The Hell of It by Peter Orullian Read Free Book Online Page A

empty-handed. Marta’s things gone, nothing to show for it. But if he went with these men, and they succeeded, how would he explain it to his boy? He could maybe rationalize it for himself, but even that felt wrong. That wasn’t the way ahead for him and Roth. He’d very nearly turned the men down, when something occurred to him: A man saved from robbery might show a generous hand to the one who saves him. He would be playing a dangerous game. But the night had been filled with such.
    He stood, slicking back his hair. “Let’s go.”
    The first man clapped him on the back. “Damn straight,” he said, and led them from the dock.
    They walked back alleys all through town, weaving in and out of various wharf districts, always careful to keep distance between themselves and other folk strolling the night. After the better part of an hour, they’d wound back to within five hundred paces of where they’d begun. There was some logic in the approach, Malen realized, coming at a dockside inn from the rear, down a narrow, untraveled footpath.
    A set of wooden stairs rose to the second level, where a row of dark windows indicated vacancies or sleeping guests. The two men started up, Malen following.
    The first man stopped. “No,” he whispered. “All we need is a lookout. Just stand here.” He pointed to one side of the staircase. “If anyone comes, stop them. Make like you’re drunk if you have to. And if someone gets by, go around to the inn tavern. Make a fuss. Get them all going loud and angry. Understand?”
    Malen nodded.
    The two men gave him serious looks, then ascended the stairs and disappeared inside. He stood alone, still damp and cold, in the moonlight. His breath steamed the air, and he wondered if Roth had gotten himself to bed. He hated that the boy was having to look after himself while his da was out gambling to try and get them a stash of their own. This wasn’t at all what Marta wanted. The docks be damned!
    But then, maybe, just maybe, this one indiscretion would put them ahead. And that plack had been a magpie. He knew it. His eyes could be fuzzy at times, he’d grant that. But he’d seen that bird clear—twelve feathers, black and white with hints of blue.
    The night filled with the sound of boots scurrying across wood steps. He turned fast and saw his accomplices rushing down the staircase, wild looks in their eyes. One took the time to nod to him. Together they lit out from the rear of the inn, relaxing into a casual gait once they got to open roads. The first man led them on another circuitous walk through wharfside districts. They even began to share idle banter.
    They passed a uniformed city-man slowly walking the street, and ducked into a narrow byway. The alley jutted left then right, then left again, leaving them utterly alone. The sounds of the city faded to practically nothing here. In the shadows, the first man stepped up to a door and quietly depressed the latch. He slipped inside, the second man following close behind. Malen hesitated only briefly, caution beating hard in his chest. The door closed quickly and softly behind him, a cross brace swung down with a bare tep sound as it locked in place.
    A small candle was lit, and the two men positioned themselves between it and the shuttered windows. Then onto the table they emptied their pockets and several small sacks hidden beneath their coats. Malen’s eyes widened at the stolen bounty: gold handcoins, silver half-bars, a good handful of gems (every color you could imagine), maybe fifty promissory notes, and three sacks full of steel plugs (realm-embossed). On a bad day, the realmcoin would trade for eighty thin plugs.
    He spent a moment memorizing their faces. Malen figured that sharing a description of the thieves and handing over some of the loot besides, he’d come off a hero. And stand a very good chance of being on the right end of Gynedo’s