Douglas Hulick - Among Thieves

“Not everyone uses imperial ideographs for writing, Drothe.”

No, just most of the people in the empire. “Okay, so maybe they’re those things the western Client Kingdoms use for writing…”

“Letters?”

“Right, letters.”

Baldezar let out a long sigh. “Perhaps. Or they might be a portion of an illumination exercise. Or unsanded errors. Or an attempt to use one of those useless new printing machines. But I see no traces of any cipher here, Drothe. What you have is a scrap from some scribe’s rubbish.” He flicked the paper. “Hardly worth threatening anyone over,” he added as he began to crumple the slip into a ball.

I held out my hand. “All the same…”

Baldezar stopped, looked at the paper, and then held it out in his palm. I took the slip and put it back into my ahrami pouch. When I looked up, he was studying me.

“You’re convinced the paper is that important?” said Baldezar.

Hell, no. It could have been a scrap, a pipe taper, even a bit of trash that had fallen to the bottom of Athel’s bag. But it was also the only thing I had gotten from Athel that hadn’t come to me under duress. Even with his last breath, Athel could have lied, and I needed something to confirm or deny his story. The paper was the best lead I had, no matter how pathetic that lead might be.

So naturally, when Baldezar questioned the paper’s importance, I lied.

“Positive,” I said.

The scribe began drumming his fingers on the table. “It occurs to me,” he said slowly, “that I may be able to impose on one of my colleagues who know more about these things than I. It would cost a bit, and I would need the ‘document’ in question to show him, of course, but it might provide you with some answers.”

I could tell it pained him to admit anyone might know more about a subject than he did, let alone that he needed to consult them. Good.

“Tempting, but no,” I said. “The paper stays with me.” A thought stuck me. “Who is this ‘colleague’?”

He hesitated a moment too long before answering. “No one you would know.”

I regarded the Jarkman, smiling slightly as I did so. Was he trying to keep me from going to his friend on my own, or had he been hoping to up the price for the consultation and take a cut of the profits himself? Either way, I’d likely end up paying a steep price for little gain.

“Nice try,” I said. Baldezar’s eyebrows rose in surprise. I waved away the beginnings of his protestations, yawned and stretched in the chair. “No games,” I said. “I’m too tired for games. Either you help me or you don’t.”

Baldezar stared at me for a long, hard moment. Then, without taking his eyes off me, he called out, “Lyconnis!”

I heard the large scribe thumping quickly up the steps and along the walkway to his master’s office. He wasn’t quite breathing heavily when he entered the room.

“Yes?” he said, ducking his head toward Baldezar.

“Drothe has some garbage he wants you to look at. He thinks it may be a cipher of some sort.”

“A cipher?” said the scribe. If his master hadn’t been here, I expect he would have rubbed his hands together in delight; as it was, the excitement that came over him was practically tangible. “May I?”

I sent a quizzical look at Baldezar even as I pulled out the strip and handed it to Lyconnis.

“Lyconnis here has made a study of secret messages and early imperial spymasters,” said Baldezar drily. He sniffed. “Imagine my surprise at it suddenly proving useful.”

Lyconnis bit his lip at his master’s rebuke and bent over the slip of paper. He manipulated and examined it in a manner that was fast becoming familiar to me. He frowned. “Where did you get this?”

I crossed my arms and stayed silent.

Lyconnis blushed. “Of course. Excuse me for asking. You noticed the cephta for pystos and immus, I take it?” he said. I nodded. Lyconnis held the paper up to the light again, then shrugged and handed it back to me. “There might be something there, but I think it’s more likely a bit of scrap of some sort. Is it important?”

“Life and death,” I said, thinking of Athel. Lyconnis’s face became solemn. I smiled despite myself at that, wondering if the scribe was more worried for me, or for the person who had had the paper. Likely both.

“How about someone named Ioclaudia?” I said.

“Who?” said Baldezar.

I turned back to the master scribe. Had he been peering at me? “Ioclaudia,” I repeated.

“Outside of some of the more obscure histories, no, I’ve never heard of anyone by that name. Lyconnis?”

Lyconnis shook his head. “No,” he said. He smiled timidly at me. “Not anyone living in the last three centuries, anyhow.”

“The way my morning has been going,” I said as I rose, “that doesn’t surprise me.” I nodded to Baldezar, gave a respectful bow to Lyconnis-mainly to irritate his master-and headed out of the shop.

On a normal day, it was a short walk from Baldezar’s to my home; today, it took just as long, but felt like five times the distance. The sun seemed brighter, the crowds denser, the streets dirtier. I didn’t have the energy to deal with any of them.

By the time I arrived at the apothecary’s shop I lived above, I was little more than a shambling mass of dulled senses. I let out a small sigh of relief. For a moment, I considered going into the shop to pester Eppyris for some ahrami, but the thought of my disheveled, lumpy mattress won out. I began moving toward the stairwell.

“Nose.”

The voice came from somewhere far, far away-maybe ten whole feet behind me. Turn around? No, ignore him instead; he’d go away.

“Hey, Nose!”

Still there? Angels, this person couldn’t take a hint! I made an eloquent, sincere, and highly profane gesture without turning, and continued on my shuffling way.

“Dammit,” said the voice. Something heavy laid itself on my shoulder and spun me around.

Habit and adrenaline kicked in. As I turned, I let the small dagger (the poisoned one) drop from my wrist sheath into my left palm. At the same time, my right hand sought out my rapier.

There were two of them and they were big-obelisk big, blot-out-the-sun big-and they were good.

One blocked my left arm and took away my dagger, a bored look on his face. The other put his hand on my right wrist and stopped the rapier in middraw.

I knew them.

“Niccodemus wants to see you, Nose,” said Salt Eye. “Now.”

In the “argot of the underworld,” as Baldezar would no doubt call it, I am what is referred to as a Nose. This means I make a living by sticking myself in where I don’t belong, sniffing around for dirt, and generally making a nuisance of myself. I’m an information broker, and I gather what I can by almost any means I can: paid informants, bribes, eavesdropping, blackmail, burglary, frame-ups… and even, on rare occasions, torture-whatever it takes to get the story.

That’s what sets a Nose apart from a run-of-the-mill rumormonger: We not only collect the pieces; we also put them together. Any Mumbler can sell you a rumor for the right price; but if you want to know the why behind the rumor, when and where things are coming together, and how it got started in the first place, you go to a Nose. Noses don’t just gather whispers off the street-we sift and assemble them, putting together the pieces most Kin miss. We don’t just find out something is happening-we find out why it’s happening in the first place.

And then, we sell the information.

Whom you sell it to depends on what kind of Nose you are. If you’re a Wide Nose, you work the street and sell what you learn to the highest bidder, pure and simple. It’s dangerous work, since not everyone wants you sharing what you learn, but a smart Nose knows how to hold just enough information back to keep people from bothering him.