by Neil McGarry
She was hemmed in not by iron bars but ignorance. Ophion rented his men out to any and all buyers, so nearly anyone with gold and a grudge could have sent Malleus and Kakios to smash Jana’s looms and ruin her business. Yet her enemy possessed not only coin but cunning, aiming not to ruin Duchess physically but financially, in the Deeps, far from the protection of law. The worst thought was that the chosen weapon was no coincidence. Ophion had many men, and yet it had been Lysander’s tormentors who had found her.
She had fruned about desperately for an answer and come up empty. If any word had been whispered along the Highway, she had not heard it. Either she was not fruning well enough, or whoever was behind the attack was making sure no news came to her ears. Tyford had once told her that the low man on the Grey Highway was always the last to know, and she wondered if that person was now her.
In the month since Jana had taken up her new abode there had been no further trouble. Duchess had posted Castor at the shop as often as she could afford, and of course the mark of the Red was a powerful deterrent. So far no new threat had materialized. Jana wove, Castor watched, and Duchess worried. She kept at her training with Tyford, continued to spar with Castor in their Deeps cellar, but those activities were drained of pleasure. Her days belonged to numb exhaustion, and her nights to the tiger.
Which is why she registered only dull surprise when Julius walked into the Merry Widow where she was waiting for Lysander. She’d come in hopes that ale would still her thoughts for an evening, and was working on her first mug when he appeared. “If it isn’t her ladyship!” he cried, standing before her, hands on hips. The tavern was crowded but he managed to make himself heard. She hadn’t seen the man since the business with Rosamile’s ring, but if she thought that defeat might have cowed him, she could not have been more wrong.”The last I heard you were becoming a respectable woman of business.” He slid into the empty chair across from her, grinning widely. “The Uncle set you up with that, too?”
She swallowed her retort and tried to seem unruffled. Since she’d rooked him with his own loaded dice, Julius had taken to fruning his displeasure over her victory, accusing her of betraying her own color. Duchess had done nothing in return, hoping her silence was response enough. In the end, she determined that the consensus on the Highway was that Julius had gotten himself outsmarted and out-conned; his carping was merely advertising his humiliation. Still, the whole business was yet another worry she did not need, but she wasn’t certain how to end it.
“Whatever business I’m about is between my partner and me, Julius,” she said pointedly. Grey Julius might be, but that did not mean he could speak poorly about the chief of the Red with impunity. Besides, she had no desire to be linked with the Uncle any more than she already was. “You may wish to frune whatever you’re about across the city and back, but some of us understand the meaning of discretion.” She sipped from her mug, taking the opportunity to scan the tavern. No Lysander yet, gods be damned.
“All that discretion didn’t help you and the weaver, did it? I heard there was some trouble moving up from the Deeps?” He examined his nails, as if speaking off-handedly, but to her eye he seemed terribly eager, as if there was something he couldn’t wait to tell her. Jossalyn, her “sister” for those years at the bakery, had played the same game when she knew Duchess was in Noam’s bad books.
She rolled her eyes. “Let me guess...you were behind all that, right?” In truth, she’d half-considered that possibility, but had dismissed it for one simple reason. Julius was as vindictive a man as could be imagined, but if he’d tweaked her nose he’d want the world to know it, and yet a month after the attack he’d fruned nothing. “Spare me. You’ve been grumbling up and down the hill about that dice game, but nobody’s heard a peep from you about that business with Jana.” She flicked a hand. “I understand your pride is wounded, but even for you this is just...pathetic.”
“You think you know so much,” he mocked, “but some of us who’ve worn the cloak longer know that sometimes things aren’t what they seem.”
She snorted. “How insightful. Well, if it was you, the Brutes failed and you’ve wasted your coin, so unless you’re planning to sing for your ale, I’d suggest you move on.” She nodded towards the portly woman at the bar. “Shari doesn’t like beggars taking up her tables.”
He smirked and jingled his coin purse beneath the table. “Oh, I’ve plenty of coin, even after paying Malleus and Kakios,” he said in a low voice. “I profited from that little venture, I can tell you, even though I couldn’t care less about the Domae slut’s looms.” He laughed, clearly enjoying himself, and now she wondered. She still didn’t think that Julius had set the Brutes on her, but the fact that he knew they’d been after the looms was interesting. She certainly hadn’t fruned that about. She thought of Minette, who sometimes used silence to draw you into revealing more than you intended, or was good for you. In lieu of a reply, she lifted her mug and sipped, never taking her eyes from Julius.
Sure enough, he cracked first. “I wouldn’t waste a half-penny on the likes of you, but when the money comes from higher on the hill, who am I to say no?” He grinned, enjoying his moment, and she fought down the urge to slap the smugness off his ugly face. “You’ve made powerful enemies, one too many, I’d say, and now they’re coming for you.” Julius somehow managed to swagger without rising from his chair. He called for his own ale and sat back to watch her, arms folded across his barrel-chest. She considered. If Julius truly had sent Malleus and Kakios after her, it was curious that he would come to taunt her when they failed. Most would be too embarrassed, yet here was Julius in all his strutting glory. It was as if their loss didn’t touch him personally.
When his ale had arrived, Duchess smiled. “Yes, I’m sure that the empress herself slipped you the gold to hire the Brutes.” She made a yawn. “Julius, I like my lies clever, or at the very least entertaining. This one’s neither. I wonder if you’d have been this disappointing in bed.” She said this last in a voice that carried, and a pair of blacksmiths seated at the next table guffawed laughter. Julius looked darkly in their direction, but they were broad men and thick with muscle, and he said nothing. Timing her move carefully, Duchess got to her feet. “I can hear children’s tales on the street, thank you.”
As she made to leave his hand shot out to seize her wrist in a grip like iron, pulling her back to her chair. Her hip bumped the table, rocking the tankards and spilling ale onto the wood. “Let me tell you one more tale, then, about a Shallows bitch who got so above herself that even Ventaris himself took notice.” Her breath caught, and Julius took that as fear. He grinned smugly. “That’s got you, doesn’t it? You’re scared now, just as you should be. The gods are coming for you, and they’ll have no mercy.”
Realization dawned, and she didn’t bother trying to free herself from his grasp. “You did hire the Brutes, didn’t you?” she said, barely above a whisper. “What did Preceptor Amabilis say when you failed?”
That wiped the smile from his face, and she felt a stab of triumph. “I...you don’t know he paid me!”
“I didn’t until just now, when you so helpfully confirmed it.” It’d been a wild guess, but now it all made sense. Whoever had sent Malleus and Kakios wasn’t bragging about it where the Grey could hear, but if Julius had arranged for the attack he’d have shouted that news from the rooftops. He was far too petty to bother with dark hints and obscure warnings. He retained his grip on her wrist and she used it to reel him in until they were nearly nose to nose, close enough to kiss. “Someone did use you to strike at me, someone who knew about our little quarrel over Antony’s ring, which was common knowledge on the Highway but I doubt was the talk of Temple. Ventaris himself took notice, eh? I know only one radiant who can frune.” She disentangled herself from his slackening grasp. “And so do you.”
He sat gaping, his mouth opening and closing, looking like a fish that had jumped out of the harbor and flopped all the way up the hill. “He said...”
/> His grip had left a red mark on her wrist, which she rubbed. “Julius, can you guess what I’m thinking?” He shook his head, wordless, and she went on with relish. “I’m thinking I could probably earn a dozen marks fruning this one about. A radiant — the preceptor himself, no less — who wears the cloak has been hiring thugs to ambush women in the Deeps. I can just imagine what Minette will say.” Julius paled and she knew she had him. No doubt someone had seen him meeting with Amabilis, and sooner or later that person would hear her tale and confirm it. That would carry the story to every ear in the Shallows...and, with some creative fruning, up the hill as well. The preceptor, she was sure, would take that indiscretion very ill. “But don’t worry, Julius. We have an understanding, you and I.”
He blinked in animal fear. “We do?”
She laughed. “Of course. We’re reasonable people. Not the kind who spread careless rumors. I know I wouldn’t appreciate them spread about me. So unless I hear any more nasty talk about what happened between you and I at the dice game, I think this conversation can stay between the two of us.” She smiled.
One of the smiths at the next table stood. “He bothering you, miss?”
“Not at all,” she said, never taking her eyes from Julius. “In fact, I believe he was just leaving.”
Julius gazed at her for a long moment, eyes alight with thwarted anger, looking as if he wanted to throw his ale in her face. Instead, he settled for rising stiffly, as if he’d injured his back...or his pride. He stalked away, still carrying his mug, and she shook her head and sighed. Perhaps it would have been better if Antony had simply stabbed the man. Then she bought a round for the smith and his companion. That kind of kindness was rare and worthy of reward.
She was mulling over radiants and the Grey when she heard Lysander enter, as usual hailing half the room on his way to her table. “I passed Julius on the way in,” he said, by way of greeting, “and he looked ready to spit blood. I’m guessing you’re the reason.” He sat and neatly stole the last of her ale, grinning.
“Why is it every time someone gets angry it’s my fault?” She signaled for another mug, frowning. “Julius started all this by cheating his customers.”
Lysander laughed. “As I recall you did a bit of cheating yourself that night, Madame One-Shoe.”
“Anyway, that’s over. I’m more concerned with what Julius just told me.” She accepted a new mug of ale from the barmaid while she filled him in on what had happened, and his smile faded like morning fog. “So now I have a radiant against me, and I don’t know why.”
Lysander shook his head. “How does a radiant get on the Grey?” he asked, keeping his voice prudently low.
“Tyford once told me it’s rare, but not unheard of, for the Grey to take high-hill folk into their ranks, and Amabilis must be one of those. Or maybe he joined when he was younger, before he even became a radiant, and just never gave it up. Either way, he’s an enemy.”
“Are you sure he’s your enemy?” Lysander asked abruptly. She looked at him curiously and he sat forward. “The Brutes were after the looms, right? Isn’t it possible he’s after Jana?” Duchess toyed with her ale, considering. She had blithely, and perhaps arrogantly, assumed she herself was the target of the attack, but in earning licensure from the guild Jana had surely made herself some foes.
“I can’t see why Amabilis would want to ruin Jana, although he could be working with someone who does.”
Lysander shrugged. “Gloria Tremaine? She can’t have been happy about the way you forced her to accept a Domae into the guild. Maybe this is her way of striking back.”
Duchess shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. If Tremaine wanted to ruin Jana, the time to do it was before she admitted her to the guild and not after. Besides,” she said, warming to the speculation, “now that Jana is a guildsman, Tremaine has every reason to see that she succeeds. Anything less would call her judgment into question...”
“...which might be just what someone wants,” Lysander concluded. He shook his head admiringly. “Not bad. You’re getting as sharp as Minette.” She glowed at the praise. “But Tremaine probably has a load of enemies, any one of whom could be behind this. Or it could be someone who really was out to get you. You have a good bit of fruning ahead of you.”
She sighed. “That’s the problem. Amabilis has to have been on the Grey a good deal longer than I have. Most likely he’s the better fruner and his marks are worth more. If I ask after him he’ll know, and then I’ve lost any chance of taking him by surprise.”
“That is a problem,” Lysander allowed, finishing the ale. “Funny...you have all the resources of the Grey, and you can’t use a single one of them. You need someone who knows the Grey inside and out but doesn’t wear the cloak. Good luck with that.”
She sat upright, nearly spilling her ale. “Lysander, you are a genius. A real genius.” She tossed down a handful of sou, and kissed him on the lips. “The next round’s on me.” Then she was up and moving towards the door.
“And where in all of Mayu’s hells are you headed now?” he called after her, already signaling a barmaid in preparation of spending her sou.
She turned in the doorway and shouted back. “I have a lesson to attend.”
* * *
She didn’t even want to think what this would cost her.
She was hunched over his scarred wooden table, working with the lengths of rope he’d provided while she practiced her knots. She’d come to learn there were as many types of knots as there were thieves to tie them, and each one, Tyford insisted, was important to know. While she worked, he peppered her with questions.
“Say you want a lasso. Which knot do you make?”
“Bow-string knot,” she replied, without looking up from her work. An easy answer, as that was the very knot she was forming at the moment, making a loose overhand before tying off the important knot that acted as the stopper. Simple, to be sure, but one Tyford insisted was vital for a thief to know. Lassoes could easily be thrown up around almost any outcropping for a quick climb.
Tyford nodded. “Now you need a loop in the center of a rope.”
She thought a moment. “Butterfly knot and, uh...bowline on a bight.” Some of these knots had strange names, but Tyford insisted she know them all. “I don’t understand why I need to know the names as long as I know how to tie the knot,” she complained, finishing her lasso and holding it out to him. “Unless you want me to write a book on thievery.”
“I pity the thief who’d learn from a book you wrote.” He leaned forward to inspect her work and grunted approval. “Now how would you tie a knot at the end of a rope?”
She closed her eyes, remembering. “You can use a bowline for that as well, and also a slippery eight loop. Oh, and a figure eight.”
He nodded. “Now let’s see you make the slippery eight.” She grimaced; it was her weakest knot, no doubt why he was pressing her to make one. She took up a piece of rope and got started, and while he poured himself wine she considered her approach.
“Tyford, how’d you like to make some money?” she asked, without taking her eyes from the rope. She made an 8 at the end, making sure to leave enough extra line for the loop.
“The last time you asked me this I ended up as your landlord. Do you need another building?”
“Not so much.” She fed the extra line through both ends of the 8 and pulled it tight, creating a loop whose size she could adjust by pulling one side or the other. “I was hoping for a little information,” she said, tossing him the knot she was sure she’d gotten right.
“A little, she says.” He examined the knot critically, then nodded and tossed back the rope. “Well, out with it, girl.”
She met his gaze squarely. “What do you know about a man named Amabilis?”
He had just taken a drink of wine, but he paused a long moment before swallowing, perhaps to avoid choking. “Why ask me? Do I look like I live in Temple?”
“No, but the fact that you know he does tells me yo
u’ve heard of him. Perhaps back when he joined the Grey?”
He shook his head. “Godsdammit, girl, but sometimes you’re too sharp for your own good.” He lapsed into silence, staring into his wine cup. She had just decided he was going to ignore her question when he said, “What’s a good temporary knot?”
“Mooring hitch,” she answered at once. It had been the first knot she’d mastered.
“Good. Now make one around the leg of the table.” She held her tongue and went to it, sensing this was not the time to push him. Her patience was soon rewarded. “I remember him from the old days, when I still wore the cloak. He was a craftsman’s son, as I recall, from Market. His father made barrels or some such, and how the boy got on the Grey I never knew. He used his color to run a number of his father’s competitors out of business, as I remember, so his family eventually had a tidy bit of coin laid by. Never did the work himself, if he could help it. That one was always careful to never get his hands dirty.” He chuckled dryly. “Then something happened to him, some sort of religious experience. I was never clear on the why, but one day he just up and joins the radiants, neat as you please.” He drained his cup. “I suspect the cloak helped him rise — no other way the get of a guildsman becomes preceptor. This was before the War of the Quills, you understand. By that time I’d put aside my own cloak, so I don’t know much after that.” He glanced at her, a gleam in his eye. “Except...”
“Yes?” she pressed.
“Well, Tyford hears a few bits of gossip from time to time, and as luck would have it just the other day I came across a juicy one.” He paused dramatically. “What’s it worth for you to hear about it?”
“I suppose a mark wouldn’t convince you, would it?” He laughed. “Fine...how about five sou?”
He snorted. “Fuck your sou. I’ll take a florin.”
“A florin?” Duchess had a good deal of gold set by, but much of that had gone to finance her new business venture, one she was still not entirely certain would turn a profit. She began to protest, but one look at the old thief convinced her it was either pay his price or take his silence. She fumed quietly for a long moment, going over her options. She did not know much about Amabilis or why he would strike at her, and she had no way of knowing if he might strike again, perhaps this time using an intermediary more clever than Julius. The longer she engaged in fruitless searches, the more time the radiant had to hatch another scheme.
