by Cat Hellisen
I’m being ridiculous. If he wanted to curry favor with my family, he could have merely tipped them off that I’m here at the Crake.
There’s something else that he wants from me, and I’ll be damned as a Saint who told a bad future if I know what it is.
A moment later, I spot a familiar bird’s nest of red hair. Nala trots up the wide sidewalk, her hands full of leashes. She’s walking a collection of dragon-dogs. They are tall and thin, with high, sloping shoulders and long jaws with wolfish teeth. People move quickly out of her way. She doesn’t stop when she sees me, but she flashes a white smile and sort of waves her fist a little. The dogs strain on the leather and pull her onward.
Bemused, I wave back.
* * *
THE TOWNSPEOPLE ARE SHUTTING UP SHOP, and street children are picking through the garbage on the sidewalks. I try to avoid the gangs—I’m still nervous after my attack—so I take the wide central road, where the street theaters are busy packing up now that the last shows are done for the day. As I rush through the homeward-bound crowds, someone yells my name. Or at least, the name I’ve stolen.
My heart jumps, and I try to pretend I didn’t hear the shout.
“Firell! Oi, you! The girl in blue. Kitty-girl!”
Gris-damn it all. I turn slowly. My heart is doing double-time. I can feel how the blood has drained from my face. My skin is cold.
A tall, skinny young man is waving at me. He’s standing at a street-theater wagon. Is this the infamous Dash? I doubt it, I’m sure I’ve seen this one leaving the Whelk Street house, and he’s a mild, gangling sort of person. With my breathing as steady as I can hold it, I smooth down my skirts and walk toward him.
He’s got a friendly face and hair in a long ragged cut. Low-Lammer, for sure. “You’re the new girl?” he says as I draw closer.
I nod.
“Verrel.” He pulls a bag of tobacco from his paint-spattered jacket and begins to roll himself a ’grit. His fingers are deft and fast. “Smoke?”
“N-no thanks.” Verrel is one of the Whelk Streeters, and relief warms my skin. Lilya said he keeps to his own time, out chasing skirts and keeping the pubs in business. When he’s not playing at being a theater boy. Everything she’s told me about him makes him sound like a reprobate, but instead, he comes across as affable and charming. Perhaps he is all three, and then he will have been well named after the infamous progenitor of House Ives. It’s even possible that he’s some bastard cousin to the current Ives’ line, saddled with a name like that.
Verrel shakes his head and licks the paper closed, his tongue darting smoothly. After he’s lit it and taken a long suck on the smoke, he cocks his head at me, as friendly as if he were one of my brother’s dragon-dogs.
“Lils described you pretty good.” He grins. “You’re heading back?”
Before I can even answer, he’s rummaging in his pockets again. “I’m going to be late, got a night show. We have candle-lanterns and everything.”
“I see.” I don’t, not really. I’ve never paid Hob street theater much mind. He’s so excited that he doesn’t notice my lack of enthusiasm.
“Here then, there you are,” he says to the small brown paper packet he’s finally retrieved from his bulging pockets. “Give them to Esta for me, will ya?”
The packet smells sweet and minty, and inside it are hard roundish lumps.
“Humbugs,” he says. “Tell her not to set any Lammers on fire, and I’ll take her out for cakes when I get my day off.”
“Oh, oh—yes. I’ll do that.” I shove the packet into my little tote.
He grins and takes another long drag. “Poor thing,” he says. “Not much of a girlhood if there’s no one giving you sweets and toys.”
I try to picture sullen little Esta ever playing with dolls or wooden and ivory blocks. It seems unlikely.
“Nice meeting you,” he says, just as a Hob, portly and covered in greasepaint and wearing a voluminous fake beard, yells at him to stop chatting up the lasses. “Say hey to the rest.” He touches his hand to his ragged hair in a friendly salute and turns back to packing up the sets.
I stand there for a moment, thoughts swirling through my head, then trot on toward home.
* * *
BACK AT THE SQUAT, Lils is crouched in the washroom, wearing nothing but a graying shift, while Esta pours jugs of water over her head. Lils’s hair is still tightly pinned up. It makes no sense. Wordlessly, I hand Esta the crumpled, sticky packet. She scowls.
“From Verrel,” I tell her, but she doesn’t say anything back, just fishes out one striped golden-brown sweet and pops it into her mouth.
Uncertain, I stand there, waiting for a chance to give Lils the message.
Lils wipes water from her face and glares at me. “What do you want?” Her shift is wet, clinging to her body and almost see-through. She looks vulnerable, like a hermit crab changing shells.
“Oh … uh … I have a message from Charl at the Crake—”
“I know who he is. What does the little chancer want?” She touches her damp hair, then looks to Esta. “Another bucket, need to be sure it’s wet all the way through before I let it down.”
Esta goes to fetch another bucket, leaving us alone.
“The message is for Dash,” I mumble.
Lils snorts. “Give me it.”
“Something about poisonink, and meet Charl at the usual.” I spread my hands in apology. “He didn’t say much.”
Her brow wrinkles into a frown, then after a moment’s thought, she nods. “I’ll let Dash know, sure enough,” she says. “Verrel spotted him down at Market Way earlier.” Lils squints at me. “His Flashness’ll be pleased to hear that bit of news, right enough.”
“So he’ll let me stay?”
“Can’t right say.” She turns away. “Depends on if you got what he wants.” Lils turns her back to me and begins to pull hairpins loose, slowly, one by one, setting them out neatly before her.
For a moment I can smell the meadows behind my house, the must of nillies and leather. A childhood recollection of trying to follow Owen on a hunt, of a fall made nightmarish by the passing of years. The crack of bone, followed by almost unbelievable pain. I remember sweat sticking my dress to my skin, and how my arm throbbed, hardly feeling like it belonged to me. Walking home alone across the heath because Owen did not want to stop his chase.
Water splashes on the tiles, spattering my boots and dress as Lils dumps a bucket over her loosened curls.
I am back in the present, and I frown at the memory as it slips back to where it belongs, hidden and best forgotten.
If I’ve got what Dash wants?
My heart flutters, and I will it to slow. Just what exactly does she mean by that, I wonder.
8
THE NEXT AFTERNOON when I hang up my apron at the end of my shift, I get my first pay packet. I’ve worked six whole days, and the thirty brass bits clinking inside the envelope seems like both a fortune and a pittance. I pick my way nervously through Old Town, aware of the strange heaviness in my coat pocket. I wonder if I walk naturally, or if there’s an extra swing to my arms, a giddiness to my walk that might make me a target for Jaxon, or someone like him.
Tomorrow is my day off, and I plan to head down to Old Town market early to trade in my pilfered trinkets from Pelim House and my boots, and get a pair that fits and a change of clothes. A whisper flutters through my head, about how if I worked harder, longer, perhaps I could save up enough for a smidgen of scriv. The thought makes me laugh aloud, choking on my own naïve hope.
I’ll never be able to afford scriv now. Even uni-horn—a barely passable substitute—trades on the market at thirty-two copper bits an eighth. And trade in scriv is strictly controlled. The few merchants will sell only to House Heads or their official representatives. Never again, Felicita. Shaken by this realization, I lurch around the curve of the promenade and up Whelk to where the shabby green house is waiting.
Upstairs, Lils is already home, although ther
e’s no sign of Nala or Esta. Verrel from the street theater is stretched out on the carpet smoking a roll-up and staring at the ceiling. Every now and again he hums a snatch of a tune from one of the popular low musicals that are all the rage in Old Town. Lils is deep in conversation with a skinny little Hob who is sitting cross-legged on a tea crate, stripping the husks off some withered green maize that must have fallen off one of the vegetable barrows. He looks my age, maybe a year or two older, and he has the leanness of poverty, the old eyes in a young face. All around him are white linen-wrapped bales, smelling sweet and dusty. They seem to have taken over the squat, covering every available surface. He’s one of Charl’s lackeys, I gather, come to drop off the ’ink.
“—and not,” the Hob says, jabbering away so fast that the words melt into each other, “for any reason. No reason that they can give, of course. Typical fucking Houses, ya know?”
“I know.” Lils prods at the stock she’s boiling up out of end-of-day market pickings.
“Just where do they get off? I mean, the best they can do is tell Esta that they’ll give’r compensation. What’s that worth? What do you pay someone when their family is dead? I mean, Rin’s ’er brother, he’s all she fucking has—had—left, and they think a handful of brass is gonna heal all ills?” He keeps asking questions, but doesn’t wait for anyone to answer. “Fucking Lammers,” he says. “Present company excluded.”
“Exclusion accepted,” says Verrel, and he sings a line from Merriweather’s Fortune before taking another protracted drag of his smoke.
The Hob is high. I’ve seen them a lot now around Old Town, strung out on the little silvery-gray leaves of poisonink. ’Ink can give you visions, make you think you can solve all the world’s problems, but it also tends to make you talk a load of absolute nonsense. The crakes take it. For inspiration, they say.
“Is this lot ready?” the Hob asks, hands twitching as he waves at the pot.
Lils sighs, stabs at the contents with her wooden spoon, and says in a patient voice, “Not for hours yet. Why don’t you go lie down and I’ll give you a shout when I dish up.”
But he’s not listening. He’s spotted me, and he hops down from the crate. The Hob is a little taller than he looked sitting down, but not by much, and he has a roguish grin that reminds me of Jaxon. I step back and brush a tangled lock of hair behind my ear.
“And this,” he crows as he approaches me, “this must be the latest addition to our happy little family. You’re the kitty-girl, right? Lils told me all about you.”
“I—” I take a deep breath because I have really had enough of this now. “Am. Not. A. Gris-damned. Kitty-girl. Will you lot get that through your thick Hob skulls!”
Lils laughs and keeps stirring. Verrel coughs on his hand-rolled ’grit.
“Oh,” says the Hob. “I like you.” He holds out one hand. “I’m Dash, by the way, kitty dearest.”
Right. I stare at the Hob. Even Jaxon was more impressive. He grins back at me as I scrutinize him. Like most Hobs, his olive skin is tanned a deep brown, and his hair is thick and black and unruly. It curls down to his collar and falls over his gray-green eyes. There are salt stains on his clothing, although, for a Hob, it’s pretty fine clothing. His waistcoat is silk, emerald green, and the buttons are black ivory from a sphynx’s tooth. He’s wearing a black neckcloth, loosely knotted in a lopsided bow.
“Shake his hand,” says Lils, “before he decides to throw himself from a window or something.”
So I extend my hand and take his. His grip is firm, his palms dry, and he seems utterly at ease with handshakes. Most Hobs are not interested in the practice. “Wonderful,” he says. “I’m off to bed.” And with that, Dash disappears behind the longest curtain, to an area of the house I’ve not yet been in.
“High as a Hob-kite,” says Verrel.
“Verrel, you go put a water-urn by him. Stupid bugger is going to need it when he wakes. Otherwise he’ll be bitching about his bad head for the whole of tomorrer,” says Lils.
Verrel sits up and stubs out the dog-end of his ’grit in a mermaid’s-ear shell near his hip. “Lucky me,” he says. “Lucky, lucky me.” He fills a small urn from one of the water pails that are spread out along the balcony and lopes off to Dash’s room, stepping carefully over the scattered bales.
“Here,” I say, nervous now, worried that I’ve botched this meeting and that when Dash wakes he’ll find a reason to throw me out onto the street. I fumble in my pocket and hand Lils the rough paper envelope. “For the bowl,” I say, nodding at the communal bowl that takes pride of place on the highest crate.
“You don’t have to give me all of it, you daft Lam,” she says, and tips five bits back into my palm. “Now you go get some sleep. I’ll introduce you to Dash when he’s himself again.”
“You mean … he’s not always like that?”
“Sweet Gris, no.” She makes a growly huk huk sound that for Lils is what passes for laughter. “We’d have strung him out on the rooftops long since if he was.” Lils takes a sip of her stock and licks her lips. “He has his moments, and when he does, we just leave him be until he’s worked through them. Then things get back to normal sharp-like.”
I cast a glance at the closed curtain and wonder just what kind of person he can be to somehow have all these people at his heel.
9
THERE’S NO SIGN of Lils the following morning. With the fading of the spring storms, she’s back at work in the fish markets before dawn.
Dash is there though, talking quietly with Esta. He looks up as I push my curtain open but continues speaking in a low whisper, so as not to wake the others. The selkie-girl is curled up tight with her arms wrapped around her knees and her head bowed. She nods as she listens but says nothing. She blinks when she sees me, her dark seal eyes fathomless as a wild animal’s.
“I have to go,” Esta says as I draw closer. She leaps up and is running down the stairs before I even get a chance to greet her.
Dash raises one eyebrow at me. “And that?”
I shrug. “I’ve no idea—she hasn’t liked me from the first day we met.” I neglect to mention that the first time we met she tried to brain me with a piece of windowsill.
“How interesting. Normally she reserves her hatred for old men and House Lams.” He pats the cushioned sacks next to him. “Sit. Believe it’s time you and me had a little chat.” Then he grins at me. “I’ll make us tea.” He’s clean, dressed in unstained clothes, the stubble scraped from his chin. There’s still a slight bitter herbal smell to him from the poisonink, but it’s barely noticeable.
My heart is pattering as I sit uncomfortably cross-legged. The burlap is rough, and all I’m wearing is my long shift. I feel exposed.
“See now,” Dash says as he flicks a match against his thumb and lights the bundle of driftwood in the stove, then sets the little copper urn to boil. “Isn’t this cozy?” He half smiles at me.
Uncertain, I half smile back and wish I’d just stayed in bed.
“You’re working down at the Crake?” He tosses the spent match into the fire.
“I’ve paid my share into the bowl,” I say, already on the defensive.
“I daresay you have.” The little fire flickers, catching on the dry wood. Soon he’ll have the water at a rolling boil. “Do you like it there, working for old Breadloaf?”
“It’s … fine.” What does he expect me to say?
“Yeah, she’s a good sort—makes you work like a dog but it’s not like we’re not used to that. Leastwise she pays on time and there’s cake if you’re lucky.”
“Yeah,” I murmur in agreement. “Every little bit helps.” I relax. All he wants to do is make sure I’m bringing in my wages and helping to feed and look after the rest of the crew.
Dash grins. “Soon we’ll be bonding over redbush, sharing secrets like old friends, and you’ll feel all like you’re ready to trust me, and then you’ll tell me exactly why it is that a House Lammer is hiding out in Whelk Street with a bun
ch of half-breeds and Hobs.” Dash glances at the urn, then back at me. “Won’t you?”
“I—I’m not a House Lammer.”
“’Course you’re not. Firell, is it?”
I nod vigorously and will the water to boil faster so that I can have a cup to hide behind. Something—anything—to do with my hands to hide their shaking.
“You’re no low-Lammer,” he says. “Do you know how I know that?”
“How?” I swallow, and watch the steam rising so that I don’t have to look him in the face.
“Your hands are too white.” Dash takes the urn from the fire and adds a generous pinch from the tea box. “Your accent is wrong.” He glances over at me, smiles thinly, and sets the redbush to steep.
Someone has shoved a lump of coal down my throat and I can’t swallow properly. “My mother was a servant and for all that I’m a bastard, my father raised me in his House—gave me the best tutelage—” I cough, a small dry sound.
“A likely story. Pass us the teabowls, Firell.”
The porcelain bowls are cheap, made of thick white clay, cracked and chipped. I take two from the crate and hand them to him. If I keep my mouth shut, I can leave him to his guesswork.
After a few slow sips of hot tea, Dash speaks again. “Sphynx got your tongue?”
“Why should I say anything if you won’t even try to believe me?” I sit straighter and glare at him. I won’t be cowed by a Hob.
Dash laughs. “What House?”
“Pardon?”
“What House did your mam work for?”
Thoughts race through my head, and I settle on the first and most likely story I can imagine. “Malker.”
Dash swishes tea in his mouth, then twists his body so he can spit out the window. “The witch-cursed House. Go on.”
And with that, he’s given me my lie. Inwardly, I’m smiling, but I keep my voice shaky and nervous. “I left after Malker Ilven took the Leap.” I even let myself shiver—just a slight tremble of the shoulders—before continuing my story. “I couldn’t stay there, not after that. The bad luck would have killed me, driven me mad. You know what they say about suicides crawling back from the deep and bringing death with them.” I put my half-empty bowl down on the floor and pull my knees to my chest. “Don’t make me go back,” I mumble. “Please.”
