Once Grunwol had left, Raomar lifted the trapdoor. Agar was gathering Brianda’s commission from the floor, counting as he went. The guild would take its percentage before returning the rest.

  “Guildmaster?” Agar asked, as Raomar lowered himself onto the ladder.

  Raomar gave the man a hard look.

  “I have matters to attend at the docks,” he stated. “In private.”

  Agar pursed his lips, and Raomar almost felt sorry for the man…until Agar reminded him of why he’d made the man a watchman in the first place.

  “You gave me orders, guildmaster,” he said, “as has the Northman, and I won’t be crossing either of you.”

  Raomar dropped down the ladder, stopping only to haul the trap-door closed overhead, before Agar could summon Grunwol. It was true he’d given Agar orders that no-one traveled the sewers alone…but he hadn’t realized Grunwol had left orders regarding him.

  Raomar grimaced. What’s the good of being guildmaster, if you can’t break your own rules?

  He heard the slide of metal as the watchman secured the exit after him, and slid into the shadows at the ladder’s base. Moving as quickly as he dared, he hoped to gain enough distance that his business would be done before anyone caught up with him.

  If he was fast, he might even reach the meeting point before the Northman left the guild. The docks weren’t that far away.

  Grunwol would be annoyed, but Raomar didn’t care. He’d repeatedly told them he could take care of himself—only to be reminded he was guildmaster…and no longer had that luxury. Raomar gritted his teeth.

  In the meantime, he had business to conduct—the kind he’d prefer to undertake without the Northman at his back. The Tillerman had a rendezvous, and Raomar wanted to be at the meeting place in time to see what it was about.

  Reports had finally confirmed the Tillerman was behind the two men who’d tried to intercept Brianda before he could…and where he’d be, later that evening.

  Dart and her potions had drawn that much truth from them before they’d died.

  His rival was gaining in power, but moving as slowly and carefully as Raomar had done when he’d first come to the city. Unlike Raomar, however, the Tillerman was moving against a single organization and not many small ones…and Raomar kept a better watch on his own people than his rivals ever did.

  Where he’d been able to thin the ranks of his predecessors without them noticing, the Tillerman had not. Enshul watched over his affairs—and she jealously guarded her possessions. Raomar had taken the fractured factions and welded them into a single entity, with the exception of the assassins, the carters’ guild, the fences, and old Ben’s orphanage of street runners. Those he’d made allies…and Ben had been the Tillerman’s first victim.

  Remembering, Raomar’s mouth twisted with regret. Ben’s charges had scattered, and the guild had been so busy dealing with other incursions, it had yet to track them down. Raomar wondered if he’d come to regret that, and pushed the thought away. Now, was not the time.

  Hartender’s duke was connected…and he did not know how. That was one of the things he hoped he’d learn, tonight. He turned into a maintenance tunnel, four men wide and lit by evenly spaced torches. The smell of salt mingled with the outflow, and the rhythmic lap of water told him he neared the harbor walls.

  Hartender and the Tillerman… Raomar shook his head. He wished he’d known sooner. In the meantime…

  A shift in the air, and the muffled sound of footsteps behind him, warned him he was no longer alone. Rather than let his pursuers catch up, Raomar slid into a side tunnel to see who it was.

  Either his second-in-command was in a hurry and not moving as carefully as he should…or it was someone else. Raomar was sure it was the Northman, and whatever escort the man could round up at short notice, but such assumptions had killed before, so he decided to make sure.

  That…and he didn’t want them anywhere near him, regardless. If he could hear them, the Tillerman would hear them, also…and Raomar needed to know what his rival was up to.

  With a soft sigh of regret, he moved further down the tunnel, deliberately leaving a trail for them to find…and then he stepped into the channel of sluggishly moving sludge and took another side-tunnel. His boots would be ruined, but not even Grunwol could follow a path that wasn’t there.

  Taking another turn toward his destination, he left the channel. His damp boots would leave prints, but the flow grew deeper and faster and wasn’t safe to walk. Raomar wrinkled his nose at the stench, and moved quickly. The detour had cost him some time, and he didn’t know how long he had.

  A brief gleam in the sewer dark caught his eye, and he remembered Grunwol knew the tunnels…and him…almost as well as he did. Cursing softly, Raomar slipped into another side tunnel, calculating if he could afford another detour.

  He couldn’t, so instead he waited, concealing himself in shadow as he observed their approach. The burly Northman led the way, carefully shielding the wizard light in the palm of one large hand. Behind him, spaced just far apart enough to make them difficult to see, were four others.

  Six, Raomar corrected himself, glimpsing two more at the very edge of the light. The number of men annoyed him. Their lack of quiet annoyed him. He’d mark them for further training…and he’d speak to Grunwol about the quality of men brought to protect him.

  He needed an escort that could move as quietly as he could…and fight as hard. Glaring at the group moving cautiously toward him, he drew back a little further, and waited for them to pass. If they wrecked his chance of discovering what his rival was about, the Northman would know his anger—friend or not.

  He didn’t want an escort…or need one. He needed information. Stifling a growl of frustration, Raomar forced himself to stand still as the first man, passed. The Northman would be next.

  Raomar prepared to slide out beside him, only to have his vision blocked by a swift-moving shadow. A large hand closed around his throat, and he was pushed back into the wall, the point of a dagger pressing into his gut.

  Raomar closed his eyes, just as light flared in front of his face, and found himself just as abruptly released.

  “Shards and snow!” Grunwol whispered, and the light vanished. “You could have been killed.”

  Raomar straightened his tunic, looking past the barbarian for the rest of his escort. They’d formed a defensive half circle around the tunnel entry, and were looking outward.

  It’s a start, Raomar thought.

  He turned to the Northman.

  “They’re too noisy,” he stated. “I heard you coming before I saw the light. I need to get closer than they’ll allow.”

  “These are the best I could find at short notice.” Grunwol gave Raomar an accusing glance. “You want better, I need more notice.”

  “How about the notice I didn’t want an escort.”

  Grunwol gave him a hard stare. “We’ve talked about this.”

  Raomar glanced at the men, then decided they needed to hear what he had to say.

  “They’re good enough,” he admitted, “but not for this. I need to get closer.”

  Grunwol looked about to disagree, but Raomar continued.

  “Let me move ahead, and observe. If things go north, then come to my aid.”

  He kept the pleading from his tone. He wasn’t going to beg, and he wasn’t going to kill his friend to ensure he was obeyed. The Northman meant too much to him for that, but he needed…

  “Agreed,” Grunwol told him. “Where?”

  “Next junction,” Raomar said. “Follow me just past it, then wait. I’ll be within sight.”

  He hesitated, then tapped the fist Grunwol had wrapped around the wizard light. “Keep that out of sight until we’re out of the junction, once more. It can be seen for miles.”

  The Northman nodded, then relayed the orders to the rest. Raomar didn’t wait for them to be ready, but hurried to his vantage point. He heard the faintest of noises as they came after him, but they stopped where he’d asked, and no light gave them away.

  He was almost too late.

  The point he’d chosen overlooked one of the main channels beneath the city, one which provided access for deliveries from the ships to smaller docks beneath Deverath’s streets. Its entry was gated and guarded by the Deverath Port Authority, but the Watch rarely ventured beyond the main waterway.

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  Raomar made his way along the edge of the feeder channel, skirting the mouth of the pipe that took its contents down to the main channel. As he settled into hiding, he heard the sound of low, hoarse whispers and the dip of oars.

  The smell of salt, damp, and effluvium mingled, and Raomar crouched close to the wall and looked out.

  Soon, the lamp-lit prow of a longboat appeared, but not from the dockside. This one came out of one of the waterways linking to the main. It was loaded to the gunnels, carrying two men and three women between the four men rowing. A fifth man crouched in the prow.

  Raomar frowned, studying the boat’s occupants. It passed by his perch and continued out into the bay, forcing him to descend a narrow set of stairs to see where it went. Raomar hurried down, but only far enough to observe it as it passed through the gates and drew to a halt alongside a ship berthed not far from the tunnel.

  The rowers were dressed as sailors, but their passengers…

  Raomar’s frown grew deeper.

  Noblemen? Sneaking out of the city in the dead of night?

  One of them was clearly the patriarch of his house, but nothing on his jacket or cloak revealed which one. He sat stiffly behind the man crouching at the prow, his mouth pressed firmly in a straight line, his expression stony.

  The women huddled together in the next row of seats, their arms twined around each other’s waists, their two younger ones fearful, the older one disapproving. The two young men facing them had the look of their father, and their faces were grave.

  One glanced back at the tunnel with something like regret, and both the old man and older woman tensed. They relaxed when the younger one turned back without speaking. The rowers took the boat to the next ship, and a soft whistle pierced the darkness.

  Raomar moved further down the stairs until he saw the oarsmen draw the longboat to a halt and steady it. A wooden ladder dropped down the ship’s side, followed by a swing seat, and the women looked uncertainly at each other.

  The older one went first, her face pale under the lamplight. One of the younger men climbed the ladder, followed by the older man. The third did not leave the boat, and Raomar thought that was because he was waiting to see the rest of his family and their belongings safely aboard.

  To Raomar’s surprise, he didn’t follow, but sat quietly in the stern of the boat, raising his hand, once, in farewell to those on the deck above. As he watched, the oarsmen pushed away from the ship and turned their craft back toward the tunnel.

  Raomar moved carefully back up the stairs. He’d ask Dart to discover which ship was docked, maybe see if she could find a way to board it. Shouts drifted from across the water and he paused long enough to see the ship start moving away from the dock.

  Or where it’s going, he amended, before hurrying back to his vantage point. Movement further back in the tunnel made him realize he’d shifted out of Grunwol’s sight, and he cursed softly.

  Glancing toward the Northman’s position, he saw the man drift back to the junction, and let out a breath of relief. This time, when the longboat passed, he followed it, taking one of the catwalks over the main waterway to reach the secondary outlet.

  His escort moved quickly after him, coming close enough to keep him in sight. Raomar wasn’t sure that would be far enough for him to avoid detection, but knew it was the best he could expect. He kept to the galleries for as long as he could, before descending another narrow set of stairs to walk along the ledge that ran beside the channel.

  The longboat took another turn, this time into a tunnel Raomar didn’t remember, and he frowned, taking the turn carefully, in case anyone was waiting. Once inside, he saw it was newly constructed, as was the small jetty jutting out into the quiet lagoon created several yards in.

  The Tillerman had been very busy since taking the docks. Raomar studied the lamplit jetty and apron of stone beyond. He’d heard rumors of construction, but not paid them much attention. Now, he wished he had.

  Maybe Dart was right and he needed to establish an arm for the undercity on its own, instead of relying on his scouts to find all that was hidden there. He needed the sewer maps redrawn. Adding it to the mental list he kept, Raomar moved closer so he could see and hear what was going on at the jetty.

  The dock might be well-lit, but there were plenty of shadows where he’d stopped. He stepped into the niche created by a hidden ladder. A quick glance up revealed a long climb leading to the surface, and emptiness in the shaft above.

  Hoping his escort didn’t try to follow, Raomar climbed a little to get a better view of the docks. Halfway up the wall, he discovered a narrow ledge built into it—empty, but providing a good overlook.

  Silently, he moved closer. Letting his eyes adjust to the light, he moved within earshot, and crouched to study the docks.

  None of the faces gathered below were familiar, and he frowned. He assumed the Tillerman was the man stepping from the longboat’s prow to the dock…but the young nobleman…that one he didn’t recognize. As he watched, several men moved out of the shadows, a wizard among them.

  Raomar made sure to mark his features. Perhaps Alessia would know him…or Dart. It would give him yet another avenue to pursue as he tried to identify the man trying to take his territory.

  “Time to move, your lordship.” The voice of one of the oarsmen drew his attention back to the boat.

  He was in time to see the young nobleman glance back at the oarsman, and be prodded again. He was young, somewhere between his eighteenth and twenty-fifth summer, if Raomar had to guess. It took a moment more before he registered the young man’s face resembled that of the other two men in the boat.

  A younger son? But why had he remained behind? Why would any nobleman leave one of his heirs behind? Raomar marked it as another question for Dart, and focused on the drama being played out below.

  With another prod from the oarsman, the young nobleman got to his feet and stepped carefully onto the dock. Two of the newly arrived men hurried forward, one steadying him as the other stood back.

  Guards, Raomar thought, noting their light leather armor and weapons.

  The man Raomar assumed was the Tillerman waited on the stone-landing, beside the wizard, observing the nobleman like a cat intent on its prey.

  Shaking his arm free of the guard, the nobleman moved to stand before him.

  “My family owes you much,” he said softly, taking a pouch from his belt and holding it out to the Tillerman.

  Coins jangled quietly in the dark.

  “Your family’s compensation for my men’s lives was enough,” the Tillerman replied. “Our debts are equal. Go quickly and in peace.”

  He gestured toward the entrance of the chamber, and the young man turned, walking to the edge of the lamplight before he paused. Surveying the darkness beyond, he glanced back.

  “Will there be a guide?” he asked, noticing no-one had moved with him.

  Raomar leaned a little further forward, wanting a better view as the Tillerman exchanged glances with his men, then looked back at the lordling.

  “That would demand a price more than the one we’ve already been offered,” he replied.

  “More than what you’ve been offered?” the young man asked sharply, and took a step back from the edge of the light.

  “Much more,” the Tillerman replied.

  “How much more?” the nobleman asked, his voice shifting up in register.

  Once more he glanced into the sewers’ black, and Raomar wondered if he could see at all. The lamps on the docks had been perfect for ruining his chances of growing accustomed to the dark.

  “Thirty thousand kings,” the Tillerman replied, and Raomar bit back a whistle at the price.

  Kings were coins of gold, each one worth ten queens of silver, or a hundred bronze princes. Thirty thousand would take most merchants a year to acquire, depending on their trade. As a price to reach the edge of the tunnels, it was exorbitant.

  The nobleman’s jaw dropped, his surprise evident before he recovered and closed his mouth, attempting to smooth his features to a blank.

  “I…take it, you’re not carrying that much?” the Tillerman asked, signaling his men forward.

  The nobleman held up a hand.

  “Wait…wait, I can pay,” he assured them.

  Raomar caught the Tillerman’s raised brow as he signaled his guards to stop. The lordling fumbled in the second pouch at his belt, pulling from its depths something small that glittered pale blue in the lamplight.

  Keeping a wary eye on the guards, he returned to the Tillerman, before stretching out his palm to reveal a small, blue gem.

  “How far does this buy me?”

  The Tillerman took it, removing an eye glass from his top pocket and setting it to his eye to examine the gem. His mouth twisted in disdain.

  “Five steps in the dark.” Glancing at the pouch, he asked, “Do you have anything else?”

  Again, the lordling delved into the pouch, withdrawing a gem of a deeper shade of blue. Color danced in the lamplight as he passed it over.

  The Tillerman accepted it with more respect than the last, but examined it just as carefully.

  “That might buy you the parchment’s retrieval,” he ventured, after several long minutes. “I couldn’t guarantee more than one attempt for this, but it would buy at least that.”

  “And my freedom?” the young lord pressed, identifying what was really at stake.

  The Tillerman took the glass from his eye and returned it to his pocket. When he raised his head, his face was hard.

  “That chance was gone when my client made the payment.”

  The nobleman fumbled hastily at his pouch, withdrawing two more gems.

  “These?” he asked, and the guards paused.

  The Tillerman shook his head. “The price has been paid. The bargain sealed.”

  “But…” the nobleman looked at the men closing in, and back at the Tillerman. “I need to get back to my sister. I…I promised!”

  The Tillerman eyed him gravely.

  “That’s not a promise you’re going to be able to keep,” he replied, but the young man refused to give up.

  “At least look at them!” he urged, holding out the gems.

  The Tillerman gave a heavy sigh and took the gems, making a show of examining each.

  Raomar almost laughed when the show became a proper examination, and his rival tucked the gems carefully into another pocket.

  Once again removing his glass, the Tillerman glanced at the nobleman.

  “These will guarantee you the parchment,” he stated, before nodding to his men. “Take him.”

  The young lord failed to reach his sword as one of the guards closed, and tackled him to the ground. A second guard piled on top and, together, they pinned him. A third guard took his sword and searched for more weapons at his waist as two more raised crossbows to cover him.

  The nobleman struggled until the Tillerman came to stand in front of him and lowered his blade where the young man could see it.

  “Yield?” he asked, and the nobleman froze, lifting his head in an attempt to see his captor’s face.

  “Boot…knives,” he gasped, and the guard retrieved them.

  The Tillerman moved his blade closer to the young man’s face.

  “Do. You. Yield?” he repeated.

  “To you,” the lordling replied. “I yield to you.”

  He rested his forehead on the stonework and waited.

  Raomar, watching from above, saw when the Tillerman nodded to his men, and the lordling was released. To his credit, the young man didn’t move, but waited. The Tillerman snorted, sheathing his blade.

  “Get up.”

  The nobleman rose, moving slowly and eyeing the guards warily. Noting they’d moved out of reach, and the crossbowmen stood ready, he turned his attention to the Tillerman, and waited.

  The Tillerman looked him up and down, and shrugged.

  “As I said, for thirty thousand kings you would have been free.”

  He raised a hand for silence, when the young man would have protested, and the nobleman subsided.

  “You didn’t have that, but had the price of the papers the spymaster took. Once your buyer no longer has those, he will no longer need you and you will be released.”

  “You can’t guarantee that,” the young man protested, and Raomar agreed.

  “For five thousand kings more, I can,” the Tillerman assured him.

  “Done,” the lordling replied, without hesitation.

  “Blood word?” the Tillerman demanded, and the young man nodded.

  “Done,” he repeated.

  Raomar frowned. That wasn’t an agreement. Technically, that oath had to be repeated in the reply for it to be given. As it stood, the young man had only agreed to the five thousand kings and not sealed the bargain with his life, but his word…and such promises could be broken.

  “Blood word,” the Tillerman growled, and his blade was at the young man’s throat with a speed that made Raomar blink.

  The young lord froze.

  “Blood word,” he replied, but the blade stayed where it was.

  “Be glad I don’t double the price,” the Tillerman told him, his face fierce.

  The lordling swallowed, as though he realized how close he’d come to death. The Tillerman sheathed his blade, and turned his head, sending a soft whistle through the dark.

  For a moment, there was no reply, then lamplight winked in the tunnel depths.