Page 9 of Secrets of Graves and Gold

Kosmel’s sigil stands out in silver paint against the dark boards over the crooked doorway, framed by a carved crow on one side and a rat on the other. As I watch, one of the other stealthy figures prowling the street slinks through the entrance.

I just have to hope that Garom Rochimek has roused himself from his bed already.

I tug my cloak closer around me. The noble-style silk gown beneath it itches at my skin with the awareness that it’s nothing like what I’d typically wear on a visit to this street.

Opulent clothes aren’t totally out of place among the criminal element, but most of us prefer not to draw attention. It’s a good thing I have a reputation to precede me. Otherwise I’d look like an easy target.

I stride across the road and beneath the divine symbols over the doorway, thinking a silent prayer at Kosmel. How about helping me get out of yet another sticky situation? It does seem to be your specialty.

He doesn’t answer, but then, I don’t really expect him to. The trickster godlen is fickle about how and when he chooses to communicate.

Plenty of clerics would be astonished to hear he ever bothered to speak to me with his actual voice in the first place.

As we step into the building, Julita lets out a soft hum. Well, this is an interesting approach to worship. I suppose it’s fitting to the godlen being honored.

From the first glimpse of the interior, it’s obvious the building is meant as a temple to Kosmel as well as its business purposes. Carvings of Kosmel’s symbols and paintings of scenes from his legendary exploits decorate every wall of the expansive room that’s a gambler’s paradise.

And in the center of the space, the ceiling is open all the way up to the roof three floors overhead. A massive silver statue of the godlen stands in that column of open space, only visible up to his thighs from where I’m poised.

I’ve always wondered how the members of the Black Talons feel about having the trickster godlen staring right into their private quarters. Considering their typical moral code, maybe the gang members take comfort in the close proximity. Their illicit organization acts as the clerics and devouts of this temple.

The heads of three families combined forces to form the Black Talons ages ago. I scan the sprawl of tables around the statue for the specific figure I’m looking for, the current patriarch of the Rochimek family.

Only a few of the tables are in use this early in the day: a couple of rounds of cards going on at one side of the room and a cluster of gamblers trying their luck with dice at the other. The rattling sound bounces off the ceiling.

A couple of figures sit at the bar at the back of the room. A greasy, peppery scent wafts from that direction—the kitchen has gotten started on the fried goldrud root that gamblers consider a lucky snack.

And a middle-aged man with rumpled blond hair lounges by an otherwise empty table near the card-players, nursing a mug of ale. His baggy clothes give the impression of plumpness, a patchwork of stains and darning decorating the shabby fabric.

There’s dressing down, and then there’s outright slobbery. But in this case, I know it’s all by design.

Keeping my expression cool, I smile inwardly and amble over to join the apparent vagrant.

I’d imagine Garom noted my arrival from the first moment, but he doesn’t glance over to acknowledge me until I’m just a few paces from his table. As I lower myself into the chair next to him, he offers a reserved nod. “Ivy. It’s been a while.”

You’re on a first name basis with this vagabond? Julita says with a note of disbelief. Apparently Garom’s disguise has worked on her.

I figure it’s best to cut right to the chase. He’s a man who appreciates frankness.

“I wish I had a better reason to visit. I need to cash in the favor you owe me.”

Garom’s eyebrows rise beneath the messy locks of his supposed hair. He pushes to his feet. “I guess we’d better take this to my office, then.”

He keeps up the vagabond act all the way to the staircase in the back corner, adding a shuffle to his walk as if he isn’t totally steady on his feet. The moment we pass out of view of the gambling den, his strides lengthen.

I trail behind him up to the second floor. The torso of Kosmel’s statue gleams at the other end of a hall that branches off into several rooms.

Garom pushes into one of those rooms. The moment the door has thudded shut behind me, he tugs off his wig.

The heads of the other two families in the Black Talons make regular appearances on the first floor in sharp suits and polished shoes that emphasize their success. Garom prefers to take a more subtle tactic. He hangs around the gambling tables regularly in the guise of an aging drunkard to observe how his patrons behave when they don’t think they’re being monitored.

The wig is necessary because of the typical sacrifice all members of the Black Talons families make. Beneath the fake hair, Garom’s head is bald, a mix of shaved scalp and the scars where a cleric carved that scalp right off during his twelfth-year dedication ceremony.

Each member has a different pattern scored into the flesh over their skull. Garom’s is made up of lines as chaotically woven as the streets of Tangleside.

I’ve heard people whisper that it’s a maze with only one start point and end, not that anyone will have had the chance to test out that theory.

Garom drops into the chair behind his sturdy oak desk and studies me with keener eyes than he showed on the floor below. His gaze skims over my clothing. “You’ve gotten all dolled up for the occasion. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in a dress.”

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