Realms of infamy a-2 Page 9

  “You have no weapon?” he asked suspiciously.

  Again, Artemis only offered a little shrug in reply.

  “Very well, then,” the thug said, his tone firm, as if he had just made a decision. To accentuate that very point, he took up the board, still dripping with the blood of the old man Decisively he brought it up to his shoulder, brought it up, Artemis realized, to a more accessible position. The thug was barely twenty feet away when he began his approach.

  So much more was going on here, Artemis knew, and he wanted answers.

  Ten feet away.

  Artemis held his steady and calm pose, but his muscles tightened in preparation.

  The man was barely five feet from him. Entreri’s right hand whipped out of his pocket, hurling a spray of fine sand.

  Up came the club, and the man turned his head away. He was laughing when he looked back. “Trying to blind me with a handful of sand?” he asked incredulously, sarcastically. “How clever of a desert fighter to think of using sand!”

  Of course it was the proverbial “oldest trick” in sneaky Calimshan’s thick book of underhanded street fighting techniques. And the next oldest trick followed when Artemis thrust his hand back into his pocket, and whipped a second handful of sand.

  The thug was laughing even as he closed his eyes, defeating the attack. He blinked quickly, just for an instant, a split second. But that instant was long enough for ambidextrous Artemis to withdraw his left hand from his pocket and fling the edged stone. He had just one window of opportunity, an instant of time, a square inch of target. He had to be perfect — but that was the way it had been for Artemis since he was a child, since he went out into the desert, a land that did not forgive the smallest of mistakes.

  The sharp stone whistled past the upraised club and hit the thug in the throat, just to one side of center. It nicked into his windpipe and deflected to the left, cutting the wall of an artery before rebounding free into the air.

  “Wh-?” the thug began, and he stopped, apparently surprised by the curious whistle that had suddenly come into his voice. A shower of blood erupted from his neck, spraying up across his cheek. He slapped his free hand to it, fingers grasping, trying to stem the flow. He kept his cool enough to hold his makeshift club at the ready the whole time, keeping Artemis at bay, though the younger man had Put his hands back in his pockets and made no move.

  He was good, Artemis decided, honestly applauding the man’s calm and continued defense. He was good, but Artemis was perfect. You had to be perfect.

  The outward flow of blood was nearly stemmed, but the artery was severed and the windpipe open beside it.

  The thug growled and advanced. Artemis didn’t blink.

  The thug stopped suddenly, dark eyes wide. He tried to speak out, but only sputtered forth a bright gout of blood He tried to draw breath, but gurgled again pitifully, his lungs fast-filling with blood, and sank to his knees.

  It took him a long time to die. Calimport was an unforgiving place. You had to be perfect.

  “Well done,” came a voice from the left.

  Artemis turned to see two men casually stroll out of a narrow alley. He knew at once that they were thieves, probably guildsmen, for confident Artemis believed only the most practiced rogues could get so close to him without him knowing it.

  Artemis looked back to the corpse at his feet, and a hundred questions danced about his thoughts. He knew then with cold certainty that this had been no random meeting. The thug he had killed had been sent to him.

  Artemis chuckled, more a derisive snort than a laugh, and kicked a bit of dirt into the dead man’s face.

  Less than perfect got you killed. Perfect, as Artemis soon found out, got you invited into the local thieves’ guild.

  Artemis could hardly fathom the notion that all the food he wanted was available to him with a snap of his fingers. He had been offered a soft bed, too, but feared that such luxury would weaken him. He slept on his floor at night.

  Still, the offer was the important thing. Artemis cared little for material wealth or pleasures, but he cared greatly that those pleasures were being offered to him.

  That was the benefit of being in the Basadoni Cabal, one of the most powerful thieves’ guilds in all the city. In fact there were many benefits. To an independent young man such as Artemis Entreri, there were many drawbacks, as well-Lieutenant Theebles Royuset, the man that Pasha Basadoni had appointed as Entreri’s personal mentor, was one of these. He was the epitome of men that young Artemis Entreri loathed, gluttonous and lazy, with heavy eyelids that perpetually drooped. His smelly brown hair was naturally frizzy, but too greased and dirty to come away from his scalp, and he always wore the remnants of his last four meals on the front of his shirt. Physically, there was nothing quick about Theebles, except the one movement that brought the latest handful of food into his slopping jowls, but intellectually, the man was sharp and dangerous.

  And sadistic. Despite the obvious physical limitations, Theebles was in the second rank of command in the guild, along with a half-dozen other lieutenants, behind only Pasha Basadoni himself.

  Artemis hated him. Theebles had been a merchant, and like so many of Calimport’s purveyors, had gotten himself into severe trouble with the city guard. So Theebles had used his wealth to buy himself an appointment to the guild, that he might go underground and escape Calimport’s dreaded prisons. That wealth must have been considerable, Artemis knew, for Pasha Basadoni to even accept this dangerous slug into the guild, let alone appoint him a lieutenant.

  Artemis was savvy enough to understand, then, that Basadoni’s choice of sadistic Theebles as his personal mentor would be a true test of his loyalty to his new family.

  A brutal test, Artemis realized as he leaned against the squared stone wall of a square chamber in the guild hall’s basement. He crossed his arms defensively over his chest, fingers of his thick gloves tapping silently, impatiently. He found that he missed his street in the city outside, missed the days when he had answered to no one but himself and his survival instincts. Those days had ended with the well-aimed throw of an edged stone.

  “Well?” Theebles, who had come for one of his many unannounced inspections, prompted again. He picked something rather large out of his wide and flat nose. Like everything else that fell into his plump and almost babylike hands, it quickly went into his mouth.

  Artemis didn’t blink. He looked from Theebles to the ten-gallon glass case across the dimly lit room; the chamber, though fully twenty feet underground, was dry and dusty.

  Swaying with every step, the fat lieutenant paced to the case. Artemis obediently followed, but only after a quick nod to the rogue standing guard at the door, the same rogue who had met Artemis on the street after he had killed the thug. That man, Dancer by name, was another of Theebles’s servants, and one of the many friends young Artemis had made in his time in the guild. Dancer returned the nod and slipped out into the hall.

  He trusts me, Artemis thought. He considered Dancer the fool for it.

  Artemis caught up to Theebles right in front of the case. The fat man stared intently at the small orange snakes intertwined within.

  “Beautiful,” Theebles said. “So sleek and delicate.” He turned his heavy-lidded gaze Artemis’s way.

  Artemis could not deny the words. The snakes were Thesali vipers, the dreaded ‘Two-Step.” If one bit you, you yelled, took two steps, and fell down dead. Efficient Beautiful.

  Milking the venom from the deadly vipers, even with the thick gloves he wore, was not an enviable task. But then, wretched Theebles Royuset made it a point to never give Artemis an enviable task.

  Theebles stared at the tantalizing snakes for a long while, then glanced back to the right. He stymied his surprise, realizing that silent Artemis had moved around him, toward the far end of the room. He turned to the young rogue and gave a wry snicker, that superior chuckle that reminded Artemis pointedly of his position as an underling.

  It was then that Theebles noticed
the quarter table, partially concealed by a screen. Surprise showed on his pudgy, blotchy features for a moment before he caught himself and calmed. “Your doing?” he asked, approaching the screen and indicating the small and round glass-topped table, flanked on either side by a waist-high lever.

  Artemis turned slowly to glance over one shoulder as Theebles passed him by, but didn’t bother to answer. Artemis was the milker of the snakes. Of course the table was “his doing ” Who else, except for his taunting mentor, would even bother coming into this room?

  “You have made many allies among the lower members of the guild,” Theebles remarked, as close to a word of praise as he had ever given to Artemis. In fact, Theebles was truly impressed; it was quite a feat for one so new to the guild to have the infamous quarter table moved to a quiet and convenient location. But Theebles, when he took the moment to consider it, was not so surprised. This young Artemis Entreri was an imposing character, a charismatic young rogue who had ruffians much older than him showing a great degree of respect.

  Yes, Theebles knew that Artemis Entreri was not an average little pickpocket. He could be a great thief, among the very best. That could be a positive thing for the Basadoni Cabal. Or it could be a dangerous thing.

  Without turning back, Artemis walked across the room and sat down at one of the two chairs placed on opposite sides of the quarter table.

  It was not a wholly unexpected challenge, of course. Theebles had played out similar scenarios several times with the youths under his severe tutelage. Furthermore, young Artemis certainly knew now that it had been Theebles who had sent the rogue out to the shantytown to challenge him. Dancer had told Entreri as much, Theebles guessed; he made a mental note to have a little talk with Dancer when he was done with Entreri. Laughing slightly, the fat man sauntered across the room to stand beside the seated young rogue. He saw that the four glasses set in the evenly spaced depressions about the table’s perimeter were half-filled with clear water. In the middle of the table sat an empty milking vial.

  “You understand that I am a close personal friend of Pasha Basadoni,” Theebles said.

  “I understand that if you sit down in that chair, you accept the challenge willingly,” Artemis replied. He reached in and removed the milking vial. By the strict rules of the challenge, the table had to be clear of everything except the four glasses.

  Theebles shook with laughter, and Artemis had expected no less. Artemis knew that he had no right to make such a challenge. Still, Artemis breathed a little easier when Theebles clapped him on the shoulders and walked about the table. The fat lieutenant stopped and peered intently into each of the glasses, as if he had noticed something.

  It was a bluff, Artemis pointedly told himself. The venom of a Thesali viper was perfectly clear, like the water.

  “You used enough?” Theebles asked with complete calm.

  Artemis didn’t respond, didn’t blink. He knew, as did the fat lieutenant, that a single drop was all that was needed.

  “And you only poisoned one glass?” Theebles asked, another rhetorical question, for the rules of this challenge were explicit.

  Theebles sat in the appointed chair, apparently accepting the challenge. Artemis’s facade nearly cracked, and he had to stifle a sigh of relief. The lieutenant could have refused, could have had Artemis dragged out and disembowelled for even thinking that he was worthy of making such a challenge against a ranking guild member. Artemis had suspected that cruel Theebles would not take so direct a route, of course. Theebles hated him as much as he hated Theebles, and he had done everything in his power over the last few tendays to feed that hatred.

  “Only one?” Theebles asked again.

  “Would it matter?” Artemis replied, thinking himself clever. “One, two, or three poisoned drinks, the risks remain equal between us.”

  The fat lieutenant’s expression grew sour. “It is a quarter table,” he said condescendingly. “A quarter. One in four.

  That is the rule. When the top is spun, each of us has a one-in-four chance of sipping the poisoned drink. And by the rules, no more than one glass can be poisoned, no more than one can die.”

  “Only one is poisoned,” Artemis confirmed.

  “The poison is that of the Thesali viper, and only the poison of a Thesali viper?”

  Artemis nodded. To a wary challenger like the young rogue, the question screamed the fact that Theebles didn’t fear such venom. Of course he didn’t.

  Theebles returned the nod and took on a serious expression to match his opponent’s. “You are certain of your course?” he asked, his voice full of gravity.

  Artemis did not miss the experienced killer’s sly undertones. Theebles was pretending to offer him the opportunity to change his mind, but it was only a ruse. And Artemis would play along. He glanced about nervously, summoned a bead of sweat to his forehead. “Perhaps…” he began tentatively, giving the appearance of hedging.

  “Yes?” Theebles prompted after a long pause.

  Artemis started to rise, as though he had indeed changed his mind about making such a challenge; Theebles stopped him with a sharp word. The expression of surprise upon Artemis’s young and too-delicate face appeared sincere.

  “Challenge accepted,” the lieutenant growled. “You cannot change your mind.”

  Artemis fell back into his seat, grabbed the edge of the tabletop, and yanked hard. Like a gambling wheel, the top rotated, spinning smoothly and quietly on its central hub. Artemis grabbed the long lever flanking him, one of the table’s brakes, and Theebles, smiling smugly, did likewise.

  It quickly became a game of nerves. Artemis and Theebles locked gazes, and for the first time, Theebles saw the depth of his young adversary. At that moment Theebles began to appreciate the pure cunning of merciless Artemis Entreri. Still, he was unafraid and remained composed enough to note the subtle shift of Artemis’s eye, the hint that the young man was quietly watching the spinning glasses more intently than he was letting on.

  Artemis caught a minute flicker, a subtle flash of reflected light from the table, then a second. Long before Theebles had come to visit, he had chipped the rim of one of the glasses ever so slightly. Artemis had then painstakingly aligned the table and the seat he’d chosen. With every rotation, the tiny chip in the glass would flicker a reflection of the torch burning in the nearest wall sconce-but to his eyes only.

  Artemis silently counted the elapsed time between flickers, measuring the table’s speed.

  “Why would you take such a risk?” wary Theebles asked, verbally prodding the young man’s concentration. “Have you come to hate me so much in a few short tendays?”

  “Long months,” Artemis corrected. “But it has been longer than that. My fight in the street was no coincidence. It was a set-up, a test, between myself and the man I had to kill. And you are the one who arranged it.”

  The way that Artemis described his adversary, “the man I had to kill,” tipped Theebles off to the young rogue’s motivation. The stranger in the dusty street had likely been Artemis Entreri’s first kill. The lieutenant smiled to himself. Some weaklings found murder a difficult thing to accept; either the first kill, or the inevitable path it had set the young man on, was not to Entreri’s liking.

  “I had to know if you were worthy,” Theebles said, admitting his complicity. But Artemis was no longer listening. The young rogue had gone back to his subtle study of the spinning glasses.

  Theebles eased his brake, slowing the rotation considerably. The hub was well-greased-some even claimed there was a bit of magic about it-so the top did not need much momentum to keep spinning at a nearly constant rate.

  Artemis showed no sign of distress at the unexpected speed change. He kept completely composed and began silently counting once more. The marked glass flickered exactly an eighth of the circumference from Theebles’s chair. Artemis adjusted his cadence to make each complete rotation take a count of eight. He saw the flicker; he counted and as he hit nine, abruptly pulled the brake.
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br />   The tabletop came to a sudden stop, liquid sloshing back and forth inside the glasses, droplets of it splattering to the table and the floor.

  Theebles eyed the glass in front of him. He thought to remark that the young rogue didn’t understand the proper protocol of the quarter table challenge, for the brakes were supposed to be applied slowly, alternately between the opponents, and the challenged party would make the final stop. The fat lieutenant decided not to make an issue of it. He knew that he had been taken, but didn’t really care. He’d been expecting this challenge for almost a tenday and had enough antivenin in his blood to defeat the poison of a hundred Thesali vipers. He lifted his glass. Artemis did likewise, and together they drank deeply.

  Five seconds passed. Ten.

  “Well,” Theebles began. “It would seem that neither of us found the unfortunate quarter this day.” He pulled his huge form from the chair. “Of course, your insolence will be reported in full to Pasha Basadoni.”

  Artemis showed no expression, didn’t blink. Theebles suspected that the young rogue was hiding his surprise, or that he was fuming or trying to figure out how he might escape this unexpected disaster. As the seconds passed, the young man’s continued calm began to bother the fat lieutenant.

  “You have had your one challenge,” Theebles snapped suddenly, loudly. “I am alive, thus you have lost. Expect to pay dearly for your impertinence!”

  Artemis didn’t blink.

  Good enough for the young upstart, the fat lieutenant decided with a snap of his fingers. As he departed, he thought of many ways that he might properly punish Artemis.

  How delicious that torture would be, for Basadoni could not stop Theebles this time. The guildmaster, who by Theebles’s estimation had become much too soft in his old age, had intervened many times on behalf of Entreri calming Theebles whenever he learned that the fat lieutenant was planning a brutal punishment for the young upstart. Not this time, though. This time, Basadoni could not intervene. This time, Entreri had certainly earned the punishment.