Chapter 79

Roan

Arik thought himself a common soldier, but he walked down the halls of manors and palaces with far too much ease for that. Silas' Guild training made sure he knew exactly what to do and which fork to use at a fancy table, masking that this wasn't second nature to him. But me? If you wanted to meet up with a dodgy prick in the back of some shitty tavern to find a bloke that makes implements of torture for horses, I was your man and so I led the way into The Scold's Bridle.

"Looks like a savoury place."

Silas glanced up at the hanging sign, a caricature of a waspish woman painted there, wearing a terrible device about her head to stop her tongue from wagging.

"Says the son of a whoremonger and a thief," I said with a smirk, before swinging the door open.

This was my kind of battlefield. Dukes and other lordlings rarely said what they meant, discussing the weather in some kind of code that when deciphered laid out their plans for each other's destruction. Even middle class people were stifling in their attempts to eradicate all evidence of human nature from their too quiet homes, but the noise and stink that hit me, as soon as we walked inside. This I knew well.

Don't get too close to corners, that was the first rule. Few men could be bothered to find a chamber pot or privy so they just pissed in the corners of the inn, leaving the place stinking worse than a tom cat in rut. Don't make eye contact with the whores. They were just women trying to make their money in the only way they knew how, but they were just as likely to slip off the laps of their patrons and sidle up if they thought you were a better mark. You'd find yourself in a fight with some drunken prick, accusing you of stealing ‘his girl', the woman in question wandering off to find easier money. Don't drink the ale, because it was likely watered down and definitely do not walk up to a pack of bastards like this.

"And what do we have here?" His narrow face is where he got his name from, but Weasel was the leader of one of the shadowy factions that made their livelihood around the race tracks. "Three of the king's finest?" He looked me up and down. "Been a long time, Roan."

"Weasel."

I held out my hand and his cronies all looked at me then the man himself, cackling as Weasel left me standing there. Not for long though. He rose, unfolding that lean frame, then looked me up and down before clasping my hand. He tried hard, I'd give him that, his fingers biting into mine, but he realised his mistake as soon as my grip tightened.

I wasn't the lad I was, running the streets and getting into mischief. My da had tried to sell the idea of the army, saying it would make a man of me, and that made sense. Being forced to wield a wooden sword, practising striking out over and over, built muscle and sinew hard enough that I could've crushed the little fuck's fingers.

But that wouldn't get me what I wanted.

I let his hand go, grinning hard to make sure he knew that I could've broken those damn fingers, right before I focused on the business at hand.

"So what can I do for you?" Weasel flopped back into his chair, a doxy sliding onto his lap automatically. "Roan, son of Horace?"

I grabbed a nearby chair, the occupants of the table looking up to protest until they saw who was taking it. The chair was spun around and I straddled it, facing the lot of them down. Silas and Arik came to stand at my shoulders.

"Looking for a devil's butterfly."

"The Bastard Prince and his band is getting into race fixing?" Weasel's expression shifted from one of shock to avaricious interest. "The Raven would be interested in that sort of information."

"Not race fixing." Silas flicked a gold coin into the air and each man at the table moved to catch it, but he was called Weasel for a reason. His hand shot out, snatching it from the air. "And seeing as I'm the Raven's son and heir, who do you think sent us?"

"We usually deal with Gnasher and his crew–"

Weasel was barely paying attention to what he was saying, shoving the coin deep in his pockets, then silencing the protests around the table with a sharp look. The woman on his lap looked especially attentive then, stroking her hands through his greasy locks.

"And you'll continue to," I said. "This is a one off request and has nothing to do with the racetrack."

Weasel's eyes met mine, that canny mind starting to focus.

"What then?"

"The more you know, the more likely your head will end up separated from your body." Arik stepped closer as he crossed his arms. "Pretty sure you'd prefer to keep it where it is."

Weasel nodded slowly, then reached into his pockets and tossed a couple of small pieces of metal on the desk.

"There's your butterflies," he said with a shrug. "Woulda sold them to you for far less than a gold coin, but…" His eyes met mine as a slow smile spread across his face. "In the spirit of ensuring customer satisfaction, maybe you should share a few more details. Butterflies are nasty things."

He pressed the small pieces of metal together and a tiny spring within forced it to snap open, forming a shape much like a butterfly's wing, but no insect had wings with razor sharp edges like these things.

"Set ‘em up under a saddle and they'll cut through the blanket and then into the horse, making the nag go mad, trying to bolt away from the pain like the stupid things always do. There's no getting away from it because the saddle and the rider are forcing it into the beast's skin, cutting deeper with every gallop."

He snapped it back shut.

"If you're not looking to make a slow horse win a race, then I'm guessing a beast with an arse tore up worse than a brand new whore's is not the end result you're looking for." I clenched my jaw, then looked up at Arik. No, it wasn't. Weasel chuckled, reading our expressions perfectly. "So how about you share as many details as you can without me risking my damn head. We're businessmen after all." His cronies all grinned and nudged at each other, not able to look less trustworthy if they tried. "We want to ensure the customer is satisfied with the product we provide."

More chairs were pulled up and one dark look from Arik had those nearby moving away from ours sharpish.

"We've been given orders to make sure someone dies on horseback," Arik replied. "And we're supposed to make it look like an accident."

"Proficient rider or one of them pricks that sits in the saddle like a sack of potatoes?" Weasel asked.

"Proficient enough," Silas replied.

Weasel made a show of considering that before grinning, revealing a row of the most wretched teeth I'd had the misfortune to look upon.

"Your dad has always been at pains to keep you away from the darker side of his business." Weasel nodded at Silas. "A son of the Raven walking the halls of the palace at the Bastard Prince's side." His focus shifted to Arik. "Proud, he seemed." Weasel shook his head. "And now he's got you muddying your hands with wet work?"

That was the euphemism the assassins in the Raven's employ used to describe anything that would result in blood being spilled. Silas didn't even suck in a breath in reply. One minute he was listening to Weasel talk, then the next the man's tattered sleeve was pierced through on both sides, the hilts of Silas' daggers glowing in the lamp light.

"And you would do well to not worry yourself about what I do or don't." I heard his father's steel in Silas' voice. "Whatever training you think I received or didn't, let me assure you that I gained plenty of experience in… wet work."

To prove his point, he slid his finger through a thin scratch on Weasel's wrist, the man letting out a thin whine when he saw the red blood.

"No, don't move." I knew that almost conciliatory tone. Silas used it with every man we'd been forced to interrogate. He was always the softest, right before he was going to hurt them the most. "A little twist to the right and you'll be bleeding out all over this table." Chairs were shoved back, but he turned to face Weasel's cronies. "Sit down, gentlemen, and remain very quiet. I have plenty of other knives and I can assure you I won't be anywhere near as careful if I'm forced to throw them." He glared when they paused. "Sit. Down."

I chuckled. "Looks like you're ready to have a sensible conversation now, me old mate, so here it is. We need something that will cause a terrible fall from horseback, that can't be traced back to us or anyone. Something that will look like an accident, that is very, very important. Anything that could potentially look like foul play would mean great trouble for the Raven." For us, much more likely. "What do you suggest?"

"A girth cutter." Weasel looked sharply at one of his men. "Ken, you'd have to have one." The man in question dropped several flat pieces of metal onto the table. "Cunning things they are."

I could see that as I raised one up to look much more closely at it. Most razors had their cutting edges on the outside of their blades, but this looked something like a paperclip, the sharp edge on the inside of the loop.

"Slide that on a girth strap and it won't cut it right away. The horse won't feel it, neither will the groom if you put it up high enough. No harm to the beast to alert someone that foul play is at work. Won't even cut the girth neatly. Each movement will force the blade to cut deeper, leaving a slowly widening cut with ragged edges, as if the thing weakened of its own accord." He snorted. "Gotta make sure the rider is moving at speed though to achieve your aims. At a race perhaps?"

Or a hunt.

I didn't say that, collecting up some of the butterflies and the razors in one hand.

"Pleasure doing business with you," I said as I got to my feet. "Needless to say we expect discretion."

"Who am I gonna bloody tell, the Raven?" Weasel asked bitterly, not aware of the icy cold finger that slid down my spine at his words.

"The Raven is well aware of what we are up to, as he is what you do," Silas replied. "We will let him know that you have been very helpful in this regard."

"So where to now?" I asked, once we got outside of the inn, but I knew the answer.

"The Duke of Fallspire," Arik confirmed. "We need to go past the barracks and pick up the communications Silas' father left with one of the compromised officers to justify why we would visit his house. Ostensibly we are doing everything the Raven asked—"

"But we're going to ensure the original plan succeeds." Silas nodded. "An ‘accident' that rids us of the damn king. It saves Desiree from the executioner's axe."

"And Jessalyn." I gripped the pommel of my saddle and hauled myself upright, my horse shifting underneath me, ready to ride forth. "Save my bloody sister and the princess. Finally we have a mission worthy of executing."