Read Online The Mark of Ran by Paul Kearney - Free Book Online Page B

year before last, and the skin has treated it surprisingly well. I congratulate you, Canker. I had no idea your cellar was so good.”
    “Not my cellar, my lord Psellos, but that of Lord Perrivale. Congratulate him if you must.”
    Psellos raised an eyebrow. “Well, I am doubly impressed. Perrivale is not the easiest mark on the street. They say his manse is a veritable fortress.”
    “Even a fortress must have a door.”
    “Indeed. In the midst of stealing fine wines and heirlooms I trust you have found time to attend to my errand. I do not usually make down payments in advance.”
    Canker bowed. From the breast of his ragged apparel he produced a scroll wound about a wooden spindle and sealed with black wax. He handed it to Psellos with something of a flourish.
    Psellos’s face did not change, but something came into his eyes, a blaze of hungry triumph. He held the scroll as though it were made of thousand-year-old glass. “Ah, Canker,” he murmured, “you are an artist.”
    “The down payment is being enjoyed as we speak,” Canker said. “When will the balance of the fee be delivered?”
    Psellos’s eyes did not leave the scroll. “Quare,” he snapped.
    The manservant came forward, reaching into a belt-pouch. He produced a slip of paper. “Remius and Midd, on Pandreddin Street. You may have it in credit or in gold. They are expecting you.”
    Canker did not deign to read the paper. He stuffed it negligently into his tattered robe. “As always, a pleasure to do business with a professional,” he said.
    Psellos was wrapping the scroll in a lace handkerchief. “When will the down payment be available for other work?”
    Canker shrugged. “My subjects are hale and hearty men beneath their rags. You are satisfied with their work, why not let us have her for another day? Call it a bonus.”
    Psellos was clutching the scroll to his bosom as though it were the holiest of relics. “Why not? But do not break her, Canker. She has sweetened many a deal for me.”
    Canker grinned. “She is perhaps a little bent, but nowhere near broken yet, never fear. Have some more wine, my lord. Perhaps we can discuss a little business.”
     
    Rol eased himself backwards off the wooden gallery inch by agonizing inch. The creaks and groans of the rotten wood were masked by a raucous babble of talk and laughter from the gathered men below. At last he reached the passageway behind him and was able to rise to his feet. He heard Psellos laugh, and for some reason a hot blaze of hatred rose up in his heart. He dodged the strung wires with supple swiftness, and clutching his makeshift club, he padded back into the darkness of the abandoned warehouse, his mind full of what he had seen and heard. Not even in his own thoughts did he admit or analyze what he intended to do. His heart knew without being told.
    He circled round the firelit chamber wherein the King of Thieves entertained Psellos. The warehouse had been subdivided by moldering timber partitions and piled mounds of rubbish. Here and there pallets of straw lay upon the stone, little heaps of belongings, a dying fire aglow in a crudely made rock hearth. But there was no movement save for the small scurrying life of half-glimpsed vermin. It would seem that all those who made this place their home were drinking with their
king
and his guest.
    Almost all. In the quiet dark Rol could still hear the buzz of talk from the firelit chamber, but he had grown accustomed to that. Now there were noises nearer at hand. Men gabbling, a snorted laugh, a beastlike grunting.
    It was pitch-black, but Rol had not thought to wonder why it was he could see quite clearly. He followed the noises down a series of passages, and the gleam of the wires brought him up short again. Three of them this time. He held his breath as he twisted through them, and then went on.
    Candlelight flickering out of an opening to his left in the passageway ahead. An odd smell, like that of a moldy herb being burned. He