George Martin - Rogues

The two Northmen perked up, both leaning forward as though drawn by the same string, Shallow’s boot catching an empty bottle and sending it rolling in an arc across the floor.

“Greatly grateful,” said Deep.

“And how much of my debt would their gratitude stretch around?”

“All of it.”

Borfero felt her skin tingling. Freedom. Could it really be? In her pocket, even now? But she could not let the size of the stakes make her careless. The greater the payoff, the greater the caution. “My debt would be finished?”

Shallow leaned close, drawing the stem of his pipe across his stubbled throat. “Killed,” he said.

“Murdered,” growled his brother, suddenly no farther off on the other side.

She in no way enjoyed having those scarred and lumpen killers’ physiognomies so near. Another few moments of their breath alone might have done for her. “Excellent,” she squeaked, and slipped the package onto the table. “Then I shall cancel the interest payments forthwith. Do please convey my regards to … your employers.”

“Course.” Shallow did not so much smile as show his sharp teeth. “Don’t reckon your regards’ll mean much to them, though.”

“Don’t take it personally, eh?” Deep did not smile. “Our employers just don’t care much for regards.”

Borfero took a sharp breath. “Tough times all over.”

“Ain’t they, though?” and Deep stood, and swept the package up in one big paw.

The cool air caught Deep like a slap as they stepped out into the evening. Sipani, none too pleasant when it was still, had a decided spin to it of a sudden.

“I have to confess,” he said, clearing his throat and spitting, “to being somewhat on the drunk side of drunk.”

“Aye,” said Shallow, burping as he squinted into the mist. At least that was clearing somewhat. As clear as it got in this murky hell of a place. “Probably not the bestest notion while at work, mind you.”

“You’re right.” Deep held the baggage up to such light as there was. “But who expected this to just drop in our laps?”

“Not I, for one.” Shallow frowned. “Or for … not one?”

“It was meant to be just a tipple,” said Deep.

“One tipple does have a habit of making itself into several.” Shallow wedged on that stupid bloody hat. “A little stroll over to the bank, then?”

“That hat makes you look a fucking dunce.”

“You, brother, are obsessed with appearances.”

Deep passed that off with a long hiss.

“They really going to score out that woman’s debts, d’you think?”

“For now, maybe. But you know how they are. Once you owe, you always owe.” Deep spat again, and, now that the alley was a tad steadier, tottered off with the baggage clutched tight in his hand. No chance he was putting it in a pocket where some little scab could lift it. Sipani was full of thieving bastards. He’d had his good socks stolen last time he was here, and worked up an unpleasant pair of blisters on the trip home. Who steals socks ? Styrian bastards. He’d keep a good firm grip on it. Let the little fuckers try to take it then.

“Now who’s the dunce?” Shallow called after him. “The bank’s this way.”

“Only we ain’t going to the bank, dunce, ” snapped Deep over his shoulder. “We’re to toss it down a well in an old court just about the corner here.”

Shallow hurried to catch up. “We are?”

“No, I just said it for the laugh, y’idiot.”

“Why down a well?”

“Because that’s how he wanted it done.”

“Who wanted it done?”

“The boss.”

“The little boss, or the big boss?”

Even drunk as Deep was, he felt the need to lower his voice. “The bald boss.”

“Shit,” breathed Shallow. “In person?”

“In person.”

A short pause. “How was that?”

“It was even more than usually terrifying, thanks for reminding me.”

A long pause, with just the sound of their boots on the wet cobbles. Then Shallow said, “We better hadn’t do no fucking up of this.”

“My heartfelt thanks,” said Deep, “for that piercing insight. Fucking up is always to be avoided when and wherever possible, wouldn’t you say?”

“Y’always aim to avoid it, of course you do, but sometimes you run into it anyway. What I’m saying here is, we’d best not run into it.” Shallow dropped his voice to a whisper. “You know what the bald boss said last time.”

“You don’t have to whisper. He ain’t here, is he?”

Shallow looked wildly around. “I don’t know. Is he?”

“No he ain’t.” Deep rubbed at his temples. One day he’d kill his brother, that was a foregone conclusion. “That’s what I’m saying.”

“What if he was, though? Best to always act like he might be.”

“Can you shut your mouth just for a fucking instant ?” Deep caught Shallow by the arm and stabbed the baggage in his face. “It’s like talking to a bloody—” He was greatly surprised when a dark shape whisked between them and he found his hand was suddenly empty.

Kiam ran like her life depended on it. Which it did, o’ course.

“Get after him, damn it!” She heard the two Northmen flapping and crashing and blundering down the alley behind, and nowhere near far enough behind for her taste.

“It’s a girl, y’idiot!” Big and clumsy but fast they were coming, boots hammering and hands clutching, and if they once caught ahold of her …

“Who fucking cares? Get the thing back!” And her breath hissing and her heart pounding and her muscles burning as she ran.

She skittered around a corner, rag-wrapped feet sticking to the damp cobbles, the way wider, lamps and torches making muddy smears in the mist and people busy everywhere. She ducked and weaved, around them, between them, faces looming up and gone. The Blackside night market, stalls and shoppers and the cries of the traders, full of noise and smells and tight with bustle. Kiam slithered between the wheels of a wagon, limber as a ferret, plunged between buyer and seller in a shower of fruit, then slithered across a stall laden with slimy fish while the trader shouted and snatched at her, caught nothing but air. She stuck one foot in a basket and was off, kicking cockles across the street. Still she heard the yells and growls as the Northmen knocked folk flying in her wake, crashes as they flung the carts aside, as though a mindless storm were ripping apart the market behind her. She dived between the legs of a big man, rounded another corner, and took the greasy steps two at a time, along the narrow path by the slopping water, rats squeaking in the rubbish and the sounds of the Northmen now loud, louder, cursing her and each other. Her breath whooping and cutting in her chest and running desperate, water spattering and spraying around her with every echoing footfall.

“We’ve got her!” the voice so close at her heels. “Come here!”

She darted through that little hole in the rusted grate, a sharp tooth of metal leaving a burning cut down her arm, and for once she was plenty glad that Old Green never gave her enough to eat. She kicked her way back into the darkness, keeping low, lay there clutching the package and struggling to get her breath. Then they were there, one of the Northmen dragging at the grating, knuckles white with force, flecks of rust showering down as it shifted, and Kiam stared and wondered what those hands would do to her if they got their dirty nails into her skin.

The other one shoved his bearded face in the gap, a wicked-looking knife in his hand, not that someone you just robbed ever has a nice-looking knife. His eyes popped out at her and his scabbed lips curled back and he snarled, “Chuck us that baggage and we’ll forget all about it. Chuck us it now!”