Chapter 4 - Reap and Sow

Inside, the Crooked Hand was bustling.

The air hung thick with pipe smoke and raucous laughter, the sticky scent of cheap ale. Eda opened her cloak to better breathe in the warm smog but dared not remove her hood. She saw now why Ben and Lawrie came here. A veritable feast of characters littered the tables and bar, many of whom she’d usually avoid based on appearances alone. No gentleman or noble lady would come within a mile of this place. Not conspicuously, at least.

A few curious eyes flitted her way. Most were deep in their cups, staring forlornly into the ether or bantering between themselves.

I need a drink. That would help me blend in.

Eda hoisted herself onto a rickety stool by the bar. “Excuse me—cider, please.”

The gruff barkeep stared at her for a moment before grabbing a cup.

She wanted to smack herself. Excuse me? People here don’t say “excuse me,” you fool. She was too embarrassed to meet the man’s eyes when he slid over her drink. Eda shoved her face in it and took a deep swig. It was more malty than she was used to, and she wondered if they’d watered it down with ale, but she wasn’t here to critique the Crooked Hand’s underwhelming selection of beverages.

Eda scanned the room.

A man who smelled vaguely of fish sat two stools down, staring miserably into his cup as though he wished to drown himself in it. Perhaps. Gathered around a nearby table sat some old codgers smoking pipes and arguing with one another. No. Too carefree. A pair of women with drawn faces and knotted, sore-looking hands huddled by the window. They cackled over something, baring black teeth. Gossips. Too risky.

Suddenly, a roar of outrage. Eda craned her neck to look.

In the far corner beside a dying hearthfire, four men surrounded a table cluttered with playing cards and toppled cups. One stood so quickly his chair fell over. “You’re a filthy cheat!”

A seated man raised his hands, not bothering to hide his smug grin. “Them’s the breaks, fella. Don’t be a sore loser!” The others laughed.

The first man was red-faced and stiff as a board. “I can’t lose that much. It’s all I’ve got left. Here, let me play another hand. I’ve a gold tooth—”

“Bah!” Another, bald as a babe, waved his hand in disgust. “We don’t want your nasty tooth, you silly bastard.”

“Aye, I’m content with my lot.” The winner pulled a pile of dull coppers and a hip flask toward himself.

“I’ll—I can find something else. Let me have another game now, and tomorrow I’ll bring you what I owe for the raise. On my honor.”

“You’re wasting my time. I said no.”

The tone at the table shifted. The laughter died. Their breeches were clean of grime and their frames stocky with good eating, Eda noted, unlike most of the patrons. But they were here in a Gaffham shithole all the same, growling over scraps like starved dogs.

For a moment, it seemed that the loser was set on arguing further. Then his shoulders dropped. He stepped back, nearly tripping over his chair. “Goat shaggers.”

“Don’t let the door hit you on the way out!”

The table erupted in jeers.

The man stumbled toward the bar. Paused, swaying. He changed his mind and made for the entrance instead.

Eda’s pulse spiked. She turned to the barkeep and slapped a copper down. “Thank you.”

The loser staggered through the door, drawing in a crisp chill that sent the oil lamps flickering. She caught it before it swung shut again and slipped outside.

He stood just beyond the glow of the Crooked Hand, crouched in the middle of the street with his head in his hands, muttering curses. He looked small inside his oversize rough-spun jerkin. Vulnerable.

Eda steeled herself. She couldn’t allow herself to feel anything at all—no guilt, no sympathy. He’s just another mark. If he barters away enough years, he could be our very last.

“How much did you lose?” she called.

The man jerked around. “Ey?”

“Couldn’t help but overhear. Seems they rinsed you good.”

He narrowed his eyes. “What’s it to you?”

“Nothing at all. But…I could offer you a way to make it all back. Everything you lost and then some.” She thought of Mr. Night. Of his effortless confidence and the tall self-assured way he held himself. Eda straightened her shoulders, trying to emulate the same. “I could make you rich as a king. Richer.”

A snort. “Ha! That right? Know any kings, by chance?”

“I know a demon.”

The man’s smirk fell. He stared at her.

Eda rubbed the smooth handle of the penknife inside her jerkin pocket. She hoped not to use it.

The stranger said nothing. Stay calm. Stay in control. “You needn’t commit to anything here and now. But if you’re tired of wallowing in the muck, penniless, just know that one small trade could make it all go away. A few years for the life you want. Anything you want.”

The man’s lips formed a thin line. He looked around, but the street was dark and empty. “You with the Faithhood?”

Eda’s heart skipped. “I’m not trying to trick you.”

“Oh? What’s in it for you, then? I ain’t payin’ you nothing. Got piss all anyway, as you kindly pointed out.”

“I don’t want your coin. I stand to gain in other ways.”

The man shuffled closer. His voice dropped. “And if a person were interested in…that. What, er—what they need t’do?”

She bit back a grin. Hope was heady; Eda tried not to let it scatter her composure. “There’s a place in Crowgate near the Saint’s Waterway, between the marketplace crossroads and Riverplace Florists. A shop where history is sold.” Shaws’ Antiques was the obvious answer to anyone with much of a brain, but at least this way they had plausible deniability. Some silly riddle of a direction wasn’t much in the way of hard proof to any Blades that caught wind of it. “When you’re ready, you need only find this place and quote a certain phrase. It’s—”

“I don’t need that.” The man’s face hardened. “I’m ready now.”

She blinked. “You mean…”

“I want to do it. A Pact.” He whispered it like a curse, taboo to even speak aloud. She supposed it was. “Prove you’re not all talk. Take me there, here an’ now. I’m sick of livin’ like this. I want it done.”

Her mind raced. Eda looked hard at the man, unsteady with drink, and furiously tried to assess the risks. He seemed earnest. She’d witnessed him lose his remaining wealth herself.

He was drunk. He was poor. He was desperate.

He was perfect.

* * *

It was a strange walk back.

Eda glanced repeatedly at the man trailing her—Gregory, he said his name was—for fear he’d make off into the night. That he’d change his mind or call for someone to arrest her.

He did neither. Gregory seemed content to follow in silence, which suited Eda fine. What sort of small talk could one possibly make en route to barter with a demon, anyhow? Fair weather we’re having this autumn, no? Very temperate.

Where the walk into Gaffham had seemed to take an age, every passing minute bearing down on her like a millstone, the walk home hurried itself along. The thought of actually doing this filled her with as much apprehension as excitement, and in the way of all things dreaded, the point of no return seemed to positively hurtle closer. In no time at all they were at the doorway of Shaws’ Antiques.

Gregory observed the rich peeling green paint, the proud oriel windows, and gold lettering. “This it?”

“Keep your voice down,” she hissed, fumbling for the key. “Say nothing. If you wake anyone upstairs, this will be over before it’s begun.” She gently turned the lock, wincing when it clicked.

“What, they don’t know they’ve got a Gateway in their shop?”

“Lower. Your. Voice.”

He huffed, amused. Still a bit drunk.

Perhaps that’s for the best. He might not be here at all were he sober.

“Just askin’. Who is it, then? Ma and Pa?”

Eda paused. Turned to look at him. “Why?”

“Well, ’scuse me for bein’ friendly!”

She shook her head and eased open the door quickly as she dared, ushering Gregory in. The bell, she was pleased to note, remained silent as she followed him inside and shut the door.

He stood in the foyer, eyes everywhere as he took in the surrounding maze of shelves, the eclectic collection of curiosities swelling about the borders of the room. He grinned and mimed at her, Nice stuff!

Eda rolled her eyes.

She pointed him toward the back of the shop through the stacks. Gregory turned away and raised his hand in a gesture of acknowledgment. As he did, his sleeve fell back. Something reflective caught the edges of the moonlight before he was swallowed by the dark.

Eda stopped. Her heartbeat stuttered.

Chainmail.

No. She was just on edge, jumping to absurd conclusions. It could have been anything. A silver bracelet, perhaps.

On the wrist of a man with supposedly nothing to his name.

Eda’s mind spun in a death roll, quicker even than her pulse. He’d asked her who was in the house. Why?

That little voice of warning that sounded so like Ben hissed, He’d care to know what sort of protection you had.

Poor men at betting tables did not wear chainmail. No common citizen had access to such a thing, let alone a reason to wear it. Was he even drunk? Eda realized that she hadn’t actually seen Gregory take a sip of anything at the Crooked Hand. He didn’t smell like alcohol. The group he was with—none of them were drinking, either. They’d been clean and well fed. She’d noted as much and still hadn’t considered what it might mean.

The possibility whistled in Eda’s ears like a howling wind.

A Blade.

She had no idea they operated in disguise like this.

He’ll notice that I’m not behind him. He’ll sense something amiss. Numbly, Eda followed in Gregory’s wake, slipping between the stacks. She thought frantically of what to do, how to get out of this, how to make it all go away. She could be wrong, but if she wasn’t…saints. Ben and Lawrie were asleep upstairs; they had no idea—

Calm down. This time, the voice was butter soft and dark as burned sugar. She thought of clever ice-chip eyes. You know exactly what you need to do.

Eda scanned the shelves, cursing her mortal eyesight. A weapon. She’d feel better with something more substantial than her little penknife to hand, if it came to it.

She grasped at the items crowding the bottom shelf, desperate. There! A fire poker, from a mid-century collection Lawrie kept meticulously arranged like flowers in a vase. She recognized it without being able to see the swirling design in the dark. Eda drew it out, held it behind her back.

Around the next corner, Gregory’s dark silhouette waited by the cellar. His head turned. “What’s taking so long?”

She’d thought his ease with making a Pact had been mere drunk bravado. Maybe it was all an act. A trap she’d walked right into. “Sorry.” Her heart pounded. Strike him, that velvet voice whispered urgently. Strike him now, while he’s unprepared.

She could not make out Gregory’s expression. “It’s in here, right?” he said. “The mirror?”

Eda froze. Her palm flexed cold and clammy around the poker. Very few people knew the form Gateways usually took, and she’d never mentioned a mirror. Not to him.

“I…I need the key. It’s still in the foyer. Let me…”

She spun away. She needed to wake Ben and Lawrie. She couldn’t just attack him, not on her own. Not if there was any chance she was wrong.

Footsteps rushed toward her.

Eda twisted in alarm. She lashed out.

Gregory was quicker. He snatched her wrist, blocking her swing. Dim moonlight reflected in his eyes as he glanced pointedly at the poker, trapped between them like a sword. “That’s not very nice.”

Then he struck her in the face.