Glen Cook - Shadows Linger

“Overwrought isn’t the half. Bullock is talking bad. I’d hate to be those guys and get caught by him.”

“Yeah? I’d better check this out.”

Bullock was in Duretile at the time, coordinating his work with that of the Duke’s incompetent secret police.

Those guys were a joke. They were practically celebrities, and not a one had the guts to go down into the Buskin, where really interesting things happened. There is a Buskin in every city, though the name varies. It is a slum so bad the police dare go in only in force. Law there is haphazard at best, mostly enforced by self-proclaimed magistrates supported by toughs they recruit themselves. It is a very subjective justice they mete, likely to be swift, savage, unforgiving, and directed by graft.

I caught up with Bullock, told him, “Till this latest business is cleaned up, I stick like your leg.” He scowled. His heavy cheeks reddened. “Orders,” I lied, faking an apologetic tone.

“Yeah? All right. Come on.”

“Where you headed?”

“The Buskin. Thing like this had to come out of the Buskin. I’m going to track it down.” He had guts, for all his other failings. Nothing intimidated him.

I wanted to see the Buskin. He might be the best guide available. I’d heard he went there often, without interference. His reputation was that nasty. A good shadow to walk in.

“Now?” I asked.

“Now.” He led me out into the cold and down the hill. He did not ride. One of his little affectations. He never rode. He set a brisk pace, as a man will who is accustomed to getting things done afoot.

“What’re we going to look for?” I asked.

“Old coins. The chamber they defiled goes back several centuries. If somebody spent a lot of old money in the last couple days, we might get a line on our men.”

I frowned. “I don’t know spending patterns here. Places I’ve been, though, people can hang on to a family horde for ages| then have one black sheep up and spend it all. A few old coins might not mean anything.”

“We’re looking for a flood, not a few. For a man who spent a fistful. There were three or four men involved. Odds are good one of them is a fool.” Bullock had a good grasp of the stupid side of human nature. Maybe because he was close to it himself.

“We’ll be real nice doing the tracing,” he told me, as though he expected me to hammer people in outrage. His values were the only ones he could imagine. “The man we want will run when he hears me asking questions.”

“We chase him?”

“Just enough so he keeps moving. Maybe he’ll lead us somewhere. I know several bosses down there who could’ve engineered this. If one of them did, I want his balls on a platter.”

He spoke in a fever, like a crusader. Did he have some special grievance against the crime lords of the slum? I

asked.

“Yeah. I came out of the Buskin. A tough kid who got lucky and got on with the Custodians. My dad wasn’t lucky. Tried to buck a protection gang. He paid, and they didn’t protect him from another gang in the same racket. He said he wasn’t going to put out good money for something he wasn’t getting. They cut his throat. I was one of the Custodians who picked him up. They stood around laughing and cracking jokes. The ones responsible.” “Ever settle them up?” I asked, certain of the answer. “Yeah. Brought them into the Catacombs, too.” He glanced at the black castle, half obscured by mists drifting across the far slope. “If I’d heard the rumors about that place, maybe I’d have... No, I wouldn’t.”

I didn’t think so myself. Bullock was a fanatic of sorts. He’d never break the rules of the profession that had brought him out of the Buskin, unless he could advance its cause by so doing.

“Think we’ll start right at the waterfront,” he told me. “Work our way up the hill. Tavern to tavern, whorehouse to whorehouse. Maybe hint that there’s a reward floating around.” He ground one fist into another, a man restraining anger.

There was a lot of that bottled up inside him. Someday he would blow up good. We’d gotten an early start. I saw more taverns, cathouses, and reeking dives than I’d passed through in a dozen years. And in every one Bullock’s advent engendered a sudden, frightened hush and a promise of dutiful cooperation.

But promises were all we got. We could find no trace of any old money, except a few coins that had been around too long to be the booty we sought. Bullock was not discouraged. “Something will turn up,” he said. “Times are tough. Just take a little patience.” He looked thoughtful. “Might just put some of your boys down here. They aren’t known, and they look tough enough to make it.”

“They are.” I smiled, mentally assembling a team including Elmo, Goblin, Pawnbroker, Kingpin, and a few others. Be great if Raven were still with the Company and could go in with them. They would be running the Buskin inside six months. Which gave me an idea to take up with Whisper. If we wanted to know what was happening, we should take charge of the Buskin. We could bring in One-Eye. The little wizard was a gangster born. Stand out some, though. I hadn’t seen another black face since we’d crossed the Sea of Torments.

“Had an idea?” Bullock asked, about to enter a place called the Iron Lily. “You look like your brain is smoking.”

“Maybe. On something down the line. If it gets tougher than we expect.”

The Iron Lily looked like every other place we’d been, only more so. The guy who ran it cringed. He didn’t know nothing, hadn’t heard nothing, and promised to scream for Bullock if anybody so much as spent a single gersh struck before the accession of the present Duke. Every word bullshit. I was glad to get out of there. I was afraid the place would collapse on me before he finished kissing Bullock’s ass. “Got an idea,” Bullock said. “Moneylenders.”

Took me a second to catch it and to see where the idea had come from. The guy in the tavern, whining about his debts. “Good thinking.” A man in the snares of a moneylender would do anything to wriggle away. “This is Krage’s territory. He’s one of the nastiest. Let’s drop in.” No fear in the man. His confidence in the power of his office was so strong he dared walk into a den of cutthroats without blinking an eye. I faked it good, but I was scared. The villain had his own army, and it was jumpy.

We found out why in a moment. Our man had come up on the short end of somebody in the last couple days. He was down on his back, mummified in bandages. Bullock chuckled. “Customers getting frisky, Krage? Or did one of your boys try to promote himself?” Krage eyed us from a face of stone. “I help you with something, Inquisitor?” “Probably not. You’d lie to me if the truth would save your soul, you bloodsucker.” “Flattery will get you nowhere. What do you want, you parasite?”

Tough boy, this Krage. Struck from the same mold as Bullock, but he had drifted into a socially less honored profession. Not much to choose between them, I thought. Priest and moneylender. And that was what Krage was saying. “Cute. I’m looking for a guy.” “No shit.” “He’s got a lot of old money. Cajian period coinage.” “Am I supposed to know him?” Bullock shrugged. “Maybe he owes somebody.” “Money’s got no provenance down here, Bullock.” Bullock told me: “A proverb of the Buskin.” He faced Krage. “This money does. This money better, let’s say. This is a big one, Krage. Not a little let’s-look-around-and-make-a-show. Not some bump-and-run. We’re going the route. Anybody covers on it, they go down with this boy. You remember Bullock said it.”

For a second Bullock made an impression. The message got through. Then Krage blank-faced us again. “You’re sniffing up the wrong tree, Inquisitor.” “Just telling you so you’d know.” “What did this guy do?” “Hit somebody who don’t take hitting.” Krage’s eyebrows rose. He looked puzzled. He could think of no one who fit that description. “Who?”