Dangerous Gifts

by Gaie Sebold

  She hovered outside the shop. Heimarl caught sight of her, and the sides of his full mouth pulled tight for a moment with irritation, quickly smoothed over.

  He said something to the proprietor, who flickered his feelers outwards in a quivering fan – translated into human, it would be a greasy, hand-rubbing bow.

  I slid around the corner of the building, not wanting to be spotted. It’s always embarrassing meeting someone you’ve turned down. Behind me I heard the door of the shop close, and Heimarl’s voice. “Did you finish your business, my dear?”

  “No. Thasado, you promised. I’ve done everything...” Her voice was a peculiar and ugly combination of arrogance and whine.

  “Soon, Suli, dear. We’ll have our justice, I promise you. Now, look at this stain on your cloak. What is that, fruit? You’ve not been taking care of yourself.”

  “I shouldn’t have to.”

  “Let me walk you home.”

  THE FOLLOWING DAY was busy. The sheets were barely on before they were off again. We got through more laundry... but I’m fastidious that way. It was one of the reasons I’d chosen this site; there was a wash-house just around the corner, and we gave them enough business to get a discount.

  Laney kept, rather unnervingly, doing things for the rest of us; my dressing-gown whisked itself to the hook almost before it was off, I found a cup of tea on my dresser with enough golden in it that if I’d drunk it I’d have been unconscious. Very goodgolden, too, by the smell, maybe even Levantish, which was the worst of it. Golden like that you don’t put in tea, at most you wed it to a very small amount of pure spring-water, after making the proper introductions. Wincing, I poured the dreadful concoction away. I heard a yelp of horror that had me belting downstairs, only to discover Flower holding up his favourite chopping knife, which now had a solid gold handle.

  He looked at me. “It’s ruined the balance,” he said.

  “I’ll talk to her.”

  He opened his mouth, then closed it, shaking his head. “No, don’t. She’s just trying to make up. And besides, it’s gold; it’ll be back to normal tomorrow.”

  Laney, in typical Fey fashion, can’t actually make gold that lasts. If she could, we wouldn’t be in this mess. Although theAll knows what it would do to Scalentine’s economy.

  I heard Jivrais wail, “My hair! It’s gone purple!”

  We looked at each other. “When are you going to Incandress?” Flower said.

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Can I come?”

  I TOOK A shortcut to the Midnight Rose through the Sleeping Gardens. They’re at their best at night in summer, but even now, with winter getting a grip on the city, they have a sparse sort of charm. Stone nymphs doze with silvery webs in their hair. The stream mutters to itself like a small child happily absorbed in some quiet game. Berries, chalky blue and blood red, cluster on the bare-stemmed bushes, and the dried grasses, leached pale gold by the chill, rustle and whisper. But all the little moths that dance there in the summer sleep in cocoons underground, waiting for spring.

  The Midnight Rose is in a prime site, on a hill near the centre of Scalentine, close enough to the gardens that in summer the scents drift in through the open windows. A nice looking house, although very pink. There was a laughing stone cherub perched on the steps. Jillifai was on the door: a slim, pretty, fragile fella with brilliant green and scarlet feathers on his head that marked him as a Thrail, one of the Perindi Empire races. I could lift him in one hand, but I wouldn’t try it. I’ve seen those long slender legs of his pop a rib with a kick.

  “Babylon.”

  “Jillifai. How’s it going?”

  He tilted his head and made a clicking noise. “Much as usual.”

  “Betty around?”

  “She is.” He bowed me in.

  I blinked, as always, and waited for my eyes to adjust.

  Sometimes Betty likes pink. A lot. And not just any pink. The sort of pink that plants a big loud sloppy kiss right smack on your eyeballs. She also likes sequins. And feathers. And just about anything that sparkles, or glitters, or is fluffy. Walking into the Midnight Rose is a bit like being inside a giant cupcake on its wedding day.

  One of her girls appeared out of a side door, a dark-skinned lass in soft green. She’d have been easy on the eyes in any setting; in this one she was like a cool drink of water.

  “Hi, I’m here to see Betty?”

  She smiled and motioned me through to Betty’s parlour. Heat and pinkness enveloped me like a big sugary blanket.

  In the middle of a room like an exploded carnation, Betty was lounging on the coral satin sofa, dressed in a raspberry velvet concoction adorned with shrimp coloured lace, drinking from a cherry-blossom-and-gold cup and contemplating the tarot hand lying on a table the colour of a highly polished pig. Until I met Betty, I didn’t even know you could get wood in that colour. I wondered if the forest it grew in looked like Betty’s parlour.

  “Babylon.” She waved at me without looking up. “Have a look, see what you think.”

  “I’m no tarot reader.” I squeezed in next to her. She was currently built on generous lines.

  “Oh, come on, have a go.”

  I stared at the cards. The layout wasn’t familiar to me, but then, as I said, I’m no expert. The Jester, with his little dog, and wide-eyed grin. The Gravida, heavily pregnant, with a shawl over her head, and a cup in each hand. The Double-Headed axe.

  “Um... You’re going to be fooled into thinking you’re pregnant with twins?”

  “Hmm...” She stared down at the cards, then swept them away decisively. “No, I don’t think so. What can I do for you, Babylon?”

  She brushed long bronze hair out of her face and smiled at me. Her eyes were both brown, at the moment.

  “You got any space over the next couple of days?”

  “You overbooked?”

  “I’m away for a bit.” We chatted about the clients. Not all of mine would want to be referred: but it was good to have something set up for those who did.

  There was always the risk, of course, that they’d find someone they preferred, and not come back – but that’s the business. Mostly they just seemed to appreciate the courtesy.

  “Oh, I referred someone else to you. Lady who likes weres. Anxious type, so I don’t know if she’ll turn up.” I described her.

  Betty nodded. “I’ll keep an eye out for her. Now, I really must change – I’ve a client due.”

  A tide of yellow poured over her hair, as though someone were standing overhead with a bottle of gold ink, and kept flowing as it grew down over her shoulders. Her skin paled to ice-white, her eyes elongated and became sky-blue with dark rims around the iris. Her ears shifted and grew points, and her voluptuous frame straightened. Standing in front of me now was a slender male Fey, with straight blond hair flowing back from a widow’s peak, and a finely-drawn mouth.

  “You like?” he said.

  “Wow. Very pretty.”

  “Very popular,” he said, grinning. He glanced down at the wrap. “I’d better change. This one likes woodsy colours. Subtle. Dull, in fact. More Fey, you know.”

  “They haven’t met Laney, I take it,” I said.

  “Oh, darling Laney, I haven’t seen her in a dozen moons! Tell her to come to tea.”

  “If you meet her looking like that, you’re not going to have time for tea.”

  “Does she do Fey? I thought they bored her.”

  I laughed and turned to go, and my sword in its sheath caught the tarot pack, tumbling them on the floor. I bent to help Sometimes pick them up, and one slender white hand clamped my wrist so hard I almost hit him.

  “What the...”

  “Babylon.” He pointed at the cards. Four had fallen face up. The High King, the Empress, the Masked One, and the Five of Cups.

  “What?” I said.

  “Have you been playing with the powerful, Babylon?”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Please. There’s a reason
why they’re called the High King and the Empress, you know.”

  “Sometimes you sound just like a real Fey,” I said. “Full of yourself.”

  “This isn’t a joke, Babylon.”

  “They’re just cards.”

  “The High King. A man of great power and influence, reversed. The Empress: a great power, a creator power. The Five of Cups, difficult decisions, a choice to be made, regarding those you care for. The Masked One: change, a chance to choose the right road. Great matters are about to intersect in your life.”

  I thought of what Mokraine had been saying, on the docks. I rubbed the scar on my jawline, realised I was doing it, and snatched my hand away.

  “I don’t want great powers intersecting in my life, thank you. I’ve got enough problems.”

  “The cards aren’t about immutable fate, Babylon,” Sometimes Betty said. “They’re about the paths open to us, the decisions we choose to take. That’s all.”

  “That’s more than enough for me for one day. Go have fun with your client.”

  “Tell Laney about tea. And Babylon?”

  “Yes?”

  “Be careful.”

  I walked out into a low, chilly drizzle.

  I PULLED UP the hood of my cloak. I was high enough up, here, to see a good portion of Scalentine. I stood for a moment, watching the rain make everything glimmer. I could see the glow above the open portals: it looked as though Carnival was still open, carmine and emerald flaring up suddenly to shocking pink and the vivid green of new leaves.

  Spirita, over to the north, was a low bloom of grey that shivered like moonlight on water. Spirita’s one of the fixed portals, like Bealach: it’s always there and always open, but the plane on the other side of Spirita isn’t fixed. Not much comes through, and no one in their right mind would go through it from here, since you can’t tell what’s going to be on the other side if you do. It’s where Sometimes Betty turned up.

  Whether she remembers anything of where she was before, I’ve never asked. She was very ill for a while. Out of her mind, and flipping shape randomly. She got better.

  Nightwind wasn’t open tonight: when it was, its light was murky green and bruise purple. Nor was Crowns, with its brassy yellow. Throat portal, which links to Nederan among other places, was hidden from view by the buildings behind me; it’s the loudest of the portals. They all hum, but Throat roars. Its light is a cold steady blue. Eventide, over to my left, the portal to the Fey lands, casts intertwining colours of dawn at sea and dusky woods, silvered with magic, and its hum shivers with distant bells and faint far singing.

  Bealach, the largest, and the one I’d be going through to reach Incandress, painted the low cloud with gold and lapis, imperial colours.

  Have you been playing with the powerful, Babylon?

  I had a sudden urge to head for the Barracks. I knew Hargur would be on duty, but I wanted to see him, even if there was no time to talk.

  AS SOON AS I got there I knew Hargur wouldn’t have time for me today. Under all the usual racket of note-taking and accusations and disclaimers and weeping, there was a silence like a stretched fiddlestring. The only person I recognised was a young officer called Roflet. His handsome face was set grim, and he was deep in conversation with a tall, pale young woman in a plain dark green cloak, her face shocked to stillness. Seated next to her, with the girl’s hand on her shoulder, was a middle-aged woman with her handkerchief pressed to her mouth, her whole body rocking with stifled, wretched sobs.

  Roflet nodded to the girl, bent down and said something to the woman. She hardly seemed to register his presence. He moved away, stopping near me to collar a young Ikinchli officer. “I told that lump Venchlen to get them tea. Of all the useless – get them some, will you? Strong. And tell Venchlen I want to see him.” He caught sight of me and said, “Madam Steel. Is there something...?”

  “No, sorry, I was just passing, thought I’d see if the Chief was around, but this looks like a bad time.”

  “It is a bad time, I’m afraid.” He sighed. “The Chief’s not about, he’s off checking the scene...” He shrugged.

  “Anything I can do?”

  “Not unless you’re inclined to sign up.”

  “I already have a job. Two, actually, at the moment.”

  “Have your crew had any trouble from these human primacist... idiots?”

  “These who?”

  “They’re the ones who prove the superiority of the human race by behaving like thugs.”

  “What did they do?”

  “Pounded that poor woman’s son to splinters. He may not make it.”

  “What? Why? She isn’t human?”

  “Her son’s a were. He and the girl – she’s not – were seeing each other, and some of the so-called Builders objected.”

  “You know, sometimes I loathe humans. And I am one.”

  “I know the feeling.” Roflet shook his head. “If he dies, that’ll be the third in a moon.”

  “The third...”

  The noise level in another part of the room suddenly escalated; a very tall, beaked creature draped with greyish folds of skin was yelping like a trodden-on dog. It was also waving a disturbing number of limbs around. I hoped they all belonged to it.

  “I’m sorry, Madam Steel, but...”

  “Of course. Let the Chief know I called in, would you, if you get the chance? Tell him... tell him I’m going after all.”

  “‘You’re going after all.’ Will do.”

  AND THEN IT was the day. I went over the list of stuff I was taking: mostly armour and weapons (with some slightly smarter versions for special occasions). One or two useful items, like my blue jug.

  Little as there was, I couldn’t seem to finish packing; I kept going over it, feeling as though I’d forgotten something vital.

  I realised I was listening for the door; for Hargur. Waiting for him to come and tell me I was doing the right thing; waiting for him to come and tell me not to go.

  Or just waiting for a chance to sort out whatever was on his mind, about us. But he didn’t turn up, and soon I was out of time.

  Jivrais, Ireq and Flower were the only ones about. It was sort of a relief Laney wasn’t there, since I didn’t need any of my luggage turned into something inappropriate. “Watch out for those Builders idiots,” I said. “If you get any trouble, deal as needed, but try not to break any bits of them that won’t heal. Keep up your training...”

  “Eat your greens and wash behind your ears...” Jivrais said, hanging over the bannister. “Babylon.”

  “It’s a crime to worry about you?”

  “We can survive without you, Babylon,” Flower said. “It’s barely more than a week. I’ll keep ’em in line.”

  There was an audible snort from Jivrais.

  “If anyone causes trouble I’ll just ban them from the supper table,” Flower said.

  “Ooh, you wouldn’t!” Jivrais leaned further over and tried to untie Flower’s apron.

  Flower picked him off the banisters as though he were a kitten and held him squeaking and wriggling in mid-air, and looked at me with monumental patience. “Just don’t be gone too long,” he said. “Please.”

  “Ten days, no more, I promise. And if it looks like real trouble, get in touch with the Chief.”

  “We will,” Flower said. “Go, go. You’ll miss the tide.”

  I gave him a quick hug, poked the still-dangling Jivrais in the ribs, and left.

  I MADE MY way to the docks through more of that dim, penetrating drizzle. I was scratchy-eyed from lack of sleep, with a kitbag over my shoulder (the amount of food Flower had insisted on packing for me almost weighed more than the weapons), and wearing a heavy, dark red coat of oiled wool with the hood pulled up.

  The Delaney’s Promise, when I finally found her,was a trim little rig; she had polished sides and neat blue sails, and looked, to my untrained eye, seaworthy and fast. Sailors were dotted about, doing whatever it is they do, or at least, looking as if they were waitin
g to be told to do it.

  Rikkinnet was on deck, and raised a hand as I approached. “You hurry, eh?” She called down to me. “I think, the captain, he wants to go now.”

  “Damn right. You the last?” The captain, presumably, glared over the side at me. He was a lean brown muscular fella with dark hair in a hundred tiny plaits and thick gold bracelets on his arms and his long brush-tipped tail, which was whipping with irritation. “Get aboard before we miss the tide!”

  I ran for the gangplank.

  I’d barely got my feet on deck before someone was dragging the plank out of the way, and the captain started yelling at people to haul things and splice things and for all I knew fillet them.

  “Hold up!” someone shouted. “Ship! Lower the plank!”

  Rikkinnet and I both whipped around; she had her sling to hand, a stone already in the cup.

  Darask Fain was belting along the dock, dodging around bales and crates, leaping what he couldn’t dodge.

  The captain said, “Another one? He’s too late.” The water, thick and brown and bobbing with rubbish, widened between the ship and the dock.

  “What is he doing?” Rikkinnet said. “He was not supposed to be joining us.”

  “I have no idea.” The man could run, I’d give him that; but there was no way in the planes he was going to make it.

  “What’s wrong?” I yelled. “What’s going on?”

  He didn’t answer, just put on a burst of speed I wouldn’t have thought possible.

  There was a small boat edging under our nose, between us and the dockside. Some fisher, desperate to get their catch in before the market turned, caution thrown aside for commerce. They threw their rope, and snagged a bollard just in front of Fain. They pulled it taut.

  Fain ran along it. Right up the damn rope, neat as a dancer, the fisher-folk yelling in surprise, then, using someone’s shoulder as a step, he flung himself with a superhuman surge at the side of the ship. Acting on impulse, as with so many things I’ve later regretted, I flung myself flat and just managed to catch his hand.