“So how bad is it?” she asked him.
“The shop is gone. So is most of our inventory. We’ve got nothing but the clothes on our backs and the tools in my pack.”
“Not much,” she said with a small smile. “But we also have each other.”
“True.” Verci couldn’t help but smile back.
“So what can we do?” She pulled her dress close around her legs as she sat down on the clover patch. “I think I can wheedle as much as a month out of Lian before she and Hal kick us out. But only if they think we have a plan.”
“There’s always a plan, love,” Verci said.
“Is there a plan we can tell them?” she asked. “Something tells me that you aren’t going to go for a dockworker job or a clerk’s apprenticeship.”
“Neither of those pay very well, you know,” he said. “Three or four crowns a week to start at best.”
Raych touched him on the leg. He had been pacing nervously; he hadn’t even realized it until then. “We could get by on that. It wouldn’t be easy, but . . .”
Verci interrupted her. “We’ve got a huge debt to pay to Old Spence.”
“The shop is gone, though.”
“That won’t matter, the debt’ll stand,” Verci said. “It might help me to coax him a little about payments. That’s presuming he doesn’t sell the debt to someone else.”
“Like who?” she asked.
“Like someone who doesn’t know us and doesn’t care about our burned-down shop.”
Raych’s face sank. “You do have a plan, though?”
“We do.”
Her eyebrow raised. “Is it your plan or Asti’s?”
“It started as Asti’s, but I think it’s good enough.”
“That doesn’t convince me, Verci.”
“We went to see Missus Holt.” He let that hang there, let Raych drink it in.
“You sure?” she said after a bit. “I mean, I know you wanted to get away from that. I want you away from all that.”
“I know,” Verci said. “Believe me, I know.”
“You know you can’t trust her,” she said.
“I know that all too well,” Verci said. “But she respects business, and she’s got a gig she wants us to do.”
“What’s it going to be?” she asked.
“Don’t know yet,” he said. “We’re supposed to find out more at six bells tonight.”
Raych reached out her hand, and when he took it she pulled him down to the ground with her. She wrapped her arms around him. “I trust your instincts, Verci. You think this is what you have to do, I’m behind you.”
“That means a lot to me, Raych.”
“But stay safe, you hear? You do it smart. I know you can. Even with your crazy brother.”
Verci flinched when she said that. He tried to turn away, cover it, but Raych followed him, her eyes hard on his face. He never could hide things from Raych.
“What is it?” she asked.
“It happened again to Asti last night,” he said.
“What did he do?” Her face was stone.
“Some street kids were roughing up Almer Cort. He went after them and . . . lost it on them. He killed two of them in a blind rage.”
“Verci—”
“I don’t think it’s a problem, Raych.”
“Verci.” She was sterner.
“Last night . . . last night could make anyone snap, Raych.”
“Did you snap, Verci?”
“Well, no, of course I—”
“It’s not safe to work with him, Verci.”
“He’s my brother, Raych,” Verci said.
“He’s dangerous!”
“He’s got a handle on it.”
“Until he snaps again. If we share a home with him and that happens? What am I supposed to do?”
Verci turned away from Raych, not wanting her to see the horror on his face. He couldn’t let her even guess at the image that crossed his mind: the same gruesome, bloody mess he found Asti in last night, except Raych and baby Corsi in the place of the two street rats.
He knew she had a point, but he had to draw this line. “I’ll handle it. I won’t abandon him. No matter what.”
Raych touched the side of his face tenderly. “I know you wouldn’t.” She sighed and looked at the ground. “But I don’t want to be alone with him. And I never want Corsi alone with him.”
Verci nodded. That was fair, he couldn’t deny it.
She got to her feet. “You have any money?”
“A bit,” he said, pulling the purse from his pocket.
“All right.” She took it from him. “When are you meeting Asti to find out about this job?”
“Six bells.”
“Then Lian and I will be back by three bells. And you will stay here with Corsi.”
Verci scowled at her. He wasn’t very pleased at her idea. “Where are you going?”
“To the market.” She patted his face. “I suspect that there will be blackberries today.”
That changed his mood considerably. Raych’s blackberry pie was one of his favorite things in the world. He smiled broadly. “I think that’s brilliant.”
“Your brother isn’t the only one who can make a good plan.”
Five crowns wasn’t a lot of money, but Asti was able to stretch it out to get bathed, shaved, and his clothes laundered. It took a few favors and promises, and a bit of flirting with the laundress girl, but he got it done. He looked and smelled presentable again, which was very necessary when he went into the spice shop.
Poasians were a meticulous people, easily offended. Coming into the shop poorly dressed and unwashed would be seen as a sign of disrespect, an insult. Khejhaz Nafath was not a typical Poasian, but he still carried a lot of his culture with him.
The shop smelled strongly sweet, assaulting Asti’s nostrils as soon as he walked in the door. A bell tied to the inside handle rang as he came in. Nafath came out from the back room. Like all Poasians, his skin was a sickly milk white, his black hair greasy and cut short. Nafath was thin, with a drawn face and spindly fingers. His suit was black, richly embroidered with interwoven symbols.
“Can I help . . . oh, I see.” He gave a disturbing smile, as if the act was a practiced show, impossible for him to do naturally. “Asti Rynax. What a pleasure to have you here. You have finally decided you need the finest spices the world has to offer.”
“No spices, Nafath,” Asti said.
Nafath opened a small jar and held it up to Asti. “Ujete? Excellent in stews, especially ones with root vegetables. Beets, you think?”
“No,” Asti said.
“Of course, you are a meat eater, I can tell by your complexion.”
“Nafath, I said—”
The Poasian ignored him, pulling out another jar. “Rijetzh. Deep richness, even you can appreciate.”
Asti slapped Nafath’s hand, knocking the jar away. Nafath scrambled after it, catching the jar before it shattered on the floor. “Do you have any idea what this is worth, Rynax?”
“I’m looking for information. I think you might have some.”
“For you, Asti Rynax?” He chuckled hollowly as he put the jar back on the shelf. “No, my old friend. For you, I don’t think I have any information.”
“No?” Asti stepped closer, staring hard at Nafath. Poasians didn’t scare easy, but it could be done.
“If I were speaking to Asti Rynax, agent of Druth Intelligence, then I might have information. That was a man worth telling things to. But that is not who has come into my shop, is it? No, I have Asti Rynax, keeper of a tinker’s shop.”
“You think that’s all I am?” Asti snapped.
“Sadly, yes,” Nafath said. Asti shot his hand out, finding Nafath’s bony neck. With practiced ease he lifted the Poasian ma
n off his feet and slammed him against the wall.
“I’m still a dangerous man, Nafath.”
“That was never in doubt,” Nafath wheezed out. Nafath was sweating now. That was the man’s giveaway. He was a Poasian spy, posing as a spice merchant to establish himself in Druthal. For three years he had been a double agent, feeding information to Druth Intelligence, ever since Asti figured out how to flip him over. “But you are a common man as well. You kill me, I’d imagine Druth Intelligence would be even more upset with you. They wouldn’t be content to let you live a civilian’s life. They’d lock you away.”
Asti tightened his grip.
“You are going to tell me what I want to know.”
Nafath choked. “What do you want to know?”
Asti relaxed, letting Nafath fall to the ground. “Last night there was a fire. Deliberately set. You know something about it.”
“Is that all?” Nafath laughed, a dry rasp of a laugh. “You’re worked up over some petty arson?”
“Petty?” Asti snarled. “That was my home, my shop.”
Nafath raised an eyebrow. “This is personal, then. Interesting.”
“What do you know about who set it?”
“Nothing. Frankly, Rynax, I do not pay attention to the petty squabbles of the Maradaine streets. Neither of my masters care very much about that.”
“People live on those streets.”
“I am very aware, Rynax.” He stood up, straightening out his suit. “That fire was only a few blocks from here. My shop and home, even in this stinking pit of an uncivilized city, is dear to me. I would not want it to be collateral damage in someone else’s fight.”
“Whose fight?” Asti asked.
“I don’t know.” Nafath shrugged. Asti ground his teeth. Nafath held up a finger. “I have heard one interesting point, however. The Fire Brigade came far too late, is that right?”
“That’s right,” Asti said. “Running a drill in another part of town, apparently.”
“A drill? That is very interesting. Because not very long ago Holm Yenner—you know who he is?”
“The chief of the Fire Brigade for these neighborhoods.”
“Yes. The very man who would set schedules, and decide to run a late-night drill far away. He recently bought himself a new house and a new carriage. They were, I think, somewhat ostentatious for a man of his salary and position.”
“That is interesting.” Asti nodded his head. “Thank you, Nafath.” He turned to the door.
“Druth Intelligence expelled you for your violent temper, did they not, Rynax?” Nafath called after him. “That is what they called it.”
“You’ve heard right,” Asti said, his hand on the handle of the door.
“I have not said anything about that to my new handlers, my friend. You and I both know that description is not entirely accurate. Yes?”
“It’s their perception of things,” Asti said. He did not turn around to look at Nafath.
“I can see why they think that. How long were you imprisoned in Levtha?”
The question hung like a fog in the room. “Seventeen days,” Asti whispered.
“Seventeen days,” Nafath said. “In that place, that’s a lifetime.”
Quietly Asti opened the door. He almost looked back at Nafath but couldn’t get himself to do it. He walked out of the shop, leaving the stink of Poasian spice behind, just a memory.
Chapter 4
IT WAS THE SEASON for the Maradaine River to be teeming with freshwater mussels; anyone who crawled under the docks could come out with a sack of them. As a child, Asti had run more than one mussel racket to make money. Those were good times.
The more Asti thought about it, the stranger it seemed to think of those times fondly. He and Verci were usually hungry and scraping by, Dad was in and out of Quarrygate, and Druthal was at war. But the war was across the ocean, and the Poasians were a vague fear rather than a real threat. At the time, all it meant to Asti was that there were very few Constabulary on the street, especially on the west side of Maradaine. Nobody bothered him and his crew of kids. Now, most were dead or in Quarrygate.
Kimber had sent some boys down to the river out to collect a few sacks of mussels and she’d made a huge cauldron of mussel stew. She still had a fair-size crowd of refugees from the fire, though most of the displaced had left to stay with family elsewhere in the city. For the refugees, she sold bowls of stew for only two ticks. For anyone else it was six.
Asti was on his second bowl and third beer when Verci came in.
“You’re late,” he said.
“It’s not six bells yet,” Verci returned.
“Almost. Our guy will be here any moment.”
“And I’m here.” Verci sat down at the table with Asti. “Mussel stew?”
“Kimber outdid herself,” Asti said. “You have any money left?”
“A bit,” Verci said. “Why?”
“I think I’ll have to pay for a room tonight. And dinner.”
“Right,” Verci said. He dug a handful of silver and copper coins out of his pocket.
“You want some stew?”
“I ate already.” Verci’s face broke out in a huge grin. “Blackberry pie.”
“You bastard,” Asti said.
“That’s you, brother. Dad finally married Mom when I showed up.”
“Shut it. More stew for me. Beer?”
“Yes,” Verci said. He waved to Kimber and signaled her for a beer.
“So how was your day?” Asti asked.
“My day was far too involved in baby care.” Verci shrugged. “It’s very exhausting. You?”
“Information-gathering.” Asti gave Verci a quick rundown of the things he had learned. Verci listened quietly, sipping his beer once Kimber brought it over. When Asti finished, Verci scowled.
“Something doesn’t track,” he said.
“What are you thinking?” Asti asked.
“Value,” Verci said. “Let’s suppose someone spent a fair bit of coin for a big burn job, and bribing Brigade Chief Yenner. What do they get for it?”
“That’s what we have to find out.”
“We?” Verci’s eyebrows went up.
“You know anyone else who will?” Asti felt the fire in his stomach spark again. He took another swig from his beer to quell it.
“Sounds like Cort showed the Brigade. Let them bring it to inspectors to handle it.”
Asti nodded, but he wasn’t comforted. “If Yenner was bought, an inspector could be. If we could trust that to get very far.”
“Never know. We may get an honest stick.”
“That would be just our luck.” Asti chuckled and finished his beer. “The spark we talked to, he struck me as a decent sort. But I doubt he’s in a position to do much.”
A tall, dark-skinned man walked into the pub, his black hair in thick braids. Ch’omik, in heritage if not in dress. He was dressed in a Druth suit, with a leather hunter’s coat. He carried a large satchel over his shoulder. Asti noticed the man; he’d stand out in any crowd. The man was searching around the room. Asti realized that there was no point even bothering being secretive.
“Oy,” he called out. “Here, mate.”
The man approached. “You two the Rynaxes, then?” His accent was eastern Druthal, either Marikar or Vargox. Asti was never good at distinguishing the accents of those cities.
“Sit down, friend,” Asti said. “Asti and Verci.”
The man joined them at the table. “Kennith Rill.”
“That’s not a very Ch’omik-sounding name,” Verci said.
“How do you think Ch’omik names sound?”
“All sort of guttural and throaty,” Verci said. “What was that one chap called on Ben Choney’s ship?”
“Ka’jach-ta,” Asti supplied.
&nb
sp; “That’s the one.”
“Well, you know all about it then,” Kennith said. He scowled at the two of them. “You knew a guy on a ship once.”
“I’m just saying it sounds odd, mate,” Verci said. He looked over at Asti. “Is Rill even a Druth name?”
“I am Druth,” Kennith said. “I was born in Vargox. Moved downriver a few years ago.”
“East country,” Asti said. All this confirmed what he suspected once Kennith walked in. “Near the border with Kellirac. I’m guessing your parents came to Vargox from Kellirac, probably a little town called Rill, am I right?”
“That’s right,” Kennith said. His eyes were suspicious on Asti. “I don’t consider myself Ch’omik, really.”
“And why should you? Your grandparents or great-grandparents fled Ch’omikTaa and emigrated across the desert to Kellirac.”
“You seem to know a lot about it,” Kennith said.
“Knowing things is my business,” Asti said. “It’s no matter to worry us. Blazes, it’s not like we aren’t the same.” That’s what a lot of North Seleth was: folk who were too Druth for the Little East, but not Druth enough for the rest of Maradaine. He signaled over to Kimber to bring three more beers.
“How are you the same?”
“Rynax isn’t a Druth name,” Verci said. “Neither are our given names.”
“I thought they were a bit odd,” Kennith said. “Are they Racquin?”
Verci shook his head. “Kieran. From what our father told us, he escaped from a Kieran prison camp, fled to Maradaine.”
“Nobody sees you as Kieran, though,” Kennith said.
“You’d be surprised,” Verci said. “We get it from time to time.”
“Speaking of,” Asti said, looking to the door. Nange Lesk and his two friends came in. A third friend was behind them—Kel Essin, decent window-man when he was sober.
Verci turned. “Lesk?”
“He’s nosing around.”
“Wonderful.”
“This going to be a problem?” Kennith asked.
“Hard to say,” Asti said. Lesk and his cronies approached the table.
“Two piries and a chomie,” Lesk hissed. “What sort of trouble could be brewing here?”
The Holver Alley Crew Page 6
