody was getting that one.

I divvied up the wealth as equal as I could and put a share in each beggar’s hand.

“Iomedae bless you,” said a woman with half a red skull.

The dwarf touched the toe of my boot. “Torag give you strength.”

“Desna smile on you,” said a skinny young man. His dark eyes marked him as Varisian. The fox tattoo on his neck marked him as Sczarni. During the Worldwound crusade, plenty of thieves got sent to war instead of prison.

“Know a good fishing hole?” I said. At my waist, I made the Sczarni hand sign for picking pockets.

He squinted at me. It’s hard to see past my devilish good looks, but my human blood is pure Varisian. He saw it and nodded. “Dancers like the Traveling Man, Waydon Street side. Plenty of out-of-town guests. If it’s slow, there’s Jeggy’s Jug.”

Some of the cant was universal. The local lingo was easy enough to suss out. A dancer had to be a pickpocket. But one thing I didn’t get. “Jeggy’s Jug?”

“Jeggare’s Jug, oldest tavern in the city, named after Montlarion the explorer. What’s so funny?”

“Fancy joint, is it?”

“The opposite.”

I laughed louder. “Desna smiles.”

The Sczarni shook his head. He didn’t get my private joke, and I couldn’t explain without mentioning the boss. Still chuckling, I left the beggars and sauntered down Waydon Street. It’d been a while since I practiced my saunter. It felt good.

I warmed up along the way. The first mark looked so easy I hesitated, figuring it for a trap. Instead I reminded myself how dumb the average guy is, which means half are dumber. Half is a lot of dummies. As the guy fumbled with his shoe buckle, I snipped his purse without breaking stride.

Over the next few blocks I caught some more goldfish. I passed on jewelry because I didn’t know any local fences, but I pulled a fat purse along with some papers out of a courier’s bag. I stuffed the papers in an ash can and kept moving. A few seconds later, the courier started shouting, but I was already gone.

By the time I made it to Jeggy’s Jug, my purse was heavy enough to sap an ogre. That was fine for my night out, but I decided it wouldn’t trouble me to bring a little dosh back to the veterans. I went inside.

The Jug was a little joint, but the Sczarni boy had steered me right. More than half the customers were overdressed. The rest looked like hayseeds blown into in the big city. I spotted two other pickpockets—dancers—before I reached the taps. I took a seat under a framed landscape. The picture was made of torn strips of overlapping colored paper. Pretty as it was, looking at it made me feel cold and kind of sad

“What do we drink here?” I asked the barman.

He drew a pint of brown ale and poured me two fingers of Chelish pepper whisky.

“That’s what old Jeggy always had,” he said. “Afterward, he’d buy a bottle to pass around. For good luck.”

“I’m already pretty lucky.”

“You can never have too much luck.”

“I’ll think about it.” I set my elbow spurs on the edge of the bar and watched the people. Pretty soon I spotted a third pickpocket. Three in one place was a lot of competition.

The first was a big brown fellow with mixed Varisian and Shoanti features. He followed a drunk out the door, steadied the man on the steps, and walked off in the opposite direction—with the man’s purse. Couple minutes later, he came back in through a side door, exchanged a nod with the barman, and paid for a pint he didn’t get.

The second dancer was the barmaid. She poured herself over the shoulder of a merchant who’d had enough pepper whisky to turn his face red. Every time she pressed against him, she peeled one or two coins out of his pocket. He’d pay for drinks the rest of the night without realizing how much he’d really spent.

The third was a soot-faced slip chatting with somebody in a blue hood. I imagined the halfling’s story. He probably cased houses as a chimneysweep, tipped off his burglar pals, and built a public alibi while they did the work. He pinched his chin to let me know he saw me. I did the same to say I saw him back. He tugged open an eyelid to show me the stink-eye.

That kind of stuff just encourages me. I started thinking of ways to lift the goods from all three pickpockets on my way out. It wouldn’t be easy, but if they caught wise, I’d show them how we did things back on Eel Street in Egorian.

Remembering how the boss wanted to keep a low profile, I reconsidered. Time was I’d shrug off that kind of warning. He didn’t own me. Nobody owned me, not anymore. I was even rid of the devils that used to take turns riding me around.

Over the past few years, something had changed between the boss and me. Sometimes he called me his friend instead of his bodyguard, even in front of other people. He even said I could call him Varian. You’d think I could use his first name, but I never could. Force of habit, I guess. We’d been together almost fifteen years. The boss knew things about me nobody else did. I knew all his secrets, too. A bunch of them, anyway. I didn’t figure anybody knew them all, maybe not even him.

But I knew plenty. For instance, I knew he was scared to go back home. He didn’t show it, but when you know a guy long enough, even one who puts on a cool face, you know when he’s scared.

As a count of Cheliax, the boss had just one boss of his own: Queen Abrogail. With a big-shot devil as her general and a legion more to command, she didn’t ask for favors. She told her lords and ladies what she wanted, and she expected it done. Ordinarily, the boss was one who got things done, so she was happy with him, and that was good. Only lately the queen wasn’t so happy, and that was bad. Real bad.

So it wasn’t that I was afraid of a little trouble in Korvosa, especially not from some two-penny slip pickpocket. I just didn’t want to make things worse for the boss.

I knocked back the shot and started to push off. Still, I couldn’t make myself walk away after the slip gave me the stink-eye. I didn’t like the idea of letting him think he’d run me off, so I took my pint to a table near the side door and put my back against the wall. I’d finish my pint, and I’d take my time. To give my hands something to do, I took out my harrow deck.

It had held up pretty good the past few years, ever since I stole it. It was a good way to break the ice with new soldiers, teaching them to play towers and letting them win. Other times, I just liked the feel of the cards. I liked looking at the pictures on their faces. They reminded me of people I’d known, places I’d been, things that’d happened.

I shuffled and dealt three cards: The Eclipse, The Crows, and The Brass Dwarf. The last one gave me a shudder. I was no harrower, but sometimes I can’t shake the feeling the cards are warning me. It didn’t help it was getting dark outside, and the tavern lamps threw shadows all around. I looked around to make sure no dwarf was creeping up on me.

Mucking the cards I’d dealt, I did a Sczarni shuffle to stack them back in the deck: top, bottom, and center. Then it was time for a little riffle stacking. Putting the cards right on the top or bottom is no great trick. Putting them second, third, or fourth from the top is hard. If you could put the one you want right in the middle—and find it again—well, that’s the next best thing to being a wizard.

Like I was starting a game of towers, I dealt four hands, half from the bottom of the deck. I turned the cards I’d dealt myself. There between The Sickness and The Snakebite were The Eclipse and The Brass Dwarf. So far, so good. I rubbed my thumb and middle finger together for luck.

Before I could make the cut, a slender hand slapped down on the deck. The hand belonged to a Varisian woman, slim as a boy and a good hand shorter than me. She held a staff wrapped in golden-yellow cloth with some sort of pattern in blue. After a second I realized it was a flag wound around a steel pole. A loop of cloth held it in place with a metal snap.

With her hand still on the harrow deck, the woman eased herself onto the seat across from me. She kept her pretty dark eyes on my fiendish yellow eyes. I shrugged to make sure she got a good look at the spurs on my elbows. She didn’t seem impressed. That was all right. I could always break out the big smile if I wanted to give her a scare.

“No one should trifle with harrow cards,” she said. She cut the deck and showed me The Crows—the card I’d been ready to wizard out of the middle.

That was a tricky cut even if you were the one that put the card there. Maybe she’d used some actual magic. Anyway, I didn’t want her thinking I was impressed. “That don’t mean nothing.”

“No?” She shuffled the cards and set them in front of me. “I am Zora. Let me show you a true mystery. Touch the deck that the cards may feel your soul.”

No way was she a true harrower, I thought. On the other hand, I’d thought that before and been wrong. I drummed my fingers across the top of the deck.

Zora took back the cards and dealt a crescent. The one time I’d seen that pattern before, there’d been some spooky business going on. “Hey, now.”

“What?”

“Where’d you learn to throw a crescent?”

“An old Varisian woman.” She leaned in to whisper. Her hand disappeared under the table. “Who else?”

I set my purse on the table. “Nice try, sweetheart.”

She shrugged like I hadn’t just caught her fishing. She put her own pouch on the table and took out a couple of cheap crystals, like that’s all she’d meant to do.

She went into her harrower patter. She said I’d traveled far but was closer to home than I realized. I might think I’d lost something, but I’d find it on the road ahead. The usual stuff.

Before Zora could turn over the first card, the tavern door opened. An armored woman stepped inside.

I’d seen enough of the city to know her armor wasn’t from the Korvosan Guard or the Sable Company. The gray helm was painted in black angles forming a lion’s face. A red plume spilled down like a mane onto a tattered half-cape.

Realizing I’d been distracted, I looked back to see where this harrower’s hands had gone. With one she was tugging at her scarf, which I noticed covered a blue hood. I’d seen that hood a minute earlier—from behind.

She was the one who’d been sitting with the slip pickpocket.

I glanced at the halfling’s table, but he wasn’t there. He was running past us, little legs churning.

“Scram, Zora. It’s Janneke!” He dashed out the side door.

The armored woman pointed a gigantic crossbow at us. “Don’t move!”

I raised my empty hands.

“I said don’t—!”

My body moved before my brain realized she’d pulled the trigger. I lunged toward Zora, meaning to pull her out of the way, but she was gone. A mule kicked me under the armpit, and the table exploded in my face.

That’s how it felt, anyway. I rolled away but got tangled up in a mess of rope and thin wooden slats. I felt my side, but there was nothing sticking out of me. The armored woman shot me with some kind of net, but it hadn’t opened all the way.

Shrugging off the tangle, I stood up in time to get knocked down again. The big woman—this Janneke—ran right over me and straight out the door.

“Sorry, little guy!” Her voice echoed inside her big helmet. “Get out of the way next time.”

“‘Little guy’?!” That tore it. I got up and slapped the sawdust off my hands. After getting shot and knocked down, I was ready to get in her way plenty. By the time I caught up with her, I’d—

The boss wanted us to lie low. I wouldn’t screw that up just on account of a few bruised ribs. It was time I found that gambling ship and made some real cash. This Janneke could chase this Zora all the way across Old Korvosa for all I cared.

I looked for my purse among the net and slats on floor. It wasn’t there.

Maybe Zora snagged it when I got hit, or maybe the slip was a better pickpocket than I figured. So I’d lost an hour’s pay. That I didn’t mind so much. I could fish on my way to the gambling den. The problem was, I didn’t see any harrow cards, either.

That
I minded plenty.

I ran out into the twilight streets. Three bystanders were just getting back up off the ground. Dodging the first two and jumping over the third, I caught a glimpse of Janneke’s red plume. She was running full out, long legs eating up yards even despite her armor and a backpack. She must have weighed a ton. No wonder she’d knocked me down so easy.

Still running, I tugged a riffle scroll from my sleeve and gave it a snap. The pages ripped over my thumb. Magic tingled in my feet. Seconds later, I caught up to Janneke.

She looked surprised to see me. “I told you to stay out of the way. This is my bounty.”

“Too bad.” I poured on the speed and ran past her. “Your bounty’s got my harrow cards.”

As I rounded the corner, a quarter ton of horse reared up, screaming at me. Zora ducked into an alley across the street as I screamed right back.

Horses have hated me ever since I was little. Some run away. The rest try to stamp me into a puddle.

This horse was one of the second kind.

The rider lost the reins while the big animal bucked. I dodged left, and it turned to trample me.