The Thief Who Pulled on Trouble's Braids by Michael McClung Page A

succession, making a square, and came back at a sprint to the tavern. My abused muscles complained bitterly, but Hunchback was right where I’d figured he would be, lagging far behind. And far away from his toughs. Sometimes I’m so smart I amaze myself.
    I came up behind him in a quiet rush and put my blade across his windpipe. He stiffened. I plucked my other knife out of his hand and said, “Where are the other two?”
    “Right here. In my belt.” So they were. I relieved him of those as well. I heard running footsteps rounding the corner. I spun him around to face the toughs. “Quick now, tell them to put down their swords. He hesitated, and I slid the sharp end of my blade across his stubbled neck, just enough to sting.
    “Stay back! Put down your swords!” He had a cultured voice. It sounded odd coming from his twisted, dissolute body. When they hesitated, he shouted “Do as I say!” They did, breathing hard, murder in the eyes of the one I’d stuck.
    “Good boy,” I murmured in his ear. “Now tell ‘em to go inside the tavern and count to a hundred. Not too fast. I’ll be counting too, and I’m not so good at it. Sometimes I lose my place and have to start again. If they come out before I’m done counting I’ll cut your throat.” He did as he was told, and they did what he told them, and I said “good boy” again as I dragged him down the street, and into the mouth of the nearest alley. Four pairs of eyes followed our progress from tavern door and window.
    “You must be Bosch.” I said as we went.
    He hesitated, then nodded. Carefully.
    “Out of curiosity, where’d you find my knife?”
    “In a planter in the garden.”
    “The one place I didn’t think to look. Tell the Elamner he’d better back off if he doesn’t want the toad melted down.” I thought it best not to mention the corpse I’d seen. I still hadn’t figured out what the hells it signified.
    “You have the statue?”
    “No, I just assumed your boss would want a golden toad. Doesn’t everybody?”
    “We can do business, then.”
    “Yes,” I said. “We can deal.”
    “How shall we contact you?”
    I yanked out a handful of his hair and pushed him into the gutter. I tucked the hair into the top of a boot.
    “Don’t worry. I’ll find you.” And then I turned and tried to make myself scarce. I was sure Holgren would know just what to do with Bosch’s greasy locks.
    It wasn’t Bosch’s men that got me. It was the Watch. Markgie’s Rest wasn’t the Rookery, or Silk Street. When taverns got busted up and blood got spilled, and people started running around in the street with bared blades, they came. In large numbers. Quickly.
    There was just nowhere for me to go. Three appeared ahead of me, and two more behind, blocking off the alley. Black, varnished billys thunked into meaty palms. One old codger with a mean eye had a crossbow and looked like he knew how to use it. Blank walls rose on either side.
    “Kerf’s shrivelled balls,” I spat, and dropped my knife, and put out my hands.
    They beat me unconscious anyway.

 
     
    Chapter Twelve
     
     
    When I came back to the world, I wished I hadn’t.
    The smell was awful. Piss and vomit and shit and fear. The stench of bodies that had forgotten what clean water was, much less soap. To draw breath was to gag. I couldn’t see anything. The darkness was absolute. I felt rough straw and filth-slick stone under my cheek, heard distant screams echoing along stone corridors. Somewhere not far away a hoarse, gravelly voice kept moaning ‘Mother? Mother?’ in such a monotonous way that I could hear the madness behind it.
    I groaned and began the slow, torturous process of levering myself up off the floor. Everything hurt. When I put my hand out to work myself into a sitting position, I planted it squarely into a pile of cold, runny feces.
    “Welcome to Havelock Prison,” I whispered to myself. “Mind the turds.”
     
    ~ ~ ~
     
    In the darkness it was impossible to