Sworn in Steel

by Douglas Hulick

  “How hard is it to arrange for patronage?” I said.

  “For established merchants or diplomats? A small matter: A handful of atrociously large bribes and a promise or two usually suffice. But for a Gray Prince and Nose?” He shook his head. “The purpose behind patronage is twofold: to maintain the old trade monopolies of the merchant tribes, and to discourage casual espionage. None of the merchant sheikhs have any reason to vouch for you, and I don’t think you will find a prominent citizen willing to affix his name to a letter that makes him responsible for your actions. The Wandering Family knows I wouldn’t tie my fortune to you like that.”

  “Yes, but you know me.”

  “True, but we’re not talking about the misfortunes of my life right now. We’re talking about yours. And the simple truth is, without the proper letters of passage, you won’t be able to enter el-Qaddice. It is, in many ways, a closed city when it comes to unknown or questionable Imperials.”

  “Like thieves and former Noses.”

  “Just so.”

  I leaned forward and pushed my coffee cup around on the table. Between what I had drunk and the seeds I’d been slipping since finding Jelem, my hands had taken on a mild tremor. I wouldn’t be coming down for a couple of hours yet, but when I did, it wouldn’t be pretty. I needed to get as much done between now and then as I could.

  “What about forging them?” I said, making sure my voice didn’t carry.

  Jelem arched an eyebrow, considering. “It’s possible,” he said, “but you have to understand that we Djanese do not look upon documents the same way as you Imperials. Especially not official ones.”

  “How so?”

  “For you, it is a matter of what the paper says, what it allows you to do as defined by your laws; for us, it is more about who has affixed their name to the paper, as well as the splendor of the document. In Djan, important documents look important; the contents are tertiary at best. Even minor officials go out of their way to embellish their certificates and reports. As for something like a letter of passage . . . well, it’s complex. There’s an elaborate formulary specific to each writer’s house and tribe. The ornamentation, illumination, and calligraphy that go into something like that are no small thing—and doubly so for a letter granting access to el-Qaddice. Gold leaf, elaborate seals, precious inks and dyes, even the blending of the fibers of the paper itself, are all carefully proscribed for each patron. The letters are works of art.”

  “And art can be hard to forge,” I muttered.

  “Especially on short notice.”

  “How long would it take?”

  Jelem shrugged. “Much would depend on the patron, the style of embellishment, the cost and availability of materials . . .”

  “Jelem, how long?”

  “If it all came together quickly? A week, likely more.”

  I didn’t think I had a week—not with Wolf breathing down my neck.

  “There has to be a way,” I said. “No city is that tightly shut, especially not one as big as el-Qaddice.”

  “Of course not,” said Jelem. “But the Zakur have no reason to welcome a foreign crime prince, and you don’t have the contacts to grease the other mechanisms that could get you in. Perhaps if the empire and the Despotate were not growling at each other quite so loudly right now it would be easier, but unless you have an in with a respected caravan master or suddenly learn to play the tambour and join a minstrel troupe, I can’t see an easy way into the city for you.”

  “Shit.” I turned, ready to call for a new pot of coffee, when I caught myself. “Minstrel troupe?” I said. “Why would a minstrel troupe be able to get in to el-Qaddice?”

  Jelem waved a dismissive hand. “The sixth son of the despot, Padishah Yazir, considers himself a patron of the arts. He’s made an arrangement with his father—more like nagged him into acquiescence, if truth be told—to extend the padishah’s patronage to various musicians and sculptors and poets, so they may more easily enter the city. He has a vision about turning el-Qaddice into a haven for the New Culture, as he calls it. No one knows what this means, but my sources tell me that, at present, it consists mainly of poseurs and vagabonds using the padishah’s patronage to stuff their bellies and empty his purse.”

  “And he just gives this patronage away?”

  “So I’m told.”

  “To artistic poseurs and vagabonds?”

  “On a good day.”

  “Tell me,” I said, leaning forward, a smile forming on my lips, “how does Padishah Yazir feel about actors?”

  “No,” said Tobin. “Absolutely not.”

  “And why the hell not?” I said.

  “Djan?” said the troupe leader, making a broad gesture toward what I expect was supposed to be Djan. I didn’t bother to point out that he was gesturing west, not south. “Djan?” he said again. “Deserts, sir! Bandits! Nomads! Not to mention Djanese who speak . . . Djanese. Which, I might add, we do not.”

  “Pallias’s troupe made a circuit of the Despotate a couple years back,” observed Ezak. He was leaning up against the wall on the far end of the hayloft, calmly looking down a length of ash he’d been shaping into a staff. Judging by the pile of fine shavings at his feet, he was down to the finishing work. Between him and us, the rest of the troupe was seated on the floor or the hay, their heads moving back and forth with the conversation like spectators at a game of court hands.

  “And what did they get for it?” huffed Tobin. “Lost for a month, and then relegated to hamlets and trading towns. And the bribes! Don’t even get me started on the bribes Pallias had to pay to those thieves masquerading as despotic officials.”

  “And how is that different from some of our tours in the Empire?” said Ezak.

  Mumbles among the troupe, both for and against.

  “There’s water in the empire,” snapped Tobin. “And Imperials. They understand us well enough to pay, at least.”

  “Usually,” amended Ezak.

  “Mostly.”

  Ezak shrugged and ran his small knife down the staff, drawing a thin curl of wood from its surface.

  “The point is,” I said, “I have to travel to Djan, and I need you to come with me.”

  “‘Need’?” said Tobin, rounding on me. “Need? And what, may I ask, is the source of this need?”

  I’d been thinking about how to answer that question for most of the day. From the moment I’d left Jelem, through my conversation with Kells about leaving Ildrecca, then finding Fowler and making her aware of the developing plan, I’d been coming up with possible responses in the back of my mind. Threats, bribes, deals, blackmail, cons—all the usual tools in the Kin arsenal, and I’d discarded every one. I was going to be traveling with these people for over a month, sharing food and water and shelter, at the end of which I was going to be relying on them to get me into el-Qaddice. And while I could start out the journey easily enough with lies or threats as a motivator, the odds of them still being effective when we reached el-Qaddice were another matter entirely. A month is a long time to prop up a lie or keep an edge on fear, and I didn’t want to risk things falling apart in the middle of Djan. Far better to take my risks here, at the start, before I’d invested not only time and effort, but hope. Far better to try the truth.

  “I need to get into el-Qaddice,” I said. “I need to . . . talk to someone there. Problem is, I need a letter of patronage to get inside, and I don’t have one.”

  “All the way to Djan for a talk?” said one of the men in the troupe. “Angels, man: Just write a letter. She can’t be that special!”

  Mild laughter. I marked the man, making sure I remembered him, and why.

  “Be quiet, Gauge,” said Ezak, reading my look.

  “And how does our going to el-Qaddice help you get into the city?” said Tobin. “If anything, I’d think it would make it harder. Rather than one letter, you’d need near a dozen.”

  I was opening my mouth to answer when Ezak looked up from his carving and said, “The Prince of Pla
ys.”

  Tobin turned to face his cousin. “What? Of Plays? I thought that was in Assyram.”

  Ezak shook his head. “You’re thinking of the Bey who pays for limericks with silver ingots.”

  Tobin put his hands on his hips. “Are you sure? I thought he was in Tirand.”

  “No,” said a voice from among the troupe. “That’s the countess who likes to hire actors to—”

  “The point is,” I said, raising my voice before the speculation got out of hand, “one of the sons of the despot—the Padishah Yazir—has made it his practice to offer patronage to artists who please him, and that patronage includes access to el-Qaddice.”

  Tobin turned to face me. There was a decidedly avaricious gleam to his eye now. “Patronage, you say?”

  “And more.”

  “I told you: the Prince of Plays,” repeated Ezak, still shaving the staff. “Son of the Despot. Pellias talked about him, remember?”

  “I remember,” said Tobin. “I just thought he was in . . . well, no matter.” He looked me up and down. “And you think we can win this patronage, do you?”

  “I’m willing to travel to Djan to find out.”

  “That’s a large leap of faith,” observed Ezak, “considering you’ve never seen us perform.”

  “I wouldn’t call it so much faith as desperation at this point,” I said. “But considering you were willing to have faith in me when it came to your plays, it only seems fair to return the favor.”

  Tobin and several members began to preen a bit at that; then the old matron, Muiress, cleared her throat in the center of the troupe and cut my legs out from beneath me.

  “Plays we’ve yet to see,” she grumbled, not looking up from her embroidery. “Thief.”

  The smiles that had been blooming in the hayloft faded. The old goat smirked.

  “Good Muiress has a point,” said Tobin. “You ask for a fresh bargain without first having fulfilled the old one. A bargain of a much more serious nature. What say you to that?”

  “I say this bargain is as important to me as your plays are to you.”

  “And yet we are still owed those very plays,” said Tobin.

  “You are.”

  “Just out of curiosity,” said Ezak, now looking up from his staff. “How do you plan to get the plays back?”

  I folded my arms. “I don’t.”

  “What?” This from Tobin. “But you—”

  “I already have them.”

  The building protest whooshed out of Tobin like a gale, followed by a rolling laugh. Smiles bloomed all around the room.

  “My people lifted them from Petyr two nights ago,” I said. Not to mention some of the choicer items they’d found lying alongside the scripts in his warehouse. The trip to Djan wasn’t going to come cheap, after all, and I needed to be ready to cover expenses.

  As for Petyr, any complaints he might have had vanished with him into the harbor. I’d heard Fowler had tied the stones to his legs herself, had whispered Scratch’s name in his ear just before he was pushed off the caïque.

  None of this I shared with the troupe, though. Instead, I merely said, “We managed to get your props, too. And your wagon.”

  Tobin tilted his head back, chuckling with delight. “Oh, well done, sir.” He put his hand on my shoulder, slapped it once, twice. Fortunately, it wasn’t the shoulder that had Degan’s sword riding behind it. “Well done. You had us. For a moment there, I thought—”

  “What?”

  “Well, that you were reneging on your deal.”

  “Reneging?” I said. “Never.”

  “Good, because I—”

  “But changing it?” I leaned in. “Well, that’s another matter.”

  The good cheer that had been filling Tobin’s face drained away like water from a leaky tub. “Change it?” he said, echoing me. “Change it?” The actors, who had begun to laugh and chatter, left off. Voices faded as faces turned to us once more. “We had a bargain—a bargain we honored by getting you into the city. It seems only fitting that you honor your half as well.”

  “It does,” I agreed, nodding. “And I will. But here’s the thing—when my people went to lighten Petyr, they found out that he’d already started selling some of your plays. My guess is that he was figuring you weren’t going to be able to pay, and that even if you did, he’d be able to up the interest enough to claim that you only had enough for whatever he hadn’t sold yet. A shitty thing to do, I admit—but that was Petyr.

  “That aside, though, maybe you can start to see my problem: I’d promised to get you all of your plays, but they weren’t all where they were supposed to be. And as you said, you’d fulfilled your half of the deal; I wanted to do the same. But to do that, I had to track down the other plays and get them back.” I shook my head. “What was I to do? I didn’t want to come back with only two-thirds of a folio and be accused of breaking my word. So I sent my people after them—even went and recovered one myself. The only thing is, that required more effort, more time, and more money on my part. And some of those people who bought your plays? Well, they didn’t want to give up their recent acquisitions. Some of them had to be persuaded.”

  “Persuaded?” said Tobin.

  “Persuaded.” I let the word hang there in the air, gaining weight. I cleared my throat. “But the good news is we were successful in the end. Except.”

  “Except what?”

  “Except I had to go into debt for your plays. To my people. To other bosses.” I leaned in, whispered, “And I don’t like owing people things.”

  Tobin wiped a hand down the side of his pants. “But surely you can’t blame us—”

  I stepped forward, crowding him. Forcing him back.

  “I can do whatever the hell I want,” I said, “because I have your swag. The only reason I haven’t done anything yet is that I gave you my word. And I’m going to keep it. Whatever paper I pulled from Petyr’s warehouse is yours. But.” And here I looked past him, to Ezak and the actors and Muiress, still busy with her sewing. “If you want the rest—the props and the wagon and the other plays—then we need to talk about Djan.”

  Tobin blinked once, twice, and then took a deep breath and gathered himself. I could almost see the role dropping on him as he threw his head back and stood up straight.

  Oh, hell, Tobin—don’t make me knock you down for being an ass.

  He was just getting ready to speak, and I was just adjusting my weight, when Ezak spoke up.

  “Add in your patronage,” he said, “and you have a deal.”

  Both Tobin and I stared at him. Even Muiress turned to look. “What?” I said.

  “You heard me: patronage.”

  “To a thief?” said Tobin. “You’ll have to excuse me, coz, but that seems a bit desperate, even for us.”

  “Haven’t you been listening to him?” said Ezak as he pushed away from the wall. I couldn’t help notice he was still holding the staff; couldn’t help remembering Tobin telling me his cousin was the troupe’s weapons master. “‘My people, my thieves.’ ‘Other bosses.’ We’re not dealing with just any thief here, coz, but a Kin of means. One with people to command.” He smiled knowingly. “A—if I’m not mistaken—prince among his kind. Isn’t that so, Master Drothe?”

  “A Gray Prince?” said Tobin, turning back to stare at me.

  I didn’t bother asking how Ezak had figured it out. My slips in words aside, it wasn’t as if I’d been going to great pains to hide things. And besides, Petyr had been crowing enough about going after me that I expect it was an easy rumor to pick up just about anywhere in Dirty Waters.

  I shrugged and nodded. “A Gray Prince,” I said.

  “You always said you wanted royal patronage, coz,” said Ezak. “This is the best I can do.”

  Tobin scowled. “True, but I meant the kind with a crown and a palace and a private cook.”

  “Our prospects are thin,” said Ezak. “Without our papers, I haven’t been able to present the proper documents to the
Minister of Plays. None of the inns will sign us without one. Plus, it’s getting into late summer, which means most of the taverns are already set for players through fall.”

  “Those prospects sound more than thin, coz.”

  “No thinner than going back on the road, and at least this way, we’d have patronage, not to mention prospects at the end of the road.” Ezak grinned at his cousin’s back. “And besides, wouldn’t you love to prove Pellias wrong about Djan?”

  “Mmm,” said Tobin. “I always have disliked that pompous sack of . . . wind.” He glanced back over his shoulder at the rest of the troupe. Shrugs, nods, shakes of heads, fairly evenly distributed. And Muiress, staring fixedly at her needle and thread. Finally, when she was sure everyone was looking at her, she sniffed and gave a small nod.

  “Well, there it is, then,” said Tobin, turning back to me. “In exchange for your patronage and the return of our property—all of our property—we agree to travel to Djan and perform before the Prince of Plays in your name. Given the nature of the agreement, I don’t think either of us can hope for much better. What say you, sir?”

  What could I say? I reached out and took Tobin’s hand in my own, shifting the grip into the Clasp. “Looks like I’ve bought myself an acting company,” I said.

  They all cheered.

  Oh, Wolf was just going to love them.

  Actors. Angels help me.

  Chapter Eleven

  I sat beneath the shade fly and adjusted the kaffiyeh on my head, as if the patterned cloth could somehow reduce the late-day glare coming from beyond the shelter. With nearly a month of wasteland and desert behind me, you’d think I’d be used to it by now, but the light never seemed to dim, never seemed to change, save at sunrise and sunset. It was either day or night out here, without cloud or haze or roof or laundry line to interrupt the relentless openness. A vast bowl of sand and stone beneath an equally vast bowl of sky and heat. Or cold, if the sun was down. Except for the occasional dry riverbed or stone-capped well or crawling beetle, there’d been little to see and less to do, save drink, eat, sleep, and survive.