“Dusting people is easy,” I said. “Getting answers is a bit more tricky. Corpses make it even harder.”
“Very pragmatic,” observed Baldezar. “But I’m pragmatic as well. By all accounts, you’re a hard man to kill, Drothe. How many attempts now—two, three?”
“More,” I said.
Baldezar nodded. “Precisely. And I’m to think I will be the exception? I would have to consider the possibility you might live, and that you might get your hands on this letter. That’s too clear a road back to me.”
“Unless you were in a hurry. People make mistakes when they’re rushed.”
“True, but what’s the hurry? Why would I even want to kill you in the first place?”
“It wouldn’t have to be you,” I said. I pointed at my sister’s forged signature. “You do this kind of thing for hire.”
“Yes. And I like to be able to spend the money I get for it, too. Besides,” he said, flicking at the paper, “this is substandard workmanship. I wouldn’t turn out something this poorly done, no matter whether my life were on the line or no.”
I thought back to what Josef had said about the letter. “The flaws were minor at best,” I said, “and damn hard to find.”
“But you
found
them,” said Baldezar. “A good forgery should be able to withstand an amateur’s scrutiny. This did not.” He pointed at various spots on the page. “Improper forms here, here, and here. Inconsistent pen strokes on the third and fifth lines. And at least two scraped and redone stylistic errors I can see at a glance. This is beginner’s work. Forging is as much art as it is duplication; whoever did this was a copyist, not an artist.”
“Whoever it was had access to Baroness Sephada’s letters,” I pointed out. “And he knew about our business arrangement. That still points to you.”
Baldezar nodded. “Yes, and that’s what troubles me. It means someone either gained access to my office, or someone in my shop is involved. Either way, I’m not pleased. But I have no reason to want you dead.”
Baldezar studied the letter again, then held it out to me. “I’ve explained to you why I wouldn’t have done this, Drothe, but I can’t prove it to you. It’s a forgery, and that’s what I do. But I’m an excellent forger, and this
isn’t
an excellent forgery.”
If it had been anyone besides Baldezar, I would have laughed in his face at that explanation. But it
was
Baldezar, and I had been dealing with him long enough to know he was right; he couldn’t put out a bad document even if he wanted to. His ego wouldn’t allow it.
I took the letter from his hands and leaned in close. “All right,” I said. “Even if you didn’t do it, I’m thinking the information about the baroness and me came from here. Find out how they got it and who they are, or I might be less ‘pragmatic’ my next visit.”
“Not to worry,” said Baldezar. “We’re both victims in this. I want whoever did this as much as you do.”
I grinned darkly. “I doubt that very much, Jarkman. Very much, indeed.”
The sun was a good two hand spans above the horizon when I finally made it home and crawled into bed. Ideally, I could have used ten hours or so of sleep, but my brain was having none of it. Dreams of fighting, falling, sewers, and giant pen-wielding Angels filled my head. By midafternoon, I decided to cut my losses and crawl back out into the day.
I had a quick bite at Prospo’s, checked for messages with three of my usual drops, and began working the streets. Not surprisingly, half of the rumors I gathered in the first two hours dealt with me—or, more specifically, with Tamas’s attempt on me, and what it had meant. When you have a running fight in your own front yard, the locals are going to notice. Little of what I heard was accurate, some was downright wrong, and a few people even seemed surprised to see me alive.
I wrote that last reaction off to overblown accounts of the fight—until I ran into Betriz. Like me, Betriz was a Nose, Wide to my Narrow, and like most Noses, she told me something I didn’t want to hear.
“Street says you’re holding out on Nicco.” She said it matter-of-factly as she popped an olive into her mouth. She had six more on the tips of her fingers—the easiest way to carry the snack she had purchased moments before.
“
What?”
I said. “Holding out how?”
Betriz was a long, lean woman, with deep brown eyes and the knowing smile of a Nose. She swallowed her olive and showed me that smile now.
“Whispers are you found a Snilch in Nicco’s house and haven’t told him,” she said, licking the brine from her lips. “That true?”
I stared at her, my face impassive even as my mind raced. The Snilch rumor was supposed to be soft, dying—not making the circuit with other information brokers. I’d had Mendross put out the word to kill it. What in the hell was Betriz doing with it?
“You’re a fool,” she said, reading my silence. “You, of all people, should know better than to hold out on Nicco, Drothe.”
“I’m not . . .” I began, then stopped. I took a deep breath and started over. “I’m doing my damn job, which you, of all people, should understand: I’m separating the bull from the shit. I’m keeping Nicco from tearing his own organization apart to look for something that isn’t there. There’s nothing solid on this. The last thing I need is for him to start swinging ham-handedly at anything that catches his suspicion.”
Betriz arched a sun-faded eyebrow. “The last thing
you
need?”
“Me, the organization, everyone.”
“Uh-huh.” She didn’t sound completely convinced.
“Where’d you hear this?” I said.
“Oh, you know . . .” Betriz gestured vaguely with an olive-tipped finger. “Around.”
“Mm-hmm,” I said. “How much?”
Betriz beamed down at me. “That’s what I love about you, Drothe—you know how to cut through the bullshit.”
I paid Betriz, got a handful of names, and spent the rest of the afternoon tracking rumors. Fortunately, there weren’t a lot to find. The rumor about me and Nicco was young yet, and the one on the Snilch still fairly mild. I talked to some people, paid off some others, and put the lean on a couple more. It wouldn’t solve anything permanently, I knew, but it might give me some working room.
If I wanted to fight these rumors—if I wanted to keep Nicco from digging into his own organization, not to mention holding my feet to the fire for not telling him about the whispers—I needed to come to him with something bigger, something better. I needed to be able to stand in front of him with names and answers and maybe even a body or two, so that I could tell him that instead of chasing after rumors, I had spent my time getting results.
Success was my best argument now, but to get that success, I needed to go to back into Ten Ways.
Word of my previous visit to Ten Ways had already gotten around. The locals had tagged me as Nicco’s man, and some even blamed me for Fedim’s death. The irony of the latter was not lost on me.
Few of the local Kin had any interest in talking to me. Being Nicco’s Nose was almost the same as being Nicco himself in that cordon, and most Tenners would rather be gut-stabbed than help a foreign boss.
Still, hawks have a way of starting conversations. And, as it turned out, so did mentioning Rambles’s name.
Rambles, it seemed, had been stepping on more toes than anyone could count. According to the street, he’d come in, set up shop, and begun acting as if Nicco’s tenuous holdings were a bastion of criminal strength. Sure, he needed to throw some weight around and reestablish Nicco’s presence in the cordon, but that didn’t mean he could roll over the native talent, push out local operators, and call the neighboring gangs to heel like a pack of misbehaving dogs. Nicco—and by extension, Rambles—didn’t have the clout to pull off something like that in Ten Ways.
I needed to talk to Rambles to see what the hell was going on. Nicco hadn’t wanted me to pay a call on him, but, if Rambles was going to make my job harder, I wanted to know why he was doing it in such a damn efficient manner.
Rambles’s people, it turned out, were depressingly easy to find, and his base of operation not much harder. He had established himself in the back of a gaming den, one floor above a milliner’s shop. The gambling room wasn’t so much a cover as a source of income, I gathered, given the ready action in the place. I passed among the tables to the back of the room, where a big Cutter was busy making the door he guarded look small.
“Rambles in?” I asked as I came up. My hand went out for the handle, was engulfed by a slab of meat with fingers before it reached it.
“He’s out.”
I looked meaningfully at the light showing beneath the door. As I watched, a shadow passed across the sliver of illumination from the other side.
“Uh-huh,” I said. I gave my hand a slight tug, but it stayed where it was. “Well, in case he isn’t, you may want to tell him Drothe is here. He’ll be in for me.”
“He ain’t, and he won’t be. Not for you.”
That told me something: Rambles had heard I was in Ten Ways, and had given orders that I was to be kept away. Interesting.
I tilted my head back and met the Cutter’s eyes. He smiled, showing yellowed teeth.
Try me,
the smile said,
please.
“You got a name?” I said.
More teeth.
“Any idea when he’ll be back?”
Teeth again.
“Should I be talking slower?”
He scowled and squeezed my hand. I winced as I felt the bones rub together, but I met his gaze. After a long moment, he let go. I resisted the urge to snatch my hand back and instead let it fall casually to my side.
“Get out,” he said.
I stood there just long enough to make him wonder if he’d have to haul me out on his own, then turned and left.
The sky was a deep blue going on black when I stepped outside. Behind me, one of Rambles’s people stepped through the door and leaned against the wall beside it. Another one joined him. The second one smiled and waved good-bye. I got the message.
Four blocks later, when I was sure I wasn’t being followed, I doubled back and took to the roofs. It was a clear night, with a waning moon that wouldn’t be up for hours. Between the early darkness and my night vision, I wasn’t worried about any high watch Rambles may have stationed above his building. As it turned out, it didn’t matter—the roofs were empty all the way to the milliner’s shop.
That gave me pause. Either Rambles was being incredibly confident, or incredibly stupid. And since he wasn’t a stupid man, that meant he thought he was safe in Ten Ways—safe enough to not bother putting even one person on the Dancer’s Way. This ran counter to the grumblings I’d heard on the street.
That, or it was a trap. Either way, though, I wasn’t going to find anything out staring at his shingle-covered peak.
Six dormers, three on a side, poked out from the roofline of his building. A quick investigation showed the windows boarded up on five of the dormers. The sixth, however, had had its boards pried away. It was dark inside, and my night vision showed me signs of squatters from sometime in the past. Judging by the dust and bird nests, no one had been up here in a while.
I slipped inside and crept along carefully, worried as much about finding a rotted board as about making noise. The damp odor of mold and bitter scent of bird droppings filled the place, tickling my nose. Below me, I could hear the shouts and curses and clatter of the gaming room coming up through the floor. Farther along, the noises faded to a murmur, then a hum. I knelt and put my head close to the floor. The faint buzz of two people in conversation came to me.
It occurred to me as I knelt there, trying to make out even a fraction of what was being said, that I didn’t know for sure it was Rambles in the room below. I was just going on instinct, a shadow beneath a doorframe, and the Cutter’s bad attitude. And even if it was Rambles down there, he could just as easily be spending the evening with his whore as talking about anything I cared about. Hell, odds favored the former, to be honest.
I smiled to myself in the darkness. Well, it wouldn’t be the first time I got a face full of dust and dried bird droppings on my clothes while Nosing. Creeping around on long shots was part of the job.
Nothing—or, more precisely, not enough of something came to me through the attic’s floor. The conversation was tantalizingly distinguishable, just not understandable. I drew out the listening cup I kept in my herb wallet—a short, fluted tin tube I’d had since my days as a Wide Nose—and looked around more carefully. Seeing a faint sliver of light shining up through the floorboards, I crawled to it, then laid myself prone, my ear to the cup and the cup to the light.
Better.
“ . . . the damn cordon,” Rambles was saying. “I’m supposed to be getting things in order here, not taking them over the edge.”
“Funny,” said another voice. “I could have sworn you were trying for the exact opposite.”
I started to take an involuntary breath, then stopped myself before I ended up with a mouth full of dust. I knew that voice—deep, gravelly, with the mildest irreverence riding beneath the surface. Last time I’d heard it, it had been coming down through a sewer grate rather than up through a crack in the ceiling. I didn’t have a name or a face to put to it, but I recognized it from the conversation Degan and I had overheard beneath the street outside Fedim’s.