STALKER7

(an ongoing story about a crew of dungeon delvers. Read Prologue and Ch.1 HERE)

CHAPTER TWO- SERIOUS PEOPLE, SERIOUS COIN

Edna Loke had a reputation for being as hard as they come.

A former surveyor, she beat the odds when she retired mostly intact and rich. Her final delve, the Athalesian Crypt, was still the biggest haul on record, and even the slim percentage left after the client and creditors got theirs had netted her enough silver to put down the torch for good. Instead, she sidestepped into the equipment business and opened a supply house. Ten years on, The Short Shovel was the biggest outfitter of surveyor and salvor crews in the city of Nagront. From that perch, she also acted as fixer for the top outfits throughout the kingdom of Grissov.

The years underground had left Edna as subtle as a pickaxe and tender as a barrel of nails – which was why Mikal paused when her scarred face softened as he strolled into the Shovel’s warehouse; sympathy wasn’t a look he’d ever seen on her and it made him nervous.

“Maker’s eyes. That bad, eh?” he said.

“You’ve been better.”

Mikal sighed. “You’re supposed to say something helpful. Consoling.”

“Like what?”

“Oh, maybe ‘I’ve seen worse. You’ll be fine.’ Or how about, ‘Mikal, I’ve got a choice lead for you. Good money, easy dig.’ Something like that.”

Edna kept silent. 

“Well, damn,” he said. “Say something.”

“You need more sleep. You look like a sack of horse shit that fell down three flights of stairs.”

“Not what I meant.”

She shrugged. “OK. You got this month’s rent?”

It was Mikal’s turn to be quiet. “I’ll get it,” he said after a moment.

Edna stepped up to the counter and leaned in close. “How?” A hint of her hardness returned: the weathered creases in her dark face, the long, thin scar from her right ear to her square jaw, the crow’s feet at her agate green eyes, all under a dense crop of iron gray hair. Not a woman to trifle with. 

Mikal held her gaze for a moment and then looked down. “I don’t know yet.”

Her voice was quiet but firm. “Mik, it’s been a month. It’s time to weigh the take.”

Weigh the take… measure the valuables you find below against the supplies you need to get back up to the surface. A time for hard choices.   

He looked up. “You think I don’t know that?”    

Edna’s eyes softened again. “You do. But putting it off—”

Mikal stepped back, annoyed. “Cut that out.”

“Cut what out?”

“Being nice.”

Edna frowned. “Fuck, ‘nice’. Mik, I’m cutting you slack. The Raderburgs lied on the contract. Tried to get the job done cheap by misrepresenting the property. High Town courts won’t press one of their own, but I made damn sure that news got around. No surveyor in Nagront will work for them ever again.”

Mikal heard Freda’s scream in his head. Saw Holm’s dead stare vanish under a wave of black fur and seething bodies. “Not much of a consolation.”

“Listen to me, Shiver: none of what happened is on you. Everyone knows that.”

“But –”

“But nothing. The job went to shit. Corbin, Stepan, Holm, and Freda are gone. You carrying their ghosts won’t change a damn thing, though. The question is, what are you going to do now?”

Mikal chewed on that for a moment. Shook his head once. “I don’t know. I was hoping you had an idea or two.”

Without missing a beat, Edna looked Mikal dead in the eye. “You could wear the blue.”

He choked. “And scut for Finkel and his High Town snobs? I’d sooner dip my wick in hot pitch.”

Edna didn’t disagree but persisted. “Not ideal, no. But the thing is, you sign with the Guild, that buys you wiggle room with the Union lenders. Finkel is a stuffed shirt. Has the brains of a newt. But he’s a pompous newt with clout.”

Mikal ground his teeth “My crew is dead, Edna. I had to toss coins for the ferryman into the Trond because their bones are down in – the – fucking – dark. The Union can kiss my ass and wait their ninety days.”  

Edna stared right back, just as firm. “Auditor Stein knows your crew is gone. Hells, I wager his office knew the morning after you got back.”

She pulled a rag from a back pocket and started wiping down flasks of lantern oil on the shelf beside them. “Stein also knows you haven’t signed any new contracts, and that you’re too proud to work under another dig boss. Believe me, he’ll only wait as long as looks proper for mourning. Don’t know what that is in his head, but it sure won’t be ninety days,” she concluded. “After all, Silver over Souls is the Union motto.”

“Who says I’m too proud to work under another surveyor?” Mikal protested.

Edna folded her arms across her chest and raised an eyebrow.

“Okay,” Mikal admitted. “Fair point. But Stein won’t send goons to strong arm me. I’ve never defaulted on an expedition loan. Ever.”

“That was when you and Vera were together, Mik,” she replied. “When Shiver and Funk had a full crew…” Edna realized what she said and stopped. “Sorry.”   

“Maker’s Balls, Ed. You’re doing it again.”

She frowned and cleared her throat. “Fine. You want my suggestion?”

“Why I’m here,” Mikal said.

She nodded, back to business. “Then cash out. Empty the strongbox, tear up the floorboards for your reserve, scrounge every crown and copper you ever squirreled away. Call in every chit you’re owed.”

Mikal started to protest how she knew about the stash under the floor but she held up one calloused palm.

“Next, sell your gear – your weapons and armor, your maps and logs. Every coil of rope, lantern, grapple, and pry bar you got. It’s top shelf equipment and you’re half of the infamous Shiver and Funk. Hell, I’ll buy it. New crews are crazy for that stuff. They think it brings good luck. Do it before the interest kicks in, and it might just cover the loan and leave enough for a small ‘stead on the plains.”

Mikal stared, dumbfounded.

“What?” she demanded. “You wanted options.”  

“Not stupid ones.”

“Then stop acting stupid.” She took him by the shoulders. “Look Mik, everyone grieves with you. Your crew were friends. Diggers with lamp oil in their blood. But you’re not young anymore and you owe serious people, serious coin. Believe me when I tell you the Union is going to come looking for their silver. And sympathy isn’t in the fine print.” 

“Then help me get some,” Mikal said.

Edna kept quiet and chewed on her lips. “You talk to Vera?” she said eventually.

“Haven’t seen her. Next.”

“Mik, go find her. Sort it out.”

He shook his head. “No one’s seen her around. Besides, she made her opinion very clear on the matter.”

Edna started to speak but Mikal cut her off. “Don’t.”

A few weeks ago, he had his pride and maybe one reasonable-sounding excuse to avoid his former partner; now he had four good reasons. 

“Fine,” Edna snapped. Anyone else, a word in that tone would be accompanied by a punch in the face. End of conversation. But Mikal Shiver wasn’t just anyone; he didn’t get the fist.   

“Well?” he asked. “You’re telling me Edna Loke, Nagront’s head fixer, has nothing at all?”   

Edna’s very-lined brow furrowed into deeper creases. She opened her mouth, closed it, and shook her head.  “No.”

“What?” Mikal asked. “Tell me.”

“I do have one lead,” she admitted reluctantly. “Came in three days ago. An Inspection and Appraisal on a recent property acquisition.”

“Why didn’t you say that when I walked in?” Mikal asked, exasperated.

“Because… Because it’s a big job that calls for a full crew.”

“So set me up with a few warm bodies who know what end of the torch to hold,” Mikal said.

She frowned and went back to swiping at imaginary dust. “No, Mik. Not you. Not this one.”

“Why the hells not, Ed? It’s an I-and-A. A quick ‘rat and bauble’ job to get me back on my feet.”

Mikal was deploying every ounce of his meager charm, but Edna Loke’s face had set firm. “Nope. In fact, I’m going to send the request back.”

“Why? Client too cheap?”

“That’s not it. Opposite, in fact. The pay is good, very good. But it smells like trouble.”

“Worse than the kind I’m in?” Mikal asked.

Edna hesitated. “Don’t know. Maybe. Yes.”

“Sounds like you don’t know for sure.”

Edna glared at him.

“Look, why don’t you let me decide for myself?” Mikal said. “At least let me meet the client. Get the details.”

She let out a long, slow sigh. Mikal sensed her reluctance shift. “I’ll go over everything with you when I get back,” he continued. “If you still think it’s bad, I won’t take it. Okay?”

Edna Loke gave Mikal Shiver a look to make a mountain lion think twice. He looked right back, part determination, mostly desperation. After a heartbeat, she pulled a scrap of paper from an apron pocket, scribbled an address, and slid it across the counter. “Meeting is at a High Town estate, north bank. In the Willows. Go there tomorrow, mid-morning.”

Mikal took the paper. Relief surged through him, but he kept his face serious. “Willows, mid-morning. Got it. Where’s the assessment property?”

“I was told that would be relayed only to the surveyor and their crew.”

“Okay,” Mikal said. “Who’s the client?”

Edna’s scowl returned. “Stralla and Savoy, acting on behalf of an anonymous concern.”

Mikal whistled to sound impressed, but a shadow flitted through his mind; lawyers, especially fancy ones like Stralla and Savoy, only came on the scene for ‘complicated’ situations, as in the ‘not exactly legal’ kind.

He forced a grin onto his face. “No matter. If S-n-S are involved that means deep pockets. Anonymous or not.” 

Edna’s face had composed itself back to its usual ‘blunt object’ setting, but a touch of tenderness lingered in her eyes. “Watch your back, Mik,” she said.

“Will do, Edna. Thanks.” Mikal Shiver slid the piece of paper into his vest and turned to the door. 

“You better be here tomorrow at noon,” she said, gruffly. “I want every clause and detail.”

“Sure thing.”

“And don’t think I’ve forgotten about the rent, either,” she called out.

 ***

The city of Nagront was built on three granite ledges in the foothills of the Pyrrea Mountains. Split by the River Trond as it fell from the snow-capped peaks, it was a city of bridges and stairs, steep streets and terraced neighborhoods. A place where a sheer drop or a jaw-dropping view was always around the next corner.

Those with titles and the right pedigree – or enough money to make up the difference – lived on the top step in High Town and Castle Cliff. From there, they kept a keen eye on the merchants and tradesmen in Low Town just below. They, in turn, looked down on the longshoremen and ferry punters at Bottom Docks where the cold, dark waters of the Trond leveled out into the Endetti Plains. And far across that patchwork of grain fields and farmsteads, a pair of sharp eyes could make out the three towers of Osbet on a clear day. That was the capital of the Calmes Confederacy, the restless alliance of five kingdoms in the temperate lands south of the Pyrrean Range.   

Mikal was in Low Town, climbing the Mourner’s Steps near the restaurant quarter, when the catchpoles cornered him. Three of them. Not Union bailiffs in their gray and crimson jackets, but street bulls hired on the side to deliver ‘gentle reminders’ to debtors. They’d been on his tail for a quarter of an hour, waiting for their moment. It was supper time and the foot traffic had thinned, and Mikal had stopped to catch his breath on Baker’s Landing.   

The two in the lead were dirty, bald, and squat as anvils. They wore leather aprons and steel-shod boots. Mikal pegged them as quarrymen out to make extra copper for their bar tab. They had poorly concealed blackjacks up their sleeves and had been doing an equally shit job trying to look inconspicuous. Trouble, but trouble of the normal sort.

The third man was Lomer Jon.  

Most people who knew Lomer Jon wished they didn’t. Tall and starveling-thin, he was a knifeman who had clawed out an unpleasant reputation in Nagront’s criminal circles; a gutter ghost who’d shank his grandmother if her purse was full. He had a short, neat beard and long face made of wrong, sharp angles – like a bag of broken glass with a goatee. He wore a permanent smirk as if it was a badge of office, and favored heavy-bladed cutlasses, one on each hip, sheathed in garish, yellow scabbards.

“Oi, gray head. We’d have a word with you,” one of the baldies called out.   

“I’ll give you two words,” Mikal answered. “Piss. Off.”

“Listen to the coffin-dodger,” the miners tutted. They shook their sleeves and slid the cudgels into their fists. “Not very polite, are you?”

Lomer Jon hung back.    

Mikal reached for his own blade – a tunnel knife with a knuckle guard – but stopped. Start that way, you gotta end that way. No need to escalate. Not yet.

Instead, he edged toward the nearest side street. He had no idea where it went but better to hoof it on level ground than Low Town’s stone stairs. “Look lads, you don’t know who I am,” he said. “But your boss does.”

The pair slowed, separating so as to come at Mikal from two angles. “True. I don’t know you,” the one on the right agreed. “And I don’t much care.”

Mikal took another step toward the open lane. “I’m good for the money,” he continued. “Stein knows that.”

“Oh, are you?” the one on the left asked innocently. “Why’re we here, then?”

“Maybe he’s thinking the gaffer might do a runner,” the right one suggested. “Leave the Union holding an empty purse.”

“Can’t have that now, can we?” his partner asked sagely.

Lomer caught on to Mikal’s maneuvering and sidestepped to cut him off.

“No need to get skittish, old man,” the stone cutter on the right said. “A word of caution, is what we are.”

“With those?” Mikal pointed to their clubs.   

“Well, the fellow did say we should be persuasive.”

“Emphatic, he said,” his partner agreed. “Look… take your lumps, pay up, and that’ll be the end of it.”

“Terms are ninety days,” Mikal said. “It’s barely been a month.”

“Not my department,” the man on the left said. “We’re just the messengers.”  

The pair of them were still a good six paces distant. Lomer Jon had slipped between Mikal and the side street, but still seemed content to watch. Three-to-one odds were never good, but in a narrow passage, Mikal could at least face them one at a time. Out in the open though, bad went to worse.    

A month ago, Mikal and any one of his crew could have taken them without getting their wind up. Hells, he and Vera would have squared off against twice as many without batting an eye. But Mikal’s friends were under Ser Raderburg’s manor. And Vera was not around.  

The thought stabbed Mikal’s chest; a raw, sharp grief that took his breath away. He blinked to catch himself and next thing he knew, the miners were rushing him, clubs raised, and his tunnel knife was in his hand.

Time sludged.

The one on the right was a step ahead of his fellow. Mikal could make out the individual bristles on his chin, the snarl full of scummy teeth. He slipped under the thug’s upraised arm, reversed the knife and drove the pommel cap up into his jaw. There was a crunch. The man’s eyes rolled back and he dropped like a bale of hay.

His partner shouted in alarm and lashed out, but Mikal was already moving, circling back and out of reach. Lomer’s grin had vanished. He still blocked the lane, but was otherwise unmoving. The second thug had gone purple with surprise, torn between checking on his fallen friend and charging Mikal.

To help him decide, Mikal waved his knife blade at him. “Next one gets this end.”

“You mangy, old shit,” the big mason growled. “I’ll kill you.”

“You can try,” Mikal said. “Like your friend. Or you can take him and go.”

For a split second, Mikal was sure the street bull was going to rush him, but all at once Lomer stepped up and put a hand on his shoulder. “We’re off. Grab your mate.”

“But this wizened fucker – -”

“Got the message, I think.” Lomer’s voice was oily soft, with a sour edge. Like rancid butter.

“Fuck that,” the mason hissed. “I’m gonna tear his head off.”

Lomer Jon shrugged and stepped back. “Have at ‘im,” he said. “You’re on your own though. And I’m keeping the fee for myself.”  

The big man turned. “What?”

“You heard me.”  

The stonecutter glared at Lomer. “You wouldn’t dare.”

Lomer’s face went blank. “I wouldn’t?”

The big man tried to hold Lomer’s gaze and failed. After a heartbeat or two, he spit then started hauling his friend to his feet. “You stooped old squint,” he snarled at Mikal. “Next time I see you…”  

Mikal ignored him and addressed Lomer Jon instead. “Tell Auditor Stein and the Union bastards they’ll get their damn money. Mikal Shiver is a man of his word.”

The mason had his arms around his dazed friend’s shoulder and was half guiding, half carrying him toward the side street. Lomer Jon was following behind. “A man of his word…” He stretched out the phrase.

“Well, the word in the taverns lately is that the famous Mikal Shiver’s delving days are done. Seems tragedy struck and left the poor man an empty sack. Gone skittish, they say. Not fit to hoist tallow in a coal mine now.”

“Horseshit. I don’t quit,” Mikal snapped. “And I don’t run.”

Lomer Jon looked over his shoulder back at Mikal, smirk back in place. “I wonder what your old crew would say to that?”

_______________

TO BE CONTINUED