Aethersmith (Book 2) by J.S. Morin Page B

that they were now playing for the side of the law.
    At length, they found someone who did not know who either of
them was, and they were able to at least learn that the goblet had been fenced
through someone named Derrel Three-Finger. Then the three-fingered thief had
sold them the name of his buyer for five lions, leaving them eighteen after
their fruitless efforts chatting with former associates. They were looking for
Foxblade.
    “Rotten luck. What say we head north, maybe throw in with
Megrenn?” Tod jested.
    Foxblade was head of the Grey Hoods, who ran an unfair share
of Kadris’s less reputable enterprises.
    “Naw. Anything goes, right?” Jodoul asked. “I got an idea.”
He beckoned for Tod to follow him.
    Tod paused for a moment, brow furrowing in thought. “I got a
better one.”
    The two exchanged suspicious glances, daring the other to
divulge his idea first.
    In the end, neither told his plan, but they went off
together preparing for them nonetheless. They were already near enough to
markets that Jodoul’s side trip was short. He purchased some smoke vials,
caltrops, and a small jar of mint jelly.
    “All right, you got me,” Tod admitted. “I see what ya might
want the smokies and caltrops for, if’n you’re thinkin’ this is gonna be a
snatch ’n’ run. I’ll be sliced six ways if I know what the jelly’s for though.”
    Jodoul had them duck into a side alley where there were
fewer eyes about. He drew his dagger and dipped it in the jelly. “Stuff looks
like spider venom stuff the Olaks use, if ya spread it on thin. My old man
showed me once. To most folk, it’d just seem like jelly, but a smart fella like
Foxblade’ll know about spider venom.” Jodoul dipped his finger in the jelly and
put it in his mouth. “Tastes loads better, don’t cost hardly nothin’, and won’t
rot yer finger off if’n you nick yourself.”
    Tod glanced down the alley in both directions, gave a little
half smile, and knelt down to pry up a pair of cobblestones from the streets.
Keeping his back to the main thoroughfare, he drew his own blade and scratched
at the surface of one of the stones, then the other. He then drew a small flask
from inside his coat, and upset it over the two stones, washing them clean of
dirt with his fingers. There was a strong smell of alcohol.
    “Hey now! That’s a waste o’ good firewine,” Jodoul
protested.
    “Aww, cram it,” Tod replied, not looking up from his work.
“I’ll pinch some more when we get back to the palace, leastwise if’n we live.”
    Finding Foxblade was not so difficult. He had folk all over
Kadris working for him, from the dockside to the markets and back again. It was
easier bribing one of his underlings to get a meeting than it was to find out
about the goblet in the first place. Tod nabbed a street mouse aged no more
than ten winters, and told him he would get dragged to the warlock himself if
he did not lead the way to the thief’s lair. Folk were scared of the warlock,
seeing as he had executed three members of the Inner Circle as traitors and the
Inner Circle was a bunch that none wanted to cross. Considering Tod and Jodoul
still both wore imperial uniforms, the threat seemed likely enough; the warlock
had his hand in far more of the city’s affairs than previous rulers had ever
seemed to. Reluctantly the boy led them down to the sewer level of the city.
    Kadris’s sewers were a thoroughfare in their own right.
Despite magical wards preserving the buildings, the city was over six thousands
summers old, and had been rebuilt in whole or in part a number of times. The
ground beneath the great metropolis was not entirely firm, and over time the
city slowly sank; it was hundreds of summers before anyone would notice a
change, but the city’s forefathers had hundreds to spare. As the city was
pushed down into the soil, buildings were filled in, streets walled off and
turned into new sewers, and new construction would proceed atop. Thus, when Tod
and