underworld doesn’t intersect with the Devedian.”
“That archer wouldn’t belong to the underworld. He’s a soldier after fast money.” Nor did he swallow Consent’s protest. Thieves had a cautiously close relationship with the men who purchased the goods they appropriated in their struggle to redistribute Brothen wealth. But Hecht seldom challenged known falsehoods. People became defensive. They clammed up. He believed in paying rope out and watching.
Consent would understand. He and Talab did the watching.
Hecht said, “We’re accomplishing nothing.” He brushed his left forearm. Yes. The amulet was there.
Which reaffirmed that there was no sorcery active nearby.
Someone was keeping track of him somehow, though.
Hecht and Pinkus Ghort were at the waterfront, waiting to board Lumberer. Hecht asked, “What are you into on the side, Pinkus?”
“Huh?”
“If I didn’t have your word for this being a fast coaster I’d suspect her of being a smuggler.” The crewmen looked shifty.
“I’m not involved in anything. But do note that smuggling and trading are a matter of viewpoint.”
“No doubt every smuggler ever born makes that argument. And princes send them to the galleys anyway.”
“You’re probably right. You always are. So what? They’re handy people to know. What the hell is this?”
A couple of black crow Brotherhood types were headed their way, on horseback, in a hurry. They slowed to an easier pace when they saw that Hecht and Ghort had not yet shoved off.
“Seems like everybody knows where to find me, these days.”
“You told Bechter?”
“I did.”
Hecht did not recognize either rider. A handsome man with salt-and-pepper hair and beard dismounted.
“Captain-General?”
“Me.”
“I bring messages.” He presented a large leather courier’s wallet. It bore no seal. “And our wishes for your success. Prayers will be offered.”
“Thank you. Do keep us in your prayers.” A formula he was just now learning to use automatically.
“And the Brotherhood in yours.” The man bowed his head slightly, in the manner of those who grew up inside the Grail Empire.
“And so shall it be.” Hecht returned the nod. He took the Brotherhood deadly serious. They were scarce in Firaldia but wielded power beyond their numbers.
There were few checks on the Brotherhood. They accepted none. They did not hesitate to enforce their prejudices.
“How and where to deliver that is all in here.” The Brother handed Hecht another smaller case, then returned to his mount.
Hecht considered the anonymous courier’s wallet. He began rubbing his left wrist.
Ghort muttered, “There’s a Special Office thug if I ever saw one. He don’t even try to cover the smell.”
“You’re right.”
“So’s the other one.”
The Special Office was a sub-cult inside the warrior order made up of sorcerers sworn to destroy the Instrumentalities of the Night. Using the Instrumentalities as their principal tool.
“So what did he bring you, Pipe?”
“Let’s wait till we’re moving.”
“Gotcha.” Ghort stared after the two riders in black. “I think I know who the other one was.”
“Uhm?”
“Parthen Lorica. The Witchfinder.”
Hecht started. Parthen Lorica? Not possible. Parthen Lorica was dead. “I don’t think so. Unless there’s more than one Parthen Lorica. Him and Bugo Armiene died in our hospital camp at al-Khazen. Special Office guys came in and snatched the bodies.”
“I missed all that. I heard, but not the names. But them two was definitely Special Office. And that one was definitely a Witchfinder. So. Hey. Time to go.” A smuggler — or coastal trader — beckoned them.
Two others began casting off.
Hecht hoisted his bag to his shoulder. “I wonder what they really wanted.”
“To give you a courier packet. Unless they were looking for witches.” In the context of the Special Office a witch would be anybody who consorted with the Instrumentalities of the Night
“That archer wouldn’t belong to the underworld. He’s a soldier after fast money.” Nor did he swallow Consent’s protest. Thieves had a cautiously close relationship with the men who purchased the goods they appropriated in their struggle to redistribute Brothen wealth. But Hecht seldom challenged known falsehoods. People became defensive. They clammed up. He believed in paying rope out and watching.
Consent would understand. He and Talab did the watching.
Hecht said, “We’re accomplishing nothing.” He brushed his left forearm. Yes. The amulet was there.
Which reaffirmed that there was no sorcery active nearby.
Someone was keeping track of him somehow, though.
Hecht and Pinkus Ghort were at the waterfront, waiting to board Lumberer. Hecht asked, “What are you into on the side, Pinkus?”
“Huh?”
“If I didn’t have your word for this being a fast coaster I’d suspect her of being a smuggler.” The crewmen looked shifty.
“I’m not involved in anything. But do note that smuggling and trading are a matter of viewpoint.”
“No doubt every smuggler ever born makes that argument. And princes send them to the galleys anyway.”
“You’re probably right. You always are. So what? They’re handy people to know. What the hell is this?”
A couple of black crow Brotherhood types were headed their way, on horseback, in a hurry. They slowed to an easier pace when they saw that Hecht and Ghort had not yet shoved off.
“Seems like everybody knows where to find me, these days.”
“You told Bechter?”
“I did.”
Hecht did not recognize either rider. A handsome man with salt-and-pepper hair and beard dismounted.
“Captain-General?”
“Me.”
“I bring messages.” He presented a large leather courier’s wallet. It bore no seal. “And our wishes for your success. Prayers will be offered.”
“Thank you. Do keep us in your prayers.” A formula he was just now learning to use automatically.
“And the Brotherhood in yours.” The man bowed his head slightly, in the manner of those who grew up inside the Grail Empire.
“And so shall it be.” Hecht returned the nod. He took the Brotherhood deadly serious. They were scarce in Firaldia but wielded power beyond their numbers.
There were few checks on the Brotherhood. They accepted none. They did not hesitate to enforce their prejudices.
“How and where to deliver that is all in here.” The Brother handed Hecht another smaller case, then returned to his mount.
Hecht considered the anonymous courier’s wallet. He began rubbing his left wrist.
Ghort muttered, “There’s a Special Office thug if I ever saw one. He don’t even try to cover the smell.”
“You’re right.”
“So’s the other one.”
The Special Office was a sub-cult inside the warrior order made up of sorcerers sworn to destroy the Instrumentalities of the Night. Using the Instrumentalities as their principal tool.
“So what did he bring you, Pipe?”
“Let’s wait till we’re moving.”
“Gotcha.” Ghort stared after the two riders in black. “I think I know who the other one was.”
“Uhm?”
“Parthen Lorica. The Witchfinder.”
Hecht started. Parthen Lorica? Not possible. Parthen Lorica was dead. “I don’t think so. Unless there’s more than one Parthen Lorica. Him and Bugo Armiene died in our hospital camp at al-Khazen. Special Office guys came in and snatched the bodies.”
“I missed all that. I heard, but not the names. But them two was definitely Special Office. And that one was definitely a Witchfinder. So. Hey. Time to go.” A smuggler — or coastal trader — beckoned them.
Two others began casting off.
Hecht hoisted his bag to his shoulder. “I wonder what they really wanted.”
“To give you a courier packet. Unless they were looking for witches.” In the context of the Special Office a witch would be anybody who consorted with the Instrumentalities of the Night
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