Chapter 24 Basten
Basten
I’ve missed the feel of a blunt object in my hand.
I’m dressed in one of Folke’s old whiskey-stained cloaks with the hood raised, a tattered cloth around my nose and mouth, so only my eyes are visible. The crown? Left in the Treasury Room on a velvet pillow. The king’s sword? On its rack in the Royal Armory.
The best part of all is getting to wear a comfortable fucking shirt for once.
Ahead, Folke strides down the Sin Streets district, stepping gracefully over reeking puddles of piss and ale. Dim lanterns cast pools of murky light into the dark night, barely enough to read the signs for pubs and brothels.
Behind him, Rian skirts the puddles, shackles clatter lightly around his wrists, hidden under the cloak. “Dammit,” he mutters. “I stepped in dog shit.”
“You’re lucky we let you out of the Coffin at all,” I say, following him closely, in case he thinks he can bolt. “You have Sabine to thank for that—and the fact that you’re the only one who can take us to the safe houses.”
Folke stops and looks both ways down a street. “Speaking of…”
“Next street, take a left,” Rian murmurs to Folke. “A tavern by the name of The Cracked Keg.”
Folke jerks his head in a nod and follows the directions.
I keep my head down, all too aware that the last thing I want is to be recognized.
After all, I’m trying to mitigate my reputation for growing up a street rat, present myself as worthy of the crown.
It wouldn’t do to be caught sniffing around the Sin Streets with the likes of a spy and a traitor.
A bar fight breaks out across the street, and despite my better sense, I grin beneath the cloak’s hood. Damn, but it feels good to be back on the streets. A little mud on my boots never bothered me. Blood on my knuckles, either.
Folke stops at the street corner and pulls a flask out of his vest. He takes a deep swig and passes it to me with a wink. “Need to look convincing.”
“Well. In that case.” I take a deep drink, then pass it back.
I’m here to help my kingdom, yeah. But even a king needs to let off some steam.
“Hey!” Rian argues. “Not so convincing if we all don’t drink.”
Folke tucks the flask in his pocket and pats it. “Sorry, friend, but you can’t drink without revealing your shackles. You’re here to identify faces, not get shit-faced.”
He grabs Rian by the shoulder and hauls him down the street toward the Cracked Keg.
Inside, it’s so crowded that we have to shuffle to even get in the door.
It’s a payday evening, so everyone with two cents to rub together is out drinking.
And, it’s a bit of a celebration, too. The city is finally liberated from the Golden Sentinels’ hold.
Supplies and food are flowing through the gates once more. Finally, bellies are full.
I swallow, feeling a strange warmth in my chest. Pride. But then a customer suddenly shoves past me and vomits on the floor right next to my boots.
I grimace and wipe my boot on a stool leg.
“Okay,” Folke says, leaning in close to me and Rian. “Where’s this safe house?”
Rian jerks his head toward the bar. “Kitchen.”
Folke’s brow wrinkles. “What?”
“The kitchen,” Rian hisses again, jerking his chin a second time at the bar. “Through that door. Behind the bar. It’s a safe kitchen.”
“Who the hell ever heard of a safe kitchen?” Folke hisses.
I groan, because I very well might be the world’s biggest idiot to put my faith in Rian Valvere.
And yet, here we are.
Folke heads for the bar, but Rian grabs him, the shackles clattering softly in the folds of his cloak. “Wait—you can’t just walk behind the counter. You’ll be beaten over the head with a pewter tankard. There’s a rear entrance. That way, by the latrines outside.”
He indicates a small wooden door.
We push our way through the crowd as unobtrusively as possible. Not that anyone throws us looks, anyway. We’re three men in a bar full of bastards just like us. Half of them are too drunk to even see their own noses, anyway.
Still, I keep careful tabs on the few individuals around the room who don’t reek of ale. The sharp ones pretending to be drunker than they are. Sure, most just want to cheat at cards. But I catch a glimpse of the bartender sliding a thick pouch of coins under the napkin of an outgoing tray.
Safe kitchen. Well, fuck, maybe Rian knows what he’s doing after all.
We exit to the narrow, muddy alley with a deep ditch by way of latrine, with a half dozen men pissing into it while singing old fae ditties. Rian points toward a wooden swinging door next to crates stacked up and a bucket of rotting potato peels.
Folke pauses to face us, pulling back his cloak a few inches to show the short sword in its scabbard.
“Okay, here’s how it will go down. We’re going to pull the old Drunkard’s Deceit.
Basten, you’ll have my back. Rian, you find a corner and post yourself there like a fucking broom, got it?
Not a peep, not a move. Your only role is to not get in the way. ”
Rian sighs. “Fine.”
My heart is thumping. My adrenaline is pumped. Thank fuck for the handkerchief that hides the smirk on my face, because I’m enjoying this far too much.
“Let’s play,” I say, cracking my knuckles.
In a snap, Folke transforms into a slobbering, cross-eyed drunk. He throws himself against the swinging door, stumbling into the kitchen, and Rian and I watch from the upper gap in the doorway.
“Bladder’s about to explode!” he slurs as he blusters his way toward two young men cleaning tankards by a barrel of soapy water.
The youths jerk to attention, stumbling back to get out of Folke’s way. I can hear from their heartbeats that they’re on edge—they were even before we set foot inside. I can also hear the muffled breathing of another man—older, judging by the rasp in his throat—not visible, but somewhere nearby.
I sniff the air. Cheap brandy.
It’s Gaez.
I grab Rian’s arm and shove him inside. I’m not giving the bastard a second to slip away—I have to fucking fight and babysit.
We burst in, and I spot a gap behind the water barrel and shove Rian toward it. Then, in the same move, I puff myself up big and stomp loudly toward Folke.
“Jacko, you ass! Latrine is outside!” I shout.
Folke pinwheels toward me sloppily, taking the opportunity to stumble toward the only other door; a backroom with a suspicious number of locks.
“What, you blind? It’s right here!” Folke slams his shoulder against the door, acting drunk, but it doesn’t budge.
The young dishwashers jerk toward us, arms outstretched to herd us back toward the alley. The taller one grunts, “Hey, you pissers. Get the fuck out.”
The shorter one quietly picks up a knife next to a pile of potatoes.
“Yeah, yeah,” I say. “My ass of a friend here downed too much booze. Get over here, Jacko—”
I swipe for him, but Folke dodges my hand with a drunken giggle, and I slam my fist into the back room door instead.
Shit—it still doesn’t break open.
At the same time, loud footsteps sound in the back room. The locks click on the other side, and the door swings open.
General Gaez’s face, bruised and red-cheeked from drink, scowls back at me.
“What the fuck’s going on out here, boys?” he snaps to the dishwashers.
I grin beneath my handkerchief as I shove my foot in the door so he can’t shut it again. At my side, Folke drops his drunken act, smoothly drawing his sword.
I tug down my handkerchief and grin. “We meet again.”
Gaez is well trained enough as a fighter to show only a flicker of surprise before grabbing for a meat cleaver just inside the back room, as he shouts to the dishwashers, “Kill them!”
I slam my elbow into his forearm, smashing the meat cleaver back into his own face. A cut bursts over his left temple. He falls backward but catches himself, blood dripping down into his eye.
“Folke, handle the boys,” I call. “I’ve got Gaez.”
Folke spins his knife around, grinning at the dishwashers. “Hello, there.”
The shorter youth jabs the peeling knife at him, but Folke picks up a potato and catches the blade it in, twisting it out of the boy’s hand and tossing it, knife and all, into the water barrel.
I slam my shoulder against the back room door, pushing my way in. It’s barely more than a pantry. A cot on the floor, a small cache of weapons, plenty of booze. Gaez has been holed up here for a while.
Gaez lunges for me, a fist swinging toward my head, but I block it.
I sigh, because this is almost too easy.
Then, a shout comes from behind me, and I immediately swallow my words.
Sentinels flood into the kitchen from the alley. The dissidents who fled along with Gaez. One, two, three, four. They’re all armed—I recognize the bartender among them and a few pub patrons. They’re armed to the teeth with swords and crossbows.
The nearest one clocks me immediately and aims his crossbow.
Fuck.
Rian suddenly bursts out of the corner and slams into him, and the arrow the man lets loose zips by my head to lodge into the wall.
I come up, tossing back my hair, my chest fucking pounding. I glance at the arrow that nearly skewered me.
“You’re welcome,” Rian prompts, and then immediately launches himself at the next sentinel.
His hands are bound, but he manages to use his body weight to knock the man to the floor.
It’s so tight in the kitchen that they slam into the water barrel.
It topples over, sending suds everywhere, dirty tankards clattering all over the floor.
One of the dishwashers loses his balance and slams into the table corner with a sickening crack.
And then, all hell breaks loose.
Gaez comes at me with a sentinel’s shield, slamming into my chest so hard my breath shoots from my lungs. I crumple forward, clutching my middle, and he raises the shield to slam the edge on my neck.
I shoot forward before he can, striking him in his gut, knocking him back.
We both collapse to the back room floor, grappling for the nearest weapon.