The Tower of the Hand cast a long shadow in the afternoon sun, black upon the yard below where the gold cloaks lounged in loose knots. Laughter carried easily, as did the smell of onions frying in rancid fat. A place of duty ought to have held order. Here it seems order had been sold for a stag and then drunk away.
Her dress was coarse wool, mud-stained at the hem, and her hair bound in a kerchief such as any washerwoman might wear. Men saw what they expected, a servant, a drudge, someone beneath regard. One guard stepped aside without looking at her face, too intent on a dice throw to mind who brushed his sleeve.
Marie passed between them unnoticed. The Watch had grown soft under Janos Slynt, She thought, Soft, careless and beastly.
Inside, the barracks were louder. A pair of cloaks argued over a debt; another snored with his boots still on. None of them questioned why a woman carried a basket of rags through the corridor.
One of them gave her a grin thick with desire, "You want to find a warmer chore later, girl, come find me," he said and his mates laughed along.
Marie lowered her eyes as if shy and kept walking.
She set the bucket beside a wall and climbed the narrow stair. The key had been obtained two nights prior, slipped from the belt of a man who could not read the letters he guarded but enjoyed being read to. One of their girls who took it had returned with coins, laughter, and the key.
At the landing, Marie listened for voices pressing her ears against the doors, feeling it to be safe enough, she unlocked the door and entered Janos Slynt's chambers. The room smelled of ink, wine, and old parchment. The carved desk was too large for the chamber, a lord's vanity forced into a watchman's quarters. A heavy chair sat behind it, draped in a crimson cloak pinned with the arms of the Watch.
She closed the door softly and began to search. Marie looked slowly and carefully. Haste betrayed more spies than fear.
The ledgers she checked first. Their accounts were poorly kept, numbers scratched by a clerk's hand, corrected by another, then marked again with a heavier ink.
Marie traced the columns with a finger, committing them to memory, dates, coin, shipments of grain seized in the name of order, fines collected in streets that reported no crime. A second purse always followed the first as payments marked as "maintenance." Yet it was a maintenance of what, the Seven only knew.
Marie turned pages after pages until she stumbled onto a smaller writing, recent by the color of the ink. Transfers to several officers, captains, sergeants and others marked with green dyes. On that page lay a separate parchment with listed names marked with red.
Marie assumed the separation could mean only two things, either they weren't to be paid, or perhaps they couldn't be. It would be highly surprising if these men were among those who had refused to be a part of this dark ring of Slynt's.
If that were the case this would mark them as men outside the circle. Men whom Janos feared and watched. Men who would vanish and those who already did.
Marie memorized each carefully, repeating them in her thoughts until they settled firm. She could have taken the parchment but a missing paper would alert them and whatever she might learn here would be altered.
Her gaze moved to another stack, letters freshly opened. Marie started to go through the stack. She saw several entries of payments that were not in the ledgers. They bore no treasury marks either, instead there was only a small inked bird beside the amount, drawn quick and narrow. The Mockingbird, she deduced.
A payment arranged through intermediaries. Not to Baelish directly, but to different merchants that did not exist two moons past, changing every time. She looked at the ledgers again and saw the expenses marked as Maintenances. Most of the amounts matched with these payments. Some other like purchases, sales, and tithes also matched the transactions.
Arthur had predicted as much. Littlefinger was using the Watch to transfer coins from the royal treasury. The city watch marked them down as thousands of expenses while coins traveled from the crown to their greedy pockets.
Marie allowed herself a small breath of victory. Yet the proof they sought did not lie in these parchments. The King and his lords would not care for ledger and entries. They only care for hard evidence or trials of swords.
But Marie knew these letters and numbers would lead them to the source of everything. They now know how the coins moved, now they would need to find where it went to hide.
A knock sounded faintly below in the yard. Voices rose from down below, her time was up.
Marie replaced each parchment exactly as she had found it, aligning corners, settling dust where it had rested. The mockingbird's letters she returned last, turning it half a finger to match the shadow it had left. The key clicked softly as she got out the chambers and down the stair she went, pausing once to lift her bucket.
A guard glanced at her and yawned. "Oi," he muttered, "you done cleaning up there?"
She lowered her eyes. "Aye, ser. I cleaned it so good you can lick the grounds."
"Oh, yeah?" He snorted. "Then, you should clean my cock like that too, and lick it."
The soldiers lost themselves in laugher. Marie turned her head pretending to be embarrassed and left through the barracks, no one paid her any mind.
Outside, the sun had begun its descent behind the hill of Aegon's High. Marie walked into the street and let the crowds take her, one body among hundreds, while her mind was thinking of the next task. Now comes the time to meet informants, and to do so she had another role to play. She went inside the tavern where her clothes were kept and shed the washerwoman as easily as she had donned her.
And moments later, Marie got out wearing a new skin. Her hair was tucked beneath a salt-stiff cap, her face smudged with ash, her clothes borrowed from a dockhand who would never miss them. In the glass of a cracked window, she saw a narrow-shouldered sailor staring back, no older than sixteen, all angles and hunger.
The Weasel Alley inn was a low, crooked place that leaned upon its neighbor as a drunk leans upon a friend. The inn sat crooked between a tanner's shed and a brothel too poor for pretense. Its signboard creaked with every gust of wind. Smoke clung to the rafters, and the rushes stank of sour ale and older sins.
Marie entered just before dusk surrendered fully to night.
The common room was dim, lit by rushlights and a hearth choked with smoke. She took a bench near the wall, back to the shadows, and ordered watered ale in a voice pitched low and rough. The barman did not look at her twice. He wiped the counter with a rag that only spread the filth thinner. He had not yet set the barrel upon the wood. So the man Marie had come here to meet had not yet come.
When the informant came, the signal would be simple. A small barrel of ale would be placed upon the counter. The barman knew his task well and knew this disguise of hers too, so it would be easy enough.
All she could do then was wait. Time passed thick and slow. Men came and went. Dice rattled. Someone sang a bawdy song badly and was shouted down for it. Marie kept her eyes lowered, her hands busy with the cup, watching every single thing.
Then the door creaked again. A gold cloak entered, helm tucked beneath his arm. The man moved stiffly, his steps measured. When he reached the bar, the light caught the iron hand where his right wrist should have been. Captain Ironhand.
Jacelyn Bywater did not belong in Weasel Alley, not truly. He was a nobleborn knight, and one of the few honest ones left in the Watch. The smallfolk spoke his name with respect, which alone made him dangerous to men like Slynt. Marie studied him from beneath her cap.
"Crowded night," Ironhand said to the barman. "Give me a glass of dark beer and no watered-down tricks this time, Tom,"
"You won't find tricks here, ser," Tom said, smiling, and poured.
"Aye, that's what you said last time you cheap bastard," Ironhand said with a laugh.
Marie's thoughts turned sharp. Ironhand was not a man who drank to forget, nor one who boasted among strangers. He would not blabber about his lord commander over ale, which the barman said the informant did here. Before the barman could give her the signal, the door opened again.
This man wore a gold cloak too, but it hung loose on him, as if borrowed from a better body. He was tall, all bone and weathered leather. His hair swung long and white. He walked with the loose sway of a man long used to drink, yet his eyes flicked quick about the room.
"Tom, ya bastard," the man barked in a rough, lowborn growl and grinned when he saw the captain, "An' Captain Ironhand too. What a lucky sight this is."
Bywater turned slightly. "Ah. Serjeant. Which barracks claims you these days?"
"Dragon Gate, cap'n. What brings you 'ere?"
"Tom's an old friend," Bywater said, resting his iron hand on the counter. "And I favor his beer."
The old man laughed showing his crooked teeth. "Mind buyin' me a mug then, cap'n?"
"Just one." Bywater set down a coin without looking at him. Then the captain nodded once to the barman and left as plainly as he had come.
The old serjeant remained. He drank his mug in one pull, then another, and another after that. The ale ran down his narrow face, browned by sun and wind into his beard. He wiped it with the back of his sleeve and belched loud enough to earn curses from a nearby table.
Behind the bar, Tom lifted the small barrel and placed it atop the counter. Marie felt irritation prickle beneath her calm. A drunk?
This sack of sour wine was the man who knew of the graves and murders? She cursed Tom inwardly. A careless choice could undo weeks of careful threading.
The serjeant slammed his cup down. "Another."
"You'll pay first," Tom said mildly.
"Of course, Tommy boy, when have I not paid ya?" The old man fumbled with his purse, spilling coppers before gathering them again with clumsy fingers.
Too clumsy, perhaps. Marie thought. Or mayhaps a ruse, for ofttimes the fool's cap hid a sharper mind than a lord's helm.
Marie rose from her bench and shuffled closer, keeping the gait of a narrow-hipped dock boy. She took the place at the edge of the benches and scratched at her chin as if uncertain of a beard that was not there.
The old gold cloak had gathered an audience now. Dockhands, a fishmonger's boy, two washerwomen, and one red-eyed sellsword leaned close while he spun his tale, sloshing drinks as freely as words.
"I once saw the Sword o' the Morning, I did," the serjeant declared, wagging a finger. "Shiny blade, bright as maiden's tears. Every time he drew it, snick, shaved the hairs clean off his balls."
Laughter rippled round the table.
Marie pushed nearer, letting her shoulders stoop and her voice roughen. "You're lying, old timer. I heard he carried it on his back, big as a mast."
Another drunk chimed in eagerly, "Aye! Big as Lord Stark's Ice, I've seen that one m'self. Took two men just to hold it steady."
The old man scratched his beard, frowning as if troubled by the memory. "Now you've got me thinkin'. Mayhaps it was on his back… and cut the other knight's balls instead."
He slapped the table and roared at his own jest. The circle howled with him. Marie laughed as well, though her eyes did not, which he saw. For half a heartbeat she noticed the mirth was drained from his eyes, leaving something cold and weighing. Then the foolishness returned as quick as a whore's smile.
"I once met Ser Duncan the Tall, too," the serjeant announced suddenly, pointing a wavering finger at her. "You want that tale, boy?"
Marie shrugged and leaned her elbows to the table. "If it's worth hearin'."
He leaned closer. His breath smelled of sour wine and stale ale, "Worth hearin' things cost coin."
"You always charge a toll for a tale, old timer?" she asked.
"In this city?" He grinned. "Tales bring the heaviest toll there is. Yet I offer them for a mug only."
Marie tossed a copper on the table and spoke to the barman. "Ale for the serjeant."
The old man added, "Make it a full one. I've a dry throat from rememberin' heroes."
Tom filled the cup without comment and set it down. The old man lifted it and drank deep, wiped foam from his beard with the back of his sleeve, and smacked his lips as if the ale were Arbor gold.
"Ahh. That warms old bones." His gaze settled on her again, sharp beneath the drinker's slouch. "Did you know Ser Duncan the Tall had children?"
Marie let her brows knit as a dock lad might. "Was he not sworn knight of the Kingsguard?"
"Aye," the man said, wagging a finger. "Wore the white finer than a maiden's gown. But afore that he was a hedge knight, and hedge knights sow oats in any field that'll have 'em." He gave a wheezing chuckle. "Mayhaps even after. Wouldn't be the first white cloak to forget his vows when the candles burn low."
"I asked for a tale," Marie said flatly. "Not washerwomen's prattle."
The old man barked a laugh loud enough to turn a few heads. "Gods, you're a sour little bastard ain't ya? Very well. A tale, then."
He leaned in, lowering his voice though his eyes still roamed the room. "There was once a little green bird who fancied a lovely crimson trout. The bird was clever too, always flitting about the riverbanks, pecking what silver he could find. But the pretty trout swam faster than he flew."
Marie took a swallow to hide her impatience. "If this ends with you asking for more ale—"
"One day a wolf caught the trout," he went on, ignoring her, "and the merling bled the Trident and the hall. The bird flew away, and so did the bats." For a heartbeat, his drunken mask slipped, and it felt like the man across from her was no tavern fool. "But on the day when blue roses flew over the sky. The merling and the wolf fought with ice and light. And those who were left behind vanished like a grain in the sand."
But then he leaned back, scratching his beard and raising his voice again. "Ser Duncan and Lyonel Baratheon once fought with their cocks ya know, the maidens weeped with joy from the sight. They called it the duel of the tall cock and the laughing cock."
The whole tavern laughed after hearing the ribald jokes of the old fool.
Marie set her cup down untouched. "You've wasted my coin, old man."
"Have I?" The old serjeant laughed.
Marie had half a mind to leave him to his ale and his foolish tales. The man was wasting her hours. She would have words with Tom later; Chataya's friends were meant to send letters, not jesters.
She pushed her chair back and rose, "Keep your tales, old timer. I've no love for riddles."
"You found Slynt's ledgers, I reckon."
Her hand stilled upon the table. "You've had too much drink, old timer."
"The mockingbird is a careful man, little girl," the old serjeant said softly. "You won't catch him unaware."
The noise of the tavern went on around them, dice clattering, a woman laughing too loud, a chair scraping, yet their own seats felt strangely set apart. Marie's gaze flicked towards the door and then towards his hands. No dagger drawn. No signal given.
"Fear not," The old serjeant said, his crooked teeth shone beneath a hooked nose that looked like a hawk's beak. "If I meant you harm you'd have been lying dead in the streets afore you finished your first mug. Besides, what'd be the use o' killing a purse?"
"What do you want?" she asked under her breath. "Do you serve Baelish?"
"Aye," he said easily. "And Janos too. I serve anyone whose coin don't stink too much."
"How much?" Marie asked.
The old man did not answer at once. He took his time draining his cup, smacking his lips as if savoring the taste.
"Different prices for different sins," he said at last, as he scratched at his beard as if counting fleas. "For proof of what became of them officers who meant to sing to Lord Arryn? A thousand dragons. For Janos Slynt's crimes writ plain and clear? Five thousand. And for the Mockingbird…" His grin spread slow and crooked. "That one costs dearer still. Not coin. A secret. One of your master's traded for one of mine."
Marie did not let her eyes linger on him too long. A secret, she thought. Was it Chataya he sought, or had he already scented Arthur beneath all this? Either way, she could not afford to flinch.
"I have no master," she said evenly.
The man threw back his head and cackled, loud enough to draw a curse from a nearby table. "Don't take me for a fool, girl. By now, you should realize I know more than you think."
Her stomach tightened, though her face did not betray it. She felt the edge of the knife on her throat. "What sort of secrets?" she asked.
"Something your master would bleed to keep buried," he said simply.
Marie's fingers curled beneath the table. HeknewofArthur, she thought.
The old man watched her in silence. "You see?" he murmured. "You know the sort I mean."
"I know nothing," she said.
"You know enough to come dressed as a dock rat into a den of wolves," he replied. "Enough to send pretty birds to pluck keys from fools. Enough to hunt for a counselor of the crown, without the king's leave."
Marie forced her breath slow, "Suppose I humor you," she said quietly. "How do I know you truly hold anything? Words are winds."
The old man reached beneath his cloak and slid a small gilded badge across the table, a broken clasp from an officer's armor. "One of the poor fools wore that the day he vanished," he said. "Want to see the bones?"
Marie did not touch it. "And Baelish?" she asked.
He leaned back, eyes gleaming. "Baelish is a deeper grave. For that, we trade another time, not here."
Marie studied him a long moment, weighing lies against dangers she could not yet see. The man smelled of ale and horse, yet his gaze missed little.
"First give me Janos," Marie said. She reached inside her cloak and set a small leather pouch upon the table. The coins inside chimed softly as it struck the wood. "A hundred dragons. The rest when you show me the bones."
The old man took the pouch and counted. The glint of the gold there seemed to please him. "Very well," he said, rising with a grunt. "Come along then, boy."
Marie stood as well. "What do I call you?"
He turned toward the door, "The same thing you've been calling me."
"No name, no bargain," she said. "I won't follow a shadow."
He paused in the doorway, the torchlight catching in his scars. After a moment he shrugged. "Very well then. Ya can call me Kettleblack."
Kettleblack, Marie thought as they stepped into the narrowing streets. So be it.
In King's Landing, names were often lies, but even a lie could be followed, if one knew how.