Ричард Морган - The Cold Commands

“Of course.” The old man, struggling feebly to extricate himself from under the Dragonbane’s arm. He did a good impression of being affronted. “I’m no friend to the Guard. How do you think I lost this eye? I’m no grass.”

“Good.” Egar let him go. Tossed him the coin. “So, if he comes back, you’ll tell him.”

The old man bit the coin. Stowed it and sneered. “Oh, he’ll be back. Mark my words. He has the reek of whore on him. Some pretty has him shacked up and is milking him dry. But she’ll tire and throw him out soon enough. The way that one pisses his purse up against the wall, he won’t be featherbedding on the northside for long.”

“Northside?” Egar, on his way out, stopped and turned with dangerous calm. “You told me he didn’t say where he was going.”

“And he didn’t,” said the pawnbroker with asperity. “Just said he was off over the Span and glad to be going.”

“Across the Span, eh?”

“That’s what he said.” The old man sniffed and gestured. “Here, you want to sell that cloak? Give you a good price for it.”

THE PONY STRINGER’S GOOD FORTUNE, THEN.

Eg couldn’t believe Harath would be that stupid. But then he’d evidently been stupid enough to walk out on the only address the Dragonbane could trace him to with the balance of his pay, so who could tell.

He got laid. Just like the old man says. He got taken back to some working girl’s garret, and she’s got him playing part-time pimp while the silver lasts .

Wasn’t like he hadn’t done similar in his own muddle-headed, mercenary youth.

And crooked coin-toss odds, this whore flops walking distance from the Pony Stringer .

But he didn’t cross the river just yet. Harath might be dumb as fuck, don’t mean you got to act the same, Eg . Instead, he found a small plaza with a sliced view of the Span and a war memorial bas-relief across its eastern wall. He folded himself into a shaded corner there, with his cloak spread across his knees. There was a small satisfaction in the act, a quiet taking-stock that seemed to soothe. He hadn’t yet eaten, but didn’t really feel the need—the residue of flandrijn in his system, he knew from experience, would kill his appetite for some time to come, just as it killed his pain. Drink would have been nice, but it could wait. He’d been at least as thirsty as this most of his fighting life. Meantime, flame-orange scents of spice and fruit drifted to him on the breeze from stalls across the way, the sweat was cooling on his brow and under his grubby clothing, his minor wounds all seemed to have scabbed up nicely. Even the ache of the sewn gash in his thigh felt good—there was an itching there, deep in the flesh, that presaged the healing to come.

Like any good soldier, he knew how to wait.

Presently someone came by and threw a handful of copper coins into the dust at his feet.

HE GAVE IT UNTIL EARLY EVENING, WHEN THE HEAT WAS GONE FROM the air and the light beginning to seep away. Across at the stalls, the sellers who remained were already lighting candles and lamps, casting a homely yellow haze over their wares and the darting, gesturing hands of their customers. Night and its assumptions, settling in. Even the scents in the square had changed, from produce to dinner, from fruit and spice to grilling meat and fish stews that were, Egar had to admit, starting to make his stomach twinge.

Another of the streetwalkers waggled by—cloutingly overdone waft of her perfume, crunch of sandaled feet skirting him. The undercurrent scent of used woman tugged faintly at his groin, but he didn’t look up, and she didn’t trouble him. Like everyone else, the whores were leaving him alone in his new incarnation. He’d raked in his coppers on the couple of occasions they were tossed to him, and his purse was well hidden. Hard-luck cavalry cloak aside, he was showing nothing anyone would want. The best he’d done for attention in the hours since he sat down were a couple of scrawny street dogs—they sniffed around his feet for a couple of minutes, smelled nothing easily edible, and moved on, tracking more promising odors.

For the human denizens of the neighborhood, for all the notice they paid him, he could as well have been one of the bas-relief figures on the war memorial wall he sat against.

And when he moved, stiffly at first, with the long hours sitting, it felt—Egar found himself grinning a little at the thought—as if he were stepping down from among those chiseled, valorous figures, coming to sudden, eerie life and leaving their weathered, white-stone ranks for some altogether grubbier destiny in the unwinding nighttime streets.

He found a coffee merchant among the stalls, prodded together his gathered coppers in the palm of his hand, and dredged up the price of a cup. The seller barely glanced at him, eyes fixed on the count of coin instead. Egar drank the bitter draft down—could not, without revealing his real purse, afford the sugar to sweeten it—then shouldered his way back through the other browsers and buyers, and plotted a path for the Span. The Pony Stringer—Lizard’s Head, whatever—would be filling up by now. Plenty of cover in the rough crowd of irregulars down from the hill and the other, unaligned freebooters there’d be. In his day, the City Guard had always steered clear of the place unless absolutely forced to it, and he doubted things would have changed much in the intervening years. He’d be safe there long enough to find Harath, if he was around, long enough to give him the warning, maybe even shake some sense into the lad while there was still time.

And if the young Ishlinak didn’t show, well, there’d be ways to leave a message.

Traffic on the darkened Span was sparse, soft-footed slaves running late errands mostly, the odd metallic snatch of song rung out by hooves as some accredited messenger sped by. Somewhere near the midpoint, he met a clanking ox-drawn cart coming the other way, big upright barrels rubbing squeaking wooden shoulders in the back, one gaunt old driver up front, cloak-wrapped and nodding half asleep over the reins. Egar stopped and stepped aside to let the vehicle pass. Alerted by something, the driver lifted his head, just barely, unhooded his gaze, and met the Dragonbane’s eye. His gaze was surprisingly piercing for the hour and his apparent age. He stared at Egar for a moment, as if trying to place him from some past encounter, and then he seemed to nod, approving something they both knew at a level deeper than either of them, or any man, could actually express.

Egar stood there, struck. Turned to watch the cart rumble and grind out of sight in the gloom. A faint shiver wove across his shoulders.

He shrugged it off, glanced up and down the gleaming iron thoroughfare of the Span, then went and leaned his aching frame against the estuary-side railing. Stared down at the rough-dappled stripe of bandlight across black water. It looked, he thought vaguely, like a horse-tribe Sold daub, slapped across the flank of some midnight-colored stallion.

So long since he’d had a good horse. No real call for it in the city, and he’d been nowhere else in so many months.

He shrugged, and it felt like an excuse.

Up in the vast steel cradle of the Span’s structure, the evening wind swooped and keened. Off to his left and right, the city glimmered. Fragments of thought swirled through him, flandrijn-fogged and slippery, hard to hang on to. He rubbed at his chin, distracted, felt the lengthening growth there. Suddenly he couldn’t decide if he’d let it thicken and bush out when this was all done, get back his full Majak beard, gray-streaked though it might now be; or go back to the soft-murmuring old man this had all started with and get scraped down to city-slick standards all over again.