The Pyramid Waltz (38 page)

“Sounds ideal.”

“But we always thought of the bearded man as the leader,” Starbride said. “Darren and Cassius both deferred to him. The man you’re describing sounds more like a follower.”

“Maybe there’s someone above him.” Katya stroked her chin. “There could be another person in charge of the bearded man, and he’s just over Darren and Cassius.”

“And who might this ultimate leader be?” Crowe cast a glance at Starbride.

Katya waved the glance away. “Layra. I told Starbride all about it last night.”

“How do we find him?” Starbride asked.

“Pennynail found out how he meets his clients. We can arrange a meeting this afternoon.”

“How did Pennynail discover that?” Katya asked.

Crowe simply stared at her.

“You know,” Katya said, “sometimes I get really tired of secrets.”

Starbride prodded her calf with one bare foot. “How’s it feel?”

Katya smelled Dockland long before they entered; the miasma of fish, wet wood, and general dampness threatened to overpower her as they drew closer to the trading town on the Lavine River. She pulled at the hood that obscured her hair and wished she could pull it all the way down over her nose.

She’d thought at first to dress as plainly as she could, but they needed a reason to “hire” the renegade pyradisté, so she went as a noble in disguise: shirt and trousers and leather vest not only well-made but tooled. Her rapier was a step above her regular weapon, but below the jeweled piece she wore at court functions. And like any noble that feared recognition, she wore a black domino mask, using it as she hoped a conceited noblewoman would to conceal her identity.

Brutal had forsaken his red robes for leather and homespun. Maia had washed her hair with ash water, darkening it, and the heavy mantle resting across her shoulders pooled under her chin so she could hide the lower half of her face. Crowe wore a cap, and Katya thought he’d darkened his face with something, but she didn’t have time to ask as they entered the muddy, unpaved streets of Dockland proper.

Katya resisted the urge to glance around and try to spot Pennynail shadowing them with Starbride in tow. She couldn’t help but wonder if she was enjoying skulking any more than she had the first time.

“Way,” Brutal called as he moved to the side of the street. Maia, Crowe, and Katya moved with him. A guarded wagon covered with a canvas tarp rolled past, some merchant and his goods straight off the river. Crossbowmen perched along the sides. As the cart rattled by, Katya saw slight movement under its tarp and guessed that more guards awaited any thief intent on a pounce.

There were plenty of covetous, sideways glances at the cart from pedestrians, but Katya paid them no mind. The merchants could take care of themselves.

“You can see the greed on people’s faces,” Maia said. “King Einrich needs to send in the Guard again.”

Katya tsked. “I was just thinking that the inhabitants of Marienne are happy to have all the gangs an hour away and in one place.”

From behind them, Crowe snorted. “No matter how many times they’re cleared out for the sake of propriety, Dockland’s inhabitants come scurrying back like cockroaches.”

They found their particular cockroach in a tavern near the docks, at the sign of a goblet next to a long pipe, signifying both cheap wine and opium within. Two women with the over-painted faces and billowing blouses of whores leaned near the door. They dipped in mock curtsy to Brutal and licked their lips. Katya saw a flash of metal from the waist of one and amended her assessment. Not whores, but tricks. Take one or both into an alley, and all a customer would get would be freedom from his purse.

Brutal brushed past them without a word. Katya and the others followed suit, and one of the tricks called, “Too good for a roll, my
lord
?”

The inside of the tavern was as dingy and hazy as a bog. Crowe took the lead, and Katya grabbed Maia’s arm and stayed on his heels, not wanting to risk losing him in the gloom. “Short breaths, coz.”

Maia pressed her face into her mantle to block out the poisonous atmosphere. Crowe pushed through a curtain at the back of the tavern, and the air behind it didn’t hang so heavy. A middle-aged man with a greasy, stubble-dotted face sat on a stool at the small room’s single table, a window thrown open behind him. He glanced up as they entered and then gave them a watery stare before he turned back to the bowl of stew in front of him.

“I don’t hire women guards,” he said around a mouthful. “Too much trouble.”

“We’re not looking for work,” Crowe said.

Greasy looked them over again. “Nah, should have reckoned as much. No one wants to hire old duffers like you, either.”

With a slow, easy movement, Crowe eased a gold coin out of his belt and sat it noiselessly on the table. Greasy wiped his mouth on his sleeve and stood. “Apologies, my lords, ladies. I see you’re people of principle.”

“Indeed,” Crowe said. “I need guards for a very special shipment.”

“How special?”

“Five thousand crowns of special.”

Greasy nodded slowly. “That
is
special, my lord.”

“And before you get any ideas, my man, I don’t have the money with me now.”

“Nah, nah, my lord,” Greasy said. “Wasn’t thinking that, nah. Incoming or outgoing?”

“Outgoing.”

“When?”

“Soon.”

“Hard to find good men for a ‘soon’ job, my lord. Type of cargo?”

Crowe stared, but Greasy didn’t squirm. He wasn’t afraid, and Katya knew they were being watched. “Living,” Crowe said.

With another slow nod and a glance at Katya’s masked face, Greasy rubbed his chin. “How many?”

“Just one.”

“Just one that’s worth five thousand?”

Crowe only smiled. Greasy gave no outward appearance of wonder, but Katya could almost smell the anticipation rolling off him. A single person that needed to be guarded by criminals had to be kidnapped, and no one besides nobility could generate such a price. Greasy glanced at all of them again, no doubt wondering if, when the time came, his guards could kill them and take this valuable hostage for himself.

“We need the best,” Crowe said.

Greasy shrugged, his eyes half-lidded. “I don’t use lowlifes.”

“It would be better if our guest were made…pliable.”

“Could light a censor of opium in your guest’s, uh, accommodations.”

“Humph, if that’s the best you can do.”

“I’m talking premium quality.”

“Addictive premium quality.”

Greasy leaned against the wall and crossed his arms over his skinny chest. “Got something else I could do, but it’s costly. He’ll eat up most of your cash.”

“Another dealer?”

“Nah, don’t you worry, you’ll be happy. This man doesn’t leave a mark, no damage.”

“Ah,” Crowe said. “Pyradisté.”

“Sharp, my lord, very sharp.”

“Can we meet him? Perhaps a demonstration?” His hand rested very near the gold crown, fingers twitching as if to whisk it back into his pocket.

Greasy cast a quick glance at the hand and then shrugged. “Yeah, why not. I warn you, though, no tricks. He won’t be the only one there.”

“Not a problem.”

“The warehouse just shy of dock fifteen. One hour.”

Crowe flicked the coin across the table. “For your trouble.”

Katya’s fingers itched as she opened the door to the warehouse. Dark and dingy, it smelled of rotten fish and garbage. The sounds of dockworkers loading and unloading the ships outside rose and fell over the scrabbling of rats in the shadows. It seemed the perfect place for dark deeds, reminding her of the pyramid meant to kill her father. Stacks of boxes and coils of rope lay around the interior. Light flooded as far as it could through the small doors on either end and through the many holes in the ceiling, peppering the ground with dots of sunlight. Katya peered into the gloom but saw no one. A rickety staircase led up to a catwalk, and Katya nudged Maia in that direction. Maia drew her bow and tiptoed up the stairs. The rest of them clung to the wall, not wanting to call out or be seen until they had a chance to look.

“Well,” someone said, “are we going to deal or just hide in the shadows all day?”

Katya glanced at Crowe and nodded. “We’re here,” he said. “Where are you?”

A cloaked and hooded form moved into one of the rays of light near the center of the room. “Here.”

Crowe moved forward with Katya, Brutal a step behind. “You know of our problem?” Crowe asked.

“Tricky. Living cargo rarely sits still.”

“Know something about it, do you?” Crowe asked.

A low laugh issued from the hood. “I don’t come cheap.”

“We don’t pay cheap.”

“Let me see the money.”

“We aren’t fools.”

The hooded man spread his arms. “Well, then, how can I be sure you’re not poor, either?”

“Here is the deposit slip.” Katya brushed past Crowe into a ray of light. “My counting house holds the five thousand crowns. Note the mark, made by the house pyradisté himself.” She put her thumb over the name on the slip, letting only the
Lady
show of her alias, Lady Marchessa Gant.

“Ah.” The hooded man stepped forward, out of the light. “The money speaks at last. And whom would I be transporting…Lady?”

“It’s Miss, actually. I…work for the interested party, and I can see no reason why you need to know the identities of anyone involved.”

“I’m a curious person.”

Mashing her lips together, Katya pretended to think it over.

The hooded man waved her pause away. “Well, I have plenty of work, so if you don’t want to share…”

“Let us just say that some people have sisters, and those sisters stand to inherit greater titles simply because they are
older
. All right?”

“Ah, such a sister might be simply disposed of, were she to exist.”

“If we were barbarians.” Katya tilted her nose high. “Many things can spoil an inheritance. An unapproved marriage, for instance.”

“Oh yes, so much less barbaric than murder.”

“If you’re not interested, fine.”

“Wait, wait, miss,” the hooded man said. “I’m interested.”

“Well, let’s shake on it. I do believe that is the expression.”

He stepped into the light. “Call me Kenrick.” Tall and powerfully built, he seemed a good candidate for their man, down to the low beard on his chin. They moved closer just as a
twang
came from above them, and a green-fletched arrow punched into his shoulder.

Kenrick spun around with a cry, and his unseen partners leapt from their hiding places. Katya lunged for him, but one of his comrades swung at her with a short sword as another dragged him away. Katya ducked and drew her rapier; she backed up until she felt the solidness of Crowe and Brutal. They kept their backs together as much as they could, and Katya lost track of the assailants flitting through the dark.

Starbride stepped carefully across the roof of a warehouse, reminding herself with every movement that a mistake could send her tumbling two stories to the ground. Pennynail guided her toward the window of the warehouse Katya had entered, but he grabbed her arm as shouts and the ring of steel against steel drifted through the window. He pointed at her and at the roof they stood on, signaling her to stay put. “Right,” she said.

He ducked inside, and the seconds ticked by. Starbride rubbed the elbows of her borrowed shirt and wondered how long she was supposed to wait. Active skulking hadn’t been any better than passive skulking. Scuttling along rooftops and through windows was all fingers and toes work, and her limbs were aching.

She counted to sixty, then a hundred. When she reached a hundred and thirty, she peeked in the window until her eyes adjusted. A walkway clung to two of the walls, but not the one beneath her. A stack of crates loomed near the window—Pennynail’s way down, she supposed. She searched the shadowy forms darting in and out of small rays of light, but couldn’t distinguish friend from foe.

Starbride patted her leather vest, making sure her lone pyramid rested in the pocket. Perhaps the light pyramid would make it easier for Katya and the others to see, or maybe it would illuminate the enemy pyradisté and allow her to see his face. One way to find out. Hesitantly, she stepped out onto the tower of crates. As they shifted, she clambered onto the next closest stack, just inches from hers. Sick in the pit of her stomach, she clamped her teeth as the crates tilted, but couldn’t stifle a cry as the rough wood slid out from under her and she toppled. She had a moment’s thought to try to curl into a ball as she landed on a coil of rope. She kept her arms over her head, but when nothing fell on her, she stood and rubbed her aching side and hip.

The fighting seemed to be contained to the middle of the floor. One dark figure took a swing at Katya, but she blocked. Her face was fixed in an intense, concentrated stare as she moved into a beam of light before dancing out of it again. Brutal had three still forms at his feet, and as Starbride watched, he planted a foot in the chest of another and kicked his opponent back to stumble and lie prone. Before the opponent could rise again, a green-fletched arrow lodged in his chest.