He did not want a repetition.
The hubs scraped a few times as they passed through the chokepoint, but then, with a swearing Stonny and a grinning Harllo ducking beneath sodden clothes hanging from a line, they were clear and into the square beyond.
No deliberate intent created Wu's Closet Square. The open space was born of the happenstance convergence of thirteen streets and alleys of various breadth. The inn to which they all once led no longer existed, having burned down a century or so ago, leaving a broad, uneven expanse of flagstones and cobbles that had, unaccountably, acquired the name of Wu's Closet.
'Take Mucosin Street, Stonny,' Gruntle directed, gesturing towards the wide avenue on the east side of the square.
'I remember well enough,' she growled. 'Gods, the stink!'
A score of urchins had discovered their arrival, and now trailed the carriage like flightless vultures, their dirty, pocked faces closed and all too serious. None spoke.
Still in the lead, Gruntle walked his horse into Mucosin Street. He saw a few faces peer out from grimy windows, but there was no other traffic. Not here. not ahead. This isn't good.
'Captain,' Harllo called.
Gruntle did not turn. 'Aye?'
'Them kids … they've just vanished.'
'Right.' He loosened his Gadrobi cutlasses. 'Load your crossbow, Harllo.'
'Already done.'
I know, but why not announce it anyway.
Twenty paces ahead three figures stepped into the street. Gruntle squinted. He recognized the tall woman in the middle. 'Hello, Nektara. I see you've expanded your holdings.'
The scar-faced woman smiled. 'Why, it's Gruntle. And Harllo. And who else? Oh, would that be Stonny Menackis? No doubt as unpleasant as ever, my dear, though I still lay down my heart at your feet.'
'Unwise,' Stonny drawled. 'I never step lightly.'
Nektara's smile broadened. 'And you do make that heart race, love. Every time.'
'What's the toll?' Gruntle asked, drawing his mount to a halt ten paces from the woman and her two silent bodyguards.
Nektara's plucked brows rose. 'Toll? Not this time, Gruntle. We're still in Garno's holdings — we've been granted passage. We're simply here by way of escort.'
'Escort?'
The sound of the carriage's shutters clattering open made the captain turn. He saw his master's hand appear, then languidly wave him over.
Gruntle dismounted. He reached the carriage's side door, peered in to see Keruli's round, pale face.
'Captain, we are to meet with this city's … rulers.'
'The king and his Council? Why-'
A soft laugh interrupted him. 'No, no. Saltoan's true rulers. At great expense, and through extraordinary negotiation, a gathering of all the hold-masters and mistresses has been convened, to whom I shall make address this night. You have leave to permit the escort just offered. I assure you, all is well.'
'Why didn't you explain all this earlier?'
'I was not certain that the negotiations were successful. The matter is complex, for it is the masters and mistresses who have asked for … assistance. I, in turn, must endeavour to earn their confidence, to the effect that I represent the most efficacious agent to provide said assistance.'
You? Then who in Hood's name are you? 'I see. All right, then, trust these criminals if you like, but I'm afraid we'll not be sharing your faith.'
'Understood, Captain.'
Gruntle returned to his horse. Collecting the reins he faced Nektara. 'Lead on.'
Saltoan was a city with two hearts, their chambers holding different hues of blood but both equally vile and corrupt. Seated with his back to the wall of the low-ceilinged, crowded tavern, Gruntle looked out with narrowed eyes on a motley collection of murderers, extortionists and thugs whose claim to power was measured in fear.
Stonny leaned against the wall to the captain's left, Harllo sharing the bench on his right. Nektara had dragged her chair and a small, round table close to Stonny. Thick coils of smoke rose from the hookah before the hold-mistress, wreathing her knife-kissed features in the cloying, tarry fumes. With the hookah's mouthpiece in her left hand, her other hand was on Stonny's leather-clad thigh.
Keruli stood in the centre of the room, facing the majority of the crimelords and ladies. The short man's hands were clasped above his plain grey silk belt, his cloak of black silk shimmering like molten obsidian. A strange, close-fitting cap covered his hairless pate, its style reminiscent of that worn by figures found among Darujhistan's oldest sculptures and in equally ancient tapestries.
