Three days later and Fenn stood by a horse, deep in the countryside. The city walls were barely a blur to the north, and he stood in the shade cast by a tall poplar, swigging from a flask of water flavored with a splash of wine, sweat soaking his shirt.
Summer brought out the full beauty of the Tuscelar countryside. As a boy, scraping for his next meal in the frigid streets of a northern city, he'd heard stories of the lands to the south of the Great Lake Balendaas. Rolling fields of wheat and barley, growing from ground so fertile that farmers didn't need to plant seed in the spring, the ground throwing up crops on its own. Of orchards of apples, peaches and lemons whose branches were bent from the rich fruits. Of villages of whitewashed stone and thatch roofs, in which lived farmers daughters that the bright sun and summer heat made passionate and fertile...
Some of it was true. Green fields turning golden rolled away in the distance, speckled here and there with poplar groves and pastures. Small villages cling to hill tops, farmhouses watched over their fields like sentinels, the divisions between plots marked by tall hedges of great antiquity. The crops didn't grow themselves through, and from what he could tell farmwork here was just as backbreaking as it was anywhere else. Any countrywomen who crossed his gaze were bent over and dirty from the fields, just like their menfolk.
Still, it was peaceful. He could see why poets expended so much time and ink praising the Arcandian delights of the countryside. Five years in Galadorn's crowded streets taught him the value of a moment's peace and quiet. Perhaps one hundred thousand souls were crowded within the walls of the city. Four times that many lived in the countryside surrounding it. Galadorn's domain was reckoned by most to extend at least three ways walk to the south, ending along the banks of the Isaarla River (more of a stream in truth, during the summer it shrank down to a trickle and some years it dried entirely.) In the old days before the Princes, when Galadorn was ruled by the Republic of Notables, much blood been spilled in wars against its neighbors, all of them seeking to become the preeminent city of Tuscelan. Markus had put a stop to that, preferring to dominant his rivals through subterfuge. Galadorn's growing wealth did more to bring region under his control than any army.
Not a cloud in the sky. He pitied the peasants working in the fields. His horse poked about in the weeds under the tree, plucking up the up blade of grass. Fenn let the beast get on with it. He leaned back against the tree, the warmth of the back radiating through his back. In the distance he could see a line of hills that marked the border with Elervan, a minor city that was under Galadorn's control in all but name. Famous for three high towers built on a central hill, he'd always had a hankering to see them. Maybe if life in the Gardelaar got too hot he might get the chance. Having the Red Shadows out for blood was as good a reason as any to head for the horizon...
A wagon appeared, coming around a bed from a hedge, pulled along by a plodding horse. A man in farmer's clothes sat at the bead board, his head shielded from the sun by a straw hat. Two more sprawled in the back, passing a flask between them. Dressed like peasants, but from the way they watched the countryside he guessed otherwise. No telling what they might be carrying the back.
Ogeron's note was clear. A long wagon, with a driver and two guards disguised as farmers on their way to market. One of the wheels was painted red along the rim, and how Ogeron knew that fact, Fenn would have paid to find out. He saw the wheel from his vantage point, the red paint faded to pink from years of wear and tear but still visible.
"Right on time," he muttered. He watched the wagon pass by, moving behind the tree as it passed. He mounted the horse, wrestled with the reins a bit as the beast proved reluctant to abandon a promising batch of weeds, then cantered down the hill to the narrow country road, following some distance behind.
The wagon didn't set a fast pace, ambling along as if the men on it had all the time in the world. The narrow dirt roads widened the closer they came to the city, and then Fenn's horse was clattering along worn paving stones, merging with a long stream of carts, riders, pedestrians headed to the city, drawn to Galadorn like flies to honey. They passed through the growing suburbs outside the walls, which now rivaled the city itself in size and was increasingly home to a large proportion of its population. Rumor spoke of plans to build a second city wall and bring the growing settlements under the direct authority of the city itself.
He saw the Gallangate ahead, the westernmost passage through the walls. Beyond it was the shipfield, currently empty, though only a week before an offworld merchantman descended from the sky, its sails ragged from some battle fought in the boundless Empyrean, its holds filled with strange cargoes from distant worlds none had every heard of. The line of travelers waiting to get into the city didn't look to be long, and from what he saw the guards were just waving most through without even trying to extract a bribe. Must be the heat...even the infamous corruption of Galadorns's gate garrisons were no match for the summer sun.
The wagon headed towards the Gallangate, ready to take it place in the line...then suddenly turned to the right. Fenn bit back a curse as it followed the road running parallel to the southern wall. They were headed to the Silver Gate instead. This was a problem - the plan was for the wagon to pass though the Gallangate and into the narrow streets of Steenshal, where a gang of urchins would have appeared, blocking its path, giving Fenn the chance to hop onto the back with pistols drawn, disarming the driver and guards and taking the cargo.
No chance of that now. He'd have to play this as it went. He followed the wagon, past the Bastion with its cannons pointed south and west, the soldiers in their blue coats on the top obviously suffering in the heat. The Gate of the Lion appeared. The guards manning it didn't even look up as the wagon went past, clustering in the shade.
He dismounted and walked through, leading the horse behind. The wagon went up the Silvery way, then turned off to the left, down Pellem Street into the Clanet. Fenn let go of the horses bridle and left the animal in the street. It was stolen the day before from a livery stable. If they were lucky they'd find the beast before someone else claimed it. He continued after on foot, tracking the wagon as much by sound as anything else.
Down Pellem Street, a left, a right and them it came to a halt before a nondescript house several blocks away from the Track of Saint Tullen. Both guards dismounted, taking a small black box with them. One handed the driver a pair of silver coins. He drove off without looking back. The men went into the house, closing the door firmly behind.
Fenn stepped into a nearby alley. He had a good eyeline of the house, and was fairly confident they couldn't spot him. Nothing to do but wait. He couldn't pull a housebreak in the middle of the day. Maybe when night came...assuming they didn't leave in the meantime...
He sighed. That slight tug at his pocket, a light touch but not light enough. He reached down, clamping his hand around a skinny wrist and twisting slightly.
"Ow!"the boy cried out, his fingers pulling away. "Fenn, what was that?"
"Too heavy a touch, Matti. You're lucky it's me, not some wide eye who'd hand you over to the Watch."
"Can't blame me for trying,"the boy muttered. He looked to be eleven years old in age and fifty in cynicism and street cunning.
"What are they teaching you boys these days? When I was your age I'd have a merchants purse off his belt and be three streets away away before he was aware of the lift."
"Yeah, and then you'd piss wine and shit gold dust."Matti held out his hand. "You didn't show Fenn, and we got tired of waiting. You gotta pay either way."
"Fair enough."Fenn reached into his shirt and pulled out three silver galmarks from the pocket sewn on the inside. He handed the money to the boy. "Want to earn more?"
"Doin' what?"Matti asked, perking up at the prospect of more coin.
Fenn pointed at the house. "Keep an eye on that. Anyone leaves, you follow and send one of your mates to tell me. I'll pay another galmark."
"Ha, try five!"
"Try two and I won't thump your skull, my lad."
"Fine, two it is."
Fenn handed him one. "You get the other when I get back."
He left the boy squatting in the alleyway. No sign of the others but they were about. Street rats like Matti always traveled in packs.
It was getting late in the afternoon. On the way in he'd spotted an apothecary's shop, which gave him an idea. He walked two streets down, ducking his head under the door and striding up the counter.
The apothecary looked up from a mortar and pestle he was working with. "Good afternoon, sir What's your business?"
Fenn scratched his chin. “I have a pest problem in my house. Some fellow down at the tavern told me about some special potion I could get, turns into a gas when you shake..."
"Ah, yes! You want the Exhalation of Inveril."
"Is that what they call it?"
"Indeed and you're in luck. I'm one of two apothecaries in the city who know how to make it. How much do you need?"
"Enough to clear a goodly size house,"Fenn answered. "But I need it quick."
The apothecary set the mortar down. "Right, wait here."He puttered about for the next few minutes, stacking various ingredients on the counter top. He filled a clay jug half way with olive oil, then slid in various powers and herbs. A faint acid stink rose up, causing Fenn to stand back. The apothecary cocked the jug, then poured a small measure of some greenish power onto a cloth sachet, tying it firmly shut.
"Right," he said, "listen close. Take this,"he tapped the sachet with a finger, "push it into the jug then cork it tight. Give it a good hard shake, set it down on the top floor of your house and run like demons were on your tail. You'll have about a ten-count before the cork pops free and the gas comes out. It'll drop down floor by floor. Anything that breaths it will feel like it's inhaling fire. Goes without saying, make sure your wife and little ones are out of the house first. Wait three or four hours before coming back."
Fenn picked up the sachet. It smelled strongly of licorice. "My thanks. What do I owe?"
"Three galmarks."
Fenn slid the coins across the table, mentally cursing Ogeron and his big tight fist. He was running out of spare change. He picked up the jug, went back outside and nearly walked over one of Matti's boys.
"Watch it!"The boys skipped back. Fenn resisted the urge to check his pockets.
"What do you want."
"Matti sent me."
A pause. "And?"Fenn prompted.
"He says those men you want watchin', they're moving out at any moment."
Fenn followed the urchin back to the alleyway. Matti squatted there with two other lads, both as dirty and underfed as he. "They look to be leaving, Fenn,"he said, pointing at the house. Two burly men were in the street, watching passersby, one of the holding the open. A moment later two more emerged, one of them holding the black box.
Fenn duck a silver galmark out of his pocket and tossed it to Matti. "My thanks, boys! Now bugger off."
The street rats ran off, disappearing like smoke in a strong wind. Five galmarks was a fortune to them, enough to feed the lot for a week. Assuming they actually bought food with the coin.
The men formed up and walked down the street. Evening was approaching, the western sky turning a brilliant red. Fenn followed after, keeping to the shadows, mingling with the mob of workingmen returning home for their dinner. They didn't have far to go, maybe four streets over, turning onto a block dominated by small workshops. Metalworkers, judging from the preponderance of anvils. The southern third of the Clanet was dominated by the Guild of Saint Brinder, to which every man who worked with any metal that wasn't gold or silver was required by law to belong, as well as those in related fields and trades. Two block over the neighborhood changed as once got closer to the Track, the smithies replaced by taverns and illicit whorehouses catering to the crowds that attended the chariot races.
They halted before a house in the middle of the street. One man took position by the door, while the other three went inside. A moment later one of the windows on the ground floor glowed as someone lit a candle.
They were waiting for someone. Which meant those coins would gone after tonight. And Ogeron the Brick was not a man he wanted to return too empty-handed. Fenn thought sourly, considering his options. Most of the buildings here were made of brick and set well apart from one another, which made sense since they contained hot forges and various other things that might set the place on fire. The house the men went into was different, at first glance it might have been the home of some prosperous craftsman who wanted to live close to his place of business. An older building, built in a style that had gone out of fashion a generation before - a roof that was slightly pitched on top and than angled down more on the edges, almost like a barn. Grayish baked clay brick walls strengthened with wooden beams shot through...unheard of today, with the brickmakers far more advanced in their craft than their grandfathers.
He crossed the street. ducking behind one of the smithies. A small lane ran behind it, dividing this line of buildings from the one on the next block over. Small yards and adjoined the main buildings in the back, most filled with storage sheds or various pieces of equipment too heavy for a thief to make off with. He saw the back end of the house and headed towards it, the jug tucked under an arm. No one on guard in the back, whoever set up this meet was relying more on stealth than strength, itself a worrying sign. He climbed over the fence and crossed a weed-strewn yard, suggesting no one had lived here for a while. The back door of the house was locked, but next it it rise a line of horizontal support beams, thrust through the brick walls. Almost too easy...holding the jug under one arm, he climbed up the side of the house. He reached a second story window, placed the jug on the windowsill and drew a knife. He gently pushed in through the shuttered and worried it upwards until the catch listed. He sheathed the knife, piked up the jug and carefully swung the shutter open, climbing inside.
The room was bare save for a decade's worth of dust. He kept close to the walls, avoiding the center of the room left the floorboards creak. Though from the amount of rot visible to the naked eye, creaks would be the least of his problems. Half way down there was a hole the side of his fist, through which faint candle light came through, along with the voices of the men below.
"The buggers are late."
"We're dealing with the Rats. Be glad they're showing up at all."
Rats? Fenn frowned...that could only mean one thing in this part of the city. The Stone Rats. One of the lesser gangs, had their hooks into a lot of the smuggling through the city gates. From what he'd heard, they'd started as a faction of the Crescent Lords in the days when the Brick took charge, who split after particularly nasty internal dispute. They were exiled from the Gardelaar and moved south, setting up in various locations in the Clanet. Being smugglers they kept a low profile, though that had changed a bit over the last two years, as a disagreement over leadership caused the Stone Rats to split into three factions of their own. The one working out of the Clanet had connections with the various brothels and joy houses ringing the Track.
A door opened below. "They're here,"said someone, likely the guard from outside.
"About bloody time,"said another.
More footsteps, along with the sound of something heavy being dragged along the floor. Fenn lay on the floor and carefully edged forward until he could just barely see through the hole. The four men with the coins on one side of the room, another four men in on the other. Between them was a wooden crate.
"You're late,"said one of the coiners.
"Be glad we showed at all," replied a Stone Rat. "This was a done deal. If it were me, I'd have told you lot to sod off."
"But it's not up to you," came the reply. "Sarn says he'll take our money."
"Over my objections. You fellow know who had first bid on this treasure?"
"Sarn said he'd square it for the right price. Which is right here."A hand tapped the top of the black box. "Quit grizzling! We all got places to be. Do you have the item?"
"Aye." One of the Stone Rats opened the top of the crate. Fenn couldn't see what was in it from his vantage point, but the coiners got a good look. The top dropped back down. "Finest quality, pure as mountain water. I showed you mine..."
The black box opened. Inside was a cloth bag. One of the coiners tugged it open, and for an instant Fenn saw the glitter of gold. Fakes or not, they looked pretty enough.
"Very nice," said the leader of the Stone Rats. "Makes a nice down payment?"
"Come again?"
"Sarn didn't tell you? The price is doubled now, my lad!"
"My bloody balls it's doubled!"
"Sarn thought it over, figured what with the backchat we'll take for breaking the original deal and all, you lot gotta pay more..."
Fenn slid back, as the voices from down below rose in anger. This was about to go sideways real fast. No point waiting to find out which lot was still standing after the stabbing. He took out the sachet, thrust it down the mouth of the jug and jammed in the cork, then slid the jug across the floor, right to the edge of the hole. He moved back to the window, counting down from ten.
Nine...eight...seven...
The apothecary had it wrong. He barely reached four when the cork popped out. In the empty room it sounded like a gunshot. Pale acrid smoke bubbled out, spreading across across the floor and falling through the hole like water through a drain. Fenn pulled the neck of his shirt over his nose, the smell of old sweat far preferable to the stink. He heard the effects coming up through the floor.
"What in hellfire is that...cough, cough!"
"It's...cough...poison!"
"You backstabbin'..."
"Not us...cough...I swear!"
He heard them running. The front door banged open and everyone in the house bolted out, coughing and retching, accompanied by a small army of rats, mice and roaches. Several of the Stone Rats collapsed in the street. The coiners remaining standing, but just barely; one of them vomited up every meal he'd had for the past two days.
Fenn reached out with a foot and kicked the bottle across the room, away from the hole and into a corner. He moved along the edge to a door and shoved it open. A narrow staircase led downstairs. Beside it was a small table covered with a ragged cloth. He paused a moment, then yanked the cloth off, knocked away years of dust and pressing it over his face and mouth. He went down stairs, entering what looked to be a kitchen. He went through, down a narrow corridor and into a large parlor where the coiners and Stone Rats had been talking. His eyes burned from the green mist in the air, but through the tears he saw the bag with the fake coins.
"Mine now,"he muttered through the cloth, sealing and tucking it into a pocket. Next to the table was a large stone crate with a hinged lid locked down by a simple bolt. He paused a moment, wondering if he should look inside. It had nothing to do with him, he was here for the coins. But...he was curious what the Stone Rats had that someone was willing to pass along fake money for.
"Sod it,"he muttered, yanking back the bolt and flipping open the lid. "Suns and Bloody Spirits!"
Inside the box was a young girl, barely twelve years old. She huddled inside, knees pressed against her chest, looking at him with fearful eyes.
This was a complication he didn't need.