The Demon King. Cinda Williams Chima

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      His destination was The Keg and Crown, a decrepit tavern that clung like a mussel to the river’s edge. The bank underneath had been undercut by centuries of spring floods, and it always seemed in imminent danger of tipping into the river. His timing was good—the common room was just filling up with the evening trade. He’d be out of the way before things got too rowdy.

      Han handed Lucius’s bottles to Matieu, the tavern keeper, and received a heavy purse in return.

      Matieu stowed the bottles in the back bar, out of reach of his more aggressive customers. “Is that all you have? I’ll have this lot sold in a day. Goes down smooth as water, it does.”

      “Have a heart. I can only carry so much, you know,” Han said, pulling a pitiful face and working his aching shoulders with his fingers.

      Every tavern in Fellsmarch clamored for Lucius’s trade. Lucius could triple his production and sell it all, but he chose not to.

      Matieu eyed him speculatively, then groped under his massive belly for his purse. Extracting a coin, he pressed it into Han’s hand, closing his fingers over it. A princess coin, by the shape and weight of it, called a “girlie” on the street. “Maybe you could speak to him. Convince him to send more bottles my way.”

      “Well, I could try, but he has a lot of long-standing customers, you know…” Han shrugged his shoulders. He’d spotted a plate of meat buns on the sideboard. His sister, Mari, loved meat buns. “Uh…Matieu. Got any plans for those buns?”

      Han left The Keg and Crown whistling, a girlie richer, with four pork buns wrapped in a napkin. It was shaping up to be a good day after all.

      He turned down Brickmaker’s Alley, heading for the bridge over the Dyrnnewater that would take him into Ragmarket. He was nearly through when the light died in the passageway, as if a cloud had passed before the sun.

      He looked ahead to see that the exit from the alley was now corked with two bodies.

      A familiar voice reverberated off the stone buildings to either side. “Well, now, what have we here? A Ragger on our turf?”

      Bones. It was Shiv Connor and his Southies.

      Han spun around, meaning to beat it back the way he came, and found two more grinning Southies blocking his escape. This meeting wasn’t random, then. They’d been laying for him, had chosen this place on purpose.

      There were six Southies altogether, four boys and two girlies, ranging in age from a year or two younger than Han to a year older. He’d have no room to maneuver in the narrow alleyway, no way to protect his back. It was a mark of respect, recognition of his name in Southbridge.

      That was one way to look at it.

      In the old days, he’d have had his seconds with him. He’d never have allowed himself to get in a fix like this.

      He thought of saying he wasn’t with the Raggers anymore, but that would just mark him as an easy victim, someone without protection or turf of his own.

      Han’s hand found the hilt of his knife and he pulled it free, palming it, though he knew it would do him no good. If he was stripped of his purse and badly beaten, that’d be a lucky outcome.

      Han put his back to the alley wall. “Just passing through,” he said, lifting his chin, feigning a confidence he didn’t feel. “Meaning no disrespect.”

      “Yeah? Well, I mark it different, Cuffs.” Shiv and his gang formed a loose semicircle around Han. The streetlord was redheaded and blue-eyed, his face pale and beardless as a fancy girl’s, marked only by the purple gang symbol on his right cheek and an old knife scar that dragged his left eye down at the corner.

      Shiv wasn’t big, and he was no older than Han. He ruled by virtue of his skill with a blade and his willingness to cut your heart out while you slept. Or any other time. A complete lack of a conscience made him powerful.

      Shiv’s blade glittered in the light that leaked from the street. His hands were scarred; he’d been badged as a thief by the bluejackets before he’d smartened up. He was the best blade man in Southbridge, and the only one better in Ragmarket was a girlie—Cat Tyburn—who’d replaced Han as streetlord of the Raggers.

      “You been doing business in Southbridge, and we want a whack of the takings. You’ve been told,” Shiv said. The rest of the Southies jostled forward, grinning.

      “Look, I’m not the bag man,” Han said, falling into his old patter flash. “Who’d trust me with that kind of plate? I just deliver. They settle up on their own.”

      “Product, then,” Shiv said, and the other Southies nodded enthusiastically. Like Shiv would be sharing.

      Han kept his eyes on Shiv’s blade, adjusting his stance accordingly. “Lucius won’t pay a tariff or a dawb. And if I short anybody, I’m gone.”

      “Fine by me,” Shiv said, grinning. “He’ll need somebody to take over. No reason it can’t be us.”

      Oh yeah? Han thought. Lucius is particular about who he partners with. But now wasn’t the time to say it. “All right,” he said grudgingly, as if giving in. “Let me talk to him and I’ll see what we can work out.”

      Shiv smiled. “Smart boy,” he said.

      That must’ve been some sort of signal, because suddenly they were all over him. Shiv’s blade slashed up toward Han’s face, and when he parried that, those on either side seized his arms, slamming his wrist against the wall until he dropped his knife. Then an older boy, a southern islander, took to smashing Han’s head against the wall, and Han knew he’d be done, maybe for good, if the boy kept that up. So he went limp, dragging him to the ground. Shiv kicked him hard in the ribs and somebody else punched him in the face. Nasty but not deadly.

      Finally he was yanked upright by the arms and held there while Shiv patted him down. Han resisted the temptation to spit in his face or kick him where it counted. He still hoped to survive the day.

      “Where’s your stash?” Shiv demanded, turning out Han’s pockets. “Where’s all those diamonds and rubies and gold pieces everybody talks about?”

      It would do no good to tell Shiv that the legendary stash never existed, save in street tales. “It’s gone,” Han said. “Spent, stolen, and given out in shares. I got nothing.”

      “You got these.” Shiv scraped back Han’s sleeves, exposing the silver cuffs. “I heard you was a fancy boy, Cuffs.” Seizing Han’s right forearm, Shiv yanked at the bracelet, practically dislocating Han’s wrist. Furious, the gang leader pressed the tip of his knife into Han’s throat, and Han felt blood trickling under his shirt. “Take ’em off.”

      The cuffs had been Han’s trademark during his time as streetlord of the Raggers. Shiv wanted them as trophy.

      “They don’t come off,” Han said, knowing with a numbing certainty that he was about to die.

      “No?” Shiv breathed, his face inches from Han’s, alive with anticipation, tears leaking from his damaged left eye. “That’s a shame. I’ll take off your hands, then, and see if they’ll slide over the stumps.” He looked around at his audience, and the other Southies laughed in a ragged СКАЧАТЬ