Orm looked around at the tables and saw that the place was about half empty; he chose a seat in a corner, though not in his target's section, and waited for one of the other wenches to serve him.
You didn't get any choice in a place like this; mutton stew, bread, and beer was what was on the menu, and that was what you got. The girl brought him a bowl, plate, and mug without his asking, and held out her hand for the fee of two coppers. He dropped it in her hand and she went away. There was a minimum of interaction with the customers here, and that apparently was the way that Shensi liked things.
Shensi was the name of his target; Orm had already learned by listening to her and to the other wenches that she was the child of a pair of common shopkeepers who probably had no idea where she was now. Skeletally thin, pale as a ghost, with black hair the texture of straw, a nose like a ship's prow, owl-like eyes, and a grating, nasal voice, she had run away from home when they refused to allow her to join the Free Bards. Winding up in Kingsford, she found that no one was going to give her food or lodging, no one really wanted to hear her music, and she had the choice of working or starving. She chose the former, but she was making as bad a business of it as she could. If it had not been that labor was scarce in Kingsford—especially menial labor like tending tables in a tavern—Shensi would not have had this position for more than a week.
As it was, the tavern-keeper put up with her sullen disposition and her acerbic comments to the customers, because the customers themselves, who were mostly brutes a bare step above the cattle and sheep they drove to market or slaughtered, hadn't the least idea what she meant by the things that she said to them. She wasn't pretty enough or friendly enough for any of them to want to bed her, but as long as she kept their plates and mugs full, they didn't particularly care what she said or did around them.
What Orm hadn't bothered to tell Rand was that Shensi was one of a small band of malcontents intriguing to overthrow Duke Arden. The constables knew all about them, of course, and left them alone because they were so totally ineffectual. Orm had taken the relatively bold step of reporting them to the constables just to see what they would say, and the results had been laughable. According to the constabulary records, they spent all their time arguing about the structure of their group and not a great deal in anything else. They had no fixed addresses, because the members of the group, disdaining such plebeian pursuits as employment, usually squatted in the ruins of buildings until they were evicted, lived with relatives, or left their lodgings when the rent came due. Shensi wrote whatshe thought were stirring songs about Arden's tyranny; what she didn't know was that most people who heard them thought they were comic-songs, and bad ones at that.
Orm hadn't bothered to tell Rand about this, because he was afraid that Rand would consider it too dangerous to target a member of a rebellious political group. Not that anyone was going to miss Shensi, or even consider her a martyr to the cause—her death wouldn't even make the constables heave a sigh of relief, except for those few who were music-lovers. But it was a possibility that Orm could find the knife-wielder in that group, and he was hoping to see some of them here tonight.
As he ate his tasteless stew and equally tasteless bread, he looked over the occupants of Shensi's tables.
Two were drovers, who shoveled in their food with stolid obliviousness to their surroundings. There was a butcher at a second table; evidently he had been working past his normal quitting time, for he hadn't even bothered to remove his leather apron before coming here to eat. But at the third table was a group of four, clearly some of Shensi's coconspirators.
There were three men and a woman. All four wore shabby, ill-fitting black clothing, all four had identically sullen, furtive expressions, all four sported the pale complexions of people who seldom came out during daylight hours. They huddled over their food and spoke in hushed voices, casting suspicious glances at the drovers and the butcher. The former ignored them with indifference, the latter with amusement.
They might have resembled footpads, except that they were armed with ostentatious knives instead of sensible saps and cudgels, and they all wore great clumping boots instead of soft, waterproof shoes.
From time to time, Shensi came over on the pretext of renewing their drinks, but she spent longer than she needed to, and she whispered to them while she filled mugs. Orm also noted that she didn't take any money from them; evidently they were meeting here more for the free beer than because it was a good place to meet.
He watched them closely, although they had no idea he was doing so. Any of them would make a good tool, even the woman, who watched Shensi with the worshipful eyes of a puppy. In fact, that would be a very amusing combination, now that Orm came to think about it. He wondered how Rand would react to that idea.
Probably poorly, he decided. He has to identify to some extent with his tool, and the last thing he would want to identify with is a woman. Or maybe by now for him the term is "sow."
When his plate was empty, he signaled to his wench that he wanted a refill; the portions here weren't particularly generous, and it wasn't difficult to find room for another round. As he finished that second helping, the conspirators at the table got ready to leave; he left what remained and followed them out into the darkness.
The snowfall had eased to mere flurries, but the snow still covering the street reflected all the available light and made it quite easy to follow the group. They stood out against the white snow quite remarkably well. He didn't stay close enough to them to hear what they were talking about; what he wanted to know was where they lived, not what they were saying. They were completely oblivious to the fact that he was trailing them, in spite of the fact that he was not being particularly subtle about it. His presence actually protected them, ironically enough; he saw more than one footpad assess them and give them up as not being worth the trouble when he came into view.
Interestingly enough, they led him to a cheap storefront which displayed a few badly-printed books in its window. This was evidently their headquarters and their sole source of income—unless more of them had finally stooped to take on jobs, as Shensi did. This must be where she slept at night. He wondered which of them she shared her bed with—or was it with all of them in turn? That would have suited the stated philosophy of the group, as Orm understood it—share and share alike in everything, with everyone equal to everyone else, and nothing held in private, not even personal secrets.
Well, that was all the information he needed. He turned and headed back to his own cozy dwelling, with a rudimentary plan already in mind. He could go into the store by day and buy one of their silly books. He could leave the dagger behind, dropping it on the floor in a corner where it probably wouldn't be noticed for a while. When it was, obviouslysomeone would pick it up and put it on; he'd watch them to see which it was, then inform Rand. Rand could do the rest, forcing the tool to wait outside the storefront for Shensi.
Easy, simple, neat. Everyone would assume it was a lovers' quarrel, or had something to do with the power-struggle within the group. Or both. There would be nothing to connectthis killing to the others.
From here, it was no great distance to the stockyards, which stood beside the river. The tool could go right down the blood-sluice into the river itself. He might even get eaten by the fish that lived there, which fed on minnows that fed on the tiny creatures that in turn fed on the blood.
It was as nearly perfect a plan as possible, which was probably why Rand wouldn't like it. He hadn't thought of it himself.
So now came Orm's second-hardest job; convincing Rand that hehad thought of it.
But that could wait for tomorrow. Tonight, he intended to enjoy himself, with Rand's money, in places that Rand could never go. And just possibly, he would see if there was anyone out there who might be willing to pay for information about the mysterious killer of musicians. Who knew? The price might be high enough to risk betrayal. There was, after all, a price for anything and anyone, if only you could find out what it was. Especially in cities.
Chapter Twelve
Shensi was going to be an ideal kill, so far as Orm was concerned; as he had it laid out, everything would be accomplished quietly, with an absolute minimum of fuss.