Chapter 77: Flogging a Dead Horse
“The Dead Horse,” I raised an eyebrow at the graphic sign overhead, featuring the eponymous horse being disembowelled in rather gruesome fashion. “This is where we’re staying?”
The inn wasn’t bad, if anything it was larger, cleaner and better lit than the one in Allensward; it even had magical lamps installed inside, removing the need for candles at the tables and countertop to counteract the dark outside. Accordingly, I was less complaining than merely expressing my surprise, as the clandestine nature of our work had me expecting some hidden base in the sewers, or perhaps a magically concealed crypt on the edge of the city.
“This is the Merchant’s District, where all of the wholesalers and shopkeepers congregate to haggle over prices. It would be strange if we didn’t make this our home.”
Ah, so it was about fitting in. I nodded in understanding and made no more mention of it, stepping off of the carriage and relishing the opportunity to stretch myself properly, after spending nearly the entire day waiting in line.
“How did you know all that anyway?” I asked Pumpkin, who looked to be dozing in my arms, if not for the slight twitch of his ears that showed I had his attention.
“I grabbed a brochure off of a tour guide on the way here.”
As far as I could tell, Pumpkin hadn’t left the carriage the entire day, but there was no point calling him out on it; not when the information was useful, no matter where it came from.
Putting that curiosity aside, I strained my eyes to take in every inch of our temporary abode, marking down entrances and exits, both conventional and improvisable in a pinch (i.e. windows). Perhaps it might prove useful in the event of an ambush, or failing that if there was a fire, probably the more likely of two possibilities.
It was already night, but the aforementioned lamps helped me out, as did the fact that I was still awake and alert, having had little to do during the day besides sleep. Speaking of haggling, Harvey was presently out front, engaged in a vigorous back and forth with the innkeeper for the price of our room and board. The numbers quoted were mostly meaningless, the kind of money that even a few vials of dust could recoup, but as he’d said, it was all about making the right impression with the local gossips, and a spendthrift merchant would immediately stick out in a crowd of misers, one and all. Harvey didn’t look to be trying too hard, protesting just enough to be believable before letting the innkeeper browbeat him into an upcharge or two, and shaking on it.
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Interestingly, the drivers had pulled the remaining horses from the carriages, and were mounting up to leave for parts unknown. It wasn’t that surprising, as Harvey was the only core member of the Dead Hand present, and they were simply hired hands with varying degrees of criminality in their backgrounds. There was no point having them hang around while we did our business, and presumably they or their replacements would be back later for the trip across the Wall.
“Right, this is our first stop,” Harvey reiterated, coming over with his coin pouch somewhat lighter. “We’ve got two rooms for the week, meals included. Why don’t you get familiar with the inn while I go meet the first of our customers nearby?”
“Is it alright, leaving the carriages untended?” I asked, because while the thought of sleeping in them was unappealing, it still beat the possibility of losing all our merchandise.
“There are few safer places than this. A lot of money changes hands in this street, enough for permanent spells of observation to keep watch over it. Professionals won’t touch a thing here, whilst anyone else won’t get more than a few pieces of fruit before the guards are upon them.”
“Well, in that case, I’ve got a proper room to get acquainted with,” I agreed, happy to get a taste of the home life again after weeks on the road.
Harvey nodded at that and slinked off down the street, presumably to meet his fellow in the Dead Hand. Despite my words, I didn’t head inside straight away, instead taking a final moment to admire the cityscape. Allensward had been undeniably rural in its makeup, but this? This was a proper city, one that, if I squinted just right and pretended the lamps were electric, could have been the cousin of a number of smaller cities back in England, those old fiefs where the influence of the Roman Empire was never entirely washed away. There might have been as many as a hundred thousand permanent residents, along with any number of itinerant merchants on any given day. Nowhere near the size of London, but comparable to Bath or Warwick, it stirred a brief moment of nostalgia before I squashed it, heading into the inn for a hearty dinner in the house, first thing.
—
“Marek? Can you hear me?”
That was the third time Harvey had tried reaching out to the local branch officer, and three times he’d received the same response: none at all. Once was expected, since everyone had a life of their own to live, such that calls coming out of the blue couldn’t always be taken in the heat of the moment. Twice was annoying, but still acceptable albeit a touch exasperating to deal with. Threefold silence, when the calls were placed five minutes apart? That was enough to make Harvey’s brow crease in worry, and place a knife in his palm as he approached the well kept house at the end of a terrace, here at the border between the nice district and one couched in euphemisms.
Three firm knocks, to draw attention, two more softly to signify intent. Not the most complicated of passwords, but then this wasn’t a safehouse, just a meeting point so anything more would be too cumbersome for regular use. When not a hint of movement could be heard from within, Harvey pulled a lockpick and got to work.
The door swung moment moments later, and a familiar stench hit his nostrils, of death and decay.