Winter 35, 513 AV
Sunberth smelled of pitch, blood, and death. So many bodies had fallen to the mismatched cobblestone that the stone itself would not wash the scent of decay from its cold expanse. Instead shadows gathered like wayward pilgrims in the corners of alleys and in the space between crowded stalls. They were the ghosts of this bloated city, a corpse festooned with maggots. Of course, unlike any other city, the smallest could become the greatest and the greatest could become the smallest. Sunberth allowed for every opportunity, high born or not. If you kept your wits about you, paid off the right people, killed the right people, you could run the streets in a season or less.
It was all about the right angle.
Earlier today, Wren had left Fallon at the Pig’s Foot inn, claiming he had to handle his return. Sunberth looked a little different, but then, it was always in a state of flux. Poor craftsmanship created poorer districts that bent beneath the force of the elements. One man, clothed in what could only be defined as loosely related muds, claimed that the river had pushed up over Sunberth and swept across her, plunging the worthy and unworthy into turmoil and death. Wren wisely chose not to comment that it would be the only bath many of these creatures would have in their short, brutal lives. Still, many of the same old landmarks remained in place…enough to lure the hypnotist back into his usual stomping grounds.
There he found the man he was looking for. The seasons had been unkind to Digger. Some ghost of violence past had creased his face diagonal and struck the light from his left eye. His right glared all the brighter, set in muscles and scar tissue like some ravenous, damp beast surveying prey. Wren slid into the seat beside him and that mad eye lay on him, analyzed, and then narrowed.
“Afternoon, Digger.”
“Ain’t fer talkin, Edger,” he said quickly, “Yer like bring trouble.”
“More than you've already had?” Wren raised an eyebrow, “I underestimated the effect I had on this place.”
“Crimson Edge are all dead,” Digger said stoically, “Dead and gone. No one to come down on yer head. Leave.”
“But I just got here,” Wren muttered with a scowl, “Robern still after my head?”
Digger’s furtive eyes glanced around the bar, seeking perch on a friendly back or face. Wren leaned in close to him and caught his eyes with his own, “No one else, Digger,” He said, “Just me. Just my business. Now. Unless you’ve become the sorriest prostitute in Sunberth, you’re going to tell me what I want to know.”
“Or?” The question lingered in the air between them, a stamp, a challenge. Wren did not answer it, nor broke his gaze. Finally, Digger wet his lips and sat back. “Robern’s dead. Rotter. Some folk did him in, but good. Nigh two…three? Somethin seasons back.”
Wren’s eyebrow arched and he called over a barmaid with a drink for Digger. The alcoholic stared at the swirling mixture for less than a moment before snatching it up and gulping, with sounds like a drowning man. Wren waited.
“Robern is dead…” he said, “So that means one of his lieutenants will be running the Daggerhands…his daughter?” Digger shrugged and Wren shook his head. “Not important. I need to know Robern’s deadliest. Who’s the Daggerhand no one messes with? Which one do the people know best?”
“Dead man looking for an executioner?” Digger asked with a dirty grin, “Easier ways to die, boy.”
Wren slid his long dagger from his belt and laid it on the table with a thump. Digger eyed it warily. “Easier ways indeed,” Wren said, “And many of them involve keeping that smart tongue behind your teeth where I can’t hear it.” Reaching into his pouch, he pulled out five gold rimmed mizas and laid them on the table. Digger’s eyes went wide as he devoured the glitter of the edges. “Lot of swill you can buy with coin like this,” Wren assured the drunk, “But only for compliance. So. Again. The baddest of the Daggerhands.”
“Rokan,” Digger muttered, snatching at the coins, “Call ‘im Rokan Red-Hand. Always soaked in blood, see? Rokan don’t take no shyke from no ganger here. Aint ta be harried by the like o ya, best put Sunberth to your back and seek safer holes to hide in.”
Wren let him take the coins, but as his hand closed over the prize, he lifted his dagger, snake-quick, and drove it between Digger’s fingers, biting into the wood. Digger swallowed a shriek and yanked his hand away, leaving the coins where they lay, undisturbed.
“Job’s not done,” Wren corrected, tearing the dagger from the table, “Where can I find him?”
Sunberth smelled of pitch, blood, and death. So many bodies had fallen to the mismatched cobblestone that the stone itself would not wash the scent of decay from its cold expanse. Instead shadows gathered like wayward pilgrims in the corners of alleys and in the space between crowded stalls. They were the ghosts of this bloated city, a corpse festooned with maggots. Of course, unlike any other city, the smallest could become the greatest and the greatest could become the smallest. Sunberth allowed for every opportunity, high born or not. If you kept your wits about you, paid off the right people, killed the right people, you could run the streets in a season or less.
It was all about the right angle.
Earlier today, Wren had left Fallon at the Pig’s Foot inn, claiming he had to handle his return. Sunberth looked a little different, but then, it was always in a state of flux. Poor craftsmanship created poorer districts that bent beneath the force of the elements. One man, clothed in what could only be defined as loosely related muds, claimed that the river had pushed up over Sunberth and swept across her, plunging the worthy and unworthy into turmoil and death. Wren wisely chose not to comment that it would be the only bath many of these creatures would have in their short, brutal lives. Still, many of the same old landmarks remained in place…enough to lure the hypnotist back into his usual stomping grounds.
There he found the man he was looking for. The seasons had been unkind to Digger. Some ghost of violence past had creased his face diagonal and struck the light from his left eye. His right glared all the brighter, set in muscles and scar tissue like some ravenous, damp beast surveying prey. Wren slid into the seat beside him and that mad eye lay on him, analyzed, and then narrowed.
“Afternoon, Digger.”
“Ain’t fer talkin, Edger,” he said quickly, “Yer like bring trouble.”
“More than you've already had?” Wren raised an eyebrow, “I underestimated the effect I had on this place.”
“Crimson Edge are all dead,” Digger said stoically, “Dead and gone. No one to come down on yer head. Leave.”
“But I just got here,” Wren muttered with a scowl, “Robern still after my head?”
Digger’s furtive eyes glanced around the bar, seeking perch on a friendly back or face. Wren leaned in close to him and caught his eyes with his own, “No one else, Digger,” He said, “Just me. Just my business. Now. Unless you’ve become the sorriest prostitute in Sunberth, you’re going to tell me what I want to know.”
“Or?” The question lingered in the air between them, a stamp, a challenge. Wren did not answer it, nor broke his gaze. Finally, Digger wet his lips and sat back. “Robern’s dead. Rotter. Some folk did him in, but good. Nigh two…three? Somethin seasons back.”
Wren’s eyebrow arched and he called over a barmaid with a drink for Digger. The alcoholic stared at the swirling mixture for less than a moment before snatching it up and gulping, with sounds like a drowning man. Wren waited.
“Robern is dead…” he said, “So that means one of his lieutenants will be running the Daggerhands…his daughter?” Digger shrugged and Wren shook his head. “Not important. I need to know Robern’s deadliest. Who’s the Daggerhand no one messes with? Which one do the people know best?”
“Dead man looking for an executioner?” Digger asked with a dirty grin, “Easier ways to die, boy.”
Wren slid his long dagger from his belt and laid it on the table with a thump. Digger eyed it warily. “Easier ways indeed,” Wren said, “And many of them involve keeping that smart tongue behind your teeth where I can’t hear it.” Reaching into his pouch, he pulled out five gold rimmed mizas and laid them on the table. Digger’s eyes went wide as he devoured the glitter of the edges. “Lot of swill you can buy with coin like this,” Wren assured the drunk, “But only for compliance. So. Again. The baddest of the Daggerhands.”
“Rokan,” Digger muttered, snatching at the coins, “Call ‘im Rokan Red-Hand. Always soaked in blood, see? Rokan don’t take no shyke from no ganger here. Aint ta be harried by the like o ya, best put Sunberth to your back and seek safer holes to hide in.”
Wren let him take the coins, but as his hand closed over the prize, he lifted his dagger, snake-quick, and drove it between Digger’s fingers, biting into the wood. Digger swallowed a shriek and yanked his hand away, leaving the coins where they lay, undisturbed.
“Job’s not done,” Wren corrected, tearing the dagger from the table, “Where can I find him?”
