Foundryside (The Founders Trilogy #1) - Robert Jackson Bennett Page 0,32

bad.

Gregor raised the shield and sought cover behind a table just as a bolt slammed into his shield. The point of the bolt actually pierced the damn thing, penetrating three inches through—any more and it would have almost certainly punched through Gregor’s neck. Muttering discontentedly, Gregor strafed to the right and flung Whip forward. He missed his target, but the head of the truncheon smashed through the wall just over the guard’s shoulder, which sent the man diving for cover behind the bar.

The two of them stayed low, waiting for the screaming crowd to evacuate. Gregor glanced up and saw a shelf of bottles above the bar, and, above that, a flickering oil lamp. He estimated the distance, and flicked Whip forward twice: once to smash the bottles of alcohol, and again to shatter the oil lamp.

Hot, burning oil rained down, which quickly set the pools of alcohol alight. There was a shriek, and the guard with the espringal came sprinting out from behind the bar, slapping at his smoking clothes. He never even saw Whip hurtling toward his face.

Once the man was down, Gregor crouched low and looked around. Antonin was still there, cowering in the back, but the guard with the Daulo ax was nowhere to be seen…

Gregor felt footsteps through the floorboards on his right. Without thinking, he turned and raised his shield.

There was a loud scream, and then his shield arm lit up with pain. It had been a long time since he’d been hit with a Daulo ax, and he found he didn’t enjoy it any more now than he had back during the wars.

Gregor rolled out from the bar and raised his shield again, just in time to catch another blow from the guard with the ax. His whole arm went numb with the strike, and he heard a snap—but it turned out to be the wooden slats under his feet, which could hardly bear the pressure.

Which gave Gregor an idea.

Keeping his shield up, he backed away. The guard with the ax charged at him—but before he could bring the ax down, Gregor flicked Whip at the slats at his feet.

The head of the truncheon punched through the wooden slats like they were water reeds. Before the guard could even realize what had happened, he’d put his foot in the gaping hole that Whip had created. Then he slipped, crashed down, and as he did, the entire floor collapsed underneath him.

Gregor leapt back as the wooden slats gave way. When the creaking stopped, he retracted Whip and peeked over the edge of the hole, wrinkling his nose. He couldn’t see the guard in the muddy darkness below—but he knew that the taverna latrines emptied into the filthy space under the building.

Gregor took stock of the situation. The taverna was now mostly empty except for the moaning guards—and the large, fat man trying to hide behind a chair.

Gregor grinned, stood up straight, and marched over. “Antonin di Nove!” he called.

Antonin shrieked in terror as Gregor approached.

“How did you like my experiment?” Gregor asked. “You said that might makes right in the Commons.” He ripped the chair away, and Antonin quailed in the corner. “But might is so often illusory, isn’t it?”

“I’ll tell you anything you want!” shrieked Antonin. “Anything!”

“I want the thief,” said Gregor.

“Ask…ask Sark!” said Antonin.

“Who?”

“An independent! Former canal man! He’s a fence, he sets up jobs and I’m almost positive he did the waterfront!”

“And why would that be?” asked Gregor.

“Because only a damned canal man would think of trying to use a damned sailing rig!”

Gregor nodded. “I see. So. This Sark. Where would he reside?”

“The Greens! Selvo Building! Third floor!”

“Greens,” said Gregor quietly. “Selvo. Third floor. Sark.”

“R-right!” said Antonin. Face quivering, he cringed and looked up at Gregor. “So. Will you…Will you let me go?”

“I was always going to let you go, Antonin,” said Gregor, sheathing Whip. “This is Tevanne. We have no prisons, no courts. And I am not going to kill you. I try hard not to do that anymore.”

Antonin sighed with relief.

“But,” said Gregor, clenching a fist and cracking his knuckles, “I do not like you. I do not like what you do here, Antonin. And I will show you how much I dislike it, using the only language men like you understand.”

His eyes shot wide. “N-no!”

Gregor raised his fist. “Yes.”

* * *

Gregor turned, shaking his hand, and walked back to the rickety stalls with the drapes. He pulled them aside, one by one.

Four girls, two boys. None