Thief: A Fantasy Hardboiled (Ratcatchers Book 2) (25 page)

Then he put his head between his legs, and threw up.

Breathing heavily from climbing up the granite stairs, the abbot waddled around to his desk, but did not sit down. He looked at the bookshelf behind him, searching for a tome.

“Ooh,” he sang to himself. “Why can’t you organize yourselves?” He fingered one book, and then another. Then found the tome he was looking for. “Ah-hah!” he said, and turned to sit down.

An assassin stood in front of his desk.

Seeing this apparition materialize caused the abbot’s knees to buckle. He fell, drooped the book he was holding. Tried to catch himself on the desk, failed. Crumpled to the ground in a heap.

“Get up,” the assassin sneered.

He wrested himself to his knees, looked over the desk.

“Where’s the girl,” the killer asked.

The abbot’s face was pained, reflected pain. “You don’t have to do this,” he said.

“No, I don’t. I enjoy it.”

“You’ll never find her,” the abbot said, shaking his head. “This place is a maze, on purpose.”

“Doesn’t matter,” the assassin said. “I just needed to know she was here. Now I can find her myself.”

The abbot deflated a little. He should have kept his mouth shut.

“Sit in the chair,” the assassin said.

The abbot agonized over pushing himself up. Dropped down into his chair with a sigh.

“Is this because of the girl?” the abbot asked curiously. “Or because I’m Heden’s friend?”

“Yes,” the assassin said, removing a garrote from his belt.

“What’s that for?” the abbot said, staring at the black cord in terror.

The assassin looked at the garrote. “Stops you calling out.”

“Can’t there be another way?” the abbot asked. “I abhor violence.”

The nameless assassin shrugged. “There’s lot of ways,” he said. “How about poison?”

The abbot nodded.

“You got any wine?” the assassin asked.

The abbot bent down, fumbled under his desk for the bottle.

When he sat up again, bottle in hand, the assassin plunged a dagger into his heart.

The abbot gasped, grabbed the dagger, looked at his murderer in shock.

“You don’t get out that easily old man. This is about causing
pain
.”

The abbot’s corpse slid out of its chair.

The assassin’s eyes instinctively went to the wall where the only hidden door could logically be. The girl, beyond.

“And I’m only just getting started.”

The three specials picked their way through the abbot’s office. Dead animals stuffed and posed, suspended orreries, and phials of unguents balanced on towers of tomes made this difficult.

“Black gods,” Fandrick growled. “Don’t they got closets in churches?”

Aiden, having just arrived, surveyed what appeared to be a wreckage but was probably just an old man’s office.

“What do we know?” he asked.

“Come in through the door,” Rayk said, pointing to the doorway. There was no door, just an arch. “Kills our man here, probably in a moment. Then he leaves through this passage,” she indicated the narrow, open hallway and the door leading to it, pulled open, creating a hemispherical clean space on the floor where it swept the debris of the abbot’s life away.

“Left it open, didn’t bother to cover his tracks. Didn’t care if anyone came after.”

“He got whatever he came for,” Fandrick growled.

“Which was what, exactly?” Aiden asked. “What’s down there?” he stepped over the piles of books and  peered down the dark hallway. A cool breeze blew on his face. Air made cold by granite walls far from the sun.

“I checked that,” Rayk said. “It’s a maze. I found libraries, more secret doors. There was an apartment, a cot, a pot for cooking. No idea who stayed there. Food around the place, fresh, more or less. Could have been whoever was in there our man was after.”

Aiden turned his back on the secret corridor, looped his thumbs into his belt.

Heden was standing in the doorway.

“The girl from the fishmongers,” Aiden said, no surprise at seeing Heden. “Isn’t it?”

Heden walked into the room. Fandrick and Rayk looked at him, then to Aiden. Aiden seemed prepared to handle the questioning.

Heden said nothing. Just walked over to look at the body of his dead friend.

“Our man wasn’t very careful,” Aiden said. “Kills a rector in the middle of the church. Someone comes by in time, they could have brought him back. Saved his life. Gotten a description of the murderer.”

“He weren’t being careful,” Fandrick said, picking up the bottle of wine and smelling it to see if it had been opened recently. “’Cause he don’t give a shit.”

Aiden sighed. He walked up to the priest, staring at the dead man on the floor. No expression on his face.

“You don’t happen to have any idea why the count would want to murder a random rector in the middle of the church?” Aiden asked.

“Abbot,” Heden corrected, his voice rough. “He was an abbot. He was a friend of mine. That’s why he’s dead.”

“And that’s the only reason,” Aiden said. “Piss you off.”

Heden said nothing.

“Some friend you turned out to be,” Aiden said, his voice clipped.

Rayk threw the young man a look, letting him know his comment was in poor taste. Fandrick betrayed no reaction. Fandrick had no taste. If Aiden was trying to provoke Heden, it didn’t work.

“Yeah,” the priest said.

Aiden let his disgust show. “You know, I’m trying to figure this out. Rose Petal burns down, turns out you know the proprietor. She was a friend of yours too. Now probably dead.” Heden didn’t bother correcting him. There was no benefit to doing so at the moment. “The count is trying to take over the city, everything’s exploding, and somehow,” the young man stressed, “the bigger it gets, the more it all comes back to you. How is that?”

Heden shrugged.

“Yeah,” Aiden said. “Ignore me. Good idea. See what happens once I’m pissed off enough.”

“I’m not ignoring you,” Heden said. “I’m just thinking. If there was something I could do to help, I would.”

“Why don’t I believe that?” Aiden asked. Fandrick and Rayk watched the back and forth.

“I dunno,” Heden said. “It doesn’t sound very believable, I guess.”

“We go to the castellan,” Aiden said, indicating his two partners, “and we tell him all this,” he pointed to the dead abbot, “and your name comes up,
again
, how do you think he’s going to react?”

“He’ll want to talk to me.”

“No, he
wants
to talk to
us
,” Aiden said. “You he’s going to lock up until this all blows over in case more people end up dead because of you.”

“That’s reasonable,” Heden said.

“Cavall’s balls,” Aiden exclaimed, “you’re a stubborn prick.”

“Yeah,” Heden said.

“You got nothing you want to tell us,” Aiden said. “Any other friends about to get stabbed, burned alive?”

“Not at the moment,” Heden said. What, after all, did he know? “I think of anything, I’ll come to the citadel.”

“Won’t that be a surprise,” Aiden said. He spoke over his shoulder to his partners. “We got everything?”

“Dead body,” Rayk said. “Missing girl…”

“What else is there?” Fandrick asked.

“Come on,” Aiden said. “Let’s leave the man with his
friend
.”

The specials exited through the stone doorway. After a moment, Heden walked over to the divan and dropped himself onto it.

The books, the room, the divan, all smelled the same. Nothing had changed. Except now the abbot was dead. Would always be dead, now.

Why did the abbot try and help him? Why get involved, why the girl?

What a stupid question.
He rolled his head back until it hit the granite wall behind him, and stared up at the ceiling.

“Fuck,” he said.

The count stood before his table. The same table he always sat at. He liked being easy to find.

Heden stared at the count, saying nothing. He was alone this time.

The count indicated the packed room. “Real customers this time,” he said with a grin. “Not in my employ.”

Heden said nothing. The count blinked, waiting for a response.

“I’m going to sit down,” he said, and hesitated, waiting for Heden to object. When Heden did not, he pulled out a chair and sat down.

“I trust we are now clear,” the count opened. 

“This is a strange way to commit suicide,” Heden said finally. “Come in here, alone, without Garth.”

“Please,” the count said, affronted. “You’re not going to kill anyone in cold blood. If you were a watchmen, maybe you’d try and arrest me,” he admitted. “But you’re not and never should be so. I told you I’d get her, and I have her.”

“And you murdered my friend in the bargain,” Heden said.

The count raised his eyebrows. “I did? I’m sure I didn’t.”

Heden shrugged. “Did it, or had it done. Doesn’t matter. The last time you came here, you said we were enemies. You have no idea.”

The count held up a finger. “We are no longer enemies. I have the girl, I no longer care about you, or this place, or your friends, alive or dead. No one in my organization had anything to do with delivering the girl to me. That’s the point you persistently mistake. Power attracts friends. People who want to please me, get in my good graces. I didn’t have to lift a finger. No order given, I assure you.”

“You should enjoy running the city while it lasts,” Heden said, attempting to be genial, failing. “Because once I find your operation I will take it apart, brick by brick, and then you. Piece by piece.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” the count sniffed. “Why would I want to run the city? Bureaucracy. No, I intend to run all the
crime
in the city. All the profit, none of the overhead,” he smiled, making a joke.

He looked at Heden and his face fell in disappointment. “Ah well,” he said. “Waste of time, I suppose.”

He stood and fastened his cloak.

“If you come after me,” the count warned. “If you make an enemy of me, I will kill everyone you’ve ever known, ever loved, everyone who’s ever cared about you.”

Heden locked eyes with him, his face betrayed no emotion.

“Too late,” he said.

“Everyone’s saying Garth killed a rector,” Brick said, moving a piece. “Broad daylight, middle of the church, just walks in and drags him like a nail. Fucking rector.”

“Abbot,” Aimsley corrected, staring at the board.

“Turns out this godbotherer was hiding the girl,” the Brick smiled. “Friend of the priest. Soon as he’s dead, the count comes over all friendly like with me.”

Aimsley fingered a prelate, tilting it back and forth on the board.

“Everyone says ‘look what the count has brung us to,’” the Brick was hugely happy. “’All this violence!’” Brick laughed. It sounded like an old man wheezing to death.

“Yeah,” Aimsley said. He moved the prelate, blocking Brick’s castle.

“Man’s gotta lotta balls, walk into the church, ace a priest.” Brick was proud. “Figure, with all this shit going on, the dust, the deathless, who’s gonna notice? One more priest dead. Who’s gonna notice?”

Aimsley ignored him. Brick, eyes on the polder, moved a peasant to threaten Aimsley’s prelate.

Aimsley looked at the new situation in disgust. “How’s it now between you and the count?” he asked.

“Fine, fine,” Brick said, looking around the Mouse Trap. “He’s got his little chickie, whatever good that does him. Never seen a man had his horn up for someone so bad.”

“She knew something,” Aimsley explained. “She’s probably dead by now.”

Brick shrugged. “No one notices a dead priest,” he said, “who gives a shit about another dead whore?”

Aimsley nodded. “Who gives a shit,” he echoed. He sounded hollow inside.

“Speaking of dead priests,” Brick said, “count says if I’da killed that one come in here, things’d be a lot better for everyone.”

“He means better for him,” Aimsley said.

“Right now, that’s good for us,” Brick said.

Aimsley said nothing.

“Then I thought, I thought ‘why’d I let that streak of shit live, anyway? He come in here and try and brace me?’ Then I remembered. You vouched for him.”

Aimsley picked up a piece, moved it. Thought he had Brick on the defensive for once.

“I let him live, ‘cause you said,” Brick explained.

“Your move,” Aimsley said.

Brick picked up a piece and moved it, staring at the polder all the while. He had not moved the piece Aimsley was attacking, but rather put the fixer’s king in danger.

Aimsley moved his king out of the way.

“So way I figure it,” Brick said, “he’s your problem.”

“You take care of him. You’re working for the count now, you don’t need me,” Aimsley said.

“Don’t work for the count,” Brick said. “Do some business with him. More, now. Good business. Acing this priest, that’s good business.”

“Whatever,” Aimsley said. “You say it however sounds good to you. Either way, you don’t need me no more. You got no deal with the ragman, you don’t need no fixer.”

“What’s this?” Brick asked, suddenly taken aback by Aimsley’s assertion.

“I’m done fixing for you,” Aimsley said, looking up from the board at the huge man.

“You’re done when I say you’re done,” Brick said levelly.

“So say. What’s it gonna take?” Aimsley said.

Brick just stared at him.

“What’s it gonna take,” Aimsley stared back. “You tell me, Brick. You show me the piper, I’ll pay him. Free and clear and I am quit. You name your price.”

Brick, without looking at the board, picked up Aimsley’s last prelate, and snapped the wooden piece in half. Tossed the pieces on the board.

Aimsley looked at the broken prelate. This would buy Brick a lot. Enough to weather the storm. Enough to ride out the war.

Aimsley picked up the pieces of the shattered priest, secreted them away in his vest, and left the table and the Mouse Trap.