Chapter 51 - A Little Reconnoiter

"Lemme get this right. Yer payin' me an my boys fifty dollars to rob a nob?" Little Jimmy scratched his nose. "I dunno, that's a lotta money, but not enough to have the guild and the sammies after us, Sharps. Don't sound healthy."

"I'm not paying you to rob a nob. I'm paying you fifty dollars to act like you're robbing a nob."

"I don't get it. What's in it for you, then?"

Flasher sighed. Little Jimmy wasn't stupid, which was why he was trying to hire him. But Flasher was also running out of patience. He'd been shadowing that woman and her bodyguard for days, trying to figure out how to get at her or how good the bodyguard really was without giving himself away, and had no luck. The best he'd managed was to figure out that she had a tendency to visit that hospital or the bakery every other day. He'd been careful. Paranoid careful. But he was sure a couple of times that damn towelhead had almost caught sight of him.

"The target's got a bodyguard, see. I need to see how good he is, so I can set something up later." That got narrowed eyes, but a nod too. "So I need someone to set up a little scene, see? All you gotta do is show up, act suspicious. You don't have to threaten or anything. Yer not even doing anything wrong, see, so the sammies won't even have anything to say about it."

"So we what, make faces at him?"

Flasher sighed. It was so hard to get good help.

"First off, it's a she. Look, all you have to do is, set it up like you was going to roll her, but don't actually do anything." He thought for a moment. "Fact, don't even bring any weapons, see? That way no one'll be able to say you were doing anything cept just hanging around."

Little Jimmy looked at Flasher like he'd gone spare. "So what you want us to do, is set up a patsy, get it all laid out pretty-like, and then ask after her health?" He shook his head. "Oi! Stand and tell me about yer mum!" He laughed. "Maybe we should bring flowers."

Flasher rubbed his face. "I don't care what you do. But the best place is at that hospital I told you about. Ask for change or something. Or the time of day. Or complement her bloody shoes for all I care." He got a predatory look. "Then you come back, and tell me what happened. How that bodyguard of hers reacted."

"And what'r you gonna do with that bit of news?" He got an equally predatory look. "Sounds to me like you got some sweet deal in the works. You always did. Any chance we can get in on it?"

"You mind your own part. I'm paying you a lot of money for no risk."

That you are, friend. And that means yer getting some serious scratch out of it, now don't it?

Little Jimmy was smart. He'd been smart enough to figure that Flasher wanted something out of the woman personally. He figured that it must be some sort of ransom deal.

So, he figured, why not cut out the middleman? He had six good lads, and she had one bodyguard. He'd set it up, not as a robbery, but as a kidnapping. That would keep the guild out, which was the bigger threat. And with the money he'd probably make off it, he'd be able to skip town until the sammies lost the trail. If he played it right, he'd even be able to frame Flasher for the whole thing.

He was smart, but not smart enough.

"You stupid git," muttered Flasher as he observed from a rooftop several yards away. "Told you not to bring weapons."

Oh sure he'd told them they'd just have to report back. But why trust others' words secondhand, when he could trust his own eyes firsthand?

Myria's coach had just left the Free Hospital, Jackstone driving and Roustam riding beside him as usual. They were proceeding down Attic Bee and nearing Short Street, when the oddest thing happened. The cart in front of them overturned. Right there, in the middle of the street.

Which would have been fine, except it had been carrying beer barrels. Lots of beer barrels. Stacked, it would almost seem, ridiculously high and practically guaranteed to fall over.

Which would have been fine, Roustam realized, except that cart had been perfectly placed across the street from the hospital when we left the entrance, such that it left just as we were returning to our own coach.

And it had been gradually slowing as we approached this… exact… point.

The way ahead, Roustam noted with a feeling of dread, was completely blocked by the barrels. And the driver of the cart and several other men were poking amongst the mess but making no attempt at all to really move them.

Roustam's right hand slid slowly to his waist.

"Should we take the alley over to God Street, d'ya think?"

Roustam didn't even spare the narrow, curving alley a glance. It was the obvious option. They couldn't go forward, that was blocked. They didn't want to go rimward, they wanted to go back across the river. So they would, of course, take the alley to their left, which of course curved out of sight in that direction.

There would be men waiting there. He felt it in the same way that a man, trying to sneak into bed after a long night of carousing with the boys, absolutely knows that a floorboard will squeak on him and then there'll be hell to pay.

One of the men gave them a lazy wave and smiled. "S'gonna be a while, guvnor, before we get all this picked up."

I'm sure it is. He noted a lump in the man's clothing here. A scar on the neck there. Eyes appraised. There were at least three men in front of him. There were other coaches and carts approaching from behind them. He could hear the tack jingling, and the squeak of axles. He didn't dare glance behind him. That would give himself away.

How many of them would be a part of this? At least one cart. One more, to block the other path so Jackstone would choose the alley. They didn't want a fight here. Too open. Roustam smiled and waved back. "We are happy to wait. Do you need assistance?"

The man's smile wavered, then came back in double force. "Course! Faster work of it!"

Roustam turned to Jackstone, still smiling, but Jackstone saw somewhat in his expression that made his bowels flip-flop. "When I step off of this coach," Roustam murmured quietly, "make for Artificers at all speed. Get her home. Stop for no one."

He saw Jackstone's eyes widen slightly, and caught the almost imperceptible nod.

"Be good to give the horses a rest, anyway." Jackstone managed conversationally through suddenly tight throat. "Too bad these old knees wouldn't be of no use to you with them barrels."

As Roustam slowly dismounted, he swung eyes left and right and noted a second cart behind them. It was empty, and the driver seemed to not care that he was stuck where he was. He could also see the handle of some sort of club, just this side of the seat.

That's four, then.

He also noted a man with a small vending cart in the mouth of the rimward alley. The alley that went toward Cunning Artificers. The alley he wanted clear.

A vending cart with the butt of a crossbow sticking out of it.

Five.

He took a slow breath and moved.

Little Jimmy saw the moment it all went horribly wrong.

One moment, they'd had the pigeon all caged up, without it even knowing it. All the driver had to do was take the alley to the left, where Jimmy had two more men waiting. A nice narrow alley, with no room to turn around. Men with crossbows, to kill the bodyguard and either convince the driver to stop, or pick him off if he tried anything. Close range, easy pickings.

Then that bastard towelhead had offered to help clear the barrels. So much for Plan A.

He didn't like Plan B. Plan B was messy. Oh they'd talked about it as a backup, but no one had liked Plan B. Plan B involved the bodyguard having an "accident" right there on Attic Bee, and them hustling the driver, who would probably also have an "accident" down the alley themselves.

They much preferred Plan A, where the pigeon went down the alley all volunteer-like. But they could go with Plan B if they had to.

They were going to absolutely hate Plan C.

Plan C was the one that Roustam was currently working.

The first inkling that all was not right was when the Klatchian's feet left the coach and they (along with he) landed facing the wrong direction. Instead of pointing toward the pile of cart and barrels on Attic Bee, as they should, he had managed to twist as he stepped down and ended up facing rimward.

This turned out to be important.

Because the next moment, the Klatchian was slamming full force into Jimmy's man at the mouth of the alley, driving him and the vending cart to one side, and the goddam coachman was goddam hauling the reins and had goddam managed to turn the horses and was goddam getting away!

He must have screamed something. He wasn't sure what, but his boys at the front cart were converging on the alley with knives and clubs. Old Welty at the tail cart was just sitting there, mouth wide open and eyes big as soup plates.[1]

"Don't stand there, moron. Get 'em!"

"Right. Get 'em." Unfortunately for Old Welty the vending cart was now blocking his path, so he opted for the roundabout approach. "Lessee." He muttered as he whipped the horse and veered left. "Cut 'em off before they get to Short. Right. That'll do it. Give Jimmy and the boys time to catch up after they finish off the Klatchian."

He hoped the two men they'd left in the alley didn't shoot first and ask questions second.

They didn't.

"What the hell's going on?" Fatty yelled as Welty drew up to the balcony.

"Went rimward!" Welty bellowed, "Get in!" He jerked his chin at the second man. "Jimmy'll want ya!" He continued as he put the whip to the poor horse again.

They almost killed several people as they tore down the alley toward the river, then doubled back on Short, and crossed Attic Bee. He was just making the turn onto Cunning Artificers when the sound of screams and scattering pedestrians heralded the approach of the Jackstone Express.[2]

Welty hauled on the reigns, stopping the cart sideways in the street.

The problem was, Cunning Artificers was not a narrow street here. One horse and cart wasn't going to do it. He and Fatty only had a second to look at each other before Fatty bailed out of the back, crossbow coming up, to block the way. As soon as he had a clear shot at the coachman, he took it.

In other circumstances, it might have worked out better.

At least for Fatty.

Unfortunately for him, Jackstone was, by this point, in that dreamlike state in which adrenaline plus terror equals bulletproof. The fact that a crossbow bolt had just passed a whisper's width past his ear because he had… by sheer chance… hit a pothole and lost his balance for a moment would cause him a few sleepless nights later. For now, all he could hear was Roustam's voice telling him, "Stop for no one."

The men in front of him might kill him. Somewhere in the recesses of his brain, he was aware that if he didn't get occupant of the coach home safe, Roustam would do much worse to him. He slapped the reigns and urged the horses to pick up speed.

Horses are funny creatures.

From the outside, there's a temptation to assume that a horse takes on the personality of his job. A draft horse, the reasoning goes, is solid and dependable, but not very smart. A racing horse would be full of energy and impulsive. A warhorse would sooner trample you into the ground as look at you, if he deigned to acknowledge you at all.

And a coach horse, who spends all day among the rank smells and broken streets of Ankh Morpork, would probably be the least imaginative creature of them all. Oh sure, they had every missing cobble and sunken pothole pretty much memorized by heart. And if you gave them their head, they could find their stable from pretty much any gate in the city. But really, you didn't expect much from a coach horse.

A person who spends time around horses will tell you that everything I have just said is complete and utter rubbish.

Bethny and Flower liked Jackstone, in that horsey sort of way that involved the occasional nip and maybe a well-aimed kick to the shins from time to time. He didn't mistreat them, and gave them apples, and the occasional sugarlump.

They could feel, through the reins, that he was pretty much terrified out of his mind.

And that human in front of them had just thrown a stick at him.

That was a bad human.

What was left of Fatty after a majority of eight hooves and four wooden wheels had passed over, and in come cases through, him was not something that bears further description.

Old Welty's eyes were now slightly larger than soup plates, and he thought he might be sick.

Eyeballs rolling in their sockets, the thought finally penetrated his brain that number one, he was not going to be catching that coach and number two, that there were people staring at what was left of Fatty and number three, they would soon be staring at him. He gave up counting at that point and decided that being elsewhere was probably numbers four through eleven.

With shaking hands, he managed to turn the carthorse, who muttered to himself in horsish about idiot drivers who didn't know which direction they wanted to be, and headed back down Short toward Attic Bee, where he expected to have to report to a very angry Little Jimmy what had happened.

Luckily for him, there was no one left to report to.

As he started to turn onto Attic Bee, he found several more things to count.

One thing to count was the number of sammies hurrying up and generally looking grim.

The other thing to count was the number of bodies strewn around the street, especially near the opening to the alley where the Klatchian had been standing.

The third was the amount of beer he had drunk earlier today, which at the moment was threatening to show him exactly how many cups of liquid his trousers would hold.

He kept going, ditched the cart a few alleys down and continued on foot, his knees feeling like jelly and expecting to hear a sammy yell for him to halt at any moment.

It was all too much for a sober man to deal with. Luckily, Ankh Morpork has a plethora of remedies for that. The first likely-looking pub welcomed him with yeasty arms, and he proceeded to get fully pissed. It was hours later that he staggered out.

The last thing he saw as a vertical, breathing human, was Flasher's face. Which was angry. And flasher's knife. Which was rather sharpish.

As Old Welty looked down at the collapsed form of… well, Old Welty, he felt slightly miffed. "Well that wasn't needed. How's I supposed to tell him what happened if he'd gone and killed me?"

I'M SURE I DON'T KNOW.

"Of course, I was pissed drunk. And the sammies were probably looking for me. And I knew it was Flasher what hired us…" He peered up at the shrouded figure that had spoken. "Y'know, he's got quite a reputation, that Flasher. They say he's killed a dozen men." He looked the question.

TWENTY-THREE, TO BE EXACT. INCLUDING TODAY'S ADDITION TO THE TOTAL, IF YOU WILL FORGIVE ME FOR BRINGING IT UP AGAIN.

"Right. No harm. No harm. Not like there's anything to do about it." He thought for a moment. "Don't suppose you've seen my mates about, have you? Bit of a fight over on Attic Bee a few hours ago?"

AH YES. SIX THERE. AND ANOTHER A FEW BLOCKS AWAY. YOUR ASSOCIATES, I PRESUME?

"Maybe so. Maybe so. Didn't happen to be a Klatchian amongst them, don't suppose?"

Dark eye sockets regarded him. I'M AFRAID NOT.

"Pity that."

THAT DEPENDS ON YOUR VIEWPOINT.

Flasher was angry again. Oh not at Little Jimmy and his crew. They'd actually done him a favor with that stupid stunt. He might have chanced it, bodyguard or not, if he hadn't seen with his own eyes what that Klatchian could do with a pair of knives.

Flasher prided himself on his knife-work. He knew how to sharpen them. He knew how to balance them. He knew that throwing a knife was a fool's proposition. You only did it when neither of you were moving, and you didn't really care if you missed. You did that for effect, to scare the patsy. And of course, if you were close enough, to kill him in a way that scared everyone else.

What real knife-work involved, as any expert knew, was cutting the other guy in the right spots without accidentally lopping off any of your own body-parts in the process, and without getting the knives knocked out of your hands. For a really good knife man, the knife was an extension of his own hand. A razor-sharp extension.

Flasher had watched with rapt attention as the Klatchian had thrown himself into the man in the alley. He hadn't even seen the knife, but he'd seen the man fall clutching his chest.

Then the Klatchian had spun around as the coach roared past him, and three more men armed with knives and clubs went down as they tried to encircle him. The fluid way he moved was mesmerizing.

The fifth was Little Jimmy. Jimmy had a sword, which Flasher knew he could use pretty well. With the sword, he had feet more reach than the Klatchian. It should have been more than a match for a man with a knife.

He was gonna miss Jimmy.

The sixth was the one that had really gotten his attention. The crossbow bolt should have, by rights, found its home in the Klatchian's chest. Instead Flasher had watched in disbelief as the Klatchian had thrown himself to one side, at the same time as he threw both knives at the crossbow wielder.

Flasher recognized a professional when he saw one. If anything, he begrudgingly admitted, that Klatchian might be better than me.

Probably, he admitted, remembering the chill that had washed over him when he saw both knives sticking out of the sixth man.

Tracking down Old Welty and making sure he wouldn't talk had helped him shake some of the chill, and gave him some time to think.

He needed a Plan B, one that would get her away from her bodyguard.

Jackstone nearly wrecked the coach coming into the residence's dead-end street far too fast. Bethny and Flower, at least, had the presence of mind to slow, no matter what the reins told them at this point.

Myria was in poor condition. The combination of the screams and yells, being thrown all around the inside of the coach at speed, and the smell of death lingering about hooves and wheels, was enough to make her nearly pass out.

When Roustam arrived, he found she had locked herself into her rooms and was sobbing loudly. Missus Jackstone was a mess, wandering from one to the other and trying to decide what to do.

"Mister Roast'em! What happened? Mister Jackstone is getting drunk in the stalls with the horses, and the lady won't leave her room!" Her eyes took in the gashes in his clothing, and the red stains that accompanied them. "You're bleeding!"

He smiled tiredly. "Just a flesh wound, Missus Jackstone." He leaned wearily against the wall, then slid down it with eyes closed. "I must apologize for not returning more quickly. For some reason, no coaches would stop for me." He laughed without mirth, plucking at his bloody clothes. "So I had to 'borrow' a horse." He sighed and opened his eyes wearily. "The watch should be here shortly. Would you send for Myria's fiancé? I believe the lady will have need of him."

[1] Approximately 9 inches, if you must know.

[2] Nonstop service. You damwell betcha.