The Hell of It by Peter Orullian

return.
    â€œIt’ll be all right,” he whispered into Roth’s ear. He felt a stuttering breath against his neck, a shuddering sob.
    He looked over the child’s shoulder. “What’s this about?” he asked.
    â€œAre we going to begin with deception?” one Leageuman said. “Or should we start simply with the fact of a father leaving his son alone all night in a wharf tenement?”
    â€œYou can see I was beaten,” Malen explained.
    â€œAbout that,” one of the city guards said, stroking his bearded chin the way a man does when he wishes to appear thoughtful. Or smug. “Can you tell us who would have beaten you … and why?”
    Malen glanced at the other city guard. He could read the bluff there better than on the first city-man. They already knew the answers to their questions. But how? Regardless, he’d have to answer carefully.
    â€œI was beaten trying to alert men like yourselves about a pair of thieves.” He felt Roth tighten his grip around his neck. “No one came, though. I suppose no one heard me, since I was left to lie in an alley all night.” He gave his questioner a knowing look. “City guards wouldn’t leave me out at the seams if they knew I was there, right?”
    â€œWhat strikes us,” the second guard said, irony dripping from his words, “is how you knew they were thieves. Lying in an alley, beaten, sounds like the tale of a wharf-game fellow betrayed by his flimflam mates.”
    Then one of the Leagueman chimed in. “Turn out your pockets.”
    Malen hesitated, until one of the city guards drew his sword. He couldn’t have violence in his own home.
    â€œRoth, it’ll be all right,” he said again, and disentangled himself from his son.
    He did as he was told, and a half-moment later, the steel realmcoin hit the cold wood floor with a sharp ting . It rolled a bit and settled into a hum as it spun for a few moments. When it stopped, the tension in the room thickened. The first city guard took slow, ponderous steps forward, bent, and retrieved the coin.
    In the weak light of morning he studied it back and front. After a long moment, he said simply, “It’s him.”
    â€œNow wait a minute, you don’t know—”
    â€œThe mayor’s secretary personally marks every plug,” the man said sharply, and held the coin toward Malen. He took it and made a close inspection. A small, thin mark had been inscribed just above the impression of Dilena’s nose—Dilena being one of So’Dell’s influential matriarchs from some time ago—occasionally seen on a crane card.
    It all became clear to him then. He’d been hoodwinked. He hadn’t helped rob Gynedo, he’d just robbed the mayor’s secretary . The two men who’d come to him on the dock, pretending to enlist his help in fleecing the straw-boss, they were Gynedo’s accomplices. It had all been an elaborate wharf-game. This one, though, truly played for high stakes.
    Malen had threatened the boat gambler with the law. Gynedo wouldn’t take the risk that Malen might make good on that threat. So he’d used Malen to help rob a city official, then set him up as the dupe. Malen’s anger and desperation had been used against him. It was devilishly brilliant. But now what?
    â€œLet me go, and I’ll help you find the two who kept the secretary’s treasury,” he offered evenly.
    â€œI don’t think that’ll be necessary,” the seated guard said, a sly grin on his face.
    More of this elaborate wharf-game slid into place.
    Of course not. You’re part of the scheme. The two men last night: probably city guards. That’s how they knew where the secretary was staying while he was traveling on tax rounds.
    Much of what took place on a riverboat was illegal. And docked in the harbor, it fell under Wanship law. So buying some allegiance with the city-men who