“I didn’t realize that you’d have so much trouble finding a supplier,” said Grace. It came out silky with rage, and she felt a sudden stab of fear that she was turning into her mother.
The bartender caught her eyes and held them. “I had a supplier,” he said. “A good one. And they sent me a note over the data lines saying they’d gone out of business. Didn’t even bother to write it down in a letter. I got the notice two days before I was expecting a shipment. At first I thought it was a prank, but then the shipment didn’t come. They left me high and dry right before they announced the symposium.”
Throat dry, Grace said, “That was, what, two weeks ago?” Maybe she could check out the data lines, figured out who had sent the message. Anyone could send a message.
“Word’s been out here for months,” he said. “I don’t know how you do news in Coura, but it can’t be good if you only found out two weeks ago.”
Grace leveled her gaze back at him. “Or our people know how to keep a secret.”
“Yeah, sure.” He straightened up. “You want another?”
Grace raised an incredulous eyebrow. “Of the wine? No.”
He laughed, from the belly. It was the most pleasant noise he’d made so far. “At least you have some taste. The local stuff is pretty good, you know.”
“Yeah,” said Grace. “It is.”
He slid another glass across the bar, and Grace took it. She couldn’t see a way the trip could get any worse.
Despite her best efforts to pace herself, she found it a little too easy to drink the liquor. It burned in her throat like her thoughts burned in her head, and there was no more gossip to be had. When her eyelids started to sag, she shut them, and the room spun around her. Taking that as her cue, she settled her bill and escaped the bar.
Once outside, she stumbled along the row of sleek single-person toilet rooms until she found one that was empty, vomited into the toilet bowl, and put her head against the smooth metal seat. If she closed her eyes, she could imagine it was ceramic, and that she was home. It made her stomach feel a little better.
She was not expecting a hand to land gently on her shoulder.
“I suppose this means the talk Petra wanted to have with you didn't go as well as she'd hoped.”
Grace startled and looked up. “Derrick?” She squinted. He blurred a little. “How are you even here?”
“What, as if I'm not one of the best woodworkers in Coura?” He smiled easily and handed her a damp handkerchief.
She scrubbed it over her face and gave him a look. He came into focus.
“Seriously, I was thinking about coming even before I heard about your plan. If you can even call it that.” He filled a cup with water at the sink and handed it to her. “Did you really come here to break Petra and Dylan up?”
“What?” Grace took a sip and spat out the water. The slightly metallic taste of Arrosan tap water beat the taste of vomit, but she still felt like she’d managed to gargle with copper.
“They say you bristled like a mama hedgehog the whole way here. You never go on diplomatic errands unless they con you into it somehow, so I figured that was it, and I'm not the only one.”
“You're an idiot.” Grace finished the water and grimaced. “So's everyone else saying that. Petra can do whatever fool thing pleases her. I can't talk about it here, but it's to do with Jack and Nell.”
“So let’s go to your room and talk about it.” Derrick wedged a shoulder under Grace’s arm and levered her up to her feet.
Grace had a fleeting, longing thought of more liquor. An image of Dylan had seared itself into her brain, and it blended sickeningly into the image of Jack and Nell’s ruined cottage. She wanted to drink until she forgot it all.
Derrick refilled the cup that he’d taken from Grace’s hand and pushed it into her hand. “Don’t even think about it,” he said. “You’ve had enough.”
Grace downed the water in a single gulp and put the cup down on the sink. She closed her eyes briefly, considering arguing. The world started to spin again. He might have a point. “All right.”
Derrick led her outside. The winter air was already shockingly cold, and the stars glittered malevolently in a clear night sky. A breeze cut through her tunic, and she shivered.
He slung a heavy arm over her shoulder, and warmth descended upon her like a blanket. “I’d offer you my coat,” he said, “but I’m using it.”
“I’m not cold,” said Grace, convincing nobody. She shivered again, even as she appreciated Derrick’s warm bulk. “It doesn’t get this cold in Coura.”
“I’ll take you to get a proper coat tomorrow,” Derrick said. “I left before the rush, so I know where they sell them. They say it’s going to get colder.”
Guilt hit Grace in the middle of the chest. She’d been too preoccupied to notice that Derrick had been gone.
It was lonely again, even with Derrick bodily hauling her through the streets. It was lucky that she’d picked a bar so close to her rooms.
Her rooms. As they walked through the doors of the building the entire delegation was staying in, it occurred to her that she couldn’t quite remember where her room had been. She scrabbled in her pocket, looking for the map. She’d made sense of it before, but now she couldn’t make the letters come clear on the page.
Derrick took it out of her hands. He flipped it open, turned the page decisively, and led her off up the stairs.
Grace woke up in the clothes she’d worn the day before ready for a disaster. At least her head wasn’t throbbing-- she owed Derrick for that one. She hurled herself out of bed and scrubbed her face, trying to pick the best outfit. Let them think she’d come to hurt her sister: she’d show them that she was a perfect Couran diplomat.
She overestimated the time that it would take her to find the huge ballroom where the first workshop would take place and arrived early. Someone enterprising had laid out long tables set up underneath cords dangling from the ceiling. A smattering of people had already begun to fill the seats, but none of them had familiar faces. Grace picked a seat next to the exit and studied the prepared kit. She had nearly opened it when she heard a snap, followed by someone cursing. They had broken something. Grace shoved her hands into her pockets.
It meant that there was no distraction when Petra swept in on Dylan’s arm and took a seat near the front of the room with him. It was as far from Grace as she could manage.
Grace groaned internally when the instructor stepped up to the lectern at the front of the room. As he droned the first instructions, she opened her kit with careful hands to find it full of wires and a little glass bulb with a tiny thread inside it. They were meant to hook them together, and Grace gingerly followed the instructions as the presenter walked them through an introduction to circuitry.
Her hands felt too big and too clumsy, and Grace was quickly gaining appreciation for the Arrosan contribution to the household lighting in Coura. She mangled two sets of wires fairly thoroughly, but eventually managed to make the little bulb come on when she connected it to one of the plugs that dangled from the ceiling.
It was a nice thing, she thought, surveying her homely creation, to see what other people did. It was nicer to know that there were jobs that didn't have anything to do with endlessly being nice to people and didn't, in fact, involve people at all. Maybe she'd spend some time learning some of it in greater depth when she got home.
It was with some frustration that she set the thing aside. She had nothing to work with on her personal mission. Clues, leads, rumors? The closest she’d had was a piece of wire, and that only connected the flow of electrons to a filament. It did not connect the disappearance of Jack and Nell to a shadowy Arrosan aggressor.
She left the bar early that night, not sure who talk to or what to talk to them about. She declined the offer of another glass of wine-- the bartender laughed some more-- and headed home early. In spite of herself, she was excited about the program.
She wasn’t paying attention to her sur
roundings until a blow hit her around the middle, tumbling her off her feet and into the cross street. She rolled with it and crouched, her back to a wall.
There were three figures dressed in black advancing on her with scarves tied over their faces. The outfits were devoid of the colorful additions the Arrosans usually preferred. They wore thin leather gloves and boots that fit well, all of it constructed to enable movement. The only feature that distinguished them was the size: she mentally nicknamed them Big, Short, and Skinny. Even Short was taller than she was.
Not good odds. She could feel her eyes dart around her surroundings like a scared mountain hare. Hating her own fear and wishing that she knew the area better, she ran down the side street. Buildings loomed tall above her, casting deep shadows.
Her feet pounded on the cobblestones, each step jarring her bones. She was faster than them. Each step put precious distance between herself and them. when the street ended, and there was no cross-street. Instead, a building formed a U-shape around a small stone courtyard with a wrought metal fountain, and she realized she’d run into a trap.
She turned, slowly, expecting gloating and bracing for a fight. At least she was ready for them now. Her blood was rushing, and her head had cleared. She could hear the rapid cadence of her breath and thrilled to it.
“All right,” she said, beckoning. “Bring it on.”
They responded, slowly approaching as a unit.
“What are you, scared?” Sneering, Grace moved toward the wall, putting it at her back. If there was any way to keep them off guard, to keep them in front of her, to control the fight, she might not lose.
Silence. The gushing of the fountain masked the sound of their footsteps.
She waited until they had come close enough and landed the first hit, stomping hard on a foot while driving a fist hard into Big’s stomach.
He grunted, air audibly leaving his lungs, and staggered back.
She didn’t have time to see what happened to him: there were still two left. She spun and drove the elbow of her off-hand into Skinny’s solar plexus with a satisfying crunching sound, and used her dominant hand to treat the Short to a punch in the face.
It would sting in the morning, she thought, but she was riding adrenaline. Here, in the moment, it just felt good.
Having caught his breath, Big slammed his body into hers. It wasn’t a particularly tutored move, but it knocked Grace off balance. Clearly he’d been chosen for his size, not his skill. She wobbled and tried to step back hard onto his foot, and found out that they had safety toes. While regaining her balance, she tried to decide if she could clear a path out of the trap. She could outrun them, so disabling any one of them would do, but she needed to choose well if she wanted to get away.
Skinny was still doubled over. It was her best shot. Dodging a hit from the Short, who now had blood seeping through the scarf obscuring their features, she swept her leg out and hooked her foot behind Skinny’s knees. He toppled like a stack of teacups, and in a step Grace was over him. Hands on his shoulders, she gave his head a quick thwack on the pavement. He wouldn’t be up again soon.
One down. That might give her an out. With her weight on the balls of her feet, she eyed the alleyway. There was no one there: it opened clear in front of her. Springing over the unconscious body at her feet, she made a run for it.
She’d miscalculated their reach. It only took one of the remaining two attackers to reach out a foot and trip her, and she fell hard.
Rolling, she tried to stand up, but a well-placed kick in the middle of her chest from Short sent her sprawling back on the pavement.
The back of her head cracked against the stone laid over the ground, and her vision fuzzed to black.
Chapter 10
Grace came to blearily. There was altogether too much sun for mid-winter in Arrosa coming in the skinny window of her room. Her head pounded.
Derrick’s face swam reluctantly into focus in front of her.
“Guh,” she said.
Derrick applied a cool cloth to Grace’s brow. “Second night in a row I’ve had to drag your pretty little butt out of a scrape. Hope you don’t plan to make it a habit.”
“No.” It felt like a herd of oxen had begun to stampede inside her brain. She couldn’t think straight.
Mission of mercy accomplished, Derrick crouched down near the bed. Grace tried to sit up, but Derrick put a hand on her shoulder.
“Let me check for concussion,” he said, peering into her eyes.
Grace laughed weakly, moved her hands up to mockingly cup his face. “Derrick, I didn’t know you cared.”
He tilted her chin left, and then right again. “You’ll have a terrible headache, but I don’t think your brain’s bleeding. So what happened?”
Grace struggled up onto her elbows, shifted the cloth so that it lay over the aching lump on the back of her head. “I got mugged?”
“I don’t think so.” He fingered one of the bracelets she’d put on in her ham-fisted attempt at being presentable. “If it had been for money, they’d have taken this.”
The cold cloth was beginning to help clear Grace’s mind. “There were three of them.” She sat the rest of the way up.
Derrick piled pillows behind Grace. “Did you recognize them?”
Steadier now, she went on. “I couldn’t see any distinguishing features. They hid their faces. One of them was really enormous, but they’re all enormous here.”
Derrick shifted his bulk uncomfortably from his seat on the floor.
Grace ruffled his hair. It resisted her fingers, familiarly wiry. “It must be really weird for you, not being able to hulk over everyone.”
“Maybe I’ll find a tall lady friend here and spirit her back to Coura,” said Derrick. “Do you think you’d recognize their voice?”
Thinking back, Grace said, “They never said a word.” With some care, she levered her legs over the side of the bed to stand up. “It was really disconcerting.”
Derrick put out an arm to steady Grace as she walked carefully into the bathroom to wash her face. “That doesn’t sound at all like random muggers.”
“No,” said Grace, thoughtfully. She pulled off her torn and stained top.
Derrick snickered.
Grace pulled on a clean top. “Derrick?”
“You have a boot print on your chest.”
She looked down. There was, indeed, a boot print on her chest. The absurdity struck her, and she sat down hard on the toilet, laughing.
“All right, come on, we’re getting you a coat today,” said Derrick.
Derrick led her along the Arrosan streets. Her boots clattered on the cobbles, and it was still brisk morning alleviated by the sun breaking through the clouds. Grace shivered.
A huge plate-glass window full of merchandize formed the bulk of advertising for the store. There was no sign, no art in it, just the lurid display of goods for sale. It was overstated, too loud with the sounds of horse-drawn carts rattling down the roads. When one cart rolled by them near a puddle, Grace ended up with a soaked trouser leg. Water dripped cold down her shin, and she glared as Derrick laughed at her.
“After a while, you learn to dodge,” he told her, pushing open a door and beckoning.
She walked into the shop. A bell clanked, heralding their arrival, and when the door closed, the noise of the street dropped away.
The inside of the shop smelled like leather, rich and heady. She closed her eyes and thought of booths at the bazaar, where a smell like this would mingle with the smell of spiced meat sold on sticks. The entire thing would have a background of music, laughter, the nasal Geneanan accents threaded through the sector.
Here, the shop was dead quiet. The proprietor behind the counter cleared his throat, and the sound itself was jarring in the tomb quiet. He perched like a hawk behind the counter, hooked nose only adding to the resemblance to the predator. His smile stretched mechanically over a face that hadn’t seen enough sun. “Welcome. We’re having a sale on some o
f our new line of winter fashion, if I could direct you to your left.” He pointed.
Uneasy, Grace hesitated.
“Never mind that,” said Derrick, cutting the shopkeeper off. “I think you’ll like this one.” He tilted his head, crossed the shop in the opposite direction in two long steps, and pulled a coat off a rack with half a dozen like it.
Grace took it. Following the fashion in Arrosa, it was black, lent texture by rows of pockets ranging in size from small as a deck of playing cards to large enough to fit a pair of bulky triple-lined snow mittens.
At Derrick’s urging, she tried it on and immediately found herself uncomfortably warm.
“Wool-lined,” Derrick explained, “because the winters here get so cold.”
She tucked her hands into the various pockets, enjoying the storage. “It even fits.”
The bell clanked again, interrupting Grace mid-twirl. Automatically, she glanced over at the sound.
Petra and Dylan walked in. Their bodies angled towards one another. Dylan’s hand nestled at the small of Petra’s back.
“Oh, hey, Petra,” said Derrick, who hadn’t been on the trip out and didn’t know about the fight.
Grace froze as Petra turned, smiling, in their direction. She watched as the smile dropped off Petra’s face.
“Hey, Derrick,” said Petra. Her eyes locked on Grace’s, colder than the weather outside, before she very deliberately turned back to Dylan.
“Come, darling, you said you wanted to look at gloves.” Dylan’s voice was slick as oil and more self-satisfied than a cat in a spot of sun.
“Hey, Grace,” Derrick began, taking Grace’s arm.
Grace shook it off. “I’ll buy the coat.” She shoved money at the shopkeeper. “Thanks.”
Perturbed at being deprived the opportunity to make additional sales, the shopkeeper took her money with ill grace. “Can I wrap that up for you?” he asked, looking as if nothing would please him less.
Misfit Princess Page 11
