Thirty Seven: Disobedience

Arlen didn't normally have to conceal his dislike for someone. Fear had once been motivation enough for a Devil to do as he suggested, and it didn't matter how dark-damned rude he was. He supposed it was a sign of his change in fortunes that he was forced to sit across the table from a grubby urchin girl half his age and pretend he didn't hate her guts.

Ashe was smiling like she knew it, sipping at the brandy he'd had to buy to even get her to agree to the meeting. It wasn't begging yet, not quite, but so close to it that he felt ill.

"Look," he said, forcing his tone to be even, "it's not a big job. It'll take an hour or two of your night. All you've got to do is sit in a bar and talk to the girl, and then bring me back whatever she says. The pay's not even conditional on her saying anything useful."

"But it is conditional on not repeating anything to Gelert," Ashe said, dark eyes glittering. "That's punishable, Arlen."

"I added a bonus to account for that," Arlen replied sourly. "I'm not adding more. If you won't do it for what I'm offering, I'll have to find someone else." He scowled. "And charge you for the brandy."

"It wasn't a gift?" Ashe simpered, clutching the bottle to her chest and then cackling. "And how do you suppose you'd get it? Throw your leg at me?"

A huge hand fell on her shoulder from behind. Arlen smirked as Ashe instantly sobered under Usk's glare. "It's an injury, brat, not a free pass to mock a man who first killed before your mother even bent over. A reminder that he's still second rank. Not Gelert. Certainly not you." He leaned in. "I'd like to see you execute the highest-profile murder in over a century without finishing up jerking on the end of a noose."

Arlen watched Ashe's face over his ale. She caught his look and glared, but found no answer. She sat back in her chair, sulking, as Usk pulled one from another table and sat himself beside Arlen.

"Any luck?" Arlen said.

"Bare as the bloody Barrens in that place," Usk muttered. "I'll have to go back, the occupant returned while I was in the middle of it."

Arlen caught Ashe's unabashedly curious gaze.

"House-robbing now?" she said, but her voice had lost some of its bite. The dynamic had changed considerably with Usk at the table. Arlen rankled at the fact that his presence alone was not enough anymore, rankled that he had even come to rely on Usk as a defence. As soon as he had this new, more efficient leg, things were going to change.

"You make that sound like it's unusual," Arlen said.

Ashe gave a simpering little shrug, some of her confidence returning as she splashed more brandy into her glass. Arlen glanced around the taproom as she did so, because he'd seen how Ashe got when she was properly soaked, and he didn't want her shouting their business to the whole tavern. It was a seedy dive on a backstreet in Bisa, and scantily dressed men and women weaved between the tables offering every service imaginable, and some he would have been hard-pressed to think of on his own. It wasn't a place where everyone's business was honourable, but there was that and then there was asking for trouble. A place that catered to those sorts often catered to the sorts who'd sell your name to the guard for a stone Flint and a pat on the head.

"I just thought you were angling for bigger fish these days, Arlen," she said. Her eyes glittered over her shot glass before she threw down another drink. Arlen stilled Usk with a touch on his arm.

"I am," he said. "Everyone likes a bit of bar money on the side. Look, are you going to do this dark-damned job or not?"

She deliberated, sucking in her lower lip and then pushing it out in a thoughtful pout. She wore men's clothes with style, and her long dark hair was always artfully messy. She had an elfin face with large, guileless eyes – when she wasn't spearing you with them, that was. She might have been beautiful if she hadn't been such a spiteful little demon at the same time. He supposed some men might get into the danger of constantly finding explosives in your pockets or under the bed, but it wasn't something he'd be looking for. He'd already lost one limb.

"Fine," she said, even though Arlen knew she'd made up her mind a long time before. She held out a hand. "Give me the money."

"Half now," Arlen corrected, "half when you've done it."

A spasm of irritation crossed her face and she opened and closed her hand a few times. "Yeah, yeah. Just give it."

He threw the pouch across the table, concealing from her how much it stung to part from it. With any luck, his next planned job would all go smoothly, because if it didn't her next payment would reduce his savings to a scattering of spare change.

"Here, in a week," he said, as she got up to leave. Several eyes followed her as she tossed her glossy hair over one shoulder, blew him a mocking kiss, and skipped out. He grimaced.

"Nothing pleases you," Usk grumbled. "I didn't think she'd agree. She follows Gelert round like a yappy pup."

"And Gelert pays her about as much attention," Arlen replied. "She's been trying to persuade him to let her take a leading role in some of his plans and he never allows it. Still treats her like a little girl."

"Dangerous," Usk observed. "Little girls won't rig your shit-pit with firecrackers."

Arlen snorted, and stood, but his bad mood lingered. The whole thing had left him with a bad taste in his mouth, though he told himself that even if he had been fully able-bodied he could never have sent any of his lads or himself to talk to Grace Haverford without scaring her into tattling. The last thing he needed was the Lord of the Reach on alert that someone was trying to get information from his staff, and while Yddris and his fucking know-all attitude had left the city, Arlen didn't know enough about the Unspoken he'd left in charge of his house to trust that he wasn't an equal risk. Jesper had reported back that he'd seen the girl coming and going from there, even though her brother was gone. There was every chance she might confide in this other Unspoken, and one nosy witch man was enough to deal with.

A half-naked woman tried to waylay them on their way out, eyes pinned on Usk. One scowl from Arlen and the Varthian pretended he hadn't been considering it, hurrying after him looking chastened.

"You know," he said, "you could do worse than paying for a night with someone. Take your mind off things."

"Off what things and with what money?" Arlen snapped. He hardly thought sharing someone else's bed for a night was going to solve anything. "Besides, you lot love reminding me how much I stink, so I'd probably be turned out at dawn so they could air out the dark-damned sheets in time for the next one."

He rapped on the carriage door to wake up the driver on his box, and then hopped inside. Usk climbed in after him, folding his huge frame into the tiny space with a look of stoic suffering.

"I don't think you should be planning jobs this soon," the brute said, as the carriage rumbled into motion.

"I don't remember the point where I started taking orders from you," Arlen snapped back. Usk gave him such a doleful look that it took all his effort not to jam his walking stick right between his eyes. "If we don't do this job, Ashe's going to take most of what I have left, and I'll have almost nothing to work with whenever you do deem it appropriate."

"Then let the rest of us do it," Usk said simply. "You could make mistakes now. You know it, I know it. It's been a long time."

"And what do I do by leaving it even longer? Hope it just comes back?"

"You move past the grief."

Arlen stared for a long moment. He blinked. Then he hit the roof of the carriage, bringing it to an abrupt halt, and kicked the door wide with his good leg. "Get out."

"Arl..."

"I said get out."

Usk went, face set and scowling. He leaned back in just before he shut the door. "You know I'm right. The others have noticed. And if you can't move past it they'll find out what happened and what you were hiding. If their suspicions are up, then Marick's will be too." He glared. "You do not credit them with enough intelligence by far, but they will find out."

The door slammed. After a moment of fuming silence, Arlen knocked on the roof again for the carriage to keep moving. It rattled into motion, and the journey back to the dead quarter had never felt so long. How dare he speak to Arlen that way? Before he'd lost the leg, no one would have dreamed of it. Perhaps all they saw now was a cripple they had to look after. The thought made him nauseous. All the more reason to get this job planned and out of the way.

A heist on a counting house had not been his first idea, but made all kinds of sense when he really thought about it. The only limit on what he could take was how much his team could carry and how quickly they could do it. It wasn't really a heist as such – that implied more complexity and bigger goals – but it felt good to plan something that he'd actually be there for. Even if he would be doing the bit he wouldn't like; dealing with the people.

It was quite a simple plot. Akiva had found him a source of information within the counting house, some low-rank clerk who had been wanting a raise for years and never got one. Arlen had to smile at the thought; helping someone rob the counting house was not going to get him paid any faster, but with luck the clerk would find another job before they caught him out. He wasn't entirely sure that Akiva had mentioned robbing the vaults. One less obstacle, he supposed, if the clerk was blissfully unaware of what they actually intended to steal. The counting house manager had lavished his wife with all sorts of expensive things rather than paying his clerks, and she lived on the floor above the public office. The clerk didn't like her and had made that abundantly clear in their meetings, and if they made like they were robbing the missus he'd not get cold feet when it came to unlocking the right doors at the right times.

Arlen, of course, was not going to be partaking in the break-in itself. His leg would alert half the street that someone was in the vaults, and he wouldn't make it up the stairs before he was caught. No, he was due a joyless visit to Usk's sister for a disguise, and he was to keep the manager occupied while the robbery took place. He had often acted as decoy in his early days with the Devils, and still had done until recently when castle jobs were involved, but he didn't enjoy it much. It rarely offered the opportunity to relieve tension by knocking some guards about.

The carriage ground to a halt. His systematic run-down of the job he was planning had had the desired effect; his anger had receded like a tide, leaving him feeling cold and scraped raw, but at least logical. He found it in him to berate himself for pissing Usk off right ahead of a job he needed so much. The Varthian had no right to speak to him that way, but Arlen would have been better off keeping him on side.

It took him a second to realise that he was not back in the dead quarter yet. He frowned, lifting his stick to bang it on the roof, but then the door opened and Marick slipped into the opposite seat. The carriage began to move again with no signal from the Devil leader. He had come back from something; the carriage now smelled faintly of firecracker smoke, and his usual immaculate clothing had been traded for loose, practical gear. Arlen eyed him with a mixture of suspicion and dismay.

"This job is not going to go ahead," his employer said without preamble. "I'm not risking you on a personal indulgence."

"Indulgence?" Arlen repeated incredulously. "This is one of the most important jobs I've ever done, with all respect, sir. If I can't get a limb I can work with, I can't work."

"Others manage it."

"Again, sir, with respect, those others don't engage in the same kind of work that I do."

"Then maybe it's time to rethink," Marick said in a hard voice. Arlen flinched before he could stop himself, and then forcefully capped the rage that boiled up in its wake.

"I'm sorry, sir, I've got to do this one. I can reschedule if you need me for something else on that night." There was no point beating around the bush. If Marick knew the job was happening, he knew everything there was to know about it.

"Are you disobeying me, Arlen?"

Arlen tipped his chin. "Yes, sir."

"You know I could have you executed for disobedience."

"I either find the resources to live by my own means again, or I don't at all." Arlen matched Marick's look, feeling the truth in it that had been buried beneath the surface. He hadn't allowed himself to think on it. But the Devils were his life, and that life was crumbling before his eyes. This new type of prosthetic was the last straggly root he could hold onto before he lost his grip on the cliff. If it fell through, he was doomed. Jordan would not return before the worst befell him, before having the value of an apprentice as insurance once more. Arlen thought, perhaps, that that was the moment that Marick realised Arlen knew just how fucked he was.

"You gamble on my favour too much, Blackheart," he said in an unreadable voice. And he jumped out of the carriage while it was still moving and vanished into the night.

-

"So Marick himself has banned this job?" Akiva said, swinging back on two legs of the chair and letting them thump back to the floor. He was grinning through a haze of blackweed smoke.

"Yep," Arlen muttered. "And I could almost certainly end up dangling for it. This is the last chance for any of you louts to duck out. If you don't, I'm absolved of all responsibility for what happens to you."

No one said anything. Jesper and Akiva exchanged smirking glances. Usk glowered into the middle distance – Arlen still wasn't forgiven – but didn't even open his mouth. Raziel continued stuffing dried belladonna into glass vials.

"Well, you've all revoked your rights to haunt me in the afterlife," Arlen announced after a long silence, and drained the rest of his whisky.

"Oh, we will," Jesper promised solemnly. "But mostly out of offence that you ever thought we'd dip on you."

"Jobs ain't as fun without you around," Akiva added. "Only you plan the ones that could get us killed. They're the exciting ones."

"You lot are fucking cracked," Arlen said, but couldn't stop an answering grin.

"In the best way possible." Akiva jumped to his feet like he hadn't been chain-smoking blackweed all afternoon. The room was thick with it, but the assassin was just as alert as ever. "Come on, then. Let's earn you a leg."

Arlen straightened the stolen embroidered jacket he wore and heaved himself up. The polished wood and metal-capped walking stick Jesper had found for him felt flimsy compared to his sturdy plain one, but he was distinctive enough with the missing leg alone. His face was sticky with makeup, reminding him horribly of the fate that had awaited him last time he'd come to Usk's sister for the same thing. As if summoned by his distaste, Mila appeared in the doorway, all six stern feet of her, to glare at them all.

"You are still cluttering my front room," she said, the underlying message clear. She pointed a finger at Arlen. "You get my brother killed, I will kill you."

"You'd have to get in the queue," Arlen told her frankly, and hobbled out of the front door without a backward glance.

They'd had to hire a carriage. There was no chance in the Pit that Marick would lend him anything for this job. But despite the threat of imminent doom, Arlen felt more positive than he had in months. He was doing a job. Not in the role he normally favoured, but he was doing something, and that was infinitely better than staring at the wall in his front room and drinking himself numb. Not even the prospect of having to teach Silas the next morning could bring his spirits down. His agreement to the arrangement had been a blessing in disguise, because he no longer had to worry about the ex-acolyte dropping in on him at unexpected times. It amused him to think of how sour Silas would be that he still wasn't being taken on Arlen's jobs.

Jesper slipped into the carriage opposite him. Arlen hated the fact that one of his team were staying with him to cover his getaway if he needed it, but Usk had put his foot down on Arlen going alone, and Arlen had been too keen to have everyone's full cooperation on this thing to fight him about it.

"Just imagine your apprentice when you hop up and announce you're going with him on his next run," Jesper said, as the carriage began moving. Like Arlen, he was dressed up like a wealthy merchant, though he hadn't needed nearly as much makeup.

"Don't get your hopes up too high," Arlen muttered, even as he imagined it. A wrench in the pit of his stomach accompanied the thought.

"The amount of money we might get from this should motivate any man to get this contraption right," Jesper said. "Who tipped you off, anyway?"

"Old acquaintance," Arlen said evasively. He adjusted the blades on his thigh. He'd jerry-rigged the straps of his prosthetic to hold weapons as well, wearing them on the outside of his trousers and covering them with the tails of his long jacket. In his experience, polite society types tried their damnedest not to look at obvious injuries, and he was banking on that in case his rather fallible cover failed him.

"That kid won't know what's hit him when you're back on your feet," Jesper said, ignoring Arlen's sour look.

"Maybe," he grunted a concession, as the carriage rolled towards danger and he hoped to Nict that Jesper was right.