The sharp crack! of the crowsbeak echoed in the empty warehouse. Clasq's flinch lasted only a split-second; once he saw what was inside the enormous crate, he hissed quietly instead. "Dorea damn me," he spat. "Carrandelian artillery. On a Republican pattern."
The dwarf who owned the warehouse, a little Leznian with a beard that gave him the appearance of an agitated bear, could be hauled before a Republican court-mercantile for possession of weapons like these. Whoever sold them could face execution. Clasq started to sweat, cold rivulets pouring from his armpits. He'd been in scrapes before in the service of the Embassy, but nothing that put him in a position quite like this one. "There must be twenty of these here... all going up to the Leznyy. Realms below, there's easily ten million thalers of material in here."
"And every fennig smuggled against Armorian law, eh boss?" Azu chuckled, his little voice crackling like dry leaves. "So what are we supposed to do about it?"
"Gold below, I don't know," Clasq hissed. He had to inform his masters in Armoria about it, of course. What would that enciphered letter look like? "We'd better get a good handle on everything here. If the big crates are cannons..."
Azu flitted through the dark to one of the smaller barrels. Clasq kept watch as the devil pried the lid off with his claws. "Uh... boss. Muskets in here."
"Republican?"
"Nah, regular Carrandelian sulfur-spitters."
That was good, at least. Clasq did a quick calculation. "We can't do anything about the artillery," he said after a moment. The cannons were too big to move alone, anyway. Each one would require a sledge and a team of horses, even packed in parts as they were. Besides, he considered, the Embassaria hadn't actually told him to intercept anything, just to observe. Maybe they knew these things were here. "I think we --"
"Hsst," Azu cautioned him, and he felt a flash of impression: the devil had heard something. Footfalls. Infernal names and cursed gold, Clasq realized, there's still a watchman!
The dwarf that owned the trading enterprise (he was called Vesnich, Clasq had learned) was known by the Counter. He was apparently a regular at the Counter's club, the Black Leznyy, and Clasq had worked a few tidbits out of the bookmaker before they parted. He had also, he reminded himself, promised to pay the cocksure bastard back in warlock's trade. Vesnich apparently hired only Czarkravnitch watchmen, on the basis (so Theomyr had said) that Czarkrav and Leznish scripts were not interchangeable and he wanted to keep the knowledge of what was in his warehouses secret. Apparently, he'd had a good reason for that, Clasq was now realizing, since proof of this particular cargo could come with a death sentence.
Anyway, it had taken the rest of the afternoon and into the night for Clasq to find the three watchmen who were supposed to be attending the overnight shift. With a little magic and a judicious application of his monthly bribery allowance, he managed to convince them that they'd have a better night elsewhere. It had only taken a single threat, too, which had seemed too good to be true at the time.
Who was this fourth man, then? Someone called in, fool, he told himself, in a little mind's-voice pitched too low for Azu to hear and join in, when the other three failed to present themselves.
There was the light, spilling from a lantern held up at the side door. Infernal names, that's the door we came in. Clasq hadn't made any effort to be gentle with the lock. They were supposed to be well clear before anyone so much as wrinkled their nose at it. Oh well. Nothing for it.
"Over here!" Clasq called, trying to pitch his voice low. His Czarkrav was terrible, but it needn't hold up for more than a moment; the enchantment had worn off hours ago.
A huge ogre with a face like a battering ram came around the corner. Her face was creased by a deep frown. Of course. Why not a bruiser? She was clad in a light leather tunic, but a huge club was tucked into her belt. "Look! Someone's been in these crates, here!"
"Who're you?" she asked without moving any closer. In any other situation, Clasq supposed, her hesitance, her reserve, would be worthy of credit. There was no reason for anyone else to be here, so she was well within her rights to pummel him first and ask questions later. It did, however, make the task of selecting a way to dispatch her somewhat finicky.
"Who are you? Called in to cover for those fools, like me, I think." He was reaching the end of his Czarkrav. The confusion on the ogres' face led him to repeat the words to himself. That was what he'd intended to say, anyway.
"Boss, yer not making any sense," Azu hissed.
Clasq shot back at the imp, "Be quiet, you!"
This was enough for the ogre, who shook her head and, in thickly accented Armorian, said "You come with me." She started to approach, one hand out to grab Clasq by the forearm.
"Damn," he said.
Before she reached him he began to speak; not the Common Armorian that was his native tongue, but rather one of the many languages of the Inferno. The moment he lifted his pen from the contract, the dialects of hell had flooded into his mind, like a river when a dam bursts. It was one of the benefits of an indenture, he knew, because the languages came with the knowledge to use them. Now he was using them: he spoke bindings into being, and luminous ropes of glistening magic suddenly illumined the dark warehouse in a garish display of color. The ogre hesitated but a second - and it was second enough.
Clasq couldn't help but feel sorry for her. The strands of magic made a strange knotwork, a pattern that evolved and changed with a sinuous gyration. She couldn't keep her eyes from it. Even as it shifted and hissed into new forms, it chimed and murmured. He watched as the living magic insinuated itself into the place behind her eyes. It took only a moment, then the light and the magic were both gone, but the ogre swayed on her feet, her eyes glazed by a pattern only she could see.
"Sorry," said Clasq as he walked up to her and placed the barrel of his pistol against her temple. "Azu. Get ready to run."
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