RINGS (The Paladin's Thief Book 2)

  RINGS

  Benjamin K Hewett

  Copyright © 2015 by Benjamin K. Hewett

  All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN-13: 978-1511985758

  To Edward and Carlito, who told me to stop fooling around and get my stories out there.

  When Magnus and I walked away from the Black Cat and a bad game of darts, I was already neck-deep in trouble.

  You think sticking your knife in some fully-oathed assassin is bad Karma? Try declaring war on the whole bloody guild. They might forgive a first offense—if you look promising—but there is no place safe in Teuron for a guy who’s said he’s going to hunt them all down one by one.

  For the record, I never actually said that, and what I did say was taken grossly out of context.

  But context won’t buy you coffins, or keep you out of them. Even if I toss the truth out there, I’m still dead. It just hasn’t happened yet.

  Still, truth is sacred.

  Tonight, for instance. I bet a penny on a game of darts when I shoulda been buying a loaf for my kids. Betting a penny won’t ruin your life, even if it is your last.

  If it’d just been the penny—a queenpence to be precise—then I would have simply walked away and ditched this mess like a bad dream. I’ve had worse days.

  But it wasn’t just the queenpence. Barkus called in my debt. As the proprietor of the Black Cat Tavern and Inn—home to the best game of darts (and least reputable clientele) in Ector—he’s got more than enough ways to make things uncomfortable for a welcher.

  So I slipped Magnus some black pomegranate and watched the chaos unfold. Chaos, because Lucinda and the town drunk tipped off a brawl when they figured out that Magnus suddenly couldn’t see anymore. I’m not proud of it, but it isn’t the worst thing that’s happened in the Black Cat, even though things did get worse when the Northern Nightshade Convention rode into town, and not just the peons, but the top brass, too. And they didn’t come to lower Ector to piddle about whose dagger was bigger than whose. They came for Magnus, whom I’d just intentionally blinded.

  Sigh.

  That’s the problem with having a conscience: It keeps a man poor and it puts him in the middle of messes better left untouched.

  You’ve probably heard about how it turned out, too, with dead Nightshades lying all over the place, and Pale Tom setting the neighborhood ablaze in one angry burst of death-flame?

  No?

  Well that’s not the worst of it, anyways. The worst of it began with guilt, and my decision to put Magnus up for the night. Housing a half-blind Paladin is all kinds of stupid, especially if said Paladin has had a hand in “laying to rest” a few top Nightshades. Evenings like that don’t stay nicely in the past.

  I’m not saying I’d change anything: I’m just saying it wasn’t very smart. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

  When the fires are out—besides Lucinda’s—I take Magnus back to my place. He can barely stand by the time we get home, and he’s just happy to have a place away from the noise.

  I pick the back lock—we lost the keys ages ago—and lead the way up the creaky wooden risers in the pitch-black and into the dark kitchen where I strike up a tallow candle.

  I help Magnus settle into the most comfortable chair, a rocker. It’s perfectly suited for this. Though the cobbler is gone, and the shop below has been shuttered since her passing, the rocker clicks on. With its gently oiled ash woodwork and sturdy runners, it has known its share of troubles. But nothing like this.

  We get his boots off, tunic, trousers, everything, and man, he’s a mess. Puncture wounds. Lacerations from Pale Tom’s twin swords. Splinters. A rope burn. I have to trim and restack the last candle several times just to have enough light to get him cleaned up. Water. Alcohol. Clean rags.

  The stitches I make aren’t pretty, but they are functional, and my fingers ache when I’m done.

  “Teacup,” he says, “you’re a champ. I didn’t realize how bad things were.”

  I grit my teeth. Just one of these slices would’ve been the end of me, going clean through the other side of my skinny ribs. Pan’s beard!

  “You need to be in bed.” I help him up.

  “Or in a grave,” he mutters.

  “You die now, you’d better replace the candle we just wasted, first.”

  Magnus chuckles. “I’ll buy you more than that. We’ll go shopping first thing in the morning.”

  I don’t argue. It’s not for pride’s sake; it’s ‘cause he’s standing on my toes. I try not to gasp. “Magnus, how much does a blind Paladin weigh?” I’m well-constructed—as they say—but large is the enemy of small no matter how “well-constructed” one might be. And Magnus is definitely not small.

  “Oops. Sorry.”

  “S’okay,” I lie, feeling hot blood rush back into place. Running my hand through thick brown shocks of hair to distract myself from the pain, I watch as a strand of gray shakes loose and drifts to the floor. I’m too young for gray, but it’s there anyways.

  I also don’t mention to Magnus that he’s counting on Lucinda—a sworn pickpocket—to ferry his chubby purse of golden kings back from the Black Cat all by herself..

  I pull the blanket up to his chin. It’s been cooling down more at night lately, and I don’t want him catching cold on top of all his battle wounds.

  He’s sleeping like a baby long before my toes stop hurting. At least one of us is sleeping. And he deserves it.

  I deserve it too, I decide, but someone has to wipe up the spilt blood pooling on the rough, plank floor near the long square rug that’s soft on bare feet. Someone has to throw away used bandages, fetch new water for the morning, and wait up for foraging adolescents.

  I pad down the stairs and out the back door, carrying the water bags to the nearest well, enjoying the stillness. My ears—sharp—have fun picking up the faint sounds of celebration still going on in the distance, echoing lightly between the wood-shingled, timber-framed, and white plaster houses. And something else. Halting footsteps, whispers on the midnight cobblestones.

  Barking dogs.

  The splashing of water being emptied to the street from upper windows.

  The neighbor’s mangy cat. Rrrrrooooowwwwwllllll!

  The hair on my neck and arms stands up stiff just as a cold wind blows across my face. I get goose-flesh and I don’t know why. It’s the feeling I get when Pale Tom’s prowling about. It’s the crackle of a lightning storm on the green farming hills to the north of Ector, when your horse is lame and the assassins’ guild is hot on your trail. It’s the false friend of an autumn storm, when the air is wet and warm, but you know it for an illusion before the real storm: a cold—bitter cold—winter.

  It’s the feeling of danger.

  I shiver to shake it off. I hate that feeling.

  When I get back with the water, Magnus is snoring like a log and Timnus and Valery have joined him, crowding into the master bed and snuggling down. The bed is theirs by default—since I never use it—but they aren’t picky. They know there’s something special about Magnus, something safe and steady that can be felt in the rising and falling of his bellows-like chest.

  At thirteen-years-old they barely fit: Valery, all legs, and Timnus with melon-sized elbows. Some nights they bicker over who is stealing all the covers and who is elbowing who in the ribs, but tonight they’re as dead asleep as Magnus, smashed up tight against him, leaching his heat in the cool autumn night. Somehow they’re all crowded in, and the blanket’s covering everyone.

  I’m not sure how they got in tonight. I would have seen them from the well if they’d come up the back stairs like Magnus and me. This isn’t the first time, either. One minute it’s just me washin
g up, and the next minute they’re there, staring at me with those luminous, not-so-innocent eyes. They always get in, even when I lock the door. I guess they’re learning a useful trade. . . . Locksmithing, hopefully.

  I’m just glad they’re sleeping soundly on full tummies. The town’s been celebrating ever since the fire went out and Pale Tom disappeared in flames and smoke. He’s dead. That’s for sure. I saw Magnus’s shining sword pierce his cold heart before he exploded into stars and light. I miss him, even though I know he was as evil as they come. I can’t help it. Of all the people in Ector, Pale Tom understood me from left earlobe down to right kidney, all from a single creepy glance and the rasp of his bone-saw breath.

  But he’s gone now, thanks to Magnus, and he’s taken a clawful of Nightshades with him to boot, so he can’t be all that bad.

  Quiet.

  Ah-hh.

  The solitude is nice after a busy evening. I lather off the blood, soot, poison, and excess antidote from my nimble fingers and sun-browned forearms, cheap suds sliding into the cloudy water. . . . I’m practically asleep at the water basin, dreaming of my soft straw pallet in the attic.

  Knock. Knock.

  Who, in Pan’s name, is prowling about at this ungodly hour?

  Knock. Knock.

  I ghost down the stairs, hoping to keep the knocking from waking the neighbors, the kids, and Magnus.

  It’s Petri, Lower Ector’s best bookie and fence. It’s unusual to see him without his crutch or his bet-book. He smells like waste water and looks a bit worse for the wear, as if he’d been razzled by some toughs down ‘round dockside. There’s a splotch of blood on his lip and a dark bruise on his left cheek, one that’s obvious in the cloudy moonlight.

  He pokes his tongue through the gap in his teeth and bobs his head like a magpie trying to impress someone. I can tell he’s trying to see up my stairs. I close the door a little more, making it seem like I’m just shifting my weight.

  “I know we ain’t been on the best of terms,” he begins with, “but, Pan’s beard, Teacup, why in the world would you house that soldier-priest? Pan knows he’s got the entire assassins’ guild after him. You’d be safer thieving in a leper colony!” Petri laughs. His laugh is about as endearing as his jokes.

  I scowl. “I’m an acquisitioner, not a thief.” The two are different. Sort of. “And Magnus is a friend.”

  “A friend?” Petri scowls back. “You hadna’ met him ‘fore tonight. He nearly cost me my job. Barkus lost a lot of money tonight and he ain’t happy. And the boys on Dockside ain’t too happy, either.”

  “I told you not to mess around with the Docksiders,” I remind him. “Especially not Frank.”

  Petri grimaces. “Golden-head ain’t gonna be ‘round fo’ never.”

  I had suspected Barkus was getting a cut of Petri’s winnings. It made sense, since Barkus ran the game. But mixing it up with the Docksiders? Barkus looks like a puppy compared to those guys.

  “We’ve got to stick together, us. Come on now. How much of the prize money did Lucinda give pretty-boy anyways? Half? A Third? A peck on the cheek? A—?” He makes an obscene gesture.

  My face is hot. Even Lucinda has more class than that.

  “I don’t have a clue.”

  It’s one thing to take the rough side of Petri’s tongue when you’ve had a decent haul and you’ve taken it to his darkroom to do business, and quite another to get it on your front doorstep with no mental preparation. I’m on perilous footing.

  There is something off about him, too. I can see that. He’s standing a little straighter, but in the shadow with a hood over his face, even though it hasn’t been raining for an hour or two.

  Petri is looking around furtively, like he’s already attracted too much attention. Maybe he's just nervous about being away from his post at the Black Cat, but maybe not.

  “Mind if I come in?”

  I do. I’ve got three innocents upstairs I don’t want exposed. “I’ll come down to the Black Cat tomorrow morning. I’m tired.”

  “Can’t wait.” He shifts his weight. “Sanjuste needs a retrieval by tomorrow evening, and you’re the only one I trust to do it.”

  “Sanjuste?” The proposal splashes over me like a barrel of herring, and not the preserved kind.

  Most of Petri’s commissions make me feel a little slimy, even when they aren’t followed by the name that tried to put Sara and me out of business by sending thugs to loom over our customers. Thugs. As if Sanjuste isn’t bad enough!

  He’s a great, big bear of a man, but not at all like Magnus. Where Magnus has form and feature, a physique worth sculpting, Sanjuste could be rough-hewn in seven strokes from a single cube of granite. Staring at him, the first thing that hits you (besides his fist) is the never-quite-shaved blood-red stubble on his chin. It’s darker than Carmen’s hair by a few shades and doesn’t make one think of her at all. Bearded, his head is mostly bereft of hair, and his arms and legs are tree trunks, and when he smiles there is nothing but cruelty left. He’s a cobbler, but only in the loosest sense. People buy boots from him because there aren’t any other options in Lower Ector.

  “I told you not to mix with those guys,” I repeat angrily, readying to close the door.

  “Wait!” Petri’s voice sounds a little hoarse. “They’re coming after you, Teacup. They’ll kill you. And me. They don’t care.”

  “All the more reason to steer clear. I wouldn’t touch a job from that murderous bastard with a polearm,” I say without thinking. “I don’t open the Sara’s shop, and his goons leave me alone. That’s all I need from him.”

  Petri’s panting hard, like he does when he’s angry or scared, which isn’t often. “What am I going to do?” he mutters. I almost feel sorry for him. He must have lost a lot of money tonight.

  “Listen, Petri. I’ll come find you tomorrow morning. We’ll figure something out.”

  His face jumps to his usual scowl. “Good luck finding me, and thanks for nothing.” There’s a sudden rustling on the other side of the door and now I’m staring into the misty night.

  “I’ll see you later, Petri.”

  No response.

  I go back upstairs wondering if I should make good on my promise. I have nothing to fence, nor any desire to do a job for Sanjuste. He’s a ready fit for the Nightshades if I ever saw one, though perhaps not subtle enough. And I doubt I can do anything to help Petri if he’s taken on a bad debt.I’m flat broke. He’ll be better off talking to Barkus.

  Tracing the wooden beams and the plaster walls helps me shake off the feeling of being violated. The plaster needs a fresh coat, but will easily keep the cold of the looming winter out. My hands relax slowly and my tired bones are barely to the top of the stairs when I hear another knocking, this time soft and timid.

  knock.

  knock.

  knock.

  A familiar voice, pleading. “Teamus? Teamus?”

  Carmen. Red, curly hair wild, matted with streaks of black. Her petite shoulders and green blouse are ash-stained and nearly defeated. My heart thumps big and sad when I see her soot-stained face, upset for forgetting that it’s her shop that burned to the ground tonight. She’s about to collapse from exhaustion.

  “Teamus. I know you’re busy with that dart hero and all, but do you mind if I grab a bit of rug here tonight? The shop’s a steaming heap, and I don’t know what else to do.”

  She’s got a stiff upper lip but I can tell she’s hurting, and that makes me ache even more. That shop meant everything to her.

  “Don’t even ask.”

  I make room in the narrow stairwell up to the flat, listening to the swish of her soot-caked petticoat. “Not much to eat, though.”

  She’s too tired to smile, can’t seem to keep her chin up.

  I shepherd her into the kitchen and refill the wooden wash basin after dumping the cloudy water out the window. She’s asleep at the table before washing half her sooty face. I take the washcloth from her limp hand, glad she feels safe here
.

  Knock. Knock.

  “Pan’s beard.”

  Knock. Knock. KNOCK!

  It’s not a joke. It’s Lucinda. She’s got an armful of fresh linen for . . bandages? She doesn’t wait for an invitation but pushes her way in and up the stairs.

  I can hear the clink of a heavy purse—about the right amount of heavy—as she takes the stairs two at a time.

  I chase her up to the kitchen, where my last candle is burning to a quick finish. “Lucinda, it’s a little too late to. . . .”

  Lucinda takes one look at Carmen and winks at me. “Busy night, Teacup?”

  “You’ve no idea.” I put a finger to my lips. “Can’t you see she’s sleeping?”

  Lucinda peers around, changing subjects. “Thought you might need some help with Magnus.”

  “He’s asleep, too. You can come back in the morning.”

  Lucinda pulls a sour face. “I’d rather stay here. There’s still a pretty wild party going on down there, and you might need help with Magnus.”

  “Uh, okay.”

  I’m too tired to argue, and she might be right. I certainly don’t have the energy to do any more for him tonight. I have the vague feeling Magnus might be uncomfortable with her sleeping under the same roof, and not because she’s a pickpocket, but it won’t matter for tonight. He’s sleeping like a dead man.

  “You’ll have to sleep in the kitchen with Carmen,” is the best my tired brain can come up with.

  “But then where will you sleep?” Her eyebrow jumps teasingly.

  I’m too tired to be teased. “In the attic.”

  “Why don’t you take Carmen with you? I’m sure she’d be more comfortable up there.”

  I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t.

  “She’s comfortable. Listen, you sure you want to help with Magnus? ‘Cause I’ll bet that Barkus has quite a mess to clean up tonight and could probably use your help even more than I do!”

  Lucinda pipes down. She’s feisty, but she knows when to shut it. “You have a spare blanket?”