The Dragon Round (Dragon #1)(86)

Holestar says, “I need a barrow: black, deep, two-wheeled, probably wood, possibly used for night soil, possibly not by someone formally associated with that trade. Who would I want to find?”

“You interested in the barrow or the man?”

“The barrow, to start.”

“I can think of a dozen barrows like that. One stands out. It was stolen this afternoon in Servants, and found not long ago.”

“Where?” Holestar says.

“Alley in the Upper City. Near the tower.”

“Where is it now?”

“Back with its owner.”

“Know who stole it?”

“No,” Fakkin Tawmy says. “And it was empty when it was found. Someone probably needed to move something uphill and didn’t want to pay a carter.”

“Something, yes,” Holestar says. He drains his beer. “So who’s the lucky owner?”

A quarter hour later the crew watches a woman scramble out of a cesspit. She spits filth off her lips and points to a barrow, which is half-full. Holestar points at Derc.

Derc says, “Why me?”

“For spouting off in the Dog,” Holestar says.

Derc takes a deep breath and squats beside the barrow with a candle. He runs his finger along the top strake. Nothing. He scratches at the residue there. He holds his palm to the light. Flakes of dried blood.

“Tell me,” Holestar says to the woman, “exactly where the barrow was found.”

Standing in the mouth of a pitch-black alley, the tower looming above them at its far end, Chelson’s guards consider where the barrowman might have gone. The lamplit street has a dozen shops that service the tower, all closed, as are the offices of petty merchants above them. The city gates don’t open for another two hours, so the shops won’t open until then at the earliest.

“Not a bad place to dump a body,” Skite says. “Quiet.”

“I’d carry her off in the canvas,” Derc says. “Like the rug that time.”

“He could have put her in another barrow,” Skite says, “or a carriage. She could be out of the city.”

“We can’t be sure she’s dead,” Holestar says.

“She’s dead,” Skite says. “No ransom note.” They’d stopped at Chelson’s house on the way uphill to check. “Why keep her alive? And if a company took her, would they really bring her to the tower?”

Derc says, “Maybe they want Chelson to worry all night, then speak with him right before Council when he’s exhausted.”

“They should be the ones worrying,” Holestar says. He surveys the street and alley. “How far could he have carried her body?”

Two tower guards in their blue leather caps come around the end of the block, footfalls echoing, their shadows splattered by the streetlamps. “You three,” one says. “Step out of the alley.” Holestar slaps Derc’s arm, which has been catching the light.

Chelson’s men oblige. “What’s your business?” the other guard says.

“None of yours,” Holestar says. He produces a Shield badge.

The first guard says, “Not the best badge to have come morning.”

“Why’s that?” Holestar asks.

“Word’s spreading that a war would be paid for by all our monthlies.”

“Owners excluded, of course,” the second says, “on account of all they do for us already with their owning.”

“Who’s spreading this word? Besides yourselves?”

“Talk to the people in front of the tower,” the first guard says. “Give you a place to move along to.”

“We’ll move when we move,” Holestar says.

“You’ll move along now,” the first guard says. He sits his hand on his pommel.

“The army could use two stalwart boys like yourself,” Holestar says. “Shall I spread the word you’re interested? Or would you like to keep patrolling empty streets far from any front?

“You have a nice night,” the second guard says. They move along.

“Let’s check this alley,” Holestar says. “Give me a candle.”

With flint and steel Skite sparks a piece of char cloth, with which he lights a spunk and, in turn, three candles. He passes them around and repacks his battered little tinderbox.

The alley is wagon-wide and separates two buildings whose side doors are locked. One, the dormitory for tower staff, has a fenced-in yard with a locked gate. It’s shut too tightly for someone to squeeze himself or a body through, and the fence is too high to pitch a body over.

The alley opens onto a yard that wraps around a back quarter of the tower. Its windows are dark too. The crew doesn’t need to be told to keep quiet as they approach the tower’s service door: broad, double, made of thick wood, and standing atop a brick loading dock. It’s locked. Holestar gently rattles the latch in frustration. “Who is this guy?” he says. “What’s his game? Where did he go?”

Derc, seeing a glint in the candlelight, taps the side of the loading dock with his dirk. Metal. Holestar holds his candle down. Set into the side of the stoop is an iron grate painted black. A fresh scrape on the cobbles indicates it’s been opened recently. Derc tests the rivets holding it in place. One falls off in his hand.