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  Royce raised an eyebrow while Hadrian slipped the tip of his tongue along his front teeth. They glanced at each other, but neither said a word before continuing on their way.

  Leaving the hill district, they continued along Bridge Street as the land sloped downward toward the river. They passed rows of warehouses—mammoth buildings emblazoned with company brands like royal crests. Some were simply initials, usually the new businesses that had no sense of themselves. Others bore trademarks like the boar’s head of the Bocant Company, an empire whose genesis was pork, or the diamond symbol of DeLur Enterprises.

  “You realize he’ll never be able to pay us the hundred?” Hadrian asked.

  “I just didn’t want him to think he was getting off easy.”

  “You didn’t want him to think Royce Melborn went soft at the sight of a little girl’s tears.”

  “She wasn’t just any girl and besides, he saved her from Ambrose Moor. For that alone he earned one life.”

  “That’s something that has always puzzled me. How is it Ambrose is still alive?”

  “I’ve been sidetracked, I suppose,” Royce said in his let us not talk about this tone, and Hadrian dropped it.

  Of the city’s three main bridges, the Langdon was the most ornate. Made from cut stone, it was lined every few feet by large lampposts fashioned in the shapes of swans that when lit, gave the bridge a festive look. Now, however, with the lights out, the stone was wet and appeared oily and dangerous.

  “Well, at least we didn’t spend the last month looking for DeWitt for nothing,” Hadrian said sarcastically as they crossed the bridge. “I would have thought—”

  Royce stopped walking and abruptly raised his hand. Both men looked around, and without a word drew their weapons as they moved back to back. Nothing seemed amiss. The only sound was the roar of the tumultuous waters that rushed and churned below them.

  “Impressive, Duster,” a man addressed Royce as he stepped out from behind one of the bridge lampposts. His skin was pale and his body so slender and boney that he swam in his loose britches and shirt. He looked like a corpse someone forgot to bury.

  Behind them, Hadrian noted three more men crawling onto the span. They all had similar appearances, thin and muscular, each in dark colored clothes. They circled like wolves.

  “What tipped you off we were here?” the thin man asked.

  “I’m guessing it was your breath, but body odor really can’t be ruled out,” Hadrian replied with a grin while noting their positions, movements, and the direction of their eyes.

  “Mind ’yer mouth bub,” the tallest of the four threatened.

  “To what do we owe this visit, Price?” Royce asked.

  “Funny, I was about to ask you the same,” the thin man replied. “This is our city after all, not yours—not anymore.”

  “Black Diamond?” Hadrian asked.

  Royce nodded.

  “And you would be Hadrian Blackwater,” Price noted. “I always thought you’d be bigger.”

  “And you’re a Black Diamond. I always thought there were more of you.”

  Price smiled, held his gaze long enough to suggest a threat, and returned his attention to Royce. “So what are you doing here, Duster?”

  “Just passing through.”

  “Really? No business?”

  “Nothing that would interest you.”

  “Well now, you see that’s where you’re wrong.” Price stepped away from the swan lamppost and began slowly circling them as he talked. The wind blowing down the river whipped his loose shirt like a flag at mast. “The Black Diamond is interested in everything that happens in Colnora, most particularly when it involves you, Duster.”

  Hadrian leaned over and asked, “Why does he keep calling you, Duster?”

  “That was my guild name,” Royce replied.

  “He was a Black Diamond?” asked the youngest looking of the four. He had round, chubby cheeks blown red and blotchy, a narrow mouth wreathed by a thin mustache and goatee.

  “Oh yes, that’s right, Etcher, you’ve never heard of Duster before, have you? Etcher is new to the guild, only been with us what—six months? Well, you see not only was Duster a Diamond, he was an officer, bucketman, and one of the most notorious members in the guild’s history.”

  “Bucketman?” Hadrian asked.

  “Assassin,” Royce explained.

  “He’s a legend, this one is,” Price went on, pacing around the stone bridge, carefully avoiding the puddles. “Wonder-boy of his day, he rose through the ranks so fast it unnerved people.”

  “Funny,” Royce said, “I only remember one.”

  “Well, when the First Officer of the guild is nervous, so is everyone else. You see back then the Jewel had a man named Hoyte running the show. He was an ass to most of us—a good thief and administrator—but an ass just the same. Duster here had a lot of support from the lower ranks and Hoyte was concerned Duster might replace him. He began ordering Duster on the most dangerous jobs—jobs that went suspiciously bad. Still, Duster always escaped unscathed, making him even more a hero. Rumors began circulating we might have a traitor in the guild. Rather than being concerned, Hoyte saw this as an opportunity.”

  Price paused in his orator’s trek around the bridge and stopped in front of Royce. “You see at that time there were three bucketmen in the guild and all of them good friends. Jade, the guild’s only female assassin, was a beauty who—”

  “Is this going somewhere, Price?” Royce snapped.

  “Just giving Etcher a little background, Duster. You wouldn’t begrudge me the chance to educate my boys, would you?” Price smiled and returned to his casual pacing, slipping his thumbs into the loose waistline of his pants. “Where was I? Oh yes, Jade. It happened right over there.” He pointed back across the bridge. “That empty warehouse with the clover symbol on its side. That’s where Hoyte set them up, pitting one against the other. Then, like now, bucketmen wore masks to prevent being marked.” Price paused and looked at Royce in feigned sympathy. “You had no idea who she was until it was over did you, Duster? Or did you know and kill her anyway?”

  Royce said nothing but glared at Price with a dangerous look.

  “The last of the three bucketmen was Cutter, who was understandably upset to learn Duster murdered Jade since Cutter and Jade were lovers. The fact that his friend was responsible made it personal, and Hoyte was happy to let Cutter settle the score.

  “But Cutter didn’t want Duster dead. He wanted him to suffer and insisted on something more elaborate, more painful. The man is a strategic mastermind—our best heist planner and arranged for Duster to be apprehended by the city guard. Cutter traded a few favors and with some money, bought a trial that resulted in Duster going to the Manzant Prison and Salt Mine. The hole no one ever comes back from. Escape was thought to be impossible—only somehow Duster managed it. You know we still don’t know how you got out,” he paused, giving Royce a chance to reply.

  Again, Royce remained silent.

  Price shrugged. “When Duster escaped he returned to Colnora. First, the magistrate who presided over his trial was found dead in his bed. Then the false witnesses—all three on the same night—and finally the lawyer. Soon, one by one, members of the Black Diamond started disappearing. They turned up in the strangest places: the river, the city square, even the steeple of the church.

  “After losing more than a dozen members, the Jewel made a deal. He gave Hoyte to Duster who forced him to confess publicly. Then Duster killed Hoyte and left his body in the Hill Square Fountain—it was pure artistry. It stopped the war, but the wounds were too deep to forgive. Duster left only to reemerge years later working out of Crimson Hand territory up north. But you’re not a member, are you?”

  “I don’t have much use for guilds anymore,” Royce replied coldly.

  “And who’s that?” Etcher asked pointing at Hadrian. “Duster’s servant? He’s carrying enough weapons for the both of them.”

  Price smiled at Etcher. “T
hat’s Hadrian Blackwater, and I wouldn’t point at him; you’re likely to lose that arm.”

  Etcher looked at Hadrian skeptically. “What? He’s some kind of killer swordsman? Is that it?”

  Price chuckled. “Sword, spear, arrow, rock, whatever is at hand,” he turned to Hadrian. “The Diamond doesn’t know as much about you, but rumors abound. One says you were a gladiator; another reports you were a general in a Calian army—successful too if the stories can be trusted. There’s even one story circulating that you were the enslaved courtier of an exotic eastern queen.”

  Some of the other Diamonds including Etcher chuckled.

  “As much fun as this trip down memory lane has been, Price, do you have a reason for stopping us?”

  “You mean beyond entertainment? Beyond harassment? Beyond reminding you that this is a Black Diamond controlled city? Beyond informing you that unguilded thieves like yourselves are not allowed to practice here, and that you personally are not welcome?”

  “Yeah, that’s what I meant.”

  “Actually there is one more thing. There’s a girl looking for you two.”

  Royce and Hadrian glanced at each other curiously.

  “She’s been going around asking about two thieves named Hadrian and Royce. Now, as entertaining as it has been to hear your names publicly advertised, it is embarrassing for the Black Diamond to have anyone asking for thieves in Colnora that are not members of our guild. People are apt to get the wrong impression about this city.”

  “Who is she?” Royce asked.

  “No idea.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Sleeping under the Tradesmen’s Arch on Capital Boulevard, so I think we can rule out her being a noble debutante or a rich merchant’s daughter. Since she is traveling alone, I think you can also rule out the possibility that she is here to kill you or have you arrested. If I had to guess, I should think she is looking to hire you. I must say, if she is typical of the kind of patrons you two attract, I would consider a more traditional line of work. Perhaps there’s a pig farm you might be able to get a job at—at least you would be keeping the same level of company.”

  Price’s tone and expression dropped to a serious level. “Find her, and get her, and yourselves, out of our city by tomorrow night. You might want to hurry. Cleaned up she could be pretty and might fetch a fair price or at least provide several minutes of pleasure for someone. I suspect the only reason she hasn’t been touched so far is that she’s been dropping your names everywhere. Around here, Royce Melborn is still something of a bogeyman.”

  Price turned to leave and his mocking tone returned. “It’s actually a shame you can’t stay around; the theatre is showing a play about a couple of thieves lured into being accused of murdering the King of Medford. It’s loosely based on the real murder of Amrath several years ago.” Price shook his head. “Completely unrealistic. Can you imagine a seasoned thief being lured into a castle to steal a sword to save a man from a duel? Authors!”

  Price continued to shake his head as he and the other thieves left Hadrian and Royce on the bridge and headed down the streets on the far bank.

  “Well, that was pleasant, don’t you think?” Hadrian said as they retraced their steps, heading back up the hill toward Capital Boulevard. “Nice bunch of guys. I feel a little disappointed they only sent four.”

  “Trust me, they were plenty dangerous. Price is the Diamond’s First Officer, and the other two quiet ones were bucketmen. There were also six more, three on each side of the bridge hiding under the ambush lip, just in case. They weren’t taking any chances with us. Does that make you feel better?”

  “Much, thanks,” Hadrian rolled his eyes. “Duster, huh?”

  “Don’t call me that,” Royce said, his tone serious. “Don’t ever call me that.”

  “Call you what?” Hadrian asked innocently.

  Royce sighed then smiled at him. “Walk faster; apparently, we have a client waiting.”

  ———

  She awoke to a rough hand on her thigh.

  “Whatcha got in the purse, honey?”

  Disoriented and confused, the girl wiped her eyes. She was in the gutter beneath the Tradesmen’s Arch. Her hair a filthy tangle of leaves and twigs, her dress a tattered rag. She clutched a tiny purse to her chest, the drawstring tied around her neck. To most passing by, she might appear as a bundle of trash discarded on the side of the road, or a pile of cloth and twigs absently left behind by the street sweepers. Still, there were those who were interested even in piles of trash.

  The first thing she saw when her eyes could focus was the dark, haggard face and gaping mouth of a man crouching over her. She squealed and tried to crawl away. A hand grabbed her by the hair. Strong arms forced her down, pinning her wrists to her sides.

  She felt his hot breath on her face and it smelled of liquor and smoke. He tore the tiny purse from her fingers and pulled it from around her neck.

  “No!” She wrenched a hand free and reached out for it. “I need that.”

  “So do I.” The man cackled slapping her hand aside. Feeling the weight of coins in the bag, he smiled and stuffed the small pouch in his breast pocket.

  “No!” she protested.

  He sat on her, pinning her to the ground, and ran his fingers down her face, along her lips, stopping at her neck. Slowly they circled her throat and he gave a little squeeze. She gasped, struggling to breathe. He pressed his lips hard against hers, so hard she could tell he was missing teeth. The rough stubble of his whiskers scratched her chin and cheeks.

  “Shush,” he whispered. “Were only get’n started. You need ta save your strength.” He lifted off, pushing himself up to his knees, and reached for the buttons of his britches.

  She struggled, clawing at him, kicking. He pinned her arms under his knees and her feet found only air. She screamed. The man replied by slapping her hard across the face. The shock left her stunned, staring blindly while he returned to work on his buttons. The pain did not hit her yet, not fully. It was there welling up, fire hot on her cheek. Through watering eyes, she saw him on top of her as if viewing the scene from a distance. Individual sounds were lost replaced by a dull hum. She saw his cracked, peeling lips moving, his throat muscles shifting, long gangly chords, but never heard the words. She freed one arm, but it was captured and stuffed back down out of sight once more.

  Behind him, she could see two figures approaching. Somewhere inside her, a thread of hope came alive and she managed a weak whisper, “Help me.”

  The foremost man drew a massive sword and holding it by the blade, swung the pommel. Her attacker fell sprawling across the gutter.

  The man with the sword knelt down beside her. He was merely an outline against the charcoal sky, a phantom in the dark.

  “May I be of assistance, milady,” she heard his voice—a nice voice. His hand found hers and he pulled her to her feet.

  “Who are you?”

  “My name is Hadrian Blackwater.”

  She stared at him. “Really?” She managed, refusing to let go of his hands. Before she realized it, she began to cry.

  “What’d you do to her?” the other man asked coming up behind them.

  “I—I don’t know.”

  “Are you squeezing her hand too hard? Let her go.”

  “I’m not holding her. She’s holding me.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Her voice quivered. “I just never thought I would ever find you.”

  “Oh, okay. Well, you did.” He smiled at her. “And this fellow here is Royce Melborn.”

  She gasped and threw her arms around the smaller man’s neck, hugging him tight and crying even harder. Royce stood awkward and stiff while Hadrian peeled her off.

  “So I get the impression you’re glad to see us, that’s good,” Hadrian told her. “Now, who are you?”

  “I’m Thrace Wood of Dahlgren Village.” She was smiling. She could not help herself. “I have been looking for you for a very long time.”

&n
bsp; She staggered.

  “Are you alright?”

  “I’m a little dizzy.”

  “When was the last time you had anything to eat?”

  Thrace stood thinking, her eyes shifting back and forth trying to remember.

  “Never mind,” Hadrian turned to Royce, “This was once your city. Any ideas where we can get help for a young woman in the middle of the night?”

  “It’s a shame we aren’t in Medford. Gwen would be great for this sort of thing.”

  “Well, isn’t there a brothel here? After all we’re in the trade capital of the world. Don’t tell me they don’t sell that.”

  “Yeah, there’s a nice one on South Street.”

  “Okay, Thrace, is it? Come with us, we’ll see if we can get you cleaned up and perhaps a bit of food in you.”

  “Wait.” She knelt down beside the unconscious man and pulled her purse from his pocket.

  “Is he dead?” She asked.

  “Doubt it. Didn’t hit him that hard.”

  Rising, she felt light-headed and darkness crept in from the edges of her vision. She hovered a moment like a drunk, began to sway and finally collapsed. She woke only briefly and felt arms gently lifting her. Through a dull buzzing she heard the sound of a chuckle.

  “What’s so funny?” she heard one of them say.

  “This is the first time I suspect anyone has ever visited a whore house and brought his own woman.”

  Chapter 2: Thrace

  Shines up purty as a new copper piece, that one does,” Clarisse noted as the three looked through the doorway at Thrace waiting in the parlor. Clarisse was a large rotund woman with rosy cheeks and short pudgy fingers that had a habit of playing with the pleats of her skirt. She and the other women of the Bawdy Bottom Brothel had done wonders with the girl. Thrace was clothed in a new dress. It was cheap and simple, a brown linen kirtle over a white smock with a starched brown bodice, but still decidedly more fetching than the rag she had worn. She hardly resembled the ragamuffin they met the night before. In addition to giving her a bed to sleep in, the women scrubbed, combed, and fed her. Even her lips and eyes were painted and the results were stunning. She was a young beauty with startling blue eyes and golden hair.