Page 20 of The Ragpicker King
“Sometimes they do,” Kel said. “But that’s not the point. I saw your face, before. You were afraid when we broke in, then you looked relieved when you got a good look at us.”
“Of course I was relieved,” said Raimon. “You have to admit, you’re not that frightening.”
“I wouldn’t continue in that vein if I were you,” said Ji-An, twirling a slim knife she’d taken from her boot.
“Let me guess,” said Raimon. “This is some trick of Lupin’s. He wants you to drag me back to the Caravel—”
“This has nothing to do with Montfaucon,” Kel interrupted. He was getting fed up. “All we need or want is information. Give us that, and we will happily leave you be.”
“And if I don’t?” Raimon snarled. In that moment, he was very much the Gray Serpent. Banked fury smoldered in his eyes, and Kel could see how he might once have dominated the Arena.
Merren had left Kel’s side. He crossed the room to a low table and began to busy himself with a lime-green glass decanter.
“If you don’t,” Kel said slowly, knowing he was taking a chance, “I might need to inform Legate Jolivet that you were involved in the Shining Gallery slaughter.”
Raimon blinked at him slowly. He was expressionless, but his hands gripped the arms of his chair so tightly that his knuckles had turned white as milk. “Fuck you. I’m no murderer. I don’t know who told you this horseshit, but they’re lying.”
“Did you think no one would investigate what happened?” Kel was aware his friends were staring at him, and he hoped they had the will to just go along with whatever he said. “A Princess of Sarthe and two ambassadors are murdered on Palace grounds, along with several of our own people, and you thought no one would look into it?”
“If I thought about it at all, and I’m not saying I did, I’d have thought the Vigilants would look into it,” muttered Raimon. “You don’t look like Vigilants to me.”
“We’re not,” Kel said. “We are an elite unit, tasked with discovering who committed the atrocities in the Shining Gallery. Unlike Vigilants, we can move undetected through society, gathering clues.”
Jerrod made a coughing noise. Ji-An rolled her eyes; only Merren seemed unruffled by Kel’s string of lies. He had returned,having poured red wine into a glass of Detmarch kristal. He offered the glass to Raimon, who indicated his bound hands. Merren held the glass up to Raimon’s lips, letting him drink. Loosening his tongue with wine, Kel thought; it wasn’t the worst idea.
Raimon finished the liquor in two swallows and sat back, a flush on his cheeks. He nodded at Merren—a curt acknowledgment, though not a thanks. “Elite unit or not”—he indicated Kel and the others with a jerk of his chin—“you are in over your heads.”
“No need for you to worry about that,” Jerrod said. “We want to know who’s responsible for the slaughter. Old man Gremont died with your name on his lips.The Gray Serpent.”
Raimon barked a laugh. “The Gray Serpent died a long time ago, when he was cut from the Arena. Too old to fight, they said.” He narrowed his pale eyes. “I’m just an ex-fighter trying to get by.”
“You have an awfully expensive house,” said Kel, “full of expensive things, for an old fighter just trying to get by.”
“I make do,” said Raimon.
“I think,” said Merren, “he’s asking you a question. How’d you make the money to pay for a mansion on the Ruta Taur?”
“What d’you think, idiot?” Raimon said. “No respectable citizen wants to hire someone who was in the Tully and fought in the Arena. Sometimes you can get work beating up drunks in the Maze, but it doesn’t pay much. You know who pays? The nobility. And they’ll spend a lot of gold to find someone to get their hands dirty on their behalf. I’ve only used what I had: contacts with mercenaries who could get things done. Ex-fighters, ex-prisoners. No one looks out for them. Someone had to do it.”
“You’re a true benefactor,” Jerrod muttered under his breath.
“So you had a reputation,” said Kel, as evenly as he could. “And someone came to you, asked you if you knew anyone who could carry out the Shining Gallery slaughter.”
Raimon rocked forward in his chair, his muscles straining against the ropes. “It wasn’t supposed to be a slaughter!” he said hoarsely. “They fucked me over. Liars! They were liars!”
“Who f—ah, who did you wrong?” asked Merren. Kel saw Jerrod hide a grin. Sailors swore, and nobles swore like sailors. The middle class—guildmasters among them—were far more prudish.
“It was just supposed to be embarrassing,” said Raimon, his gaze far away. “That’s all. Just show the little Sarthian chit that we didn’t want her folk traipsing through here, acting like they owned the place, cluttering up our harbor. She was supposed to run back to Sarthe with her tail between her legs. They came to me, asked me to round up some of my old friends from the Tully—folks living low, avoiding the Vigilants. Knew they’d be desperate for the work. Hard to get hired for much when you’ve been officially exiled.”
Raimon was almost breathless, the words spilling out of him. Kel didn’t dare interrupt him; it was almost as if he had forgotten where he was, or who he was talking to. As if he’d been desperate to spill this information to someone.
Raimon went on. “My friends, they did what they were supposed to do. Dressed up, got into the Gallery, waved their swords around. Yelled a bit. They were told... we were all told...” He struggled for the words. “There’d be a way out.”
“A way out of the Gallery?” Kel said, surprised. “But once the front doors were blocked, there’s no other entrance.”
“That’s why they fought like they did,” Raimon said hoarsely. “They were trapped. They wanted to get out.”
I don’t believe you.There was a fury rising in Kel, a rage that felt like sparks alighting through his veins, prickling his skin.
