Dusky Fellows

III. Swords of a Feather

 Black Sally was a wildcard of a man. He appeared when he was least needed but needed the most. He was as quiet as a dove in a thunderstorm, and knew Tandem like the lines on his palm. It was said that he had the world mapped on the backs of his arms and hands, but he always wore gloves to hide the vitiligo that turned his flesh to paintings of brown and white. Another rumor said that the vitiligo was the map, and that Sally had been marked by an obscure and supernatural force when he was an infant.

"Bull-fucking-shit," Shy Derrik said. Firefingers laughed and reclined against the cold, damp bricks. Derrik was pulling a woolen shirt over his head. He grimaced at its itchiness. It wasn't much like Shy Derrik to wear any kind of shirt beneath his leathers. He felt naked without them. His long hair was tied back in a bun. They each had their laughs as they peeled off their grimy, sweaty clothes and replaced them with clean, fresh ones. Seeing one another's unkempt, sinewy bodies under fresh clothes was comical, in a cruel way.

The crew were staked out two miles beyond the river, having crossed by hired boat. It was a creaky old thing, riddled with mouse droppings. Slackjaw had accompanied them to the dock, where he sternly reminded them of the consequences of failing. And then he hugged his baby brother, pressed a knife and sheath into Carver's hand, grasped Ada's shoulder firmly, and informed them that Black Sally would be meeting them in the alley connecting Val Avenue and Socarr Street. When they stepped out of the boat, they were left in foreign lands with nothing but a map to guide them. And Carver Williams. Carver knew most of the way.

He played with the knife Slackjaw had given him. It was a pretty thing. Its steel was rippled charcoal and silver; two metals folded together again and again. It must have cost a copper and a half. It was deadly sharp, too--unnaturally so. Carver flipped it through his fingers. Its pommel felt familiar to him. He hadn't held a knife in a year, other than to help in the kitchen. And it had been that long since Slackjaw had sent him on a mission; half as long since he had had a clean shirt. The white cotton was soft against his skin, but he was already sweating through it in dark patches. Ada wore high, tight trousers and a button blouse to conceal the knives strapped under her breasts. Firefingers still looked like a crazy lost orphan with her wild hair and baggy tunic. Carver's eyes wandered to where Daggermouth crouched at the mouth of their narrow alley, scouting. He hadn't changed his clothes, even with Ada's insistence. But his tunic was crisp and the dark dye hid any stains. He hadn't acknowledged the crew at all. Carver knew he was mute. He wondered if he was deaf, too. All he did was watch... And he did the same now with the street, glaring down a stray dog that meandered their way and ducking back into his shadow at the sight of passerby. That was the difference between there and the old industrial district: people walked the streets unarmed and unfearing.

A figure turned and made its way down the alley toward them, dressed in a simple double-button coat and pale trousers. Daggermouth stood abruptly. Gloves covered the figure's hands, and his face was hidden behind the cowl of a rubbery hood. The crew gathered themselves up and moved in around Sally. Daggermouth was the only one who stood two paces behind, listening.

"Slackjaw informed you of my cut?" he said, with a voice that was sharp and smooth all at once. It reminded Carver of a knife cutting through glass--no sound, no cracks.

Black Sally glanced once at Firefingers, once at Shy Derrik, and then at Ada. Ada nodded once. "One pound of the shipment, and this." She withdrew a dirty drawstring bag from her pack and tossed it Sally's way. He caught it in a deft fist and tucked it away.

"There's an old pub across from the docks where the fishermen hole up at night. The watch swarm the place after curfew, and most of the guards on the docks will be drunk in an hour." Sally threw a quick glance behind him. "If you move swiftly, you could be halfway by morning. The railcar stops at Rese Hill at ten, then moves straight to the docks for loading. I suggest you try and catch it."

Shy Derrik raised his hand. "It would have been much simpler to take that skiff down the river and ride up the harbor that way. This seems like bullshit to me."

Sally shook his head. "When the sun goes down and the boats leave the harbor, the nets come up and electrify the water. It's been made a song for how well it rhymes. 'Harbor' and 'water' also vaguely rhyme with 'captain's daughter' and 'sailor slaughter'."

Derrik bared his teeth in disgust. "Based on true events?" 

"Many," said Sally, and without skipping a beat, continued. "The railcar will bring you to the harbor. You will have to move swiftly to avoid them catching you. The area is well lit. The guards are always expectant of stowaways. Once off, each of you will have to navigate the docks to the warehouse. It is warehouse 76, to be exact. It's huge and heavily guarded."

"Why?" asked Firefingers. Goosebumps dotted her arms, which she held against her chest. As the sun sank lower, the chill and damp of the city crept upon them.

Black Sally lifted his cold gaze to her. A sliver of light illuminated just the tip of his pointed nose and his thick, dark lips. "The bureaucracy thinks that is best left unsaid. Are there any more questions? Your time is ticking."

Ada shook her head before anyone else had time to speak. "No," she snapped. "Thank you for your information."

Black Sally flashed them a white, wicked grin. "Birds of a feather stick together, Barbers." As faded and swift as a ghost, he left them at once. His footsteps made no sound on the hard cobblestone below their feet. The balmy afternoon air went with him, replaced by the night that so desperately tried to creep against them. It began to rain.

Shy Derrik scowled. "Perfect."

"Let's get moving," Ada said.

Carver regarded his birds of a feather with unease. Only one did he know well, and he did not trust him. Ada had been under Slackjaw's wing since they were young and stupid, and she was no longer stupid nor young. Firefingers was hardly an adolescent. And Daggermouth...

Birds of a feather, Carver thought bleakly, as he fell into step behind Derrik. Swords of a feather, more like.