Free Thief: A Fantasy Hardboiled (Ratcatchers Book 2) by Matthew Colville

people,” Rayk said, surveying the area, the pile of boots.
    “Most I’ve seen killed in one place.”
    Rayk nodded. “Maybe. King hears about this, the Hart’ll show up.”
    “Be long gone by then,” Fandrick said.
    “Everyone’s going to come,” Aiden said. “The guilds, the orders, the churches. Us. Three dozen people die in sight of the king,” he looked up at the towers of the castle. The pinions of the family Corwell flying high, showing the king is in his castle.
    “Right under his nose,” Aiden said.
    Fandrick peered at the boy. “What’re you thinking, boy?”
    “Doesn’t matter what you’re trying to do,” Aiden said, and it seemed like he was working something out. “Doing it like this is a statement. You’re making a statement. You’ve got something to say, you want to say it loud,” he looked at the black mud. “You want to send a message,” he said, almost to himself.
    Fandrick and Rayk looked to each other, then the boy.
    “A message,” Fandrick said. “To who?”
    Aiden looked around the courtyard. The regular watch were still working to keep the gates closed, keep the throng of people at bay.
    Then he looked at Rayk, then Fandrick. The three of them the only ones in the courtyard.
    “Us,” he said.

Chapter Thirteen
    The bench in the corner had a special cushion that allowed Aimsley Pinwhistle to sit at the same height as a man. If you only glanced over, you might not realize he was a polder.
    He sat there staring at the shere board etched into the slate tabletop; stared at the black and white checkered squares and the simple carved wooden pieces, with one hand on his chin and the other on his hip. At one point, he bared his teeth and tapped them idly with a finger. There was no drink on the table.
    The Mouse Trap was dense with smoke and noise and people. Thin rakes and thick bludgeons. It was hard to move around, hard to see. The smoke was so thick, a man only a few feet away looked like a ghost, and the place was so loud, so relentlessly loud, it was impossible to hear anyone talking unless they were looking right at you. Everyone liked it that way.
    Aimsley pushed a lock of his curly blonde hair out of his eyes out of habit and shook his head at the board. A shadow fell across it. He glanced up, and then back to the board with a sigh.
    He picked up a piece and moved it.
    “Don’t know why you hem and haw, we both knew you’d make that move a turn ago.”
    A large, bulbous, man dropped into the chair opposite. He sneered. Aimsley noticed the man looked old, his bald head had a few spots on it. Happened to everyone sooner or later. Probably was still the strongest man in the room, but for how long? Aimsley had personally witnessed him pick up a blacksmith’s anvil and crush a man with it. That was a sight you didn’t soon forget.
    He had a pale, slimy appearance and newly minted apprentices in the guild had a tradition of calling him ‘the slug.’ But every master of the Cold Hearth held the same title, passed down for years with pride. The Brick.
    Brick glanced at the board, picked up a piece, and moved it. Somehow, he made the wooden piece click against the slate board in an annoying manner. As though the act of actually having to move the piece was beneath him. He ran his tongue across his teeth and looked at the polder.
    Aimsley looked at the move, his frown deepening, and leaned back. “Whatever,” he said.
    A moment passed. The board did not reveal its secrets.
    “Alret’s fixed,” Aimsley said.
    Brick made some obscure gesture, like flicking something over his shoulder, and within moments a wench was there with two small drinks.
    “Why don’t you have something to drink?” the Brick asked. The young wench delicately put the two glasses down, careful not to spill any. Expensive stuff. Only the best for the Hearth. Aimsley watched the amber liquid reflecting light in the glass, listened to the unique ‘clack’ of glass on slate that he’d come to