Jonathan Strahan - Swords & Dark Magic - The New Sword and Sorcery

“Limper had to sign both copies, agreeing that he understood his assignment. On his keeper copy, here, he wrote, ‘Up Yours, Bitch.’”

“Whoa!” Hagop barked, awed rather than surprised.

Elmo asked, “Could that be a plant?”

“You mean, did he leave it so we could find it?”

“Yeah. To let us set ourselves up.”

“I’ve been brooding about that. I don’t think so. There are a thousand ways that could go wrong. He’d have no control. We might never notice it. But, more important, there’s what he wrote instead of signing.”

They thought. Twice One-Eye started to say something but thought better.

We focused on clever tricks the Limper might try. Looking for deep strategies and devilish maneuvers. It took the least among us, a simple line soldier, to point out a critical fact.

Hagop asked, “If he signed it that way won’t he get nervous when he realizes that it’s gone?”

We all considered him with widening eyes and galloping hearts. Elmo growled, “If the little shit goes bugfuck we’ll know for sure that it’s real.”

“Silver lining.” Goblin grinned but there was sweat on his forehead.

I pushed the parchment across to One-Eye. “See if that’s tagged so he can trace it. Then see if there’s a way he could tell who’s been handling it.”

“You going to put it back?”

“Hell, no! I’m going to bury it somewhere. It could come in handy someday. The Lady wouldn’t be pleased if it fell into her hands. Speaking of forgetting. Goblin, fix it so Hagop has no recollection of the parchment. The Captain saw him hanging around the Limper’s carpet. Questions might be asked.”

“I’ll have to work on you, too, then. You were seen hanging around the carpet, too.”

I expect a lot of guys took the opportunity for a close-up look. But fear streaked down my spine, reached my toes, and cramped them. “Yeah. You’d better.”

Both wizards started to get out of their seats. Goblin said, “We’ll need to shove those memories down so far that only the Lady’s Eye could find them.”

I had a thought. “Hang on. Wait a minute. Hagop, go get Zhorab.”

Markeb Zhorab had been something else before he became a tavern-keeper. His face alone recalled several desperate fights. And he was a sizable man, often mistaken for the bouncer. But his past had left his courage a little sketchy.

He asked me, “You wanted me?”

“I have something I need done, not traceable to me. I’m willing to pay.”

“Risky?”

“Possibly. But probably not if you do exactly what I tell you.”

“I’m listening.”

I showed him the rescript. “I need an exact copy calligraphed by a professional letter-writer who has no idea who you are.”

“What is it?”

“A wanted poster. But the less you know the better. Can you do that?”

He could, once we finished talking money. I did not offer enough to make it seem like I was worried. With all the practical jokes that went on around us, I hoped he thought I was putting something together. He asked, “How soon do you need this?”

“Right now would be especially good.”

Zhorab brought my copy. And the original. “Good enough, Croaker? He couldn’t match the parchment.”

“It’s fine. I want it obvious that it’s a copy.” I paid the agreed sum. I handed back the copy. “Hold on to this. Later on Goblin will tell you when to give it back. There’ll be another payment then.”

Elmo grumbled, “If we can ever get the self-righteous asshole into this place.” Playing to the practical-joke angle.

Puzzled, Zhorab folded the copy and went off to bite his coins.

Elmo wondered, “Think he had more than one copy made?”

I said, “I’m counting on it. The more there are the better. Now let’s get to the forgetting.”

I said, “I don’t know. I forget. It must not have been important. Look. I need you guys to help me dig for info on Tides Elba.”

Grumble, grumble. Chairs pushed back grudgingly.

I said, “It has to be done.”

“Yeah. Yeah.”

I asked, “Hagop, do you read the local language?”

He shook his head. Once we were a few steps away, Elmo said, “I’m not sure he can read anything.”

I grunted. “One last beer.”

Inside, the Dark Horse was swamped in speculation about what might be afoot. A sizable faction did not believe that Tides Elba existed. Old hands, who had been through the long retreat from Oar to Charm, thought that the Limper had made it all up.

When asked my opinion, I said I never heard of Tides Elba and we had only Limper’s word that she existed.

Aloe was a city-state. It was a republic, a formula common in its end of the world. It was prosperous. It had the time and money to maintain civil records, which are useful for levying taxes, calling men to the colors, or imposing a corvée.

Aloe kept those records in a small, stone-built structure. Our advent spread consternation.

Surprise arrival was of no value. Nothing jumped out. There were records aplenty, stored according to no obvious system, to keep us busy for days.

Elmo said, “I’ll put out a call for men who can read this stuff.” He barely managed himself, sounding out the characters.

Silent walked in. Before I could put him to work, he signed, “Wait!” and did a slow turn to make sure there were no stinky men in brown hiding in the rafters. Then he signed, “I know where to find her.”

Everybody babbled questions, negating Silent’s caution. He signed, “Shut up! Unless you are hungry for a taste of knuckle. Idiots.”

He said the smoldering redhead from the other day was our target.

“How do you know?” I demanded. In sign.

Silent tapped the side of his head, pointed to his eyes, then his nose. Shorthand sign meaning he paid attention and he used his noggin when he smelled something a little off.

He had seen something that was not just prime split tail. So he had stalked her. To the Temple of Occupoa. And had been watching ever since.

“Predictable,” I signed. Rebels everywhere hide stuff under their houses of worship. “Let’s raid the place.” I was unconcerned about the wrath of Occupoa. The gods seldom defend themselves. “Send her off to the Tower.”

Elmo agreed. “Along with our least favorite Taken.”

Elmo and I were the responsible, sensible voices. We got shouted down. Goblin jumped up and down. Every fifth sign he deployed was a vertical middle finger.

One-Eye insisted, “We’ll play a riff on Roses.”

“Why?”

“To gouge the Limper. Maybe frame him for something.”

“Or we can just give him the girl and get him out of town.”

Their enthusiasm faded as they recalled the truth of that bitter winter operation in Roses. Of circumstances that started the Limper on the road to now, notably unhappy with the Company.

Silent signed, “Croaker makes a good point. Wimpy, but solid.”

One-Eye, though, being One-Eye, smelled opportunity. But One-Eye had a hundred-plus-year record of being One-Eye.

That considered, the level of enthusiasm plummeted.

I refused to go to the Captain or Limper with their idiot plan. It relied entirely on the near-immortal, almost demigod Limper being too stupid to see through them. I said, “To even start that going we’d need something magically useful from our target. You guys got some of her hair? Nail clippings? Dirty underwear? Didn’t think so. Let’s go dig her out and turn her over.”

I did, as noted, remain deft enough to avoid being the man asked to sell the scheme. That honor went to Silent.

Silent is no bumbler but he did not close the deal. The Captain’s response was, “Find the girl and bring her in. That’s all. Nothing else.”