by Grace Draven
“You haven’t finished the accounts,” Alair said mildly, delicately carving the meat from a chicken leg. “I’m still interested in whether the rugs are turning a profit or not.”
“I’m not,” Martis replied. “I want to do something.”
“Then do something—I would suggest the accounts, but I’m open to suggestions.”
“I could go out, meet that girl—see if she knows anything.”
“She won’t.” Alair slid the scoured bone to one side of his plate, leaving the neat pile of flesh to the centre. He added salt and spices from the large silver cellar that separated the two cousins, adorned with silver angels who looked rather more sinning than saintly. “But by all means go out and see her. But be careful.”
“You don’t think Dovestone will try anything?”
Alair shrugged. “This is the City, full of thieves and whores and merchants. It’s not just Dovestone who’ll slit your throat for a penny. There’s plenty more out there who’ll try, and you’re just as dead if it’s some common cutthroat or your worst enemy.”
“Aye, right enough.” Martis attacked his dinner with renewed vigour. “I’ll just finish this and then head out. Do you want me to bring you anything back?”
“Just yourself in as few pieces as when you left,” Alair replied. “And maybe a jug of spiced wine.”
Martis grinned. “I’ll see what I can do.”
A man about town had to dress well, treading a fine line between ostentatious bad taste and plush opulence. Martis had nothing himself that would do for an evening in the City. His brother had been here long enough to acquire a small collection of tasteful clothes carefully designed to state Wealthy Merchant, and he was in no position to object to Martis borrowing his clothes. It had taken him ten minutes to open the door to his brother’s room, hesitating on the threshold, not yet prepared to deal with the finality of seeing his things when he would never use them again. He’d felt a pang when he thought of all the times he had borrowed his brother’s clothes in the past, and all the times his brother had complained when something was returned covered in wine or splashed with mud.
He tried on several outfits before he found something he could wear. The crimson silk did not flatter his colouring, and he would be constantly worried that he would mar the fine material. The green damask looked too warm to wear in midsummer, and the brown wool was too dull even for his tastes.
Martis judged that the tawny velvet breeches and jacket were fine, but the addition of a pearl embroidered sash was well into ostentatious. He eyed it fondly, suddenly struck by the urge to wear something frivolous and jaunty like his cousin or brother rather than the staid wear his father approved of.
It would never do, though, especially not for a common tavern.
He put the sash back on the dresser, and settled for a single pearl drop earring, a large garnet signet, and some decidedly flashy boots with gold trim. He looked rich, but not too rich, the sort of man a woman might find attractive but not ripe for plucking.
In another cupboard there were four masks in different colours, ranging from white to dark brown, all richly ornamented with patterns and glass jewels. Black, he remembered hearing, was a colour reserved for the Master and his men, those that brought what passed for justice to the City. The dark brown would be nicely ominous and entirely justifiable as matching his jacket.
It took three attempts to tie the strings behind the back of his head and find the trick of moving without shaking the thing loose.
By the time he slipped out of the house, the evening was settling in, turning the water lapping at the water gate an emerald green flecked with the dancing pinpricks of reflected light. The canal was still busy with boats passing by, some marked with the insignia of the Old Houses, others with the discreet sigils of merchants and the unmarked blanks of the middle classes.
The bright red of a boat for hire came into sight and he raised his hand to hail it.
“Aye, master, where away?”
“The Red Dragon, do you know it?” Martis asked.
“That I do, that’ll be three coppers. One now, and two later. Good enough?”
Martis nodded, unsure if he was being taken for a fool, and passed over a copper. He stepped into the boat, gripping the man’s shoulder to steady himself, before settling on the broad seat in the centre. They moved through the water with only a slightest splashing to mark their passage, the boatman plying his single oar with elegant efficiency.
They passed along the canal to the Great Canal that passed through the heart of the City. To either side lay the grand palazzo of the Old Houses with their ornate gilt doors, painted glass windows, and the colourful blazon of their insignia writ large across their facades. The shining ribbon threading through the buildings was punctuated by dark gaping holes, blacker canals passing between the houses leading to private water gates and houses that preferred to lurk in the shades.
They turned down a tributary canal, stopping by a bridge, where a pier thrust into the water.
“It’s along here,” the boatman said. “Through that gate. You can’t miss it.”
Martis handed over the other two coppers and heaved himself out of the boat with a grunt. The gate led to a brightly lit alley, and halfway along it opened out into a small courtyard filled with people sitting at rough tables. A large hulking shape loomed out of one corner—the gargoyle was there, and so would be his companion.
He hesitated on the edge of the lamplight, watching the small crowd busying itself eating pies, drinking wine and laughing loudly at bad jokes. There were some masked faces, but most people had made some attempt to ape the lordlings of the City and painted their faces with a flash of colour and fixed ribbons in their hair. Some had naked faces, either through poverty or signalling some alienation from the City’s hierarchy, Martis could not tell which.
It had been a lifetime since he’d been allowed to be that frivolous—long before his brother’s death he had been forced to be sensible and put away the tricks of youth. You were a long time dead, and it was shame to spend so much of that time sober and without a hot pie in your hand.
He stepped into the light, threading his way through the crowd to Gargoyle. It seemed that people were not entirely comfortable standing close to the creature and there was a space round him, like an island surrounded by canals.
“Good evening,” Martis said with a bow.
The noise of the crowd faded a little, and the space widened as people shuffled further away from the pair of them.
Gargoyle rumbled at him.
“I hope you are well,” Martis added, and then ran out of anything to say to something that could not answer back. They stared at each other, and Martis could feel the urge to speak, to fill the silence, bubbling up in him and any minute now he was going to snap and say something very, very stupid indeed.
“Er, the weather looks set to continue fair,” he said, knowing he sounded a fool but powerless to stop himself.
Gargoyle tilted his head to one side, managing to convey silently his deep amusement at Martis’ blustering.
“I know,” said Martis. “But for all I can tell, you’re saying something just as stupid in gargoyle, and I just can’t understand it.”
Gargoyle snuffled in what looked like laughter.
“Where’s Hartest?”
Gargoyle raised a paw, pointing towards the building behind them.
“I’ll just go and get some drinks, then?”
Gargoyle hummed.
“And a pie.” Martis gave Gargoyle a rueful glance. “Two pies, even.”
The building was even more crowded than the courtyard, and not being a gargoyle no one was giving him any space. He had to apply his elbows to his fellows to get them to move aside, which they did with bad grace and sharp glances. No one said anything, though one hulking brute turned sharply, a threat on his lips, but faltered when confronted with the dark mask.
He supposed it was safer not to pick fights in the City unless you kn
ow who you were starting them with. A mask with unknown markings could just as well hide the Master of the City as someone fresh from the gutter.
He got to the bar where the servers stood, and realised he had no chance of finding Hartest in the crowd. All he could do was pay for four pies and three pints of dark beer, carefully balance them on top of each other, and head back to Gargoyle.
Gargoyle had the wrappings of three pies scattered round him and was beak deep in a pint by the time he returned. His companion had only made her way through half a pie, but her pint was well below halfway.
“Bad day?” he said, settling his contributions down on the shelf next to Gargoyle.
“My mother always told me not to accept drinks from strange men.”
Martis pushed his mask up onto his forehead.
“Ah,” Hartest said. “Bad week.”
Martis placed the pies at the feet of Gargoyle, who snuffled in appreciation.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Martis replied, and took a long pull of his pint. It was dark and rich and tasted of warm fields, hot summer days and a slight tang of the sea in the distance.
“Poor Gargoyle has been pulling his arms out trying to bring ships to the harbour. It’s not right.”
“Mmm,” said Martis round a mouthful of pie.
“Something has disturbed the mermaids and they’re only doing half a job, just standing off in the lagoon. Someone has to take a line out to the boats before Gargoyle can pull them in, and he has to pull them in further than he should have to. Poor thing is worn out.”
Hartest leaned forward confidentially to murmur in his ear, “They say the Master will have to get involved. He won’t be pleased. He doesn’t like getting out of his palace to get his hands dirty.” She paused for a moment, and then added a little more loudly, “Not that he should, of course. He’s far too important to get involved in such minor matters.”
Martis had the feeling it would be best for everyone’s health if he allowed that matter to drop, though Alair might be interested in the news, if he didn’t know it already. “Have you ever seen the Master?”
“Nay, that we haven’t.” Hartest shuddered. “Only the lordlings get to see him face to face. Only time we have a chance to see him is if we end up in the High Court, or at the Offerings to the Sleepers once a year.”
Martis knew about the High Court. It was reserved for Treason, Murder and other capital crimes, and had been where his brother’s case had been taken to no avail. “Offerings to the Sleepers? What’s that—if you can tell me?”
“The Master makes an offering of blood to the Sleepers, to thank them for their protection during the year and to ask them to help us in the next. It’s no secret—there’s a big flotilla of boats that row round the island, with the Master up front in a big gold barge and the other lordlings following along behind in theirs, all painted with their house markings, then all the trade guilds. The big fat nobs at the front, and the little tagalongs at the back, and you can tell who is rising or falling depending on where their shiny boat is in the parade.”
Gargoyle made a whistling sound.
“And the magicians bring up the rear, because they want to be at the front but can’t be, so they’ll sit at the back all dressed in black pretending they’re not part of the game whilst playing it for all its worth.”
“So they just row round the City? That’s it?”
“They stop at the four quarters, for the Master to get out and make the Offerings, feeding them some blood from his own veins, they say.” Hartest swirled her beer round her pint pot, assessing how much was left.
“They say? You’ve never seen?”
“No, that’s only for the Master and the Archimage—only they’re allowed in the Houses of the Sleepers, and only they know what happens. And then when it’s all done, they row up the Grand Canal to the Square and there’s music and magic and free food and drink.”
“Sounds impressive,” Martis said. “I wish I could see it.”
“Stay in the City long enough and you will—it’s a couple of months away now.” Hartest cocked an eyebrow. “You thinking of staying that long?”
“Maybe,” Martis replied. “Depends on what my cousin decides.”
“He’s the long-haired flower of beauty that you were with before?”
“He’s not that pretty,” Martis protested.
“He seems to think so,” Hartest replied, and Gargoyle made a noise that could only be a snigger.
“I’ll give you that. He writes poetry. He tells me he’s very good.”
“Ah, but do others?” Hartest swirled her pint pot suggestively.
“If they don’t, Alair will tell you that clearly they have no taste, no discernment, and no right to an opinion and can clearly be disregarded.” He drained the last of his pint. “Another round? Another pie as well?”
“I thought you’d never ask,” she said, and Gargoyle hummed his pleasure at the offer.
The crowd had thinned a little or Martis was better with his elbows, and he reached the bar more quickly than before. He had nearly made it back to his new friends when his way was blocked by a tall lout in a red mask, marked with one black tear.
“Watch where you’re going.”
There was always one in a crowd whose evening wouldn’t be complete without starting a fight with a complete stranger, someone looking to prove his manhood was bigger than anyone else’s, someone whose manhood was clearly lacking or he’d be swiving not picking quarrels.
“Sorry, mate,” he said, hoping to avoid the issue.
“I’m not your mate.”
Martis sighed. Best to get it over and done with then. He dropped the food, briefly mourning the waste of a good pie, and brought the pint pot round in a short arc ending in the left temple of his opponent who dropped like a stone.
“Seems you’re right there,” he said cheerfully, and then all hell broke loose.
He woke with a stinking headache on a hard bed in a dank grey cell. The door was a dark forbidding oak, with iron hinges and a small grille at head height so the occupants could be observed in safety. A high window, barred, let in a little dim light that showed the dust and dirt to best advantage.
He really should have expected the bloke attacking from behind, though he’d assumed it was just some idiot posturing for his friends and not a carefully planned attack and paid the price accordingly. He put his hand up to his face—his mask was gone, his eye felt swollen and was doubtless turning purple already, and the back of his head had a lump on it the size of a goose egg. His earring was still there, as was his purse, his ring, and his other jewellery.
Not a robbery then.
There was a jug of water and a very ugly mug on the floor, and on the opposite side of the cell there was a bucket for him to piss in. He settled back on the bed, shifting round to make himself as comfortable as he could. It was a kidnapping, then, which meant there was little he could do but wait until Alair showed up to ransom him. Hopefully his headache would have eased before he started shouting, or worse that polite, sarcastic dissection of all the things he had ever done wrong from the first moment he could walk.
He preferred the shouting, all told.
He dozed uneasily for a while, shuffling around as new lumps in the mattress made themselves known to his back, his shoulders and his arse. He’d been less comfortable, he supposed, and began ranking them in order of misery to pass the time.
He’d reached his twenty-fifth birthday, the trip to the brothel that had gone horribly wrong, ending up strapped onto a whipping block when the door opened. He lay there, trying to look limp and harmless.
“On your feet.”
Martis judged it wiser to comply and lurched to his feet. The man at the door was dressed in black, with a black streak sliced across each cheek marking him as a servant of the City.
“You’re up before the beak, my lad.”
Not a kidnapping; he’d been arrested. He wasn’t sure this was going to result in less sarcas
m or more. On the other hand, it was less likely to result in a knife in his ribs, so all in all it could be worse.
“What for?” he asked. “I never done nuffink.”
“Tell that to them who cares,” came the reply. “Which ain’t me.”
The guard gestured for him to leave the cell, and then shoved him against the wall. “We ain’t going to have any trouble are we?”
“Not from me,” Martis said, his nose pressed up against the wall.
“Mmmph.” The man sounded disappointed. He gave Martis another shove, and it was only his outstretched arm that stopped him from being sent sprawling. “Get along.”
The corridor was lit by glowing lamps, lit by no fire he could see. He’d heard of such things, made by magicians to light the houses of rich people, and he wondered at the wealth of a City that used them for its prisons. They passed other doors, some with faces pressed up to the grille, saying nothing as they went by. The silence was unnerving, only broken by their feet on the paved floor.
They climbed two flights of winding stairs, and then through an open arch into a large room lit by more of the lamps. At one end, there were three empty chairs on a dais, facing a rank of benches sporadically populated by people. The ceiling was richly painted with scenes of fat cupids holding an orgy of sorts, surrounded by gilded carved mouldings as if to prevent them from wandering off and corrupting the general populace.
He snorted. As if they could be corrupted.
He was pushed down onto one of the front benches, and the existing occupants shifted up to make room for him.
“Where am I?” he murmured to the man next to him.
“High Court.”
They were both sharply shh’d by the guard, and Martis subsided into watchful silence. He gave a quick glance behind him, but there was no sign of Alair or any of their staff. He had a sharp flicker of concern, which he tamped down hard—there was no time to panic, not when he seemed to be facing some sort of capital charge.
Perhaps he’d hit the man too hard and killed his attacker?
