The Moonsteel Crown by Stephen Deas

Author:Stephen Deas
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780857668776
Publisher: Watkins Media
Published: 2020-03-14T16:00:00+00:00

23

Council Day

Fings had once explained to Myla how getting around the city worked in Varr: there were roads the Longcoats walked – the Longcoat Roads – and roads they didn’t. The Longcoats kept their roads safe and free from shit, snow, Dead Men and robbers. If you looked like you had money, they doffed their caps and called you sir and madam. If you didn’t, they mostly decided you were probably a robber and served up a civic-minded beating and spot of mild mugging. In winter, Fings told her – it had been late summer at the time, the air stifling hot – the Longcoats did generally keep their roads open when the snows came; but while they were supposed to load the snow onto wagons and cart it out the city, it was a whole lot easier to shovel it into the nearest alley, where it would pile up all through the Sulk until half the back-streets of Varr were clogged with three feet of packed ice and no one could get anywhere.

They left the docks at midday and took a Longcoat Road back to the Spice Market. Myla kept her blankets wrapped around her; whenever they passed Longcoats clearing snow, she let them see her swords and that was always enough. They reached the Unruly Pig and she pushed on the door. Fings hung back, ready to run, not happy at the idea of coming back until someone else could tell him it was safe. Myla, on the other hand, was quietly looking forward to a few Spicers maybe still loitering about the place, figuring she could practise sword-forms on them until they felt ready to answer some questions. All in all, it had been a thoroughly shitty night.

The Teahouse commons looked as though a storm had passed through: tables turned over, chairs smashed, porcelain shattered, wooden plates and bowls and goblets scattered all across the floor. In the kitchen, pans were bent and strewn about, urns smashed, while everything in the pantry had been looted or spoiled and ruined. Myla rummaged through the wreckage until she found a bottle they’d somehow missed. She cracked it open and took a long swallow.

“Spicers did this?” Fings asked. She nodded.

Upstairs was more of the same: everything gone that could be carried away, everything else smashed or torn. They found the remains of a fire in Blackhand’s study, all his papers destroyed. There wasn’t much blood.

Fings went to the hearth and reached into a gap behind the chimney. He pulled out a small lock-box.

“What’s that?” Myla offered him her bottle but he waved her away, too busy rubbing his hands in anticipation.

“Blackhand’s stash! They missed it!”

“You know where he keeps the key?”

“Key?” Fings was already fiddling with a tiny leather roll of lock-picks. “You think Blackhand tells me where he keeps that?” He chuckled gleefully. “But ain’t no lock ever made to keep old Fings out for long.”

He squatted beside the bed and carefully placed three crude wooden effigies. Myla squinted, trying to see what they were.

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