For the better part of an hour, she let herself walk the city, guided by nothing more than the want to feel the streets with her feet and inhale them into her lungs. Much like the buildings, Bressel's classes of people looked a little different than she was used to, but if you didn't get hung up on the small details, it was easy enough to recognize who was who. Shopkeepers and stall vendors calling out their wares. Beggars and the passersby who pointedly ignored them. Nobles and the rich rattling past in their sleek black carriages.
Best of all, though, was the greatest freedom of them all: being lost in a crowd. Anonymous and ignored, able to wander and observe without so much as a drop of fear. In Narashtovik, she hadn't been able to do that for a long time. She'd forgotten how much she'd missed it.
Somewhere, a bell rang, melodious but foreboding. Like it was warning the little people below it that judgment was always on its way. Raxa smiled again, adjusted her pack on her shoulders, and got on her way. Business was business. It was time to get down to it.
Blays had told her that the city's main liberators of imprisoned wealth were an outfit called the Red Ghosts. He'd claimed that the last time he'd spent time in Bressel, the Ghosts had favored the taverns of the Cutlery District. Raxa didn't know why the city had a cutlery district, to say nothing of why its cutpurses and cutthroats preferred to hang out there, but people like that tended to have warped senses of humor. Maybe they liked that it kept them closer to the knives.
The bigger streets had their names carved on posts set into the corners, but she was even worse with written Mallish than the spoken variety. As she asked directions, she quickly discovered the locals didn't think too much of people who spoke broken Mallish in thick Narashtovik accents.
Ultimately, though, their politeness was stronger than their prejudice. An hour and only two wrong turns later, she found herself in a cobbled square of shops interspersed with pubs. Outside many shops, carved wooden forks and knives thrust up from the cobbles, taller than a norren, like the sacred idols of a lost dinner-worshipping kingdom.
Raxa wandered up for a closer look. Clever metal cutlery glinted behind glass windows, couched in dark velvet. Each set of gob-stuffers was unique: in one, the ends of the handles were shaped like seashells; another set bore the roaring heads of bears and eagles and cougars; others were more abstract, hewn from stark angles, or etched all over with delicate spirals. Pretty. Artful. But also one of the silliest fashions Raxa had ever seen.
She ducked her head into a public house. A glance at the normals inside told her more than enough. She moved on to a pub painted garish orange, its sign illustrated with a turtle standing on its hind legs with its front paws put up like a pugilist's. The Boxing Turtle?
Inside the dim common room, she spotted her own kind at once: sprawled in their booths and propped on their stools, they looked leisurely enough. But their eyes always seemed positioned to watch you and everyone else in the room, and their bodies, though momentarily relaxed, looked spring-loaded to run or fight at a moment's notice.
All that aside, the fussy hair and glittering jewelry was a dead giveaway.
A low wooden bar ran across the back of the room. She seated herself at it, glancing at the foamy mug of the man next to her and confirming Mallon knew the glory of beer. She ordered a mug. It was as bitter as a husband whose wife had left him for a man with straight teeth. Where was the sourness? She didn't know if she could trust a land that couldn't be trusted to make good beer.
The man to her left watched her with a smile. He wore a short brown beard that got thin over his cheeks, like a baker that had tried to stretch their dough too far. "Something the matter with your drink?"
Raxa summoned her words. "Do I make faces?"
"Like you're swallowing something that's still alive. Not what you're used to?"
"No. I am used to good."
He barked with laughter. He was about her age and he was handsome, in a slightly too intentional way. She wasn't big on men whose ponytails looked like they'd been coiffed in the king's stables. She preferred the type who looked like they cut their hair with their own blades.
He leaned forward, reaching for her mug. "Could be a bad batch. Better let me try." He hefted it, sipped, and swished it around. "Tastes good to me. I'll drink it if you won't."
She took it back. "I must get used to it. Or have no beer at all."
"Are you new in town?"
"Is my talk that obvious?"
"Speech," he corrected. "And I'm afraid so. Along with your eyes. And your hair. And the way you walk."
"You watch me come in?"
"Guilty. But you chose to sit next to me."
"I sit where there is chair."
She winced at the clumsiness of her grammar, but the man laughed as if she was the wit in a play. "What brings you here?"
"I look for work."
"What kind of work?"
"The work of this place." She gestured around the room. "The work that is done on nights and streets."
"You're looking for a brothel? I took you for a nice girl."
"Not a brothel." Raxa gave him a disparaging look as she searched for the phrase she'd made Galand teach her. "The merchants of the black market."
"Oh. That." The man took a long swig from his mug and set it down a little too abruptly. "We don't do that here. Sorry."
"Do I look like…" She searched for the word. "King's men?"
"The king's a cunning fellow. It would be just like him to enlist a Gaskan to waltz in and trick poor, innocent men into lives of crime."
Gaskan? Had the man never seen somebody from Narashtovik? She was about to scorn him when she realized he probably hadn't ever left the confines of Mallon. Giving him a second appraisal, she understood she'd snapped at the wrong fly. He was what the Order called a quiver-filler: the type you wanted to have plenty of at hand, but who was utterly replaceable—and expendable. He couldn't make recruiting decisions. He was probably under direct orders to deny the Red Ghosts' existence.
"I am sorry," she said. "I make a mistake."
He grinned. "Happens to the best of us. If you want to make it up to me, I'm happy to let you buy me a beer."
She begged off—not a good move, getting mired down with a quiver-filler when she needed a person who aimed the arrows—and left the Boxing Turtle, wandering for a while to clear her head.
She was working with steeper hardships than she'd accounted for. Limited as her speech was, it was hard to persuade. And impossible to be subtle. Among her kind, subtlety was a far more important skill than picking pockets or locks. A clumsy thief was a dead thief—or much worse, a captured thief who gets tortured until she gives up her friends.
But words weren't the only way to persuade. Often, what you looked like gave you more authority than the reasonableness of your words.
Raxa looked down at herself and pulled a face. At that moment, what she most resembled was a charwoman who'd lost a fight with a team of pigs. Hundreds of miles of travel had left her clothes rumpled, patched, and dingy. She spent a while wandering around the plaza and watching the comings and goings from the Boxing Turtle. When she was satisfied she had a general eye for their style, she toddled off to find a tailor.
Bressel had a full-blown garment district, but a few questions turned up the fact there was a small tailor's neighborhood just a few blocks from the Cutlery District. She hoofed it over. The shops displayed the latest in ruffian fashion. She settled on a young woman who looked eager for business. Raxa laid out what she needed, how fast she needed it, then haggled down the price. By modifying a few things she already had, the girl thought she might be able to have it done the following evening. Raxa gave her a down payment and went on her way.
She couldn't get anywhere with the Red Ghosts until she had her clothes. To make use of her time, she walked all the way to the palace. It was big. Impressive-looking. Palatial, even. Almost entirely stone, which she'd been expecting, but that was nice to confirm. She smiled at it, as if admiring
it, while she assessed ways to break in.
Darkness came along. She found an inn and got a room. Downstairs, they were roasting chicken with potatoes and onions and carrots. Plain stuff, but they'd pinched some spices on it to dress it up. Anyway, after weeks of road food, it felt like a coronation feast.
Her room was on the fourth floor. The night was cool and heading toward cold, but she opened the window to flush out the smell of the previous tenant. Outside, the night was its usual mixture of friendly shouts, laughter, and drunken singing. Raxa knew she should be doing something useful with her time, even something as basic as going downstairs to have a drink and brush up on her Mallish, but hearing the clamor outside in a language that wasn't hers, a strange sadness sagged her shoulders.
Why had she come all this way? Why had she agreed to leave her people in order to meddle in the affairs of two countries she didn't give one shit about? To learn the shadows? Why? The ego of strength? She snuffed her candle, lifted her hand, and called the nether to her fingers. It was scary. Beautiful. Powerful.
But was it worth it?
~
By the time she woke up, she hadn't found any answers. But she didn't care, either. She'd made her decision weeks ago. She was here. She'd do her job.
She spent the day touring the city. Talking to locals. Goading them into explaining politics to the wide-eyed foreigner. She tried to poke the conversation toward wars and foreign affairs, hoping the people she was speaking with would spit out a few names worth spying on. The name Harald Walstone came up three different times. He was the Minister of the Eastern Reach, and it sounded like he was a hardass.
After a long day, the last light angled through the sky like it was passing through clear water. She headed back to the tailor. The job wasn't done yet, but the girl was happy to keep working—she was hungry, eager to prove herself. Raxa was happy to see it.
As the nine o'clock bells neared, the tailor handed Raxa a bundle of clothes and showed her to a private room to dress. Were the Mallish that squeamish about the sight of somebody else's smallclothes? Raxa stripped out of her old junk and pulled on a linen shirt, trousers that were rakishly baggy yet contoured to her shape, and a woolen doublet with sleeves that stopped at the elbow. Some of her ilk liked fancy footwear, but Raxa thought that well-worn shoes were a mark of your character. She'd kept hers.
All in all, it should have looked mannish, but the cuts and stylings kept it feminine. For her line of work, it was the perfect marriage of rebelliousness and practicality. On her way out of the tailor's, she felt enough swagger to be tempted to kick down the door.
She made her way back to the Boxing Turtle. Good cheer spilled from the shutters. Her entrance drew a few glances. She found an empty spot at a shelf on the side of the room and flagged down the serving boy for a beer. As she made her way through the bitter drink, she surveyed the room.
Didn't take long to find her mark: he sat at a table surrounded by confident young men and a few women who got a good laugh out of everything he said. His dark hair was swept back from his brow with an oil that surely smelled sweet, and when he gestured with his mug, he didn't spill a drop. Two types of people had dexterity like that: acrobats, and people who knew how to kill other people with swords.
If she wanted access to the Red Ghosts and their underground contacts, information, and resources, that was who she had to convince. Raxa doubted that words or the right outfit would be enough. She bided her time until he rose to use the privy. As he returned through the room, she stood and cut across the pub to intercept him.
The ol' bump-and-grab would be too obvious. He'd probably known that one since he was six. Knight-Saves-the-Lady? If she fell in front of him, he'd probably help her up—he had to look good in front of his crew—but if he caught on to her game, her attempt at something so obvious would be humiliating. Wreck her chances.
No, there was only one way for it: do something he'd never see coming.
He was halfway back to his table, smiling in the cocky, lazy way of people who think their success proves their superiority. Raxa curled her finger at the nether. It rolled out from under the tables and danced over to her hand. She tossed most of it aside. Using the finesse Galand had beaten into her during the trip, she sent a bug-sized dollop of darkness flying toward the man's head. It split apart, one half settling over each eye.
He stopped mid-stride, eyes widening against his sudden blindness. Raxa moved beside him. He reached out for balance, or perhaps to reassure himself that he was still conscious. His hand brushed Raxa's side.
She smiled, stepped away, and dropped the nether from his eyes. He stood there a moment, arms held a foot from his hips, as if ready to reach out and grab the world if it tried to slip away again. He muttered under his breath, then donned his cocky smile as if it had been a hat snatched by the wind.
Raxa bided her time, letting him get back into the swing of things. But he was drinking harder now. Rattled. Before he could get so drunk he got unpredictable, or started forgetting his promises, Raxa waited until someone on the opposite side of his table had launched into the telling of a long story, then headed over.
She stopped in front of him. He barely glanced her way.
"Excuse me, good sir." Raxa gritted her teeth, praying hard to Carvahal that she didn't sound as stilted as she felt. "You will hire me."
He swung his head around. A little drunk, but there was still some dagger in his gaze. "Fuck off."
"I can't in good faith fuck off, sir."
"I think you'll find it's quite simple. It's just like regular off, except you do it harder."
"But I can't. Because I find this." She held out her hand.
The thief-lord leaned forward. He gazed down at the gem-studded black leather bracelet in her palm, then felt his sleeved wrist. "Where did you find that?"
"On your arm."
"You stole my father's bracelet from me. And now you ask me for a job?"
He'd kept his voice low, but the entire table was staring at them. Raxa nodded. "So I can use my skills for you."
His hand darted out and crushed her wrist. He stood, taking the bracelet from her. His face was as red as if it had been struck. "You stole from me. In my own house? You have three seconds to get out before I steal your life."
Raxa sucked in a quick breath. "Good sir—"
"One. Two."
She turned and ran from the pub. As she flung open the door, the whole room burst into laughter.
Raxa jogged down the cobbles, then broke into a flat-out run. Not because she was afraid of pursuit—they'd gotten their laugh, that'd be enough—but because the pain of her disgrace was so intense the only way she could deal with it was to run until her body hurt worse than her soul.
A misty drizzle was coming down, slicking the cobbles and manure. After the second time Raxa slipped, she slowed and turned into the next alley. She confirmed it was empty, then hunkered down next to a stoop, raking her hand through her hair.
Part of it was just a bad turn of the cards. Instead of being appreciate of her skill and amused by her audacity, he'd taken it as a blow to his status. Even worse, it hadn't just been a flashy bauble, it'd been his fathers. Even so, Raxa might have been able to turn things around if she wasn't so bad with Mallish that everything she said came off arrogant or foolish. Surviving on the streets depended on being able to read the people around you. If Raxa couldn't present herself so they could read her correctly, she was as doomed as Irrolen in the Hall of the Bone-Eaters.
The rest of the night was a waste. Moping. Kicking herself. Worst of all, she stayed up too late and drank too much and couldn't roust herself until eleven in the morning.
Her first meet with Sorrowen was late that night. She spent the early afternoon eyeballing the palace some more. Could she insinuate herself as a servant? Thing was, in a place like that, even the servants were scrutinized to hell and gone. No way they'd take on a foreigner who didn't have a single reference. Earning that reference would take weeks,
if not months. Long enough that by the time she had it, and was able to worm her way inside, Mallon could have already launched a new campaign against Collen.
Or Narashtovik.
Scratch that, then. Coming at it from the other angle, she scrounged around until she found a neighborhood full of blond-haired, tan-faced Colleners. She grabbed a seat in a pub and left her ears open. The other patrons didn't talk much politics until she ordered a second beer in a very thick and very non-Mallish accent. After that, they did some jeering of the Mallish for losing the war, and some speculating as to whether the king would call for a final invasion, but it didn't feel any more substantial than typical drunken commoner gossip.
Night came. Her old friend. She made her way past an arena, then a neighborhood of temples and monasteries and apothecaries, then old and rundown housing, then a park of statues of ancient dead men she didn't give a shit about. Sorrowen was already waiting for her. Knowing him, he'd probably gotten there thirty minutes early, then spent the wait worrying that he'd gotten the time wrong.
She came up on him from behind. "Hey holy man."
He started, banging his skull on the elbow of a beckoning statue. He turned, rubbing his head. "Why would you do that?"
"Because I could. How's it going?"
"Good, I guess. They accepted me into the priesthood."
"Already?"
He shrugged. "Dante was right. As soon as I showed them I could use the ether, they gave me my vows."
"Now all you need to do is assassinate your high priest, take his place, and mount a violent investigation to find his killer, using the ensuing confusion to commandeer all the information you can grab about Collen."
"I'm not…but why would they even appoint me?" He frowned at her. "Have you gotten anything from the Ghosts?"
The Wound of the World Page 27
