Going into the drafting of The Liar’s Knot, we had the idea — which, tragically, we had to scrap — of engineering a situation wherein Sedge and Arenza would wind up encountering one another at the Serrado house, with them having to pretend they barely know each other while Grey metaphorically ate popcorn and enjoyed the show. In order to make that happen, we needed a reason why Grey and Sedge would be interacting more regularly, which is what this scene was supposed to set up (by way of Vargo’s Lower Bank troubles). But as much as we loved where we were going with it, the path there wasn’t all that interesting, and when we came up with the Ordo Apis, this scene got whacked to make room for developments with that group.
And it got whacked early enough that you get a glimpse of what our rough drafting looks like — complete with square brackets marking the places where we needed to make up or check details.
***
Ranieri’s message found Grey at the Aerie before he could even settle in with his morning coffee. He downed it quickly, too hot and not nearly tarry enough to counteract all the late nights and early mornings, and headed across the span to Westbridge.
Gang hit on [street name]. Nobody’s badly hurt, but lots of damage.
It was still early, but the accordion-squeeze of shops for tinkers, chandlers, and secondhand furniture should have been bustling with servants from Westbridge, and visitors from Kingfisher and Seven Knots, and it wasn’t. [Street name] was one of the last bastions of industry in old Westbridge, from the days before Vargo swept in and started renovating everything.
It was what Westbridge would return to, if the plan to restore the West Channel numinat failed.
Grey turned a corner and realized where everyone had gone. Local shopkeepers gathered in huddles to support their neighbors, or picked through the detritus left in the wake of the attack: shattered glass and pottery, smashed chairs and tables, pots and other kitchenware tossed about and left scattered. Paper, too, from shop ledgers that had been torn apart, dumped in the gutter, and pissed on for good measure.
This wasn’t theft. This was petty destruction meant to send a message. Grey spotted Ranieri squatting on the stoop of a joiner’s shop, two women flanking him. One pressed a cloth to the side of his face, dabbing at a cut along his brow. She had the stamp of Ranieri’s prettiness matured into beauty. His sister, Ekila, then. And the larger woman in the leather apron with a woodworker’s square, calloused hands must be her wife.
Ranieri pushed away his sister’s fussing, rising to attention as Grey approached. Between that and the golden hawk stitched across Grey’s shoulders, the other shopkeepers started to take notice of his arrival.
“Thank you for coming, sir,” Ranieri said. “I know this isn’t your beat –”
Grey brushed that away. This might not be Kingfisher, but the captain in charge of Westbridge took his bribes to look the other way, not to interfere with the local protection services. “What happened? Were people late in paying?” Every so often a street would try to stand up to the local knot, rather than paying protection money. It generally ended badly.
Ranieri shook his head, then winced and put one hand to his brow. “No, the Roundabout Boys got paid as usual. This was outsiders.”
“Stretsko.” Ekila had overheard and come to join them. Slight as she was, she held herself like she wanted to kick someone. “Swamp Teeth came through here as we were opening up this morning, all of them in force, saying that Eret Vargo’s too fine and far away for the likes of us now.”
Grey felt like kicking someone himself — preferably Vargo. His fellow captains had been complaining about problems up and down the Lower Bank, on a scale they hadn’t seen since Vargo first started his takeover [x] years ago. The knots of Nadežra had settled down into an uneasy balance for a while, but the elevation of a major crime lord to the ranks of the actual nobility had destabilized everything again.
Grey would have enjoyed the headaches it gave Vargo, if people like Ranieri’s sister didn’t wind up paying the price.
She wasn’t the only one upset, he realized as he started taking statements from the other shopkeepers. Most of them seemed angrier at Vargo than they did at the rats who’d swarmed them — an anger that fed on itself as they shared their stories and showed Grey the specific damage they’d suffered. This sort of thing was expected from the other gangs, but they’d paid Vargo well to keep it from happening to them. Vargo had failed, and the people here were furious about being duped.
And just as the shopkeepers were working themselves into a grudging resolve to confront Vargo about it, along came the man himself. Strolling along with that cane of his clacking against the cobbles, a half dozen of his fists at his back to see to his protection.
“Who’s that?” Ranieri asked, jerking his chin at the rough-faced fist shadowing Vargo opposite Varuni.
“I think he’s called Sedge. Why?”
Ranieri drew breath to answer, but then shook his head and trained his glower at a broken teapot. “Seen him hanging about here on the solstice. With Tess. Didn’t know he was one of Vargo’s.”
I didn’t think he still was, thought Grey. But then, he’d been at Vargo’s during the Stretsko raid. He’d have to ask Ren if she had anything to do with it.
Ren. Tess. And supposedly Sedge was sweet on the alta’s seamstress. Grey glanced at Ranieri again. Faces and Masks, the last thing this business needed was Pavlin’s protective streak rearing its head. “Look smart, constable. I think things are about to get lively.”
Vargo’s body language as he spotted Grey was a fascinating tangle. First the instinctive check of a man who’d lived most of his life on the wrong side of the law; then the faint relaxation as he remembered the shelter of his new rank; then a shift to wary interest.
Any thoughts he might have of approaching Grey were stymied by the ranks of his aggrieved customers. Grey hung back, grimly amused as Ekila and the others swarmed Vargo, demanding restitution for his failure to protect them.
The demands grew in volume and force, but when the first object flew — a broken-off chair leg easily swatted out of the air by Varuni, Grey’s conscience prodded him forward. He didn’t give a ram’s teat for Vargo’s continued health, but few of the shopkeepers were trained fighters, and all of Vargo’s fists looked ready to crack bones at a nod from their boss. Ranieri’s busted head was enough injury for one day.
“Eret Vargo. Can I ask what your interest is in all this?” Grey asked, as though they all didn’t already know. But the suggestion, coming from a hawk, that Vargo might be in trouble with the Vigil, did a lot to mollify the crowd’s anger.
“My interest,” Vargo said through gritted teeth, “is that I’ve been attacked.”
“You own these businesses?” Grey asked, all innocence.
Vargo’s cane ticked solidly against the ground as though he’d dearly like to skewer Grey with it. All it served was to make Grey’s smile grow. He’d seen Vargo’s skill — or lack thereof — with a sword. Try it.
“I own half of Westbridge,” Vargo finally said with his own smile, tight and hard. “Of course I’m concerned about the crafters who serve the community. And what of you, captain — is [x] no longer responsible for this district?”
No one could question Vargo’s skill at verbal fencing. In theory protection rackets were illegal; in practice, half of them were run by the Vigil itself. Grey didn’t extort money from the people on his beat, but he was an exception, not the rule.
Vargo’s low chuckle was ominous for being out of place in their sparring. “Perhaps it’s best you’re here instead of him. I’ve just remembered that my new charter gives me the right to request Vigil assistance, and I think you’d be a much more competent advocate for these people’s interests than some of the other captains.”
He saw Grey tense, his fists tightening as he prepared to tell Vargo where to shove his request. He had to. But Vargo just glanced at the shopkeepers grown silent during the exchange. “Unless you have better things to do than assist them.”
Ranieri’s mute presence at Grey’s side said everything Vargo didn’t. [x] couldn’t be trusted to deal with this; he’d brushed it off as a minor problem, unworthy of Vigil time or resources. So either Grey helped Vargo . . . or nobody helped these people at all.
He loathed the thought of just knuckling under, though, and cast about for some benefit he could scrape out of this muck-heap. His gaze caught on Sedge.
“Fine,” Grey said. “But I’ll need one of your people to assist. That one looks strong; he can help clean this place up.”
He’d been thinking of it in terms of getting another angle from which to watch Vargo, and Ren as well. But the reactions weren’t what he’d expected. Vargo blinked, non-plussed; Varuni closed her eyes, possibly to hide them rolling. Sedge gaped and sputtered as though he’d been fingered for a crime, until Vargo spoke.
“Agreed. Sedge, give the captain a hand, would you? I’ll expect regular reports.”
Tapping his cane to punctuate the pronouncement, Vargo turned and fled at a saunter, leaving Grey with another duty on his roster, a passel of expectant shopkeepers, and two men fighting for who could scowl at him more.
“Ranieri, organize statements. I want to know anything people can tell us about the Swamp Teeth. Sedge…” Well, at least the man was strong. “Grab the other end of that couch.”