The Thief Who Pulled on Trouble's Braids Read Online Free PDF

hells. I could almost believe it, given the smell. Myself, I think dead is dead, and whatever happens to your body makes no nevermind, but like I said, I’m not from here.
    Holgren was the only mage I knew well enough not to run screaming from. Why he chose to live next door to a field full of bodies in various states of rot I’ll never understand. But I never asked him. I was afraid he might tell me.
    I dragged Bone along dusty roads and past the occasional shack that was all there was of Lucernis northwest of the Ose. Holgren’s house was low and long and dark, roofed in grey slate. It looked like it was poised to tumble in on itself. I made my way to the front door of his hovel, past the broken statuary and dead grass that made up his front garden, and banged the ancient brass knocker. And waited. And waited.
    I was about to knock again when the door creaked open, revealing only gloom. There was no one on the other side.
    “Holgren?” I called. “It’s Amra.” No answer. I shrugged, and Bone and I crossed the threshold.
    My eyes adjusted. It was like any other sitting room, I suppose. More or less. A couch, dusty and torn. Delicate little tables covered with yellowing lace doilies. A porcelain teapot decorated with buttercups and morning glories. Dried flowers in a chipped vase. Threadbare rug. Less usual were the skulls and anatomical charts, the framed map of the eleven hells, the withered, claw-like Glory Hand casting feeble blue light from under a bell jar, the jars of preserved things that had no business twitching and sloshing in the corner of my eye. And the room was far cooler than it had any right to be.
    I liked Holgren. I even trusted him, to a degree. But he was still a mage, and being around a mage was like being around a ‘tame’ lion. You could never fully let down your guard. They were just too powerful, and too unpredictable. Their motivations were too obscure.
    “Holgren?”
    “Be with you in a moment,” came a muffled reply from behind a door marked with sigils that writhed and twisted when I looked at them. I shuddered and took a seat on the couch. Bone put his rock-like skull in my lap. Almost instantly my pants were soaked in slobber. I sighed, and scratched behind his scored ears. There was a lump where Jarvis had bashed him, but other than that, he seemed fine.
    A short time later the creepy door opened and Holgren sauntered into the parlor. He must have startled Bone, because the bruiser whipped around with a rolling, rumbling growl in his throat. Holgren stopped where he was, and his hawk-like eyes locked with Bone’s. They stood like that for maybe half a dozen heartbeats, and then Bone shut up and dipped his head and his tail.
    “You’ve acquired a loyal friend since we last met, Amra. Would you like some tea?”
    “No thanks.” I patted Bone. “Inherited, more like.”
    Holgren cocked an eyebrow. He was a tall, almost gangly man, with predatory eyes, a sharp nose, a generous mouth. His black hair was shoulder length and bound up in a ponytail. He was wearing black. He always wore black. Not much for fashion, this one.
    “Listen,” I said, “I might have brought some trouble to your door. I ran into a mage. He tagged me with some sort of spell.”
    Holgren pulled up a chair that had seen better centuries. Touched the teapot. The smell of chamomile suddenly wafted. He poured himself a cup.
    “So tell me about it,” he said.
     
    ~ ~ ~
     
    I told him about Corbin, his commission, the favor he’d asked of me. I told him about Corbin’s death and Inspector Kluge.  He asked a few questions, but not many. He knew how to be circumspect, and didn’t ask the questions that he knew I would be reluctant to answer.
    Holgren lived on the same shadowy side of the law as me. He took commissions. That’s how I’d met him. He’d subcontracted one of them to me, on the advice of Daruvner, our mutual fixer. He was a good mage, but I was a much better thief. Our skills actually