by Fiona Patton
“There’s no greater pack of hypocrites in Anavatan than Oristo’s bloody lot,” he snarled, warming up to his topic. “Sure, they may talk high and fine, but they don’t give a rat’s arse for the poor; they only care for what they can squeeze out of them.” He glowered at Brax. “No self-respecting thief would ever serve a priest, and don’t you forget it. You wouldn’t be in their tender care for five minutes before you’d be breaking your back for them. And as for Spar, they’d sell him to the God of Prophecy’s white-eyed lunatics at Incasa-Sarayi in a heartbeat if they ever found out what he could do for them. They’d addle his brains with their seeking so fast he’d go mad from the strain before he was old enough for you to shave him, if they even let you near him. So you keep your mouths shut today, both of you, ‘cause Usara’s so-called physicians are no better; charlatans and thieves every last one of them. They’re only giving away free medicines so they can spy on us.”
He shook a finger at Spar who was, as usual, ignoring him. Cindar could rave for hours about his opinion of the Gods and their temples and had done it so many times before that Spar was bored by it.
“Well, piss on them if they are,” Brax retorted, allowing the effect of Cindar’s words to drive him to angry bravado despite Spar’s warning glance. “The day we can’t outrun those fat farts is the day you deserve to be reported.” He frowned suddenly. “An’ I’ll report you myself if we don’t eat soon.”
He moved to work on Cindar’s other cheek as the man answered his threat with a sideways scowl from beneath his heavy, black brows, but then jerked his head at a small, cloth-wrapped bundle by the side of the pallet, ignoring Brax’s curse as he almost took off an eyebrow. “So eat,” he snarled.
Spar pounced on the bundle at once.
“Havo’s Dance tonight,” Cindar continued grimly as the younger boy tossed Brax half of the day-old flat bread inside. “Don’t hog it all! That’s for the three of us!”
“You sure your stomach’s up to it?” Brax asked pointedly and, as Cindar’s face paled in remembered nausea, he wolfed down his share of the bread with a smirk.
“Like I said,” Cindar continued darkly. “Havo’s Dance starts tonight, and it looks to be a messy one this year, so we’d best finish our business up early and get under cover before those filthy little life-sucking shadows show up. You know what they do to the unsworn.”
Spar stilled a sudden shudder and Cindar shot him a hard-eyed look.
“What?” he demanded.
He shook his head, but Cindar caught him by the arm, giving him a penetrating stare.
“You sure? You look like you just tramped over your own grave. Or mine.” He shook him. “Well, did you?”
“He’s just cold,” Brax interrupted, his voice suddenly low and dangerous. “He needs a new jacket.”
“So do I,” Cindar retorted, shooting the older boy a withering glance, despite the knife perilously close to his throat. “Do your job today and we might both get one; otherwise you’ll just have to give him yours.”
The two of them glared at each other for a long moment and then Brax gave a stiff nod before he returned to his task. “Fair enough,” he answered.
Mollified, Cindar allowed a sour smile to cross his ravaged features as he released Spar’s arm. “Whatever happens, Usara’s powders oughta get us enough for one decent meal tonight if nothing else, eh, youngling?” He ruffled Spar’s hair in a gruff apology for his rough handling. “Then it’s three nights off to sleep warm and sleep late.” He turned, risking the other eyebrow. “Aren’t you done yet?” he demanded querulously.
“Just.” Brax returned the knife to him and Cindar ran a hand along his cheeks with an appreciative expression, his mood lightening as quickly as it had darkened. “You get caught someday, Delin,” he said making use of the rarely spoken endearment, “and you can always beg off time by becoming the prison barber.” He stood, then grinned wickedly as he saw that his hands had stopped shaking “Like I said,” he repeated, aiming a fake punch at Brax’s head, “I can still outlift either one of you any buggerin’ day of any buggerin’ God’s month you can name. Now c‘mon, before the crowds thin out.”
He headed for the door. Glancing at Spar, Brax made an obscene gesture behind Cindar’s back, then, as the younger boy snickered, followed him out with a mock swagger. Alone, Spar’s eyes paled slightly as he scanned the room, then fished a copper asper out from beneath the pallet, schooling his expression as Brax turned back with an inquisitive look.
“You coming?”
The younger boy nodded. “I am now.”
The air was still cold and the cobblestones laced with uncharacteristic frost as they made their way along the wide dockside market streets already crowded with people despite the early hour. Cindar strode on ahead, seemingly oblivious to the two boys doing their best to keep up with him, but every now and then, he shot a glance back at Spar to make sure he hadn’t vanished. Spar smiled slyly. Brax had once accused him of taking the piss on their abayos, but even he kept an eye on him. If the younger boy went to ground, whatever the reason, Brax went with him. For the moment, however, Spar was content to trot along behind Cindar with an even expression. The sense of unease, or rather, uncertainty, he amended, was still with him, but now he could feel that it had nothing to do with the morning’s plan. It was more like a vague sense of ... maybe-ness, he thought for want of a better word, hovering off behind the clouds. Probably nothing more than a warning that the rains would come early like Brax had said they would and they’d get soaked before the day was done. It had been an unusually cold Low Spring, and High Spring looked to start just as miserably.
Passing Oristo-Cami with its high, wrought-iron fence, vast sweeping cinar trees, and tall, ruddy-brown painted statues of the bi-gender Hearth God, Cindar favored the abayos-priest frowning down at them from the top step with a scowl of his own and the sense of unease suddenly returned. Spar’s chest tightened, afraid that Cindar would start into his usual tirade—this close to any temple it was never a good idea—but instead he just turned the corner, leaving the woman unengaged, and Spar breathed a sigh of relief as the unease passed.
Beside him, he felt Brax relax as well. When a heavyset brush merchant arguing with his own delinkos and a thin, gangly youth overladen with packages pushed past them, the older boy gave them a speculative glance, but allowed them to pass unmolested. Spar nodded his approval. Brax was a good thief—Cindar said he could lift the nectar from a hummingbird’s beak without it feeling his fingers when he put his mind to it—but he was also reckless and impatient. There’d be plenty of pickings at Usara-Cami later; there was no point in running any risks before that. Spar was relieved that both Brax and Cindar seemed to agree with him this morning. It wasn’t their trade that put them in danger of being snatched by either the priests of Oristo or the garrisons of Estavia, he thought, it was Cindar’s temper and Brax’s overconfident bravado. Without him to watch their backs, they probably would have been either snatched or stiffed a long time ago.
A chill breeze drove its fingers through his thread-bare jacket and he acknowledged the random admon ishment with a silent nod. Without them, he probably would have starved, he admitted. Maybe. Remembering the extra asper in his pocket, he gave a faint snort. And then again, maybe not. With a smirk, he hurried to catch up with the others as they headed for the dozen blue-and-white banners that fluttered above the treetops at Usara-Cami.
They reached the God of Healing’s Dockside sub-temple a few moments later. In keeping with tradition, it was no more than a single story high and built around a central, hexagonal courtyard lined with great cinar trees, but its fine twisting minarets were as tall as those at the main temple of Usara-Sarayi and its high stone walls, carved to resemble a delicate latticework of ivy and climbing rose vines, rivaled anything even the Art God’s people could display
A dozen junior physicians were already hard at work pushing several hundred people into lines based on obvious or not-so-obvious need when they
arrived. After pausing to catch Spar up in his arms, Cindar took his place, exchanging mock pleasantries with a family of tinsmiths behind him while Spar leaned his head on his abayos’ shoulder to watch, through half-lidded eyes, as Brax vanished into the crowd.
The sense of unease returned then, and he cast about worriedly, checking out those of Estavia’s garrison that he could see. The Battle God’s people knew full well why many of them were there and maintained a minimum of two troops in and around Usara’s temples for that very reason. But each one of the leather-clad soldiers looked bored and disgruntled so, as a light misting of rain began to dampen his cheeks, he shook off the feeling. It was just the weather after all, he told himself firmly. Havo’s Dance was scary enough without adding priests or Gods or garrison guards to the mix. Brax was good, so was Cindar; they’d make enough shine for a decent supper tonight—a shrimp pilaf or maybe even a lamb and walnut curry—then they’d all hole up until Havo’s Dance blew the last shreds of Low Spring into the sea; the streets would fill up with the High Spring trade and the pickings would ripen; he’d get a new jacket, Cindar’d get a new jug of raki, and Brax would get ... he frowned, well, Brax would get whatever it was that Brax wanted. Everything was going to go smoothly; he’d seen it; he’d done his job; now it was time for him to trust Brax to do his. Head pillowed against Cindar’s ear, Spar closed his eyes, ignoring the unease that refused to be banished despite his reasoning, and made himself relax.
Halfway across the courtyard already, Brax gave Spar and Cindar one last half glance before losing himself in the jostling crowds. He was glad to see that Spar was trying to get some sleep. He looked tired and pale this morning; the winter and Low Spring had taken as huge a toll on him as it had on his jacket. Frowning, Brax made a cursory inspection of the people around him even though he knew that particular task would have to wait. No one was going to lay a coat aside in this weather. If Spar was going to get a new one, Brax would either have to lift one off a clothier’s stall for him-always a risk—or buy him one—always expensive—be—cause he had no illusions that Cindar would do anything about it, the stinking tosspot.
“So get to work,” he told himself sternly. Setting his features into an innocent expression of boredom, he began to weave a seemingly random pattern through the crowds, yet by the time he broke free a few minutes later, he’d already cut three purses. Grinning, he made his way up the temple’s wide, marble steps. Cindar said he was one of the best young lifters along the docks. Brax knew better. He was only good; but part of being good was in knowing when to quit, or at least when to take a break, so, once he reached the top, he paused, standing up on tiptoe as if searching the crowds for his companions, but really to check out the marble tributary statue of Usara that stood sentinel beside one of the city’s largest and oldest cinar trees just before the entrance.
The great blue-painted figure of the male God of Healing had been carved holding a flowering staff in one hand while the other was held out at hip level. The number of coins lying in His deep, open palm was always a good indication of the prosperity of the day’s crowd. Several glittered temptingly at him, but Brax was not so stupid as to try and lift any of them. There was always a delinkos hovering about to empty it as soon as it grew too full and he had no intention of getting snatched for lifting a God’s tribute, no matter how little the God or His temple really needed it. Brax spotted the girl standing just inside the shadowy doorway easily enough but didn’t bother to look her way, merely sat down beside the God’s great feet and, ignoring her frown of disapproval, returned to the increasing problem of their abayos’ neglect.
Brax had been with Cindar for as long as he could remember. He had no idea if the man had sired him any more than he knew who’d birthed him, but it didn’t matter. Cindar kept them safe. More or less. And Brax was grateful. More or less.
Leaning his back against the statue, he closed his eyes. More or less was the problem. He was tired of living from lift to lift, never having enough clothes to keep him warm or enough food to fill his belly. The worst of it was that they should have had plenty of both, but ever since Cindar had nearly been snatched outside that silver smithy, he’d been drinking more and more of their shine away. He’d blamed Spar, who’d been too sick to act as lookout that night. (Too sick because Cindar had refused to pay one of Usara’s physician-priests to see him when he’d fallen and cut himself two days before. He’d nearly lost his leg and still favored it whenever he was tired or cold.) Brax’s eyes narrowed as he remembered having to protect the feverish boy from their angry, blood-covered abayos. It was the closest Brax had ever come to knifing the man and Cindar’d known it. He’d backed off, but the next day he’d lost his temper at Brax outside a sandal maker’s stall, and then again at Spar the day after right in front of a priest of Oristo. He was picking fights and taking stupid risks. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to get snatched, and Brax and Spar right along with him.
The boy ground his teeth in frustration. In two years’ time he’d be a man and he and Spar could go out on their own, maybe cross the strait for the more lucrative pickings in the new foreign docks in the Northern Trisect, or even head south to the richly ornate commercial and religious wharves that serviced the Temple Precinct, both areas that Cindar’s temper had denied them. They might even be able to buy themselves into legitimate apprenticeships as cutlers maybe or even vintners, and make enough shine to run a tavern or buy shares in a merchant ship going south to Thasos to trade for wine and oil or north across the sea to Volinsk for furs and gold. Anavatan was the largest and most prosperous city in the known world; there were hundreds of opportunities beyond those that a drunken lifter from the Western Dockside Precinct could give them.
But it was still risky, he cautioned himself. Spar would only be eleven years old, and Cindar would never willingly let Brax take him away. He’d come after them, and Brax wasn’t sure he could protect them both if Cindar really lost his temper.
So just wait until the sodden arse-pick’s falling down drunk, his mind supplied savagely. Which these days is nearly all the time, anyway. If he comes after you then, you can just knock him on the head and pitch his body into the strait, and it would serve him right besides.
Stop it.
Forcing himself to loosen fists suddenly clenched, Brax shook off the burst of anger. It didn’t matter what they could do in two years’ time; it only mattered what they could and couldn’t do right now. And right now they couldn’t leave because Spar, no matter how old he acted sometimes, wasn’t ready.
Are you? his mind prodded.
He didn’t know, he allowed, but he was ready for something. Lately he’d begun to feel restless and impatient, itchy even, and it wasn’t head lice, he’d checked. Last week Cindar had said it was urges and suggested with a leer that he go give his virginity up to one of Ystazia’s bawds—the Arts God’s people were the most learned of all those involved in the sex trade—far better than Oristo’s who had a habit of preaching afterward-but they also expected the greatest offering and, since Cindar hadn’t offered to put up any shine to pay for it, Brax had approached another street thief, a fifteen-year-old girl named Tamas, and she’d taken it for free.
It hadn’t helped. Well, not for long, he amended. He’d gone looking for her a few days later but found out she’d been snatched by the local garrison and had been given a choice: prison or the temple of Oristo. She’d chosen the temple, which had upset him more than he thought it should have. He’d have chosen prison.
If you don’t get back to work, you won’t even have that choice, his mind supplied again. You’ll end up at the temple because you’ll all starve.
Which was only the truth. Standing, he made a show of searching the crowds for his companions again, but really to see if any trade he was in the mood to exploit presented itself. He found what he was looking for fairly quickly: a well-dressed, well-fed apothecary’s family pointedly haranguing a junior priest to hurry up and deal with the “riffraff” in front of t
hem so that they might have their turn. With a hard smile, Brax jumped down from the dais and vanished into the crowds again, heading their way.
He returned to Spar and Cindar just as they reached the head of the line. The physician-priest making a brief examination of the younger boy listened with half her attention as Cindar outlined his ailments: rickets and scurvy this year—last year it had been consumption and strangulary. Harried skepticism was evident on her face but she spoke briefly to the young delinkos at her side who handed their abayos a small, cloth-wrapped package with the instructions to make an infusion of the contents twice daily.
Then Cindar caught him by the back of the jacket and it was his turn to be examined. Simple-minded, prone to fits, Cindar declared. Brax tried to look vacant-eyed and twitchy and their abayos was rewarded with a hard look but also another very small cloth bundle and the suggestion that they visit the Hearth God’s temple if he was unable to keep his delon healthy. Cindar thanked the woman with a show of earnest helplessness, but as they made their way toward the gate, he spat at the wall.
“Bloody spies,” he snarled. Then his mood lightened. Setting Spar back on his feet, he lifted the two packages to his nose. “Not a bad haul, though,” he observed, taking a deep sniff of each. “Dried lime slices and old ginger powder, milk thistle and chamomile, I’d wager.” He glanced at Brax. “How’d you do?” he asked under his breath.
“One pretty tight, two about half, and one nothing but crap,” Brax answered carelessly. Cindar tried to look equally unimpressed, but Brax could see the corner of his lip twitch upward. Four without alerting anyone to his presence was a very good morning’s work.
