“And what do you know?”
“I know you have not been as subtle or as clever as you think, Asti Rynax. I know you have been, and continue to be, up to something. Likely involving the true reasons behind the fire months ago. And others have noticed.”
“Really?”
Nafath raised up his hands in a Poasian gesture that roughly meant “Do not kill the truthteller.” “I do not know exactly what you are doing, nor do the other eyes on you, I think. But there are other eyes on you. And I imagine this business with the Lord Henterman is part of that.”
Asti dropped a half-crown on the counter. “I’ll be going.”
Nafath pushed the jar forward. “Your purchase.”
“I don’t need it. Consider it a down payment for future truthtelling.”
“Then I await you. I may even send you a warning if you deserve it.”
“Why would I deserve it?” Asti found himself asking.
Nafath chuckled and tapped his skull. “Because my people are responsible for you. Therefore there is a certain . . . obligation placed upon me.”
Asti left, knowing that he would never understand Poasians.
Mila stood on the street corner next to Nafath’s shop, now dressed in her Miss Bessie street rat clothes.
“What are you doing?” he asked her.
“Waiting for you.”
“How did you—”
“I followed you,” she said. “So do we know where we’re going now?”
“Yeah,” Asti said. “Back out to East Maradaine.”
* * *
Verci couldn’t just stay up in bed. In a few minutes, he had rigged together some crutches, and with a little practice got adept enough at hobbling around with them. He did notice that his foot started to swell after being upright too long. At least for the time being, it was best to stay seated with it raised. So he’d have to figure out a way to do that and still get around.
He placed himself in a chair on the Junk Street walkway outside the bakery, where he could prop his foot up, and started sketching out a plan. Shouldn’t take much to make a chair he could roll around in, even if it wasn’t going to work well on stairs. Or cobblestones.
But it would be something, and it would let him be more available for whatever Asti needed next. Shortly after midday he had already received a coded note from Asti—sent by one of Mila’s Bessie’s Boys—saying that the new target was a noble with a manor house in East Maradaine, and he was heading out there with Mila to investigate. He should call on Helene with the bread delivery excuse if any trouble reared its head.
“Oy, no beggars here.” A Constabulary handstick prodded Verci in the arm. Verci looked up to see a stick with lieutenant’s stripes on his arm. This could be that trouble.
“Not a beggar, sir,” Verci said. “Just injured. This bakery is my wife and mine’s.”
“Why are you sitting out on the street?”
“Sun and fresh air?” Verci offered. “I can’t exactly be carrying the flour bags right now, you see.”
“Fine,” the lieutenant said. “Just . . . try not to look like a vagrant.”
“My lifelong goal, sir,” Verci said. There was something off about this lieutenant that he couldn’t quite place. “You’re not quite on your beat, are you, Left?”
“Does it show?” the lieutenant asked with a strangely sheepish smile.
“Most of the sticks in these parts are lifers, even the officers. Few get assigned Seleth from somewhere else, unless they screw up.”
“Nah, I’m not on Seleth beat. Or North Seleth,” the lieutenant said. Verci took a closer look at his badge. Jarret Covrane. “Funny thing, though. North Seleth.”
“Funny place,” Verci said.
“Born and raised here?” Covrane asked.
“More or less, though I’ve seen my share of the city and the outskirts.”
“Good,” Covrane said. “What’s funny about North Seleth, it isn’t really a place. You know, on the map. Sort of Seleth, sort of Keller Cove. Sort of Benson Court.”
“I never was a map man, sir,” Verci said. This lieutenant was very odd, and it set the hairs on the back of Verci’s neck on end.
“I would say the folks in the Constabulary Houses aren’t either.”
“I don’t follow.” Verci wracked his brain. Covrane. Was that a name he should know? Was there a reason this fellow was talking to him?
“You ever notice there aren’t many constables who really walk these streets? ‘North Seleth’?”
“I never gave it much thought until this moment, sir,” Verci said. A few folk were walking by, giving Verci and the constable an odd regard. Including Kel Essin. Essin was a window-man, like Verci had been back in the day, but not as good. And three times the drunk as Doc Gelson.
And he was one of Lesk’s crew.
Essin stood on the other side of Junk Avenue, staring at Verci talking to a constable like it was a nightmare horror he couldn’t look away from.
“This is the funny thing I found out. See, I’m stationed in Keller Cove.”
“All right,” Verci said. “So, you’re off your beat.”
“By the map in my stationhouse, you’re right. Our beat ends at Ecsen Creek. Then it’s Seleth’s beat.”
“Sounds right.”
“But the Seleth stationhouse? Their map says their beat ends at West Birch, and this here stretch is Benson Court.”
“Well, that’s just absurd,” Verci said. “We’re definitely not in Benson Court.” Anyone living in North Seleth would argue that contentiously.
“You’re confused, aren’t you?” Covrane said.
“Rather, about a number of things.”
“It gets better, sir,” Covrane said. “You, as a business owner here on Junk Avenue, should be concerned and aware of what I’m telling you.”
“I’m quite intrigued.” Verci wasn’t lying about that, even if he didn’t understand why the lieutenant was telling him this.
“Because I went to the Benson Court stationhouse, and guess what their map says?”
“That their beat ends at Junk Avenue, and this is Keller Cove?”
“Very good, sir.”
“So we’re in no house’s beat, really?” Verci had suspected such a thing—sticks were always in short supply in this neighborhood—but he had never complained about that. He remembered he was supposed to be an honest businessman, though. “That’s quite troubling.”
“Well, don’t be as troubled, sir,” Covrane said. “I’m making North Seleth my own special project.”
“That’s . . . very kind of you, sir.”
“So I’m getting to know the locals, Mister—?” He let it hang.
“Rynax,” Verci said. “Verci Rynax. Proprietor of the Junk Avenue Bakery, with my wife. Raychelle. She’s the baker. I’ll be opening the Rynax Gadgeterium in the near future.”
“Gadgeterium?”
“Indeed!” Verci said. “A fine selection of unique gadgets, tools, and toys for the discerning customer who embraces our modern world.” He showed his sketchbook to the lieutenant. “Working on something to help with my current predicament.”
“Interesting. I’ve got some sketches as well.” The lieutenant reached into his coat, pulling out a notebook. He thumbed through the pages. “So you are, as you said, a longtime local.”
“That’s true.”
“And you heard of the big fire and robbery over in Keller Cove a few weeks ago.”
“It made the newssheets.”
“Reports are they escaped west. Are you familiar with any of these people?” He handed the notebook over. Inside were sketches of faces, seven total. Far from perfect representations, but there was a certain likeness to Asti and Mila, and to a lesser degree himself, Helene, Julien, and Pilsen. None of those were too incriminating or d
amning. He could recognize them all only because he knew exactly who he was supposed to be looking at. The one of him was poor enough that even sitting right here with it, the stick didn’t seem to suspect. For six out of the seven, it was nothing to worry about.
But the seventh was Kennith. It was definitely close enough to be a problem; there were only so many Ch’omik-skinned folk in North Seleth.
“Not overly, Left,” Verci said.
“What about this one?” Covrane said, pointing to the sketch of Kennith. “You know a chomie carriage driver?”
Verci put on his best incredulous smile. “I did hear about this one. What did they call it? ‘A driver black as night on a horseless carriage.’ Sounded like drunken ramblings.”
“Quite a few people made the same ramblings, Mister Rynax. It has some credibility.”
“If you say so, Lieutenant. I heard some say it was Sinner Sethisar himself tearing through our wicked streets.”
Covrane nodded calmly, putting the journal back in his coat. He took out a calling card and gave it to Verci. “Well, if you should think of something, pay me a call. I would be most grateful, Mister Rynax.”
“I’ll do that,” Verci said.
Lieutenant Covrane nodded and went off down Junk Avenue. Across the street, Essin was still standing wide-eyed. When Verci looked at him, he squealed and went off down the road.
Verci looked down the road. Covrane was out of sight. He got up on his crutches and went into the bakery.
“Raych,” he said as soon as he saw his wife. She was rolling dough with her sister. “I need to deliver some rolls over to the goxie stand.”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” Raych said.
Verci sighed. “Then . . . then you’ll need to go over there and tell Helene to come here to pick up her order.”
“She doesn’t—what are you?” She looked at him, then at Lian, and back to him. “Oh, her order. For making more goxies. At her stand.”
“Yes,” Verci said. “And it’s a rush. It might be too big for her to carry, so she should bring Julien with her.”
“This is a bakery, we don’t do rush orders,” Lian said snidely. “Or did you already prep it?”
“It’s all right,” Raych said, dusting the flour off her hands while she removed her apron. “Keep working on the sweet rolls. And Verci?”
“Yes, my love.”
“Work the counter while I’m gone. You can manage that, yes?”
“Absolutely,” Verci said, hobbling behind the counter and putting on an apron. “I’m a pillar of the community. And I have to stress: rush job.”
Raych rolled her eyes and went off.
“Well,” Lian said as she portioned out her dough. “I’m glad an honest trade has done you well. If only the same could be said of your brother.”
Chapter 7
MILA WAS GETTING ANNOYED by Asti’s precautions, which he was going overboard with. First he wanted to get word to Verci and the rest, but he felt he needed to be extra careful. So he wrote coded notes—even though Mila reminded him that only Verci knew the code, so sending that to everyone else was absurd—and then had Mila send those notes to everyone else through her Bessie’s Boys. Mila had to go back over to the boys, even though she’d just checked on them. She had a feeling that Asti was going to want them on message duty for a while, so she told them to be on point. No hiding out today.
Asti told her to meet him at a safe drop spot by half past one bell. That spot was under the creek bridge, where Asti had a set of new clothes for both of them to change into. Once they changed under the bridge, he brought her over to the apartment in East Maradaine—the one they had just used for the Pomoraine Building job—and had them change clothes again.
“Is this all really necessary?” she asked as she switched into the prim dress that had far too many buttons and clasps to be useful. And layers. Far too many layers for this summer heat.
“I think we’ve been a little too careless of late,” he said as he changed on the other side of the sheet he had hung up in the middle of the apartment. “Verci’s out of commission right now, with his leg, and a couple of Lesk’s crew saw that. Nafath said—”
“That’s the Poasian spice guy.”
“Yes.”
“Who is a spy for the Poasians.”
“Yes, but—”
“And sells spices in North Seleth.”
“Mila!” Asti snapped at her.
“Look, I just wonder why you even talk to such a person.”
“Be—because he pays attention to what’s going on. And he knew we were up to something, and people were watching us.”
“Like Lesk’s crew. Even though Lesk is in Quarrygate.”
“We’re going to have to do something about them. Well, maybe not us. Maybe your boys?”
“Asti,” Mila said calmly. “I’ll remind you that Lesk’s crews are a bunch of thieves and thugs.”
“Like us,” Asti said with a shrug.
“But we have morals.”
Asti gave another shrug to that.
“And they run the Scratch Cats, who earn their name by cutting other people.”
“Yes, they’re bad people, which is why—”
She pulled the sheet open and glared at him. “And my boys are literally children. You can have them run messages and use their eyes all over town, but that’s all you’ll use them for.”
He nodded quickly. “You’re right, you’re right. Sorry. I—” He paused, sitting down on the bed. “A bunch of things with Nafath, and Tranner, and what happened to Verci—it’s got me spooked. And that part of my head . . .” He tapped at his skull. “It’s a growling dog right now. So I’m—”
“Being more careful right now,” Mila said. “I’m for it. But before we go back out there, actually tell me our plan. Deal?”
“All right,” Asti said. “So we’re heading deep into East Maradaine now, to find Lord Henterman’s estate house. There are quite a few noble estate houses out there, so . . .”
“I thought all of those were on the north side,” Mila said.
“Some of the Sauriyan lords prefer having their city homes south of the river so they’re in their proper archduchy.”
“Wait, are we in Sauriya?”
“Depends on who you ask and to what end. As far as voting for Parliament goes—”
“Like that matters to me.” Though in her rounds of panhandling, she had seen women starting a movement for the right to vote.
“We’re Sauriya. But in other ways the Duchy of Maradaine—which is the city—is its own thing, separate from the archduchies on either side.”
“Let me tell you something,” Mila said, her blood suddenly coming up. “We are governed by way too many people, you know? I mean, there’s a king, the Parliament, the Duke, the Council of Aldermen, and what else? Is there a Baron of Seleth?”
“No, of course not,” Asti said, though it didn’t sound like he was sure. “You’re dragging my point away from our mission, here.”
“Sorry.”
“So we’re changing into these outfits so we fit in for that part of town.”
“We’re not dressed like noble swells, Asti.” In fact, the dress he gave her was rather plain. Plain and reserved, despite all its buttons and clasps. It was very different from the suit she wore this morning. His suit was different as well, with a coarse wool jacket despite the summer heat.
“No, but there is a certain look to the service class, and we’ve got to hit that.”
“Service class? How were we not already dressed for that? How are we not always dressed for that?”
“We’re working class, which is different. And these people take note of that, trust me. I’m talking about the people who work for the nobles, in their homes. It’s a very certain type. There’s a sort of modesty, a willing submis
sion to their roles.”
“They believe they’re supposed to serve the nobility?” Mila asked.
“And they believe that they’re above folk like us for it,” Asti said. “Blazes, you complained about the Parliament? Some of those folk came from the service class. Literally working for their nobles in the Parliament.”
“The world is a terrible place,” Mila said, rubbing her eyes. She understood gangsters burning them out for land far more than stuff like this. Blatant criminality at least made sense to her. These people, she couldn’t even imagine. “So that’s what we’re pretending to be? And why this outfit has three layers of skirting but still looks like a washergirl dress?”
“That’s how we need to look, so we won’t look out of place walking through the neighborhood. Though if we have to speak—has Pilsen worked on the service accent with you?”
“I didn’t even know there was a service accent.”
Asti shook his head. “Then you’ll have to just be a West Maradaine girl . . . all right, if you have to speak and someone asks—”
Mila was already on it. She had learned enough from Mister Gin about making up stories. “I spent too many years with my drunken father in westtown before my aunt got me out of there and on a proper path in a decent home.”
Asti looked impressed. “Not bad. Though it shouldn’t come up.”
“Because that’s our cover, but we aren’t actually going to interview for any work.”
“Spot on,” Asti said. “Once we’re there, we’ll see what we can scout out.”
* * *
The morning rush had long passed, and midday hadn’t heated up, so there was a chance for Helene to get off her feet and sit in the chair by the stove while Julien pulled more supplies out of the stores. As much as she hated working this job as a cover, she admired how much her cousin seemed to really love it. Of course, it was honest work, and it involved four of his favorite things: cheese, bread, pork, and pickles. Their deal meant that they could eat as much as they wanted, as long as sales stayed steady.
Lady Henterman's Wardrobe Page 8
