mouth gets you into a lot more trouble than you give it credit for,” Toler said.
“You want to sit around obsessing about him the whole time, that’s fine by me,” said Andover Mays. “We’re here for two days at best, and I got a mind to do two days’ worth of drinking and hustling.”
“‘Fraid I’m in the same boat as Mays,” Toler said. “Don’t get me wrong, I feel the same way about lardass over there. Watching that son-bitch suffer would give me the warm fuzzies. But it sounds like you’re fixing to do something you’ll regret. Why don’t you come out for some drinks with us tonight and cool off? I’ll pay the bill.”
Blatcher’s mouth tightened. “You think a little moonshine is gonna make this go away? That coffer is a bad egg. He’s threatening our livelihoods, Glaive. He ain’t gonna forget about it. Why should we?”
All of a sudden I’m ‘Glaive,’ huh? I’ll be ‘boy’ again when you don’t need me on your side. “Because we of all people should know merchants piss on anything that gets in the way of them getting richer. Calistari is an asshole. Vantanible knows that. He’s not going to listen to him. Not a chance we’ll lose our jobs over this.”
“Lose our jobs? I’ve seen Vantanible kill shepherds for less.”
It was a fair point. Toler had seen it happen too. Nichel Vantanible was not a man to let formality come between him and the success of his business.
“Fine. You’re worried. Let’s do it your way then. What’s the one thing merchants love more than anything else?”
“Getting rich. We covered that.”
“No. Not getting rich. Everyone loves getting rich. What merchants love is the deal.”
“The…”
Toler could almost hear Blatcher’s gears spinning. “The deal,” he repeated. “The bargain. Merchants are professional shysters, Blatcher. If all they wanted was to get rich, they’d be roadside bandits, or cult leaders, or slavers. What merchants love is haggling. Intellectual superiority. Getting the best of people. Finding ways to give you the shaft and make you think it’s mutual.”
“Get to the point, Glaive.”
“The point is, doesn’t matter if we’re bargaining for our jobs or our lives. There’s no person better to do it with than a merchant.”
5
The Railside was a train station turned saloon, all moldy clapboard and iron girders, standing with difficulty beside a recessed length of track that was part of Tristol’s derelict railcar system. Lined with a series of booths upholstered in torn red vinyl, the interior had a temporary look to it, as if the decor had been tacked on as an afterthought.
The room was thick with smoke and lantern light when Toler sauntered through the boarded-over glass door with Sylas Blatcher and Andover Mays in tow. A bell tinkled as the door slammed shut behind them, and they were enveloped in the familiar bouquet of stale cigarettes, cheap liquor, and cheaper cologne.
“My fourth-favorite shithole in this town,” said Andover Mays, with an air of satisfaction unbefitting the statement.
“You like it better than the locals do, apparently,” Toler said, noting its relative emptiness.
“Can I get you fellas something to drink?” asked the bartender, a petite redhead wearing a pair of aviator goggles as a necklace that called attention to her low-cut tunic.
“Three whiskeys,” said Toler.
“Best stuff you got,” Andover Mays added.
Toler wrinkled his mouth.
“Hey, you said it was your treat. Might as well taste good until I’m too hammered to know better.”
The three of them sat around a high-top table in the middle of the room. Toler stowed his saddle on the floor.
“Why you always bring that thing inside with you?” Mays asked.
“Got it from his daddy,” Blatcher said, saccharine-sweet.
“Yeah, eat shit, Blatcher. I was three when they carried my parents home in body bags. This saddle was my dad’s.”
Mays made a face. “Sorry I asked. Let’s get tanked and forget I said anything.”
The bartender dropped by with their drinks. “Here you go, boys. Can I get you all anything else?”
“You can tell me when you get off work,” Blatcher said. He gave her his best smile, which made him look like he was inspecting his tooth-rot in a mirror.
“An hour after you leave town,” said the bartender, without sparing him a look on her way back to the bar.
“There’s the reason why nobody comes in here,” Blatcher said. “No bitches in here but the bartender.”
“You’re subtle as a spear in the eye,” said Andover Mays. “Should’a let Glaive have the first go at her. He’d’ve softened her up. He’s prettier than she is, for Infernal’s sake.”
“Oh no, not Glaive. He’s spoken for,” said Blatcher, giving Toler his elbow.
Mays shook his head, skeptical. “Can’t be. This dway doesn’t do spoken for.”
Blatcher laughed, one of his belly laughs that started with a rude burst of air and ended with a snort. “You didn’t know? Glaive went and got himself a little girlie-friend. Sleeping with the boss’s daughter, this one.” He clapped Toler on the shoulder, nearly sending him off his chair.
Mays almost fell off his chair on his own. “Naw. You’re banging Vantanible’s sweet innocent flower?”
“Shut up, Blatcher. I’m not spoken for.”
Blatcher pointed. “Look at him. Blushing like a whipped horse!”
Blatcher had made a fast believer of Andover Mays. A smile spread across his face, wider than any Toler had ever seen him attempt. Mays looked so proud, he was almost radiant. “You scoundrel! What are you worried about Calistari for? Bad report or no, Vantanible’s gonna ring your neck on principle the next time you get within reach.”
That got Blatcher howling.
Toler sighed, slouching. “Coff on you. Both of you. I’m not worried about Calistari–you are. Do you want help with him or not?”
“We’re busting your balls, Glaive.”
Blatcher’s laughter wheezed to a halt. “Let’s hear what you have in mind.”
“I’m not tied down to any Reylenn Vantanible, either,” said Toler, knowing it was only true in a technical sense. “Getting caught up with her would be the biggest mistake I ever made. Like you said, Mays. He’d strangle me, sure as daylight.”
“If you haven’t banged her, I hope you don’t, for the sake of that pretty throat of yours,” said Andover Mays. “But if you have...” He finished the thought by giving Toler a sly smile.
Blatcher was more wheeze than laugh now, his guffaws rough and wet-sounding. He cleared his throat, spat something colorful on the floor, and lit up a cigarette. “Alright, on to the important stuff. How do we deal with Calistari?”
“We save his life,” said Toler.
“Already did that, nigh on two weeks ago. He gave you more of a reaming for it than me, if you recall. Man’s got no concept of gratitude. Not a shred of decency in him.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about. This is about the deal, remember? We want him to keep his mouth shut. So how do you keep someone from talking?”
“A hammer and nails.”
“A way that doesn’t involve torture.”
Blatcher gave him a dumb stare. His face lit up. “Threaten him.”
Toler sighed. Rational exercise was too much to ask of a man like Blatcher. “You find out what they’re hiding, that’s how. Calistari’s hiding something.”
“How do you know that?”
“I don’t. It’s my gut talking. We’ve worked Calistari shipments before, right? Have you ever seen Jakob Calistari himself on a train? The man melts in the daylight. He hates it out here. Hates the hounds, hates the heat, hates the city. He visits a place like Tristol and he’s scared of his own shadow the whole time. It struck me the other day that he’s in the habit of sending his minions everywhere on his behalf. Why would he come himself unless there’s some reason he felt like he needed to?”
Andover Mays shrugged. “C
alistari is in fabrics. What’s he got, a box of undies he doesn’t want anybody knowing about? I think we’d be better off threatening him.”
If Blatcher hadn’t cared about the contents of Calistari’s crate before, he was starting to now. “Nah, the business he’s in don’t mean shit. He could be hiding anything in that crate. We need to see what’s in there. Routine inspection, any0ne?”
Toler nodded. “That’s exactly what I’m saying. If he’s hauling something besides fabric, Tristol’s the place he’d unload it. Once we know what it is, we can hold that information over his head. We promise not to squeal to Vantanible as long as he doesn’t. If he wants to keep that fat head on his shoulders, he’ll shut up about those bad reports he’s been threatening us with. That’s called saving lives, fellas. Or blackmail, if you prefer.”
“The deal,” said Blatcher, with a look that bore a close resemblance to comprehension.
“The deal,” Toler repeated. “Now like I said, we can be pretty sure it isn’t cloth he’s hiding. What cloth is important enough that he’d suffer a fifteen-week tour through the Amber Coast? I’m not buying it.”
Andover Mays gestured toward the bar. “You are buying the drinks tonight though, and I’m ready for another.”
6
Walled in by tall buildings and guarded around the clock by well-paid henchmen, Tristol Village Square was run by a group of unscrupulous entrepreneurs who called themselves The Tristol Crest. While the Crest’s dominion was limited to the confines of the Square, they were quick to promise traveling merchants that it was the only place in Tristol where they could hang their hats and stow their wares with the relative certainty of safety. Toler and the others were about to test the validity of that promise.
The three shepherds gave their credentials and entered through one of the six gates, keeping a casual pace despite their assorted states of inebriation. Distant stars shed pale blue light against the brickwork, but the yard was otherwise dim under the night sky. The Square was as grand a courtyard as any in the Inner East, with stables and garages for storing animals and crates, market stalls for the selling of goods during open hours, and even a small boarding house for the merchants and their guardians, aptly named the Tristol Village Square Hotel.
It wasn’t hard to locate Calistari’s booth, with its colorful array of bolts and spools displaying fabric of every kind–linens, cottons, wools, leathers, and silks. Many of his threads were rare–the kind of finery only the wealthy could afford. The booth was closed and locked down for the night; Calistari was either counting his riches or already asleep. Toler hoped it was the latter.
They strolled through the market and into an open side door that was set along a wall of loading bays. On the other side, the enormous warehouse they called the dealer shed opened up before them. Toler glanced over his shoulder and across the courtyard before they went in. There was an old man having a smoke at the far end, but no one else was around. Toler nodded, pleased at the lack of intrusion. They were clear to get to work.
Inside, Andover Mays tried to light a candle with his striker, then resorted to using his cigarette when he was unsuccessful. They passed by row after row of stored boxes and shipping crates until they arrived at Calistari’s flatbed, its latch secured with a heavy padlock as expected. Snuffed torches hung in sconces along the wall, leaving the candle their sole source of light in the cavernous warehouse.
“What now?” asked Blatcher, looking around warily as their shadows danced along the floor.
Toler undid his belt, unbuttoned his pants, and pulled out the crowbar he’d strapped to his thigh. Someday he would opt for the more comfortable approach of keeping things up his sleeve. Whenever he got into the habit of wearing sleeves. He handed the tool to Blatcher, who grimaced before taking it. “Now, we bust the lock. What’d you think we were going to do?”
Blatcher wedged the crowbar into the padlock’s shackle and wrenched