Foundryside (The Founders Trilogy #1) - Robert Jackson Bennett Page 0,30

here in the city for you. Thought you were rotting in a mass grave somewhere in the north.”

“I’ve heard the same,” said Gregor. “They were wrong.”

“So I see. I get a lot of veterans working for me, you know,” said Antonin. “And they tell me so many stories.” He leaned closer. “They told me that when your cohorts were holed up in Dantua, with all your scrived armaments ruined…Why, they say you resorted to eating rats and garbage. And worse things besides.” He grinned wide. “Tell me, Captain Dandolo—how does Tevanni long pig taste?”

There was a long silence.

“I would not know,” said Gregor calmly. “What does this have to do with my proposal?”

“I suppose I’m just a filthy gossip,” said Antonin. “Or maybe I like telling you you’re not as righteous as you act. You killed my profit from the waterfront, brave Captain Dandolo. But no fear, friend—I’ve made up the difference. Any enterprising man must. Would you like to know how?”

“Would this involve our independent thief?”

Antonin stood, ignoring him, and gestured to a set of rickety wooden stalls in the back, with drapes drawn across their entrances. “Come with me, sir. Yes, yes, come on.”

Gregor grudgingly obliged, following him.

“Tough economy, these days,” said Antonin. “Tough market. That’s what the campos talk about all day long, market conditions. We all play the same game. One opportunity dries up, so one must look for another.” He walked over to one stall, grabbed a drape, and pulled it open.

Gregor looked inside. The stall was dark, but he could see a pallet on the floor, and a single burning candle. At the far back was a boy, wearing a short tunic, legs and feet bared. The boy stood when the drape opened. He was maybe thirteen. Maybe.

Gregor looked at the soft pallet on the floor, and then at the boy. Then he understood.

“You take away my waterfront work,” said Antonin merrily, “so I expand my enterprise into a new market. But this market is so much more profitable than the waterfront. High margins, low capital. I just needed the nudge to give it a go.” He stepped closer to Gregor. The scent of his rotting teeth was overwhelming. “So, Captain Dandolo…I don’t need a single duvot of your damned money.”

Gregor turned to look at Antonin, his fists trembling.

“Welcome back to Tevanne,” said Antonin. “The only law in the Commons is might, and success. Those who win are the ones who make the rules. Perhaps an elite child such as yourself forgot.” He grinned, his greasy teeth glimmering. “Now. Get the hell out of my taverna.”

* * *

Gregor Dandolo walked out of the Perch and Lark in a daze. He retrieved Whip from the toothless thug at the door, ignoring the other guards as they cackled at him.

“Fruitful meeting?” asked the toothless heavy. “Did he give you a handful of minutes in the stalls? Was there any pull left when you pushed?”

Gregor walked away without a word, buckling Whip back to his belt. He walked a bit down the alley, and stopped.

He thought for a moment.

He took a breath, and thought some more.

Gregor Dandolo did his utmost to follow the laws: both the laws of the city, and his own moral laws of the universe. But more and more these days, one seemed to disagree with the other.

He took off his Waterwatch sash, folded it up, and carefully placed it on a nearby windowsill. Then he took Whip off his belt, and began the process of securely buckling its many leather straps to his forearm. Then he turned and marched back toward the taverna.

The toothless heavy saw him coming and squared himself. Then he cawed out a laugh, and whooped. “Look here, lads! We’ve got one who thinks he ca—”

But he never finished his sentence. Because then Gregor used Whip.

* * *

Gregor had made sure that when he’d had Whip commissioned, all of its sigils were carefully concealed, so no one who looked at it would know it was altered in any way. With the sole exception of the straps for buckling it to your wrist, it mostly looked like an ordinary truncheon—with a shaft of about three and a half feet, and a ridged, four-pound steel head at the end—but in truth, it was much more than that.

For when Gregor pressed a button on Whip and snapped it forward, the four-pound head would detach and fly forward, connected to the shaft of the truncheon by a thin but strong metal