Thieves' War Read online

  Thieves War

  Clayton Snyder

  Rogue Publishing

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  What came before

  Part I

  The Bitch is Back

  Awkward Reintroductions

  Tug Meat, So Sweet

  Hard Magic and Swingin’ Dicks

  Bon Jovi Sucks

  The Brown Note

  MalazABBA

  Of Death and Dr. Porkenheimer’s Boner Juice

  Sedicilicious

  I Couldn’t Fuck A Gorilla

  Warren of the Sad Trombone

  Goddamn Nuns

  Part II

  Fantucci’s Undead Wonderland

  Teeth! Teeth! Teeth!

  Tug Tuggerson, Moron

  Mommy Issues

  Tunnel Buddies

  The Lemon Incident

  Part III

  David Coverdale Rides Again

  Worst. Epitaph. Ever

  Oh Good, That Smells Like Gangrene

  A Deal With Death

  Bow Chicka Bow Wow

  We’ve Got the Biggest Balls of Them All

  Rek

  Lux

  Tug

  Rek

  Cord

  Nenn

  Rek

  Showdown

  The Eager Dead

  Camor’s Third Rule

  Happily Never After

  Epilogue

  Notes

  About the Author

  Also by Clayton Snyder

  Copyright 2020 Clayton Snyder

  The author reserves what intellectual property this consists of, and the tatters of his mind. Any depictions of persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Except you, Brad. I remember fourth grade.

  Created with Vellum

  Praise for River of Thieves

  "What a blast! This book is insanely good, insanely funny, and insane."

  -Dyrk Ashton, Author of Paternus

  "I don't think I've ever laughed so hard reading a story in my life… ever. River of Thieves is highly imaginative, wildly hilarious, and so very weird - in the best way possible."

  -Justine Bergman, Whispers and Wonder

  "If you’ve ever wondered what a Terry Pratchett novel would look like if he got drunk and dabbled in grimdark, well... here you go."

  -Luke Tarzian, Author of Vultures

  "A wickedly funny satire (not for the easily offended) with a lot of heart."

  -Angela Boord, Author of Fortune's Fool

  "You know what, just read it, especially as I want to copy-paste the entire book as my favourite bit. Except the ending. Hurry up with the sequel, Mr Snyder. I'm deducting a star for the ending, so it's only 5/5."

  -Bjorn Larssen, Author of Storytellers

  "This book is absolutely batshit ... in the best possible way."

  -Hiu Gregg, The Fantasy Inn

  "Sharp wit and a biting sense of humor made River of Thieves one of the most enjoyable reads I’ve had this year. It is savage and profane but also relevant and heartfelt."

  -Adam Weller, Fantasy Book Review

  “If you are a fantasy fan who also has a soft spot for, say, Hunter S. Thompson, you're going to love this book.”

  -Michael McClung, Author of The Thief Who…

  To Rasputin’s pickled dick. No wonder the Tsar hated you. And to me! I’m the greatest. Really, you’d know that if you visited more often.

  Acknowledgments

  There’s a whole slew of people who helped make this book possible.

  No one expects to find the friends they do, but when you do, be grateful.

  Cabal—a group of like-minded individuals working toward the same goal. Thanks to Tom for the beta reads, and Mike and Mike for having the same name so I can make a theater candy reference and goddamn it, I spoiled it. Thanks to Shawn and the other Tom and Pete and Dyrk and everyone who laughs when Cord inevitably annoys Nenn to distraction.

  Thanks to my advance readers, as usual: Krystle, Angela, Justine. Thanks to Dave for material support. Thanks to Luke and Nick for encouraging the worst of my impulses. Thanks to Travis and Bjorn for tension breaking when I’m screaming at the wall. I didn’t forget you, Timy. Thank you, too.

  Also, I want to thank the SPFBO, indie, and blogger communities. If it takes a village to raise a child, it takes a small nation to keep an author from running headfirst into a brick wall. You do the unpaid labor that makes it possible for us to find an audience and do the thing we love. I owe you my sanity and a beer. If you happen to be out ND way, drop by, and we’ll eat fried dough ‘til we explode.

  Additional thanks: Thanks to my incessant rage, my imposter syndrome, and my inability to stop a joke before it devolves into something wholly inappropriate. Thanks, anxiety. By which I mean fuck you, I hope you’re eaten alive by shitgoblins.

  If I’ve missed you on this page, believe me when I say I’ll remember after it’s published, and oh, there’s the anxiety again.

  Finally, thank you, Cord and Nenn. You said the quiet parts out loud, the things that needed to be said. Hopefully, someone was listening.

  “The sphincter of time is ever puckered, and when it opens, hot lutefisk everywhere.”

  -H.P. Lovecraft, probably

  "Karma is a double-sided boomerang dildo. Some of you motherfuckers are about to learn the hard way."

  -Cord

  What came before

  This is a story all about how Nenn’s life got flipped, turned upside down. I’d like to take a minute so don’t you grieve, and I’ll tell you how Nenn got mixed up with the Prince of Thieves. In Cat Shit City born and raised, Our Sister of Perpetual Sorrow is where she spent most of her days. Maxin’ out relaxin’ all cool and pissing in the local nobles’ pool, when a couple of guys who were up to no good started makin’ trouble in the neighborhood. They got in one little fight and Cord got scared, said ‘We’ve moving with Rek and Luxie to where the air is rare!’ Nenn grumped and groused and rolled her eyes, packed up his corpse to get away from bad guys. He whistled for a carriage and when it came near, the driver was lumpy and there were balls on the mirror. If anything, they could say this carriage was rare, but they thought Nah, forget it– ‘Yo homes, to Tremiare’. They pulled up to the gate about seven or eight and yelled to the driver ‘Yo homes smell ya later’. They looked at their kingdom, finally there. To sit on the throne and get their fair share1.

  Part I

  The Bitch is Back

  The second time Cord appeared in my life, he was decidedly unexploded. Which is the preferred way to live for most people, as I understand it, except perhaps mimes. It was once written that mimes1 crave death the way cattle crave grass. Having witnessed three thousand of the greasepainted freaks2 leaping from a cliff in Knockton, falling silently, flapping their arms like birds, I tended to believe it. As for us, we didn’t want to die, so Rek and I spent the winter sailing up and down the coast of the Veldt before heading west, the Codfather bucking and rolling on a sea unhappy with the onset of the cold season. We sailed toward Gentia, which as luck would have it, was in the middle of a war. Okay, maybe not luck. Cord had always held three things were true about Gentians: they were miserable bastards; they made the best wine; and the only thing they liked more than making wine was making war.

  Having little else to do with ourselves and being short on money thanks to a past that included several deaths, the destruction of a city, regicide, and blowing up a god, we needed work. More than that, we needed to eat. More than that, Rek's cats needed to eat. They'd begun to view the fish we continued to feed them as an insult, and I knew if we didn't find some lamb and catnip soon, we'd have a furry mutiny on our hands.

  So, we turned south where the weather and the water were decidedly warm
er, and put into port at Vignon, city of lights, and wandered the wharf. The place smelled of fish and spice and the odd mélange of several thousand bodies pressed up against each other, but for once we were just happy not to breathe ice and salt. We stepped onto the planks of the pier, boots echoing on wood hardened by seafoam and sun and dried fish guts. Walls of white brick and stucco rose at every angle and posters covered every surface. Though neither Rek nor I read Gentian3, most were easy enough to decipher through guesswork.

  Always someone buying or selling. Someone played at nearly every open space, lute and pipe and drum4, trying to convince the passing audience to cough up a few coins. It was an exercise akin to trying to convince a cat not to lick its ass; futile, and no one wanted to look. Strange machines with bottoms like tapered barrels occupied street corners, a metal stem rising from the top and ending in a square face with a slot. Patrons stood by the devices as they spat out slips of paper. The people reading the communiques, laughing or raging in turn.

  A man in bedraggled robes marking him as a Tremairian wizard jostled toward us through the crowd. His hair was a wild disarray of spikes, and his eyes wide. He smelled vaguely of pickles. He grabbed Rek’s tunic with thick grubby fingers like a man who’d fallen from a ship and had finally found a rock in the sea. Said rock raised an eyebrow and glanced at me. I shrugged. The mage made a sound like a lost kitten, pulling our attention back.

  “Please,” he said, releasing Rek and clutching at my arm. “I am Mihir the Great, and I’ve forgotten the word.”

  I looked to Rek, then back. “What word?”

  “The word for the thing.”

  I tried to shake him off. He clutched harder and shook his head.

  “You don’t understand. It’s for the thing. The sitty thing.”

  “Chair?” Rek supplied.

  He shook his head and unhanded me long enough to pull at his hair. “No, no! The thing, the thing you sit in!”

  “Couch?” I tried.

  He gave a cry of frustration. “Arg! No, it’s like a couch, but shorter.”

  “Loveseat?”

  He blinked. His eyes lit up, lips curling into a smile.

  “Lovesea5-” he exploded, showering the crowd with gore.

  I blinked at Rek. He shrugged, and we sidestepped the still-smoking remains of the wizard, leaving cries of disgust from the crowd behind as the chaos of the city closed in on us again. Bodies pressed in tight, smelling of spice and perfume and in some cases, sex and body odor. Through it all, Harrowers walked, black robes and fetishes held plain to see. Not a Leashman in sight. I grunted in surprise.

  “What’s up?” Rek asked.

  “Harrowers. In plain sight.”

  “Must be a cultural thing.”

  “Yeah. Cultural.”

  A knot wormed its way into my stomach, and I pushed it away. I’d have time to work out what was happening later. First, I needed food. Maybe a bath. Possibly a good lay. Not necessarily in that order.

  We moved shoulder to shoulder, making a path to the market district, where wooden stalls and bright bunting vied with loud voices and the shine of trinkets. Further into the city, great statues of men clad in plate armor or thrusting weapons to the sky looked over the masses, patriarchal in their mien. Despite their gravitas, bird shit coated their shoulders, bringing the dignity of their station down a notch. Rek stopped us beside a street vendor holding unidentifiable meat on a stick.

  "What kind?" he rumbled to the vendor.

  The skinny man working the grill looked Rek up and down. "Do you care?"

  "Not really," Rek said.

  He shelled out two coppers, handing me a stick as the vendor passed them to him. The meat, though cooked to a fine leathery perfection, still had legs and a tail. I glanced over at Rek, jaws working as he chewed. I eyed mine with some skepticism. I imagined it twitched, and held it away from me.

  "Mmm," he said. "Good rat."

  "You can have mine," I said.

  "Too good for rat?"

  "Too good for the flux. It's been months since I shit myself. I'd like to keep that streak going."

  “Streak?”

  “Shitpants free since ’93.”

  “Good for you.”

  Rek finished his rat on a stick, then started on mine. I choked back a gag as he paused to spit a tooth out. Not his own. As we wandered, he stopped at a fruit stand and bought a handful of lemons.

  “Why lemons6?” I asked.

  He shrugged and stuffed them into his bag7. “Might want tea.”

  We moved on, past more stalls featuring scarves woven from silk, and jewelry made from all manner of pearl and gem and other glittering stones. In one corner, a man in a neat uniform stood behind a simple booth. A sign posted beside him read Now Recruiting Mercenaries in both Gentian and Veldt. Other signs were posted beside it: If you want peace, prepare for war. See something, say something. Don’t let the devilmen in! Typical propaganda. I nudged Rek in the ribs.

  "What about that?" I asked.

  He shook his head. "Military work."

  "So?"

  "So, you want someone to tell you when to piss, where to shit, waking you up at stupid hours, and sending you to get your face chopped off?”

  “What? My face?”

  “Choppy choppy, face patè,” Rek nodded sagely. “You really want to get into the mud and blood with the worst of 'em?"

  "Motherfucker, I worked with Cord8."

  Rek blinked. "That's a good point."

  We moved toward the booth.

  "Maybe they'll actually pay us, too," he said.

  What can I say? The man’s an optimist.

  We came to a halt in front of the soldier. He was whip thin, hair streaked with iron, white eyebrows, bushy mustache. He eyed each of us in turn.

  "What's this, then?" he asked, voice heavily accented with the glottal stops and phlegm-like emphasis of the region.

  "We'd like to sign up," Rek said.

  "Can you fight?"

  "Like a rat in a bag," I said.

  The soldier nodded and pulled a sheaf of papers from somewhere beneath the booth’s counter. He held them out, alongside a pen.

  "Make your mark. Pay's three silver a week, bonus for victories. You bring your own gear."

  "Where's the band stationed now?" I asked.

  "North of here. Grenwood. They're getting ready to move on the Hestians."

  "Good. Never liked those Hestians, anyway," I said as I signed the paper.

  The soldier coughed as Rek signed his name.

  "There you are. Be on the coach at five. Leaves from the north gate. If you miss it, it's a breach of contract. We'll find you," the soldier said.

  “Which means?” I asked.

  “Do you like being whipped?”

  “Cord might,” Rek said.

  “What?” The soldier asked.

  “What?” Rek repeated.

  An awkward silence followed, and we walked away, leaving the soldiers with his contracts.

  The thoroughfare took us along shop-lined streets and across a central square. In the city proper, the number of questionable vendors thinned, as did the sight of beggars and the sick. The clothing worn by citizens here was well-kept and clean, and the residents too. The streets were well-swept, and even the usual faint smell of sewage was absent. It was like someone had scrubbed the streets in anticipation of a visit from a judgmental aunt. It made me nervous. Show me a city with no filth, and I’ll show you a closet stacked to the ceiling with turds.

  In the square, the roads ran off north, south, and east. We’d come from the south and the docks. To the north, the gate we needed. The street ahead was more of the same—high-end shops and well-dressed patrons, bakeries and restaurants, artisans, and banks. To the east, the street widened again, the great statues lording over the city, the road rising until it formed bridges that crossed sparkling canals, giving the city an undeniably attractive aesthetic.

  Well-armed soldiers patrolled, some in pairs, others al
one, holding the strained leashes of beasts that looked like they may once have been wolves, but now bore a bone carapace and tentacles that lashed the air lazily. One of the guardsmen gave Rek and I a hard stare, and I waved our papers in what I hoped was a friendly manner. The soldier pulled a grimace. I nudged Rek in the ribs to keep him moving.

  We camped out by the north gate, a burbling fountain keeping us company. After about an hour, Rek groaned.

  "What?" I asked.

  "Water. If I see any more water for a long time, I might puke."

  "But the cats are on the boat."

  "Ehh..."

  "The cats are on the boat, right, Rek?"

  "Uh, not, not as such."

  "Did you let the cats into the city?"

  Just then a tabby walked by, dipped a paw into the fountain, and disappeared around a corner.

  "Oh, this'll be interesting," I said.

  He changed the subject. “You uh, you put a lot of rats in bags?”

  “What?” I asked. I stared up at one of the statues in the square. It was of a severe man with a hooked nose and bushy eyebrows. He wore a crossed pair of phalli 9on his lapels and belt buckle, and the hilt of his sheathed blade was a stylized skull.