Poison Dance (Midnight Thief #0.5)(3)

“We’re errand boys for the wallhuggers,” Bacchus muttered. For once, he had the good sense to keep his voice low.

James didn’t give any indication of hearing him, though he agreed. Talesinger accounts of the age-old Assassins Guild abounded with romance and mystique, but actually, the Guild’s current incarnation was pale ash compared to what it once was. A hundred years ago, Guild members had been feared and influential. Nowadays, they were just hired thugs who did unpleasant jobs for pay. James’s own jobs had become more menial over the past few years, though he suspected this had more to do with Gerred taking over job assignments than with the wallhuggers’ meddlings.

“Ho, Gerred,” James said. “How are things?”

Gerred had been writing in a ledger and put his pen down. James did have to give the man credit for being organized. Gerred’s meticulousness had brought a new efficiency to Guild operations. “We’ve got trouble with Red Shields coming after our men,” said Gerred.

“Is that so?” James let the question fall with an unfinished note.

Gerred gave them a probing look. “Clevon’s dead,” he said abruptly.

James briefly considered feigning surprise but decided against it. Gerred needed to know that he wasn’t able to hide as much as he wished.

“When’d you plan on telling us?” asked Bacchus.

“I told you just now, din’t I?”

There was a shifting of energy within the room, and James felt eyes settle on him, waiting for his next move. If the others were expecting a show, they’d be disappointed. James kept his expression carefully neutral. “When?” asked James.

“Six days ago. Red Shields. Three of them.”

“That’s unfortunate,” he said.

Gerred rubbed his knuckles and squinted at them. “Things’ll be shaky for a while. Can I count on your loyalty?”

“Of course,” said James coolly. Around him, the other assassins settled, and the tension dissipated a notch.

Again, a long stare from Gerred. Then, he cleared his throat. “The job today is for Lord Hamel. An associate owes him money.” He handed them a name and address on a parchment. James took it, since Bacchus couldn’t read. James himself had only learned to do so after he’d noticed all the leaders in the Guild were literate.

Gerred gestured toward the parchment. “You know him, don’t you?”

“Name looks familiar. He still hasn’t paid up?”

Behind Gerred, Lord Hamel cleared his throat. “He’s owed me money for several weeks now.” The nobleman spoke with an elegant diction. “Be more persuasive this time, will you? I don’t imagine that will be a problem for the two of you.”

Bacchus snorted. “It won’t.”

They took their leave. Most of the city had gone to sleep, and the streets were quiet. After they had gone a few blocks, Rand materialized from the shadows and fell in step with them. “Any news?” he asked.

“Clevon’s dead,” said Bacchus. “Gerred ’fessed up.”

Rand cursed under his breath. “Think Gerred’ll take over?”

“Seems he already has,” said James.

Their conversation fell off as they reached the man’s house. James nodded, and the three of them moved in.

The door was in such disrepair that it swung open with a single kick from Bacchus. James watched as the other two dragged a disoriented man out of bed. Their victim was still blinking and shaking his head when they dumped him in front of James. Rand pulled him to his feet and held him firmly by the arms.

“One hundred coppers, due three months ago,” said James. “You remember, don’t you?”

As the man came to his senses, he started to gibber about his health. James exchanged a glance with Bacchus, who rolled up his sleeves and moved closer with a grin. Bacchus enjoyed this type of work.

James watched him deliver the first few blows. Beatings had to be done, but he didn’t take pleasure in them. After a while, he caught Rand’s eye. The redheaded man nodded. He would keep Bacchus in line, and James was free to go home and check on the dancing girl’s other warning.

James lived in a single room with a sloping ceiling, tucked above a smithy. Its location meant that he got some extra heat in the winter from the forge below, though it was sweltering in the summer, and the blacksmith’s hammer constantly echoed through the walls. The noise was a boon tonight, since it hid sounds of his return. He climbed the stairs quietly and timed the turn of his key to a hammer stroke. Then he threw the door open.

A man was by his bed, sliding his hand under the mattress. In the moment the intruder stared dumbfounded, James closed the distance between them, dodging the man’s hasty punch. James threw a solid blow to his stomach, and when the man doubled over, brought the hilt of his dagger down over his head. The intruder crumpled to the ground, stunned. James checked him for weapons. He found three daggers—one at his waist and two on his shins, which James tossed into the corner. The man stirred, and James ground his knee into his throat.

“Who sent you?” He kept his voice soft, speaking between the rings of the blacksmith’s hammer. “Don’t lie to me.”

The man hesitated, eyes rolling in confusion. James repeated the question, opening two slashes on the man’s cheek for emphasis.