Sharp Ends

Small Kindnesses

Westport, Autumn 573

When Shev arrived to open up that morning, there were a pair of big, dirty, bare feet sticking out of the doorway of her Smoke House.

That might once have caused her quite the shock, but over the last couple of years Shev had come to consider herself past shocking.

‘Oy!’ she shouted, striding up with her fists clenched.

Whoever it was on their face in the doorway either chose not to move or was unable. She saw the long legs the feet were attached to, clad in trousers ripped and stained, then the ragged mess of a torn and filthy coat. Finally, wedged into the grubby corner against Shev’s door, a tangle of long red hair, matted with twigs and dirt.

A big man, without a doubt. The one hand Shev could see was as long as her foot, netted with veins, filthy and scabbed across the knuckles. There was a strange shape to it, though. Slender.

‘Oy!’ She jabbed the toe of her boot into the coat around where she judged the man’s arse to be. Still nothing.

She heard footsteps behind her. ‘Morning, boss.’ Severard turning up for the day. Never late, that boy. Not the most careful in his work but for punctuality you couldn’t knock him. ‘What’s this you’ve caught?’

‘A strange fish, all right, to wash up in my doorway.’ Shev scraped some of the red hair back, wrinkled her nose as she realised it was clotted with blood.

‘Is he drunk?’

‘She.’ It was a woman’s face under there. Strong-jawed and strong-boned, pale skin crowded with enough black scab, red graze and purple bruise to make Shev wince, even if she rarely saw anyone who wasn’t carrying a wound or two.

Severard gave a soft whistle. ‘That’s a lot of she.’

‘And someone’s given her a lot of a beating, too.’ Shev leaned close to put her cheek near the woman’s battered mouth, heard the faintest wheezing of breath. ‘Alive, though.’ Then she rocked away and squatted there, wrists on her knees and her hands dangling, wondering what to do. There’d been a time she just dived into whatever messes presented themselves without a backward glance, but somehow the consequences always lurked nearer to hand than they used to. She puffed her cheeks out and gave the weariest of sighs.

‘Well, it happens,’ said Severard.

‘Sadly, yes.’

‘Not our problem, is it?’

‘Happily, no.’

‘Want me to drag her into the street?’

‘Yes, I want that quite a lot.’ And Shev rolled her eyes skywards and gave another sigh, maybe even wearier than the last. ‘But we’d best drag her inside, I reckon.’

‘You sure, boss? You remember the last time we helped someone out-’

‘Sure? No.’ Shev didn’t know, after all the shit that had been done to her, why she still felt the need to do small kindnesses. Maybe because of all the shit that had been done to her. Maybe there was some stubborn stone in her, like the stone in a date, that refused to let all the shit that had been done to her make her into shit. She turned the key and elbowed the door wobbling open. ‘You get her feet.’

When you run a Smoke House you’d better get good at shifting limp bodies, but the latest recipient of Shev’s half-arsed charity proved quite the challenge.

‘Bloody hell,’ grunted Severard, eyes popping as they manhandled the woman down the stale-smelling corridor, her backside scuffing the boards. ‘What’s she made of, anvils?’

‘Anvils are lighter,’ groaned Shev through her gritted teeth, waddling from side to side under the dead weight of her, bouncing off the peeling walls. She gasped as she kicked open the door to her office – or the broom-cupboard she called an office. She strained with every burning muscle as she hauled the woman up, knocked her limp head on the doorframe as she wrestled her through, then tripped on a mop and with a despairing squawk toppled back onto the cot with the woman on top of her.

In bed under a redhead was nothing to object to, but Shev preferred them at least partly conscious. Preferred them sweeter-smelling, too, at least when they got into bed. This one stank like sour sweat and rot and the very end of things.

‘That’s where kindness gets you,’ said Severard, chuckling away to himself. ‘Wedged under a mighty weight of trouble.’

‘You going to giggle or help me out, you bastard?’ snarled Shev, slack springs groaning as she struggled from underneath, then hauled the woman’s legs onto the bed, feet dangling well off the end. It wasn’t a big bed, but it looked like a child’s with her on it. Her ragged coat had fallen open and the stained leather vest she wore beneath it had got dragged right up.

When Shev spent a year tumbling with that travelling show there’d been a strongman called himself the Amazing Zaraquon, though his real name had been Runkin. Used to strip to the waist and oil himself up and lift all kinds of heavy things for the crowd, though once he was offstage and towelled down you couldn’t get the lazy oaf to lift a thimble for you. His stomach had been all jutting knots of muscle as if beneath his tight-stretched skin he was made of wood rather than meat.

This woman’s pale midriff reminded Shev of the Amazing Zaraquon’s, but narrower, longer and even leaner. You could see all the little sinews in between her ribs shifting with each shallow breath. But instead of oil her stomach was covered in black and blue and purple bruises, plus a great red welt that looked like it had been left by a most unfriendly axe-handle.

Severard whistled softly. ‘They really did give her a beating, didn’t they?’

‘Aye, they did.’ Shev knew well enough what that felt like, and she winced as she twitched the woman’s vest down, then dragged the blanket up and laid it over her. Tucked it in a little around her neck, though she felt a fool doing it, and the woman mumbled something and twisted onto her side, matted hair fluttering over her mouth as she started to snore.

‘Sweet dreams,’ Shev muttered, not that she ever got any herself. Wasn’t as if she really needed a bed here, but when you’ve spent a few years with nowhere safe to sleep, you tend to make a bed in every halfway safe place you can find. She shook the memories off and herded Severard back into the corridor. ‘Best get the doors open. We aren’t pulling in so much business we can let it slip by.’

‘Folk really after husk at this time in the morning?’ asked Severard, trying to wipe a smear of the woman’s blood off his hand.

‘If you want to forget your troubles, why live with them till lunchtime?’

By daylight the smoking room was far from the alluring little cave of wonders Shev had dreamed of making when she bought the place. She planted her hands on her hips as she looked around and gave that weary sigh again. Fact was it bore more than a passing resemblance to an utter shit-hole. The boards were split and stained and riddled with splinters and the cushions greasy as a Baolish kitchen and one of the cheap hangings had come away to show the mould-blooming plaster behind. The Prayer Bells on the shelf were the only things that lent the faintest touch of class, and Shev gave the big one an affectionate stroke, then went up on tiptoe to pin the corner of that hanging back where it belonged, so at least the mould was hidden from her eyes even if her nose was still well aware of it, the smell of rotten onions all-pervasive.

Even a liar as practised as Shev couldn’t have convinced a fool as gullible as Shev that it wasn’t a shit-hole. But it was her shit-hole. And she had plans to improve it. She always had plans.

‘You clean the pipes?’ she asked as Severard stomped back from opening the doors, brushing the curtain aside.

‘The folk who come here don’t care about clean pipes, boss.’

Shev frowned. ‘I care. We may not have the biggest place, or the most comfortable, or the best husk -’ she raised her brows at Severard’s spotty face ‘- or the prettiest folk to light it for you, so what’s our advantage over our competitors?’

‘We’re cheap?’

‘No, no, no.’ She thought about that. ‘Well, yes. But what else?’

Severard sighed. ‘Customer service?’

‘Ding,’ said Shev, flicking the biggest Prayer Bell and making it give off that heavenly song. ‘So clean the pipes, you lazy shit, and get some coals lit.’

Severard puffed out his cheeks, patched with the kind of downy beard that’s meant to make a boy look manly but actually makes him look all the more boyish. ‘Yes, boss.’

As he went out the back Shev heard footsteps coming in the front, and she propped her hands on the counter – or the hacked-up piece of butcher’s block she’d salvaged off a rubbish heap and polished smooth – and put on her professional manner. She’d copied it from Gusman the carpet-seller, who was the best damn merchant she knew. He had a way of looking like a carpet was sure to be the answer to all your problems.

The professional manner slid off straight away when Shev saw who came strutting into her place.

‘Carcolf,’ she breathed.

God, Carcolf was trouble. Tall, blonde, beautiful trouble. Sweet-smelling, sweet-smiling, quick-thinking, quick-fingered trouble as subtle as the rain and as trustworthy as the wind. Shev looked her up and down. Her eyes didn’t give her much choice in the matter. ‘Well, my day’s looking better,’ she muttered.

‘Mine, too,’ said Carcolf, brushing past the curtain so the sunlight shone through her hair from behind. ‘It’s been too long, Shevedieh.’

The room looked vastly improved with Carcolf in it. You wouldn’t find a better ornament than her in any bazaar in Westport. Her clothes weren’t tight but they stuck in all the right places, and she had this way of cocking her hips. God, those hips. They went all over the place, like they weren’t attached to a spine like everyone else’s. Shev heard she’d been a dancer. The day she quit had been a loss to dancing and a gain to fraud, without a doubt.

‘Come for a smoke?’ asked Shev.

Carcolf smiled. ‘I like to keep a clear head. How can you enjoy life otherwise?’

‘Guess it depends whether your life’s enjoyable or not.’

‘Mine is,’ she said, prancing around the place like it was hers and Shev was a valued guest. ‘What do you think of Talins?’

‘Never liked it,’ muttered Shev.

‘I’ve got a job there.’

‘Always loved the place.’

‘I need a partner.’ The Prayer Bells weren’t all that low down. Even so, Carcolf bent over to get a good look at them. Entirely innocently, it would appear. But Shev doubted Carcolf ever did an innocent thing in her life. Especially bend over. ‘I need someone I can trust. Someone to watch my arse.’

Shev’s voice came hoarse. ‘If that’s what you want you’ve come to the right girl, but …’ And she tore her eyes away as her mind came knocking like an unwelcome visitor. ‘That’s not all you’re after, is it? I daresay it wouldn’t hurt if this partner of yours could pick a lock or a pocket, either.’

Carcolf grinned as if the idea had only just come to her. ‘It wouldn’t hurt. Be good if she could keep her mouth shut, too.’ And she drifted over to Shev, looking down at her, since she was a good few inches taller. Most people were. ‘Except when I wanted her mouth open, of course …’

‘I’m not an idiot.’

‘You’d be no use to me if you were.’

‘I go with you I’ll likely end up abandoned in some alley with nothing but the clothes I’m standing in.’

Carcolf leaned even closer to whisper, Shev’s head full of the scent of her, which was a far stretch more appealing than rotten onions or sweaty redhead. ‘I’m thinking of you lying down. And without your clothes.’

Shev made a squeak like a rusty hinge. But she forced herself not to grab hold of Carcolf like a drowning girl to a beautiful, beautiful log. She’d been thinking between her legs too long. Time to think between her ears.

‘I don’t do that kind of work any more. I’ve got this place to worry about. And Severard to look after, I guess …’

‘Still trying to set the world to rights, eh?’

‘Not all of it. Just the bit at my elbow.’

‘You can’t make every stray your problem, Shevedieh.’

‘Not every stray. Just this one.’ She thought of the great big woman in her bed. ‘Just a couple of ’em …’

‘You know he’s in love with you.’

‘All I did was help him out.’

‘That’s why he’s in love with you. No one else ever has.’ Carcolf reached out and gently brushed a stray strand of hair out of Shev’s face with a fingertip, and gave a sigh. ‘Is that boy knocking at the wrong gate, poor thing.’

Shev caught her wrist and guided it away. Being small didn’t mean you could let folk just walk all over you. ‘He’s not the only one.’ She held Carcolf’s eye, made her voice calm and level. ‘I enjoy the act. God knows I enjoy it, but I’d rather you stopped. If you want me just for me, my door’s always open and my legs shortly after. If you want me so you can squeeze me out like a lemon and toss my empty skin aside in Talins, well, no offence but I’d rather not.’

Carcolf winced down at the floor. Not so pretty as the smile, but a lot more honest. ‘Not sure you’d like me without the act.’

‘Why don’t we try it and see?’

‘Too much to lose,’ muttered Carcolf, and she twisted her hand free, and when she looked up the act was on again. ‘Well. If you change your mind … it’ll be too late.’ And with a smile over her shoulder deadly as a knife blade, Carcolf walked out. God, that walk she had. Flowing like syrup on a warm day. How did she get it? Did she practise in front of a mirror? Hours every day, more than likely.

The door shut, and the spell was broken, and Shev let go that weary sigh again.

‘Was that Carcolf?’ asked Severard.

‘It was,’ murmured Shev, all wistful, a trace of that heavenly scent still battling the mould in her nostrils.

‘I don’t trust that bitch.’

Shev snorted. ‘Fuck no.’

‘How do you know her?’

‘From around.’ From all around Shev’s bed and never quite in it.

‘The two o’ you seem close,’ said Severard.

‘Not half as close as I’d like to be,’ she muttered. ‘You clean the pipes?’

‘Aye.’

Shev heard the door again, turned with a smile stuck halfway between carpet-seller and needy lover. Maybe it was Carcolf come back, decided she wanted Shev just for Shev-

‘Oh, God,’ she muttered, face falling. Usually took her at least a little longer than that to regret a decision.

‘Morning, Shevedieh,’ said Crandall. He was trouble of an altogether less pleasant variety. A rat-faced little nothing, thin at the shoulders and slender in the wits, pink at the eyes and runny at the nose, but he was Horald the Finger’s son, and that made him a whole lot of something in this town. A rat-faced little nothing with power he hadn’t earned, which made him tetchy brutal, and prickly spiteful, and jealous of anything anyone had that he didn’t. And everyone had something he didn’t, even if it was just talent, or looks, or a shred of self-respect.

Shev hitched that professional smile back up though it was hard to think of anyone she wanted less in her place. ‘Morning, Crandall. Morning, Mason.’

Mason ducked in just behind his boss. Or his boss’s son, anyway. He was one of Horald’s boys from way back, broad face criss-crossed with scars, ears all cauliflowered up and a nose so often broken it was shapeless as a turnip. He was as hard a bastard as you’d find anywhere in Westport, where hard bastards were in plentiful supply. He looked over at Shev, still stooping on account of his towering frame and the low ceiling, and gave an apologetic twitch of the mouth. As if to say, Sorry, but none of this is up to me. It’s up to this fool.

The fool in question was peering at Shev’s Prayer Bells, and without bending down, mouth all twisted with contempt. ‘What’s these? Bells?’

‘Prayer Bells,’ said Shev. ‘From Thond.’ She tried to keep her voice calm as three more men crowded past Mason into her place, trying to look dangerous but finding the room too tight for anything but uncomfortable. One had a face all pocked from old boils and eyes bulging right out, another had a leather coat far too big for him, got tangled with a curtain and near tore it down thrashing it away, and the last had his hands shoved deep in his pockets and a look that said he had knives in there. No doubt he did.

Shev doubted she’d ever had so many folk in her place at once. Sadly, they weren’t paying. She glanced at Severard, saw him shifting nervously, licking his lips, held out her palm to say, Calm, calm, though she had to admit she wasn’t feeling too calm herself.

‘Didn’t think you’d be much for prayer,’ said Crandall, wrinkling his nose at the bells.

‘I’m not,’ said Shev. ‘I just like the bells. They lend the place a spiritual quality. You want a smoke?’

‘No, and if I did I wouldn’t come to a shit-hole like this.’

There was a silence, then the pock-faced one leaned towards her. ‘He said it’s a shit-hole!’

‘I heard him,’ said Shev. ‘Sound carries in a room small as this one. And I’m well aware it’s a shit-hole. I’ve got plans to improve it.’

Crandall smiled. ‘You’ve always got plans, Shev. They never come to nothing.’

True enough, and mostly on account of bastards like this. ‘Maybe my luck’ll change,’ said Shev. ‘What do you want?’

‘I want something stolen. Why else would I come to a thief?’

‘I’m not a thief any more.’

‘Course you are. You’re just a thief playing at running a shit-hole Smoke House. And you owe me.’

‘What do I owe you for?’

Crandall’s face twisted in a vicious grin. ‘For every day you don’t have a pair o’ broken legs.’ Shev swallowed. Seemed he’d somehow managed to become more of a bastard than ever.

Mason’s deep voice rumbled out, soft and calming. ‘It’s just a waste is what it is. Westport has lost a hell of a thief and gained a very average husk-seller. How old are you? Nineteen?’

‘Twenty-one.’ Though she sometimes felt a hundred. ‘I’m blessed with a youthful glow.’

‘Still far too young to retire.’

‘I’m about the right age,’ said Shev. ‘Still alive.’

‘That could change,’ said Crandall, stepping close. As close to Shev as Carcolf had been and a very great deal less welcome.

‘Give the lady some room,’ said Severard, lip stuck out defiantly.

Crandall snorted. ‘Lady? Are you fucking serious, boy?’

Shev saw Severard had that stick of hers behind his back. Nice length of wood, it was, just the right weight for knocking someone on the head. But the very last thing she needed was him swinging that stick at Crandall. He’d be carrying it up his arse by the time Mason was through with him.

‘Why don’t you go out back and sweep the yard?’ said Shev.

Severard looked at her, jaw all set for action, the fool. God, maybe he was in love with her. ‘I don’t want-’

‘Go out back. I’ll be fine.’

He swallowed, shot the heavies one more glance, then slid out.

Shev gave a sharp whistle, brought all the hard eyes back to her. She knew well enough what having no choice looked like. ‘This thing you want. If I steal it, is that the last of it?’

Crandall shrugged. ‘Maybe it is. Maybe it isn’t. Depends whether I want something stolen again, don’t it?’

‘Whether your daddy does, you mean.’

Crandall’s eye twitched. He didn’t like being reminded he was just a little prick in his daddy’s big shadow. But Shev was always saying the wrong thing. Or the right thing at the wrong time. Or the right thing at the right time to the wrong person, maybe.

‘You’ll do as you’re told, you little gash-licking bitch,’ he spat in her face, ‘or I’ll burn your shit-hole down with you in it. And your fucking Prayer Bells, too!’

Mason gave a disgusted sigh, scarred cheeks puffed out. As if to say, He’s a rat-faced little nothing, but what can I do?

Shev stared at Crandall. Damn, but she wanted to butt him in the face. Wanted to with all her being. She’d had bastards like this kicking her around her whole life. Almost be worth it to kick back just once. But she knew all she could do was smile. If she hurt Crandall, Mason would hurt her ten times as bad. He wouldn’t like it, but he’d do it. He made a living doing things he didn’t like. Didn’t they all?

Shev swallowed. Tried to make her fury look like fear. The deck was always stacked against folk like her.

‘Guess I haven’t got a choice.’

Crandall blasted her with shitty breath as he smiled. ‘Who does?’

Never consider the ground, that’s the trick to it.

Shev straddled the slimy angle of the roof, broken tiles jabbing her in the groin as she inched along, thinking about how much she’d rather be straddling Carcolf. Down in the busy street to her right some drunk idiots were haw-hawing way too loud over a joke, someone else blabbering in Suljuk which Shev didn’t understand more than one word in thirty of. Down in the empty alleyway on her left it seemed quiet, though.

She inched to the chimney, keeping low, just a shadow in the darkness, slipped the loop of her rope over it. Looked solid enough but she gave a good heave to check. Varini used to tell her she weighed two-thirds of nothing but even so she’d almost dragged a chimney clean off once and would’ve taken a tumble into the street with half a ton of masonry on her head if not for a luckily placed windowsill.

Careful, careful, that’s the trick, but a healthy streak of good luck doesn’t hurt, either.

Her heart was pounding now and she took a long breath and tried to settle it. Out of practice was all. She was the best thief in Westport, that was well known. That was why they wouldn’t let her stop. Why she wouldn’t let her stop. That was her blessing and her curse.

‘Best thief in Westport,’ she muttered to herself and slid down the rope to the edge of the roof, peering over. She could see the two guards flanking the doorway, lamplight gleaming on their helmets.

About the right time, and she heard the whores’ voices, shrill and angry. Saw the guards’ heads turn. More shrieking, and she caught the briefest glimpse of the women struggling before they went down in the gutter. The guards were drifting down the alleyway to watch and Shev smiled to herself. Those girls put on a hell of a show for a couple of silvers.

Seize your moment, that’s the trick to it.

In a twinkling she swung over the eaves, down the rope and in through the window. It had only taken a few coppers to get the maid to leave the shutters off the latch. She pulled them to as she dropped onto the other side. Someone was on their way down the stairs, a light tread, unhurried, but Shev was taking no chances. She nipped to the candle and pinched it out with her gloved fingers, sank the corridor into comfortable darkness.

The rope would still be dangling but there wasn’t much to do about that. Couldn’t afford a partner to hoist it back up. Have to hope she was long gone by the time they noticed.

In and out quick, that’s the trick to it.

She could still hear the whores screeching in the street, no doubt having attracted quite the crowd by now, folk betting on the outcome and everything. There’s something about women fighting that men can never seem to take their eyes away from. Specially if the women in question aren’t wearing much. Shev hooked a finger in her collar and dragged a bit of air in, squashing a stray instinct to go and take a peek herself, and padded softly down the corridor to the third door, already slipping out her picks.

It was a damn good lock. Most thieves wouldn’t have even bothered with it. Would’ve moved along to something easier. But Shev wasn’t most thieves. She shut her eyes, and touched the tip of her tongue to her top lip, and slid her picks inside, and started to work the lock. It only took her a few moments to tease out the innards of it, to tickle the tumblers her way. It gave a little metal gasp as it opened up for her, and Shev slipped her tongue and her picks away, eased the knob around – though she was a lot less interested in knobs than locks, being honest – worked the door open a crack and slipped through just as she heard the boots on the stairs, and felt herself grinning in the darkness.

She hadn’t wanted to admit it, least of all to herself, but God, she’d missed this. The fear. The excitement. The stakes. The thrill of taking what wasn’t hers. The thrill of knowing how damn good she was at it.

‘Best fucking thief in Westport,’ she mouthed and eased over to the table. The satchel was where Crandall had said it’d be, and she slipped the strap over her shoulder in blissful, velvet silence. Everything just the way she’d planned.

Shev turned back towards the door and a board creaked under her heel.

A woman sat bolt upright in the bed. A woman in a pale nightdress, staring straight at her.

There wasn’t supposed to be anyone in here.

Shev raised her gloved hand. ‘This is nothing like it looks-’

The woman let go the most piercing scream Shev ever heard in her life.

Cleverness, caution and plans will only get a thief so far. Then luck’s a treacherous bitch and won’t always play along, so boldness will have to take you the rest of the way. Shev raced to the window, raised her black boot and gave the shutters an almighty kick, splintering the latch, and sent them shuddering open as the woman heaved in a whooping breath.

A square of night sky. The second storey of the buildings across the way. She caught a glimpse of a man with his head in his hands through the window directly opposite. She thought about how far down it was and made herself stop. You can’t think about the ground. The woman let blast another bladder-loosening scream. Shev heard the door wrenched wide, guards yelling. She jumped through.

Wind tugged, flapped at her clothes, that lurching in her stomach as she started to fall. Like doing the high drop when she was tumbling with that travelling show, hands straining to catch Varini’s. The reassuring smack of her palms into his and the puff of chalk as he whisked her up to safety. Every time. Every time but that last time when he’d had a drink too many and the ground had caught her instead.

She let it happen. Once you’re falling, you can’t fight it. There’s an urge to flail and struggle but the air won’t help you. No one will. No one ever will, in her experience.

With a teeth-rattling thud she dropped straight into the wagon of fleeces she’d paid Jens to leave under the window. He looked suitably amazed to see her floundering out from his cargo, dragging the satchel after her and scurrying across the street, weaving between the people and into the darkness between the ale-shop and the ostler’s, the shouting fading behind her.

She reeled against the wall, gripping at her side, growling with each breath and trying not to cry out. Rim of the cart had caught her in the ribs and from the sick pain and the way her head was spinning she reckoned at least one was broken, probably a few more.

‘Fucking ouch,’ she forced through gritted teeth. She glanced back towards the building as Jens shouted to his mule and the wagon rolled off, a guard leaning out of the open window, pointing wildly across the street towards her. She saw someone slip out of a side door and gently push it closed. Someone tall, and slim, a strand of blonde hair falling from a black hat and a satchel over her shoulder. Someone with a hell of a walk, hips swaying as she drifted quietly into the shadows.

The guard roared something and Shev turned, stumbled on down the alley, squeezed through the little crack in the wall and away.

Now she remembered why she’d wanted to stop and run a Smoke House instead.

Most thieves don’t last long. Not even the good ones.

‘You’re hurt,’ said Severard.

Shev really was hurt, but she’d learned to keep her hurts as hidden as she could. In her experience, people were like sharks, blood in the water only made them hungry. So she shook her head, tried to smile, tried to look not-hurt with her face twisted up and sweaty and her hand clamped to her ribs. ‘It’s nothing. We got customers?’

‘Just Berrick.’

He nodded towards the old husk-head, sprawled out on the greasy cushions with eyes closed and mouth open, spent pipe beside him.

‘When did he smoke?’

‘Couple of hours past.’

Shev gripped her side tight as she knelt beside him, touched him gently on the cheek. ‘Berrick? Best wake up, now.’

His eyes fluttered open, and he saw Shev, and his lined face suddenly crushed up. ‘She’s dead,’ he whispered. ‘Keep remembering it fresh. She’s dead.’ And he closed his eyes and squeezed tears down his pale cheeks.

‘I know,’ said Shev. ‘I know and I’m sorry. I’d usually let you stay long as you need, and I hate to do this, but you got to get up, Berrick. Might be trouble. You can come back later. See him home, eh, Severard?’

‘I should stay here, I can watch your back-’

More likely he’d do something stupid and get the pair of them killed. ‘I been watching my own back long as I can remember. Go feed your birds.’

‘Fed ’em already.’

‘Feed ’em again, then. Just promise me you’ll stay out till Crandall’s come and gone.’

Severard worked his spotty jaw, sullen. Shit, the boy really was in love with her. ‘I promise.’ And he slipped an arm under Berrick’s and helped him stagger out of the door. Two less little worries, but still the big one to negotiate. Shev stared about, wondering how she could be ready for Crandall’s visit. Routes of escape, hidden weapons, backup plans in case something went wrong.

The coals they used to light the pipes were smouldering away in the tin bowl on their stand. Shev picked up the water jug, thinking to douse them, then reckoned maybe she could fling them in someone’s face if she had to and moved the stand back against the wall in easy reach instead, coals sliding and popping as she set it down.

‘Evening, Shev.’ She spun about, trying not to wince at the stab of pain in her side. For a big, big man, Mason sure had a light tread when he felt the need.

Crandall ducked into the Smoke House, looking even more sour than usual. She watched two of his thugs crowd in behind him. Big-Coat with his big coat on and Hands-in-Pockets with his hands still stuffed in his pockets.

The door to the yard creaked open and Pock-Face sidled through and shouldered it shut. So much for the escape route. Shev swallowed. Just say as little as possible, do nothing to rile them and get them out quick as she could. That was the trick to it.

‘Black suits you,’ said Mason, looking her up and down.

‘That’s why I wear it,’ she said, trying to come across relaxed but only managing queasy. ‘That and the thieving.’

‘Got it?’ snapped Crandall.

Shev slipped the satchel from under the counter and tossed it to him, strap flapping.

‘Good girl,’ he said as he caught it. ‘Did you open it?’

‘None of my business.’

Crandall pulled the satchel open. He poked around inside. He looked up at her with far from the satisfied-customer expression she’d been hoping for. ‘This a fucking joke?’

‘Why would it be?’

‘It’s not here.’

‘What’s not?’

‘What was supposed to be in here!’ Crandall shook the satchel at her and the frowns his men wore grew a little bit harder.

Shev swallowed again, a sinking feeling in her gut like she was standing at a cliff edge and could feel the earth crumbling at her feet. ‘You didn’t say there’d be anything in it. You didn’t say there’d be some champion screamer in the room, either. You said get the satchel, and I got it!’

Crandall flung the empty satchel on the floor. ‘Thought you’d fucking sell it to someone else, didn’t you?’

‘What? I don’t even know what it is! And if I’d screwed you I wouldn’t be standing here waiting with nothing but a smile, would I?’

‘Take me for a fool, do you? Think I didn’t see Carcolf leaving here earlier?’

‘Carcolf? She just came cause she had a job … in Talins …’ Shev trailed off with that same feeling she’d felt when her hands slipped from Varini’s and she’d seen the ground flying up to greet her. Crandall’s men shifted, Pock-Face pulling a jagged-edged knife out, and Mason gave a grimace even bigger’n usual, and slowly shook his head.

Oh, God. Carcolf had finally fucked her. But not in a good way. Not in a good way at all.

Shev held her hands up, calming, trying to give herself time to think of something. ‘Look! You said get the satchel and I got it.’ She hated the whine in her voice. Knew there was no point begging but couldn’t help herself. Looked to the doors, the thugs slowly closing on her, knew the only question left was how bad they’d hurt her. Crandall stepped towards her, face twisting.

‘Look!’ she screeched, and he punched her in the side. Far from the hardest punch she’d ever taken, but as bad luck had it his fist landed right where the wagon had, there was a flash of pain through her guts and straight away she doubled up and puked all down his trousers.

‘Oh, that’s it, you fucking little bitch! Hold her.’

The one with the pocked face caught her left arm, and the one with the stupid coat her right, and stuck his forearm in her throat and pinned her against the wall, both of them grinning like it was a while since they’d had so much fun. Shev could’ve been enjoying herself more as Pock-Face waved his knife in her face, her mouth acrid with sick and her side on fire and her eyes crossed as she stared at the bright point.

Crandall snapped his fingers at Mason. ‘Give me your axe.’

Mason puffed his cheeks out. ‘More’n likely it’s that bitch Carcolf behind all this. Nothing Shevedieh could’ve done. We kill her she can’t help us find what we’re after, eh?’

‘It’s past business now,’ said Crandall, the little rat-faced nothing, ‘and on to teaching a lesson.’

‘What lesson will this teach? And to who?’

‘Just give me your fucking axe!’

Mason didn’t like it, but he made a living doing things he didn’t like. Wasn’t as if this crossed some line. His expression said, I’m real sorry, but he pulled out his hatchet and slapped the polished handle into Crandall’s palm anyway, turning away in disgust.

Shev twisted like a worm cut in half but could hardly breathe for the pain in her ribs, and the two bastards had her fast. Crandall leaned closer, caught a fistful of her shirt and twisted it. ‘I would say it’s been nice knowing you, but it fucking hasn’t.’

‘Try not to spatter me this time, boss,’ said Pock-Face, closing the bulging eye nearest to her so he didn’t get her brains in it.

Shev gave a stupid whimper, squeezing her eyes shut as Crandall raised the axe.

So that was it, then, was it? That was her life? A shit one, when you thought about it. A few good moments shared with halfway decent folk. A few small kindnesses done. A few little victories clawed from all those defeats. She’d always supposed the good stuff was coming. The good stuff she’d be given. The good stuff she’d give. Turned out this was all there was.

‘It is a long time since I last saw Prayer Bells.’

Shev opened her eyes again. The red-haired woman she’d dragged into her bed that morning and forgotten all about was standing larger than life in Shev’s smoking room in that ripped leather vest, peering at the bells on the shelf.

‘This is a very fine one.’ And she brushed the bronze with her scabbed fingertips. ‘Second Dynasty.’

‘Who’s this fucking joker?’ snarled Crandall, weighing the hatchet in his hand.

Her eyes shifted lazily over to him. Or the one eye Shev could see did, tangled red hair hanging across the other. That hard-boned face was spattered with bruises, the nose cut and swollen and crusted with blood, the lips split and bloated. But she had this look in that one bloodshot eye as it flickered across Crandall and his four thugs, lingered on Mason a moment, then away. An easy contempt. As though she’d taken their whole measure in that single glance, and wasn’t troubled by it one bit.

‘I am Javre,’ said the woman Shev found unconscious in her doorway. She had some strange kind of an accent. From up north somewhere, maybe. ‘Lioness of Hoskopp and, far from being a joker, I am in fact often told I have a poor sense of humour. Who put me to bed?’

Pinned against the wall by three men, the most Shev could do was raise one finger.

Javre nodded. ‘That was a kindness I will not forget. Do you have my sword?’

‘Sword?’ Shev managed to croak, the forearm across her throat easing off as its owner turned to sneer at the new arrival.

Javre hissed through her teeth. ‘It could be very dangerous if it fell into the wrong hands. It is forged from the metal of a fallen star.’

‘She’s mad,’ said Crandall.

‘Fucking loon,’ grunted Hands-in-Pockets.

‘Lioness of Hoskopp,’ said Big Coat, and gave a little giggle.

‘I will have to steal it back,’ she was musing. ‘Do any of you know a decent thief?’

There was a pause, then Shev raised that one finger again.

‘Ah!’ Javre’s blood-clotted brow went up. ‘It is said the Goddess places the right people in each other’s paths.’ She frowned as though she was only just making sense of the situation. ‘Are these men inconveniencing you?’

‘A little,’ Shev whispered, grimacing at the dull ache that had spread from her side right to the tips of her fingers.

‘Best to check. You never can tell what people enjoy.’ Javre slowly worked her bare shoulders. They reminded Shev of the Amazing Zaraquon’s, too, woody hard and split into a hundred little fluttering shreds of muscle. ‘I will ask you once to put the dark-skinned girl down and leave.’

Crandall snorted. ‘And if we don’t?’

That one eye narrowed slightly. ‘Then long after we are gone to the Goddess, the grandchildren of the grandchildren of those who witness will whisper fearful stories of the way I broke you.’

Hands-in-Pockets shoved his hands down further still. ‘You ain’t even got a weapon,’ he snarled.

But Javre only smiled. ‘My friend, I am the weapon.’

Crandall jerked his head towards her. ‘Put this bitch out o’ my misery.’

Pock-Face and Big-Coat let go of Shev, which was a blessing, but closed in towards Javre, which didn’t seem to be. Big-Coat pulled a stick from his coat, which was a little disappointing since he had ample room for a greatsword in there. Pock-Face spun his jagged-edged dagger around in his fingers and stuck out his tongue, which was uglier than the blade, if anything.

Javre just stood, hands on her hips. ‘Well? Do you await a written invitation?’

Pock-Face lunged at her but his knife caught nothing. She dodged with a speed even Shev could hardly follow and her white hand flashed out and chopped him across the side of the neck with a sound like a cleaver chopping meat. He dropped as if he had no bones in him at all, knife bouncing from his hand, flopping and thrashing on the floor like a landed fish, spitting and gurgling and his eyes popping out further than ever.

Big-Coat hit her in the side with his stick. If he’d hit a pillar, that was the sound of it. Javre hardly even flinched. Muscle bulged in her arm as she sank her fist into his gut and he bent right over with a breathy wheeze. Javre caught him by the hair with her big right fist and smashed his head into Shev’s butcher-block counter, blood spattering the cheap hangings.

‘Shit,’ breathed Crandall, the hand he was holding Shev with going limp.

Javre looked over at the one with his hands rammed in his pockets, whose mouth had just dropped open. ‘No need to feel embarrassed,’ she said. ‘If I had a cock I would play with it all the time, too.’

He jerked his hands out and flung a knife. Shev saw the metal flicker, heard the blade twitter.

Javre caught it. She made no big show of it, like the jugglers in that travelling show used to. She simply plucked it from the air as easily as you might catch a coin you’d tossed yourself.

‘Thank you,’ she said. She tossed it back and it thudded into the man’s thigh. He gave a great spitty screech as he staggered back through the doorway and into the street.

Mason had just pulled his own knife out, a monster of a thing you could’ve called a sword without much fear of correction. Javre planted her hands on her hips again. ‘Are you sure this is the way you want it?’

‘Can’t say I want it,’ said Mason, drifting into a fighting crouch. ‘But there’s no other way for it to be.’

‘I know.’ Javre shook her shoulders again and raised those big empty hands. ‘But it is always worth asking.’

He sprang at her, knife a blur, and she whipped out of the way. He slashed at her and she dodged again, watching as he lumbered towards the door, tearing the curtain from its hooks. He lunged at her, feathers spewing up in a fountain as he hacked a cushion open, splinters flying as he smashed the counter over with his flailing boot, cloth ripping as he slashed one of the hangings in half.

Mason gave a bellow like a hurt bull and charged at her once more. Javre caught his wrist as the knife blade flashed towards her, big vein popping from her arm as she held it, straining, the trembling point just a finger’s width from her forehead.

‘Got you now!’ Mason sprayed spit through his clenched teeth as he caught Javre by her thick neck, forced her back a step-

She snatched the big Prayer Bell from the shelf and smashed him over the head with it, the almighty clang so loud it rattled the teeth in Shev’s head. Javre hit him again, twisting free of his clutching hand, and he gave a groan and dropped to his knees, blood pouring down his face. Javre raised her arm high and smashed him onto his back, bell breaking from handle and clattering away into the corner, the ringing echoes gradually fading.

Javre looked up at Crandall, her face all spotted with Mason’s blood. ‘Did you hear that?’ She raised her red brows. ‘Time for you to pray.’

‘Oh, hell,’ croaked Crandall. He let the hatchet clatter to the boards and held his open palms up high. ‘Now look here,’ he stammered out, ‘I’m Horald’s son. Horald the Finger!’

Javre shrugged as she stepped over Mason’s body. ‘I am new in town. One name strikes me no harder than another.’

‘My father runs things here! He gives the orders!’

Javre grinned as she stepped over Big-Coat’s corpse. ‘He does not give me orders.’

‘He’ll pay you! More money than you can count!’

Javre poked Pock-Face’s fallen knife aside with the toe of her boot. ‘I do not want it. I have simple tastes.’

Crandall’s voice grew shriller as he shrank away from her. ‘If you hurt me, he’ll catch up to you!’

Javre shrugged again as she took another step. ‘We can hope so. It would be his last mistake.’

‘Just … please!’ Crandall cringed. ‘Please! I’m begging you!’

‘It really is not me you have to beg,’ said Javre, nodding over his shoulder.

Shev whistled and Crandall turned around, surprised. He looked even more surprised when she buried the blade of Mason’s hatchet in his forehead with a sharp crack.

‘Bwurgh,’ he said, tongue hanging out, then he toppled backwards, his limp hand catching the stand and knocking it and the tin bowl flying, showering hot coals across the wall.

‘Shit,’ said Shev as flames shot up the flimsy hangings. She grabbed the water jug but its meagre contents made scarcely any difference. Fire had already spread to the next curtain, shreds of burning ash fluttering down.

‘Best vacate the premises,’ said Javre, and she took Shev under the arm with a grip that was not to be resisted and marched her smartly out through the door, leaving four dead men scattered about the burning room.

The one who’d had his hands in his pockets was leaning against the wall in the street, clutching at his own knife stuck in his thigh.

‘Wait-’ he said as Javre caught him by the collar, and with a flick of her wrist sent him reeling across the street to crash head first into a wall.

Severard was running up, staring at the building, flames already licking around the doorframe. Javre caught him and guided him away. ‘Nothing to be done. Bad choice of décor in a place with naked flames.’ As if to underscore the point, the window shattered, fire gouting into the street, and Severard ducked with his hands over his head.

‘What the hell happened?’ he moaned.

‘Went bad,’ whispered Shev, clutching at her side. ‘Went bad.’

‘You call that bad?’ Javre scraped the dirty red hair out of her battered face and grinned at the ruin of Shev’s hopes as though it looked a good enough day’s work to her. ‘I say it could have been far worse!’

‘How?’ snapped Shev. ‘How could it be fucking worse?’

‘We might both be dead.’ She gave a sharp little laugh. ‘Come out alive, it is a victory.’

‘This is what happens,’ said Severard, his eyes shining with reflected fire as the building burned brighter. ‘This is what happens when you do a kindness.’

‘Ah, stop crying, boy. Kindness brings kindness in the long run. The Goddess holds our just rewards in trust! I am Javre, by the way.’ And she clapped him on the shoulder and near knocked him over. ‘Do you have an older brother, by any chance? Fighting always gets me in the mood.’

‘What?’

‘Brothers, maybe?’

Shev clutched at her head. Felt like it was going to burst. ‘I killed Crandall,’ she whispered. ‘I bloody killed him. They’ll come after me now! They’ll never stop coming!’

‘Pffffft.’ Javre put one great, muscled, bruised arm around Shev’s shoulders. Strangely reassuring and smothering at once. ‘You should see the bastards coming after me. Now, about stealing back this sword of mine …’