Flametouched Page 7

  He opened the door to the warehouse and stepped inside.

  Quinn, the stupidest of the dumb ones snapped his head around. “Looks like the box counter’s here again, boys!”

  Davon pulled the door shut behind him, careful not to drop the papers and quill he brought to keep up pretenses. The mongrel group of four men huddled around a crate littered with dice and crumpled, dirty bills. The ambient smell of strong drink signaled lunch time at the warehouse, though Davon doubted breakfast was ever a cause for abstinence.

  “Hey! Harper!” Quinn yelled. “Why don’t you bring your sissy little clerk arms over here come over and roll the bones with us for a while? I need a new coat!”

  He shuffled by the base men without comment. Retaliating against their insults only brought more abuse, and corrective instruction was useless.

  The laughter faded behind him. They had few outgoing shipments as yet, mainly seed grain and corn for farmers. The Aid Society’s shipment, the next to leave, would be closest to the loading doors. He wound his way around the sacks of grain and found nothing; the space in front of the doors was completely clear.

  Where are the goods? They should be here by now. From what little Couric had explained, the nobles’ money was spent buying foodstuffs, blankets, clothing, and the like, and the shipments went to where reports indicated they were needed. Couric had received no reports that Davon was aware of, but the ice miners in the north were always talked about as the most unfortunate people in Bittermarch.

  Two hands thrust themselves between the large double loading doors, and moments later the heavy doors were parted as easily as curtains by the massive Dales. Light flooded over Davon, squinting his eyes, Dales a dark abyss in the midst of the wall of sunshine.

  “Flame and flood! What’re you doin’ here, Harper?” the Caravan Master demanded.

  Davon lifted his hands to his eyes and waited for his vision to adjust. Dales advanced toward him, stride slow but purposeful. Behind him, Davon could make out wagons in the street. The goods, perhaps? The wagons carried oblong boxes and reinforced barrels, not what Davon would expect for clothes and foodstuffs. Dales’s shadow engulfing him set his thoughts to racing; the Caravan Master was deliberately blocking his view of the newly arrived shipment.

  “Making a count of the seed, Dales,” Davon answered as calmly and innocently as he could. “Is that the shipment for the Aid Society? I could inventory it now.”

  Dale stared a fury at him and Davon swallowed. Where do men like him come from? His mother must be a mammoth.

  “You git!” Dales roared, pointing his thick finger toward the door Davon had originally come in.

  Davon knew protesting was useless and turned to go, threading his way back through the stacks of seed. If Dales told Couric he had been down in the warehouse counting the seed again, there would be trouble. Davon had completed that job and turned in his report two days ago.

  “Quinn!” Dales bellowed, his crushing voice easily filling the massive space. “When you hear them doors opening you get your arses over here! You get slow and I’ll rip out your spine and use it to whip the rest a ya lazy louts! Get the stuff off them wagons!”

  The strong-backed idiots fled their gambling table and raced to the doors, Quinn bumping Davon on the way by, sending the ink sliding off its perch on the book. Without thinking, Davon caught it right-side up in midair with his other hand and grinned; his reflexes were still as good as ever.

  Once out the warehouse door, he went directly to the office, finding Mr. Masterson absent. The book in which his employer had hidden the manifest waited temptingly on the edge of the table. Peeking outside the door and finding Couric nowhere on the street, Davon sprinted to the table and flipped through the book’s pages, finding the sheet of paper folded up near the middle.

  He opened it eagerly and scanned it, finding it surprisingly mundane. There were eight wagon loads, four with sacks of pinto beans, two with blankets, and two with clothing. All the amounts were very standard and expected.

  Why had Mr. Couric tried so hard to conceal the list from him? If the wagons outside were the supposed Aid Society goods arriving, then Davon knew why: the wagons being unloaded by Quinn and his gang were not full of pinto beans. The list in the book was the front for what was really being loaded. It was the list they would hand to the permit office. The permit office had the right to inspect every load, but in his months of working for the Boot and Wheel Caravan Company, not one inspector had ever come.

  There has to be another list somewhere, Davon thought. Or perhaps there wouldn’t be. If they were smuggling something illegally, why would they keep a record? Surely a requisition order for the impostor goods had to have been written somewhere, but where to look? He flipped through the book already I his hand, finding nothing. The best evidence, of course, was being unloaded at that very moment by Quinn and his brutes. Time was critical. If he could have an officer inspect the load before it left, then Couric and Dales would be exposed. Davon had to wait until Mr. Masterson filed the permit so that the fake list of goods would be in play, and then someone needed to see what was in the wagons.

  Couric’s step on the stair shocked Davon into action. In horror, he realized he’d lost the page where the document had been stored. Shoving it roughly in the middle, he put the book on the table and turned to go back to his office just as Couric came inside.

  “What’re you doing out here, Harper?” Couric asked grumpily.

  Davon sat down. He hated lying. He was horrible at it, even though his entire life had become one. But he knew how to avoid answering Mr. Masterson’s questions. “What was that, Mr. Masterson?” he asked as off-handedly as possible.

  “I said…oh, never mind.”

  Worked every time.

  An hour later, Couric left briefly and came back, asking Davon to hand over the newly written Trip Permit Request form. As hard as Davon tried, he couldn’t read the man. His moods were consistently unpleasant to a fault.

  “I’m going for the permit,” Couric said. “You keep at the ledgers. I think you’ll be working late tonight.”

  Working late? Something was off, but he couldn’t worry about it now. Davon waited for the door to slam shut before executing another fruitless search through his boss’s office for a list of the real goods. Conceding defeat, he returned to his worn, wooden desk, trying to do actual work while his mind spun. Mr. Masterson returned a while later, permit in hand. The old man slumped into his chair and pulled a flask out of his coat, drinking and humming to himself.

  Davon exhaled, time crawling by. His mind raced over the possibility that he was getting himself into serious danger. He tapped his pen, his foot, and spent half the day staring out the window until evening fogged it almost too thickly to see through. Outside on the street the warehouse workers shuffled by in the gathering dark, some jovial, others exhausted and worn out. Drudgery affected people in different ways, it seemed. Those who survived with a shred of happiness somehow found joy in long, dull days, a talent Davon had yet to grasp.

  Mr. Masterson poked his head in. “David,” he said, tone approaching polite, “I realize I’ve been a bit heavy handed about this Aid Society business. How about I buy you a drink and explain the whole thing to you?”

  Suspicion bloomed in Davon’s mind. This was the first time Couric had ever used his first name or had invited him to anything. He could hardly refuse, so he nodded, stood, and followed Couric out into the chilly evening, finding his employer heading toward the Crooks.

  “Are we headed to the Iron Hand?” Davon asked. The job posting in the window there was what had led him to the Boot and Wheel Caravan Company, and the establishment was close to the dismal apartment he had rented. It was a great place for gossip and scuttlebutt.

  “Nah. I know a nice place across the river in Southgate that has some tasty serving wenches.”

  Davon swallowed, hair prickling on his neck. Couric would not bother walking that far or spend any money on an employee. The mis
sing Samwell Biggs likely walked this same road last fall. Davon steeled himself. This would be his last day at the Boot and Wheel Caravan Company, one way or another. His senses sharpened and focused, the night springing to life. He remembered the thin knife that Couric always carried with him for peeling oranges—and apparently a clerk or two.

  Davon turned to Couric. “Do you mind if we stop by my apartment? It’s on the way and I’d like to change my coat for something a little more festive—for the ladies.”

  Now Couric grimaced. “Just be quick about it.”

  A few minutes later, they found Sparks Lane and Davon turned down the alley that led to his poor apartment, Couric walking casually behind and whistling to himself. Every nerve on edge, Davon approached his door and inserted the key in the lock. Couric’s boot scraped on the cobbles, the heat of his employer’s sour breath on the back of his neck.

  Chapter 9

  Davon clenched his jaw and stepped inside his humble one room apartment. The rasp of Couric’s thin bladed knife sliding out of its stiff leather sheath set Davon into motion. He stepped forward and spun, catching his boss flat-footed behind him holding the knife awkwardly, eyes darting around as if looking for some explanation he could offer as to why he had a weapon at the ready.

  Before the wretched man could act, Davon sprang forward, grabbing Couric by the neck with his right hand and catching his knife hand by the wrist with his left. Couric struggled, but Davon held him firm, pinning him against the wall with a thud.

  “I guess we know where all those missing clerks are, don’t we, Mr. Masterson? Did they figure out your little scheme, too? Did you send them into the river for a nice swim?”

  Couric’s eyes bulged in the soft light coming in through the open door to the alley. His constricted breath came fast. “Now wait a minute, Harper! I’ll pay. I can make it worth your while. Just let me go and walk away.”

  Davon banged Couric’s wrist against the wall and he dropped the knife. “What are in those boxes and barrels you’re shipping out tomorrow? Not blankets and beans, surely.”

  “The less you know, the better, Mr. Harper. Trust me. Let me fetch the money and you can be on your way.” The old rascal trembled under Davon’s hands.

  Davon pulled him away from the wall and dumped him roughly into a worn wooden chair, the only furniture in the room besides a bed and a small table. I’ve got some rope in here somewhere. “I don’t want your filthy money, Mr. Masterson. I’ll fetch the sheriff and see if we can’t get to the bottom of this.” He may not know much, Davon mused as he cast his eyes about the room, finding the rope snaking out from under the bed. I can’t imagine anyone with a real scheme entrusting secrets to this man.

  To get the rope, Davon had to relax his grip on the fearful man. As soon as Davon lifted his hand, Couric bolted out of the chair and toward the door. Davon was on him in a second, using his momentum to shove his boss into the doorframe. A sickening crack and dull thud later, Davon dragged the unconscious man back to the chair and secured him to it with the rope he had kept after he had sold his horse. He lit a candle, a pool of light falling over his prisoner. A dark protrusion decorated his forehead. Davon hoped he hadn’t shoved him too hard; the man had a lot to account for.

  He searched Couric’s coat, finding a flask, what seemed a bushel’s-worth of pecan shells, and what he had hoped for: the signed travel permit with a list of the goods approved for shipping. It matched the innocuous list he had found in the book. Couric hadn’t given the permit to Dales yet. That meant that the caravan was going nowhere, at least not legally. Legality, Davon reminded himself, was no obstacle for the Boot and Wheel Caravan Company. He had to act quickly.

  After shoving the permit in an inner pocket of his coat and checking the knots that held Mr. Masterson to the chair, Davon snuffed the candle with his fingertips. This was his chance. He could go to the warehouse and see for himself what the crates and barrels contained and then alert the authorities to the fraud. He locked the door behind him and headed out into the night, a cool drizzle layering the cobblestone street with a sheen in the lamplight. Despite the damp weather, a fair smattering of low folk walked the twisted ways of the Crooks, faces slackened by a day of menial labor or a few pints of ale.

  Davon quickened his pace, wondering what would become of him. Shoving one’s boss into a doorframe was as good as a letter of resignation he joked to himself, trying in vain to dispel the fire in his veins. Since the traveling season was coming on, he hoped he could fulfill his wish and start as a caravan guard. No more cramped offices and small windows. He had to admit, however, that it felt good to be about something important, thanking the Flame for leading him to a place that gave him purpose in his self-imposed exile.

  As he neared the Boot and Wheel Caravan Company, he pulled himself up short. Someone had lighted a lantern in the main office and he could hear the din of men and horses on the far side of the warehouse near the loading doors. Are they loading tonight? Leaving? The permit was for tomorrow, but if one were hauling illegal goods, just after midnight would be tomorrow enough. Walking softly, he cracked the side door to the warehouse and slipped inside, hoping Quinn and the half-ox Dales would be occupied on the opposite end.

  After closing the door behind him, he crouched down behind a stack of corn seed. The loading doors were open, three lanterns illuminating the loading platform and casting deep shadows behind the rest of the stacked goods. Quinn and three of his cohorts were hauling the barrels and boxes that had arrived earlier, setting them on four of Dales’s wagons, though the brute himself was nowhere to be found. Whatever the boxes and barrels contained, it was beastly heavy, the slightly inebriated warehouse hands grunting and groaning with herniating exertion as they hauled and hefted the cargo.

  Four wagons instead of eight. The Boot and Wheel Caravan Company was so cheap that they didn’t even bother to send wagons with fake goods to fill out the compliment listed on the fraudulent permit. Such trickery was only a moderate risk. Few loads were ever inspected, and even those that were could sneak by the underpaid inspectors with a little coin from the caravan master.

  Having half the wagons missing from a caravan would be hard for even the most corrupt of inspectors to pass over, however. One of the reasons all the permit bureaucracy existed was to make sure goods and wagons just didn’t wander off mid-trip. Before this caravan left, Mr. Masterson would have to sign a paper that eight wagon loads of clothes, blankets, and beans left his warehouse at such and such a time. He wouldn’t be available for that chore tonight.

  In a few minutes the loading was done and Quinn and his crew leaned against the walls and drank. How could he get a look at that cargo now? Davon thought hard, gathered his courage, and stepped out toward the loading doors, walking nonchalantly in the direction of Quinn and his three helpers. They regarded him with surprise and even a little fear, looking at each other with wide eyes as if waiting for someone to take the initiative and decide what to do.

  Davon pulled the permit from his coat. “Have you seen Dales?” he asked calmly. “Mr. Masterson told me that I needed to give this to him right now or he’d have me locked in my office for a week.”

  Quinn relaxed a little, though suspicion never left his brow. “He’s in the office waiting for Mr. Masterson. Didn’t you see him?”

  “No. Mr. Masterson said he would be here so I didn’t step into the office. Is the shipment leaving early?”

  Quinn glared at him and stepped forward. “That ain’t your business.”

  The door to the warehouse banged open behind him and Davon swallowed hard. Dales didn’t open doors, he bullied them, and the heavy boot-steps and steady undercurrent of swearing could only mean one thing: the beastly man was in a foul mood. Davon spun, Dales’s round, tan face emerging into the lamplight.

  “What’re you doin’ here, Harper?” he yelled, his tone indicating that Davon was mere moments away from being pounded into jelly.

  Davon thrust the permit out like a shield, trying
not to flinch. “Mr. Masterson told me to bring this to you immediately. He had to run home for something and said to give you this. He told me to tell you he was going to take me out for a drink later.”

  Quinn and his boys snickered. Perhaps they knew what Mr. Masterson’s drinking invitations meant. Dales snatched the permit roughly out of Davon’s hand and looked it over. He can read? Never in Davon’s most generous imaginings did Dales possess any civilized refinements. Would he do mathematics and write poetry next?

  “He didn’t sign it!” Dales roared. He shoved the permit inside of his shirt and nodded to Quinn, who returned a wicked grin.

  “Close ‘er up, boys!” Quinn ordered, removing a large, nicked knife he always had tucked in his boot and pointing it in Davon’s direction. Quinn’s three companions worked at the unwieldy doors, and they squealed as they ran along their track. Reading the murderous intent in Quinn’s eyes, Davon yelled for help, hoping to attract the notice of anyone nearby. He continued his hue and cry until the doors boomed shut, sealing him away from the outside world. Despite the cool air of the warehouse, Davon had to wipe the sweat from his brow.

  “Be quick about it,” Dales said to Quinn, turning back toward the inner door while the four men closed on Davon. Words were useless. Davon stowed his unnecessary glasses in his coat pocket and pulled out the two sabertooth daggers he had tucked away in his belt, twirling them with an instinctive flourish he hadn’t practiced. The ruffians’ advance stalled.