Someplace else, people were celebrating. The wind carried the clamor from the Court down the streets of West-and-Long, echoing in the alleyways, slithering through the gutters. A real fucking caoja, it mustâve been, to be this loud. But here, it was more like the phantoms of people celebrating than the people themselves, Tom reckoned; it was like another world.
It was just past the twenty-eighth hour, and nobodyâd shown up yet. He was sitting on a balconyâs railing, right in the middle of a perfect patch of shadow, watching the empty back street underneath him with a keen enough eye. He was beginning to wonder if the dobberâd squealed nonsense after all â not that they could ask the kov now, him tucked in all cozy at the bottom of the Mahogany with the fishes for company. He was beginning to wonder if heâd been set up, and the thought set the back of his neck to prickling, tightened that knot that always weighed in the bottom of his belly.
Ah, well. Things couldâve been worse, though heâd hoped to have tonight with Ishma. Hoped work wouldnât take him away from Quarter Fords yet again at the last minute, just when heâd been planning on giving hama a night of his undivided attention.
Still, as things were, he was doing a little celebrating himself, nursing a fifth of Gioran whisky â top-shelf, this time, or at least closer to the top shelf than heâd usually have shelled out the birds for â heâd been saving for him and hama for weeks. Heâd needed a little something to get him through tonight, and as he figured it, the next couple of jobs would bring him enough ging for another and then some; wasnât like heâd be sleeping a full night in hamaâs bed âtil all this rubbish was done with, anyway. With all this twisting around in his head, he was getting more and more irritable by the minute â impatient for these kovs to show up, and angry that heâd wasted his night (and his whisky) on nothing but sitting and waiting like a fool.
Shouldâve known. Heâd told Branch to keep the dobber alive, just in case there was something else theyâdâ
He shifted in his seat, peering over the railing. Somebody â a couple of somebodies, by the looks of it â was slinking along one side of the alleyway, a big man and a little one. He couldnât make out their features in the dark. Nearby, three more seemed to materialize out of the shadows; Tom realized theyâd been there for awhile and cursed himself.
The night breeze plucked quiet voices from the street and carried them up to him in snatches, slurry half-sentences and scattered sounds. Chewing the inside of his gum, Tom slid off the railing, moving quietly down the stairs, still in darkness. Pressed himself into an alcove, listening.
Two menâs voices. One of them sounded familiar, but fuzzy-headed as he was, he struggled to recognize it. He was catching about every third word, but he was still sharp enough to piece together the context. His eyes flicked from shadowy figure to shadowy figure. Five in all. Too many. He swallowed thickly, thinking hard. For now, he reckoned it was best to tuck in and listen, and so that was what he did.
The meeting had dispersed by now, the two men having taken their leave of the other three. As the first three started to leave, he scanned each one in turn. Two big men â not as big as Tom, but big enough to be a problem â and a little kov, wiry and almost delicate in build. The little one was last to go. There was something familiar about his shape, about the way he walked and stood, even though he couldnât make out his features in the dark. For a moment, the street lamp on the corner glistened in a sheaf of dark hair.
Wasâ? No, he thought. Not a chance. Not that it mattered anyway. Still, it niggled at the back of his head, made him feel uneasy. Made him feel cold, despite the humid heat, despite the warmth the whiskyâd given him.
As the little kov moved within range, he confirmed he didnât have a glamour or a field, gritting his teeth hard and preparing himself. He slid Ishmaâs dagger out of its sheath and kept it tucked up against his wrist; he kept his eyes trained on the kov. His grip on the knife was white-knuckled, and he tried to force himself to relax, loosen up.
The other two men were far enough ahead now. He slipped out of the dark, closed the distance between him and the little man â moved in behind him and, clamping one big hand over his mouth and putting the blade of his dagger against his throat, yanked him back into the shadows.
âMove,â he growled into the manâs ear, barely above a whisper, âanâ Iâll gut you like a fuckinâ fish.â He moved his hand. âUnderstand?â