George Martin - Rogues

“Well? They got whips don’t they?”

“Suppose they do. I’ll take him if I must. Him and three others. I’m off to the market in Westport tomorrow week. You pick, but don’t give me none o’ your dross.”

“I don’t keep no dross,” said Old Green.

“You got nothing but dross, you bloody old swindler. And what’ll you tell the rest o’ your brood, eh?” Fallow put on a silly la-di-da voice. “That they’ve gone off to be servants to gentry, or to live with the horses on a farm, or adopted by the fucking Emperor of Gurkhul or some such, eh?’ Fallow chuckled, and Old Green had a sudden urge to make that knife of hers available, but she’d better sense these days, all learned the hard way.

“I tell ’em what I need to,” she grunted, still working her fingers around the coins. Bloody fingers weren’t half as quick as they once were.

“You do that, and I’ll come back for Kiam another day, eh?’ And Fallow winked at her.

“Whatever you want,” said Green, “whatever you say.” She was bloody well keeping Kiam, though. She couldn’t save many, she wasn’t fool enough to think that, but maybe she could save one, and on her dying day she could say she done that much. Probably no one would be listening, but she’d know. “It’s all there. Package is yours.”

Fallow picked up the luggage and was out of that stinking fucking place. Reminded him too much of prison. The smell of it. And the eyes of the children, all big and damp. He didn’t mind buying and selling ’em, but he didn’t want to see their eyes. Does the slaughterman want to look at the sheep’s eyes? Maybe the slaughterman doesn’t care. Maybe he gets used to it. Fallow cared too much, that’s what it was. Too much heart.

His guards were lounging by the front door and he waved them over and set off, walking in the middle of the square they made.

“Successful meeting?” Grenti tossed over his shoulder.

“Not bad,” grunted Fallow, in such a way as to discourage further conversation. Do you want friends or money? he’d once heard Kurrikan say, and the phrase had stuck with him.

Sadly, Grenti was by no means discouraged. “Going straight over to Kurrikan’s?”

“Yes,” said Fallow, sharply as he could.

But Grenti loved to flap his mouth. Most thugs do, in the end. All that time spent doing nothing, maybe. “Lovely house, though, ain’t it, Kurrikan’s? What do you call those columns on the front of it?”

“Pilasters,” grunted one of the other thugs.

“No, no, I know pilasters, no. I mean to say the name given to that particular style of architecture, with the vine leaves about the head there?”

there?”

“No, no, that’s the masonry work, all dimpled with the chisel, it’s the overall design I’m discussing—hold up.”

For a moment, Fallow was mightily relieved at the interruption. Then he was concerned. A figure was occupying the fog just ahead. Occupying the hell out of it. The beggars and revelers and scum scattered round these parts had all slipped out of their way like soil around the plow ’til now. This one didn’t move. He was a tall bastard, tall as Fallow’s tallest guard, with a white coat on, hood up. Well, it wasn’t white no more. Nothing stayed white long in Sipani. It was grey with damp and black spattered about the hem.

“Get him out of the way,” he snapped.

“Get out of the fucking way!” roared Grenti.

“You are Fallow?” The man pulled his hood back.

“It’s a woman,” said Grenti. And indeed it was, for all her neck was thickly muscled, her jaw angular, and her red hair clipped close to her skull.

“I am Javre,” she said, raising her chin and smiling at them. “Lioness of Hoskopp.”

“Maybe she’s a mental,” said Grenti.

“Escaped from that madhouse up the way.”

“I did once escape from a madhouse,” said the woman. She had a weird accent; Fallow couldn’t place it. “Well … it was a prison for wizards. But some of them had gone mad. A fine distinction; most wizards are at least eccentric. That is beside the point, though. You have something I need.”

“That so?” said Fallow, starting to grin. He was less worried now. One, she was a woman, two, she obviously was a mental.

“I know not how to convince you, for I lack the sweet words. It is a long-standing deficiency. But it would be best for us all if you gave it to me willingly.”

“I’ll give you something willingly,” said Fallow, to sniggers from the others.

The woman didn’t snigger. “It is a parcel, wrapped in leather, about …” She held up one big hand, thumb and forefinger stretched out. “Five times the length of your cock.”

If she knew about the luggage, she was trouble. And Fallow had no sense of humor about his cock, to which none of the ointments had made the slightest difference. He stopped grinning. “Kill her.”

She struck Grenti somewhere around the chest, or maybe she did; it was all a blur. His eyes popped wide and he made a strange whooping sound and stood there frozen, quivering on his tiptoes, sword halfway drawn.

The second guard—a Union man, big as a house—swung his mace at her, but it just caught her flapping coat. An instant later there was a surprised yelp and he was flying across the street upside down and crashing into the wall, tumbling down in a shower of dust, sheets of broken plaster dropping from the shattered brickwork on top of his limp body.

The third guard—a nimble-fingered Osprian—whipped out a throwing knife, but before he could loose it, the mace twittered through the air and bounced from his head. He dropped soundlessly, arms outstretched.

“They are called Anthiric columns.” The woman put her forefinger against Grenti’s forehead and gently pushed him over. He toppled and lay there on his side in the muck, still stiff, still trembling, still with eyes bulgingly focused on nothing.

“That was with one hand.” She held up the other big fist, and had produced from somewhere a sheathed sword, gold glittering on the hilt. “Next I draw this sword, forged in the Old Time from the metal of a fallen star. Only six living people have seen the blade. You would find it extremely beautiful. Then I would kill you with it.”

The last of the guards exchanged a brief glance with Fallow, then tossed his axe away and sprinted off.

“Huh,” said the woman, with a slight wrinkling of disappointment about her red brows. “Just so you know, if you run I will catch you in …” She narrowed her eyes and pushed out her lips, looking Fallow appraisingly up and down. The way he might have appraised the children. He found he didn’t like being looked at that way. “About four strides.”

He ran.

She caught him in three, and he was suddenly on his face with a mouthful of dirty cobblestone and his arm twisted sharply behind his back.

“You’ve no idea who you’re dealing with, you stupid bitch!” He struggled but her grip was iron, and he squealed with pain as his arm was twisted even more sharply.

“It is true, I am no high thinker.” Her voice showed not the slightest strain. “I like simple things well-done and have no time to philosophize. Would you like to tell me where the parcel is, or shall I beat you until it falls out?”

“I work for Kurrikan!” he gasped out.

“I’m new in town. Names work no magic on me.”

“We’ll find you!”

She laughed. “Of course. I am no hider. I am Javre, First of the Fifteen. Javre, Knight Templar of the Golden Order. Javre, Breaker of Chains, Breaker of Oaths, Breaker of Faces.” And here she gave him a blinding blow on the back of the head which, he was pretty sure, broke his nose against the cobbles and filled the back of his mouth with the salt taste of blood. “To find me, you need only ask for Javre.” She leaned over him, breath tickling at his ear. “It is once you find me that your difficulties begin. Now, where is that parcel?”