Chapter 56 - Overtures

I had more surprises in store, that night. Upon our return to the Mop and Bucket, the mender, Bartran of Keel Street, waited at the bar.

“You’re alive!” I said, amazed. “I thought for sure the halfies finished you the same time they threw me in the pit.”

“They were going to,” said Bartran. He raised a finger to the four degenerates at their usual card table. “But those three came out of nowhere and took apart the ones the chief set to guard me. And the other,” he scrunched his nose as if doubting his own memory. “The one in red just screamed and played that queer lute of his.”

I shrugged. “There’s sometimes magic in music.”

“If you say so. After that, they brought me straight here.” his voice lowered. “Is… Foe…?”

I clapped his shoulders. “Dead,” I announced. “We made sure. The Teeth are done for. I promise.”

He seemed to relax, as though shrugging off a great weight. The lovers arcane burned, inverted, in front of his forehead. Disharmony, broken heart. “I know it won’t bring him back, but…” he sighed. “It’s some measure of equity, I feel. Gods, I helped them. I took their coin.”

“You can help make sure they’re gone for good. Menders are never unwanted.”

“Dragonmaw will be better without them. I’ll help however I can,” he said. Then he saw Annalisa, and his eyes widened. “Wane dragons! Let me get my kit.”

I left Annalisa at the bar to try and get drunk and be pestered by the mender in equal measures. She deserved both. The winnings from the fight would go to our agents and operations in the city. We’d hire more hands to secure Barrowdown against the Mayazians and begin to extend into Kindledown. We’d also gotten a mender in our pocket. No easy feat, without resorting to kidnapping and blackmail, like the orcs. Loyalty earned was more stalwart than obedience coerced. And on top of that, we’d de-fanged the Teeth in the course of a single night and just a handful of bodies.

The fall of Foe Skull Crusher Bite marked the end of the Teeth’s influence in the major part of Kindledown. Cutting the head from the snake, in a way. Orcs respect strength. And Foe had been the only one with real ties to the tribes in the Shadow Veldt, while the rest were city-born mongrels of half-blood or less. With the head of the Teeth gone, we’d make outreaches toward the smaller gangs that she’d kept suppressed in her territory. If we could turn them, get them to rally around the banner of the Barrow Knave? Well, that influence would spread west.

I knew just where to start, too. I spotted Brokier across the room, sitting with a clutch of hooded figures. I strongly suspected them to be the last dregs of the wolf-kin predecessors that had run the district in my youth, come to the Mop. They had donned deep cloaks to hide their wildmarked features, but they couldn’t hide their crowns of cards. I would get to them. First, I had a table of gamblers to thank. I approached their game and the one they called Jack shot me his typical curdled-milk glare beneath the low brim of his bowler cap.

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“Appreciate the assist, tonight,” I said.

“Piss off,“ grumbled Jack

“We do, on occasion, try,” said the lutist.

“Hardly the first man I’ve stolen,” said the woman. “Though, far from the prettiest.”

“Now you can stop watering our drinks,” said the fourth.

Fair was fair. I made my way back over to Jacco behind the bar to let him know. Then, I collected a round and made my way over to the wildmarked table. A few of them stiffened as I dropped drinks, probably smelling the blood and dried orc piss on my clothes. But their leader stilled them. I pulled a chair over from the next table and sat.

“Gentlemen,” I said.

Brokier sniffed the air and managed to pry his beady eyes away from the girls. “Brokier bring to you. Make introduction, ah-ah. Many friends in Kindledown, has Brokier. Many friends in Barrowdown. All friends of Brokier.”

I looked to the rest of the table.

“Barrow Knave,” said the one in the back. “We owe you a debt.”

I sipped at my stein. “I did what I did for my own reasons. But if you think there’s a ledger what needs squared, then, first, I’d like to know who I’m talking to.”

The leader dropped his hood, and I was surprised by how human he looked, other than hair a bit too silver and sleek for his young age and a bit of a point toward the tops of his ears. He could have passed for half-elf, if it came down to it. “I’m Greddith of Norn Hollow.”

I leaned back. “Bartook was from Norn Hollow.”

“You knew him?”

“Only by reputation. I grew up in Kindledown.”

This caused a bit of whispering back and forth. Greddith eventually leaned in. “Then you know the wolves keep their word. My father was hard, but fair. When he was alive. Not like the mongrels who killed him beneath a guise of truce.”

“So I’ve heard. Now that the orcs are on the out, I’m guessing you want Kindledown back?”

“Though it pains me to admit, we are not the strength we once were. We cannot hold the district on our own. But with support...” He glanced toward Annalisa, who was currently standing on the bar and making it snow.

“There would be tribute, eh-heh,” added Brokier. The rat-kin grinned. His stake in such a partnership was obvious.

Greddeth nodded his agreement. “Give us leave to manage affairs east of the Makers Guild—and help to hunt the remainders of the mongrels before they can reorganize. In return, we’ll secure the streets and keep twenty-five percent of the take.”

I couldn’t be happier. Loyal allies were exactly what we needed in Dragonmaw. More hands bought with deeds, not coin, to cement our position. I couldn’t begin to put a price on how much the remainder of the wildkin tribe would be worth to me.

“Fifteen percent,” I countered. The dragons in the remains of my deck purred with glee.

One of the wolves growled. “Fifteen?” he hissed. “Why not just ask for the shirts off our backs?”

Greddeth stilled him. “Twenty-three,” he said.

“Twenty-one.”

“An auspicious figure,” said Greddeth. The number twenty-one had special significance to wolves. Not only was it considered lucky in games of chance, and boy were wolves a superstitious bunch, but the lunar cycle also had twenty-one days until each new moon.

I extended my hand and clasped wrists with the wildmarked gang leader.

“I must say,” said Greddeth. “It certainly softens the deal knowing you’re local to the matchbox, not some outside interloper. Whereabouts did you den?”

“Stitch alley,” I said. The group stiffened. Even Brokier became somehow more manic-looking. The significance of the location, as well as my age, were not lost on them. Stitch Alley and the surrounding streets were treated almost as a minor unsheathing now, in terms of how voraciously they were avoided. Years after Margot Bethane’s death, the street of seamstresses still bore tangible danger of her malevolence. There were shadows in Stitch Alley that one could step into, and never step back out.

I said my goodbyes and retreated back to my office.

There was still so much to do.