Blood of the Underworld(12)

“I’ll get him,” Martin said.

“What’ll it be?” asked Peb. He was quick, and had big ears. They’d called him Mouse for a while, then switched to Pebble after Thren put a stop to it. No thief of his was a mouse. They were Spiders, lurkers, killers—even the smallest carrying dangerous venom.

“Hardest we have,” Thren said. By the time Peb gave him his glass, Murphy had arrived, a small box in hand.

“How bad is it?” Murphy asked.

“Bad enough.”

He downed the glass, then carefully removed his shirt so the stocky man could see. Of them all, Murphy was the only one with a modicum of training in the skills of the apothecary. A gap-toothed man with graying hair, Murphy loved to say he first learned to sew up cows, not people, but the two were often the same. Deep down, Thren thought Murphy had learned how to stitch and amputate because he loved causing pain while still getting praised for it. Had he been born of higher blood, he’d have been one of Connington’s gentle touchers for sure.

“What’s going on?” Thren asked as he motioned for Peb to fill the glass.

“Well, you’re bleeding, but it didn’t quite make it to bone.”

“I meant with the city.”

Murphy took out a long needle and some thread from the box. Thren grabbed his glass before Peb was even done pouring.

“I’ve been here all the while,” Murphy said, threading the needle. He nodded to the rest. “Ask them.”

“I have,” Martin said, taking a seat on the other side of Thren. “All we’ve got is a name. Lord Victor Kane. He’s been here hardly twenty-four hours, yet he’s already stirring up trouble.”

“What does he want?” Thren asked as the needle pierced his flesh. He didn’t let the pain show. Not in front of so many. Pain was only a tool, and right now he had no desire for it. As Peb poured his third glass, an ache swelled in Thren’s chest. There was a time when someone might have chopped off his right hand and he’d not have made a sound. Was he growing so weak that he needed the aid of alcohol for just a little cut?

Angry with himself, he pushed the glass away. Martin snapped it up for himself, drank it down, then let out a burp.

“That’s the thing,” Martin said. “We don’t know what he wants. Early this morning, while we were stalking Serpents, Victor’s men were rounding up merchants, lords, landowners...and then out they came again for us. From what I can tell, it’s all been orderly, controlled. No one’s been killed except those who resist. The rest are getting sent to the castle—whether for execution or interrogation, your guess is as good as mine.”

Thren felt the skin of his arm tightening as the needle did its work. He used it to focus, to force things into perspective.

“Edwin’s too much of a coward for this,” he said. “That, and the status quo has served him fine for years. Someone else hatched this plan, and right now, the obvious one is Lord Victor.”

“What about one of the Trifect?” Murphy asked, thread between his teeth.

“Victor might be in their pay,” Martin agreed. “Be an expensive gambit, but by bringing in this outsider, they pull any attention away from them and onto him.”

Thren shook his head, then investigated the stitches on his arm. Clean work as always, but not quite done yet.

“Do it,” he told Murphy. The old man grinned, then grabbed the bottle away from Peb. The liquid poured down Thren’s arm. It burned like fire, but he gave no reaction beyond a tightening of his teeth. That done, he pulled his shirt back over his body. Despite his age, it was still pure muscle.

“We can do what we did before,” Martin suggested. “Declare war against them, and rally the rest of the guilds to counter this new threat.”

Thren met his eyes, saw the hopeful lie for what it was.

“We’re too few now,” he said. “Every night we’ve preyed on each other, and our numbers haven’t recovered from the chaos four years ago. Besides...these mercenaries aren’t normal scum with a sword. They’re too good, too well armed.”

Martin sighed, for he knew the same. Thren and Martin were easily the most skilled of all the Spider Guild, yet even they had suffered wounds in taking a squad down. The rest of the guild—clumsy men accustomed to threatening fat merchants for bribes—would stand no chance.

“We can’t let this go unpunished,” Martin said, dropping his voice lower. “The gold the Trifect pays us is no longer enough. I doubt we are alone in this, either. If every guild breaks, it’ll be anarchy...”

“We will not break!” Thren said. All around him, men quieted, hearing the ice in his voice, the strength of his conviction. He stood from his chair, slammed a fist against the bar. “This is our city—ours. No outsider shall come in, bare swords against us, and expect to live. All of you, cowering here...get out. Now. I want your ears at every wall. I want your eyes on every street. Whatever information you can find, I want to hear it. Where this Victor lives, where he eats, where he sleeps, where he shits—I want to know it all. And if you fear being caught, or arrested, then don’t come back. You aren’t Spiders. You’re worms.”