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

associate with a lifetime of being with friends, being in the Trap, belonging, being respected, being good. Being the best.
    Aimsley rubbed his nose and realized he was staring. He waved the drink away.
    “Don’t need it,” he said.
    “I know you don’t need it,” Brick growled. “Didn’t ask if you needed it. Who gives a shit what you need, for fuck’s sake? Have a drink. For taking care of Alret.”
    Aimsley reached out, looking like he was sick. But once the glass was in his hand, he relaxed and drank and the warm liquid burned its way down his throat and everything was back to normal. He’d hate himself later.
    Brick smiled. “What you got for me?” he asked.
    Aimsley lit a nail and took a drag, rested it on his drink, and went back to brooding over the shere board.
    “What’s the count up to?” he asked.
    “Oh you heard about that too? Fast. News travels fast.”
    Aimsley said nothing, fingered various pieces on the board. Placed a single, short, thick polder finger on one and idly tipped it back as though it might look more promising from a different angle.
    “I don’t believe it,” Brick sniffed, filling in the silence Aimsley left. “Thirty odd people aced by the castle. I don’t believe it. Truncheon’s man said something about the count and a deal and some kinda little glass reliquary makes deathless. Didn’t make no sense. Count’s getting wily now that we’re all backed up against each other. I reckon he thinks he can get me and the Midnight Man to go at it. Fuck him.”
    “Hey boss, what the fuck?” a high pitched scratch of a voice interrupted. Dugal. Aimsley ignored him.
    The wiry toady who materialized out of the smoke with a drink in each hand was only a little taller than Aimsley. He looked down his sharp nose at the table where two drinks already sat.
    “Thought we were going to ah…,” the Brick and Aimsley both ignored him. The little thief shrugged and turned, putting the two drinks on a wench’s platter as she walked by. He pulled a seat from another table and sat down.
    “What’re we talking to this one for, boss? What’s he done for us lately?”
    Aimsley looked up at the Brick, held out a hand, palm up, and gestured in the general direction of Dugal. “Really?” he asked.
    “Hey you got something to say to me little man, you say it to my face.”
    “When I think of anything worth saying to you, I will,” Aimsley said, turning his attention back to the shere board. He was going to lose this game. He finished his drink and immediately wanted more.
    The Brick saw this and pushed his drink forward. The bastard. Aimsley pulled it toward him, but didn’t take any.
    “Hey fuck you, yeah?” Dugal said, without much rancor.
    “Shut up, Dugal,” the Brick said without looking at him.
    “You ever get tired of this one’s shit boss, you just let me know,” Dugal said. “I’ll do it, yeah? I’ll drag him like a nail and leave his body for the cats.”
    The Brick laughed a little at this. The only sign of laughter was his bulk shaking and some teeth showing. You had to know what to look for.
    “I don’t know why you bring him around,” Aimsley lamented to the shere board. “He’s everything that’s fucking wrong here,” he said. They both knew he meant the guild, and not the inn. Dugal was dangerous. He’d use poisons no one else would use, he’d fight like a desperate rat. He’d do anything just to impress Brick, risk his own life, foolish stuff. No discipline, no training.
    “I’d say I do it to annoy you, but you know that already,” the Brick said.
    “You’re a piece of shit, Dal. You know that, right?” Aimsley said, giving his master a glance.
    “Hey you can’t say that to him,” Dugal leaned forward, and looked as though he was going to point at Aimsley, then thought better of it and sat back. Looked up at the Master of the Cold Hearth. “He can’t talk to you like that boss. And he called you by your name, too. He can’t just do that,