It was, indeed, a den of iniquity, but quite a stylish one. There were Estavari tapestries depicting jousts, hunts, and grand old battles long forgotten, finely carved imperial tables and plush, comfortable chairs, even little storybook lamps from the Far East—Shimzari, if Rem was not mistaken—gracing all the tables and pillars. The lamps, along with numerous banks of half-melted burning candles and tapers, filled the common room with a smoky, golden glow that struck Rem as rather warm and welcoming.
Games of all sorts unfolded around them—card games like Burning Bridges or Turnslip, dice games like Roll-the-Bones or Swallowtail, even parlor games like Trinary and Malice. The more reckless guests were engaged in other contests, some involving venomous snakes or scorpions, others based on strength or skill with a blade. Every game played was played for money, and almost every contest attracted watchers, who placed their own bets on the one who might walk away from the table victorious. Rem was taken aback instantly by the openness and variety of vice on display. There were beautiful youths—female and male, scantily clad, well-oiled, and, no doubt, perfumed—serving drinks and attending the customers, while prostitutes of equally diverse stripe moved ghostlike between the tables, casting coy glances and tempting laughter toward their would-be marks, expertly manipulating any and all who caught their eye toward a conversation, a few drinks, then promises of sweet favors for solid coin. There were hard-faced, hard-lived men with beautiful young maids in their laps, and, perhaps more surprising, equally hard-faced, hard-lived women with young men on leashes. If one could imagine a pleasure or an indulgence that could be undertaken for sport or profit, it was here, out in the open, on vivid display. Even the most notorious of grogshops in his homeland would not hold a candle to the blithe decadence and cheerful lechery unfolding before him.
Rem felt a slight twinge of jealousy. Though such a hive of villainy would, more likely than not, never be his chosen outlet for an evening’s entertainment, part of him yet admired and even envied the people he saw before him. Their openness. Their complete disregard for social conventions or the expectations of polite society. He secretly hoped that someday he too could learn to care so little about what other people thought, what others expected of them.
A cursory glance around the room revealed that they were being watched by house security. Furtive sellswords and bravos with scars and oiled beards and blades at their belts were stationed all around the common room as plainclothes security. They all eyed Rem and Torval with a strange sort of incredulity. No doubt, they saw the blood sprayed across Torval’s face from his head-to-head collision with the bouncer outside, and they knew that something was amiss.
Their suspicions were verified moments later when Torval the dwarf gave a loud, bellowing battle cry, leapt toward the nearest gaming table, and brought his maul crashing down on the jug of wine in its center. Wine splashed everywhere and ceramic shards went flying. Torval followed that by upending the entire table. The players gathered around it scattered in a flurry of oaths and curses. The table flipped sideward, spilling ale steins, coin, and dice. Some of the girls screamed. The little band playing in a back alcove—a piper, a harpist, and a fellow with a squeeze-box—fell silent.
Torval turned to Rem and eyed the nightstick at his side. “Time to use that,” Torval said.
Before Rem could ask what Torval meant, a pair of bravos charged them. Torval shoved the first aside—right into Rem’s path—and lit into the second with his maul. Rem, suddenly face-to-face with what looked like a swarthy Sartoshi pirate with a lazy eye and a glittering short sword in his hand, raised his nightstick like a fencing blade and prepared himself for a match.
Torval’s act of belligerence set off a chain reaction. Cardplayers leaping clear of the upturned table collided with the tables around them. The players at those tables took umbrage and demanded satisfaction. Blades slithered from scabbards. Fists flew. Brawlers fell to fighting and cowards ran for cover. In moments, the common room was in chaos.
Rem had no time to curse his rotten luck or try to talk his way out of the situation. The bravo immediately set about sticking him with his sharp little poniard, and Rem was forced to defend himself with only his nightstick. Thrusting and slashing with a blunt piece of wood was not so useful, but he acquitted himself well enough, parrying most of his piratical opponent’s blows and never once feeling the sting of the blade. After some dancing back and forth, Rem finally managed to force his opponent into a knot of brawling gamblers. When the Sartoshi pirate slammed into a pair of wrestling Blighters, the Blighters joined forces and attacked the pirate. Rem thought his escape was made.
But before he could flee, Rem found his path blocked by a burly Kosterman with long, flaxen braids and only half the teeth he was born with. The Kosterman wielded a great, knotty club—most likely fashioned from a limb off a gnarly old oak. Rem set himself on guard with his nightstick. The Kosterman attacked. The brawl continued around them as they sparred.
From time to time Rem managed to catch sight of Torval, four feet of hellfire toppling men twice his size, upending tables, cracking skulls and shattering bones with his maul, even employing stray bric-a-brac—ale steins, pewter plates, footstools—as improvised weaponry. The dwarf’s gnashed teeth seemed to form a grin, but Rem could not be sure. Perhaps that was just Torval’s war face?
In either case, the truth was clear: Torval was in his element.
“I want the Creeper!” Torval shouted. “Where’s the gods-damned Creeper!”
He was a miniature bull stomping through a field of adversaries and making each pay dearly for whatever blows they landed, whatever insults they dared. Were he not so busy defending himself, Rem would have been eager to stop and bear witness to the swath of destruction that Torval left in his wake, far more impressive than his stunted stature suggested possible.
And then, just as suddenly as the brawl began, it stopped. Someone on a high platform blew into a hunting horn. The long, bellowing thunder of the horn drew everyone’s attention—a collective pail of cold water on the proceedings—and all eyes were drawn toward the deep and droning sound. When the horn’s sounding ended, Rem followed all the eyes in the room toward a balcony at the far end, where stood a thin pale man with dark, fiery eyes and lank, oily black hair. He looked like an underfed pickpocket—a shifty-eyed, thieving sort whose longevity was the result of nothing more than skill, luck, and ruthlessness.
“Torval,” the fellow on the balcony called down. “What the bloody hell are you doing to my gaming room?”
Torval leveled his finger at the fellow on the balcony. “Was it you, Creeper?”
The fellow on the balcony—Creeper—said nothing for a long while. “This is about Freygaf, isn’t it?”
“Yes or no!” Torval demanded. “Was it you?”
“It was not,” Creeper said. “Now get up here and let’s talk over cups like civilized men.”
Torval’s face, a blood-spattered mask of fury, didn’t suggest that he was interested in civilized discourse. Rem not only saw the fury in it, but also the sadness. All of these bruised and blinkered patrons had paid a price this eve for Torval’s grief. In that moment, Rem felt profoundly helpless. He wished there was something he could do or say to assuage Torval’s loss.
But there was nothing. He could only follow when the dwarf broke off from the Hasturi bruiser he’d been brawling with and picked a careful path across the ruined space toward the stairs that led up to the Creeper’s loft.
For the private den of a gambling baron, the loft struck Rem as surprisingly cozy and welcoming. There were plush Maradi carpets, sofas and divans draped with colorful linens and silks, a number of impressive mosaics in the old imperial style mounted on the walls, and a number of candles and brass lamps about, filling the homey space with a warm, golden light. Creeper himself, slight, bony creature that he was, seemed out of place in such plush environs—but his comfort level was apparent as he sauntered across the room, rounded a large mahogany desk, and bent to pet something lingering behind it. Rem had to crane his neck to see clearly what strange pet the Creeper was greeting.
It was a black panther on a bronze chain. The beast purred and swished its long, dark tail. Rem saw the glint of white, sharp teeth behind its black lips.
Torval seemed unimpressed. His baleful stare and squared shoulders suggested that he was a man on a mission, indifferent to both dangers and pleasantries. He stood in the very center of the room, allowing Creeper to greet his pet and dispense with well-mannered greetings and obsequies.
The Creeper didn’t strike Rem as particularly friendly, but neither was he unnecessarily combative or unwelcoming. He came across, rather, as a dedicated businessman whose interactions with others, even when cold and calculated, were always calm and cordial.
“Ale or brandy?” he asked. Whole casks were on hand, along with a number of cups and glasses. Clearly, the robber baron was used to entertaining in his private sanctum.
“Neither,” Torval said. “This is business, not personal.”
“And I never conduct business,” Creeper countered, “without a drink in hand. It’s uncivilized. If you’re worried about me poisoning you, you needn’t be. I could’ve had my guards and patrons tear you to pieces out in the gamesroom if I’d wanted.”
Rem bit his tongue. He was desperate for a drink about now, to take the edge off, but he’d let Torval run this his way, and show no signs of eagerness.
“Fine,” Torval said. “Ale. What’ll it be for you, lad?”
“Brandy,” Rem said.
Creeper tapped the appropriate casks. Torval got a mug of frothy brown ale and Rem was handed a glass of brandy. A taste told him it was made from apples, not grapes, and he resisted the urge to compliment their host on the quality of his liquor. No need to embarrass Torval by making the Creeper feel too superior.
Creeper lifted his own glass of brandy. “To Freygaf,” he said, poured out a measure right on the fine carpet, then drank himself. Torval followed suit with his ale.
Once more, Rem was embarrassed. They’d been pouring out libations for Freygaf for at least three or four days. Why did he keep drinking before the offering? Though the pouring of libations for the recently deceased was not common custom in the courts of Hasturland, it was certainly not unheard-of—especially among the common classes. He should have known that. He resolved never to put a cup to lips again in Torval’s presence unless Torval had already done the same.
Torval swallowed his first mouthful of ale, stared into his cup. “Was it you?” he asked.
“No,” Creeper said flatly.
Torval seemed to study the bony little apparition for a moment, before finally nodding and exhaling through his nose. “He’d owed you money in the past. I thought perhaps—”
“Freygaf hasn’t been in hock to me for a year,” Creeper said. “Not since you stepped in and settled his last debt. He’s been in here a few times—the cards and the dice still called to him—but he hasn’t gotten himself in trouble again with my sharks the way he did before. For all that time, he’d been smart and sensible. With me, at least.”
Torval frowned. “What does that mean?”
The Creeper swirled his brandy. Rem took a sip of his own. Gods, it was good stuff! He hadn’t had a taste of apple brandy this good in years!
“I’m loath to speak ill of the dead,” Creeper said, “but you shouldn’t be so surprised that Freygaf ended up a corpse, Torval. His best quality was his friendship with you and his insistence that he was a man of the law. Other than that alignment, he wasn’t a nice man, and he wasn’t into the most savory of midnight activities.”
Torval was clearly controlling the urge to throttle the Creeper where he stood. He swirled his ale but wouldn’t take another sip. “Just what is that supposed to mean?”
“I have no intention of saying any more,” Creeper answered, “not because I’m trying to make it hard on you, but because you’ll be incredulous and you won’t believe me. Suffice it to say, Freygaf kept odd company and was guilty of some dirty deeds. Dig deep enough and you’ll find evidence of it. Then, you can come back and tell me that I told you so, and I was right.”
“You don’t think I’d know my partner better than you, you scheming little spider?”
“No, I don’t,” Creeper countered, a tad bitterly. “You only knew one side of Freygaf, Torval. The best side. All the naughty bits were exposed when he ran in my circles. Those are the bits you never knew of … or at least, never cared to see.”
“Why don’t you tell me?” Torval demanded.
“Aren’t you a wardwatchman? Go root it all out for yourself.” Creeper answered. “You’ll believe evidence and your own eyes more than you would my words. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like you to introduce me to your new partner.”
The Creeper turned his dark gaze on Rem. Suddenly, Rem felt violated. There was something in the robber baron’s eyes that made him profoundly uncomfortable. Rem felt naked … leered at. Desperate to avert his gaze, Rem looked to Torval, silently asking if an introduction was in order.
“His name’s Rem,” Torval said, before Rem could introduce himself, “and if you make any move to get your hooks in him, I’ll burn this place to the ground. With him inside.”
Those words struck Rem like a sucker punch to the gut. The meaning was clear: Torval wouldn’t brook Rem spending any of his off-hours in the Creeper’s gambling and pleasure den. Clearly, this fellow and his particular brand of vice were above and beyond—or rather, below and beyond—the everyday vice that Torval could countenance in a partner or a friend.
“Do you like the brandy, Rem?” the Creeper asked.
Rem stared into the glass and nodded. He did his best to sound flippant and casual. “I do. It’s good.”
“Well,” Creeper offered, “it’s my pleasure to both entertain and accommodate the brave men of the city watch when they’re not busy watching. Despite your partner’s harsh words, you’re welcome here for a game or a tumble any time you like. First round’s always on the house.”
“No, he’s not,” Torval said. “Welcome, that is. Come on, lad. Time to go.”
Torval set aside his ale cup and Rem did the same. The dwarf had him by the arm and was leading him toward the door like a callow youth when Creeper spoke behind them.
“Seek, and ye shall find, Torval,” Creeper cooed. “Just as the sages say. Just don’t be surprised if you don’t like what you uncover.”
“Thanks for the ale,” Torval growled, and shoved Rem out through the loft door. Rem half expected to see everyone in the common room waiting for them, bravos and sellswords with their blades at the ready, whores sporting sharp dirks and garrotes, patrons eager for the show of two watchwardens being rushed and trounced by the criminal colluders in Creeper’s court.
But in fact everyone in the common room seemed to have forgotten about them. At some tables, the games of chance went on apace, while others went about the work of putting their tables and chairs and contests back together again. Songs were sung along with the minstrel band, and the whores and their jacks made googly eyes and cooed like doves and bartered for their preferred currencies. Rem led the way down the stairs from Creeper’s loft and Torval followed. His silent fuming was like a bed of banked coals at Rem’s back, pulsing, waiting to be stirred and taste the air before once more becoming a raging fire.
They left Creeper’s Court with little more than they started with. When they were about a block away from the place, Rem turned to Torval. The dwarf was lost in thought, eyes downcast, mouth set in a thoughtful frown. Rem reminded himself to hold his tongue—he was the junior half of this partnership, after all—but his anger got the better of him.
“What was all that about?” Rem demanded.
Torval’s trance was broken. He looked at Rem like he’d just spoken Quaimish. “What?”
“I asked you a question,” Rem snapped. “Just what was all that about? You walked me into that place completely unprepared, you almost got us killed, and on top of that, I didn’t even get to finish my drink!”
Torval’s face screwed up, his own anger rising. “Now see here, Ginger—”
“Don’t call me that!” Rem said. “Not Gingersnap, not Freckles, not Bonny Prince. The name’s Rem—or have all those head butts you doled out rattled your memory?”
“Our only chance to get straight answers from the Creeper was to force him to treat with us and unbalance him. Pure shock and awe. It worked, didn’t it?”
“Did it?” Rem asked. “We have nothing more now than when we started.”
Torval hove up into Rem’s face and snarled his reply. “That’s one name off the list,” Torval growled. “You don’t like the way I work, slither back to Ondego and beg for another partner. Otherwise, shut your gob and follow my lead.”
Rem almost responded, then realized he had nothing to say. The dwarf was right. Unorthodox his methods might be, but they did get results. Rem took a deep breath, calming himself. He waited, expecting directions from Torval. None came.
“Well?” he asked.
“Well what?” Torval retorted tartly.
Rem threw up his hands in surrender. “Where to next? I’m guessing that the Creeper didn’t tell you anything you didn’t already know?”
“No,” Torval said shortly. “No, of course he didn’t. Surely …”
Rem knew that Torval was lying. Creeper’s insinuation—that Freygaf was not the man Torval thought him to be, and that if Torval dug deeper, he would find irrefutable proof—was still working on the dwarf. Clearly, Torval really had thought Freygaf’s worst secret was his gambling problem. The idea that there might be more to learn—more hiding beneath the surface, to be learned only now, when Freygaf was dead—clearly didn’t make Torval happy.
Rem would say nothing of it. First and foremost, he didn’t know Freygaf, and therefore, wouldn’t assume that whatever terrible things the Creeper said of him were true. Beyond that, though, there was just the issue of being right and honorable: you didn’t defame the dead when you hadn’t known them in life, no matter what they were guilty of. Thus, Rem could only make suggestions about their investigation, or posit lines of inquiry. He didn’t want to blight Freygaf’s memory, nor did he want to try to replace him.
Thus, Torval had to lead the way.
“Partner,” Rem said gently. “Where to now? I’ll follow wherever you take me.”
Torval seemed to awaken from a daydream. He eyed Rem suspiciously for a moment, then seemed to look sad. Finally he shrugged and cocked his head northward.
“Come on,” he said, and set off. “Let’s search Freygaf’s chambers.”