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7th of Winter, 502 AV “Guurgh!” Ah, the familiarity of homecomings. Ulric had discovered that he’d almost missed the reek of the canals, or even the curses the urchins spat at him from the shadows, but there was something disturbing about the ubiquity of being throttled from behind whenever he tried to descend the stairs. “Where’s the money?” The man snarled again, his breath hot and sticky. Ulric felt the garrote cinch tighter against the fingers of his right hands, which he’d managed to shove inside the waxed cord scant moments before it began to saw into his neck. “Guurgh,” he said again, stamping a foot against his assailant’s instep as he jerked back and forth, shifting his weight to slam the smaller man against the crumbling plaster of the wall. Unfortunately, his efforts were for naught. The garrote cinched tighter, his throat constricted further, and he was becoming increasingly annoyed with himself. He was starting to think this man wasn’t very good, although he supposed it was harder to keep a person alive in the hopes of extracting information than just murdering him stone dead. He hadn’t caught a glimpse of his assailant, but he knew that he was much, much larger. That was clearly to his advantage. The frantic strength he threw into his struggles meant the tinier man had to use both hands on the garrote. Ulric smacked the man back against the wall, fumbling for his knife. He scraped it from the sheath, then plunged it backwards into the man’s side, working it beneath the ribs and scything through the guts. He heard a stifled groan, and then the garrote slackened. With a growl, Ulric ripped the cord away, landing an elbow to the side of the man’s head as he grabbed his neck and hurled him down the stairs. Bump, bump, thump. Below, the man struck the plaster and sprawled in a limp mockery of sitting, his lap ringed by a spreading puddle of blood. It was a young face that peeked up through the gloom, sallow and devoid of whiskers, but that was hardly a redeeming quality. Ulric just enjoyed killing. Descending the stairs, he raised a heavy boot it drove it into the man-boy’s face with a sickening crunch. He kept on kicking until he’d reduce the visage to a mass of gore and splintered bone, then continuing on down the stairs as if he was on his way to the market. Not long ago, these sorts of struggles would have frightened him. Now they were merely another part of his day. Wiping a few specks of blood from his cheek, Ulric left his decrepit building and waved at a passing boatman. “Get me to Stod’s,” he growled. “Like petch I will,” the bearded man shot back, but he stopped his slender craft nonetheless. “You’ve got blood on your face,” he observed. Ulric sighed as he climbed aboard. He was weary of people pointing out the obvious, usually because they didn’t want – or care to know the truth. “On my face, my hands – shyke, don’t we all just reek of blood?” “Don’t get philosophical on me,” the boatman raised a finger, breaking out into a toothy grin. “I charge extra for that.” He poled the ravosala along the canals, steering away from reeking heaps of detritus. Ulric thought he saw a swollen corpse floating on the dark waters. That was nothing unusual, though. The corpses had been a source of amusement to him when was a boy, but now his eyes were filled with apathy. People died, often badly. That was how it went. Eventually, they reached the tiny, derelict warehouse. “Go petch yourself,” the boatman grinned when Ulric handed him a few coins. Ulric climbed from the ravosala onto the narrow strip of dock, approaching the burly woman that guarded the door. “Nice tits,” he remarked facetiously. The woman gave him a long glance, her face betraying nothing, then pushed open the door. “I was hoping you wouldn’t pay up,” she grunted as he stepped through. Ulric blinked a few times, trying to adjust to the near-darkness. The only light came from the single candle that flickered on the table, which was ringed with piles of crates and stacks of motley, pilfered goods. “Ulric, what a pleasant surprise.” Rising, the diminutive man sitting at the table dropped into a curtsey. He was wearing an elaborate dress, after all, whose whalebone-lined bodice was studded with pearls and a tasteful quantity of lace. “Go ahead and take a seat.” Ulric heaved a sigh, though he was somewhat fond of this mincing, middle-aged transvestite, and pulled up a stool for himself. “How are you, Stod?” “Better,” the man began to say, but he had to pause to honk into an embroidered hanky. “My cold is almost gone.” “Glad to hear that,” Ulric replied. He wasn’t in a mood to beat around the bush, so he reached into his tunic and tossed a purse onto the table. “I’ve got your money, with interest. Even though the debt isn’t mine,” he remarked with a scowl. Stod untied the drawstring and began to count out the coins, clucking to himself. Finally, he glanced up and nodded. “So you have, and just as I was about to send a man to dispose of your precious fruits. I think we can both agree that would have been a terrible shame.” “For whom, exactly?” “Mostly you, but I’ve always preferred money over my reputation. How’s your father?” “Still dead. Thanks for asking.” Ulric began to get up, but Stod reached for his arm, halting him. [b]“What’s up?” “Beran is going to up the price on your head.” Stod regarded him through steely-grey eyes, dangerous despite his ridiculous attire. “You really, really don’t want that to happen.” Ulric sat down again, running splayed fingers through his hair. He was suddenly very thirsty. “Not much I can do about that. I don’t have the money, nor do I have the means of getting it soon.” “Well, he’s none too happy about you taking down his hirelings. He’s going to set some real heat on your arse this time, and word on the canals is that he wants to make an example of you because of the spectacle you’ve been causing.” Ulric frowned, his suspicions aroused. “What’s it to you?” “Beran does business with me, and the last thing I want is spectacle.” Stod made a steeple of his fingers. “You’re either going to die, which would be something of a waste, or come to an arrangement.” “Arrangement?” Ulric gave a bark of laughter. “What if we don’t?” “That’s why I keep a crossbow under the table. No, don’t say anything. Now you’re being unpleasant, and I find you so very plain when you get that way. Tomorrow, you’re going to see Beran. He’ll know you’re coming, although you’d do best not to anger him, lad. Now get out of here.” Stod gestured at the door, then put quill to parchment again. “Well, that’s just great,” Ulric growled. |
