Thamalon snorted. “That must have been a fluke.”
Shamur felt a reflexive surge of anger. They’d quarreled so often over Tamlin and Talbot, he belittling them, or so it had seemed to her, and she defending them. “That’s unkind and unfair.”
To her surprise, he hesitated, then said, “Yes, I suppose it is. Whatever their flaws, Tazi and Tal at least know how to swing a sword. Tamlin, too, perhaps. But be that as it may, you were observing that even with Jander and Brom gone, the children still enjoy a fair amount of protection.”
“Yes, and I hope they have the sense to be careful from now on. So perhaps in the long run, we’ll serve them best by holding to our present course and tracking down Master Moon. Whereas if we emerge from hiding, he might well go to ground for a month or a year, then strike again when we relax our guard.”
“You have a point,” Thamalon said. “I guess it’s on to the Scab, then.”
Shamur attached the scabbard of her new sword to her belt, and the two nobles headed south, away from the waterfront and into the warehouse district. A frigid breeze chilled their faces and plucked at the folds of their cloaks. Snowflakes began to fall from the leaden clouds overhead.
“Are the children truly as feckless as you make them out?” she asked after a time.
“Of course they are,” he said. “If you weren’t always so keen to disagree with me, you’d perceive it, too.”
“Do you think the estrangement between us is somehow to blame?”
“I don’t know,” Thamalon replied. She sensed that he felt as uncomfortable contemplating the possibility as she did. “I tried to be a good parent. So did you. Who could do more?”
“I wonder if I tried hard enough,” she said. They halted at an intersection to let an ox cart laden with garden statuary go by. “How could I have, when my children don’t really even know me?”
“Don’t think that,” he said. “Yes, you wore a mask for them as you did for everyone else. But the love and care you gave them were genuine, were they not? That was your true self, shining through.”
“I hope so. Still, my situation must have influenced the way I treated them. It surely poisoned the bond I shared with Thazienne. From early on, when we first realized what a young hellion she was, I tried to mold her into the kind of staid, proper noblewoman that I myself hated being, and looking back, I don’t even know why. Was I jealous of her for fencing, wrestling, and enjoying the life of the streets when I could no longer do those things myself? Am I that petty and spiteful?”
“Judging from my own experience,” said Thamalon, “yes.” He grimaced. “No, never mind, I shouldn’t have said that. Your coldness toward me has no bearing on your performance as a mother. Actually, I believe you always meant well in your dealings with all the children, Tazi included. What’s more, you were right to think she needs some reining in. Eventually, her penchant for theft is likely to land her in serious trouble.”
“You may be right,” she said, picking her way around a mound of filthy slush. “After all, that’s what happened to me.” They walked a few more paces. “I’ve been thinking about what you said before. You were right. I couldn’t emulate my grand-niece’s warm, gentle nature for very long. Once we were married, I had to change, in order to push you away.”
Thamalon laughed an ugly little laugh. “You don’t have to keep reiterating that you found me repulsive. I’ve already gotten the message.”
“That’s not what I meant.” They strode past a furniture maker’s factory whining and banging with the sounds of lathes, saws, and hammers. Shamur had to raise her voice a bit to make herself heard over the racket. “You didn’t repel me. You were sweet and loving, and that was the problem. I realized the affection wasn’t actually for me but for a dead girl, that your fondness would turn to rage and loathing if you ever discovered I was an impostor, and somehow that made our closeness too strange, difficult, and even painful to bear.”
“I’m sure that had you revealed your true identity in the first year or two,” he said, “I would have reacted as you say. Later on, I would still have been dismayed, but by that time you were an integral part of my life and the mother of our children. Perhaps, once I recovered from the shock, it wouldn’t actually have mattered. Since you never found it in your heart to trust me, we’ll never know.”
Shamur didn’t know what to say to that. She was relieved when they rounded a corner and the Scab came into view, recalling them to the task at hand.
Like much of Selgaunt, the Scab was built largely of brownstone. Some people claimed that the sandstone blocks that had gone to construct it possessed an odd, rusty tint that made them precisely the color of clotted blood. Others maintained that the walls in the rookery were the same hue as those found elsewhere, but that fanciful minds perceived them differently because of the area’s sinister reputation. For while the city had other dangerous neighborhoods, the Scab was generally regarded as the worst. A maze of narrow, twisting alleys and decaying tenements, it was home to the poorest of the poor and every variety of vice and depravity. Shamur had heard that the Scepters never entered the rookery except in force, and even then with the greatest reluctance, which she supposed made it a desirable haven for the Quippers.
“Not an especially charming sight, is it?” Thamalon said.
“Not to my eye,” she agreed. “Watch yourself in there. We mustn’t look nervous or otherwise out of place.”
“Don’t worry about me,” he replied. “Unlike my father, I never made common cause with pirates or bandits. But in the bad old days, when my fortunes were at low ebb, and scoundrels of all stripes assumed one lone, friendless trader would prove an easy mark, it helped me to learn to treat with them on their own level. Shall we?”
He gestured toward the arched entrance to the Scab. Once, the gate had probably been imposing, but now it was covered with lewd graffiti and looked as if it might collapse at any moment.
When they passed through, the first thing Shamur noticed was the mingled stench of various types of waste. Like the residents of other precincts, the inhabitants of the Scab tossed their refuse into the street, the difference being that no night-carter dared enter the rookery to collect it. The smell was sickening even with the muck half frozen. She hated to think how foul it was in the summer.
She and Thamalon began working their way from one tavern to the next, for despite the evidence of poverty abundant on every side, the Scab had more than its share of such establishments, squalid little ordinaries operating in dank, low cellars, cramped rooms devoid of seating, or even out in the open wherever some entrepreneur chose to set a keg on a pair of trestles. The nobles eavesdropped on the conversations of the rough men swilling stale beer and raw spirit, and joined in when it seemed feasible. Shamur was relieved to see that, as he’d promised, her husband’s impersonation of a blackguard was reasonably convincing.
She enjoyed the game of fishing for information, knowing that if they misspoke, they’d likely face a room full of naked blades. But when they were simply traversing the streets, the sordid life of the Scab depressed her. Primarily, it was the children. She saw infants gaunt with starvation. Toddlers scavenging through the mounds of trash. Gangs of ragged, hard-eyed youths ranging the streets in search of the weak and unwary, not robbing for sport as she once had, but simply to survive. Little girls selling their bodies. Even a filthy, drunken surgeon of sorts who mutilated youngsters to prepare them for a life of begging.
At this last spectacle, Thamalon gave a wordless growl of disgust. “I’ve always heard it was bad in here, but I never dreamed it was this bad. There must be a way to clean up this cesspit, or tear it down and build something better. To put the needy inhabitants to work, and send the villains packing.”
“The thought does you credit,” she replied. “Someday soon, you can explore the subject with the city council, assuming, of course, that we make it out of here alive.”
“Yes,” he said, “assuming that.” They descended a short flight
of stairs to yet another wretched cellar taproom, the sole difference being that the proprietor of this one had apparently gone to the trouble to give it a name and a sign, clumsily daubing a pair of crossed blades on the door.
Snitch liked spying in the Crossed Daggers. The tavern was no warmer or more comfortable than a number of other filthy little taverns scattered through the Scab, nor was the conversation of the inebriated louts who drank there any more diverting. But the host, prompted by what Snitch regarded as preposterous optimism, kept a bottle of good brandy under the bar, just in case a discerning and prosperous customer ever wandered in by mistake. A galltrit like Snitch, a gray, bat-winged gremlin the size of a human hand, had no trouble sneaking up and raiding the supply, then slipping back to his hidey-hole undetected. Licking his chops with his long tongue, relishing the aftertaste of the liquor, he was just about to resume his post, a shadowy depression in the dilapidated wall, when the man in brown and the woman in black and gray walked in.
At first glance, they looked like just another pair of bravos, cleaner and less brutish than some, perhaps, but nothing out of the ordinary save for the fact that Snitch had never seen them before. Still, Avos the Fisher had captured and trained him to be his watchdog when he was only a pup. He’d been spying long enough to develop an instinct for it, and that sensibility told him to observe the newcomers closely. His crimson eyes narrowed, and his big, pointed ears perked up.
For a few minutes, the strangers sipped their ale quietly, seemingly keeping to themselves, but Snitch, a professional eavesdropper himself, sensed that they were attending to the conversations of the other patrons. As time passed, he judged from the subtle way they shifted closer that they were particularly interested in the remarks of a scrofulous tough with symbols of strength and good fortune tattooed on his cheeks and brow. The drunk was boring the taverner with a slurred account of his various exploits as a hired sword.
The willowy woman sauntered up beside him, rested her hand lightly on his, and, when he lurched around to face her, gave him a smile.
“Moon above,” she purred, “I’ve been through a scrape or two in my time, but nothing as dicey as you describe. You just might be the toughest warrior I’ve ever met, and I insist that you do me the honor of letting me buy you a drink.”
Snitch noticed the woman’s companion looking on with a hint of ironic amusement in his green eyes, but the drunk took her flattery at face value. “Sure, darling,” he said, leering, “you bet.”
He tried to throw his arm around her and yank her close, but she evaded the fumbling attempt so deftly that, inebriated as he was, he might not realize she’d even moved, let alone avoided the embrace on purpose.
“I imagine you get hired for all the serious fighting that goes on around here,” the woman said. “Did the Quippers use you on that crew they put together a day or two ago?”
Snitch bared his needlelike fangs. Since no one outside the gang was supposed to know about that particular job, his master would be more than interested to know that strangers were asking questions about it. The galltrit waited until none of the humans was looking in his direction, then spread his membranous wings, sprang from his perch, and flew out the door.
Shamur and Thamalon trudged down yet another twisted alley in search of the next tavern. The cold wind whistled down the narrow passage. The snow began to fall a little harder.
“Another miss,” Thamalon grumbled, “and I daresay the oaf with the tattoos would have confided in you if he’d known anything. Your imitation of a lickerish trollop was quite convincing.”
“You’d know, wouldn’t you?” she snapped.
“Ah,” he said, “I see we’re back to decrying my venery.”
She felt a pang of guilt. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I do that, either. Plainly, you don’t deserve it. Everyone in our circle takes lovers, and no one regards it as shameful, or indeed, anything but natural. Even the cuckolds and forsaken wives don’t care. Why should they, when they’re dallying with paramours of their own?”
“You never did,” he said, “at least as far as I know.”
“No.”
“Another way of spiting yourself, belike.”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Perhaps I simply realized that if my masquerade made it awkward to be intimate with you, I’d likely have the same problem with any other man.”
“I’ll tell you a secret,” he said. “When we first married, I didn’t want the same kind of half-hearted union as our peers. I intended to forsake all other women and devote myself to you alone. But later, when you rebuffed me …” He shrugged.
“Of course,” she said glumly. “Why shouldn’t you seek the beds of other women, when I appeared so averse to having you in my own?” She sighed. “Tazi asked me that very question once. Of course, I refused to discuss the matter like a human being. I went all cold and haughty, the way I usually do with her.”
He grunted. “I can’t say I’m sorry. I see no reason to burden the children with every sad detail of our travesty of a marriage, although I suppose they must realize—” He stopped abruptly to stare down the alleyway.
Shamur did the same. Bullies armed with slings, cudgels, and blades were slinking out of doorways and up cellar steps.
“Well,” she said, “it would appear that once again, some busybody has seen fit to alert someone else that two outsiders are poking their noses in where they don’t belong.”
“I’d rather not fight if we can avoid it,” Thamalon said. “They have us outnumbered, and with those slings, they could bring us down before we ever came into sword range.”
“I agree,” she said. “Let’s try to get out of here.”
They turned and strolled back in the direction from which they’d come, resisting the urge to look behind them or run headlong, lest they provoke the bravos into charging. Meanwhile, Shamur listened intently, trying to judge whether the toughs were quickening their pace to close the distance.
Suddenly she heard a thrumming, and a split second later, a sling bullet whizzed past her ear. She and Thamalon broke into a sprint, zigzagging to throw off the aim of the slingers, and the bullies shouted and pounded after them.
A lead pellet cracked down into the frozen earth behind her. Her foot skidded on a patch of ice, but, her arms flailing, she managed to stay on her feet. Then another contingent of sneering bravos stepped into view ahead of her and Thamalon.
Now trapped between two groups of enemies, the Uskevren peered wildly about. Finally Shamur spotted a gap between two tenements. The crumbling brownstones had slumped toward one another, bringing their upper stories into contact, but a space remained at ground level.
“This way!” she shouted, and she and Thamalon scrambled toward the murky tunnel. Sling bullets hurtled all around them, but miraculously, none found its mark. She darted into the gap, and he followed. The corridor was so cramped it would have been impossible to run side by side.
It would take a good marksman to sling a missile down such a passage, but it could be done. Shamur feared she and Thamalon had a few seconds at most to find an exit before another barrage of pellets hurtled at their backs. She had all but given up hope of doing so when a gap in the wall to the right swam out of the gloom.
She plunged around the corner and found herself at the terminus of another alley. As she and Thamalon ran down it, the thudding footsteps of their pursuers echoing behind them, Shamur realized she had no idea where the passage was taking them, for both she and her husband were strangers to the Scab. They would have to flee blindly, uncertain which of the labyrinthine paths led out of the rookery and which looped back around to their points of origin. Whereas the enemy doubtless knew the slum intimately, down to every shortcut, twist, and turn. She suspected the bullies might not have much trouble keeping track of their quarry, getting ahead of them, or herding them wherever they wanted them to go.
Sure enough, the nobles sprinted around a bend and found several ruffians waiting. Instantly, the enemy whir
led their slings. Shamur and Thamalon wheeled and retreated. They heard other foes rushing up from that direction, and scrambled down another branching passage.
It went on like that for a long, wearisome time, until both nobles were panting and drenched in perspiration. Whenever Shamur thought she’d spotted a route to safety, toughs would appear to cut them off, and they had to flee back deeper into the Scab. She was grateful that at least the ordinary inhabitants of the rookery didn’t seem interested in aiding the Quippers, but they were evidently too leery of the gang to try to help their intended victims, either. Whenever the hunted or hunters approached, the poor darted into their homes, slammed and barred the doors behind them, and peeked out between the nailed boards or rickety, crooked shutters on their windows.
At last the Uskevren staggered into a malodorous little courtyard, where beady-eyed rats rustled through piles of festering trash. Three other alleyways led away from this spot, and, by now thoroughly disoriented, Shamur had no notion which one to take. Since for the moment, none of the Quippers seemed to be right on their heels, she paused to take her bearings and catch her breath.
Thamalon slumped against a soot-stained wall. “We did better fleeing through the woods,” he wheezed. “The daylight and these closed-in spaces are killing us. We may have to try to fight, and the odds be damned.”
“Perhaps,” she said, shivering and drawing her cloak about her. Now that she’d stopped running, the wind was doing its best to freeze her sweaty tunic. “If we have to make a stand, let’s do it somewhere they can only come at us from one direction, and only one or two at a time. But I consider that the option of last resort.”
“Agreed. And wife, whatever happens, I want you to know one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“I blame you for our predicament. If you recall, I suggested we go home.”
For a moment, she bristled, then realized he’d made a joke. “Don’t be a spoilsport,” she said, grinning. “Home is dull compared to this.”
The Shattered Mask Page 20
