Fold Thunder

  Chapter Twenty-four

  People complained of the stink when the bodies burned. It took two days for the ash to stop falling, and even then it lingered on the street, like the ghost of Driptangle, until a late summer shower turned the ash into long black streams that ran through the streets. Probably right back into the pit, Dag thought as he watched a boy and girl leap one of the inky rivers and then continue down the street, laughing at the rain. Those people couldn’t get out of Driptangle in life; why should death be any different?

  He hunkered under one of the low outcroppings along the front of the west harbor, crowded next to a giant, bald sailor with a tattoo of what Dag imagined was a bear across his vast paunch. The man shivered and trembled, and though the air was cool for late summer, it was not enough to give a man shivers. Probably got the pox from a whore, Dag thought.

  Sailors packed the narrow shelter from the rain, all grumbling at the weather. No one gave Dag a second glance; he wore the loose trousers of a sailor and a roughspun shirt, more gray than white, that he had gotten from a woman in the Gut. Jaecan sailors weren’t unheard of in Apsia, although Brech, or perhaps Sammeen, had taken the disguise to excess.

  People had complained about the stink, but no one had imagined the ash, and the smell, marked the cremation of hundreds of poor. Who would know? Driptangle had been a community unto itself, from what Dag had discovered; even the poorest merchants of the Gut did not want anything to do with the people of Driptangle. And so they died, and burned, without Apsia-the-whore blinking an eye.

  And those idiot soldiers burned them, Dag thought. They might as well be asking for someone to investigate that bonfire in Driptangle. The Apsians did not burn their dead, from what Dag heard. Some people said that they buried them in the ground and let them rot. It did not surprise him; it would be just one more stratum in the layers of decay in this city. Cremation, in a proper charnel house, was the only decent way to treat the dead. Still, the soldiers were idiots.

  Sammeen’s second office—according to Calidi, a secret office—stood just a few blocks away, where Dag could watch it easily. It had not been hard to shake a few answers out of Calidi; he had, indeed, drugged Dag, although he swore it was to keep Dag from walking into the ambush. Dag doubted that very much. It had taken a single cut—shallow, along the inside of the man’s forearm—to make Calidi spill every secret he had ever had. Sammeen’s secret office was one of the first.

  Turned out it was not so secret; several people knew who owned the building, especially along the wharfs, but no one thought he ever used it. Calidi swore, though, that Sammeen was there every night, conducting the business that he could not do in Coi’s offices.

  Dag pressed one hand casually against his thigh, making sure the long dagger was still there. He had ripped out some of the seam in the trousers so he could draw the dagger in a heartbeat. Although with Ishahb’s black flame on me, Dag thought, I’ll be lucky if I don’t just split my trousers and get caught with them down around my ankles.

  “You Jaecan?” the giant sailor asked.

  Dag looked up at him and said, “What if I am?” He glanced back over at the building. Sammeen stood at the door, fumbling with the lock.

  “Got any nam?”

  “Sorry, my stash got busted when we left Aqeur,” Dag said. He could see the marks of the drug in the man’s face—loose skin around his eyes, deep circles, faint discoloration on the cheeks. “You look like you’re getting bit by it pretty hard.”

  The giant sailor snorted. “I’m big, I can take a lot more.” He spat into one of the dusky rivers swirling near their feet. “Bel take me, I’d kill for some right now.”

  Dag kept watching the building. Sure enough, a good hundred heartbeats after Sammeen entered, four men went in after him—all armed. Of course he has burning guards, Dag thought. Planning to overthrow a city and betray your lord must be dangerous work.

  “Tell you what,” Dag said. “You look like you can carry your weight. Come with me; I’ve got some work to do, and I’ll split the cut with you. Seventy-thirty.”

  The giant shrugged. “Don’t got anything to do until we sail out tomorrow. Sixty-forty.”

  “Thirty-five.”

  The other sailors were listening too, now, and one—a man almost as big as the giant next to Dag—pushed his way through the crowd. One man slipped and fell into the ashy water and let out a string of curses.

  “You got work?” the second man said. “I’m faster than this lout, smarter too. Give me half his cut and I’ll make sure it goes all right.”

  Dag cursed his luck. “I thought sailors were supposed to be taking their ease when they’re on shore, you know—women, wine-houses, all that.”

  “You ought to know,” the second man said, staring down at Dag’s disguise.

  The black flame burn me, Dag thought. I get the one sailor with his brain not rotted through with hahsun. “Fine, I can use two sets of hands.” More sailors crowded closer. “That’s all, though.” The sailors kept clamoring, keen on the scent of easy coin.

  “That’s all, he said,” the bear-tattooed man said. He did not seem upset at having to split his pay.

  The other sailors settled back with a few oaths and disgruntled remarks, but no one challenged the big man.

  “Come on,” Dag said. He started into the rain and wondered whether he had made a mistake; he could handle the two giants, but not without making a scene. “Names?”

  “Bear,” said the tattooed man.

  “Bear,” the other man said. “Ma called you Andoval, and that was good enough for you until you got that bloody tattoo last year.”

  “Don’t matter what Ma called me,” Bear said. “I’m Bear. You need me to remind you of that?”

  “Nah,” the smaller man said. “Be Bear. What do I care?”

  “Brothers?” Dag said.

  “By blood, if not always by salt,” the smaller man said. “My younger brother here wouldn’t put that good of a face on it.”

  “Shut your mouth, Etrar,” Bear said. “No one made you come after me.”

  “Actually, Ma did,” Etrar said.

  “Probably time for everyone to be quiet,” Dag said. They were close to the building now. “Bear, go around back; the yard should be empty, but be careful just in case. Anyone comes out of that building, make sure they don’t get away.”

  “What about me?” Etrar said.

  “You go in with me. Got anything to fight with?”

  “Just these.” Etrar held up his giant fists.

  “I should have taken Bear,” Dag muttered.

  To Dag’s surprise, Etrar let out a huge laugh. “Nah, his mind’s all gone to rot. Too much nam imbu, but then he always had a tooth for it, even back home.”

  “These men have swords. You want to just wait out here and keep watch?”

  “Trust me,” Etrar said. “I’ve had to save Bear’s hide more than once, and sailors don’t fight clean.”

  Dag shrugged. “Do you mind?” he asked, pointing at the front door. He drew his long dagger from his trousers, ignoring Etrar’s curious look, and pulled out a throwing knife. “I’ll go first.”

  Etrar gave a grin, revealing a mouthful of blackened teeth. He raised one massive leg and, with a single kick, ripped the door free from the latch. It struck the inside wall with a crash. Shouts rose.

  Quick responses, Dag thought. Good guards. He flew through the door.

  He had been right; the guards were good. A bolt grazed his cheek and splintered against the wall. Two men stood, swords and dueling daggers ready, at the intersection of a hallway, and a third guard hid around the corner. Dag could see the tip of the crossbow bobbing up and down as the guard reloaded.

  No time to change plans, though. He flipped the dagger forward and it caught one man in the chest—not the heart, though. The man stumbled back, blood frothing at his mouth as he shouted. A loud crack echoed behind Dag, and Etrar let out a shout, but Dag couldn’t turn to look.

  Dag p
ulled free his second dagger as he closed with the man. He caught the sword thrust and parried, but the man pulled free before Dag could trap his sword. The guard’s dagger came at him next, and Dag parried that as well, but somehow the dagger got past him and he stumbled back as it cut him across the chest. Blood stained the soiled linen shirt.

  The second guard had pulled the knife free and drawn his sword. Blood still dripped from his mouth, but he sprang forward, sword moving in a long arc to take Dag in the neck. Dag, off balance, could do nothing to avoid it. He watched it come, taking an impossibly long time to reach him.

  Out of nowhere, a giant piece of wood smashed the blade down. Its edge cut into the wooden floor and stuck. The timber took the wounded guard across the face. The crack of bones was at odds with the almost comical look of surprise on the dead man’s face.

  Dag took advantage of his own opponent’s shock to attack. The man parried the first thrust, but Dag stepped inside his guard. Dag’s long dagger took him right under the jaw, driving up into his head.

  Etrar, wielding what looked to be one of the long planks that had made up the door, stepped past Dag. Another crossbowman stepped out from behind the corner and loosed a bolt that skidded across the floorboards. Etrar’s board caught him in the neck. More snapping bones, and the man hit the corner of the wall with a thud. Blood ran from one eye as he slid to the ground.

  A bolt stuck out from Etrar’s thigh, looking more like a dart than a crossbow bolt in the large man.

  “You ok?” Dag said.

  With a growl, Etrar bent over to look at his leg. He straightened after a moment. “Fine, although Bear better have one to match, or I’m going to be angry you chose me over him.”

  “You kind of insisted, remember?” Dag said.

  “Not really.”

  Blood stained the man’s trousers.

  “You better take care of that,” Dag said. “I’m not paying for your funeral if you bleed to death.”

  “You need me?” Etrar said.

  “Just make sure no one leaves.”

  Etrar propped himself against the splintered door, still holding the plank of wood, and started examining the bolt. “It’s clean,” he said. “Head’s poking through. I’ll just pull it out.”

  “You do that,” Dag said. He retrieved his throwing knife from the floor and turned his head away from the dead men. Etrar was almost as terrifying as Bear, albeit in his own way. The two guards he had struck down were barely recognizable, their faces distorted by the impact of his blows.

  Dag made his way back through the building, waiting for the click of another crossbow. He heard nothing, though. The rooms were dusty and empty, even of tracks. After he had searched the first floor, he made his way back to Etrar.

  “Anything?” he said.

  A bloody bolt sat next to the man, and a grimy strip of his trousers was tied around the wound. “Nothing yet,” Etrar said.

  Dag nodded and turned back. This time he took the stairs up to the second floor. A crossbow bolt flew past him and stuck in the wooden wall behind him. The guard stood at the end of the hallway. Before he could finish winding the crossbow, Dag’s throwing knife took him in the throat. He slid to the ground and blood pooled across the unfinished floorboards.

  Four guards, dead. That meant Sammeen would be alone. And waiting for him.

  Dag drew his throwing knife out of the dead man’s throat, wiped it clean on the neat, gray wool of the man’s trousers, and kicked open the door at the end of the hall.

  This time, the black flame burned. The crossbow bolt caught him just above the knee, but in the flesh. It tore clean through his leg. Sammeen, standing behind a large, blackwood desk, held the crossbow in shaking hands. Dag went down with a howl as pain exploded in his leg.

  Sammeen dropped the crossbow and drew a sword. He rushed forward, the blade held high, awkwardly. Awkward or not, the man had the height and strength to cut Dag in half.

  The pain in his leg brought tears to Dag’s eyes. He blinked desperately and threw his knife.

  It went high, clipping Sammeen’s shoulder and spinning him halfway around. The man let out a growl, but he switched the sword to his other hand and turned back to Dag.

  Dag was ready for him. He forced the pain near his knee out of his mind and pushed himself up with his good leg. He could see the surprise on Sammeen’s face; the man had not expected him to be able to move. He brought his dagger across the man’s hand hard, feeling the warm spray of blood on his own forearm.

  Sammeen dropped the sword with a howl. The noise cut off abruptly when the dagger, still dripping with blood, reached Sammeen’s throat. Sammeen stood there, clutching his wounded hand, silent. He swallowed twice, his eyes darting around the room.

  Dag pushed him back, hard, and Sammeen fell. He hit his head on the desk and rolled to lie on the ground. The black flame burn me, Dag thought. I killed him.

  A moment later, though, Sammeen gave a whimper and grabbed at his wounded hand again.

  “Etrar,” Dag shouted. “Etrar!”

  It took a few minutes before the large man appeared. The bandage was stained with blood, and he walked with a heavy limp.

  “Keep an eye on him,” Dag said. He sat in the blackwood chair behind the desk and stretched his leg out, biting back a yelp at the flash of pain. The bolt had passed through the flesh cleanly, it seemed, but it still burned like Ishahb’s holy fires.

  “Tear me off a piece of his shirt,” Dag said.

  “It’s an awfully nice shirt,” Etrar said. “It’s worth more in one piece. Just rip off some of your trouser.”

  “I’m not selling his shirt, and beside, these trousers are filthy. Just do it, all right? It won’t come out of your share.”

  Etrar ripped off a large section, and Sammeen moaned. “Stop being a child,” Etrar scolded him and passed the cloth to Dag.

  The spotless shirt was white silk and made a nice bandage. Dag winced as he stood, but he could stand, and walk even, although it burned like the holy fires. He made his way over to Sammeen, cut the man’s pursestrings, and tossed the heavy pouch to Etrar. “That’s your share to split with Bear. See if you can’t find a way to shut the front door; I don’t really want company.”

  Etrar glanced inside the purse once and tied it shut. “For this much, I’ll have Bear swimming in nam imbu. No one will get past the door, broken or not.”

  He left bouncing the purse on one palm.

  Dag shut the door, cursing the pain in his leg, and turned to face Sammeen with his long dagger at the ready. “Time we had that talk you were trying to avoid,” he said.