Chapter Ten
I sat at the bottom of the steps, trying to put things together. Nothing fit.
Athel and Fedim, Fedim and Athel—was there a direct connection between the two, or had the relic passed through more hands on the way to the Dealer’s shop in Ten Ways? And what was it doing in Ten Ways, for that matter? Imperial relics meant money and powerful interests—neither of which frequented Ten Ways, and certainly not a Dealer of Fedim’s status.
The book—somehow, I suspected, this all had to do with the book the Cutters and their employers had been looking for; a book they thought Fedim had had, and Larrios might have right now; a book I was suddenly starting to get interested in despite myself.
I pulled the slip of paper out of my ahrami pouch and ran it through my fingers. Imperial and relic, it said—but what else? If there was a connection between Athel and Fedim, the relic and the book, I was in deeper than I’d thought and against people even Degan wanted to leave alone, barring an Oath.
Shit. I needed to get my hands on Larrios and squeeze some answers out of him.
I stood up and gingerly made my way upstairs, every ache and bruise I’d gathered making itself felt along the way. My left arm still wasn’t working, so getting into my rooms was a challenge, but I managed it without setting anything off. I deposited the reliquary and Tamas’s rope underneath a loose floorboard, then made my way back down the stairs and to the front door of Eppyris’s shop.
The apothecary had a brazier glowing and was adding a pinch of something or other to a mortar when I opened the door. He didn’t look up. I shaded my eyes against the light coming from the lamp, and entered.
I took a deep breath as I waited for my eyes to adjust. As always, a riot of smells greeted me, and, as always, they seemed just a little different from the last time. There was a dark, almost roasted smell in the shop tonight, mixed with a hint of spice, riding on a wave of smoke and oil and lampblack. Nothing was brewing or steeping overnight, which left a vacancy usually filled by some sharp, caustic, or musty odor.
My vision began to adjust, and I got a better view of Eppyris seated at one of the two massive tables that played host to an assortment of bottles, mortars, cups, scales, and loose ingredients. The walls to either side were covered with row upon row of shelves, each crammed with the raw ingredients of Eppyris’s trade: jars of oils, boxes of fine powders, sheaves of dried herbs, and the occasional jug or sealed pot marked with the strange script Eppyris refused to translate for me.
Eppyris put pestle to mortar and gave a few quick, well-practiced grinds. As I walked over, he pulled a small box down from a shelf, removed a dried sprig of something, and sniffed it.
“Separate the flowers,” he said, handing me the delicate bit of branch. I moved to join him at the table. “Over there.” He pointed to the far end of the room. “And burn this beside you.”
I took the proffered incense, went to another brazier at the far end of the room, and tossed in the scented nugget. The heavy odor of the incense mingled with the smell of sewage that clung about me, but did little to hide it.
I sat down and lit a candle from the brazier. Feeling was starting to creep back into my left arm and hand—along with the occasional flash fire of pain—so I was actually able to strip the flowers. The petals were tiny purple-and-yellow things the shape of tears, their colors faded from drying. They felt like fly wings beneath my fingers.
“Are you all right?” asked Eppyris after several minutes of silence.
“Bruised, mainly. Nothing broken that I can tell.”
“And the filth you’re wearing?”
“Long story.”
Eppyris grunted. He shook the contents of the mortar into a cup, added two pinches of something from a shallow bowl, and poured boiling water over the whole thing.
I held up the nearly naked branch. “You need this?”
The apothecary shook his head and pointed at the cup. “Has to steep. We’ve time. What are you handling?”
I tasted the dust on my fingers—sweet, heavy, with a bit of burning at the back of the throat. “Harlock?”
“Yes. Good. But you should use your nose before your tongue, and your eyes before either. The flowers might have been poisonous.”
“I know what can kill me in that small a dose.”
“Of that, I have no doubt.” Eppyris picked up the steaming cup and gave it a practiced swirl. “What about the other man?” he said.
“The one who was on the stairs? He didn’t fare as well as I.”
“What did he want?”
“I missed an appointment. He was upset.”
“So he came for you.”
“More or less.”
Eppyris set the cup down, then put both hands on the table. “I thought they weren’t supposed to be able to get in the building. You said it was taken care of.”
“It was a mistake,” I said. “It won’t happen again.”
“He got in the building, Drothe.” Eppyris’s voice began to rise. “On the stairs.” He stood and pointed toward the entryway beyond the wall. “One door away from my family!”
“He wouldn’t have come after you or Cosima or the girls.”
“No?”
“No. He was deep fi—He was professional. He was here for me, no one else.”
“And what if I had walked out into the stairwell when he was there, Drothe? What if Cosima had come up to ask you down for tea? What if one of us had found him by accident?”
I stood up and walked the petals over to him. I set them down carefully, then stared up into his face.
“He was a professional, Eppyris. That means you wouldn’t have seen him. Even if any of you had been up four hours before sunrise.”
Eppyris scowled. “Don’t patronize me. You know what I mean.” He swept up the petals and crumbled them between his fingers, letting them fall into the cup.
“So what happens the next time?” he said more softly. “What happens if the next one isn’t as ‘professional’? What do you do then?”
The next time—there was the problem. Would there be a next time? Would I allow her another chance?
I didn’t doubt my sister was behind this; there was precedent, after all. Besides, no one knew to use her livery, let alone to make an appointment with me, like that. I couldn’t figure exactly what I had done to bring this latest attempt down on me, but that didn’t matter. I’ve found you don’t have to know why someone is trying to kill you; you just have to know that they are.
I thought of the rope upstairs, its knots as dark as charcoal. That was the part that bothered me the most. Hiring a Mouth to speak a spell is one thing; spoken magic is hard to trace, difficult for the empire to come down on. But portable glimmer like Tamas’s rope was another thing entirely; magic of that sort had been outlawed by the empire three centuries ago. It was still around, of course; it just cost—a lot. More than I had thought I was worth.
But if she was now willing to go that far . . .
If.
“There won’t be a next time,” I said.
Eppyris grunted.
I looked up, meeting his eyes. “There won’t.”
We stared at each other for a long moment, both of us feeling righteous, or just right, or stubborn, I’m not sure which. Finally, Eppyris sighed and rubbed his eyes.
“My shop is here,” he said. “I’ll stay for now. But Cosima, Alarenna, and Sophia will go to her mother’s tomorrow.”
“Eppyris, they don’t have to.”
“Yes, they do,” he said.
I wanted to argue, but didn’t. I wasn’t about to put my pride above his family.
“Here,” he said, setting the steaming cup before me. “This should be ready. I’ll prepare a salve and set it on the stairs for you. Do you need more ahrami?”
“Yes.” I picked up the cup. The brew was hot and bitter and scorched my throat on the way down.
I heard the click of a lock, the soft rattle of a latch being turned. A male voice spoke;
it was Josef, my sister’s butler. The words were muffled by the double doors leading from the hallway to her parlor. I was in a room farther beyond, in Christiana’s bedroom, but I could still make them out.
“Will you be needing Sara tonight, madam?”
“No, thank you, Josef. It’s late. Let her sleep. I can manage.”
“As you will, madam.”
I heard the outer chamber doors open, then close, saw the flicker of approaching candlelight reflected on the marble floor. I had left the doors between the bedroom and parlor ajar.
I bit down on the seed in my mouth, worked it for a moment, swallowed. It had little effect, as the painkilling potion Eppyris had given me also dulled the ahrami. Still, it tasted good, and after my argument at the baths with Degan, I’d take whatever solace the night was willing to offer.
He had wanted to come with me; I had refused—not because I didn’t want a sword at my back after Tamas’s attempt, but because I didn’t trust him when it came to Christiana. I’d seen the way Degan looked at my sister, and the way her eyes played over him. It wasn’t that I thought he would harm me when it came to her; it was just that I wasn’t sure he would let me harm her.
And I wouldn’t brook outsiders—not even Degan—interfering in family matters.
I sat in a high-backed chair in a corner of the bedroom. Behind me, the window I had entered through let in a soft breath of air, sending the flame of the single candle I had lit to flickering. The candle was on the far side of the room, letting me remain in shadow while still putting my night vision to sleep. When the bedroom doors opened fully, I was ready for the light.
Christiana entered, all grace and ease, the skirts of her emerald and almond gown flowing with her every movement. The neckline had slipped, revealing a smooth shoulder among the chestnut avalanche of her hair. In her left hand was a candelabra with three buds of flame growing from silver and wax stems. Her pale eyes were distant, her brows drawn slightly down, her lips pursed. Weighing the implications and innuendos of the evening, no doubt. After two steps, she smiled to herself, then nodded; someone at court, I knew, was doomed.
Then she noticed the lone candle. She noticed me. The candelabra almost fell out of her hand.
“Bastard!” she gasped. “You nearly scared the life out of me!”
“Can’t have that,” I said.
Christiana glared at me for a moment, then relinquished a darkly playful smile.
“Still don’t know how to use a door, I see,” she said as she continued into the room.
“I find it best to avoid your servants.”
“Always the cautious one.”
“You should talk,” I said.
My sister gave a thoughtful smile. “I suppose. He did teach us both well, after all.”
He. Sebastian. Our stepfather.
He had come striding out of Balsturan Forest three years after my father’s death. I had been seven at the time; Christiana four. Our mother had kept him at arm’s length at first, but time had won her over, and the trapper had become our second father.
It quickly became clear, however, that Sebastian had once been more than a trapper. Trappers didn’t know how to pick a lock and evaluate a fine wine, how to fight with a rapier and dance a galliard, how to speak the thieves’ cant and practice court manners. Sebastian had known all this and more, and he’d spent as much time teaching these things to Christiana and me as he had maintaining his trap lines and repairing our home. Our educations had been distinctly divided, with Christiana learning the courtly graces (mostly) and myself learning the darker skills (again, mostly). I could cavort my way through a pavane if necessary, and Christiana was an acceptable hand with a small rapier, but our familiarity with each other’s studies had crossed only when Sebastian needed an extra set of hands to help teach something.
My mother hadn’t understood why he insisted on teaching us all of these things, since we lived in the wilds and not the city, but Sebastian had only smiled his slippery smile and said—as he always had—that there was more than one kind of education. Besides, if our chores got done, who was to care? Our mother had merely shaken her head and made sure we got time for ourselves.
She had died six years later, and Sebastian had been killed a handful after that. Left with a two-room cottage in the woods and little desire to stay, Christiana and I had eventually found our way to Ildrecca and put what Sebastian had taught us to use.
Unfortunately, we’ve gotten into the habit of using our educations against one another in the intervening years. I doubt it was what Sebastian had had in mind.
Christiana set the candelabra on a small table in the middle of the room, then moved over to her bed, placing its richly covered expanse between us. She began removing her rings, setting them on a bedside table.
“I was beginning to think your man would never get that forgery done,” she said. “What kept you?”
“Business.”
“A poor excuse, but typical. Still, I’m glad you’re here.”
I let out a single, dry laugh.
Christiana looked at me askance. She had turned away, placing herself in profile. “You’re in a splendid mood tonight, I see.”
“I get that way when people try to kill me.”
“I thought that was an occupational hazard for you.”
My voice caught in my throat. “Sometimes. But this wasn’t Kin business.”
She had begun removing a web of gems and silver thread from around her neck but stopped when she heard the change in my voice. She turned, and the look of aristocratic indulgence faded from her face. Christiana’s eyes became sharp. Languid grace turned into steeled suspicion.
“Drothe?” Her voice dropped a notch and slid to the back of her throat. “Why are you here?”
I gave no answer, since I wasn’t all that sure myself. All I knew was that the rage inside me was demanding action—vengeance. I stood up and began moving toward her.
“I suggest,” she said, “you sit back down and we talk about this.”
I shook my head. “Not this time, Ana. We talk my way.”
One of her fine eyebrows went up. “I see,” was all she said. As I came around the corner of the bed, Christiana began edging back.
I laid my hand on my rapier. I was only a handful of paces from her now. “This has to end,” I said.
“Same as always, dear brother.” The corner of her fine, painted mouth turned up. Christiana raised her voice. “Josef!”
I was moving before she got to the second syllable, had my left hand to her throat just as she finished. I shoved Christiana back over the night table and up against the wall. By the time the doors to the bedroom opened, I had the dagger from my forearm sheath at her cheek.
“Mistress!” Josef shouted. It didn’t sound like he was alone.
Christiana and I were close, nearly pressed up against each other. The heady smell of perfume filled the air between us, her own spicy scent just discernible beneath it. I could feel the vein in her neck pulsing fast beneath my palm, see the flush as it spread across her skin. My own heart was pounding in my ears.
“Tell them to leave,” I said, my voice almost a gasp.
Christiana locked her gold and blue eyes with mine, set her shoulders against the wall, and straightened her back as best she could. She did not struggle. Instead, I felt something sharp against my stomach.
“No,” she said.
I glanced down and saw a dagger in her left hand. Its handle looked remarkably like part of the decorative carving on her headboard. A quick glance to my right showed me where the disguised blade had been moments before.
I put enough pressure on my own knife to dent her skin, but not to cut. “Send them away, Ana.”
She glanced at my dagger. “Poisoned?” I turned up a corner of my mouth in answer. “I think I’d like them to stay,” she said.
I heard hushed voices talking behind me.
“Best get out, Josef,” I said, my eyes still on my sister. “Unless
you want to be looking for a new position come morning.”
Christiana let out a light laugh. “You wouldn’t,” she said to me. “You never could.”
My grip on her throat tightened. She gave a small cough, but the mocking light in her eyes remained.
“And you,” I said, “always would. Without a second thought.”
Her shoulders rose, fell. “What can I say? I’m a bad girl. I never listened to Sebastian.”
“Your loss,” I said.
“Maybe.” Then some of the steel faded from Christiana’s eyes. “But not this time, Drothe. Whatever you’re thinking, you’re wrong.”
“I doubt it,” I said, sounding more certain than I suddenly felt.
“Fine,” said Christiana. I felt her dagger move away from my stomach, saw Christiana toss it on the bed. “Fine. If you want to kill me, get it over with. I’m tired of waiting on you—either do it or take your hands off me.”
Her face was set, her chin raised in defiance. But I could feel her trembling, see the soft edge of doubt that marred her iron stare. She was afraid. And that was when I knew; Christiana was too good a liar to let weakness show through her facade—only the truth could cause the cracks I saw there. If she’d sent Tamas after me, she would have anticipated this possibility and been ready with a better lie, a better excuse. And she damn well wouldn’t have given me the satisfaction of seeing her afraid at the end.
I looked from the dagger on the bed back to my sister. It had been too easy; too obvious. That wasn’t Christiana’s style—we were too much alike in that regard. And the magic—even she knew better than that. . . .
“Decide, Drothe,” said Christiana.
I still had my hand on her throat and a frown on my face when someone put a sword to my back. I let them pull me away from her.
My sister’s eyes turned soft in that moment. “Sometimes,” she said, “you’re incredibly stupid, Drothe.”
I had to agree with her.
“How dare you!” shouted Christiana.
I winced at the noise. My head had begun hurting again shortly after the guards pulled me away from her. Each word caused an accompanying throb at the base of my skull.
Among Thieves Page 11
