Read Online Darkwalker by E. L. Tettensor - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: E. L. Tettensor
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can’t blame a fellow for taking a break now and then. It’s cold as Durian’s grave out there.”
Lenoir could not disagree. Even this close to the hearth, the frequent comings and goings at the tavern door kept the room steeped in a perpetual chill. Not that the patrons took any notice; most were too far into their cups to heed much of anything. The Firkin was one of Kennian’s more raucous taverns, which was one of the reasons Zach could so often be found here. Drunkards took little notice of their purses being lifted.
“Anyway,” said Zach, “I don’t know why you’re acting all surprised. You came here looking for me.”
“Is that so? And how do you reckon that?”
“You never come in here unless you’re looking for me.”
Lenoir grunted. “Very well, I concede the point. The fact remains, however, that you have an unfinished task.”
“Don’t I know it. I’m not getting anywhere.” Zach looked darkly at the flagon in his hand, as though it were responsible.
“It is not an easy thing I have asked you to do,” Lenoir admitted. “But do not allow yourself to become discouraged. I have great faith in your talents.”
Zach sniffed, his petulant expression disappearing under the rim of his flagon.
Lenoir would have dearly liked to know which of these tavern rats thought it appropriate to give a full flagon of ale to a boy of nine, but he did not have time to worry about that now. “In the meantime, I have another task for you.”
“All right,” Zach said warily, licking his lips.
“I need you to put me in touch with some hired muscle.”
“Hired muscle?”
“A thug, Zach. The sort of man who hires himself out for his fists.”
“Ah.” Zach grinned. “Now, that’s more like it. I don’t know about high street gossip, but cutthroats and mercenaries are my specialty. Let’s go.”
• • •
Lenoir drew up short when he recognized the alley. The narrow, twisting path ended at a small courtyard hemmed in by two- and three-story buildings, their dark frames leaning haphazardly in a semicircle like a cluster of drunks huddled over a game of bones. It was a dead end, meaning Zach had only one possible destination: the Hobbled Hound.
“You come to this place?” Lenoir asked in mild amazement.
Zach turned, his features barely discernible in the shadows. The alley was dark save for the washed amber glow of the braziers in the courtyard up ahead. The wavering firelight sketched eerie shapes on the plaster and beams of the shop faces, long since closed for the night.
“Sometimes,” Zach said. “It’s not as bad as you might think.”
“I’m relieved to hear it,” Lenoir muttered, resuming his stride.
The alley deposited them in the cramped square that formed the boundaries of the Hound’s domain. The inn itself sat nestled at the far end, flanked between two larger buildings and gazing out at the courtyard like a crime lord who knows better than to turn his back to the door. A pair of braziers burned on either side of the entrance, throwing their light over tightly closed shutters and a heavy door. A faded sign bearing a likeness of a three-legged dog hung from a post just above the doorframe, but the crest was a bitter joke. The name of the inn had nothing to do with hunting dogs. Rather, it derived from a particularly nasty incident that had taken place on the premises many years ago, involving a sergeant of the Metropolitan Police, an ax, and a very ugly crowd.
A pair of hard-bitten fellows huddled together near one of the braziers, ostensibly warming their hands. Lenoir knew them for lookouts, keeping an eye peeled for someone just like him.
“I hope you know what you’re doing, Zach,” he growled as he followed the boy across the courtyard and through the door, the lookouts tracking him every step of the way.
The place was not busy, at least not compared to neighborhood stalwarts like the Firkin. About a dozen tables dotted the floor, most of them
Lenoir could not disagree. Even this close to the hearth, the frequent comings and goings at the tavern door kept the room steeped in a perpetual chill. Not that the patrons took any notice; most were too far into their cups to heed much of anything. The Firkin was one of Kennian’s more raucous taverns, which was one of the reasons Zach could so often be found here. Drunkards took little notice of their purses being lifted.
“Anyway,” said Zach, “I don’t know why you’re acting all surprised. You came here looking for me.”
“Is that so? And how do you reckon that?”
“You never come in here unless you’re looking for me.”
Lenoir grunted. “Very well, I concede the point. The fact remains, however, that you have an unfinished task.”
“Don’t I know it. I’m not getting anywhere.” Zach looked darkly at the flagon in his hand, as though it were responsible.
“It is not an easy thing I have asked you to do,” Lenoir admitted. “But do not allow yourself to become discouraged. I have great faith in your talents.”
Zach sniffed, his petulant expression disappearing under the rim of his flagon.
Lenoir would have dearly liked to know which of these tavern rats thought it appropriate to give a full flagon of ale to a boy of nine, but he did not have time to worry about that now. “In the meantime, I have another task for you.”
“All right,” Zach said warily, licking his lips.
“I need you to put me in touch with some hired muscle.”
“Hired muscle?”
“A thug, Zach. The sort of man who hires himself out for his fists.”
“Ah.” Zach grinned. “Now, that’s more like it. I don’t know about high street gossip, but cutthroats and mercenaries are my specialty. Let’s go.”
• • •
Lenoir drew up short when he recognized the alley. The narrow, twisting path ended at a small courtyard hemmed in by two- and three-story buildings, their dark frames leaning haphazardly in a semicircle like a cluster of drunks huddled over a game of bones. It was a dead end, meaning Zach had only one possible destination: the Hobbled Hound.
“You come to this place?” Lenoir asked in mild amazement.
Zach turned, his features barely discernible in the shadows. The alley was dark save for the washed amber glow of the braziers in the courtyard up ahead. The wavering firelight sketched eerie shapes on the plaster and beams of the shop faces, long since closed for the night.
“Sometimes,” Zach said. “It’s not as bad as you might think.”
“I’m relieved to hear it,” Lenoir muttered, resuming his stride.
The alley deposited them in the cramped square that formed the boundaries of the Hound’s domain. The inn itself sat nestled at the far end, flanked between two larger buildings and gazing out at the courtyard like a crime lord who knows better than to turn his back to the door. A pair of braziers burned on either side of the entrance, throwing their light over tightly closed shutters and a heavy door. A faded sign bearing a likeness of a three-legged dog hung from a post just above the doorframe, but the crest was a bitter joke. The name of the inn had nothing to do with hunting dogs. Rather, it derived from a particularly nasty incident that had taken place on the premises many years ago, involving a sergeant of the Metropolitan Police, an ax, and a very ugly crowd.
A pair of hard-bitten fellows huddled together near one of the braziers, ostensibly warming their hands. Lenoir knew them for lookouts, keeping an eye peeled for someone just like him.
“I hope you know what you’re doing, Zach,” he growled as he followed the boy across the courtyard and through the door, the lookouts tracking him every step of the way.
The place was not busy, at least not compared to neighborhood stalwarts like the Firkin. About a dozen tables dotted the floor, most of them
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