The bandit came to their table, proffering his sack. Marasi was forced to take off her small pearl necklace, the only jewelry she was wearing. With shaking hands, she searched in her pocketbook for any bills, but the bandit just snatched the entire thing and dumped it into his sack.
“Please,” Waxillium said, making his voice shake. “Please, don’t hurt us!” He pulled out his pocket watch, then dumped it to the table, as if in haste. He yanked its chain free of his vest and threw it in the sack. Then he got out his pocketbook and tossed it in, conspicuously pulling out both of his pockets with shaking hands to show he had nothing else. He began patting his coat pockets.
“That’ll do, mate,” the koloss-blooded man said, grinning.
“Don’t hurt me!”
“Sit back down, you rusting git,” the bandit said, looking back at Marasi. He leered, then patted her down, making her speak so he could check her mouth. She bore it with a deep blush, particularly when the patting down turned into a few solid gropes.
Waxillium felt his eye begin to twitch.
“Nothing else,” the bandit said with a grunt. “Why’d I get the poor tables? And you?” He glanced at Wayne. Behind them, another of the bandits found Wayne’s servant’s coat under the table, holding it up with a confused expression.
“Do I look like I’ve got anything of value, mate?” Wayne asked, dressed in his duster and Roughs trousers. He’d turned up his Roughs accent. “I’m just ’ere by mistake. Was begging in the kitchen when I heard you blokes come in.”
The bandit grunted, but patted Wayne’s pockets anyway. He found nothing, then checked under the table and made them all stand up. Finally he swore at them for being “too poor” and snatched Wayne’s hat off his head. He threw away his own hat—he was wearing a knit cap underneath, aluminum peeking through the holes—then walked off, sticking Wayne’s hat on his head over the cap.
They sat back down.
“He took my lucky hat, Wax,” Wayne growled.
“Steady,” Waxillium said, handing Marasi back her notebook so she could return to taking covert notes.
“Why didn’t you hide your pocketbook,” she whispered, “as you did the notebook?”
“Some of the bills in it are marked,” Waxillium said distractedly, watching the masked leader. He was consulting something in his hand. Looked like a couple of crinkled-up sheets of paper. “That’ll allow the constables to track where they get spent, if they do get spent.”
“Marked!” Marasi said. “So you did know we’d be robbed!”
“What? Of course I didn’t.”
“But—”
“Wax always carries some marked bills,” Wayne said, eyes narrowing as he noticed what the leader was doing. “Just in case.”
“Oh. That’s … very unusual.”
“Wax is his own special brand of paranoid, miss,” Wayne said. “Is that bloke doing what I think he’s doing?”
“Yes,” Waxillium said.
“What?” Marasi asked.
“Comparing faces to drawings in his hand,” Waxillium said. “He’s looking for the right person to take as a hostage. Look how he’s strolling through the tables, checking every woman’s face. He’s got a few others doing it too.”
They fell silent as the leader strolled past them. He was accompanied by a fine-featured fellow with a scowl on his face. “I’m tellin’ you,” the second man said, “the boys are gettin’ jumpy. You can’t give ’em all this and never let ’em fire the bloody things.”
The masked leader was silent, studying everyone at Wax’s table for a moment. He hesitated briefly, then moved on.
“You’re gonna have to let the boys loose sooner or later, boss,” the second man said, his voice trailing off. “I think…” They were soon too far for Waxillium to make out what they were saying.
Nearby, Peterus—the former constable—had gotten back up into his seat. His wife was holding a napkin to his bleeding head.
This is the best way, Waxillium told himself firmly. I’ve seen their faces. I’ll be able to track down who they are when they spend my money. I’ll find them, and fight them on my own terms. I’ll …
But he wouldn’t. He’d let the constables do that part, wouldn’t he? Wasn’t that what he kept telling himself?
A sudden disturbance from the far side of the chamber drew his eyes. A few bandits led a couple of frazzled-looking women into the hall, one of them Steris. It looked like they’d finally thought to sweep the ladies’ room. The other bandits were making pretty good time gathering goods. There were enough of them that it didn’t take too long, even with this large crowd.
“All right,” the boss called out. “Grab a hostage.”
Too loud, Waxillium thought.
“Who should we take?” one of the bandits yelled back.
They’re making a show of it.
“I don’t care,” the boss said.
He wants us to think he’s picking one at random.
“Any of them will do,” the boss continued. “Say … that one.” He waved at Steris.
Steris. One of the previous abductees was her cousin. Of course. She was in the same line.
Waxillium’s eye twitching grew worse.
“Actually,” the boss said. “We’ll take two this time.” He sent his koloss-blooded lackey running back toward the tables of people. “Now, nobody follow, or they’ll get hurt. Remember, a few jewels aren’t worth your life. We’ll cut the hostages loose once we’re sure we aren’t being followed.”
Lies, Waxillium thought. What do you want with them? Why are you—