Spy for a Greedy Villain (The Adventures of Grant Scotland, Book Four)

By Dan McClure

Racial tensions in Aelfa simmer and threaten to boil over when the harbormaster is found dead and the Huthan oppressors threaten to crack down in the Lower Docks. As Grant Scotland finds more questions than answers in the journals of Berthul Magnussen about his father’s treachery, he is drawn into a murder investigation, a kidnapping plot and the nefarious machinations of the city’s biggest crime lord—Mr. Quinn. In order to stop Quinn’s plans and save the city from being thrown into open revolt, Grant prepares to take his biggest gamble yet.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dan McClure
• Release date: Apr 27, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370564965

Dan McClure

Writing, working and living in beautiful, historic Arlington, MA.

Book preview

Adventures of Grant Scotland:

Spy for a Greedy Villain

Dan McClure

Copyright 2016 Dan McClure

Published by Dan McClure at Smashwords

All rights reserved.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

MEET GRANT SCOTLAND

BOOK 1

BOOK 2

BOOK 3

3-BOOK SERIES BOXED SET

DESCRIPTION

RACIAL TENSIONS IN AELFA simmer and threaten to boil over when the harbormaster is found dead and the Huthan oppressors threaten to crack down in the Lower Docks. As Grant Scotland finds more questions than answers in the journals of Berthul Magnussen about his father’s treachery, he is drawn into a murder investigation, a kidnapping plot and the nefarious machinations of the city’s biggest crime lord—Mr. Quinn. In order to stop Quinn’s plans and save the city from being thrown into open revolt, Grant prepares to take his biggest gamble yet.

DEDICATION

For Schmoo (sometimes known as Zelda).

You saved my life that time. I’ll never forget.

CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

About the Author

CHAPTER ONE

LIFE IS FULL OF LITTLE SURPRISES. Most days aren’t that much different from one another, of course, but sometimes things happen that could never have been predicted. Maybe the wind blows from the west instead of the east, or the guy who owes you money suddenly shows up and pays you. These things can be taken in stride. But sometimes circumstances conspire to offer a completely different experience than anything you could have predicted. In the morning you’ve got nothing to do and looking forward to a full day of it. Then in the evening you find yourself dressed as a Nuul textile merchant from Gar Noch wearing a mask of makeup and a fake beard and moustache while you sit in one of your favorite taverns drinking something called mead and pretending to enjoy it.

Maybe I’m the only one who’s experienced that particular set of circumstances. The other stuff I’m pretty sure is universal, though, so I like to tell myself that my life can’t be all that much different from the next guy.

There were a lot of next guys seated all around me. I resisted the urge to ask them if this sort of thing ever happened to them. That would’ve been a dead giveaway. Back in Zyren, at the Most Perfect and Magnificent Institution of Espionage where I learned my trade, they had taught us to avoid dead giveaways. Said it was bad for our health. I had never been exactly a model student, but I sometimes took pretty good notes and luckily had remembered to jot that one down.

Instead of chatting with the other patrons, I sat nursing my awful drink at a small table near one of the large windows that opened onto the street. The shutters had been pushed back on both sides, and the cool air of an early summer evening pushed away the heat of the day and gave respite to the humid press of bodies in the pub. That helped some, but the sweetness of the mead I was drinking stuck in my throat and almost made me gag. Unfortunately, it was expected that a Nuul merchant would drink Frelhenner when traveling. Frelhenner was exported to almost every port around the Haronian Sea and points north, but claimed Gar Noch as its point of origin, so most travelers from that city took refuge in its familiarity when abroad.

I was not a native of the lands of the Nuul and found no refuge at all in its taste. Second only to my hatred of dessert wines, mead was on the list of adult beverages I could’ve lived happily never having sampled. Most of the time my preferred beverage is whiskey. Unfortunately, a traveling merchant would be expected to order the beverage of his homeland if he could. Nuuls preferred mead, Durfans ales, and Huthans whiskey. I had been tempted to don a Huthan disguise, but for me that wasn’t possible. Because I was half-Huthan, I would have been spotted immediately in a place such as this where my face was already familiar. The Nuuls, however, were often well-bearded and much paler than my usual complexion.

I took another sip and managed what I thought of as an appreciative grin and turned in my chair to look at the minstrel tuning his lute. He sat on a stool that had been placed on the small stage in the corner of the room near the door to the kitchen. I had never noticed it before, but I hadn’t been in the Green Briar for months. Presumably, it had been constructed for this fellow.

His hands, strong yet dexterous, plucked a few notes and then hurriedly turned small knobs near the instrument’s neck. His shoulder-length golden hair fell in glowing waves and brushed the sides of his face as he bent his ear to listen closely to the results of his adjustments. With a wide grin that flashed perfectly white teeth he eased back on the stool and looked out at his audience. After giving a humble bow of his head, he called out a melodious greeting in his most practiced stage voice. The sculpted lines of his fine Aelfan features combined with his shiny hair and bright green eyes made him the best-looking man I’d ever seen.

I decided I hated him.

As he began to play his first song of the night, I had to admit that even though he was clearly a menace to society and deserved to die in a fire, he was a pretty good musician. His hands danced over the strings and the room filled with the notes of a ballad softly yet confidently played. The attention of the patrons was soon completely riveted on the stage. When he began to sing, I restrained myself from picking up my cup of wine and hurling it at him.

His voice was perfect. Or, as close to perfect as I had ever heard. At times masculine and commanding and others soft and lilting, it arrested the attention of everyone who had not yet ceased talking. The place became quiet except for his lovely music. I felt transfixed and transported at the same time. I wasn’t immune to it. He was good. I was conflicted. He should die an agonizing death, but not until he had finished singing.

When the song finished everyone clapped and whistled and stamped and the musician nodded and smiled in appreciation. I gave a polite clap and then drained the rest of my mead and suppressed a shudder. Time to move on to something a little more palatable. As the man launched into a popular drinking ditty, I caught the attention of a serving girl. The woman was someone I didn’t recognize. The Briar evidently was doing well and had hired on more help during the evenings. She balanced a stack of earthenware mugs on her wooden platter and paused to look down at me. She couldn’t muster the energy to smile, but I didn’t mind. I ordered a whiskey. Disguises be damned.

It had already been past the rush of the dinner hour when I had arrived, and after an hour or two the crowd started to thin out as men and more than a few women weary from a day of working and a night of drinking weaved their way home. I was beginning to feel conspicuous in my isolation. While it was not uncommon for a foreign merchant to enjoy the local nightlife of the Docks District, it might seem a little odd if he chose to remain alone. Most merchants traveled with associates or an apprentice. I knew it was risky to stay, but I still hadn’t seen what I had come to see. If I needed to stay until the last drunk was tossed out on his ear, then that was what had to be done.

I wasn’t worried. My disguise was still intact no matter how much whiskey I was drinking. Or maybe that was the whiskey talking.

Luckily, the target of my mission finally entered the room. She was a woman of striking good looks, with dark brown eyes and long chestnut hair, straight and soft. Her figure was all Aelfan lines and Huthan curves. She had the best features of both races and wore a tight, black cotton bodice that made sure everyone else knew it. When she joined the musician on the stage to sing the last song of the night, a playful and short parting tune about the end of the night being just the beginning of the new day or some such nonsense, my blood boiled and iced over at the same time.

I had never seen Sylvyr look so beautiful, and it hurt like a backhand slap to the heart.

I hadn’t seen her in months and hadn’t spoken to her in more. She smiled at the musician and he smiled back. They sang and she rested her hand on his shoulder. I winced. Her voice was terrible, but that wasn’t what was hurting me.

She looked happy. I tried to remember the last time I saw her happy and became sad when I couldn’t recall. Surely she must have been happy at some point when we had been together, but all I could remember was sadness, stress, and heartache. No wonder she was happy. Maybe I had been the problem. She didn’t have to deal with me anymore and look how it’s affected her health. She was practically glowing. Of course, the custom-made lamps highlighting the stage probably helped, but still . . .

I had never heard her sing before. It was a good thing too. Her voice sounded like a dog had swallowed a seagull. I was riveted.

The song ended and Sylvyr and the musician playfully tickled each other and laughed. I felt a thousand daggers pierce every nerve I had and even a few I didn’t know existed. Can you feel jealousy in the arches of your feet? Is that normal?

I realized the other patrons had already left, and I was the only one still sitting in the common room. The serving woman was slowly making her way toward me with a clear look of get the fuck out on her face, but in that nice way women with real poise have. With just their eyes, they say It’s not you and it’s not me, it’s just this stupid place. If it were up to me, I’d serve you drinks all night and then massage your feet until you fall asleep, but of course you understand the futility of our situation.

It’s a closely guarded secret skill all professional serving women seem to have. I haven’t been able to figure out how they do it yet, but I swear I’m only a hundred or so instances of drunkenly closing out establishments and then this monkey is off my back.

But that wasn’t my mission that night. I already finished my mission. I got up and nodded to the smiling woman and she whispered Good night to me as I made my way to the exit. As I left, I gave one last look over my shoulder and saw the musician and Sylvyr walking hand in hand up the stairs to the second floor. The second floor held the inn’s private rooms. I went out the door before I hit something.

Once outside, I decided I’d head home, but my feet pointed me elsewhere. I knew I should just call it a miserable night and get drunk in my chair and forget my name, but instead I found myself creeping around the back of the inn’s stables until I could peek around the corner and look into the courtyard in back. It was deserted. Most of the buildings that surrounded it didn’t have any light coming from their windows.

I walked across quickly, the soft dirt and wet weeds that choked the quad helping to mask the sound of my footsteps. When I got to the stone well in the center, I crouched behind it and looked at the back of the inn. Some light shown out of Sylvyr’s window. Her shutters were open, but I couldn’t see anything more than a patch of her ceiling. I looked at the surrounding buildings again and worked on a plan.

Maybe it wasn’t the smartest scheme I’d ever come up with and maybe I wasn’t in the rightest of minds, but that didn’t stop me from scurrying over to the insula that sat directly across the courtyard from the back of the Green Briar. A fire had devoured its innards and roof long ago, but the scorched walls still stood. After maneuvering over some rubble and trash, I stood by the side of the building in the shadows and looked above me at a fire-blackened aperture.

A wavering of the light coming from Sylvyr’s window caught my eye, and I glanced over just in time to see a figure pass by the lamp in her room. Or was it two figures? I cursed under my breath and quickly started pulling the belt off my trousers. I tore off the loop at its end and it unwound into one long length of silky rope that had been twisted to resemble a belt. After shaking it out, I took out the small stylish Nuul merchant’s knife that hung in a tiny leather scabbard from one of my belt loops.

Most merchant’s knives weren’t much use as weapons. They were mostly used as tools and decoration. This was especially true for Nuul merchants. It was a good thing too. It made repurposing the knife into a tool for clandestine operations much easier and practical. No one would pay any attention to it, much less ever suspect it as being anything more than what it seemed. In this case, this particular merchant’s knife was a cleverly disguised grapple.

I pressed a small lever near the hilt and carefully drew it out. The metal part that had been hidden in the pommel sprang into three sawtoothed prongs as it came free. I carefully flipped it around and slid the blade back into the pommel pointy-end first. After it sank almost all the way in, I heard the satisfying click of it locking in place. I tugged on it to make sure it wouldn’t spring back out at an inconvenient time and got a nice cut on the side of my index finger for my efforts. After another curse (not so softly uttered this time) I sucked my finger and winced and looked back up at Sylvyr’s window. No change, but that didn’t mean I had time to waste either.

After securing the rope to the iron ring on the pommel, I stepped away from the wall and swung it up and through the opening. Pulling back, I felt the razor-sharp teeth of the hooks dig into the stone of the window casing. After testing to make sure it would support my weight, I started climbing up to the window. The strength of the rope and the pitted condition of the wall offered plenty of help on the way up. Within a few seconds I was seated in the blackened aperture. After retrieving my rope, I quickly took out my scry glass and trained it on the inn.

The first thing I saw was a man at the back door. Instead of searching for Sylvyr’s window, I decided to watch him. I didn’t recognize him and he was acting like maybe he didn’t belong there. I focused on him and watched as he gave three soft knocks and then paused before giving one more. That seemed curious.

The door opened and Stefan, Sylvyr’s head chef, appeared. He glanced around and then pulled the stranger inside. As the door closed I saw both men exchange such a passionate kiss I almost blushed my makeup right off.

I smiled. Good for Stefan. Nice to see he’s finally making a home here.

I moved the scry glass and brought Sylvyr’s window into focus, but when I did I caught a brief glimpse of her as she walked past, eating what looked like a sweet cake. My heart leapt in joy and I smiled. Unlikely that she would be entertaining Lute Boy with a mouth full of pastry. As I resisted the urge to high-five the air, I saw Sylvyr walk back across my field of view and open her door. A man’s head appeared, but I couldn’t at first see who it was. The sinking feeling in my stomach could have told me.

A second or two passed and she let him in. It was Lute Boy, wearing the most wolfishly shit-eating grin I’d ever seen. I cursed and hit the stone wall with my fist and instantly regretted it. As I pulled my bruised knuckles back to my mouth, I fumbled my scry glass and made an attempt to grab it out of the air. I succeeded in snatching it before it fell into the interior of the burnt-out insula, but I failed in keeping my balance. Instead of merely dropping my spy toy, I managed to drop myself.

That’s Grant Scotland for you. I never do anything halfway.

I twisted in midair and tried to tuck my legs under me, but I only got the first part of that right. When I landed, one foot struck what felt like rotten lumber and cruelly twisted while one shin banged what could only have been the hardest substance known to man. A shocked cry escaped my lips. I rolled away into a pile of muck, trash, nails, and unknown debris. As the surge of pain came from my shin and ankle, I could not contain a loud curse.

Somewhere, a dog was barking. A voice called out some kind of question. Another voice from somewhere else said something rude. I sat up and began rubbing my bruises. I needed to get out of there fast. The number of reasons I couldn’t be caught snooping around the back of the Green Briar in this ridiculous disguise were too numerous for casual calculation.

I pulled myself into more or less a standing position by using the ledge of the nearby window. As with the one above it, the casing and shutters had completely burnt or rotted away. I ground my teeth and suppressed a groan of pain as I planted one foot and swung the other leg over the ledge. I was almost out when I felt something grab my cloak.

When I turned around I barely suppressed a yelp. A small, shadowy form was standing close to me, holding my cloak in one hand and what looked like a notched and filthy old carving knife in the other.

Your purse. Quick-like, said the man in a harsh and quiet whisper.

My . . . what? I was shocked. I couldn’t remember the last time I had been mugged, especially in my own neighborhood. What do I look like? Some fat cat out for a stroll . . . My voice trailed off as I remembered how I was dressed. My assailant pushed the blade up until it touched my neck and I quickly brought my hands over my head. Ok, ok. My purse. No problem. Let me just get it, all right?

He nodded but kept the knife near my throat. He relaxed a little and the blade was no longer touching my skin. As I slowly brought my arms back down, I realized he was quite small. The base of his knife-wielding hand was resting on my chest as if the weight of the weapon was too much for him to hold even for a little while. It seemed maybe this mugger was less man and more boy. It made my next decision much easier, which was good. I do well with easy choices. Mostly.

I slowly lifted the edge of my cloak with my right hand to show him the pocket that held the purse. I could just make out a tilt of his head as he focused on it. His position shifted slightly as he lurched forward and then hesitated, unsure whether to reach in himself or make me do it. That was when I brought my left hand down in a hard chop on his knife-wielding hand. He gave a surprised yelp and jumped away, but managed to hold on to his blade. I cursed and tried to quickly follow up with a clumsy right cross to his face, but when I planted my foot, my ankle cried out in protest and I couldn’t follow through. My fist glanced off his grimy cheek. His knife came flashing toward my face, but missed me as I hopped left to relieve the pain in my ankle. Instead, the knife caught the hood of my cloak and sliced it open. As the boy withdrew the blade, the sharp edge nicked my ear and I bellowed in frustration and pain.

Apparently that was enough for my attacker. Adrenaline surged through me and I forgot the pain in my shin and ankle. I rose up again to face him, but only caught a glimpse of his small body disappearing through the window frame on the opposite wall. I took a couple of angry limps forward before thinking better of pursuing him. I had already made a sufficiently large ass of myself that night. No need to overdo it. Angry and curious voices were shouting questions and complaints from nearby domiciles. It was time to skulk home and forget everything that happened.

Yeah, you better run, I grumbled at the empty window frame where the boy had exited before turning my battered and bruised body toward the rubble-strewn doorway that faced the street. I managed to exit the ruin and beat a less than hasty retreat without any further embarrassment.

CHAPTER TWO

OF COURSE, I DIDN’T GO DIRECTLY HOME. Disguised as I was, I couldn’t take the chance someone might notice an expensively dressed and somewhat battered foreign merchant entering Orwen’s Tomes and Journals in the middle of the night. That would raise questions among my neighbors that I didn’t feel like answering. Instead, I turned my feet toward the Lower Docks and the safe house my handler Solin kept rented out for just such a purpose as this. Well, maybe not exactly this purpose. My little mission hadn’t exactly been sanctioned.

Not that it mattered. Solin wasn’t around to object. My standing espionage tasks pertained strictly to keeping track of Huthan military readiness, disposition and temperament of the general populace, and the growth of the One God religion. I was forbidden from taking any extra risks like the one I had just taken, but because he still hadn’t returned from his little trip to check in with the Secret Hand in Zyren, I had figured what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

He had said he was going to be away for a month. That was three months ago. I wasn’t too worried. In order for me to worry, I’d first have to care what happened to him, which I mostly didn’t. Second, I’d have to think he couldn’t take care of himself, which he mostly could. Solin had maybe twenty years on me, but they were years spent surviving the political upheavals of Aelfa during not one but two separate barbarian invasions. Not only had he survived, he had prospered and learned how to make himself useful to the ruling elite while remaining obsequious and inconspicuous. He was the perfect spy and in many ways I owed him for my own survival to that point.

Ok. So maybe I did care what happened to him. Where the hell was he? As I painfully limped my way over the Aelmouth Bridge, I speculated on what could be delaying him. Had he been relieved? Unlikely. He was too competent for that. Promoted? Doubtful. He was too arrogant to kiss ass. Killed? By whom? The Secret Hand? No. Pirates? Not likely. He’d convince any pirate he was worth more alive. Sharks? Perhaps. Although he’s too salty by half and filled with an unpleasant sourness, sharks are notoriously unfussy eaters.

When I reached Fletcher’s house I went around to the back alley. I leaned against the rickety wooden stairs that gave access to the safe house’s second floor and paused for a rest. The home was built straddling an old stone wall, probably what was left of an old city wall that had been left behind during one of Aelfa’s several periods of growth over its long history. Fletcher and his boys lived on the seaward side, and the safe house comprised the landward. As far as I knew, Fletcher didn’t have a clear idea of what business Solin and I were in, but Solin paid him well enough to help him stay incurious.

I managed to keep several curses and grunts just barely under my breath as I worked my way up the stairs on my twisted ankle and throbbing shin. The nick in my ear hadn’t hurt too much, but I knew I needed to get it cleaned and soon. I was sure the urchin’s knife was filthier than he had been, if such a thing was possible.

The door at the top of the steps silently swung inward on well-oiled hinges after I used my key on the small lock. It was pitch black inside. I dug out