Douglas Hulick - Sworn in Steel

“The package,” said the boatman. “Steps are tricky enough as it is; figure you don’t need the added trouble of your hands being full.”

“I’ve got it,” I said. I turned back to the quay. I just needed to get the timing right. .

“Does it float?”

I jerked back. “What?”

“Wondered if it’d sink or swim if’n you dropped it. Wonder if you’ll do the same, for that matter.”

“Look-” I began.

“I don’t need your girl tracking me down and cutting me up ’cause I let you drown,” he said. “And I don’t need you doing the same if you drop your cargo gettin’ off my boat. Figure it’s better for us both if I toss it to you once you’re ashore.”

I considered the steps, the boatman, the water all around us. Considered the canvas-wrapped sword in my hands.

“I ain’t stupid,” he said from behind me. “Last thing I want to do is cross the likes of you.”

“Last thing I want to do is be crossed,” I said softly. Mostly to myself.

“Drothe!” Fowler’s voice came hissing down from the quay. “What the hell. What’s taking so long?”

I hefted Degan’s sword, feeling more than just the weight of steel and leather and canvas in my hands. There was history here; obligation; blood. Not to mention broken promises and memories.

I’d already lost him: I couldn’t lose his sword. Not after having just found it in Crook Eye’s possession. Not after having almost killed for it.

I handed the wrapped blade back to the boatman. Even if he were to row off with it, I stood a better chance of finding him than I did retrieving the sword from the bottom of the harbor.

I adjusted my stance, the muscles of my back and legs protesting, and waited for the caïque to bump up against the stairs again. When it did, I half stepped, half leapt across. Only one foot ended up slipping back into the water.

When I turned, the boatman had moved his caïque up, bringing him even with me. He hesitated a moment, bending over the blade, and then tossed the long bundle in an easy arc over the water. The blade landed in my arms almost before I had a chance to be worried. I drew the sword in close, then looked out at the boatman. He was already beginning to move away.

“Hey!” I called after him.

He turned his head but didn’t stop working his oar.

“I forgot to ask,” I said. “Has any news worth noting come across tonight?” Such as, I thought, word of a Gray Prince’s death?

“This a test?”

“Straight.”

He seemed to consider for a moment. “Naught I heard.” A flash of teeth in the gloom. “But then, I don’t hear much, yeh?”

I smiled and began to turn away.

“Heya!” he called.

I looked back.

“Check the blade.” Slight pause. “Your Highness.”

His chuckle was still rippling across the water as I held up the sword, but any anxiety I felt vanished as soon as I saw what he’d done. A worn length of rope had been tied to Degan’s sword, running from the canvas-covered crosspiece down to a spot just above the point, forming an impromptu sling.

The boatman was on his way to becoming an amber-limned smudge on the water by now, but I raised my hand in thanks anyhow. I couldn’t be sure if the sound that came back was more laughter or just the water.

I passed my left arm through the rope, ducked my head under, and let the sword settle across my back. It felt strange, but it also felt good. I climbed the rest of the way up the water stairs, my left foot squelching every other step.

Fowler was waiting at the top, her travel coat thrown back to reveal the deep green doublet and split riding skirt beneath. Scratch was standing beside her, his heavy hands hanging loosely at his sides, his face as expressive as a poorly carved block of granite. He was sporting a bloody lip. Fowler had sent him ahead to scout out the docks and arrange for discreet passage into Ildrecca. I didn’t care for the results his face predicted.

“Problems?” I asked as I reached the top.

“Misunderstanding,” said Scratch.

“How big of one?”

Scratch shrugged, meaning it could be anything from broken ribs to a broken neck for the other cove.

“Is it going to get in the way of using the Gate?” I said.

“Wouldn’t recommend calling on Soggy Petyr.”

Fowler and I exchanged a look. Soggy Petyr was one of the local bosses down in Dirty Waters, specializing in for-hire press gangs, stolen goods, and shaking down small shipmasters. He also controlled access to the oldest and largest hidden entry point this side of Ildrecca: the Thieves’ Gate.

I pointed at Scratch’s lip. “Petyr’s boys?” I said, hoping for the best.

“Petyr.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Scratch. . ”

“Called you a cut-rate cove. Called Fowler worse. Wanted to shake us down. Backhanded me when I told him where to go.”

I sighed. I should have expected this. Various bosses and Kin had been testing me ever since the street had proclaimed me a Gray Prince three months back. Turned out having the title and keeping it weren’t the same thing, especially when you made the jump from street operative to criminal royalty in less than a week. People wanted to make sure my rise hadn’t been a fluke, that it wasn’t dumb luck that had put me on top.

Never mind that it had been luck-the important thing was to rise above it. A handful of hard names from the likes of Petyr weren’t going to bring me down, especially if I sent some of my people to “talk” to him once I was back inside the city. But tonight, in his territory, with only two coves on my blinders, the city gates locked until dawn, and a dangerous rumor running up behind me? This wasn’t the time or place to have a thin skin.

Unfortunately, it was starting to look like Scratch hadn’t seen it that way.

“And you took it, right?” I said. “When Petyr showed you his hand, you stood there and you took it, right?”

Scratch rubbed thoughtfully at the knuckles of his left hand and didn’t answer.

“Right?”

“Man hits you, sometimes you don’t think. Sometimes you-”

“Oh, for the Angels’ sake!” I turned away, not trusting myself to keep from backhanding Scratch myself. I took two steps along the quay, paused for a breath, took two more.

I could feel the edges of the sword biting into my back through the canvas as I thought of the man who had used to own it. A bloody lip? Not fucking likely. Degan wouldn’t have let Petyr touch him-wouldn’t even have let him start the motion. The fight would have been over before it started. Hell, it wouldn’t have started in the first place. If Degan were here. .

No. Stop. Wishes and fishes and all that crap. Besides, I’d already poisoned that pond well and good. There was no going back.

I turned around. Fowler gave me a warning look as I came back. I nodded in response. Scratch was her man, not mine: any consequences for this would be meted out by her. Raising my hand against him would only get me a face full of Oak Mistress, and not in any way I’d like. That pond had turned sour as well.

I glared up at Scratch. “How bad was it with Petyr?”

“Don’t think I broke his jaw, if that’s what you mean.”

“You don’t think you-?” I took a deep breath, tried again. “How’d you get out of there? By all accounts, Petyr doesn’t travel light.”

Scratch shrugged. “Threw a table and ran.”

I opened my mouth to say more, thought better of it, and turned to Fowler instead. “The Thieves’ Gate is out,” I said.

“You think?” She looked around the wharf. “We can’t stand around here for long. Broken jaw or not, Petyr’s going to have his people all over the Waters looking for us.”