Blade of Dream, page 13
“I should go too,” Vasch said. “To the warehouse.”
“No, I need you for Pattan Udrestin. There’s a letter he needs to see. Today.”
“Yes sir,” Vasch said.
Harvest was one end of the great pendulum swing of the house business. The other was at thaw, in the spring, when the first boats could make their way back up the Khahon, or down it if any had wintered in the city. Then it was all a rush to take orders, make contracts, set the board for the great game. The scramble to see that all the contracts were fulfilled, the danger of paying defaults to the guilds or the palace that could wipe out a whole year’s profit, the dance of keeping the taxman happy without making him too happy.
Other years, Garreth had felt excited by it. Walking through the streets, it was like the city itself had come alive. Like the carts and couriers were blood coursing through cobblestone veins. In the south of the city, there would be sacks of grain piled high as a man’s head and baskets of fruit and berries dripping sweet juice on the filthy streets. In the north, the traffic of the river was a barely reined chaos. Dozens of boats jockeyed for their places under the cranes, with the dockmaster sending bluecloaks out in skiffs to maintain order by threat of confiscation and violence. The warehouse doors were open, carts running back and forth to the water, trying to get all that was meant to hold through the winter safely to shelter and all that was due in the south on the right boat with the right master and all the bills of lading and countersigned receipts in order.
It was usually exhilarating. The last stretch of a relay that would raise some families almost as high as the noble compounds of Green Hill and cast others down until a proud merchant family found itself in service to an old ally or rival, sleeping in the servants’ beds alongside the maids and cooks and garden men. It was the promise of the leaves losing their green, of the river running dark as tea when they fell. And the coming ice and cold and rest until the next spring came and began the contest again. Garreth had taken joy in it. He could remember that he’d taken joy.
Their head overseer was a hulking brute of a man, a head taller than Garreth, with one of his front teeth grey as a tick. He went by Bug, though Garreth didn’t think it was his original name.
“All the sacks were underweight,” Bug said, shaking his head. “Not by much, but all of them. I told him he could put them in the warehouse if he wanted, but I wasn’t signing shit until you or your papa cleared it.”
“He must have loved hearing that.”
“He yelled at me for a while,” Bug said through a grin. “Last I saw, he was headed toward the dockmaster saying he’d have me fined for slowing his day.”
“You did right,” Garreth said. “Get me weights on the sacks.”
“You want me to use the magistrate’s scales? There’s a line for those.”
“Ours for now. If I talk him into another sack for every…?”
“Eight.”
“Eight? They’re that light? All right. An extra sack for every eight he brought in underweight, we won’t take it to the guilds.”
Bug nodded once, then turned back to the vast, buzzing array of workmen in the warehouse and whistled a trill so complex, Garreth could almost hear the words in it. Three of the men stopped what they were doing and trotted out toward them. Bug strode out to meet them, and Garreth folded the unsigned agreement and turned from the pandemonium of the warehouse to the pandemonium of the street.
Carters shouted and waved whips in the air while bored mules waited for the paths before them to clear. Men and women and children slid through the gaps between carts, and dogs slipped through the legs of the people as they walked. A girl in pale plainspun sat on top of a wall and sold lamb and chicken tarts to the crowd that flowed by at her feet. Garreth knew the way to the dockmaster’s offices like it was a hallway in his own house. He pressed his way along the streets, turning sideways to squeeze between a cart of lemons and the rough stucco of the tanners’ guild hall.
Behind him, someone shrieked in pain or outrage, and he glanced back to see a woman sitting in the middle of the street, grasping her leg just below the knee. Blood was flowing over her knuckles as she shouted obscenities at a young man in the colors of House Udorma. A courier who hadn’t paid enough attention where he was headed, most likely. A sharp whistle stopped the traffic and cleared a path for two swaggering bluecloaks.
Two swaggering bluecloaks that he knew.
Garreth hesitated. Policy was that family business came first. There would be time to find Kannish and Maur after the issue of the underweight bags was settled. Turning back was only a little rebellion, but he liked the feel of it.
“How does giving him a fine help me?” the bleeding woman demanded of Kannish as the courier slipped away into the press of bodies.
“Teaches him to be more careful next time,” Kannish said.
“Give me a stick and two minutes, and I’ll do it better than that.”
Maur caught sight of Garreth and lifted his chin in greeting. Kannish held his hand out to the woman, but she stood without taking it.
“Do you need help getting that seen to?” Kannish asked.
“Are you going to fine me for bleeding on the street now?” she said, then limped away toward the river. As soon as she was gone, Kannish started laughing. The traffic around them began moving again, but the blue cloaks and bronze badges of office made a little circle for them in the center of the chaos.
“Where’ve you been keeping yourself?” Maur asked, clapping Garreth on the shoulder.
“Sorry,” Garreth said. “Things have been busy at home. How much did you fine him?”
“That one?” Kannish asked, pointing in the direction that the courier had vanished. “Four bronze. Enough for a beer and some good fish.”
“For your captain, maybe.”
“No, little things like this, we keep,” Maur said. “That’s why tolls and taxes are the bad work. Those have to come back to the penny, or the palace guard gets involved. But patrol supports itself. That’s how it’s always been.”
“Nice work.”
“It gives us an incentive to be vigilant,” Maur said. “Less slacking on the job when the job buys your dinner.”
“Seriously, though,” Kannish said, “where have you been? I haven’t seen you since…”
“The boathouse,” Maur said.
The thrill of guilt that ran through Garreth was unexpected and powerful. Shame at having avoided his friends mixed with the rawness that was the night and the girl and the consequences of it. The urge to change subjects was irresistible.
“Keep it to yourselves, but I’m to marry.”
“The burdens of running a successful house,” Kannish said, pulling a face.
“Laugh if you want, it’s salt on a cut right now.”
“Who’s the girl?” Maur asked.
“Can’t say. Sorry. Policy. Where’s Tannen?”
“Gone,” Maur said.
“Gods. I’m sorry. What happened?”
“Not dead,” Kannish said. “He’s just gone. Captain Senit threw him out of the guard. We’re supposed to stay together, and stick to the quarters we know best. Well, on coronation day, he got happy. Went down to Seepwater on his own, got his wallet and his badge of office stolen.”
“Damn,” Garreth said.
“Got worse. He chased the thief into Longhill. Captain said it was just luck he came back at all. Anyway, he’s out. Last I heard he was looking for warehouse work.”
Garreth made a sympathetic noise, but part of him was weirdly pleased. He hadn’t liked the new man and wouldn’t miss his company.
“You should come by,” Maur said, and Garreth had the sense that his friend had seen exactly what he was thinking. “It would be good to see you again.”
“I will. I promise. Not tonight, there’s a dinner. But soon.”
“It’ll be good to catch up. You left before the boathouse thing ended. You missed the best parts.”
Garreth couldn’t keep his grin down, but he could pass it off as something else. “That’s worth coming for all on its own. But you’re buying the wine.”
“Of course. But we’ll be fining you first.”
“For what?”
“We’ll think of something,” Kannish said, and hugged him. For a moment, they were just three boys again, and only playing at being adults. It felt better than Garreth would have guessed.
He turned back toward the dockmaster and the problems of the day, but his mind was split. Part of him was tallying the lost goods, calculating the demands he’d make and what counters he’d likely hear. But a part of him was at the boathouse again, and walking through moonlit streets with a girl he didn’t know. He’d heard stories of the spirits that lived in the Khahon, and without meaning to, he found himself weaving a story that she’d been one of those. A wild wraith that had taken on human form for a night. He could smell the river in her hair again.
It was fanciful and childish, but that didn’t matter. He could make up any story he wanted about her. She was gone now, and not coming back.
Outside the dockmaster’s offices, a line of people stretched halfway to the next square. Complainants and boatmen and guild representatives and unhoused labormen looking for a contract. He walked through the line until he saw the face he was seeking.
“Hey,” he said, pulling out the agreement and holding it up like a threat. “You and I need to talk.”
The sunset was gorgeous that night: red and gold and grey. The dinner was with Teres Swinart and her family, and the courtyard was open to the west. The great stone tower of the Temple stood black against the glory, and the sky made it small.
“I’m sorry Genna couldn’t be here,” Teres Swinart said. “I miss her.”
“I do too,” Garreth’s father said. “But we suffer what we must. And I think she’ll be home soon.”
The two tables were long enough to seat twenty each, and they were full. Torches stood ready for when the sun failed, and already a hint of autumn chill touched the air. Garreth sat at his father’s side. Uncle Robbson was too far down the table to speak with and seemed to have gotten into a debate with one of the other guests. He was pointing a chicken’s drumstick at the man, punctuating whatever point he was making. Vasch was at the other table, one of the oldest of the children. Garreth could feel his brother’s humiliation, but there was nothing he could do. Etiquette was etiquette. Rules were rules.
Policy was policy.
“And you, Garreth,” Teres said as she gestured a servant to refill his wine. “I haven’t seen you since this time last year. You’re looking all grown up and good enough to eat.”
His father chuckled, and it occurred to Garreth with a sick clarity that the two heads of family were using him to flirt with each other. It was no different from how they behaved anytime, but he knew his father better now. What had once seemed innocent never would again.
“Bitter as coffee,” he said. “I’m sure you could find better than me.”
“And humble too,” she teased.
A dragonfly swooped past, its wings buzzing softly. Garreth watched it swoop up and away until it left the courtyard.
“Eat,” his father said softly enough that the others couldn’t hear it. “It’s rude to leave so much on your plate.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“Yes sir,” Garreth said, and lifted a knife of chicken to his mouth. He chewed it until it tasted grey and swallowed it with wine.
“With Byrn a Sal in the palace, the city may change,” Teres was saying. Garreth hadn’t been paying enough attention to know the context.
His father laughed, leaned forward, his fingers touching their host’s arm. “Oh, Teres, that’s sweetly optimistic. Byrn a Sal will rule the way Ausai did, and Airis before him, and Daos before that.”
“You’re probably right,” the woman said, and Garreth was standing without remembering having made a decision to stand.
His father looked up at him with mild eyes. Others at the table were turning toward them. Garreth put a smile on, and it was easier than he’d expected. Than he liked.
“I think I’ve drunk a bit more than I meant,” he said. “You’ll excuse me if I go address some of the consequences?”
“I don’t know that we needed the announcement,” his father said, chuckling, “but please feel free.”
Garreth nodded to his host and turned to the house. He waved away the servant who tried to direct him toward privacy, and instead marched through the full house and out the door. The carriage that had brought them stood waiting, but he went past that too. It was a long walk from House Swinart to home, but he was fine with it. The movement gave him a way to release the storm that had settled in behind his ribs. Anger and embarrassment and something else. Hunger. Longing. Regret.
Night fell around him. The moon was a sliver now, and the air was cool against his cheek. As his legs worked, his mind and heart calmed, but slowly. Very slowly. By the time he reached home, his muscles were aching, but he was sober and more collected than he had been since the night Mother had brought Yrith to the house.
Serria opened the door to his knock and looked out past him, searching the darkness for the rest of the party. He offered her nothing, but stepped past her and into the house. The sounds of Inlisc being spoken led him like a light led moths. Yrith and her chaperone were in the dining hall together, playing some pastime game with cards and lengths of string. Her expression went as closed as clay when she saw him.
Garreth nodded to the chaperone, pulled a chair out, and turned it so that when he sat, his full attention was on the girl. She looked back at him impassively. Ready, it seemed, for anything.
“I don’t love you, and I don’t think I can learn to,” Garreth said. “It’s no fault of yours. Really. I think… I think I’m in love with someone else. And more than that, I think there’s something wrong in this house. Not you. None of this is yours to carry. None of this is anything you did. But I cannot marry you. I can’t. And I want you to know it isn’t that you’ve failed anything. You’re fine, and you’ll be fine without me, I swear it.”
Yrith, daughter of Sau, tilted her head a degree and furrowed her brow.
“I don’t know you. Why would I mourn your loss?” she said, and her accent was much less than it had been. Her chaperone laughed.
Fuck me,” Captain Senit muttered to himself.
Across the street and five buildings down, the woman paused. She was short, with close-cut black hair that curled tight to seem even shorter and a round face with a scar across it. She paused at a wooden building. The door had red banners at its sides with Inlisc writing on them that he couldn’t make sense of. When she turned to glance over her shoulder, he unfocused his eyes but didn’t look away. Nothing made you stand out faster than looking away. Better to stare right at the mark and pretend not to be paying attention.
It was the messy space, not quite Newmarket, not quite the Temple, not quite Longhill, but something of them all. The streets were wider here, dirtier. The language of the architecture didn’t know what it was, wood and stone and stucco walls all jumbled together until the street wasn’t one thing or another. The traffic wasn’t the press of main streets by one of the gates or the port. Not a place to be after sundown, for certain. Not a place to be at all, if it could be helped. Which meant it was a breeding ground for Aunt Thorn and her nits.
He wasn’t in his blues. In the old canvas trousers and a workman’s shirt with a stain down the side, he could have been anyone. Or that was the hope. A sword would have stood out, so he made do with a knife slipped down his boot and a whistle tucked in his belt. Just in case. All he had in hand was a cloth with some stewed chicken he could pretend he was eating. Take a bite every few minutes and chew big enough to give people a story to tell themselves about what he was doing there.
The doorway opened, and the woman—fuck it, call her what she is. Aunt fucking Thorn ducked inside. Senit watched the door close again and settled down to wait. It was just good practice, though. He was already sure the woman wouldn’t be coming back out.
For weeks now, he and four of his best had been following the crumbs the spider-handed thief had given them. A cheap butcher’s shop in Seepwater. A stall that sold old clothes in Newmarket. A door in a Longhill alleyway. A crawlway beside a quay along the Khahon. They were like the anchor points on a web. The entrances to an underground Kithamar that the daytime knew nothing about.
Except for him, now. And because of him, all the city guard, soon enough.
A tall man came out, and then three women after him. They didn’t look like whores and they didn’t look like hired knives. He wasn’t certain what he was looking at, but he made a point to seem bored by it. They turned south, heading into Longhill proper. Toward the enemy’s home territory. Well, fair enough. He wasn’t going to follow them in. Not yet.
He dumped out the last of the chicken, stuffed the cloth in his belt, and started back for the barracks. He kept a scowl on his face, but on the inside, he was dancing. He’d seen Aunt Thorn in the flesh, and she hadn’t known who he was or why he was there. A kiss from a new sweetheart wouldn’t have felt better.
Not that he had a sweetheart. Not any longer. Divol Senit had been born in Kithamar, son of a woman who loved a guardsman. He and his mother had lived in Newmarket, north of the Temple in two rooms of a building almost against the city wall. His father had been a bluecloak. Senit spent his youth pretending to chase down thieves and killers. Sticks had been their swords and long grass their whips. His father, when he appeared, had laughed at the pretend play, but he’d also been proud of it. It showed in his smile and the way he’d called his son’s name. He was an important man, high in the guard and respected.
So respected, it turned out, that he’d been taken in for the palace guard. The blue cloak turned to red. Senit had been ecstatic when he heard. His father, one of the prince’s own guard. He hadn’t understood why his mother wept. Not then.
