Page 17 of The King's Menagerie

"Let's move!" Ratti bellowed, and the men he'd hired for the night finished securing the load, secured their harnesses, and hauled the cart out of the warehouse. It took four of them to do it, each man roughly the size of a house.

Ratti walked several paces behind, Berkant beside him, so that if the cart was busted, he had plenty of plausible deniability about being associated with it. That never fooled the guards, but it didn't matter, because on the rare occasion they cared enough to inspect, a suitably heavy purse sent them right back to blind and apathetic.

There were many things Berkant missed about his old life, but being a city guard wasn't one of them. Most of them were corrupt, and the rest were either severely corrupt or one of the smattering of actually honest guards. Being an honest guard had nearly gotten him killed more than once, by criminals and comrades. Once the marriage contract had been signed, it had been all the excuse he'd needed to abandon the career he'd been shoved into and find something 'more suitable for building a family.'

That had turned out to be a show fighter, but he'd never minded fighting, except when it turned dirty or ended in death.

A sharp, cool wind startled him from his thoughts, bringing with it the sea, refuse the cleaners had not yet carted away, and smoke, both from woodfires and more dubious substances from the alleyways where the poor and homeless made do with what they could scrounge.

Berkant scarcely noticed the cold; he rarely did, unless it got much closer to freezing, which didn't happen this time of year. Beside him, though, despite being bundled in layersenough for a wintry climate, Ratti shivered. "This had better go smoothly tonight."

"I hope so," Berkant replied. "I still feel like it won't."

"You superstitious types never seem to realize you cause your own misery by declaring it beforehand. Positive thinking, Jackal! It will get you much further in life."

Berkant didn't punch him in the face, but it was close. Very close.

All the positive fucking thinking in the world, all the prayers he could possibly find or make up, all the desperate bargaining and pleading and begging with heartless gods, had not saved his wife and child. Married at twenty-four, widowed and childless at twenty-six. That was his life, and no amount of positive thinking would change that.

Thankfully, their first destination came into sight, sparing him further advice from Ratti.

This stop was a tavern with a sparkling front and a sordid back room. Which could describe most taverns in the city, but this one was particularly ugly. Even back when he'd been a guard it had been a problem. Berkant had tried a few times to address it, but had always been told, and then warned, and then threatened, to leave well enough alone. Even now, he could hear sounds that would haunt his sleep.

Nothing to be done about it, though. That required more than him caring, a requirement that would never be reached. He could fight his way through impressive numbers, but not the whole of the Tavamaran underworld and wealthy elite.

Ratti provided the liquor the clientele drank in excess before they set to abusing the latest crop of kidnapped entertainment. Berkant was fairly certain Ratti thought that meant he wasn't as bad as the rest, but Berkant had never really seen the difference. Culpable was culpable.

Thankfully, the drop-off went smoothly. His neck still prickled, though, so they weren't out of the desert yet.

The next stop was a pleasure house, one of the really high-end ones that catered to very specific tastes and asked no questions, at least past what they needed to provide the requested delight. Berkant's heart sank into his stomach when this exchange too went off without a hitch.

Because the next stop was one of Ratti's biggest problems; if trouble was going to come from anywhere, it was there, and it was going to be nasty.

It took some time to get there, as the next stop was clear across town at a rundown shop that sold far more than it's… humble… appearance would suggest. After that, there was a long list of taverns and pleasure houses so seedy they weren't welcome in the districts where they should be.

This particular shop claimed to carry grocery staples and a smattering of other odds and ends. The unlisted inventory included items vastly more exciting. Ratti's smuggled liquor was the least interesting thing on their shelves. Berkant had once bumped into a fleeing customer who'd been carrying a sack of human skulls.

The men charged with hauling the cart took a sorely needed break as Ratti knocked on the back door. It opened the barest crack a few minutes later, and the voice of the old woman who ran the place said, "Took you long enough. Tell me why I'm paying full price for shipments that're always late."

So it began. Berkant stopped listening to every word, only paying attention enough to know if the arguing was going to shift into violence. Maybe Ratti should try more positive thinking about this stop.

It would be another three, possibly four, hours before they finished. Seven stops yet to go, and only two of them were close together. Three were private residences. One was justoutside the city walls, so they could trade with someone from the palace. No doubt someone who worked on behalf of His Majesty. Who else would get away with such a breathtaking hypocrisy?

Berkant didn't care. He hadn't cared about anything in a long time. Not since he'd cast the ashes of his wife and the child he never got to hold into the sea. He hadn't even mustered any caring for his career as one of the best hand-to-hand combatants in all of Tavamara. All he required was enough money to keep himself in food, clothes, and his hovel of a room.

By the time they were done and back at the warehouse, the sun would just barely be rising. What did he want for food before he went to sleep? Kebabs, that sounded good. The food cart near him used cheap cuts, but was good at cooking and seasoning them. He already had some almost-decent wine at home. That would make a suitable meal before he slept, and when he woke, he'd seek out something more rounded and filling.

Rising voices snapped his attention back to the present, but it seemed Ratti and Veca were simply haggling more dramatically than usual. He was about to go back to ignoring them when the large double doors used for taking in shipments opened, and a man little wider than a matchstick carried out one crate after another on trembling arms. Ratti's men finally grew so fed up they unhooked from the cart and helped him.

"What is going on?" Berkant asked. "We deliver your goods and your goods only. Playing messenger isn't part of the arrangement."

"You're the bodyguard, I'm the merchant," Ratti snapped. "You mind your job, and I'll mind mine."

"Fine," Berkant said, "but don't expect me to lift a finger when you get arrested for doing stupid shit."

Merchant. Please. He was a fucking smuggler. Berkant nearly laughed, long and loud and ugly. At leasthewashonest with himself about how far he'd fallen. Ratti clearly still struggled.

"Do what you're paid to do, that's all I've ever asked of you," Ratti said sourly.

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