Free The Thorn of Dentonhill by Marshall Ryan Maresca

was going to be trouble. He should have kept out of it. Bell muttered a few curses. He had wanted the cannery office. He had wanted the placement, the extra prestige. He had wanted to show the man he could be more than muscle and pickup. He had been doing good until this special package for the Blue Hand.
    Bell could feel his hands shaking. Had to settle his nerves.
    Stupid kid.
    He reached into his pocket and pulled out his small
hassper
pipe and his pouch of leaf. Not much left. He’d smoked a lot of it yesterday.
    He packed a few leaves into the bowl of the pipe. When did he stop burning last night? Had to have been ten or eleven bells. His head was completely clear when the drop turned left. He had been good. That kid just hit them hard and fast.
    He looked about the carriage. There were two lamps hanging, but both were dark.
    â€œHey.” He knocked hard on the front of the cab, startling the driver. “You don’t got your lamps burning.”
    â€œNo, sir, no,” the driver said, glancing back. “Sorry, sir. Got to save on the oil, sir, so I don’t light them in the daytime.”
    Bell grunted in disapproval.
    â€œI could stop here at the bakery, sir,” the driver said, sweat forming on his brow. “They’re sure to have something I can light a taper with, all right?”
    â€œGood,” Bell said. He kept a grin off his face. He had no intention of making an incident, and would have been fine with not smoking until after he had arrived at the Blue Hand’s chapterhouse. If the driver wanted to be of service, though, Bell would not refuse. The driver reined in the horse and jumped out of the cab.
    He decided he would tip the man well at the end of the drive. What had Mister Fenmere said? “Occasional magnanimous acts cement loyalty far more than fear alone.”
    While the driver ran into the bakery, Bell thought that perhaps, if he was lucky, Mister Fenmere would let him keep his overseer position in the cannery office. That would be magnanimous, wouldn’t it?
    The driver ran back out of the shop, lit taper in hand. “Here you are, sir, hope that helps you out, sir.”
    â€œThank you,” Bell said. The driver spurred the horse forward. Bell lit his pipe, and pulled in the deep, rich smoke. That was better. He snuffed the taper and let the
hassper
ease his cares.
    Bell’s hands were still shaking, but he didn’t care as much anymore. Not until the cab pulled up near the chapterhouse.
    From the street, anyone not knowing would think it was just another gray stone row house, no different from any other on the block, or on the next street over. A small wooden sign hung over the door, with the blue handprint in the center. Most of the houses on this block were professionals: barristers or surgeons or secretaries, and all of them had similar wooden signs, so it did not make the house stand out.
    The driver, pulling to a stop on Bell’s signal, did not take any special notice of the house either. No one would, unless they knew about the men who lived in there.
    Bell took out a half-crown and paid the driver. “There’ll be that over again if you stay here until I’m out.”
    The driver looked as if the last thing he wanted to do was wait for Bell, but despite that he said, “As you wish, sir.”
    Bell took a moment, standing on the stoop and finishing off the last of the
hassper
. It wasn’t helping anymore. Nothing would help, save getting the blasted deal over with.
    Bell knocked the last bits of ash onto the ground and put the pipe into his pocket. With his heart pounding, he went up the steps to the front door and knocked.
    The wait was interminable. He could feel beads of sweat dripping down his face. He had an itch creeping its way up his back. Were the Blue Hand doing that? Just watching him through the upstairs window and messing with him? They certainly could.
    That would be petty, even for them.
    The door