Rag was beginning to feel sick. How much longer could she watch this kind of shit? Someone had to stop it. Someone had to put a bloody end to this.
‘I can lure him out into the open,’ she said all of a sudden.
Well, that’s fucking torn it.
Friedrik stopped, log raised up in his hand, Shirl cowering on the ground, whimpering.
‘What?’ asked Friedrik.
‘I can get him to leave the palace. I can probably get him out of the Crown District too.’
So much for not betraying the Guild. Looked like that Kaira woman would be able to trust her after all.
Friedrik smiled, lowering the log and letting it drop. He looked down at Shirl as though he’d just seen him for the first time. ‘What are you doing down there?’ he asked. ‘Go stand somewhere I can’t see you, and stop making that frightful noise.’
Shirl struggled to his feet, hands clutching his sides, face twisted in pain though he didn’t dare say a word in complaint.
Friedrik turned to Rag. ‘Well, why didn’t you say that in the first place? How are you going to get him out in the open, then?’
She shook her head, thinking fast. Friedrik had talked about this Merrick long and loud and she tried desperately to remember something that might help. He was a drinker, a womaniser, a … gambler.
‘I told him my uncle owned a gambling den. I made out they were amateurs, that anyone with any nouse would be able to fleece them easy. He swallowed it, couldn’t wait to find out where it was. I played all cagey like, told him I’d get my hide whipped if I told. I reckon another couple of visits and I can get him to follow me to Northgate and you can nab him. Hells, I reckon I could get him to follow me to Silverwall if he thought there were enough easy coin waiting.’
Friedrik looked at her, taking in the words. If she was wrong about Merrick, or what she thought she knew about him, this could turn out bad for her. Much worse than a beating with a log.
‘You know every day I’m finding more to like about you, Rag.’ Friedrik smiled, and she smiled back. ‘Don’t you think she has excellent potential, Palien?’
Palien paused, his knife close to his mouth, some meat skewered on the end of it.
‘She’s a veritable fucking prodigy,’ he said, before popping it in.
‘Glad you think so. You won’t mind giving her some coin then, will you? I haven’t got any on me and it’s obvious she deserves a reward. Don’t you agree?’
Palien stopped mid chew and shot Rag a hateful glance, but it fell from his face as Friedrik turned expectantly. Plastering a smile to his lips, Palien dipped into the coinpurse at his side and produced two gold crowns.
‘Don’t spend it all at once,’ he said as he slapped them on the table next to Rag. Gently she slid the coins into her hand, keeping her eyes on Palien, just in case he got any ideas with that knife of his.
‘What are all these logs doing on the floor?’ said Friedrik as though he’d forgotten all about beating Shirl to shit.
Rag cringed. Shirl was bound to get another kicking if Friedrik went off on one again. Mercifully, before that could happen the door to the alehouse opened.
Two figures struggled in through the door, soaked from the rain. They were dragging a body in between them, someone big and heavy, hands bound behind them and a sack over their head. Harkas slammed the door shut and moved forward to help with the body.
‘Ah,’ Friedrik said. ‘Our guest has arrived. Although rather late, I think.’
Both the men carrying the load looked up like they was sorry. Rag could understand that; she wouldn’t have wanted to keep Friedrik waiting either.
‘We was gonna bring him last night,’ said one of the men with no front teeth. ‘But he was still knocked out and he’s a right lump. The two of us would have struggled to carry him all the way without being seen.’
‘Never mind,’ Friedrik replied. ‘You’re here now. Yarrick, open up the cellar, there’s a good chap.’
As Yarrick scuttled off, Rag marvelled yet again at Friedrik’s sudden change of mood. It was always like this — one minute wondering if he was gonna stab you in the eye, next if he was gonna plant a kiss on your cheek.
The men dragged the body after Yarrick. Rag could see that whoever was under the sack was moving, but none too fast. Friedrik strolled after them, glancing at Rag over his shoulder.
‘Come along,’ he said. ‘You won’t want to miss this.’
Rag was pretty sure she would want to miss this. She’d been here a dozen times before. It was like Friedrik wanted to show off to her — like she’d be impressed by his cruelty. She knew better than to refuse, however, and followed him as they dragged the body out to the back of the alehouse.
A trapdoor led down some squeaky stairs into the dark. As Rag followed Friedrik down, someone lit a lantern that illuminated the cellar. The place was massive, at least a hundred feet long. In the middle was a pit six feet deep and twenty wide — a dirty hole for dirty deeds. Though Rag hadn’t yet witnessed what went on down here every now and again, she knew it was a nasty business. There were fights in that pit; that much was obvious, and Rag had an inkling that not everyone who went in came out alive.
They dragged the body over to one of the wooden props and undid the rope binding its wrists. Then the one with the missing teeth chained its hands to the prop. They all stood back, just looking.
For an awful moment Rag wondered if this was Merrick Ryder — if they’d actually managed to catch him — and in moments Friedrik and Palien would find out she’d been lying all along.
When Friedrik pulled the sack from over the body’s head, Rag didn’t have time to be relieved it wasn’t him, because she recognised the face that glared up at them.
He looked at the men surrounding him, his face a battered mess, one eye swollen and half closed, lips and nose rimmed with dry crusty blood. Rag knew him despite the sorry state of his face. Lincon, he’d said his name was. She remembered how nice he’d been to her after Krupps had almost killed her. He kept her safe, gave her water for her parched mouth. She still felt guilty that she’d cut off some bastard’s head and then run from those Greencoats before she’d had a chance to thank him.
Well, there was no way she was gonna thank him now.
‘Nobul Jacks,’ said Friedrik like he was greeting an old mate. ‘How good of you to join us. I think you already know why you’re here.’
Nobul? Hadn’t he called himself Lincon before? Either way, it didn’t matter — it was definitely him; Markus’ old man.
Palien leaned forward, though not too close, like at any minute Nobul would savage him with his teeth. ‘Not so fucking clever now, are you?’ he said, sneering all the while.
Nobul stared back, hate burning in his eyes.
‘Did you think you could just finish off two of my best collectors and there’d be no repercussions?’ Friedrik asked. ‘That we’d never be able to find you? We’re the Guild, Nobul. We have eyes everywhere. Young Anton’s been one of ours since he was a boy. He’s been waiting for the opportunity to draw you out for weeks.’
Rag could see Nobul’s brow furrow at the mention of ‘Anton’. Whoever he was she reckoned he’d be in deep shit if Nobul ever got out of here, but that didn’t look too likely right now.
‘Now, I know what you’re thinking,’ Friedrik continued. ‘You’ll be tortured to death, body dumped in the Storway never to be seen again? Right?’ He cupped an ear as though Nobul might give him an answer. ‘Wrong. I’ve got something much more entertaining in mind. Big strong chap like you, bulging at the shoulders, good in a fight, if rumour is to be believed. Why would I waste an opportunity like that?’
Still Nobul didn’t answer and Palien gave him a sharp kick to the legs.