CHAPTER 2.09 – LEAVING THORNWOOD: HUGO
It’s not long past dawn as they exit the eastern tunnel through the Ironthorns. It’s bizarre how clear the light is moving in this direction, looking back into a wall of pitch black. Hugo’s not fully certain how Rian took the news of his lie to Skinner; of Thae’s and his accidental encounter with Polly. Then again, the woodsman’s reaction confirmed their suspicion that the merchant was a chronic gossip. He’d deploy any rumour, no matter its source or reliability, if it might secure him a sale. And not just greed. Greed twinned with cowardice. The shopkeeper had forgotten his daughter’s ‘claim’ the instant some personal danger was introduced. What a prince.
The big man’s reticence seems more to be centred on young Pollyanna. Not that he exhibited any romantic notions for the girl, at least none Hugo could detect. Perhaps Harald had imagined such a thing, doubtless with profit or status in mind. To the shopkeep’s eye, Rian was apparently a good prospect; after all, Helen Tanner’s appraisal of the land around the stockade suggested similar. Polly certainly had a stifled, put-upon look Hugo easily attributes to her overbearing father.
He’s mostly certain Rian isn’t upset at him; he just wishes he’d played down Polly’s emotional reaction to the woodsman’s ‘demise’. He senses more of preoccupation than irritation in their guide’s mood. Recalls the man’s complex emotions at any mention of Oakbridge. It’s their next waypoint along Nobody’s trail of visions. The big man seems nervous, or at least conflicted, about revisiting his place of birth. Hugo wonders whether this’ll put them in more danger.
They could have intersected the Kingsroad near Thornwood were their guide in a blazing hurry to get there. The road stretches from Caladria to the capital; they’d make good time to Oakbridge along the well-maintained highway. But it’s regularly punctuated with watchtowers, more springing up all the time. According to Thornwood these towers are expanding into fully-fledged checkpoints. Beyond lookouts and changes of horses for messengers, soldiers are increasingly being posted to ‘protect’ travellers between the metropolises. He wonders briefly whether this might further quicken the fall of the Iron Rams.
None of the group seem keen to be officially noticed, therefore neither Hugo nor Thae need to expand on whose eyes precisely they’re trying to avoid. It makes him wonder about the other pair’s wish for non-detection. Even if he can easily ascribe paranoia to Rian’s prior lifestyle; to Anuk’s whole entire personality and bearing. Never mind the impact of that accursed book.
He COULD care more, but his thoughts constantly pull into the riptide stirred up by Harald’s loose lips and their need to be unseen. Even his jubilation at having figured the trick of actual invisibility warms him for barely a second before his thoughts tug him back.
Back by a fortnight.
-x-
He hates this. He tries to tell himself it’s nerves, performance anxiety, first night yips. But no part of Hugo believes that. He’s not a control freak, not by any strict definition of the term, but he can’t shake a sense of dread contemplating every step of this plan.
In some ways, it’s a great target: a jeweller’s shop near the Eastern gate, the posh end of town. A shop run by a jeweller who’s also neck-deep into fencing. So: precious stones, lots of them, way more than the store dare announce on its books. And a proprietor who won’t risk raising too much stink with the Watch, just in case their investigations uncover the literal hustle of his side hustle. It could be a perfect target. But the target isn’t his.
He would have had questions, were this job his choice. Like, is this guy one of ours? And if so, what does he know about our operations? Where any – figurative – bodies are buried? Hugo’s stomach knots as his brain reflexively adds the potential of literal buried bodies to his concerns. They’re criminals, everyone’s dirty, he knows. But the probability this could be a double-cross sours his gullet.
Or worse: is this guy a stranger? Hugo knows fences, and good ones are hard to find. Largely because poor fences remain poor – literally - for the short time before they’re nicked or dead. Good fences come with loyal customers upstream and down of them. Can’t shift bad goods, or goods that’re too hot. Can’t even shift the best goods unless you have people with fat purses and slim morals. And to keep those whales sated…well, you’re not talking a few pickpockets working a market day. Particularly in Caladria, a city founded around an understanding of criminals.
So, yeah. Either they’re double-crossing one of their own or they’re robbing a vital part of another gang’s network. They have floorplans, they have details of security: personnel, physical devices and some low-grade enchantments. Nothing his clique can’t handle, assuming it’s accurate. And he means ‘accurate’ for a thief’s definition. A definition where no plan survives initial contact, no matter how well you’ve done your homework.
But he hadn’t been doing the homework, had he?
It was all unavoidable, it was all as a favour, it was all dumped into his lap last minute. It was also irrefusable. Well, he supposes he could have refused. But not without fucking everything else up. Hugo and his clique work with leeway, with autonomy most in X’s network would kill for. Again, the hidden literality of his internal phrasing tugs at his guts.
Not that he fears the honeymoon would entirely be over should he turn this down. That his click would suddenly be subject to some lieutenant’s orders. Nah, everyone knows that would kill the golden goose. But they really need to branch out. There’re only so many confidence jobs you can play in a single city. X has been strangely risk-averse to letting his son loose from his apron strings. This demonstration they’re still on team might grant Hugo and his crew some fresh pastures to plough.
“Ya there?” The growled words, tone spoiling for a fight, makes him jump more than he can conceal. Worse luck. Krenn isn’t the absolute last of X’s lieutenants he’d want to be assisting. Although the prick does believe that Hugo, and by extension Hugo’s people, are working for him. And he’s exactly the type to cast the halfling’s surprised reaction as cowardice. The man’s tall, 6’2”, paunchy but covering brawler’s muscle. A streetfighter’s haircut, greying brown stubble cropped into the wood. It stands in opposition to a messy beard that makes the man look like his head- and facial- hair have reversed position.
His grey-blue eyes regard Hugo flatly, like he’s just another fucking thing to be sooved in an already shitty day. Krenn swallows, the process complicated by the wicked scar parting the man’s beard and crossing his larynx. his head bobs with the struggle to clear his throat, further highlighting the grievous wound. His voice is already a horrifying gargle, poisoned further by his tone. “Yer boys’ll be posted up here…here…here, y’hear?” Each accompanied by the man’s blunt index finger stabbing the map on the table.
Yeah, Hugo’s clique’s really the problem.
-x-
His click’s been promised support, with freedom to gain access to the building their own way. Half of Krenn’s crew are apparently laid up following some ‘difficulties’ the night previous. Hugo tries to silence the paranoia that the euphemism implies war with whomever has an interest in tonight’s target. Besides, he has his own personnel issues.
Berin towers over him at 16 years of age. Some of the others tease the lad that he’s only 5 feet tall without much time left to grow, but in some ways, this helps him. His light ginger hair should register, leave some trace with people, but his slightness, his paleness, his stature scream insignificance, slip him under people’s attention. He’s assuring Hugo he’s fine to cover the rooftop position, glorified lookout that he’ll be, no fuss, no problem.
His appeal would be more impressive if the boy wasn’t even paler than normal, reeling slightly as he makes his plea. He coughs sharply, phlegm crackling as his murky hazel eyes blink away tears. At last, Hugo manages to send his friend, his right-hand…boy, away to bunk up warm. In contrast to his interactions with Krenn, Berin leaves this disagreement with Hugo bearing a smile on his face. He knows the kid’s kicking himself, but Hugo’s point was taken: a lookout with a cold is an alarm bell for the marks.
His headache intensifies as he runs through the hole he’s having to fill, exacerbating how out of control the night already feels. Still, he knows his crew will all pull alongside him. He curses silently; knows for a fact he’ll wind up covering Berin’s station. He’s the elder of the clique, and despite his skills, he can’t match their youthful dexterity. Besides, they’re used to utilising him for strategy more than execution. For a confidence job in a city mostly comprised of humans there’s an endless supply of kids floating around. And nearly zero halflings. He’s way too distinctive for his own jobs.
-x-
He’s positioned perfectly, able to take in two sides of the building with only a turn of his head. Maybe too well, he mourns, as after 20 minutes his muscles are cramped, stiff with inactivity. He shifts his shoulders, tries to twist his spine to relieve some tension. Wonders how Thae the temple guard manages full nights moored to one spot.
He freezes; senses alert. Something, something distant, discordant. He curses his discomfort, full in the knowledge that they’ve another ten minutes to dig in, to watch the place, before Krenn and his remaining pair of hoodlums even take their positions. It’s his nerves, his imagination, he thinks, senses still straining to pick up what’s out of place. He figures it’s this end of town. Buildings here are so distant from one another, compared to the scrabble of the Tangles where everything’s crammed in willy-nilly.
Something again; back beyond the building, through the structure and beyond. Not even a loud noise, no bang or crash, but something out of place, too far to properly parse. Immediately, he starts moving. Cups his hands to his mouth as he sticks to the shadows, padding towards the closest hideaway for his kids. Jerod and Sind should be here, hiding in preparation to climb to the shop window halfway up the wall. He blows into his clasped hands, mimicking the hoot of a night owl. Twice, pause, thrice.
Freezes again as the air stills. It’s not even a noise, it’s a texture laid over the far-off, muted sounds of the city. A suggestion of wetness close by, on this dry night. The back of his neck prickles, sick feeling intensifying. He knows his people wouldn’t blab about their plans, but what of Krenn’s? Put it away, he thinks, it’s his fears spiralling. Still, he alters his path, clinging against the other side of the tall wall behind which the pair should be sheltering, listening out for any signs of guards, patrols…
As he pulls himself level with the wall’s top, his heart freezes. He should be seen immediately. Sind should be watching behind them while her partner (in crime, she’s 18 to Jerod’s 14) scans ahead. Instead, their bolthole’s abandoned. He hangs for a second, breath held as he listens for movement, breathing, anything. Nothing for the longest time until a drip focuses him on a pool of shadow 15’ away. A gleam suggests a pool of dark liquid, and then he makes out the silhouette of a twisted arm…
‘Plop!’, as another bead of viscous liquid drops to the ground from the half-seen figure. Jerod, huddled into Sind’s taller frame, big sister trying to protect the boy. And there, on the edge of his sense, the merest suggestion of movement away from the building. Maybe two people, more if they’re skilled sneaks.
He daren’t risk another call, instead runs as silently as he is capable in the opposite direction. He needs to find his click, the ones remaining, needs to call this off. He prays, clumsily, to nobody in particular. Please, someone have heard the owl. Praying that they’re already melting into the city’s alleys and boltholes, working their way indirectly to their scattered safe places until they can regroup in the morning. That they’re leaving and heeding one another’s signs and marks on their oblique approaches to the hideout they chose at random last night. Operational security, he thinks, trying to push away the half-perceived image of a dead girl and boy whom he taught so much but valued more.
He’s skirted as far round his lookout spot as the urgency to locate his friends will allow when the blow to his head spins him. He reels, almost rendered unconscious in one hit. His vision explodes into fireworks as he feels more than sees a pair of large figures converge on him. An arm wraps around him, constricting the breath from his lungs as he feebly tries to extricate himself. A musty bag, dense weave opaque, blocks out all light even as oxygen deprivation and shock contrive to switch him off
Hugo dreams of invisibility.
