Day, Quarter past the 4th Hour

Eirian Quarter, Alleyway

By the time Lukios had unbarred the door and opened it, Askles’ right foot had gone numb. It tingled when he stood, and he scowled as he hobbled to the door.

Pitie looked perfectly comfortable, of course.

Man, was ‘Kles the only one who was getting too old for this?

No way. No way. Lucky was older by, what? Three years? Four? Lucky was older, but here he was, prancing around and gutting gangsters like he’d never been mulched to near pulp.

Guh. It was just disgusting how sprightly he was. Didn’t he ever get tired?

How was he doing it?

Ugh.

They ducked into the building.

“’Bout damn time, Lucky. What took you so—aw, fuck. Lukios! You promised!”

The man in question gave a sheepish little laugh. “Uh…surprise?”

There was a dead man sitting in a chair, propped up against the wall so he wouldn’t tip over.

He was really, really dead. Like, really, really dead. This wasn’t fooling anyone, ‘cause for one thing, breathing men definitely didn’t sit like that, and for another thing, the marks on his neck were real obvious. Damn, Lucky had really gone to town. Those bruises were something else.

Pitie gave a low whistle. “He insult your ma or somthin’?”

Lukios only rubbed the back of his head, then scratched his cheek. “Sorry, ‘Kles, Pitie. I mean, he was real…” Lukios grimaced, then shrugged. “He had it coming.”

Pitie wandered over to the dead body and squatted. “We gotta hide it. We’ll get caught if someone comes in.”

Askles groaned. Pitie was right. They had to hide the body, and they had to hide it well enough so it wouldn’t be discovered ‘til they were done.

“I can’t believe you,” he snapped. “Why couldn’ you jus’ be sneaky, like you said?”

What a damn mess—but ‘Kles had already known it’d go sideways. It always did.

Lukios shrugged. “We’ll hide him and get what we need then go. Well, we’ll get a surgeon, then go.”

“Wha’?” Pitie frowned, eying Lukios carefully. “He got you?”

Lukios shook his head. “Oh, no. Not for me. For—well, listen.” He tilted his head toward the corridor.

Askles frowned. Now that he was paying attention, there was a weird, moaning sound. Was there some kinda animal in there?

“What the fuck is that? He beat his dog or somethin’?”

Lukios laughed, darkly. Askles shot him a frown, but that didn’t stop him. “They treat their dogs fine. That’s no dog, ‘Kles. Go on. Go look.”

Pitie and ‘Kles glanced at each other, then quietly made their way down the corridor. It looked like the sleeping room for slaves; there were bundles of straw on the floor, with blankets. One of the mats was occupied.

“Hōra’s tits. The fuck?” For a moment, Askles couldn’t quite understand what he was looking at. The misshapen lump on the mat couldn’t be a person—except it was.

It was a woman, as far as he could tell. The lumps beneath the blanket looked womanly, but fuck. Her face. It was swollen and discolored so the original shape of it was impossible to discern—it looked like lumpy clay.

She lay on the mat, moaning out of a jaw that had been wrenched open and stuck that way, tossing and turning. She was missing teeth, and ‘Kles could see the blood and drool trailing down her chin. The rest of her was likely a damn mess too, but ‘Kles wasn’t about to lift that blanket to get a good look.

The fabric under her head was wet. She was leakin’ something outta her ears.

“Fuck. He did that to ‘er?” Pitie’s eyes had gone wide.. “Tha’s…there’re laws, aren’t there? ‘Bout beatin’ your slaves?” As far as ‘Kles knew, Pitie had never owned any—though he would soon. Or so Pitie always said.

Yeah, that hadn’t happened yet. Slaves were pricy, ‘specially now.

Damn, these Fafafucks were rich.

Lukios laughed again, the same dark little laugh he’d had in the kitchen. “Sure there are, Pitie. They go to court and the owner says, ‘Bitch was lippy.’ The end.”

Askles grimaced. “True. It’s not a crime to beat yer slaves if they’re lippy.” Lukios shot him a cold look, but Askles only shrugged. “Not sayin’ it’s good, Lucky. Just sayin’…well. It’s how it goes. Like complainin’ bout taxes or sumthin’. Goes nowhere.”

Pitie made a face. “But it’s like workin’ yer ox to death. We don’t say nuthin’, but we all think it.”

‘Kles nodded. “’Course we do. But ain’t nothin’ to be done.” He rose from his crouch. “Dunno if a bone-saw’ll do her good, Lucky. I mean…jus’ look at ‘er.” It was true. Bruises were one thing, but those bones were…fuck. What a mess. That cheek was done for sure, and he didn’t think that jaw’d ever fit back right. The swelling was so bad he thought she’d just pop if he touched it.

Her face was ruined forever anyway, even if she lived, and ‘Kles didn’t think she would. He’d never seen a man recover proper when he leaked outta his ears or nose. Not after getting beaten on the head, and she hadn’t just had one knock, either. Was clear as day.

“’Sides,” Askles added, “she ain’t yours. You gonna pay for it?”

The look Lukios gave him was flat and unimpressed. “Yes, Askles. I’ll pay for it. Or they’ll pay for it,” He jerked his head toward the door, “’cause they’re responsible for their damn slaves.”

“Fine, fine. Whatever ya want.” ‘Kles sighed. Damn, he was soft for a city boy, though ‘Kles knew the man’s slaves never gave him lip—not even that bull-headed fucker, Aristos. Aristos was a rude little bitch, but he was real sweet on Lucky, just like everyone else. It had probably never occurred to everyone’s favorite pretty-boy that sometimes, slaves didn’t do what they were told. Sometimes they did the opposite—just to piss a man off.

Still, it weren’t right to beat ‘em hard. No one in Lofos acted this crazy. These Fafafucks were nutters. All of ‘em.

Pitie stood up, too. “Can’t hurt.” He shrugged. “Let’s get it done quick, then. We can send ‘un over once we leave, can’t we?”

Lukios hesitated, looking down at the pathetic pile of woman on the floor.

“Lucky. How’d we send for someone? One of us’d have to go run down the streets and come back, and that’ll take who knows how long. And we’d get caught. For sure. It ain’t sneaky to invite a surgeon over.”

Pitie was agreeing, for once. “He’s right, Lucky. Ya said ‘fast an’ quiet.’ That ain’t fast or quiet. It’ll go worse if we get caught.”

Lukios took a breath and let it out real slow. Finally, he nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. We’ll get it done fast and quiet and send a surgeon. I’ll pay so he does the job.” He crouched by the woman and pulled the blanket so it rested under her chin—what was left of it. He murmured something in stone-sucker, like she was a spooked horse, then stood back up.

“Okay. Let’s—”

“I can go.”

Askles whipped his head around, and so did everyone else.

The boy raised his hands and cowered, but he didn’t run away. “I can get the surgeon. For Leyla.”

Pitie scratched his head. “’Ow long you been there?”

The boy—who couldn’t have been more than eleven or twelve—swallowed so hard that they could see it. “The whole time. But I won’t tell. I swear by Anahita and all that is good. I won’t tell.”

Lukios smiled very sweetly, and walked over to him. The child flinched but held his ground; Lukios only crouched so they were eye-to-eye.

“What’s your name, kid?”

“Uh…people call me Bibos.”

“Yeah? That your name?”

“Um…” He fidgeted. “It’s Kershi. But Bibos is my new name.” He pointed to the woman. “Her name’s Sama. I think she’s from Zarrini.”

‘Kles glanced at Pitie, who only shrugged. That wasn’t in Illos.

“Kershi. Okay.” Lukios nodded. “My name’s Farhad.”

It wasn’t, but hey. Whatever worked, right? Askles didn’t comment.

The boy only blinked at him, but Lukios’ smile never wavered. “I’ll get you Jaadi’s purse. Come on.”

They filed out, though ‘Kles had enough presence of mind to grab a blanket. They still had a body to hide.

They sent the boy off, who swore up and down on anything and everything that he’d bring a surgeon, then clustered around the dead man.

“Alley.”

“Nah. He’s too big and he can’t crouch. He’s dead. He’ll be spotted right away.”

“Well, you got a better idea, ‘Kles?”

“Maybe…there a cellar ‘round ‘ere?”

Lukios was already shaking his head. “Too much traffic.”

“Well, what about—”

Lukios held up his hand, and Pitie stopped talking. The older man put his finger over his lips, and they strained to listen. Men were talking to each other, and they heard rapid footsteps thumping upstairs, heading down.

“Fuck,” Lukios muttered. They wrapped the man as quick as they could, then shoved it behind the door; Lukios shoved a wedge of wood between the floor and door, though ‘Kles thought that wouldn’t be enough. That body was hefty. “The two of you—hide.”

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

There was nowhere to go but out. They dipped out into the alleyway, crouching low so they wouldn’t be spotted out any windows.

Something was happening. They could hear yelling from the other side of the building.

Fuck, was that Neva?

Pitie and Askles glanced at each other. Why were they yelling?

There was rapid murmuring from the kitchen. Lukios was speaking stone-sucker, sounding like a gods-damned natural, and they heard footsteps recede, and another door open.

Something was happening in that courtyard.

The door opened. Lukios poked his head out.

“Guys,” he said, “Change of plans.” He grinned at them, all feral teeth. “Let’s fuck ‘em up the ass.”

‘Kles sighed.

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Day, Half past the 4th Hour

Eirian District, Faravahar Courtyard

Harya grabbed Neva’s collar and yanked; they stumbled backward together, saved from falling on their asses by Kouha and his reflexes—the man was still fast as a striking snake, old as he was. His hands still held the strength of a much younger man, and his muscles corded as he kept Neva and Harya upright.

The ground where Neva had been standing cracked with a sharp tak as a sling bullet struck it and ricocheted, sending sharp little bits of rock everywhere.

Chaos exploded in the courtyard.

Payam and his friends in the surrounding apartments opened fire. Sling bullets struck the ground and walls, then rebounded; they did not discriminate.

A woman screamed. The girl who had served Vaha his wine staggered, hand clutching her head. Bright red blood seeped down her wrist and dripped off her elbow, but in another moment she was on the ground, trampled by the surge of furious, panicking men.

Fuck.

Neva and his friends had been, mostly, support artillery. All they had were slings, walking sticks, and maybe some kitchen knives. Some of them, like Harya and Payam, had kept their gear rather than sell it, but that was far and few in between.

“Back! Fall back!” Neva bellowed the order, straining to be heard over the furious shouts and screams of the other men. He drew his own sling, though he knew he would not be using it as a distance weapon—it’d be a piece of rope with a rock attached, the clumsiest of bludgeons.

He had a small paring knife in his belt. That was it.

Fuck.

Men cried out, some of them falling to the hail of bullets, while others simply dropped to the ground and scrambled for cover. Some dashed forward with murder in their eyes, and Neva knew the plan had failed.

The courtyard was a deathtrap. They needed to get out while Payam gave them cover, then they would have to hunker down and prepare to—

“Watch out below! Or not!” The voice boomed out from above them, sounding far too cheerful to be sane.

…Was that Epitus?

Something heavy sailed through the air and Vaha hollered in shock and pain as it nailed him right in the face. He flailed, slamming into the table and the flimsy wood shattered under the combined weight of the living man and the dead one—

Because that’s what it was.

It was a body. A dead body.

Anahita bless us, keep us from harm.

Neva stumbled backwards, shocked. He could not tear his eyes from the corpse of the overseer that had been flung like a sack of wheat. Its skull had shattered on impact, and now the courtyard was filled with the stink of a dead, leaking body.

Askles and Epitus waved from the recessed balcony on the second floor. They sounded perfectly cheerful.

“Heya, you Fafafucks! Come up ‘ere so we can fuck you up the ass, nice an’ proper!”

Neva stared, mouth slack. Askles sounded much more lively than he had all morning, which only confirmed Neva’s guess that he was insane. All of them were insane. Did they think this was funny?

“You, you, and you! On them! The rest of you—kill those motherfuckers right the fuck now!” Veha had landed flat on his back in an undignified sprawl. His arm was hanging oddly, and his nose was streaming blood. He spat, and Neva could see blood and teeth.

Anahita preserve us. Their aim had been perfect, those absolute monsters.

Payam had heard him. Another volley of sling bullets struck the ground, this time in a line. The gangsters drew up short, leaping backwards and away from Neva and his friends as Vaha cursed their cowardice.

“Well, throw your own rocks then! Or get back in there and grab some bows, you stupid fucks!” Vaha was frothing.

Neva looked around. Most of his own friends had managed to retreat, and they’d taken over the shops that lined the front of the building, holding the young men that staffed them at knifepoint. Some of them had used their sashes or belts to tie the young gangsters, kicking them to their knees.

Good. They had near-perfect cover now, and they could retreat—

Except Epitus and Askles were only two men. And they were surrounded.

Neva swore softly under his breath.

The mess in Mahdi’s shop had been their fault, true, but they had come to help. Neva could not let them die, not like this. And die they would—no matter how good they were at killing. Eventually, a man’s arms grew tired, and his strikes came slower and clumsier, and the Faravahar were many.

“Kouha. Harya. We have to regroup and support them. We can climb up to the second story of the taberna and shoot from there.”

Kouha’s tone was doubtful. “Might be better to retreat now, while we can. We can regroup at the bottleneck and—”

“No.” Harya cut in, voice hard. “That gives ‘em too much running room. We cut the head off the snake, here an’ now. Done. Over.”

The three men glanced at each other and nodded. Neva held up three fingers and spread them: a three-pronged formation. They peeled off to rally the men; Harya dashed to the left, and Kouha to the right. Neva backed up until he was beneath the awning of the entryway, then boomed, “Change of plans! We’re going up top. Cover fire, for as long as we can.”

Grimly, Neva looked up. Askles caught his eye—and winked.

Insane. They were all insane.

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Pitie didn’t really mind fighting, but he didn’t really like it, either.

For one thing, a man could die ‘fore he knew it. It happened lots.

For another thing, a man could lose an eye or a limb and become a cripple, which was…

Well, he’d never say so to ‘Kles’s face, or even Lucky’s, but…

Fuck. Pitie did not wanna be unmanned tha’ way.

What was a man without his eyes and hands? His feet? He couldn’t do half the things he did everyday if he lost somethin’, now could he?

Yeah, Pitie didn’t mind fightin’—it was a living—but he didn’t like it.

‘Cept when he did.

Like now.

“Think we should use the oil, ‘Kles?”

The men below were yelling in frustration. ‘Kles, Pitie, and Lukios had made damn sure all the doors and windows below were barred ‘fore they’d gone up to make some noise. The Fava—Fufa—Fapa—? Whatever they were called! —couldn’t get into their own damn building now, but maybe that was lucky: Lukios was lurking around inside, ‘cleaning house.’

Pitie was pretty sure that meant he was killin’ the stragglers—it’d be pretty silly to start scrubbin’ floors right ‘bout now, wouldn’t it?

“I think so. They’re clustered nice an’ tight now, ain’t they?” ‘Kles’ grin reflected Pitie’s own. For all his grumbling, ‘Kles liked a down an’ dirty fight. They all liked it, ‘cept for the part where they got stabbed. That part wasn’t so good, no.

They hustled over to the cauldron they’d hauled all the way up the stairs. It had taken all three of ‘em, and it had been slow going ‘cause it was hot; it’d taken some effort to keep from burning their legs, though it hadn’t been possible to avoid touching the hot metal entirely with something.

The oil was still bubblin’. Damn, this was gonna be nasty, but—well.

They were askin’ for it.

Pitie paused. “Lucky said to give ‘em a chance.”

Askles blinked, then nodded. “Right, right. It’ll be their own fault if they don’.” He cleared his throat and leaned over the solid balustrade.

“Oi! Listen up, you Fafafucks! If ya throw down yer weapons an’ surrender real quiet-like, we’ll let ya live. You’ll have some lumps, but ya’ll live. How ‘bout it? Throw ‘em down and let those nice angry fellas tie you up.” ‘Kles jerked his head toward Neva and his friends. “Nice an’ easy! Whaddaya say?”

The reply was prompt. “Go fuck your mothers, you gap-ass whores!”

They were organizing now, and Pitie could see they were planning to break their own door down to get in.

It was real convenient, ‘cause that door was right under the balcony.

Pitie looked at ‘Kles, and he shrugged. “Well. We gave ‘em a chance.”

They wrapped their hands in towels and hauled the cauldron to the lip of the balustrade.

The men below were looking up with confused, worried expressions as they muttered to each other in stone-sucker. Some of the smarter ones stepped away, but sling bullets suddenly rained from the sky and they jumped, clustering together as they ducked under the remnants of the table. They were using it as a shield, though it weren’t quite big enough for all of ‘em.

Someone in the direction of one of the other apartments blew on a whistle. It seemed to mean something to Neva and his friends, but Pitie didn’t really understand it.

Ah, well.

“Ready?”

“Yeah.” The two childhood friends looked at each other and nodded.

“One.”

“Two.”

“Threeeee!”

They tipped the cauldron over, and the men below them began to scream.

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“Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit!” Soudhi swore as his friends screamed.

Those crazy fuckers. That was oil. Boiling hot oil.

Fuck. Fuck.

Those motherfuckers weren’t playing around.

Fuck!

He jerked away from the fifth floor window, his breaths coming shaky and hard.

Those two weren’t normal. They just…

Fuck. They weren’t from the motherland, that was for damn sure. Pouring hot oil on living, breathing men?

Chāghi. Those fuckers were chāghi mercenaries, and Soudhi didn’t know where that cunt Neva had found them, but he’d make that piece of shit pay for it with his life.

He took a deep breath. Then another. And another. And another. Soudhi did it until his hands stopped shaking.

That bitch Payam was up on the roof in the apartment across the street. The first thing was to rouse the tenants there—they probably still had no fucking clue what was happening. Most of them were employed by the guild, anyway—he’d have a boy run up and tell them to just toss the fuckers from the rooftops. That’d teach them a good damn lesson, and Neva would see what he’d done. He’d see it real fucking good when his friends splattered on the ground in front of him.

So. First: find an errand boy and have him go out the back and tell the tenants in the other buildings what was what. Payam didn’t have that many men, and they were split between two buildings; those weren’t bad odds. The slings were annoying, but that’s what shields were for.

Second: Deal with those two fucking mercs.

How had they even gotten in?

Never mind. He’d cut it out of them later, piece by piece, but he needed to catch them first. They were on the second floor, which meant that—

There was a frantic knocking on the door.

“Âqâ! Âqâ!” Oh, of all the—!

Annoyed, Soudhi strode across his room and yanked the door open.

“Âqâ!” The man behind the door looked and sounded completely frantic, and Soudhi didn’t bother hiding his disgust. Soudhi recognized him; it was that new slave, the one that Jaadi had paraded around just a little while ago. What was his name again? Jaji? Jaqi? Jaja?

Whatever it was, Soudhi didn’t give a fuck.

“The fuck are you doing, you dumb shit?” Soudhi looked him up and down. He was big and sturdy, though his back was hunched over and he was wringing his very large hands in a way that was much more suited to a frightened child.

“W-we’re u-u-under attack!”

Soudhi groaned. How much had Jaadi paid? Wasn’t this one supposed to be smart?

“You think, you dumb fuck?” The lieutenant ran his hand over his face, then, without warning, struck the slave on the mouth with a backhand. “Stop your blubbering. It’s annoying.”

Jaqi stopped immediately, hunching. “Yes, âqâ. Apologies, âqâ.”

Better. “Listen up.” He grabbed the man by the hair and yanked him to the window. The difference in their heights forced the taller slave to stoop comically low. “You see that?” He pointed to the first apartment building, then the second. “I want you to run to that one first. Find a man named Irdi in the office on the first floor. Tell him we’re under attack and he’s got slingers on the roof making a mess. Have him send some men up with spears and shields to toss them over. Understand?”

“…Yes, âqâ.”

“Good. Now that building—” he pointed to the second one on the other side of the compound, “—is run by a man named Farudi. He owns the taverna downstairs, so that’s where you’ll find him. Tell him the same thing as Irdi. Understand?”

“Yes, âqâ.”

Soudhi eyed the slave with suspicion. He sounded like an idiot.

“Repeat it back to me.”

The slave obeyed, and Soudhi decided it was good enough. “And don’t you fucking think of running. I’ll brand that pretty-boy face once I catch you, get it?”

“Yes, âqâ! I would never run, âqâ!”

Soudhi grunted and released his hair, grimacing with disgust. When he looked at his palm, there were streaks of black. Disgusting. How much had Jaadi paid for this again?

“Do it right and I’ll grant you something. Get going.”

“Yes, âqâ.” The slave kept his head down and started shuffling toward the door. Soudhi turned back to the window, trying to recapture the thought he’d had about the balcony.

Oh, yes. There were bows in storage. His window was large enough, and Soudhi was a good shot; he could likely kill them both before they knew what was happening.

Hm. That meant no interrogation, but it was better than letting the—

Soudhi gagged as something wrapped around his neck and wrenched. He clawed at his throat, trying to free himself even as he was lifted off his feet and dragged backwards, away from the window, but whoever had him was strong; he kicked his feet, pushing against the wall to throw himself backwards into his attacker, but the man only grunted. It did nothing. Nothing.

His chest was burning. His neck strained, muscles bulging, but it was useless; his legs kicked fruitlessly as he was lifted higher. Soudhi struggled mightily, nails raking red lines against his own skin as his face itself seemed to bulge; his eyes threatened to pop, straining in their sockets as his vision began to go black.

His chest was on fire.

Soudhi kicked and kicked, and when he sent his leg back he managed to connect, but it was a weak and ineffectual strike, the thrashing of a child held down by a monster.

The man holding him didn’t even grunt. He didn’t speak. He didn’t make a sound.

He only continued to pull, tighter and tighter, and Soudhi kicked and kicked and scrabbled to get the rope off.

Just one breath. He just needed one breath. One. Then he could—he could—

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The faux-slave called Jiji—Lukios to his friends—let the body crumple to the floor. He didn’t bother to hide it; there was no time now. He hauled it to a corner and left it there, but not before taking the man’s key ring.

Jaadi had had the keys to nearly everything, but not to the uppermost floors.

He tucked it into his rope-belt and tightened it.

He tilted his head to the side and listened. All the noise was coming from outside, but there were people about indoors, too.

He slipped off his sandals and tied them to his belt, too. Then he crossed the room and poked his head out the door.

All clear.

He left the room, disappearing into the servant’s passage without a sound.

It was time to visit an old friend.