“You think I don’t have friends? You think I’m going to let some commoner threaten my good name?”
“That’s Captain Commoner to you, Colonel. And here’s a question you might ask yourself. Ask yourself if any of your friends outrank Encorla Hisvin. Because one of my friends, Colonel, is the Corpsemaster himself. And if anything happens to me, a letter will reach Hisvin’s desk. A letter and a crate. I’m sure you can picture the rest without my help. And in light of Hisvin’s somewhat inventive methods of dispatching the enemies of the Regency, you’d best hope for a death as quick and easy as the gallows.”
“You lie.”
He said it, but he didn’t mean it. If he’d checked on me at all, he’d heard rumors I had ties to the Corpsemaster.
“I do not. I can snuff you out on a whim, Colonel. What was it you said about sunrises? It applies to you as well.”
He glared. His color was so bad I grew fearful he might suffer a stroke right there.
“But it doesn’t have to be that way. We can both take in a lifetime of sunrises, and all I need is a bit of cooperation.”
He made a growling noise deep in his throat.
“How much do you want?”
I sighed. “Not a copper. I told you before. I’m not out to rob you. I just want to bring your son home, safe and sound.”
“You need to stay out of this. I’m handling that.”
“How? By destroying the evidence? By stalling? For all you or I know, Carris is dead already. You don’t seem to give a damn. Why is that? “
“You didn’t see hundreds of people die in the war? Thousands?”
“Damn right I did. That doesn’t justify the death of even one more. Especially not your own son.”
“You don’t know what you’re getting into. I’m telling you to leave it alone.” He puffed up a bit. “That is an order.”
“You’re retired. Shove your orders. Who has Carris, Colonel? I think you either know or suspect, and I think their initials might be S.J.”
“The Lieutenant is dead. Just as you will soon be.”
“A Colonel ought to know that repeating empty threats is a poor tactical maneuver. Let’s talk about this dead Lieutenant. Since you claim he’s dead, what’s the harm in giving me his name?”
“His name was Japeth Stricken. He died begging. So will you.”
“Japeth Stricken.” The name was not one I knew. “You seem to know a lot about how he died.”
He smiled a thin wicked smile.
“I was there. He came to me, making demands. Just as you have.”
I nodded. “His share of the take ran out, so he put the squeeze on you for more, is that it?”
“You commoners are all the same.”
“You thieves share certain traits as well. Still. You’re sure he’s dead?”
“He’s dead. Just like you.”
“So what is it the kidnappers want, Colonel? And why won’t you give it to them?”
He clamped his jaw shut.
“You’re going to tell me. I’ll give you a minute to think it through. There’s no way out, Colonel. I’ve got more than enough to hang you, or worse. I can’t be bought or scared off. Your only option is to tell me what I need to know and hope to kill me some fine day long after this is over, and you know it.” I picked up his woman’s wineglass and tasted the vintage. Maybe rich folks like things sour and warm, but I decided I’d take cold beer any day.
“They never asked for money.” He spoke in a low growl. “They want information. Shipments of ore. How much slag we sell. How many wagons of ingots sold last quarter. Things you wouldn’t understand.”
“A competitor, out to beat you in the markets?”
“What else?”
I shook my head.
“Colonel. Commoner I may be, imbecile I am not. We both know there’s more to all this than a rival mining company trying to wring another half-percent profit out of this year’s take.”
“I told you to leave it alone.”
Damn. The man was actually trying to protect what he thought was a state secret. He’d stolen freely while serving. Just my luck he was having a sudden resurgence of patriotism.
“I know more than you think about a lot of things, Colonel. But that’s not really important, because knowing the why doesn’t help me get your son back. It’s the who I’m after.”
He said nothing.
“This is what we’re going to do, Colonel. You’re going to answer the next letter you get. You’re going to promise them they’ll get everything they want-in a direct exchange for Carris. No ifs, ands or buts.”
“I will do no such thing.”
I tapped my finger on the letter.
“Yes. Yes you will. You’ll agree to whatever time and place they dictate. You’ll agree to bring with you whatever records they want. And you’ll do it just as I say, or I’ll hand you over to the Corpsemaster and you can drive his black carriage around until the skin falls off your damned old bones. You know what they’ll say, Colonel? They’ll say ‘there goes old dead Lethway, thief and traitor. Got what he deserved.’ Is that how you want to be remembered?”
He had no answer. I didn’t press for one.
“You’ll send word to me when you’ve made the arrangements with the kidnappers. You’ll remember what I said about crates and letters if I have a tragic fall in the bath anytime soon. You’ll do this and get your son back and make me go away. Or else. That common enough for you?”
“Bastard.”
I speared a chunk of butter-covered broccoli and chewed and swallowed. “Oh, one last thing. Don’t go getting any ideas about going after Tamar Fields again. What was that about, anyway? You worried fat little Fields might decide to cause some trouble for you, in the middle of this mess?”
“I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”
I reached in my pocket and withdrew the head of the walking stick his man had taken away and plopped it on the letter.
He quickly moved his gaze away.
“Have a nice evening, Colonel Lethway. Sorry about your date. I don’t think she’s coming back.”
“I’ll do as you say,” he said in a whisper. “But one day, Markhat, I’m going to watch you die.”
“There ought to be quite a crowd. You should probably bring your own chair.” I rose and dropped a pair of coppers down on the table. “My part of the tip. Be seeing you.”
Mills was suddenly at my side. Lethway’s brutes looked to their boss, but he motioned them to stay put, and they did.
We walked out of the Banner, Mills and I, our bellies full of beer and the heady taste of short-lived triumph.
My carriage was still at the curb. I had a sudden urge to travel and no particular destination in mind.
We climbed inside and rolled into the empty street.
I let out my breath in a great long sigh.
“I thought that old man was going to pop a vein right there,” said Mills. “Is it healthy, pissing off rich folks like that, in public?”
“Keeps me young and sharp. The name Japeth Stricken mean anything to you?”
“Stricken. Hmmm. Seems familiar. Is it important?”
“It might be. Word is he’s dead. I wonder if that’s true.”
“I know some people who’d know.”
I grinned. “They stay up past Curfew?”
“They ain’t afraid of vampires. Hell, they probably skin ’em and eat ’em.”
“And you claim vexing the elderly is dangerous to my heath. Can you tell the driver where these worthies might be found, at this unholy hour?”
Mills banged on the ceiling and barked out directions to the driver.
Curfew keeps honest folks off the streets. But if my night out with Mills was any indication, the Curfew was also creating a wee-hours culture based in equal parts on crime, gambling and the frantic cultivation of garlic.
I never mentioned that Evis and his friends are no more repulsed by garlic than you or I. We might wrinkle our noses if someone shoves a handful of cloves in our face, but try that with a halfdead and you’ll only succeed in getting your arm ripped off, and worse.