by Neil McGarry
They were both quiet for a moment, then Duchess brought the conversation to more comfortable ground. “May I see your work now? I’ve heard much about it.”
Jana paused a moment, watching Duchess intently. Then, as if reaching a decision, she rose and went to a large wooden box, from which she took several bundles of cloth. She held these out for Duchess’ inspection. The first was a thin shawl that at first appeared merely crimson but upon closer examination was woven from threads in a half-dozen shades of red, cunningly blended into a subtle but distinct pattern. Duchess fingered the cloth, which was smooth and light. “Is this silk?” she asked, wondering. She hadn’t worn that fabric since she lived in her father’s house, but she remembered how it felt. Some of the highborn who came to Market Square wore it.
Jana shook her head. “Wool.” Duchess blinked, and the Domae nodded. “Yes. My aunt showed me how to card the wool and spin the thread so it is much lighter than wool I have seen in Rodaas.” Duchess was amazed; not only was Rodaasi wool much rougher, but it almost never appeared in such a nuanced blend of colors. In the city, red was red or it was not. She gestured at the rest of the cloth, which Jana obligingly held up for her inspection. There was more of the impossibly fine wool in blues and greens and yellows, some with beads and others with small pieces of clear glass cunningly stitched. “If someday I am able to have more money, I will have glass made in colors, but for now...” She spread her hands.
Duchess sat back, hands on her knees. “Jana, this cloth is...incredible, as good as any silk or damask that I have ever seen. You say your aunt showed you how to do this?”
Obviously flattered, Jana nodded. “Yes. My aunt showed me all of the things a woman must know.”
A thought occurred to her. “Jana, there are other Domae women in Rodaas...can they all weave cloth like this?”
Jana shook her head. “My aunt comes from a long line of weavers, and they share their secrets only with their own. Adelpha had no daughters, and my mother died when I was small, so she passed her secrets to me.”
At that, Duchess felt a pang. Her own mother had passed away when Duchess was very young, and she remembered her only vaguely. She shook her head, dismissing the memory. “There are women in this city who would commit murder for those secrets,” she said, only half-joking. “I never expected to find such beauty...here.” She indicated the door and the Deeps beyond as they sat again and took up their cups.
Jana smiled sadly. “I never expected to bring beauty...here. But I am glad you like it.” Her smile died. “But the weavers’ guild will not have me, and if they learn that I am selling to edunae — Rodaasi — there could be trouble for us both.”
Duchess looked at her reflection in the last of the tea, then drank it. She looked up into Jana’s expectant expression, the Domae’s eyes somehow both guileless and wary at once. She suddenly realized how much she’d missed sitting and talking without worrying. This simple exchange had been easier than any she’d had with Lysander since...
She suddenly felt a flash of anger, and she placed her hands on her folded legs and made a decision.
“I’m not here just to buy a few pieces of cloth, Jana,” she said. “As it happens, I’m looking for a good investment, and after seeing your work I’m more convinced than ever that this is it.” Jana’s brows contracted at investment, so Duchess sought to clarify. “You have great skill, and I have gold and connections within the city. I can get you a place to work in a safer area, and permission from the guild to sell your cloth to anyone with the coin to buy.” Even as she was saying the words she wondered how she’d ever make good on her promise, but she pushed those worries aside. She hadn’t gotten on the Grey by playing it safe, and she didn’t intend to start now. “I can even introduce your work to Rodaasi who have never heard of it. You’ll make money, and in return we’ll share the profits. A partnership.”
Jana seemed to consider this. “These arrangements happen amongst my people as well, where two combine their talents as one.” She traced a line around the rim of her cup with a tentative finger. “But these partnerships are usually between family and not strangers. And I do not want to offend, but my time in this place has taught me...that sometimes deeds do not follow words.” The admission seemed to make her uncomfortable, but Duchess admired her for saying it. Unschooled in Rodaasi ways Jana might be, but she was wise not to trust too soon.
Duchess grinned. “You’re in the city of the soulless...of course you’re uncertain. You’ll just have to trust my deeds and not my words.” She met the other woman’s gaze squarely. If Lysander were too busy for Duchess, perhaps she should be busy herself. “If I get you permission to operate from the guild, would you consider my offer?”
“How can you do this? The guild turned me away because I am Domae, and you cannot change that.”
Duchess remembered how impossible the task of stealing the baron’s dagger had seemed when Hector laid it before her. And it had been nearly impossible...until she did it. “Jana, although you may not think so, I am a bit of an outsider as well, and I know about closed doors. I’ll speak to the guild and convince them to open one for you.” When Jana still seemed unconvinced, she added, “Ask around about Duchess of the Shallows and you’ll learn that I am a woman who gets what she wants.”
Jana was silent for a long moment, and Duchess found herself tensely holding her breath. Finally, the Domae woman bowed her head. “If you could make the guild accept me, I would know that you were — ” she paused, as if searching her mind for the words “ — a woman of trust, edunae or no.” She went back to the wooden chest and produced a wide, fringed purple scarf. She handed this over and Duchess found it as silky smooth as the other cloth. “And you shall know me by my deeds. This must be yours.” Duchess reached for her purse but Jana forestalled her with one brown hand. “This is – I do not know the right word in your tongue – a promise-gift,” she said. “It is given along with one’s word, the promise made real in the world. Such a gift binds the one who makes the promise and reminds the one who accepts it. As now it will bind you and remind me.”
Duchess found herself swallowing against a sudden lump in her throat. She had not received such a heartfelt gift in a long time. She nodded gratefully, surprised by the sudden rush of emotion, and rose to leave. “Then it seems we both have something to do. I have a guild to persuade, and you — ” she swept a hand around the small, crowded room “– will soon have a lot of work to do.”
* * *
She nearly skipped down the swaying wooden stairs, buoyed by schemes and hope. The cloth was lovely, the finest she’d encountered since she’d been Marina Kell. She ran her hand over the scarf one last time, then folded it carefully into a pocket. Wool was far cheaper than silk, and if Jana could produce it quickly, and if Duchess could bring it to the attention of the right people...well, a river a gold would flow, and Duchess would ride that particular current as far as it would take her. Even if the profits were less than she hoped, they might be enough to provide a safer income than stealing. Wearing a gray cloak was all well and good, but for every Naria of the Dark or Looselimb Llarys there were a hundred who ended not as legends but as just another neck in a noose. Heists and thievery, cons and cleverness might strengthen her reputation on the Grey, but a sure, steady flow of coin would strengthen her finances, and let her live longer.
Getting the word out would be important, of course, but perhaps Lysander could help. The aristocracy had an endless appetite for the next new fashion, and Lysander could use his golden tongue to persuade them that Jana’s cloth was it. Perhaps he could even wear some of the cloth, to demonstrate just how lovely the fabric was. He looked good even in soiled clothing. Dressed in Jana’s wool he’d have tongues wagging up and down the hill.
But would he? His absence felt like an ache. He should be here now, should have shown up hours ago. He’d never left word with Daphne or tried to contact her. He’d simply not been there. She hated to think what that might mean.
&nbs
p; She was just stepping down into the street, her mind awash in worry, when she caught sight of the lazy-eyed, frizzy-haired woman and pulled up short. She looked much the same as when she’d swung Duchess into the wall. Duchess had fled from her before, but her annoyance with Lysander and her success with Jana left her feeling bolder. Perhaps talking might save her another run.
“Didn’t we just go through this?” she sighed. “The boots are mine, and if you’d just – huh!” She scrambled out of the way just as the woman’s hand lashed out in a great roundhouse slap that would have sent her to the cobbles. So much for negotiation. She’d been a fool to come down here alone, she thought as she regained her balance. Even in Lysander’s absence she might have paid Zachary or one of the other Tenth Bell Boys to escort her. She risked a glance around at the street, which was empty even though the sun was at its cloud-obscured zenith. Not that she expected any help here in the Deeps, but you never knew.
The time she’d been thinking she should have been dodging, and the woman’s next swing caught her ringingly on the side of the head. Duchess’ hair was long and thick, but not quite enough to cushion the blow that sent her reeling to the side. Duchess was no stranger to tussling — when she was younger she and Lani had had some fine old fights — but Noam’s eldest daughter had never hit so hard. As the woman seized her by the front of her jerkin, Duchess decided she’d had quite enough.
“Take ‘em off,” the woman growled, yanking her close. Duchess smelled stale breath and unwashed hair. “Take ‘em off and I’ll let you keep your – ” She froze.
“Knife?” Duchess suggested, holding her blade to the woman’s neck. “Why don’t you just calm down before someone gets hurt?” She pressed ever so gently, and the woman’s eyes flicked toward the blade she could not quite see. She relaxed her grip and Duchess pulled away, keeping her knife between them. “The only way you’re getting my boots is right in the face.” She pointed at her own cheek. “I’ll give you a bruise to match this one.” The woman made as if to charge and Duchess flicked her blade out towards the woman’s eyes. “Careful now,” Duchess warned. “I’ve been cutting Shallows thieves since you were just a small, ugly ogre. If you want to grow up to be an old ugly ogre, you’ll tromp right back into whatever hole you came from, or else you get the blade and not the boots.”
“Or maybe we’ll take both, then,” came a voice from behind. She whirled to see a man, even larger than the woman, slide out from between two buildings, blocking her way back to the Shallows. He was unarmed but each of his hands looked large enough to grasp her entire head. “Your coin as well, and maybe you in the bargain. I’ve only had this one recently.” He nodded towards the woman. “Not easy fucking someone who looks two places at once.” He guffawed at his own joke and advanced a step.
Fear lanced through her, and she turned sideways to keep them both in view. The woman she could have handled with her steel, but not both together. The woman moved to flank her, and Duchess pivoted, keeping one blade at the ready and drawing the second from her boot.
“How many of those godsdamned things you got?” the man spat as he circled around as well, and she realized that no matter which way she turned one would be at her back. So stupid to have come down here by herself, stupid, stupid...
A call from above caught her attention. She risked a glance up and caught sight of Jana, a blaze of color at the top of the stairs, her arms crossed and wearing a grim look, so strange on her delicate features. “There will be no fighting at the bottom of my stairs,” the weaver said sternly, not in the least frightened. Duchess gaped at her audacity, and was even more amazed to see her attackers edging away.
“Bloody witch,” muttered the woman, looking between Duchess and Jana. She looked at the man as if for support, but he was already fading back into the alley whence he came, clearly in no mood to continue the confrontation. Duchess narrowed her eyes and raised her blades, and after a long moment, the woman evidently decided that a witch and two knives was one danger too many. With a curse she too retired into an alley and was gone.
Duchess released a pent-up breath and looked back up at Jana, who simply nodded and disappeared back into her apartment. She had wondered how a petite, polite weaver lived in the Deeps without trouble, and now she knew. A reputation for sorcery evidently went a long way. It might also explain why the Domae in the city had been unwilling to say much about Jana, she reflected, sheathing her knives. Still, whatever Jana was, the assistance had been welcome. Duchess turned and hurried back along Beggar’s Way towards the Shallows and safety.
As she climbed the hill, she made two resolutions. The first was that this was the first and last time she came into the Deeps by herself, day or night, knives or no knives.
The second was that she was going to have to get someone to frune that she was a witch.
Chapter Two: Grieving before the bier
“...and I said that if he’d wanted big nipples he should have paid the extra sou for a woman.” Brenn took a triumphant sip from his cup as the rest of the ganymedes roared with laughter. The sound of their mirth was swallowed up by the general cacophony that was a typical night at the Grieving Bier. The bar was thronged, every table occupied with men and women from the Wharves and Shallows, and the back room, where a dice game seemed eternally in play, was standing-room only. Duchess had only occasionally been to the Bier, but for some reason the ganymedes had eschewed the Merry Widow that evening. Lysander had thought the ale house oddly named until Duchess had explained the pun. He’d made a sour face and said the barkeep was better with hippocras than with humor, and in hindsight, Duchess could only agree.
She certainly was in no laughing mood that night. She watched sullenly as Lysander, tall, blue-eyed and golden-haired, laughed along with the rest of the “girls.” When she’d arrived he’d given her swelling cheek a raised eyebrow but said nothing. After leaving the Deeps, she’d spent most of the day asking after him, and had found nothing until running into Deneys and a few of the other ganymedes on their way to the Bier. And now there he sat, with no apology, no explanation. He’d simply put a drink in her hand and turned back to telling stories with the others.
In the noise and the bustle of the evening crowd, hers was the only silence. Lysander’s obvious lack of remorse about missing their appointment and her rashly-made promise to Jana both weighed upon her, and she didn’t have the slightest notion how to deal with either. Both Lysander and the weavers’ guild were an utter mystery to her, although some careful fruning might tell her something of the latter.
“I’ll bet he doesn’t know that half the whores in the Shallows are men anyway!” Deneys, tall and lean, exclaimed, and Brenn tossed the dregs of his cup at him. Squeak, tough-looking but girl-voiced, took cover, and Lysander howled at the waste of good ale.
“The leash didn’t even fit me, but he liked me to wear it, so I — ” Brenn went on. At that, Lysander began barking, which even in her dour mood brought a smile to her lips. He could imitate man, woman or beast with a facility that would shame even the most legendary mummer.
His broken promise had haunted her all along Beggar’s Way and out of the Deeps, and now she watched his insouciance with angry eyes. He, in turn, seemed to have nothing more on his mind than Brenn’s tale of the oddities of his latest client.
She forced her mind back to the problem her trip to the Deeps had revealed. Minette and Uncle Cornelius, although their mannerisms and their methods differed, had at least one thing in common: a good deal of help. The Uncle had his redcaps, stern and fearsome, and Minette her network of contacts, with watchful eyes and pricked ears. Duchess, on the other hand, had only Lysander, or at least she had until this morning. If she hadn’t been alone on Beggar’s Way those thugs might have thought twice about assaulting her.
“And he told me to just close my eyes while he — ” Duchess lost the rest of the sentence as a cheer went up from the back room. Evidently, the house was losing. The ganymedes, in turn, roared with laughter, adding to
the cacophony.
She needed eyes and ears of her own, and muscle to guard her. Minette had once said that in Rodaas enemies were like wrinkles: live long enough and you were bound to accumulate a few The problem, she thought, looking again at Lysander, was trust. Those who dealt in secrets often valued loyalty least of all, and she had to be certain that whoever guarded her back would not sink a knife in it.
She felt cold and awful even in the warmth and cheer of the bar. Her best friend sat across the table and she’d never felt so alone. She needed Lysander’s advice, but didn’t even know how to ask. Worse, she knew better than to bring up any such subject in front of the girls. Deneys was too clever even in his cups, and Brenn, now apparently much recovered from his torment at the hands of the Brutes, gossiped as only a ganymede could. Squeak would of course promise to keep any secret he was told, but like a dog that had had the fight kicked out of it, he would roll over for anyone who patted him. Weary of worrying at her problems, she tried to lose herself in the conversation.
There was enough conversation to lose ten Duchesses. In summer, gossip ripened like wheat, and this season was no exception. Lysander, fresh from the latest round of parties in the countryside, had the most to contribute. Lady Vorloi, he confided, was involved in the beginnings of what appeared to be an escalating war of fetes and feasts, each bigger and grander than the last. Lord Levering was apparently getting deeper and deeper in debt, much to the consternation of his two sons. “I’m sure they’re hoping his life runs out before his money does,” Lysander laughed. Deneys told a tale that the lord of House Davari, one of the oldest in the city with a seat on the Imperial Council, had been caught in a shouting match with his eldest son during a particularly important banquet. Squeak brought up the story of what had happened at Baron Eusbius’ first and only party. The awkward silence that fell told Duchess that Squeak was the only one who hadn’t gotten wind of her personal involvement in that turn of events.
