“No idea.”
“What about ‘Hide theNudel’?”
“You can probably guess,” I say a little desperately, tempted to pull my hat down over my flaming cheeks. “Can we please—”
“Do you know what a ‘Five Martyred Johanns’ is?”
I hide my face in my hands. “STOP. ASKING. I DON’T. KNOW.”
Then I run smack into something. Someone, judging by the grunt of annoyance. Ragne squawks and launches herself into the air.
“Watch where you’re going, little pig,” a low voice snarls as I stagger back. I find a man scowling my way, shaking out his arm. He’s about Yannec’s age, dusted in stubble a day or two too old to be dashing, and on the back of his hand I spot a stark black tattoo: two lances in anX.
That’s the mark of a disgraced soldier, either deserter or discharged in dishonor, like most of the Wolfhünden. This one doesn’t look to be in uniform, but a standard-issue cudgel swings at his belt nonetheless. He’s either off duty or on business they don’t want traced back to them.
The Wolfhünden may protect me as thePrinzessin, but they’re no friend to Marthe the Maid. And if they ever caught thePfennigeist, they’d be pulling my corpse out of the Stichenstegs within days.
So I cast my eyes down like I did with Barthl, tug my cap lower, and mumble, “Sorry, sir, won’t happen again.”
The Wolfhunder spits at my feet and stomps off.
Only a few minutes later, I see him again as I reach the Madschplatt. He’s loudly cursing as his boot lands in one of the many puddles that give the Madschplatt its name. It isn’t quite like the other plazas of Minkja, more of a sprawling mud pit left open only because the ground wasn’t sound enough to build on. Brothels, slaughterhouses, and charity clinics crouch at the edges, the gaps between buildings grouted in pigpens and rubbish heaps. The smoky air reeks of ovens burning cheap peat bricks and dried dung, and every person hustling through the muck gives the distinct impression that they would sell you to thegrimlingenfor a singlesjoppenof beer. Even the children. Hell,especiallythe children.
Then I catch sight of the tavern sign for the Broken Lance, where I’m supposed to deliver Barthl’s envelope. I head in, blinking to let my eyes adjust to the dim, and find an interior as run-down as the exterior. A handful of bleary-eyed customers are scattered at rickety tables, all in the kind of slump that suggests they’re close to permanent installations. The barkeep looks up as I walk in, flicking dirty water off his hands. “What do you want?”
I fish Barthl’s envelope from my satchel and slide it across the counter. “For the, uh, catering?”
He gives me a wooden nod. “Understood. Now—” The door behind me bangs open. It’s the off-duty Wolfhunder, slinging a satchel from his shoulder. The barkeep’s face darkens, but with an exaggerated sigh, he turns to the strongbox. “Off with you, girl.”
I hurry out of the way, keeping my head down. The Wolfhunder doesn’t seem to notice me, shoving his satchel at the barkeep. “Sixty shillings.”
“I’ll give you white pennies, Rudi. Need the small coins to make change.” There’s a series of clinks as the barkeep counts out twelve silverpfenni. “Where’s your boy, Steffe? Thought he was in charge of collecting fees for your route.”
“Late,” Rudi the Wolfhunder grunts. “And I’m not waiting around for the brat. Got . . .pressingmatters to see to.” A bawdy chuckle.
I sneak a look. There’s a crudeXlike the tattoo stamped into the satchel leather. He’s collecting protection fees.
“Oh.” The barkeep produces Barthl’s envelope. “And a message from Papa Wolf.”
Papa Wolf?There are a number of names I could call Barthl, butthatcertainly isn’t among them. Adalbrecht, on the other hand . . .
But he’s the Golden Wolf, shining and upright, and the Wolfhünden already take his orders in public.
So what, precisely, is the margrave of Bóern asking them to do in the shadows?
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Shortchange
I won’t get the answer here. The Wolfhunder snatches the letter and shoves it into his jerkin. Then he dumps the white pennies in his satchel and clears out.
I wait to leave until the barkeep shoos me off. Unfortunately, Rudi’s still in sight, sidling up to a brothel. I hang back behind a crowd congealing around a doomsday prophet who’s shouting at the sky, but I can’t help notice the Wolfhunder dip a fist into the collection bag of protection fees.
Amietlingin a very hardworking dress catches the man’s sleeve, running a hand up his arm. “The usual?” she purrs. She lights up when he hands her a white penny. “Ooh,Rudi, that’ll buy you a whole hour.”
“Just gotta wait for Steffe” I barely hear over the prophet, before the Wolfhunder squeezes a handful of the woman’s rear end, eliciting a piercing giggle.
I look away, the pins of this lock beginning to slide. I don’t need to tell you how much of a colossal fool you’d have to be to skim off the protection fees evenonce. If Rudi’s doing it often enough for amietlingto know his routine . . . Not to mention that he’s lazy enough to rely on this Steffe boy to usually do the collecting. I’m guessing the Wolfhünden don’t know about that either.
