Bone Jack

Helving knew the way to the smithing district. “I agree with you, Mister Dantzari,” Helving said, pulling on a cloak of dark linen, “that we ought to conduct ourselves somewhat stealthily. News of the volatility of these lands does not always get to the mountaintops, I think. Trust me when I tell you that we ought to be cautious in our movements, if we are on an errand for Maledict Lilywhite. We may be entering a world we don’t fully understand.”

With that, he led Itzal into an alley by a back door out of the embassy, leaving the tea things quite untidied-up. It seemed to Itzal that meant Helving must be in a great state of haste. (Itzal snatched a last crumpet with butter on his way out.)

After skulking through shadowy wood-paved backways for a while, Helving stopped near a rain barrel outside the backdoor of a coal-smelling building.

“We can stop here for a moment,” he said. “I know this neighborhood. Any agent of any of the more relevant Khans wouldn’t find himself very welcome here.”

“Do you sneak about wary of the Khans often?” Itzal asked.

“Oh, no, not often,” Helving said with another ghostly smile. “To be frank, I’ve no clear idea what sort of influence the Khans have in Garrison.” His smile went a bit sheepish, and he glanced at and away from Itzal. “Not officially. Honestly, I thought this an appropriate way to partake in an adventure featuring Lilywhite.”

“Ah,” Itzal said. He logged that away in the annoying things about Lilywhite area of his mind.

“As it’s on my mind, would you like me to send a message back to the Academy?”

“Why would you do that?” Itzal said. Reconsidering, he added, “I mean to say, I would. But…hmm. Would they do anything? What would you tell them?”

“I would tell them that I saw you, and you arrived in Garrison safely, and that you are in pursuit of Lilywhite, who seems to be on other business,” Helving said. “That would be the right thing to say. As for your other question, I don’t know what they’d do up on the mountaintop. Not very much, I presume. They prefer to keep the Order from direct involvement. The last time the whole Order of Bone Jacks involved ourselves in worldly affairs, it did not end well. I presume you know your history.”

Itzal nodded. He knew those stories. The Squalid Wars.

“No,” Helving went on, “they’ve always preferred turning a bit of a deaf ear to Lilywhite’s methods. That is, of course, presuming they know what he’s up to…they don’t, by any chance? Know what Lilywhite’s up to, I mean.”

“Not last I heard,” Itzal said. “Can’t find news about him for love or money.”

“Pity,” Helving said, and sighed. “All the rumors I hear sound quite too improbable to be believed.”

“I’m sure they are,” Itzal said, but quietly. Helving crooked his head sideways. A curious, wise mouse. Itzal preferred not to say anything more about it. He had his own question. “Helving, are you any good at cloud walking?”

“Good as any of us, I suppose,” Helving said. “I can hide from a fox if I have to. Why do you ask?”

Itzal shook his head. He had neglected to mention the explosive cloud walking he’d used to keep himself from breaking his neck on the fall from the gondola. Something made him hesitate. “How much further to the slandersmith?” he asked.

Helving pointed at a nearby door. “He’s not in,” he said. “You can tell because of the light. He always has one on in that window when he’s in, but…”

Helving’s voice trailed away at a sight struggling toward them. A stocky man—probably taller than Itzal if standing—bent over, dragging something. The stocky man huffed to drag the thing, which seemed to weigh about as much as himself. It was a thing wrapped in burlap that looked suspiciously like a body.

Fine, that is a pointless allusion. It was a body.

“The slandersmith himself,” Helving said. His voice sounded thin with bemusement.

“The dead one?” Itzal asked.

“Oh, no, no, the live one.”

“Hmm. That’s what I hoped you would say.”

Helving nodded. “I hope…well, that wasn’t his handiwork. The body, I mean.”

“Is it likely to be?”

Helving pressed his lips together before replying, taking a moment to think. “Let’s just say that he has a reputation for taking as much joy in using his swords as in making them.”

“Ah,” Itzal said.

“Quite.”

They watched Akadhib’s cousin, the slandersmith, huffing with his burden for a few minutes more.

“Should we…do you think it would be rude of us to…” Itzal searched for the right word, “to interrupt?”

“I am not sure what social mores would dictate.”

“Nor I.”

The slandersmith reached the back door of his shop. Unlocking it and pushing the door open, he grunted and started pulling the body up the few steps that led inside. From his ruddy face it seemed he was having a hard time of it.

“We could offer to help,” Itzal suggested. It sounded somehow conspiratorial and dishonest to say it.

“There are good ideas, young Dantzari,” Helving said, “and there are ideas like that.”

“Right you are,” Itzal said.

In the end, they left the shady alley for street in front of the slandersword shop. Few of the streets leading off the main Highway striking through Garrison were paved in stone. This one was a road of pounded dirt, slightly damp from a light rainfall the night before. The buildings rose in two levels off the road, and a wooden sidewalk ran like a pier in front of them all. People looked down from second story windows and balconies at the movements in the street. Although every building on the bustling street looked sold enough, everything managed to look ramshackle and cobbled together anyway. Might have been the dust on it all, as permanent as any coat of paint on the buildings and horses and people alike. It might have been the way that all the buildings had a distinctly “function over form” shape to them. That was uncommon in Vendi Larte, where architects built things first to be attractive, and only considered the function afterwards—sometimes producing some useless buildings, of course, but making every walk through the city attractive.

“I’d be less conspicuous alone,” Helving muttered, more musingly than with annoyance.

“What’s makes me so conspicuous?” Itzal asked.

“You’re still wearing blue jays, lad,” Helving said. “In this town, few things draw ruffians like an obviously inexperienced Bone Jack.”

Before Itzal could even think to make an attempt to argue with that, Helving pushed through the front door of the slander sword shop. A bell jingled when they opened the door.

The shop looked a good deal like Akadhib’s shop in the Fighting Top. Same long counter strewn with the elegant slander weapons. In Akadhib’s shop, most of the weapons were new. More than half of the ones here needed repair. Probably being closer to the doings of the world meant more broken swords. Another difference was Akadhib’s shop had felt sharp and frigid, like fresh ice on a winter morning. This shop felt slow and sleepy. It felt like cinders fluttering over fire.

Helving’s and Itzal’s boots thunked across the wooden floor toward the counter. No one was in the room. A closed door led through the weapon-hung wall behind the counter. Sounds of footsteps thumped back there.

“Do you think he heard the bell?” Itzal asked. Helving shrugged. Akadhib’s cousin provided his own answer to the question by coming through the door from the back room. He came frown first, and he took care to shut the door behind him.

When Itzal had visited the slandersmith in the Fighting Top, Akadhib had been a honed knife from some exotic place. Swift and with every edge sharpened. Meanwhile, his cousin was a ballpeen hammer, and one left out a few too many nights in a storm at that. Everything about him was rounded. His head, balding with stubbly grey hair and stubblier beard, and blunted-tipped, quick fingers. His stocky body taller than Itzal. The skin of his face slouched downwards, pulling his mouth and bright eyes into a permanent grim frown. He looked short on sleep and shorter on temper.

Itzal swallowed. He felt disinclined to start on what he had to say. He looked to Helving for instructions. Helving had nothing to say, and only a half commiserating and half impatient smile and a nod to offer Itzal. Without speaking, Helving managed to clearly communicate to Itzal, “This is your errand. Take care of it.”

Swallowing again, Itzal glanced at the door and considered leaving.

From behind him, in an unexpectedly coppery baritone voice, Akadhib’s cousin spoke.

“Falchion man, I’d venture,” he said.

Taking his time about it, Itzal turned around to face Akadhib’s cousin. He determined that he ought to learn something else to call him than Akadhib’s cousin, the slandersmith.

“Beg pardon?” Itzal said.

“I’d reckon you a falchion man. Perhaps two. One at least,” Akadhib’s cousin said. He selected a one-handed, one-edged sword with a curved blade of about twenty inches. Holding it in one of his blunt hands, he made a deft flick, and had the tip of the falchion’s blade held between two of his fingers. The handle of it stuck out toward Itzal without a waver, though the slandersmith held it at full length by two fingers.

Not quite sure if he cared to do it, Itzal reached out and took the handle of the falchion. He did it so slowly it seemed like he meant to ritualize it.

It did feel pleasant in his hand when he had it. Sleek, as if he had a handful of flowing water, as much a part of his arm as his blood.

When he let go of the tip of the falchion, the slandersmith scratched his round chin with all of his hand. It made a sandpaper sound. He took a thoughtful breath.

“You’re not here to shop,” he said.

“And you’ve got a much different complexion than your cousin,” Itzal said.

“Married into the family,” the slander slandersmith said. “You from the mountaintop? What am I saying, you’re a blue jay. Of course you’re from the mountaintop. I’m surprised your pretty face hasn’t been mussed yet.”

Itzal cast a glance and arched eyebrow at Helving. Helving had the courtesy not to look too pleased with himself. Frowning, Itzal held the falchion out straight in front of him. He turned it slowly, checking the airy balance of it and thinking in a mad whirlwind about what to say next. He felt a nervous need to come across as strong and confident to this slandersmith. He just hoped his face wasn’t showing the flush he felt creeping up his neck.

“What’s your name?” Itzal asked.

“Ben,” said the slandersmith.

“Just Ben?”

“Yes,” Ben said. He expressed no intention of asking Itzal for his name. His face slouched in a wrinkly frown. “If you’re only here to browse, I would appreciate it if you’d shove off. I’m expecting an appointment any moment now. If you would do me the kindness of coming back another day—”

He seemed to have more to say, but—with his heart pitter-pattering from the excitement of possibly raising Ben’s ire and hoping not to—Itzal thought of something to say. “He’s not coming,” he said.

Though it seemed to irritate Ben more than cause him the awe Itzal had hoped for, the statement did what he wanted. Ben stopped short, pressing his lips together in an angry line.

In careful movements, Itzal set the falchion back on the counter. He tried to assess Ben’s expression. There might have been a moment of incredulity tinged with intimidation, but on reflection Itzal thought he probably imagined that. In any event, Ben’s irritated frown took on an unexpected softening. Ben almost looked relieved.

“Who do you think I’m expecting?” Ben asked.

“The Bone Jack, Master Maledict Lilywhite,” Itzal said.

Ben nodded, though in such a way as to indicate nothing except that he heard Itzal.

“Is he dead?” Ben asked.

“Not yet,” Itzal said.

“Damn. I mean…that’s a relief,” Ben said. He cleared his throat.

“I hope he is still alive, anyway,” Itzal said. “He was when I saw him last.”

“Which was when?”

“This morning, walking up the gangplank of a ship called Heritage.”

“I know that boat,” Ben said. “It’s one of Modris Khan’s runners.” Ben sniffed. Itzal could just about see the gears ticking behind Ben’s eyes. Watching him think, Itzal reminded himself that ballpeen hammers are the ones designed for finer work—jewelry and finishing touches and things that require skill. Ben gestured vaguely at Itzal. “You were traveling with him, then?”

“I suppose, in the same way that luggage travels together. We were kidnapped by pirates.”

Itzal experienced a moment out of time, thinking about how he had said that particular group of words and meant it seriously. Kidnapped by pirates. Images flooded up into his mind of flapping rigging in a sunbaked prairie, the wind rushing his wind about. They came from the memories of his reading, and they pushed out any words he himself had. He could smell the dust of the razor grass and feel the hot wind lashing his hair and shaking the trinkets hanging on him so that he jangled.

It seemed that he had missed something Ben had said, judging by Ben’s waiting expression.

“Sorry, what was that?” Itzal said.

“Is he quite all there?” Ben asked Helving.

“I only met him this morning,” Helving said through a quiet smile.

“Other worlds more interesting than this one, blue jay?” Ben asked.

Itzal wanted to say yes. But this world was the one where he lived, so instead he tried to get back to the task he had come to do.

“He said you’d be difficult to argue round to our side,” Itzal said. “His general attitude seemed to be you’re as pliant as poorly struck iron. I don’t know about that. I don’t know you.”

“Did he say that about me? About the iron?”

“No,” Itzal said. “I just came up with it.”

“Just now?”

“Yes. Why?”

Ben shrugged. “My cousin said it about me once.”

Unsure what to make of that, Itzal chose to take it as a good sign. He had a dry throat, and his neck was still too warm. “I hope you can imagine my worry coming in here, then. The life of an old friend of mine is in danger, and I have no idea how to help him. The only thing I know that I am supposed to do is deliver a message to you.”

“Is he?”

“Yes. Quite probably nearly dead.”

“No, I mean is he a friend of yours?” Ben asked. “I consider him a friend, but he always struck me as the kind of person most people couldn’t conjure the sense of humor to like.”

Itzal frowned, looking at the swords on the counter and wishing he’d said something else. “He was once.”

That seemed to satisfy Ben, at least for the moment. “What’s the message?” he asked. “Not that I’m making an agreement to do anything for you, mind. I will listen to the message.”

“You’ll be disappointed,” Itzal said, thinking how he would feel about the message after all this buildup.

“Face like mine, you get used to it,” Ben said. “What’s Old Bad News have for me this time?”

“He said to tell you that Modris Khan is ready to buy.”

The words brought a moldering growl out of Ben. He set to rearranging the swords on the counter, looking away from Itzal. Through his grumbly growl he said something, but Itzal didn’t catch the words.

“Once more, and this time annunciate,” Itzal said.

“He said he’s not,” Helving said. He earned a stare thick with dislike from Ben. It had no effect on the smile, warm and happy, all over Helving’s face. He seemed to be enjoying himself. He all but stuck his tongue out at Ben.

“I’ve experienced a complication…or two…in the negotiations I’ve been doing on behalf of Old Bad News,” Ben said, finishing his unnecessary tidying of the counter. He looked back at Itzal.

“Is that so?” Itzal said. He swallowed, wishing to make like he had a position to be sure from. He didn’t feel sure. He forced himself to talk steadily. “Then we have a problem.”

“You have no idea,” Ben said. The wrinkles around his wide mouth worked into many curls of a wobbling frown. “I need a drink.” He turned to go into his back room. Without turning, he said, “Need a drink?”

It took Itzal a second to realize Ben said it to him. Before Itzal could say anything, Ben said, “Come have a drink.”

“Sounds like a bad idea,” Itzal whispered to Helving. “You seem to be enjoying this far too much,” Itzal added. Helving had a smile elevating his mousy muttonchops.

“Sorry—sorry,” Helving said without sounding particularly sorry. “It is rather a quieter job than suits my taste down here. This is all…quite exciting.”

Itzal swallowed again, unsure what to say about that.