Endurance

by Jay Lake

  So far as arguing went, it took me another half hour of chivvying and tea and cold rice to cozen them out the door into the snow. I finally sent my ragged band marching toward the Selistani embassy. Let Surali and the Prince of the City deal with this—two dozen grumpy men who would just stare morosely without raising a fist, standing with the quiet, sullen anger of the poor and disaffected, while their Velviere District neighbors watched nervously from behind lace curtains and rang for their own guards.

  I wanted to betray their stealth. Therefore, their stealth I would betray.

  * * *

  The street in front of the mansion housing the Selistani embassy was a mass of slush. Some fairly large group had passed by here overnight. My heart caught a moment. Was I too late?

  But two Street Guild men remained stationed at the gate. This morning their blades were naked. One bore a strung crossbow, which was not the best idea in the damp. They looked terribly uncomfortable in the freezing light of day. The Prince, or at least some of his household, were presumably still in residence.

  “Gather in the street and watch the gate,” I said. “Don’t block traffic.” It was winter, and miserable, but if this little picket lasted even a few days, that might be enough. I tugged at the elbow of a man who could have been my uncle. “What is your name?”

  “Harun, Mother Green.” He stifled a yawn.

  “Keep this up three days, and I will make it worth your while.” I had no idea what I meant by that, but right now my promises were worth more than my purse. “I must slow them down. And if anything unusual happens, for the love of Endurance, please let me know.” As if anything were usual here and now.

  He made his right hand into the horns of an ox. “Of course, Mother.”

  “What was that?” I imitated Harun’s gesture.

  The ox again, flashing and gone. “The sign of the god Endurance. We make it that we might know one another in the street.”

  I couldn’t decide whether that was worrisome or inspiring. In either case, I let the business pass. “Observe as I talk to the guards. Then I’m off again. I’ll check back here. If you need to, send word to me at the Temple of Endurance.”

  Harun looked dubiously at his huddled mass of watchers. “Three days? The city guard will run us off.”

  “I’ll take care of the watchmen,” I said. Another promise. The actual street patrols, such as they were, reported to the Interim Council. The Conciliar Guard under that snake Lampet were another matter, of course. I didn’t think they’d turn out in force for something like this. As for the hired guards here in the Velviere District, they were small, independent units unlikely to pick a fight with a large group so long as my lads didn’t start freelancing about the neighborhood.

  If the Interim Council wanted me to solve these problems, they’d better stay out of my way. I’d pop around and talk to Nast this morning before checking again on all my various chessmen in their positions. Then I’d figure how best to winkle out Corinthia Anastasia.

  Ilona’s stolen child was within shouting distance of me right now. But I could not outrun that crossbow. And once I was within, behind obscuring walls, Surali and her people could do anything to me.

  I needed a Blade handle, and a run.

  Which led me to wonder where Mother Argai was. I should have asked the Street Guildsman I’d mugged for information about Corinthia Anastasia’s location.

  At an easy walk, unhurried, relaxed, telegraphing no intentions at all, I approached the gate guards.

  We were all Selistani here, dark-skinned people in a pale-skinned place. Even the whitebellies. Our country was never this cold—I had not seen snow once in my four years in Kalimpura, did not even know the Seliu word for the nasty stuff.

  “Long way from home,” I said in their language. Our language.

  The man with the crossbow rested the weapon in the crook of his arm and pointed it at me.

  “Last fellow who did that to me met with an accident.” I smiled, my most raffish, wolf-toothed grin. “Permanently.” With any luck, they knew of my earlier foray. With more luck, they were smart enough not to try to kill me.

  “You’re not supposed to be here,” said the other man. “They’re out looking for you around the city.”

  “Shame I came around on my own then, isn’t it?” I flipped my short knife in my left hand, tossing it in small loops through the air. “But you’re not supposed to be here, either. Cold, don’t you think?”

  The crossbowman snorted. “How these ice people can be abiding their city I do not understand.”

  “We should all go home.”

  “We all will soon,” said the swordsman with a glare at his friend.

  “So where is Mother Argai? She stood watch the last time I was here.”

  “You will need to be asking Lady Surali,” said the bowman, ignoring his fellow.

  Interesting. And they were quite relaxed, given my previous interaction with one of their fellows. Had my chosen victim not returned? “As I am hearing the story, Surali has to have someone else hold her spoon right now. Not much with the leadership, is she?”

  The crossbow steadied on me. “I shall not be pretending to take you prisoner,” the bowman said. “You are too dangerous. But if you are surrendering yourself, please to do so now. Otherwise move on.” He glanced over at Harun and the other Selistani protesters, huddled together. Someone had started a fire along the curb with broken-off branches. “And be taking your rabble with you.”

  “That rabble is your people, too,” I reminded him. “For my own part, I am moving on. But please to be telling Mother Argai that Green was asking after her health.”

  “Every word,” the other Street Guildsman replied cheerfully. “We’re to report every word.”

  Every word. Hah! I had a few choice words for Surali, and for that matter, words for Mother Vajpai and for the Prince of the City. This did not seem to be the time to offer them.

  With a nod to Harun, I turned my back to the crossbow and walked away. My shoulders itched, expecting a bolt. Not out of the question, depending on how angry Surali was, but those two had spoken to me easily enough. They were not sufficiently nervous for men with orders to kill on sight.

  Opportunism came easily, though. Especially to an ambitious Street Guildsman.

  Once around the corner, I indulged in a little opportunism of my own. I knew that at a minimum I should be speaking to the Interim Council, checking on Archimandrix, spying on Iso and Osi, and sorting out what the Rectifier had gotten up to since I left him, but I had to try to find Corinthia Anastasia. Despite my misgivings. And I was curious whether Mother Argai was being held against her will.

  The idea of having my own Blade handle, here in Copper Downs with me, seemed a convenient way to solve so many problems.

  Back to the walls for me. I boosted myself up again, as I had before, but this time my uncertain balance defeated me. My vault took me to the top of the wall and right over the other side into the Selistani embassy grounds. My right ankle trailed and caught, banging my too-sore shin against the icy stonework and twisting at the joint. I tumbled with a sharp, whispered curse before smashing to the ground.

  A mere seven-foot drop, I thought. Flat on my back, without touching down properly. Only luck that I hadn’t hit my belly, and the baby. My shin was on fire. My ankle was complaining as well. At least I was wearing the right boots.

  There was nothing for it but to keep moving. If I sat and waited for someone to investigate the noise, surely I’d be found. If no one came, sitting and waiting would be pointless anyway.

  I hoisted myself up and trotted along the base of the wall. Small purpose in running the top of the wall. Too icy up there, and I didn’t trust myself to stay on my feet now in difficult balance.

  Hoping that I hadn’t misinterpreted Mother Argai’s relative friendliness, or Mother Vajpai’s reluctance to take me on in a straight fight, I approached the back of the house. The plantings around the base of the walls were hummocked with
snow, the stretches beneath the trees powdered thinner. I could do nothing about my tracks here—no one had ever taught me how to remain stealthy in this stuff—so I left off dodging and walked purposefully toward the arbors bordering a terrace at the back of the house. Skulking was so much more obvious. So long as no one looked too carefully, I might make it.

  I paused again at the side of the terrace.

  Now that I was out of line of sight of the windows, and could safely sneak along again, I felt much better. Listening for a count of thirty, I detected no sound of alarm. In fact, I detected no sound at all.

  Was the house empty? That would explain both the churned snow and the upbeat guards. Perhaps Surali had put one over on me after all. That thought rekindled my anger.

  The terrace was actually a built-up structure, I realized, topping a hollow space beneath with small windows peeking from behind the arbors. I eased up to a window and looked inside. Dark, so dark I could barely make anything out, but it appeared to be a tool room. Perhaps the space down there was for the gardeners? Or storage?

  I’d take that.

  Some work with my short knife and my arm strength forced the little window to pry open. It was hinged to swing up, a popular choice here in Copper Downs. I sniffed at the stale air within. Rust, a little bit of oil, soil, clay.

  Definitely a garden shed. A very elaborate one, but a garden shed.

  I wriggled through the window and dropped down into the darkness beyond. Carefully I pulled the glass shut behind me. Then I stalked with slow deliberation across the room to the door leading inward.

  Locked, of course. From the outside. But the hinges were on my side.

  That took more work, and the borrowing of a few tools along with a liberal dousing of oil, but I got myself out the door into a narrow, stone-floored hall. The lock was just a latch, so I undid it, stepped back in, and rehung the door.

  No point in making Surali’s life easier later.

  From there I followed the hallway into the depths of the basement.

  * * *

  The first person I saw was a pale-skinned scullion humming as she dragged a basket of linens to some basement laundry. Stone Coast servants, then. That probably pleased Surali to no end. It was possible that she would not be able to tell me from the other Selistani here, but I had already wasted too much time wandering to try the subtle approach.

  Instead I raced up to the servant and cracked her against the wall. She started to squeal, until I stuffed my short knife butt into her mouth—no chance she’d bite my hand that way.

  “Silence,” I said in my most flawless Petraean, straight from the Pomegranate Court.

  The scullion’s eyes rolled. Pale green, like Federo’s. This wasn’t a woman. I had captured a girl my own age or younger. The hot smell of piss cut the air between us.

  Captured and scared to death. Sometimes I could hate myself.

  “I won’t hurt you.” I kept my voice low, hoping I hadn’t already damaged her teeth. Whom to ask for first? “But I am very short on time and even shorter on patience. Where are the Mothers?”

  She squeaked, her eyes rolling. I pulled the knife hilt out. A few chips of tooth came with it. Oh, well.

  “That h-hurts,” the girl sniffled.

  “A lot of things hurt,” I said roughly. “But not you, if you talk.”

  “What m-mothers?”

  “Southern women, dressed in dark leather.”

  “Oh.” Her eyes glanced upward. “The priestesses. Jayce s-said there’d been a fight.”

  Who the hells is Jayce? Squeezing her arm hard, I whispered urgently, “Where?”

  “S-second floor. South w-wing. In the Azure Room.” She closed her eyes. “Kill me fast. I don’t want to hurt m-more.”

  Oddly brave, this one. “I’m not going to kill you,” I told her. “Just hide for an hour. Then quit this household. It will not stand much longer in any event.” I put my knife away and fished out one of my last silver taels. “That’s a week’s wages at least. Walk out of here.”

  She closed her hand over the coin and gave me a strange look.

  “I’m a terrible villain. I don’t do evil very well.” I shoved her away and trotted up the hallway from where she’d come. There’d be stairs, maybe a lift, some way for the servants to move the laundry about without bothering the lords of the house. Finding Mother Vajpai, if she wanted to leave, would make freeing Corinthia Anastasia much easier. The Blades could help me fight my way to the girl much more readily than Corinthia Anastasia could help me fight my way to the Blades.

  * * *

  With a bit more scouting I located a laundry chute. No screaming echoed from behind me, so the girl had taken at least some of my advice. I didn’t mind killing men under arms, or sometimes even men in general, but my heart just wasn’t in murdering girls younger than me merely for the sake of silence.

  The chute was inside a little closet with several large baskets piled to one side. The only stairs I’d seen so far were fairly wide, with kitchen noises echoing from their head. That did not strike me as my best option.

  Instead I stuck my head into the chute and peered up. Miracle of miracles, it was angled. And small without being impossible. Whoever had built this had assumed that drapes or carpets might be sent down it someday. I touched the insides with my hand. Wood, lacquered with age and regular use. The panel joints were tacked over with slim laths.

  That was enough for me. I’d easily make the second storey this way, and stay clear of both servants and masters. If the scullion kept her mouth shut another twenty minutes, I could find my fellow Blades without an alarm being raised, and possibly even Corinthia Anastasia.

  Unfortunately, I still didn’t see breaking the child out. Not by myself. Certainly if I could persuade Mother Argai, and even better, Mother Vajpai, to my cause, Samma would follow them. The four of us would be only a half-handle of Blades, but I’d wager that nothing in Copper Downs short of a pardine Hunt could stand against us.

  I braced and climbed, keeping my boot toes wedged against the laths as I went. A slip would not kill me, but I’d make a racket, and lose my progress. Belatedly it occurred to me that such a fall would be terrible for the baby as well. I could not touch my abdomen, but I whispered an apology. This wasn’t balancing, which pregnancy had begun to steal from me. This was strength, which I still had. I not yet gained sufficient weight to lose my ability to pull myself up.

  I climbed past the first-floor trapdoor into the chute. The room beyond smelled of oils and soaps. I heard two more girls chattering about some boy as they worked. Do not open the laundry chute, I thought. I didn’t want to threaten more children. Thankfully, they were at some other task. I reached the second floor undiscovered. The chute went another flight above me to where I thought Corinthia Anastasia was being held, but I stopped at this trapdoor and listened.

  Silence beyond.

  Carefully freeing one hand, I checked both my short knives and my long knife. What was I doing burning away my morning skulking about inside the walls here? The city was stirring toward more fighting, if everything I’d schemed for came true. I didn’t need to be creeping like a mouse.

  Except for Corinthia Anastasia. The Blades were my path toward her. She was my true goal. I was the only one who would make her rescue a priority.

  Resolve steeled and weapons checked, I pushed open the trapdoor and slid into the second-floor maid’s closet.

  * * *

  No shrieking girls greeted me there. The room was small, painted stark white gone a bit grubby with age. Except for the laundry chute and the door into the hallway beyond—I assumed it led to a hallway—everything was shelving and equipment. A person couldn’t even sit in here to ease her aching feet. I looked around at the stacked linens, the mops, the buckets, and briefly considered grabbing an armload for disguise. But in a house with pale-skinned servants and Selistani masters, I would fool no one. Likely I’d slow myself down in the bargain.

  Now was the time to stand st
raight and walk knife in hand into the throat of whatever awaited me. Still, I wondered where everyone was. The place was strangely quiet. The presence of servants about their business made me less fearful that Surali had stolen a march on me and simply decamped overnight. I worried nonetheless.

  Worrying, I darted into the hall.

  Thick carpets, probably from Selistan, I noted with some irony. The walls paneled with insets in a blond tropical hardwood. Honeytree, from the look of it. Smagadine art sat on small plinths every six feet or so—broken heads and hands, fragments of larger statuary. Someone had been making a political point when they’d decorated this hallway. At least two centuries past, I estimated, based on the details in the woodwork and the framing of the scattered paintings depicting traders and markets. The oils were all mediocre imitations of the style of Fechin during his Commensalist period. The ceiling was relieved in a line of low vaults, with a kerosene lamp flickering within each vault. Otherwise there’d be no light at all. This was an interior hall, connecting sitting rooms or suites.

  South was to my right. Long knife bare in hand, my remaining short knife loose in its wrist scabbard, I walked that way, counting doors so as not to lose my place. Of course the owners of this house had not been so kind as to label the rooms. I could not readily tell which was the Azure Room. Double doors at the end of the hall would open into a larger space, perhaps a ballroom. I put my ear to them and listened.

  More voices. Several men. Street Guild guards? Was the Azure Room behind this door? Or more likely their bivouac?

  I thought a moment about the typical architecture of the great houses of Copper Downs. That could not be a conservatory—we were not on the uppermost floor—but it would be a ballroom or a gallery. Surali couldn’t keep prisoners in such a place. Too much space. She’d confine them instead. That was much more her style.

  Stepping back, I tried the first door on my right. It opened to a dusty sitting room, drapes closed over the windows along the far wall. Furniture bulked awkwardly under white sheets. Even the paintings were covered over.