Free Thief's War: A Knight and Rogue Novel by Hilari Bell Page B

I’d not hesitate to use it.
    The thugs introduced themselves by throwing the shop door so wide it crashed into the wall. All the doors between the front room and the staircase had been left open, so we could hear.
    “Can I help you…ah…gentlemen?” I’d never heard Fisk sound so nervous, so timorous. Not even when we faced death. Come to think of it, facing death makes Fisk brisk, bossy and snappish. I’d add sarcastic, but he’s sarcastic most of the time.
    “Where’s the chandler?”
    The last time I’d heard that voice, I’d been lying behind a crate preparing to run for my life. Now, safe, and probably facing nothing alarming, prickles of rage and fear ran over my skin and my palms began to sweat.
    “Uncle Martin? He…ah! You’re the…um… You’re here to collect a payment, aren’t you? I’ll get it right—”
    Fisk’s words ended in a squeak and a thump, as if someone had grabbed his vest and banged him into the wall.
    “We don’t want the money.” The thug’s voice was so threatening, ’twas almost a growl. “We want that cheating cur of a chandler. And then we want that interfering bastard who led us a chase yesterday.”
    “He’s gone!” Fisk squealed. “My aunt and him, they got scared. I mean, my cousins are girls, and that guy said he was leaving town that afternoon anyway, and why didn’t— Hey!”
    “You’re lying,” the thug said. “We left word at the livery stables; anyone tried to rent a carriage or horses, they were to notify us.”
    “Didn’t rent.” Fisk’s voice rasped now, as if his collar was being twisted around his neck. “That guy, he said you’d be looking. Said he had three pack horses, and if the younger girl rode double with his groom they could get to the next town. But Uncle was sorry, very sorry, for any inconvenience you were caused. He left the money for me to pay you, and to…ah, reimburse you for your trouble, and please I…I can’t…”
    A thud as his feet hit the floor, and an extravagant gasp. If they’d really been strangling him, he couldn’t have been so verbose. But my hand still tightened on my sword hilt.
    “You’ve got the money?” The thug sounded thoughtful. Reluctant to give up his vengeance, but if his victims weren’t here…
    “Money, yes. For you and your…ah, for the city tax. Yes, of course.”
    A wooden clack as Fisk opened the hidden compartment behind the counter, revealing its location in his eager haste.
    “Here, here’s ten silver roundels for the payment, and an extra six! One for each of you, to apologize for that little misunderstanding. Because we’re all very, very sorry.”
    “There’s some silver left in there,” another voice said. “Almost another ten, I think.”
    “Yes, yes. I’ve already started saving for the next payment,” Fisk babbled. “Wouldn’t want to fall short again. I won’t fall short. I really, really won’t.”
    “Take another five,” the first voice said. “Call it Master Roseman’s interest.”
    “Interest?” I swear, Fisk’s voice shot up a full octave. “But that’s half a— No, wait!”
    A crash, as one of the remaining glass candle lamps dropped to the floor.
    “No, that’s fine, interest is fine! I’m happy to pay it. Delighted. Delirious. Just don’t break anything else. Please?”
    “Week after next, Master Roseman wants twelve silver roundels from this shop. And every week after that, till he’s satisfied.”
    “Twelve? But that’s… That will be fine. I’ll get it. Somehow. But I’ll have the money. Promise.”
    The door closed.
    Silence, for a long moment, then a derisive snort from Fisk. A cupboard door opened and a brush swept glass into a dust pan, then ’twas emptied into a bin.
    I came down the stairs quietly, Hannibas thumping at my heels. Fisk greeted us with the lazy grin of a well-fed cougar.
    “Told you. Nobody bothers to intimidate someone who’s already cowering. And the ‘tax’ only went up twenty percent. Master