Some hot ale would do him good.
Ronan paused outside the Goose and Gold and considered. Even though night was approaching, the day still had time enough in it to accomplish what he had to do. Cypmann Galnes would be at his warehouse for at least another three hours. Plenty of time.
Any other inn would have been more to his liking, as the Goose and Gold was a dirty, run-down place, but he was chilled to the bone and the inn was conveniently on the way. A wave of warmth and noise met him, lit by lamplight and the roar of a fire burning on the hearth.
The boisterous chatter lulled as he walked through the door, and then it surged back. He recognized many of the people in the room. Guild members, mostly. Eyes slid toward him and then flicked away. Curiosity on some faces. Fear on others. He was used to it all. He sat down at the bar.
“Mulled ale,” he said.
He drank and savored the heat flowing down his throat. He propped his elbows on the bar and shut his eyes. Oats and honey. A memory surfaced in his mind of his mother stirring porridge over a fire. The sun was not up yet and he remembered there had been a sound of horses nickering to someone nearby. Likely his father, bringing them something to whet their appetite before they ventured out onto the moor to crop the grasses. Oats as well, probably. His mother had turned to him and smiled, seeing him wake, and she had spooned honey into the porridge. Ronan took another sip of ale. The taste was like the memory of the taste. Porridge and honey. Oats and honey.
Someone slid onto the stool next to him.
“Go away,” he said.
The Juggler tried to smile. He took a pull at his mug of ale and smacked his lips.
“Go away,” repeated Ronan, not bothering to look at him.
“I was wondering,” said the Juggler, “when I’d be compensated for the loss of my boy.” Here, the Juggler almost managed to look sad but ruined the effect by rubbing his hands together.
“Your boy?” Ronan scowled at the fat man.
“Innkeeper, another ale! Ahh, that’s more like it!” The Juggler took a gulp of his freshly filled mug. “We were family. Almost like father and son, we were. It pains me to have lost him. It pains me, lemme tell you! To have lost my son! Are you a family sort? I didn’t think so. I can tell with most folks—I have a knack for it. You can’t imagine the sorrow a father experiences when his son goes missing. A lamb from the fold! Ahh—someone’s drunk my ale. Wuzzit you?”
“Innkeeper!” Ronan barked. “Get this man more ale!”
Another mug of ale appeared as if by magic. The Juggler blinked at it.
“Have a drink on me,” said Ronan. “Drink and shut up. I don’t want to hear another word.”
The Juggler drank. He wiped his mouth.
“But where’s my money?” he said. “Where’s my—”
Ronan grabbed him by the collar and threw him headfirst into a nearby table. Plates and food went flying. The table collapsed in a tangle of legs and curses and spilled ale. The Knife had been moving so fast when he threw the fat man that it was doubtful anyone saw what he did, other than the innkeeper, who had been wiping the counter nearby. Ronan sat back down and took a drink of ale. Behind him, a joyous roar went up and the place descended into chaos.
A pitcher whizzed by Ronan’s head and shattered against the wall behind the counter. He turned to survey the room. There was no logic to the brawl other than a willingness on most participants’ part to fight whoever came within reach. The Juggler’s face surfaced briefly in one spot, long enough for someone to break a plate over his head.
“No blades!” bawled the innkeeper.
A man staggered up against Ronan. The man took a swing at the Knife and then stepped back, aghast.
“Sorry,” said the man. “Didn’t recognize you.”
“Don’t mention it,” said Ronan. He kicked the man’s feet out from under him and sent him flying face-first into the thick of the fight. He sighed and mopped at his shirt. The man had spilled his ale.
“Can’t a man drink in peace?” he said, glaring at the innkeeper.
The innkeeper scowled back at him.
Ronan closed the door of the Goose and Gold behind him. The street was quiet after the clamor inside the inn. It was raining. A lamp shone above the door of a pawnshop across the way, but the street was dark other than that. Time to visit the Galnes manor in Highneck Rise. He stepped out into the rain.
“Hey, mister.”
The voice came from somewhere on his left. There, in the alley running back alongside the Goose and Gold. He saw some movement. Water streamed down from the eaves.
“Hey, mister.”
He kept walking. He had a few hours before Cypmann Galnes would leave his warehouse down at the docks. A few hours to break into the Galnes manor. Time enough to find the missing ring.
“He’s still alive, ain’t he?”
That stopped him.
It was a young child’s voice. High and taut with malice. There, just within the alley, he saw a face. A white blur of a face. He wiped the rain from his eyes.
“I saw him. You didn’t kill him, cully.”
“Kill who?” But he knew who the child was talking about.
Nothing personal, boy. We all have our jobs to do.
The boy was dead. When he killed people, they stayed dead. That was his job.
“You should know. You’re the one knifing people.”
But it hadn’t been a knife. No. Poison. Enough of it to kill a horse.
Ronan stepped into the alley. The walls were close and high. The stones underfoot were slick with mud and garbage. There was no light at all, but he heard the scuffle of footsteps retreating before him. As quiet as a mouse, but enough for him. He’d tracked animals in the past that made less noise than mice. They were just as easy to kill.
“You saw him? Saw who?”
Abruptly, the alley angled around a corner. He strained his ears but all he could hear now was the rain pattering on the roof and dripping from the eaves.
“Who’d you see?”
The knife slid from his sleeve and into his hand without a sound.
“You know, cully, well as I do.”
The voice was closer than where he thought it would be. It was a little girl’s voice, he was sure of it. Brave. He had to give her that. Brave, like the boy had been. He paused. The knife felt heavy in his hand. But then he took a step closer and the night burst red with pain. A tremendous blow struck his head. Again and again. Something shattered on the cobblestones next to him. Wood splintered. He staggered, trying to duck and hide but there was nowhere to go. His body would not obey. The world spun. He caught a glimpse of the night sky above him. There were faces in it. No, not in the sky, but leaning out, peering down from above the eaves. Children’s faces, wizened and evil, leering at him. A boy heaved over a wood barrel right on top of him.
The world went black.
It was still raining when he came to. He was laying face down in the mud. He tried to roll over and then immediately wished he hadn’t.
At least it’s still raining, he thought dizzily. I’ll be able to wash this muck and blood off. Children. The Juggler’s children.
I don’t blame them.
Surprised they didn’t cut my throat while they were at it.
“How you doing, cully?”
It was the little girl. He opened his eyes.
“Don’t feel too good, do you?” she said.
She crouched down, hands folded around her knees, eyes intent on him. Just out of reach. Not that he was in any shape to try anything. The rain had plastered her brown hair against her head. She wore a shapeless brown dress several sizes too large for her, and the sleeves were bunched up in rolls around her arms. A scar lay like a hand slap across the side of her face.
“Felt better,” he said. He could taste blood in his mouth. “Give me a few days.”
He tried sitting up but he couldn’t. The little girl did not move away, but he saw her tense. He heard feet shuffling around him in the darkness. Other children.
“You’re the Knife,” she said. “The big, bad old Knife.”
She flipped a blade in her hand, end over end and catching the haft. His knife.
“Jute,” she said. “The boy who did the chimney job. He’s my friend. The Juggler says he got snaffled by a fire-ward, but you can tell when he’s talking rot. Besides, we saw you.”
“You saw me?” he said stupidly. His head ached. This was almost as bad as when he got thrown and trampled breaking a yearling when he was a boy. Years ago. He could still remember his father’s sudden yell, running toward the corral. Blacking out when the horse stomped on him. He hadn’t been much older than this girl.
“Course we did,” said the little girl. “Haro an’ I climbed a house close by an’ watched the whole thing. Jute went down the chimney, we saw that. An’ then we saw you push him down when he tried to come out. We saw it all, cully.”
Ronan closed his eyes and saw the boy’s face again, staring up at him from within the chimney darkness. The girl stood up. She kicked him in the side. A rib grated against another and he almost blacked out from the pain of it. She crouched down next to his face.
“All that hurt like fallin’ down a chimney, cully?” Her voice trembled. “I wish I could kill you, but I can’t. I just can’t. It ain’t in me. I’d like to, for Jute. I’ll be keepin’ your knife. Maybe I’ll grow up one day and change my mind.”
He heard her footsteps fade away and then there was only the sound of raindrops dripping on cobblestones. He took a deep breath and pushed himself up to his knees.
Pain wasn’t a bad thing altogether. It meant you were still alive.
He scooped up a handful of water from a puddle and tried to clean his face, but the water only ran through his fingers. His side was on fire. Broken rib, he though dully. More than one. He levered himself up to his feet, cursing the day. He was in no condition to attempt the Galnes manor. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow would be a better day.