Douglas Hulick - Sworn in Steel

A thick hand settled down on my shoulder. “Hold, now, friend,” said the first man. “I think we might be able to do each other a favor here.”

I stopped and stared at his hand. After a moment, it crept back from my doublet and returned to his side.

“I don’t need any favors,” I said. “And I’m not inclined to do any, either.”

“Of course, of course. Nothing’s free, after all. But I was merely thinking-”

“Don’t think.”

The thicker man smiled. “Yes, of course. You’re a busy man. I can see that.”

I was four paces along when he spoke to Ezak, his voice pitched perfectly to reach me.

“Mind you, coz,” he said, “I’d give a night’s share of the box to see how he makes it through the city gates looking like a slaughterhouse.”

“Especially with Soggy Petyr’s men scouring the streets between here and Low Harbor,” returned Ezak, his voice finding me with equal ease. “Too bad we weren’t the only ones to see him run past the tavern. I fear some of the others back there might sell him out.”

“Aye, it’s a risk. But what am I saying? Any man who can handle two such desperate coves as these can find his way across the Waters and through the Gate.” He snapped his fingers. “Why, it’s a good thing I didn’t offer a change of drapes and a sly walk into the city: I’d like as not have insulted the fellow!”

“Never insult a Kindred cousin,” advised Ezak.

“From your mouth to the Angels’ ears, dear coz.” I could almost hear the theatrical nod of his head.

I took two more steps before I came to a stop. I flexed my hand and felt the fingers stick against the palm from the Cutters’ blood; felt the throb of the splinters in my other hand; felt my legs trembling beneath me whenever I stopped moving. I knew my pants were covered in a mixture of mud and blood, that my doublet and jerkin were stained with the same. I could strip to my shirt, but I expected there would be some of my own along the back even then.

With a cloak, at night, I might be able to make it past a patrol of Rags like this, but in broad daylight, at a port gate? Forged passport or no, my appearance would get me a seat in the rattle box-or worse. And I didn’t have time to wait for night again; not if I wanted to get ahead of the news, let alone start people looking for Fowler and Scratch.

As for Petyr’s men. . that gauntlet didn’t exactly appeal.

I turned around. The broad man feigned surprise; Ezak smiled outright.

“Fine,” I said. “Get me clean drapes and a way into the city, and I’ll consider your proposal.”

“You’ll agree to the proposal, sir, or get nothing. No payment, no performance.”

I looked pointedly back the way I’d come. “If we stay here much longer, the only performance we’ll be doing is for more of Petyr’s people. Get me off the street and something in my belly, and we can talk.”

“Done!” His beard split with a wide grin. “‘And so away, ’neath stars’ sparkling light, lest misfortune claim us in the night.’”

Actors. Angels help me.

We Kin are nothing if not a particular lot. Even before Isidore had formed us into a more-or-less cohesive body-criminal two centuries ago, the darker elements of the Empire had been naming and defining themselves for ages. Every con, every tool, every target and kind of criminal has a specific term associated with it. Just as a carpenter or a fisherman has his jargon of the trade, so we Kin have our cant : our gutter shorthand that lets us talk business quick and easy and on the sly. If you hear talk of a Capper foisting the langrets , know that false dice are being palmed and switched about on the board. Should a fellow be referred to as a boman Talker , walk the other way before you are “talked” out of every hawk you own. Customs are marks, Magsmen the cardsharps and professional nobles who prey on them, and a cross drum , the tavern where they meet to split their loot.

Actors, by contrast, fall somewhere between the well-lit world of the Lighters and the darker realm of the Kin. Entertainers to nobles and the mob alike, Boardsmen are nevertheless not part of proper society: they have no set address, produce nothing tangible, live and work at odd hours and in strange ways. They are never who they seem onstage, speak in a strange, almost canting tongue at times, and frequent both the highest and lowest circles at once. Most have, at one time or another, done Kindred work, be it something as simple as a bit of cardsharping or swag shifting (traveling troupes can take on stolen goods as “props” in one town and sell them off in another without notice), or as involved as playing an extended part in a local gang’s “production” of Barnard’s Law. But one thing is certain: Actors are not Kin proper. They can be charming and clever, demanding and egocentric, resourceful and restless, but above all, they are unreliable.

Which was what I kept reminding myself as I sat, a cup of fortified honey wine in my hand, and listened to the heavy man’s story wind down.

“And that, in a nut, sir,” he concluded, “is our predicament.”

I looked at the circle of faces around me. There were a dozen in all: seven men and five women. Most were expectant, several were carefully neutral, and at least two seemed dubious. One-the oldest woman, who was busily mending a shirt off to one side-looked downright hostile, when she looked at me at all.

I was inclined to agree with her.

This was madness.

I turned my eyes from the rest of the troupe to the man before me. “And what do you want me to do about it?” I said.

Tobin-the broader of the two men who had met me in the alley, and who had proved to be the troupe’s leader-spread his hands. We were in the hayloft of a livery stable. Tobin had rented it out as a combination sleeping ken and make-do rehearsal hall. I had, in honor of the hope I represented, been given the sole chair in the place.

None of them had figured out who or what I was, and I hadn’t offered to tell. Let them think me just another Draw Latch. It made things less complicated and kept expectations low.

“I saw how you moved, the pad of your step,” he said. “You’re a Getter if I ever saw one. And no friend of Soggy Petyr’s, from what I can fathom, either. ‘A friend of my foe be mine foe as well; but let a man stand ’gainst one who stands ’gainst me, and ever after shall I-’”

“Save the soliloquy, or whatever the hell you call it,” I said. “Just because I slipped the steel to a couple of Petyr’s men doesn’t mean I’m willing to go up against him for you.”

“Told you’d he’d tell us to flog off,” muttered a voice from the back of the troupe.

“Did I say I wanted our friend to challenge our tormentor?” declared Tobin to the room. He turned to Ezak. “Did I even imply such a thing?”

“You did not.”

“There, you see!” he said, turning back to me. “No such thing, sir. No, I merely ask that, in return for the bounty of our aid and hospitality, you retrieve something of ours that has been wrongfully-nay, foully-taken.” He smiled a smile that was likely worth three hawks on a good night. “A pittance of an exchange, I should think.”

Their “bounty” so far had consisted of a basin of water to wash myself and my wound-the skin had split open from the blow to my back-some linen bandages, a cleanish shirt and coat, and the promise to help get me into the city. In return, they wanted me to lighten Soggy Petyr.

It seemed that Petyr had branched out: he was now in the business of “holding” and “insuring” certain property that came through the warehouses he owned. Tobin and his troupe had landed in Dirty Waters a week ago, fresh from a command performance in I-Hadn’t-Bothered-To-Pay-Attention-opolis. Unfortunately for them, most of their property-including the chest holding all of their plays-had passed into Petyr’s hands and never left.