Forty: An Ambush

A clerk came hurtling into the office just as Arlen was setting his fake signature to the fake contract he'd had drawn up. The counting house owner's greedy little eyes, which had been watching Arlen's hand with avaricious anticipation, flicked up in annoyance.

"What is it, lad?" he rumbled. "This had better be urgent."

The clerk was white-faced and trembling. "Devils, sir. Devils in the vaults."

Without a second glance at Arlen, the owner hurtled to the back of the store, yelling for the clerk to find the city watch. Arlen watched the young man go, hiding his smirk until the door had shut behind him. Then he got to his feet and limped to the door. No sense hanging around any later than was necessary; he certainly didn't want to be caught here when the guards came. No matter Mila's talent, he wasn't sure it would hold up to scrutiny that close. Let the owner be satisfied that Arlen had signed before he left. That way it might take him that bit longer to realise he'd been shafted.

He picked at the fancy coat he wore as he walked down a narrow side-street as swiftly as he could without looking suspicious or causing his leg to twinge. He couldn't wait to get free of it all, get back to his rooms and disconnect this dark-damned leg. No matter how careful he was or how much he padded it out, it still hurt just enough for him to be unable to ignore it.

It wasn't long before he heard the city guard arrive, which made him grin. They never learned to shut up; they always had to arrive shouting and making a general racket, even as it gave the men inside a warning and enough time to get away. Sometimes he wondered whether Harkenn ever had them trained properly, but it had worked in his favour many a time so he was hardly going to complain. A shadow in the corner of his eye made him look up from picking his way through some alley-side detritus, and then Jesper jumped down into it from the roof.

"You're not supposed to wander off without your escort," Jesper said, mock-reprovingly. "Night take me, Arl, you almost got me nicked."

Arlen grunted. He wasn't about to admit that he'd all but forgotten Jesper was dealing with his side of the job and that they were supposed to work together. He had disappeared from the meeting early on, on the pretence that he was visiting the privy, when in reality he was doing a lookout for Akiva, Raziel and Usk as they slipped in through a back window. In that time, Arlen had become too wrapped up in the first real job he'd done in months to remember that he was unable to work solo anymore.

He resisted scowling; he wanted to keep Jesper on side. This job was for his benefit, but they had helped him with it, so he had to give them a cut. If they weren't annoyed with him they'd accept a slightly smaller one, to give him more spending power at the workshop. He would have liked to have enough to not just pay for the leg but bribe the craftsman to work on his project alone for a while. But he forced that thought aside. Whatever he got from this job was what he had to work with, so he wouldn't get his hopes up too high.

"Where did you leave the carriage?" he muttered instead.

"It's circling round," Jesper said. "It'll meet us on Flint Street sometime in the next few minutes."

"Do you know how much they got?" he asked, as they left the alley and took another turn that would lead them to Flint Street. The whole neighbourhood was littered with moneylenders and counting houses. These were the lenders to the common people; the counting houses that served the rich were all in the Orthanian quarter, and a lot savvier to Devil cons, usually with far more reliable hired security. Tempting as it had been to attempt a theft on the houses with the filthiest amounts of wealth, he needed the money too badly to risk it failing. Or, Nict forbid, risk a bolt in the other leg, too.

"Not yet," Jesper said. "I was looking the other way, but it sounded heavy."

He grinned, clearly expecting a reaction from Arlen that he couldn't find the heart to give. He wasn't prone to giving into anxieties, but this was too important. In the back of his mind, he couldn't stop thinking about the look on Marick's face when Arlen had defied him over this job. It could not fail; it had to be enough.

They stepped out onto Flint Street as the distant sound of the carriage came towards them. There had been a brief break in the rain, but the gaps between the cobbles swilled with water still, and the sky was as dark and forbidding as ever. Heaviness in the air promised an impending storm. A humourless smile quirked the edge of Arlen's mouth as he wondered if Jordan had enjoyed it as it passed over the Guildtown. The carriage drew alongside them and they got inside, settling into the seats as it began moving again right away. It rumbled cautiously in the general direction of the counting house, and Arlen forced himself to sit very still and keep his eye on the street outside. He was so focused on keeping his composure that he near jumped out of his skin when the door flew open and Usk erupted into their midst, smelling of smoke and rattling with stolen coins. On the opposite side of the carriage, Akiva and Raziel piled in and fell on top of each other in the bottom of the box, both cackling. Jesper reached out and banged the door shut, and Arlen knocked twice on the roof with his stick.

As the carriage made a u-turn and set off back up Flint Street with the horses at a canter, Akiva and Raziel untangled themselves and Usk groaned, rubbing at his eyes. "Raz, you near had me in that last one."

"Not my fault you were in the way," Raziel retorted, folding himself up against the door and counting his remaining explosives and distraction devices out on the floor between his feet. Usk muttered something sour in his native tongue and pressed the heels of his palms to his temples.

"Smoke or belladonna?" Arlen asked. He nudged the Varthian with the tip of his walking stick.

"Smoke," Usk muttered.

Arlen pulled his water-skin out of the bag he'd left stashed under the seat when he entered the counting house. He chucked it into Usk's lap. After a moment's hesitation the brute took it, and leaned out of the window to douse his eyes with it. He took a strong pull from it and slapped some over his face. When he sat back, his yellow eyes were bloodshot and watering, but didn't appear to have taken lasting damage. He cautiously met Arlen's gaze. Arlen looked away.

"Anyone else need it?" he asked.

"One would almost think you cared, Arl." Akiva grinned and leaned over to snatch the skin from his hand. He took a long drink. "I think we got you a good haul."

"He put all his Auriels in one place," Usk rumbled. "Smug bastard. Only took ten minutes to crack the lock."

Arlen paused in taking a drink himself, lowering the water-skin to his lap. "Auriels?"

The Varthian reached back and unhooked a bag from his belt, then showed Arlen the glittering gold contents. There was a small fortune inside. Arlen could live for years on that money.

"We had to knock all the guards out cold," Akiva said. "And all the clerks. And the master."

"And his wife," Raziel piped up. "To Akiva's disappointment."

"She was pretty." Akiva shrugged. "And actually, I thought she was interested. She was only with him for the money. Can't have been looks."

"Can't have been looks with you, either, Kiv," Jesper said, and the other three laughed.

Arlen barely noticed the conversation going on in the carriage. He sifted through the bag in disbelief. In all his most hopeful imaginings, he hadn't thought it would bring in this much. A lucky pick, to choose a mark who stored his money so foolishly. Unwillingly, he began to hope again that there might be a way out of his predicament, and again he wondered why Marick had been so against it. Nothing was riskier than killing the head of House Orthan – short of topping Harkenn himself, perhaps – but his employer hadn't thought twice about sending him on that one.

"I really have to know, Arl," Jesper said, "how, while holding a sack of gold that could get you a hefty down payment on an Orthanian townhouse, you look so dark-damned miserable."

He almost said it, but stopped himself at the last moment. For all he knew, one of them might tell Marick of his suspicions, either on purpose or while drunk and careless, and then he was doomed whether those suspicions had been right or not. If Marick thought his loyalty was showing cracks, he would be disposed of quickly. And he couldn't risk that, not when he'd got this far. All he had to do was prove that he could do everything as well as he used to.

Easier said than done.

He forced himself to close the bag and set it in his lap as if Usk hadn't just potentially handed him his life back. "Strange idea of what miserable looks like, Jes."

"He's restraining himself from throwing himself at Usk's feet," Akiva teased. "I was wrong about everything, take control of the group in my place!"

He mock-swooned and fell back on the bench. Arlen rolled his eyes and scowled, though he couldn't make it quite as dark as he'd intended. Usk was the only one who didn't laugh. Arlen knew the Varthian was trying to catch his eye. He also knew he owed the man something as thanks – though what, he didn't know yet. He still smarted from the fact that Usk had taken it upon himself to speak on Arlen's private matters uninvited, and wanted the point made clear that he wasn't going to stand for it again.

Connections always caused as many problems as they solved.

They reached the dead quarter without pursuit. The boys had done a thorough job of knocking out all the witnesses, and no guards would dare come into the dead quarter to try and catch a Devil even if they had caught a glimpse of any faces. Not if they wanted to leave again.

The carriage left them at the bottom of the crates, the driver sworn to silence with a fat gold Auriel and a promise of retribution from Usk if they got a hint that he'd squealed to anyone. Raziel, Akiva and Jesper bounded up with ease and disappeared inside. Usk hung back, as always, to help Arlen.

"Is the brat still here?" he muttered, setting his good foot to the first crate and wincing as the bottom of his stick slipped on the damp wood.

"If he was, we'd hear Akiva teasing the shit out of him from here," Usk rumbled. He had a point. While Arlen found Silas endlessly irritating, Akiva and Jesper delighted in winding the boy up. It was his fault; he had quick and satisfying reactions to even their most blatantly antagonistic attempts. Another reason Arlen had always preferred Haverford. The otherworld kid had a temper, but it was slow to light and quick to burn, and he knew when he wasn't needed in a conversation. Silas had no such instinct.

"Going to need to replace these before they kill me," he muttered, cautiously surrendering his weight to the first step.

"I'll find something," Usk grunted. "Listen, Arl..."

"I'm not discussing her again." Arlen bit off each word.

"Not asking to," the Varthian replied. "I have a bad feeling about all of this."

Arlen waited, forcing Usk to find the words instead of filling the silence. Despite himself, he was curious.

"Marick should have got you that money as soon as he got wind there was a better option," Usk growled, his voice dropping even lower. "Instead, he forbids you from getting it yourself, even though you're one of the best this guild has got. I don't like it. I don't like that you must set yourself against him to win this back. It stinks to me."

"Can't say I was happy about it, either," Arlen replied. He looked up as Jesper leaned out of the window and shouted down.

"What's keeping you? You need carrying, Arl?"

He turned back to Usk. "We'll talk later."

He was not presented with the peace he had been looking for when he struggled back into his rooms. Akiva had settled himself in Usk's chair and was flicking a piece of ragged paper about on the table-top. As Arlen approached, he flipped it up and held it out. "Got your name on it."

Arlen scowled. That meant someone had been into his rooms while he was away. He may not have had any glass in the window, but it was starting to get tiring just how many people took that as an open invitation. His stomach sank further when he recognised the hand it was written in. He turned as Usk clambered in after him. "How far away is that carriage?"

He left them divvying the winnings up between them. He would much rather have been there for the process, but he knew that if he sat down and detached his leg and got comfortable, he would never gather enough resolve to make this trip. He had trusted them this far in getting him the money, and they had exceeded his expectations there. For once he'd just have to sit with the uncomfortable notion, because a far more uncomfortable notion was that someone might have seen Darin's new address while the note was languishing in full view on his table.

Still, he spent the carriage journey tentatively trying to massage the prickling discomfort out of his stump before he was forced to walk on it again. His spine ached like that of a man many years older; sometimes he felt as though the injury had aged him. He had no reason to think that anyone who shouldn't have seen it had looked at the note. Even he hadn't known it would be there. He was still annoyed with Darin's carelessness. Couldn't he have found a runner with a little more discretion?

Darin's new home was part of a communal building, a grubby converted townhouse. It was on a street a few rows down from Wick Row. Arlen had left the Blackhearts very soon after they'd moved into number thirty-three, but he still felt a shudder of irritation at the move. It wasn't sentimental; he just now had to walk through a building where people might recognise him if he came too often. The cottage had been discreet and self-contained, and hadn't had two sets of dark-damned stairs.

"I have a lot of issues with this," he growled at Darin, the second the door opened. The developers had made little effort to make each lodging private. Darin now lived in a top floor room with the original door, giving Arlen the odd impression that he was walking into someone's bedchamber rather than a self-contained home. There was a fireplace in the far wall, and enough room for Darin to set out a pallet.

"Makes two of us." Darin Blackheart didn't look as though he'd slept at all in the weeks since the funeral. "The couple downstairs hate each other with a passion and the man across the hall has some sort of gut disorder, from the smell."

"Or he's killed someone," Arlen offered, stumping past and claiming the one stool in the place.

"I'm having enough trouble settling without your helpful suggestions," Darin replied acidly. He crossed to the fireplace and set the kettle to boil. A chill breeze drew Arlen's attention to a window that looked rusted open. The place was freezing.

"You should get some oilcloth for that," Arlen said. "My place has no windowpane either."

"Poor you." Darin didn't look round.

"Did you get me over here just to have someone to take it out on?" Arlen scowled at Darin's back as he made tea. "You picked a shit day for it."

"Does that have something to do with the makeup and the ugly clothes?"

Arlen cursed. He'd been too preoccupied to change or wash his face, hadn't even given it a second thought. He didn't want to tempt fate when his evening had been going so well until now.

"Don't tell me," Darin said, as if Arlen had been planning to, "I don't want to know. You missed the will reading. I kind of expected you to, but it was still a shitty move."

Arlen blinked. He'd entirely forgotten about the will reading. But he could hardly be blamed for that when he was preoccupied with trying to save his own skin.

"It slipped my mind," he growled. "I was..."

"I don't care what you were doing." Darin's voice snapped through the room, cutting him off. Arlen was too tired to get fired up in return. "You should have been there. She saved your life, you ungrateful shit. Then you left her, and she still wanted you to be there at the end. She still left you something, even when you gave her fuck-all back."

He stalked to the one shelf in the place, and got down a small bundle wrapped in cloth. Arlen glared at his approach, and the only thing that stopped him from refusing to take it was how petty it would look. He set the bundle in his lap and unwrapped it. Inside was a necklace and a sheathed axe. The necklace was on plain leather cord, with a wrought metal amulet that depicted Kiel's supplicating hands. Tiny patterns were engraved into them, and it was twined around the axe handle, amulet facing up.

"Where did she get this?" Arlen said hoarsely. A strange mix of emotions ran through his mind; anger and confusion foremost.

"You were wearing the necklace and holding that axe when she found you," Darin replied. "And after you developed a habit of losing or breaking everything you were given, she took them to keep them safe." He paused. "They belonged to your real..."

"I know they did." It was Arlen's turn to snap. He jerked his hand from the items, suddenly unwilling to touch them. More items to be used as a weakness against him. Just what he needed.

"She didn't know if you'd want anything of hers," Darin continued, unperturbed. "I won't give you the earrings she wanted you to have if you're just going to sell them."

Arlen glowered, but couldn't maintain the heat. Darin stared back at him with hollow eyes. All tempers seemed to have fled the room at once.

"I won't sell them," he finally muttered. Stupid, he thought, always so fucking stupid. "Can I have them?"

"Swear on it."

"Really."

"Just fucking do it, Arlen."

"Fine. I swear on it." For a moment it looked as though Darin would decide against it after all, but when Arlen matched his stubborn look he finally sighed and returned to the shelf.

The earrings were familiar, of course. When she was well, Ana Blackheart had worn these on special occasions; small brass studs with a real opal gemstone in each one. She had worn them out only three times that Arlen had seen; her thirtieth marriage anniversary, Darin's thirteenth birthday, and the day they had signed Arlen's adoption papers. It had always mystified him how much she had treasured them when she couldn't even see the colours, but they were beautiful pieces. They would sell for a lot, if the idea of selling them had crossed his mind at all.

He stood up, pocketing the small cloth parcel and the amulet, and hanging the axe on his belt. He could have waited to do this. Tomorrow wouldn't have been too late. Now he'd gone and pissed all over his rare good mood from the success of the job.

"By the way," he grunted. "I got the money. Not expecting you to take me, but an address would be good. And send someone who won't just leave it lying around. Anyone could have seen that dark-damned note."

Darin paused in sipping his tea. "You're leaving already?"

Arlen barked a laugh. "Don't pretend you want me to stick around." He walked to the door. If he was fast enough, he wouldn't have to call another carriage.

Darin followed him down the stairs, abandoning his tea on the hearthstones. Arlen suppressed a twitch of irritation. One moment the man had seem two steps away from biting Arlen's head off, and the next he was trailing at his heels like a needy dog. A wind so fierce he stumbled a little greeted him as he stepped out of the front door, and a glance up at the sky showed the storm ready to break. He'd have to hurry back if he didn't want to get caught in a gale.

"I'll take you when the storm passes," Darin said. "The factory's shutting while it blows through."

"I'll come to you, then," Arlen threw over his shoulder. He was suddenly eager to get away. He didn't like the look in Darin's eyes, like he was expecting some sort of reaction. What sort of reaction did he want? Would it please him to see Arlen cry? Arlen hadn't cried since he was a child and he wasn't starting now.

The carriage waited for him down a side-street. The wind howled between the buildings and set it rattling on its frame. He was exhausted, his leg hurt, and he was more than eager to get back to a chair and a bottle of ale, but he still instinctively paused as he turned the corner, sensing something was off straight away. It was too quiet, and the driver was nowhere to be seen.

When his first attacker came at him, he managed to connect his stick and their jaw with a resounding crack. Another paced up the alley behind him, in time to receive the axe in his shoulder, the first weapon Arlen's hand came to. It was blunt and old but swung true with a familiar rhythm, and the man screamed as he fell back, still piercing over the wind. The axe was pulled from Arlen's hand as his assailant collapsed, preoccupied as he was with keeping his balance.

Two more jumped down from roofs above, and Arlen realised this wasn't a mugging that had chosen the wrong mark.

This was an assassination attempt.

He slipped his hunting knife from its sheath and put his back to the wall, as much to keep both legs under him as to prevent attack from behind. He could make out no faces in the semi-darkness, and they'd covered up too thoroughly for him to see any identifying marks. It could be one of the few smaller rival gangs in the city, hoping to get at Marick's second while he was vulnerable. Or perhaps Harkenn had turned to filthier tactics to remove Devils from the streets. Or maybe it was a particularly violent mugging, because after all Arlen was currently dressed up like a fop.

But there was no point in perhaps. He could think about who had sent them once he got out of this alive.

He knew he had belladonna in his pockets, but he couldn't use it while he was surrounded, not without succumbing to it himself. They hung back out of the range of his blade, wary, as their comrade groaned and bled out on the alley floor beside them.

"You thinking to kill me tonight, lads?" Arlen said, grinning. Fucked as he was, this was the most action he'd seen in months. "Come and try it."

One, braver than the rest, surged forward. Arlen met his length of metal piping with his blade, scraped its length as he turned the force of the clumsy lunge, and shoved his good knee hard into the man's crotch. The move almost cost him as his weight went to his stump, but he still had enough breath left to slash back across with his blade, parting flesh. His opponent collapsed and did not move again.

"Anyone else?" he gasped. Some was from the pain of the sudden reliance on his stump. Much more was adrenaline. "Please do. I've been so bored lately." He cackled, and darted out with his walking stick. He rapped a third man hard on the temple, and then brought it down with another satisfying crack on his head. One-handed, there wasn't enough force in it to knock the man out cold, but he roared in pain and went to his knees, clutching at the bleeding gash there. "So honourable, cornering a man with one leg," Arlen continued with a laugh. There were two left. Not bad for a man with one leg and healing stump to work with. "Allow me to just..."

"Look out!" Something flew through the air and Arlen stumbled back, expecting it to hit him, but it was aimed above him. A sixth man tumbled from the adjoining roof and collapsed at his feet with the retrieved axe buried in one thigh.

When Arlen looked up again, the remaining three were running away, cursing him.

"I had it under control," he said tartly. Darin just stared hollow-eyed at the man writhing in pain on the ground and said nothing. Arlen nudged the man with his stick and he fell still, whimpering with the whites of his eyes showing. "Not bad for a candlemaker. Not very clean, mind."

"Are they dead?"

Arlen grinned nastily. "If they weren't, I would be."

"How are you smiling about this?" All the blood had drained from Darin's face. "They were trying to kill you! You just killed two men!"

"I'm an assassin," Arlen said. "It's in the job description. I'm just as entitled to defending myself as any other fucker." He nudged the man at his feet again. "So we're about to find out who employs you."