The man stared at her. And then he laughed. “Nice outfit, sister,” he said, “but the Riverboaters’ Masquerade was last month.”
Masquerade? Oh, he meant her clothes. Kaab tightened her woven sash ostentatiously and showed him the scabbard at her side. “I do not joke.”
“I do not care,” he mocked.
“Shhh!” Tess pulled at his sleeve. “Ben, she’s one of those chocolate people!”
He grinned. “Chocolate, huh? And does your rich Trader mama know you’re out here in big bad Riverside, little girl?”
Kaab breathed in slowly through her nose. She had no trouble understanding Ben’s language. His accent was like the sailmaker’s, and he spoke as loud as a village priest.
“I will be clear,” she said distinctly. “You trouble this lady. You insult my people, my mother, and my dress. You have a sword. I have a sword. Is more clearness needed?”
“‘Is more clearness needed?’” He seemed to be mocking her accent. “Well, that depends.” He put his hand on his hilt. At last. “I might need to see what color your blood is.”
“Ben!” The glorious Tess was actually pulling on his arm. “That cart won’t wait forever! Do you want to see your father before he dies, or not?”
“This won’t take long.” He shook his woman off.
Decency required that Kaab just let him go to attend his father’s deathbed—but her liver-spirit was too stirred up to care. If he’d rather fight her, let him. She’d make short work of him and his insults. She drew her blade, all thoughts of formal challenge gone. And Ben drew his.
Like buzzards scenting meat, people were flocking to the space around them, making a rough circle for them to fight in, shouting incomprehensible things. It was crude, it was bizarre, it was outlandish—and Ixkaab Balam felt alive, for the first time in weeks.
Ben lunged at her at once—in a hurry to catch his cart, no doubt—but she knew this one; the sailmaker had taught her. Her wrist moved, and his blade slipped off hers with a grinding noise that made her grin. Take that, you mangy little pimp!
“She knows what she’s doing, Ben!” Tess cried. “For godsakes, stop!”
Kaab’s wrist finished the move, twirling her point around his to target his chest. But Ben was not to be had so easily. He stepped back, then came at her again, as if he couldn’t believe it hadn’t worked right the first time. Again she countered him, and this time her point reached closer to his chest.
The people kept yelling, again with no respect for the fighters, as if this duel were a servants’ tavern brawl. Above them she heard Tess’s voice blaring: “First blood! First blood!” What was she talking about? Kaab wasn’t bleeding, and Ben wasn’t either. “I’m the cause of the fight, and I’m calling it just to first blood!”
Circling Kaab, Ben growled, “Shut up. I’m going to kill her.”
“No you’re not! You haven’t got time! Just pink her and go!”
Kaab’s body was hot, but the fight was cooling her liver-spirit, and her head-spirit was reasserting itself. Ben was distracted. Maybe his woman was even doing it on purpose, to help Kaab rescue her from her pimp. It was the perfect time to try a special little play her shipboard friend had taught her, a trick he said would never fail: a fake thrust that led the enemy to aim for your shoulder, while you blithely went in straight to his heart.
It failed.
She felt a wasp sting her right arm. “Rose-torn demons of hell!” Kaab shouted, dropping her blade.
“First blood!” All around her, the people were crying it out, like an incantation. Kaab didn’t trust them. Her sword had skidded west. She reached down for it—
A burly old man had his foot on the blade. “You know the rules,” he told her. “Or if you don’t, you shouldn’t be here.”
Kaab looked up at him. “Are you of honor?” It came out wrong, but the gray-head nodded.
“This is Riverside, honey. We know no honor but the sword.”
He stepped back a pace.
“Now, pick up your blade and go back to whatever traveling sideshow you came from, girl. And if you ever want to come here again, I advise you to take a few more lessons first.”
She risked a look across the circle. Ben stood there, panting and grinning. The perfidious Tess pulled at his arm. “Now, Ben!” She spoke to Kaab directly: “I’m sorry,” she said. “He’s mean when he’s hungover.”
“I was provoked!” Ben objected.
“Provoked to fight a girl?” someone jeered. So the sailmaker had been right. Women did not fight here.
“He’ll tell you all about it,” Tess said pointedly, “when he gets back from visiting his dying father.” She shooed people away like flies. “Stop gawking. Haven’t you got anything better to do?”
But Kaab was a curiosity, now that the fight was over, and they would not depart. “Where you from, lady?” the voices came at her. “Where’d you get them clothes? What’ll you take for that stripy head rag? Who taught you to fight?”
It was the kind of situation Kaab always enjoyed, Xamanek help her. A new city, a new role. She could tell them anything, and they’d most likely believe it as not.
She lifted her head, trying to look like the carving of Xkawkaw on a temple gate, and announced: “I came on a great ship from the west, on the Road of the Wind. An old god taught me to fight, and I honor him by shedding my blood on your soil. Lord Ben, you have served me well. I give you leave to depart.”
She nodded imperiously at him. Much as he might like to, he would not attack her again; the glorious Tess would see to that. And indeed, she was rushing him off as quick as she could, berating him all the way.
Ixkaab Balam smiled. Her shoulder stung, but she’d had worse. It was a good first day in the new city.
Such a playactor! her mother’s voice said fondly.
And the Riversiders parted to let her pass.
The Inkpot was a very nice place. It was pretty clean and not too crowded. There was a good fire going, and people were laughing and even singing in one corner of the room. Nobody seemed mad, and no one was looking at her. Lots of them were drinking things, mostly from pewter or earthenware mugs.
The boy who had guided her said, “I’ll have one with you, if you like.”
“All right,” said Micah.
“Where’s your brass?”
“In my pocket.”
“Give it to me, then.”
“Why?”
“So I can go get the drinks, you gubbins! What are you having?”
“I like hot cider,” Micah said. “But you can’t have my money. It’s mine.”
“They won’t give me drinks without money! Don’t be stingy. Didn’t I bring you here? This place is for poets, and I’m a geographer.”
“Don’t call names,” Micah said. He should at least be polite.
She looked around for someone selling drinks. She’d never actually been in a tavern by herself before, and Cousin Reuben always got the drinks.
“How much are they?” she asked the boy. When he told her, she nodded. She certainly had that much, and a little left over. “All right,” Micah said. “I’ll give you the money if you get the drinks.” It seemed fair—or at least, a price worth paying so she didn’t need to wade into the throng and figure it out herself. She counted out exactly the right amount and watched her helper head toward the bar.
“Come on!”
The voice behind her was loud and startling. Micah whirled; but they weren’t shouting at her. Four young men sat at a round table, playing cards by candlelight in the low-roofed tavern, beer mugs at their elbows.
“Rafe, are you in or out?”
“I’m in.” The tallest and darkest of them put some silver on the table.
Wow! Micah thought. They were betting with real money. She and her cousins only played with acorns.
Drawn to the game, she edged closer to the table, standing behind the dark-haired one, Rafe. She could see his cards. Not a bad hand, but it was more important to know wh
at the others held. He couldn’t bet against them if he didn’t know. Each player had one card showing faceup on the table. The others had a Sun, a Comet, and a Two of Beasts. Rafe had a five, so at least they knew that. The betting went round again, and then another set was dealt.
The boy who had guided her handed Micah her drink, but she hardly noticed. She was following the patterns of the cards. She pretty much had them when Rafe laid more silver on the table and said, “All right. Everyone show.”
They started laying their hands out, but she couldn’t stand it. “Fold! Fold! What are you, stupid?”
Everyone was looking at her again. But she hardly even cared. How could he be so dumb?
Rafe turned a sharp face to her, and said kindly, “It’s all right, young ’un; I’ve got a pair of Beasts, a pair of Crowns, and a Celestial. They can’t beat that.”
“Yes they can! It’s so obvious!” She had that needing-to-pee feeling again, only it was needing to talk, to explain. “Look! He’s got a Celestial showing, and he’s got two cards down and he’s betting high. There are only twenty-two cards left undealt, and the chance of one of them being a Celestial is five in a hundred, so that guy clearly has one more in his hand, which means he’s got two and you lose!”
There was silence. Then, one by one, each man laid open his hand on the table.
“Holy Mother!”
She was right, of course. She always was. Her cousins wouldn’t even play her anymore unless she played blindfolded.
“What’s your name, son?” Rafe asked her, and she felt so sorry for him she didn’t even bother to tell him she wasn’t his son.
“Micah.”
“Just come to town, have you?” She wasn’t wearing a scholar’s robe. And her hair wasn’t even very long. But Rafe seemed to think she was one. “Well, Micah, would you like to join us for a hand or two?”
Five games later, Micah had a nice little pile of brass and silver in front of her. After the sixth, the other guys wanted to quit. “It’s all right,” Rafe told her. “We can go elsewhere. You’re not tired, are you, Micah?”
“No,” Micah said. This was fun. She’d already made four-sevenths of what she and Reuben had made all day selling turnips at the market.
“There’s usually a good game going at the Gilded Cockatrice. Rich boys too. Do you play Constellations?”
“No. What’s that?”
“I’ll teach you later. It’s a fancy game; you’re right, not as much fun as Seven-Card Slap-Up. We’ll go to the Blackbird’s Nest instead. Full of historians who don’t know a Celestial from a hole in their bum, and fancy themselves cardsharps. Easy pickings. And if there isn’t a game going, we’ll get one up.”
They walked together through the twilight of the streets. Micah liked the way Rafe knew where he was going all the time. People just got out of his way.
In the Blackbird’s Nest, she bought them both drinks, because that was what you did when people guided you somewhere, and she had plenty of money now. Rafe got a rum punch, and she got more hot cider, because it was the only thing she knew the name of that she liked.
Three men were playing Hole in the Corner. Rafe asked one of them, a man called Lawrence or possibly Larry, if he and his friend Micah could get in on the game. The other two were named Thaddeus and Tim. They moved aside on their benches for her and Rafe.
At first she hated betting her money, because once she had silver she wanted to keep it. But then she started getting some of theirs, and when they switched to Slap-Up she got even more.
“I’m out,” said Tim. She didn’t like Tim. He bluffed a lot, and she could never tell when people were bluffing. It didn’t make sense. It was a crazy thing to do.
“What about you, Micah?” asked Rafe. “You getting tired?”
“No,” she said. It was just getting good, really; she’d figured out that Rafe always thought that three of a kind would beat anything, even when it wouldn’t. She felt bad about taking his money, but rules were rules.
Larry leaned forward. “Hey!” he said, but in a friendly way. “I remember you now. We went into Introduction to Geometry together this afternoon.” He didn’t look familiar to her, but all these men with long hair and black robes tended to look the same. “You’re the one who knew about squaring triangles. Doctor Padstow wanted to meet you, but you ran away like the Hundred-Skin Maiden. Guess you realized you were in the wrong lecture, eh? You want a more advanced class.”
“I like numbers,” Micah muttered.
“Whose classes are you taking? Or don’t you know yet?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Well, we can help you. Thaddeus here did a lot of math before he realized he was a history man.” Thaddeus had bought everyone another round. She’d had something that was like hot cider but with a special taste in it. It was good.
“And Tim can tell you where to get your robe for cheap, if you don’t mind used.”
“I don’t mind.”
“Your warmth is heart-melting,” Rafe told his friend. “But we’re here to play cards, Larry. You in?”
“Nope,” Larry said cheerfully. “I’m the King of Losers in Loser City. If I lose any more, I’ll lose my next term’s fees, and then I’ll be back to digging ditches for Lord Trevelyan like my dad.”
“Me too.” Thaddeus rose. “But another time, maybe. Your luck can’t last, Micah. I’ll win it all back from you, see if I don’t.”
“Do you want to bet?” Micah asked him. Back on the farm, she wasn’t allowed to bet, but here at University nobody knew that.
Thaddeus leaned across the table. “Bet what?”
“Bet I can beat you eight games out of ten or better?”
“Eight hands, or eight full games? And why eight? Why not seven, or nine?”
“Because eight is—is the right number,” Micah said.
Thaddeus rolled his eyes. “Mathematicians.” He gathered up his books and wrapped a scarf around his neck. “I’ll see you at home, then, Rafe. Don’t stay out too late.” He rapped his friend on the head in passing. “Or if you do, don’t kick over the slop bucket and wake everyone—”
“I only did that once, you loser. And only because you and Joshua got drunk and left it in the middle of the floor.”
“Because you were stone sober, of course . . . Where is Joshua, by the way? I thought he was supposed to keep you out of trouble.”
“Off getting into trouble of his own, I hope.”
“You need to find him some.”
They were a lot like her big boy cousins.
After Larry went away, Thaddeus left too, and Rafe and Timothy started talking about stuff Micah wasn’t interested in.
She counted the money in front of her again and gasped. Now it was more than twice what she and Cousin Reuben had made all day in the market, even including the turnip cook—
Then Micah gasped again. She’d forgotten all about Cousin Reuben.
She tugged on Rafe’s black sleeve. “What is it?” he asked lazily. His breath smelled a little funny, like her cousins’ at Year’s End. She wondered if he’d had too much to drink. Drunk people didn’t talk right and did bad things. Jackson on the farm down the road got drunk and beat his wife, and his children never had shoes. But Rafe was still perfectly clear and understandable, and still nice.
“I have to go back to the market,” she said.
“The market’s all closed up, kiddo,” Timothy said. “Shops too, by now. What do you need?”
“I’ll take care of him.” Rafe swept a sleeve around her shoulders, and she let him because he didn’t know any better about how she didn’t like being touched, and she didn’t want to hurt his feelings. “Micah’s new in town. Come on, son; got all your winnings?”
Micah carefully put them in her pouch, tucked that inside her boys’ breeches where Cousin Reuben told her nobody could lift it, and followed Rafe out of the tavern.
It was dark out. Really dark, except for the light from the torches stuck in brackets
on the walls in front of all the taverns and cookshops that were still open, even this late.
Rafe leaned down to look into her face. “So what’s this about the market?”
“My cousin is there. His name is Reuben. I came with him today. He’ll be worried, and then he gets mad.”
He peered at her in the flickering light. “What was he doing there?”
“Selling turnips. Only by now he might be asleep.”
“You’re a farmer?” Rafe kept looking, and then he slowly smiled. “But you found your way to Padstow’s class. You want to study here, is that right?”
“I need to go find Reuben. He’ll be mad, and I’ll get yelled at.”
Above their heads, the bell tolled. But the streets remained quiet and still, except for the noise from the tavern, spilling out the windows along with the bars of light.
“Look,” Rafe said. “Micah. It’s really, really late. You can’t go running around the City at this hour. It’s dangerous, see? There’re bad people out.”
“Oh,” said Micah. “But where can I sleep, then?”
“In my rooms. You’d be welcome. There’s three of us there already; one more won’t matter, as long as you don’t mind sleeping under the table.”
“Well, all right. As long as I can tell Reuben in the morning. He’s not stupid. He can see it’s dark.”
She trotted to keep up with Rafe. But at a low window along a twisty street, with good smells trickling out of it, he paused. “I haven’t eaten. And I bet you haven’t either.”
It wasn’t a real bet, because he’d been with her for hours. But Micah realized she was ravenous.
Rafe grinned. “Ever had tomato pie?”
Micah hadn’t realized that cheese could be so good, all melty and drippy on top of tomato goop on top of flat bread baked in an oven. She usually hated goop, but this was so salty and chewy and, well, friendly, you couldn’t mind it.
A barmaid brought them both beers. It was thin and nasty, nothing like the warm brown ale that Cousin Seth brewed each fall. Micah gave Rafe hers.
The barmaid came back. She had big titties, and she drooped them in Rafe’s face, like a cow, which made Micah giggle.
Tremontaine Season 1 Saga Omnibus Page 4
