The Thief Who Pulled on Trouble's Braids by Michael McClung Read Free Book Online

I, ah, am as circumspect as possible in all my business dealings. And I would never poison my own well, so to speak. I am sorry about Corbin’s death. But I had nothing to do with it.”
    “Who was the job for, Locquewood?”
    “I’m sorry, I can’t help you.”
    “Can’t, or won’t?”
    “Both.”
    I could tell he wasn’t going to give me anything more. That was fine. I’d planted the idea that I didn’t yet know who Corbin’s customer was and, hopefully, had set Locquewood on a collision course with Heirus the Elamner. Locquewood had more than two marks to rub together; I was willing to bet he would spend what it took to send a message, and keep his reputation as an honest fixer secure. How much good it would do, I didn’t know. But I figured stirring up trouble would help keep eyes off me. It’s easier to swim unnoticed in muddy water, so to speak. Not that I know how to swim.
    I glared at him, mouth tight. He returned my gaze with a bland one of his own.
    “If I find out you had anything to do with this,” I hissed, “you’ll regret it.” And I stormed out of his back room, slamming the door.
    When I walked away from his shop, it was with a spring in my step. It had been a good performance. Maybe not good enough for the Clarion Theatre, but good enough. I was certain Locquewood had bought it.
    My next stop was one I enjoyed less.

 
     
    Chapter Seven
     
     
    The May Queen’s Dream was a red brick, three-story building on Third Wall Road, with red painted shutters and riotous flowers in every window box. It was as far from the whore’s cribs on Silk Street as silk is from a sow’s ear, but it was a whorehouse none the less.
    A frock-coated butler offered to take my satchel. I declined, and stepped from the staid entry hall with its dark wood panelling into the lush, cool parlor.
    It had been a long time since I’d been here. I’d forgotten Estra’s uncanny decorating tastes. It was a huge room, but managed to convey a sense of intimacy. A creamy marble floor glowed under crystal chandeliers lit at all hours, and the walls were covered in red satin. Plush couches and chairs were arranged around the room in such a way as to create little pockets that invited conversation and intimacy. There were fine sculptures and fine paintings everywhere you looked. A bar ran the length of one wall, dark stained oak topped with pink granite. In one corner stood one of the new harpsichords, though no-one was playing it at the moment. And at the end, a grand, carpeted stairway led to the rooms above. The entire effect was somehow one of understated ostentation.
    This was where Corbin had spent a fair amount of time. He came for the woman I was here to see, but also, I think, for the atmosphere. Perhaps it reminded him of the beauty he must have grown up with. Perhaps Estra had, too. They fought like rats in a bag, to hear him tell it, but he always went back to her. Their relationship wasn’t placid, but it was… constant.
    Only three girls lounged in the parlor. It wasn’t even noon yet. A black haired, green eyed-beauty stood and glided her way towards me. Her pale skin was flawless. Her crimson lips were flawless. The cleavage that pushed out over the top of her whalebone corset was ample, and flawless. I struggled not to hate her.
    “Good morning,” she said. “Welcome to the Dream. Can I offer you some refreshment?”
    “I’m here to see Estra. I have some news for her.”
    “Madame usually breaks her fast now. Shall I say who is calling?”
    “Amra Thetys.”
    “And this is in relation to?”
    “Corbin. Tell her it’s about Corbin.”
    Something flickered in those emerald eyes. Those perfect lips gave the slightest twitch, as if they wanted to say or ask something, but knew better. Curious. She did a perfect little curtsey and glided off. I walked over to the bar and asked the elderly, white-coated barman for an ale. It was the cheapest thing they served. At the Dream, everything they served