“Atrocious?”
“Besides that.”
“Mmm. Historical?”
“That’s it: It’s more of a historical. Well, more a commentary, if truth be told. On the Despotate, of all things. Lines and lines and lines of explanations, of exposition, of exclamations about the nature of some ancient despot and politics and—”
“It goes on,” said Ezak.
“Precisely.” Tobin glanced about and waved me closer. When I didn’t move, he bent his head and leaned in. The picture of a conspirator. “Now, I was thinking,” he said. “If you were to tell Heron that it doesn’t work for us—don’t mention anything I’ve said here: For all we know, the hack who penned this may be a state treasure, Angels help us—rather, say we’re afraid we won’t get the proper feel for the piece since we’re not Djanese. That we won’t do it justice. Or maybe that—”
I folded my arms. “You were there when he handed it over,” I said. “You heard what he said. The wazir picked the play out himself. Do you honestly think they’re going to give a damn whether it fits your ‘style’?”
Tobin straightened. “I would hope that he’d respect a troupe’s desire to present its best face before the padishah.”
“He’s going to understand that you’re bitching and complaining and trying to get things your own way. And, if I’m lucky, he’s going to tell me to go to hell. If I’m not so lucky, he may simply tell us to get out.”
“I don’t—”
“Listen,” I said. “I know we’re being dealt shit, all right? And I know you aren’t happy about it. I’m on my way to see Heron right now, and the way I see it, I can do one of two things: I can either ask for more time or ask for another play. Considering we only have a handful of days before we’re supposed to perform, I can’t think that asking for a completely new work—one which might even be worse, or take days to get, or both—is the better dodge.”
Tobin’s displeasure was truly epic in its scope. I could see why this man was on the stage. “So you’re saying you won’t even try?”
“I’m saying I’ll get what I can, but I’m not about to ask for what I can’t get.”
Tobin fumed and scowled and looked ready to argue some more, when Ezak stepped neatly between us. I couldn’t help noticing the move put the staff in front of Tobin’s face.
“Then we’ll take what we can get,” said Ezak, looking directly at his cousin. “And be grateful for it.”
Tobin grumbled a moment more, then turned and stomped back to the inn. Ezak faced me.
“Apologies for the trip,” he said, “but Tobin was going to be impossible until he spoke with you.”
I nodded. “I understand.”
“Good.” He looked over his shoulder at the remaining actor with the staff. “Well, I suppose I—”
“Ezak?”
“Yes?”
“My saying ‘I understand’ doesn’t mean it’s forgiven. You know that, right?”
“I—”
I held up a finger. “You get one. That was it. Try to lay wood—or anything else—on me again, and it won’t be my understanding you’ll be wanting at the end of the encounter. Understand?”
Ezak’s mouth compressed into a thin, tight line. “I understand.”
“Good. Make sure your cousin does as well. You know the arrangement: I may be your patron, but I have other business in el-Qaddice—business that’s more pressing than your play. Trust me when I say you don’t want your interests to get in the way of mine.”
“I’ll not forget.”
I turned and left him standing there in the deepening dusk. As I made my way out in the Quarter, I heard the solid thok! of wood striking wood. It sounded harder and faster than before.
Once I got beyond the Quarter’s gates, I quickly realized that while I’d paid attention to the route coming down from the padishah’s estate, navigating in reverse in a town you don’t know, on little sleep, while periodically being looked over—or outright stopped—to be sure you had a patronage token, can be a different thing entirely. Fifteen minutes and three false turns into my trek, I gave in and slipped a pair of copper supps to a street urchin of maybe fourteen who looked to be on the verge of graduating to thug.
The day’s crowds had all but vanished, but I knew that the souks and gardens and wine shops would fill up again once the full heat of the day had left the streets. Most Djanese were at their coffee or baths now, relaxing and gathering themselves for the city’s second wind. With the stars would come late dinners, and even later meetings and assignations. El-Qaddice was a city that ran—at least partly—on my time, a trait I found both pleasing and frustrating at once.
Our path was a bit roundabout, especially since I refused to follow the “shortcuts” the urchin kept suggesting. While they might’ve gotten me where I wanted to go, they could just as easily have ended up with me clubbed, stripped, and abandoned in some backstreet grotto. Urchins in Ildrecca weren’t above making arrangement with various gangs from time to time, and I doubted it was any different here. Regardless of his motivations, my guide stopped urging detours after my fourth refusal.
Still, even with the wider way and the empty streets, I couldn’t help but notice that I was gathering more dark looks than usual. I asked the urchin about it.
“You’re imperial,” he said simply.
“Your people hate us that much?” I said.
“Hate?” he said, looking back at me. “It’s not about hate, it’s about greed.” He pointed at me. “If you weren’t wearing that, you’d be a healthy profit for anyone who managed to bring you in or send the city guard after you.”
I glanced down and realized that, rather than pointing to my sword or knife, he was indicating the brass lozenge hanging about my neck—the wazir’s token of patronage.
“They watch for it that closely?” I said. I’d expected to be stopped at gates between the city’s rings and have the occasional merchant or local Rag demand to see it just to because he could—but to have Lighters on the street looking for it? “How much is the reward for finding someone like me without a token?”
The urchin smiled. “Were you to not have one and I to lead the green jackets to your side, I could live like a prince for a month and more.”
I reached up and ran a careful hand over the token, giving the chain a tug just to be sure. The urchin smiled wider and led on.
By the time we arrived outside the padishah’s grounds, full night had fallen, but you couldn’t tell it for all the lanterns and torches before us. Large, enameled wrought-iron gates spanned a gap wider than the whole of the Angel’s Shadow—including the stables—flanked on either side by spindle-thin towers covered in elaborate carvings. An expanse of colorful glazed bricks extended into the space before the gate, forming a massive half circle on the ground, the colors of the bricks blending to depict a giant phoenix, the symbol of the padishah’s household. Guards resplendent in silk arming coats and tall-plumed turbans patrolled the towers and gate, the torchlight glinting equally off their acid-etched spear heads and the jewels in their turban pins.
I dismissed the urchin with another coin and walked up to the gate. A bored-looking guard captain—or, at least I assumed he was a captain, given the cloth of silver sash around his waist and thumb-sized opal in his turban pin—wandered over and regarded me from behind a colorful iron hummingbird.
“I’m here to see Secretary Heron.”
“Poet?” he said, glancing at the medallion on the matching bronze chain.
“Acting troupe.”
He motioned over his shoulder with his chin. “Nonpoets shielded by the wazir have to use the Dog Gate on the west side of the estate.”
We, of course, were standing on the east side of the estate.
He began to turn away.
“What if I said I was also a poet?” I said.
He turned back, a resigned look on his face. “Then I’d ask you to compose something on the spot to prove it.” He looked up at the gate. “Somet
hing depicted on this, probably. Something complicated.”
“And if my poem didn’t meet your standards?”
“We scrub the blood off the bricks every morning.”
It took me another half an hour to wend my way to the Dog Gate. I discovered it was named so on account of the padishah’s kennels being located next to it; that, and because the kennel masters made a habit of throwing scraps over the wall, meaning the small, irregular square before the gate was filled with packs of street hounds, not to mention their droppings.
The guard here was more officious than those at the main gate, which made no sense. Then again, when a person’s in charge of watching over dogs and their shit, I suppose one clings to whatever dignity one can.
“You’re late,” he said, staring down his nose at me. “I was told to expect you at dusk.”
“I like to think of this time of night as dusk simply wearing a darker cloak, don’t you?”
Not even the hint of a grin. Fine. I could play that way, too.
“Look,” I said, shaking my right boot in an attempt to get a particularly stubborn piece of dog shit off it, “Heron wants to see me, all right? He told me to come. Explicitly. Now, if you want to be the one who tells him you turned me awa—”
“The noble secretary already sent word; you’re not to be admitted.”
I stopped working on my shoe. “Has he, now?”
Now the guard decided to grin. “He doesn’t tolerate tardiness. Or,” he said, looking down at my shoes, “poor hygiene.”
I considered the guard, the gate, the height of the wall. It could be done: He was close enough for me to be able to reach through the bars, grab hold, and introduce him to my dagger. Then it would be up and over the bars. This near the kennels, any noise probably wouldn’t even be remarked on. From there, I could stick to the shadows, grab a servant, and put the blade to him to locate Heron’s ken.
Except I knew better. Tempting as it might be to my fatigue-edged temper to take out my frustrations on Heron and the guard, breaking into the padishah’s estate, let alone dusting one of his men, wouldn’t do anything other than make my life in Djan harder.
But, damn, it would feel good.
I shook my head. Angels, did I need some sleep.
“Fine,” I said. “Just give me whatever he sent along and I’ll fade.” Late or not, I couldn’t see Heron leaving us short on our account at the inn: As he had said, it was the wazir’s responsibility to watch over us while we wore his tokens. Besides, he’d said he would send along some ahrami.
The guard frowned and shifted his feet slightly. “You come late and expect the secretary to send gifts?” He took a firmer hold on his spear. “Get out of here.”
I wrapped one hand around the plain ironwork of the Dog Gate and made a show of scraping my shoe off on one of the lower bars. The guard’s scowl deepened.
“My apologies to the secretary for my tardiness, then,” I said. “Let him know I’ll do my best to be on time tomorrow.”
“I’m not your messenger,” said the guard. “I’ll be damned if I—”
This time my hand did reach out and grab him, pulling him close enough for my dagger to find his side—but not to enter it.
I leaned in close, the tip of my blade pushing the cotton of his uniform coat—no silk for the Dog Gate guard, I noted—into his ribs. I could smell fresh ahrami—my ahrami—on his breath. “You’re whatever the fuck I say you are,” I said through the bars. “Now, where’s the package Heron sent along with his message for me?”
“Package?” he said, a bit too quickly. “I told you—”
“Let me explain how this works,” I said. “Either you give me what’s mine or I call for your captain. Your captain goes through your things. He finds the money and whatever else Heron sent. Maybe he believes you, maybe he believes me; I don’t really care. Because, either way, when someone finally gets around to dragging the secretary down here—and they will, since I’ll scream my damn head off and invoke the wazir’s patronage until they do—you won’t have to worry about me anymore; you’ll have the secretary to answer to.” I pushed the dagger a bit harder. “How’s that sound?”
I watched as the color fled his face in the lamplight.
“I thought so,” I said. I yanked on his coat once, forcing his forehead into the bars. The iron clanged dully, and the guard grunted. “Now get me what Heron sent.” I looked down at my boots. “And give me your sash while you’re at it—I’ve been told I need to take better care of my ‘personal hygiene.’”
Chapter Twenty
I left the Dog Gate as the night was beginning to pick up in the Old City. Lanterns flared, torches burned, and Djanese Mouths juggled tiny rainbows and offered to sell charms to the crowds to light their way.
The displays played hell on my night vision, and I found myself drifting toward the back streets despite the greater risk. That helped a bit, but even here lights burned and revelers shouted, neither of which did much good for the budding ache at the back of my head. Part of the sensitivity, I knew, was simple fatigue; but just as much was coming from the charge the ahrami was giving me.
As I’d hoped, Heron had not only left our daily stipend with the guard; he’d also included a down payment on the ahrami he’d promised me. A letter had chastised me—mildly—for missing the appointment, but I got the impression that Heron had half expected me to get lost, or distracted, or the like. Our next meeting, he’d written, would be in two days’ time, and this one I was expected to make.
As for the requested extension of the performance date, there was no mention. I chose to read the silence as a ploy to keep me hungry, rather than him avoiding bad news. Either way, though, it meant we’d have to operate on the old timetable until we heard otherwise.
Tobin wouldn’t like that. Tough shit: Neither did I.
I slipped two more ahrami into my mouth, bringing the total up to six—or was it seven?—since I’d left the padishah’s gate. I could feel my pulse surging at my temple now. Soon enough, the flush of those latest seeds would pass, and that thrumming would become a steady beat of pain.
What I needed, I knew, was sleep: What I was going to get, though, was another night full of seeds and coffee and questions. Rest would come in the morning, when both the back alleys and my night vision went to bed.
I paused on a few street corners, stopped to watch a handler and his trained fox perform, lost a handful of supps at a street-side mags table, and even managed to find a snake-baiting ring, but all the while, I kept working my way back toward the Imperial Quarter. It’s not that I didn’t want to work the street: I did. It drove me nearly to distraction to have to stick to the streets and alleys, rather than jump to the roofs or dive myself down into the connected cellars and hidden ways that ran through every city, but I was still too fresh to the Old City to slip those paths yet. Without a guide, or a name to use as my passport, the odds of me stumbling across trouble rather than answers was high. And while I might welcome the opportunities even the occasional bit of bluff and blood could lead to, I wasn’t about to pursue them with Heron’s ready, not to mention my stash of ahrami, still on me for the plucking.
I slipped back into the Imperial Quarter with a nod and a pair of small bribes for the guards at the gate—one for the Djanese patrol on the outside, and another for their imperial counterparts standing just within the sally port. I made a mental note to see if the same swads were on duty every night. If so, it would likely be cheaper to pay them for a week at a time, rather than on a nightly basis, to forget my comings and goings.
Unlike portions of el-Qaddice, the Imperial Quarter was dark and quiet. Oh, taverns still spilled light out into the darkness and late-night hawkers chanted out wares—and offers—from street corners, but the level of activity didn’t compare. Just as the walls separated Imperial from Djanese, so did they lock out the differing schedules. Both peoples might share the same sky, but it was clear that, at least in the empire’s case, we weren’t about to bow
down to it. Here in the Quarter, food and clothing and weather aside, the empire still held sway.
Or so we wanted to think. Me, I knew better, as did the two Cutters who stepped out in front of me five blocks from the Angel’s Shadow.
I stopped. They smiled. They were the same coves that Fat Chair had sent to escort me to his sedan chair.
Well, shit.
It was a good place for an ambush: We were on a narrow street, well past one curve and not quite to another, meaning no one would be able to see us from farther along the way. The walls were blank on either side, with the only opening being a gated archway several feet past my ambushers. I looked over my shoulder; sure enough, there was two more figures back there, too. And I could guarantee we were outside whatever perimeter Fowler had managed to set up.
I looked back and forth, judging distances, and checked the walls again: tall, with smooth tops shining in the moonlight. That was good, in that it meant they likely didn’t have broken shards of glass and pottery cemented atop them to keep people like me out, but bad in that the walls were too tall and smooth for me to do anything with. Maybe if I had some rope and a crawler’s crown, but a grapnel wasn’t something I’d planned on needing tonight.
Metal hissed as steel cleared leather. I turned back the way I’d been going to see the native tough holding a short, straight Djanese duelist’s sword in one hand and a brass buckler in the other. The imperial Cutter beside him had a slightly longer, thinner blade. Behind me, I’d already seen a brace of small axes and a short, ball-headed mace and knife.
None were rapiers by any means, which gave me the advantage of reach, but considering the circumstances, that didn’t count for much.
I cleared my sword and drew my boot knife, making sure the moonlight slid along their lengths as I did so. Where the hell was Degan, or even Wolf, for that matter, when I needed them?
“We have a message for you,” said the man with the sword and buckler.
Sworn in Steel Page 25
