Douglas Hulick - Sworn in Steel

“Care-foo,” I said around the onion. “‘S hop.”

The beggar looked at the offerings and nodded vigorously, a ragged smile on his face. He made the sign of imperial blessing with the remaining three fingers of his bandaged right hand, then clasped both of them together in thanks. He was the picture of a pitiful, starving mendicant, grateful for the bounty that had so suddenly befallen him.

That is, until I looked him in the eye; then, for the briefest instant, I saw the cold calculation and hard-edged doubt that lived there, the tallying of costs and benefits, of risks and option, that were signified by my simple gesture. What did I want? Could he touch me for more? Was this all a setup? But it was only there for an instant, because once he realized I was looking at him-that I was actually seeing him-he was quick to mask his heart and avert his gaze.

But still, he knew I’d seen the real man.

I let the beggar look away and consider, as I swallowed the onion and took a piece of lamb. The char on the outside contrasted nicely with the sweet moisture the yogurt had imparted to the inner meat.

The beggar reached out and pushed at one of the skewers but didn’t pick it up.

It was a feint. I saw his other hand slip into his rags. Knife? Nail-studded club? A sap of some sort? It didn’t matter. I wasn’t about to provoke a Master of the Black Arts in his own alley if I could help it.

I swallowed my lamb and gestured at the blisters on his leg. They were a vile, yellowish white, filled with seeping matter. “Nice work,” I said. “Soap and vinegar?” It was a standard formula among those who practiced the Gimping and the Scroffing Laws: Rub a layer of soap on your skin, dribble some strong vinegar on it, and display the resulting “blisters” to best possible effect.

As for this fellow, he seemed to be a bit of an artist: It looked as if he’d added some kind of pigment beneath the soap, giving the blisters a slightly greenish tinge. It was an impressive effect.

All traces of the pitiful cripple vanished at my words. He cast me a sharp look, even as he tucked one of the skewers away in his rags and brought the other to his mouth.

“What’s the dodge?” he said, using his chewing to mask his words. “You a Nose or a Whisperer or something?”

I smiled. “Or something.”

“I don’t know you.”

“No. Just passing through.”

“Then keep passing.”

“I plan on it. But I’ve been on the fade for a bit. Taking the waters. Thought I might suss out the local talent for some mumbles.”

He tore off another piece of lamb and glanced up and down the lane. Looking for support, or worried about being seen talking to someone he wasn’t supposed to? If he was an Ear for a local Nose, his talking to me could raise uncomfortable questions once I’d gone.

“What’s the dodge?” he asked again. “Why poke at me?”

“Old habits,” I said honestly. After being away for over a week, I wanted. . no, needed. . to know what was happening on the street. I had my own people to check in with, of course-people who did the job I used to do-but they weren’t here, and I didn’t want to spend the time it would take to cross the city and find them right now. “I just want to get a sniff of what’s on the wind,” I said. “And you Masters are some of the best hounds I know for that.”

The beggar looked at me for a long moment, then nudged his bowl. I dropped a hawk and five owls in it-a rich price for something I hadn’t even gotten yet. He scooped up the coins before they had stopped rattling and nodded.

“Small or broad?” he said.

“Broad.” I didn’t have use for the local gossip; I needed citywide. “But I need something small first.”

He eyed me warily but nodded nonetheless.

“I’m looking for word on someone named Fowler Jess,” I said. “She’s been out of the city but should have slipped back in last night or this morning. Short, blond. Loud when she’s angry.”

“She Kin?”

I nodded.

The beggar shook his head. “No whispers about a short angry woman, loud or otherwise.”

“How about someone named Scratch?”

The beggar’s face soured. “Is he short and loud, too?”

“Just the opposite.”

“Nothing.”

I considered. It was a long shot, but. .

“There’s also an Azaari named-”

“I thought you wanted broad news,” said the beggar, “not a daily roster of comings and goings.” He tapped the bowl again. “The gazette costs extra. Make up your mind.”

“Fine,” I said, letting it go. I could put people on it once I got back into friendly territory. “Broad news, then.”

The beggar took another cube of lamb and worked it around in his mouth, watching me. Thinking. I pretended not to mind and nibbled at my skewer with a dry mouth.

“Crook Eye’s dead,” he said at last.

I didn’t quite choke, but it was a close thing. I managed to cough, then swallow, before saying, “What?”

“Crook Eye. The Gray Prince. Heard he was killed someplace south of here.”

Already? How had the word gotten here this fast? I figured I had another day at least, even after the delay caused by Soggy Petyr and the Thieves’ Gate.

“When?” I said. This had to be the beginning; I had to be on the leading edge of the wave.

“Dunno. Suppose he died recently. Otherwise it wouldn’t be new news, now, would it?”

“No,” I said. “Not when was Crook Eye dusted: when did you first hear the news?”

“Oh.” He stared off toward the street. The fingers of his right hand-even the ones bound down and hidden under the stained bandage-twitched as he walked his mind back in time, counting the hours. “Four.”

I let out a slow breath. “Hours?”

“Days.”

Days? That wasn’t possible. Crook Eye had still been alive four days ago. I’d only talked to him three days ago, for Angels’ sake!

“Are you sure?”

“That Crook Eye’s dead, or that I heard it four days ago?”

“Both.”

“About him being dustmans?” The beggar shrugged. “The street’s been humming with it, so I believe it. As for when I first heard. . yeah, four days ago.”

Shit. This didn’t make any sense. Who had called him dead before he died?

I swallowed, not wanting to ask the next question, but I didn’t have a choice.

“Who dusted him?” I said.

“That new Prince, Alley Walker. Used to call himself Drothe or something. Guess he’s impatient to make a name for himself.” The beggar shook his head, missing the grimace I made at the latest tag the street had hung on me. Alley Walker? Really? That was almost as bad as the one I’d been hearing before I left: Shadowblade. Ugh.

“Who told you?” I said.

The beggar started at the question. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“Piss off.”

Not a surprising reaction. He didn’t know me, which meant I was stepping beyond more boundaries than I could count. If we had a history, if I’d had him on my string for maybe six months or a year, I might have been able to ask about his sources and expect and answer. But to do it like this, after giving him little more than threats and a free lunch?

Still, I needed to know.

“Fine,” I said. “How about this instead: don’t tell me who, just tell me where. Give me the cordon where the news first started to spread, and I’ll take it from there.”

“Fuck you, Nose. You want to find the tip of the root, do your own digging.”

Wrong answer.

I was crouching, he was sitting. That made it an easy thing to turn and let my knees fall across his hip and thigh, pinning him against the ground. And it was just as easy to let my elbow clip him across the side of his jaw as I did so.