Dangerous Gifts

by Gaie Sebold

  “Oh? And what do you trade in?”

  “This and that. There’s no reason at all why you should have heard of me,” he said, with a self-deprecating shrug.

  “But without trade, no country survives, Mr Heimarl.”

  “I am sure Scalentine would manage adequately without my meagre services,” he said. “I’m only attending this very glittering occasion because of a lucky deal or two and the hope of making more of the same. One must, as they say, spend money to make it.”

  “So I’m told,” I said, looking down at my gown. Not as extravagant as one of Laney’s, but it hadn’t been cheap.

  “Speaking of spending money,” he looked around, and lowered his voice, “I wondered if I might put a proposition to you.”

  I wondered what good he thought lowering his voice would do, since anyone in the room interested in such things would already have assumed he was trying to book me.

  “I’m afraid my books are rather full at the moment.” The words were out before I could stop them. He seemed pleasant enough, and I had space for another client; but it’s a gut thing. That overwarm touch of his lips on my hand had been enough to tell me we wouldn’t suit.

  “Oh, no, I apologise, you mistake me,” he said. “Not that I wouldn’t be delighted, but it would be an unwarranted extravagance in these difficult times. No, I just wondered... some of your clientele must talk about their business. You could turn such knowledge to your advantage.”

  I thought I knew where this was going, but I’d give him the benefit of the doubt. “Oh, certainly, sometimes they can put me on to a good bargain,” I said. “Knowing when a fresh shipment of rare fruits is coming in always pleases my cook.”

  “I was thinking more of knowledge they might let slip, about the turn of the market, or perhaps new customs laws that a man might find useful to know about before they were implemented... there are those who would be willing to pay for such information, you know.”

  “Ah.” I smiled. Not the first time I’ve received such a proposition. “I’m afraid, Mr Heimarl, that I have no memory at all for such things. I concentrate on the matter in hand, as it were, and after that, I can barely remember a thing my clients might have said. I’d never retain any information of the slightest use to anyone.”

  He looked down at his glass and sighed. “A pity. A good memory is so useful. But discretion, of course, is also a quality to be greatly valued, and is no doubt essential to building a reputation such as yours.”

  “I see you understand my position.”

  “Oh, indeed. You can’t blame a man for trying, I hope. With things as they are, we’re all struggling, you know, all looking for that extra edge.”

  “I most certainly don’t blame you for trying,” I said.

  “Well, I suppose I had better tear myself away and go talk to the rich and powerful, who will no doubt turn me down with far less courtesy.” He bowed, smiled, and walked away. He had a certain charm, no doubt of it. And I really didn’t blame him; but passing on pillow-confidences is very bad business. I have been known to do it, but only in cases of serious crime or danger to others in the profession. That’s not betrayal of confidence, it’s more of a civic duty.

  I glanced around for Hargur, and found him leaning against the wall, surrounded by a gaggle of youngsters. He took off his helmet and perched it on the head of a small boy, who – despite looking like a toadstool as a result (a toadstool that couldn’t see) – was instantly the object of envy. Hargur laughed, as the rest of the children clamoured for some equal sign of favour, and held his hands up helplessly.

  I felt my heart contract.

  As though he’d heard something, he looked over the children’s heads right at me, and smiled, the long lines of his face tilting up. I smiled back, then turned away before we became completely obvious.

  Those who knew about us, knew. But we didn’t make our liaison too public. Some people don’t think the Chief of the City Militia should be associating with a whore, even though whoring is legal in Scalentine. Anyway, it was no one else’s business.

  But that wasn’t the only reason I turned away. Seeing Hargur with the children got me thinking about things I didn’t want to think about, and I didn’t want him to see something in my face. He was too sharp.

  It was absurd, anyway, I told myself; we hadn’t even been seeing each other for that long.

  The music changed, to a patter of applause. People recognised The Lady of the Greenlands, and started to line up down the long, gleaming room, ready to dance.

  My client appeared, waving to a server; I noticed he chose a drink without alcohol in it. “Babylon, my dear, I do apologise. Unforgivable to leave you standing about. But since I have just begun what may be a very profitable, but undoubtedly long conversation, may I release you for the rest of the evening? With a little bonus?” He pressed a small but pleasingly heavy sack of coin into my hand.

  “Well, I shall be sorry not to have your company, of course, but thank you. I hope your conversation goes very well.”

  “You bring me luck. Now find yourself someone to dance with.” He kissed my hand, and hurried off.

  Unfortunately it was too late to find someone to dance with, at least for this tune. Figures met and parted, spun, stepped across, moved down, met someone else, parted again. Between the whirling bodies I caught a glimpse of Hargur, talking to someone I couldn’t see; then there was a sudden flurry as one of the servers appeared at his elbow. In the doorway I saw the crimson of another Militia uniform. Hargur nodded stiffly to the man he’d been talking to and left.

  I moved around the dancers and managed to collar the server who’d brought the news. “What was all that about?”

  She was a thin, pasty, anxious little woman. “Oh, I don’t know, madam. Nothing to worry about, I’m sure.”

  “Listen, love.” I pushed back my sleeve to show her the long white scar that twisted down my forearm. “See this? I’m a professional soldier, I’m not going to scream and faint at the thought of trouble. Just tell me. Smooth?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Been a murder, ma’am. Down in Lacemakers.”

  Lacemakers – a quiet area; not rich, not desperately poor. Small traders and clerks; respectable and struggling.

  “That’s all I know, ma’am.”

  “Right, thank you.”

  She scurried off.

  I didn’t feel like dancing. Or like trying to pick up another client, either. Suddenly the room seemed oppressive; there was too much glitter, too much perfume, too many people who would get home safe tonight, largely because of Hargur, while he was out chasing murderers.

  I got my cloak and went home, where I could worry about him in peace.

  THERE WAS A piece of paper on my desk with a note in Cruel’s swooping handwriting.

  Bad Boy, 73 Upper Griffon Street, opposite the chandler’s. I grinned, hoping Bad Boy was enjoying his evening. Cruel and Unusual were building an impressive roster of clients, these days, and those who liked something a little out of the way were usually prepared to pay plenty for it. We should be rolling in cash – funny how it all got spent.

  Or not, I thought, realising that the bit of paper next to it was a bill from the silk merchant. Laney, I’d bet money on it – if I had any.

  I was used to extravagant invoices for Laney’s wardrobe, but the figure made me stretch my eyes. I looked again. 1 bolt Tesserane silk in Dragon’s Eye. 1 bolt Tesserane silk in Dawn Smoke.

  Two bolts of silk? And Tesserane at that, the most expensive silk money could buy? That would make about forty dresses, and we didn’t have that many crew, even counting the ones who didn’t habitually wear dresses. I had a brief vision of Flower in a silk ball-gown, which was disconcerting.

  I walked downstairs. Laney was kissing her latest client goodbye; he wandered out with the usual jelly-kneed walk and dreamy grin. She was an asset, no doubt about it – if only she could understand that the money she brought in didn’t actually cover things like two bolts of Tesserane
silk.

  “Laney!”

  “Oh, you’re back! Did you have a nice evening?”

  “Ish. Laney...”

  “Yes, darling?”

  “I know you have fabulous taste.”

  “Well, of course I do.”

  “But, Laney, two bolts of Tesserane? What in all the planes were you planning to do with it?”

  “New curtains, of course!”

  “Wh...”

  “The hall. Dawn Smoke, which is... well... smoky, lined with Dragon’s Eye – it’s a gorgeous flame-colour shot with blue, you’ll love it. It will look like fire opals. Too perfect.”

  “Laney. Honey. No one makes curtains out of Tesserane silk! We can’t afford it! I don’t think the Perindi Emperor could afford it!”

  “We can. I checked. Now we have that new accountant, I can tell,” she said, proudly.

  That was Laney all over. Once she’d been brought to understand that money was required, in order to buy things (not an easy concept to get into a Fey head), she’d pushed me into getting the accounts sorted out. Now, she thought she understood how money worked. I knew exactly what she’d done. She’d seen how much was in the kitty, and decided there was exactly enough to buy two bolts of silk. The fact that that would leave us with no money for food, or coal, or laundry, simply wouldn’t have occurred to her. There was enough to buy silk, so of course, that was what she’d done.

  “Laney, no. I’m sorry. It’s a lovely idea, but we need money for other things, as well. Cancel the order, there’s a dove.”

  She frowned. “Well, if you say so, but I think it’s a terrible shame.”

  I’d have to check that she actually had cancelled it; she could be wilfully absent-minded.

  Mind you, I couldn’t really blame her. Fey didn’t use money, so she’d never had to deal with it before she came to Scalentine. I’d gone from a caravan-guard who thought two coins to clink together was riches, to an Avatar with the best of everything handed to me without the need for money, to a freelancing whore and sellsword who often had little more than a few coppers (or palinth shells, or scented wooden briant, or whatever the local currency was) between me and starvation. I did know the value of money. But somehow, it just ran away through my fingers. A little perfume here, a new bracelet or a pair of dress daggers there... well, perfume and jewellery were part of the job, and the daggers were so beautifully made. Perfect for when a sword was inappropriate wear; practically an investment, in fact. Only a rather expensive one.

  “How was your client?” she said.

  “Generous. Why? You’re changing the subject.”

  “Yes, I am,” she said, in a way that indicated it wasn’t going to change back, whatever I did. “You look tired, and you came home early.”

  “He found something else to occupy him, that’s all.”

  She gave me a disconcertingly sharp look. “Is Hargur coming over tonight?”

  “I don’t know. I doubt it, there’s been a murder. He’ll probably be busy most of the night.”

  “You’re worried.”

  “There’s been some... stuff going on. Laney, have you had any trouble? I don’t mean here. Outside. Anyone giving you lip?”

  Not that it was likely, unless the lip-giver was unusually dim. Fey can’t wield enough magic to kill you, not on Scalentine, but they can still make your life extraordinarily unpleasant. And both in and outside Scalentine Laney has friends. Family. Influence. Mess with her and you’d almost certainly meet a variety of interesting and memorable fates, either one after another, or all at once.

  “It’s not the Vessels of Purity again, is it?” she said.

  “No. Some bunch who think humans are better than everyone else. If we get any new clients, I want to check them out. I know you can look after yourself, but...”

  “Of course. Come into the kitchen; Flower’s been keeping some soup hot for you.”

  I’d had nothing but bits and fripperies at the Roundhouse Tower, and the thought of some of Flower’s soup was too good to resist.

  “Did I see Flosgrim earlier?” Jivrais poked his head around the door. The little horns on his forehead, legacy of his faun blood, were shedding. He rubbed them furiously against the frame. Velvety skin peeled away.

  “Ouch, don’t do that,” I said. “And yes, you did. Stay out of his way, please.”

  “It doesn’t hurt, it’s just an itch. I’ll get him one day, you know.”

  Laney snorted. Only Fey can make a snort sound as delicate as a snowdrop taking snuff.

  “Jivrais...” I said.

  “Oh, go on. He’d love it.”

  “Jivrais, I don’t want him offended, and even more do I not want you getting your neck broken because you tried to seduce someone who thinks it’s a huge insult to his masculinity.”

  “Some people would be flattered.”

  “He’s a Nederan. The only way to flatter a Nederan is to tell him he’s death incarnate on the battlefield or capable of fathering a thousand offspring.”

  “Or a good poet?” Flower said, ladling another spoonful into my bowl.

  “That too. Jivrais, why can’t you get a crush on someone actually obtainable, for a change?”

  “Where’s the fun in that?”

  CHAPTER

  THREE

  THE BED FELT too big without Hargur in it, and I didn’t get to sleep until dawn was silvering the sky. I finally woke to a knock on the door.

  “Who is it?”

  “Ireq. I brought tea.”

  I groaned. “Come in. How late is it?”

  Ireq’s an ex-soldier, a quiet, solid type; he has a short-muzzled face, grey fur and one arm missing below the elbow.

  “You’ve got a client in an hour and a half,” he said. “I thought you might want time to digest your breakfast.”

  “What would I do without you?” I said, taking the cup.

  “Get indigestion. Belch at the clients.”

  “Some of them might like it. Ireq, were you ever in Incandress?”

  He tilted his head. “Incandress... might have been. Worked the silk route once.”

  I knew Incandress was an Empire satrapy, but I’d forgotten it was on the silk route. “Remember anything about it?”

  “Not much. Good roads. Quiet.”

  “That’s it?”

  He shrugged. “Sorry. Long time ago, and no one chopped anything off I wanted to keep.”

  “Right. Thanks for the tea, sweetie.”

  He smiled and closed the door.

  MY LAST CUSTOMER of the morning was Jonek. Nice enough bloke, if a bit of a misery. I’d done my best to cheer him up, but he always spent at least half his allotted time moaning about his business, a bakery. It always struck me funny that a baker should be so thin; I suppose it was the worry. I thought, myself, that if he spent a little more time using his body and a little less in his head, he’d be happier, but there you go. It’s up to the client how they want to spend the hour, after all.

  “The business is on its last legs, I swear,” he said, hauling his skinny self upright and sitting slumped with his feet flat on the floor, looking like something washed up on a beach. “I don’t know if I can afford this next month.”

  I patted his shoulder. “You make good stuff,” I said. “Every time I pass your place there are people queuing up.”

  “I just wish I could get reliable suppliers. Nothing but trouble. Flour, butter, spices, everything. The minute you think you’ve got it sorted, it’s, ‘Sorry, Jonek, can’t fill the order this month, got a big new contract.’ ‘Sorry, Jonek, price of grain’s gone up.’ Then they say they can’t even get the grain. Who can’t get grain? We’ve one of the biggest trading ports in the planes! It’s an excuse. They don’t care, wave a big bag of money in their face, and you can forget the small guys like me.”

  “You’re not a small guy,” I said, but he wasn’t listening.

  “And the prices... they keep going up. Three different traders, I’ve tried now. I’d swear they
were all working together to put prices up.”

  “Isn’t price-fixing against the law?”

  He tapped the side of his nose. “So they say.”

  He was still grumbling as he pulled his clothes on and left. Oh, well, I thought, I did my best.

  I heard a knock at the front door. I waited for Previous to get it.

  Then I remembered.

  Flower and I got there at the second knock, him in apron and spoon, me in dressing-gown and sword. We glanced at each other, and he took a deep breath. “Damn,” he said. “I should be used to it by now.”

  “Yeah, me too.”

  He put one big hand on my shoulder for a moment and then opened the door.

  The human woman standing outside was high-browed, fair-skinned, and swathed in a heavy woollen cloak of deep blue lined with pale green. It had been expensive, but was now a little worn at the hem, and the lining was torn.

  One eyebrow flicked up at the sight of my dishabille and I wondered how exactly she was expecting to be met at the door of a whorehouse. The sword was standard wear for anyone in Scalentine who could use one and had any sense, and for quite a few to whom neither applied.

  “Can I help?” I said.

  “I’m looking for... well. Could I come inside?”

  “Let me take your cloak,” Flower said, and whipped it neatly away as she stepped in. She had long straight blonde hair, like heavy silk. She was carrying a pretty little dagger that looked more like jewellery than weaponry, and she looked nervous. Often the case with new clients, especially women. I led her through to the blue parlour and closed the door, in case she was the sort to be disconcerted by the sight of others wandering in and out.

  She stood looking around at the fixtures and fittings, fidgeting with the pouch at her belt, her collar, her hair. “Would you like some tea?” I said.

  “I... no. No thank you. I wanted to ask... do you... it says on the door...”

  “‘All tastes, all species, all forms of currency.’ Yes, ma’am. No permanent injury, no death, no children or animals. Anyone taking part has to be old enough, sharp enough to know what they’re doing – and willing. Apart from that...”