The Assassin King (39 page)

Dranth choked back his displeasure and stepped through the smoke.

“John Burgett?”

The man at the anvil looked up; he took two more short whacks at the brace, then put down the sledge beside the anvil. “Who's askin'?”

“I bring you greetings on behalf of my cousin in the hills,” replied Dranth. It was a countersign used only by those familiar with the darkest of guild workings.

The heavyset man inhaled deeply, then damped the fire. He turned and yelled over his shoulder.

“Taffy! Get out here an' tend the anvil! You 'prentices, keep pumpin' them bellows.”

A thick, black-haired man with a weasel-like countenance appeared from the back. The heavyset man took off his leather apron and tossed it to him, then wiped his hands on his trousers and came over to where Dranth and Yabrith were standing.

“Does this cousin of yours have a name?” he asked.

“Yes,” replied Dranth. “Her name is Esten.”

“Hmmm,” said the man. “Then I suppose I'm John Burgett. What do you gents want?”

“I have a business proposition for you,” Dranth said. The man smiled broadly. “Your horse throw a shoe?” “Yes,” said Dranth acidly. “That's it.”

The broad man chuckled, nodded to Taffy, then gestured for the two men to follow him.

He led them out of the smoke-filled smithy and along the narrow alleyways back toward the wharf without speaking; Dranth and Yabrith were accustomed to such silence.

They followed him past ramshackle houses and bait shops, taverns and pubs, until they finally came to the waterfront. The man who had called himself John Burgett whistled merrily as they approached the wharf, heading straight for a long dock at the western end of town, deep within the fishing village.

Night was falling, and no one paid any attention to them; scores of fishermen were heading in, unloading their second catches of the day, emptying the spoils of their clam traps and lobster pots into wagons and horse-drawn carts poised along the docks, then dousing the shellfish with seawater, paying little mind to anything else taking place around them. The flurry of evening activity was electric and covered their passage perfectly.

Dranth and Yabrith exchanged a glance as the blacksmith stepped out onto the long pier and began heading for the end of it. Neither man had ever been on the water before; neither had even seen the sea, but Dranth had ice in his veins and Yabrith was afraid enough of Dranth not to be able to refuse him anything, so after a second's hesitation they both stepped gingerly onto the shaky pier and followed the heavyset man to the end.

As they were walking, they watched in alarm as he turned and stepped off into the water, or so it appeared. When they reached the end of the dock they saw he was standing in a small dinghy, tossing a coil of rope out of the way of the rough boards that served as seats. The man looked up at them and grinned.

“Come aboard, gents,” he said, then went back to his work.

“Where are we going?” Dranth demanded, his dark eyes nervously scanning the pier and the water.

The blacksmith shrugged. “I thought you wanted to meet John Burgett,” he said cheerily. “My mistake—never mind. Good day to you both.”

Dranth exhaled sharply and looked farther offshore. In the distance he could make out a cluster of medium-sized boats, moored many yards out but still within the inner harbor. He silently acknowledged that such a place would be a formidable haven for an enterprise such as the Spider's Clutch, a movable hideout surrounded on all sides by water, where the chance of being overheard was minuscule.

The two desert dwellers steeled their nerves and stepped down into the rowboat; Yabrith stumbled and fell to his knees as the dinghy rocked beneath him, to the great amusement of the blacksmith. He offered Dranth his hand, but the guild scion shook his head and stepped down carefully, only eliciting minor rocking. He took a seat on a slimy board, choking back his disgust and trying not to be overwhelmed by the smell.

The blacksmith sat down heavily in the other end of the small boat, fitted the oars into the oarlocks, and began rowing for the cluster of boats.

All during the passage Dranth and Yabrith struggled to hold on to the contents of their stomachs. Water was a precious and rare commodity in Yarim, so the sight of the endless sea and its accompanying odor and motion was overwhelming. By the time the little dinghy reached the encampment of boats, both men were green, to the obvious amusement of the blacksmith. The man merely continued to row in silence until they reached the outer edge of the cluster, where cabin boats and barnacle-encrusted fishing trawlers bounced gracefully on the waves.

As they grew closer, the blacksmith began to whistle, a cheerful melody that cut through the sound of the splashing waves slapping against the hulls of the boats as the sun began to sink below the rim of the world, splashing the sea with red light that resembled a rippling pool of blood. After a moment, a small round man with a dark blue cap and jacket appeared on the closest boat's deck and stood, his hands in his pockets, looking down at the dinghy as it approached.

When the rowboat was finally alongside the outer cluster, the blacksmith secured the oars and stood up. He grabbed hold of the rope mooring and tossed it to the round man, who caught it with a movement so quick that Dranth didn't even see him take his hands from his pockets.

The two men of Gol-garn tied the dingy to the mooring irons of the boat, then the blacksmith stepped easily out of it and onto the deck. He turned and beckoned to Dranth and Yabrith to follow.

The two Yarimese assassins looked at each other.

“Ya coming?” the blacksmith asked patiently.

Dranth stood up slowly and stepped carefully over the gunwales, trying not to look down at the green sea looming between the boats. He stepped onto the deck and slid on the salt spray, but managed to right himself before falling. He turned quickly and pulled Yabrith over, then gestured impatiently at the blacksmith, who chuckled and disappeared around the bow of the boat.

The two men of Yarim followed him quickly, only to discover when they rounded the bow themselves that they were staring at a corridor of boat bows, all aligned nose to nose with one another, bobbing gently in the tide. While a few of the boats were open skiffs, most of them were trawlers and houseboats, with dark cabins in which flickering lights beckoned ominously.

The blacksmith reappeared, six boats away.

“You gents coming in?” he asked solicitously. “Or are ya planning to swim back?” He laughed aloud, then vanished into the black hold of the houseboat.

Dranth and Yabrith inhaled collectively, then slowly began to pick their way between the moorings, balancing carefully, as the red light on the sea faded to gray with the coming of night.

Within the dark hold ahead a candle was flickering.

Dranth peered within. “Do come in. It's impolite to linger in doorways.”

The voice was rich and deep, but with a knife's edge to it. It issued forth from the blackness of the ship's hold, disembodied. Dranth looked for the source, but the shadows were too heavy, and kept shifting as the boat rocked. He steadied himself and stepped through the opening.

Around the small open room other candles began to spark into light. Dranth, no stranger to such meeting tactics, remained still, waiting for the illumination to drive some of the shadows out. He could see shapes in the comers, far enough away from the candleflames to avoid clear sight, but near enough to present a show of numbers. At least one of them was the blacksmith, from his outline. By his estimate there were eight people in the room in addition to himself and Yabrith, who was still lurking outside the opening. He snapped his fingers, and his henchman stepped into the room.

The flickering candle that had been alight the whole time began to glow brighter as other wicks in it were lit. Dranth saw that this was being done by a slight man with red hair and thin, sharp features, all except for his eyes, which were enormous and owlish; they glowed like beacons in the dark. As the radiance in the room expanded, he could see the man was wiry and not particularly tall, with fair skin mottled by the sun and vaguely pocked with age, and perhaps drink. “And who is calling this fine evening?” the red-haired man asked.

“Dranth, from the Raven's Guild,” the guild scion said. “I come under the auspices of the Golden Measure.” Some of the dark figures around the room exchanged glances, but the red-haired man merely nodded. The countersign was one known only to guild hierarchs of all types, and would only be recognized by the leaders of such organizations, whether they were tradesmen, craftsmen, merchants, or thieves. Dranth had used it to confirm what he already suspected; the man at the table was the leader of the Spider's Clutch.

“Do you now, Dranth from the Raven's Guild?” the red-haired man said idly. “And what is it you want?” “I'm looking for John Burgett.” “Aye, you've found him,” said the man. “And to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit? This is the first time one of your guild has come in person; generally we have just communicated with your mistress by bird.”

Dranth's dark eyes took on an impatient gleam in the half-light.

“I have a proposition for you that was too important to trust to any messenger.”

“Really now?” said the man who called himself John Burgett, amused. “We're honored, of course. What is this weighty proposition? And why didn't your mistress come herself if it's so important?” He pointed at two stools near the table. “Please, sit. You're looking a little green around the gills.”

Dranth did not know if the guildmaster was testing him, or if word had just not reached the distant shores of Golgarn, but he decided the risk of revealing the truth was minimal, given the geography.

And given the poison gourds he had stashed about his person, a toxin to which he and Yabrith were both immune, but that would be released upon any attack against him.

He sat, nodding to Yabrith to do the same.

“Esten is dead—murdered,” he said flatly. The words cost him dear; he still had a gnawing pain in his gut at the very thought. “I speak for the guild now.”

The shadows in the room exchanged glances again. There was even an intake of breath from one comer, Dranth noted with some satisfaction. His mistress's reputation had been well known. And well deserved. Only the red-haired man appeared unmoved.

“I'm sorry to hear that,” said Burgett. “What is your proposition?”

Dranth crossed his hands on the table board in front of him. “I seek your help in the planting of some information valuable to a friend of mine,” he said directly. “A simple task, really, and easy to accomplish, especially given the Spider's Clutch's proclivity for moving headquarters.”

Burgett smiled broadly, revealing remarkably white teeth.

“Aye, we do that indeed,” he said. “Like our namesake. I assume you've seen dock spiders, or perhaps their desert-dwelling cousins, who spin webs of singular artistry in eaves or between fence posts or on pylons? Someone comes along with a broom or a cloth and destroys this beautiful creation with, a single sweep, and yet the next morning there it is again, in the same place or another, equally magnificent?”

“I suppose,” said Dranth dryly.

“Well, such is the need of our guild. Unlike your own, which I hear is able to operate in plain sight, due to the weakness of the leaders of your province, we are a poor band, struggling under the oppression of the crown. With all the trade in the port of Golgarn, every other blasted person on the street is a soldier or military sailor, skilled at fending off piracy and other sea crimes. In short, Dranth, Golgam is crawling with the law. Not much for a self-respecting guild to do but operate in the shadows and learn to be adaptable.”

“Understood,” Dranth said. “And if you agree to help me, I may be able to assist in changing that situation.”

The shadowy figures exchanged glances again.

“Is that so?” said John Burgett. “That's a tall order. Let's hear the details of your proposition.”

Dranth sat back. He reached into his cloak and pulled forth a packet wrapped in leather.

“You will begin meeting again in one of your former eaves, fence posts, or pylons—some place that has been raided before and was known to have been a hideout of yours, where your proverbial web was swept clean. It doesn't matter where, as long as the crown has known of it. Then you will arrange for them to know of it again—and they will raid it again. When they do, you will have scattered, naturally—but they will find various booty, perhaps weapons, perhaps contraband, but most especially, they will find these documents.”

“And if I could read these documents, what would they say?”

The boat shifted, and Dranth's stomach lurched. The men from the Spider's Clutch didn't seem to notice.

“They are maps,” he said, “maps of tunnels five miles beyond Golgarn's northwest border, where the Firbolg are encamped, massing for an attack.”

The only sound in the room was the creaking of the ship and the slapping of the waves.

Then, to a one, the shadows began to laugh.

“Firbolg?” said John Burgett in disbelief. “Are you certain they are not also in league with hobgoblins and trolls?”

Dranth did not laugh in return.

“I assure you, Mr. Burgett, that when your king sends scouts to investigate these documents, and he will, he will find such an encampment in those mountains.”

“He will?”

“Yes, he will. Bad sanitation, bones strewn at cave entrances, the entire nightmarish scenario—however ludicrous you and I know it to be. It's cost me quite a bit to set up, but it's impressively realistic.”

The red-haired man smiled even as his brow furrowed. He interlaced his fingers and brought his hands to rest on his belly.

“All right, I'm intrigued. What possible gain is there for you—and me—in persuading Beliac that the Bolg are massing in the hills outside Longsworth?”

“It's a diversion,” said Dranth. “Beliac will panic at the prospect of Golgarn being a feeding ground for the Firbolg. And since he does not have the land military power to do anything to stop it, he will turn to an ally who does—and commit his naval forces, as well as whatever pathetic army he has—to the service of that ally in return for being saved from the big, bad Firbolg—who could care less that he, or any of you, exist. For you, it means that the omnipresence of the military will be over; once the men of Golgarn have been conscripted into the war that is to come, you can emerge from the shadows into the light, where you will discover many unguarded citizens and visitors to your fair land who are without the protection they once enjoyed. Not to mention ships. You can raise the practice of your profession from shadow thuggery to, well, whatever you wish it to be. And my aforementioned friend, who coinci-dentally happens to be the ally to whom Beliac will turn, will get the support he craves for his war.”