The Duchess of the Shallows (11 page)

She felt her stomach tighten but resolved to continue. "I know it's risky," she began, determined to be all Steel, "but I just have to come up with the right plan. So, what I need now-"

"What you need is a swift kick in the arse," Lysander snapped. She blinked; he wasn't often that short with anyone, and never with her. He seemed to realize what he'd done at the same moment she did. He frowned and sighed. "I'm sorry, it's just..."

"Lysander, what is going
on
? You've been acting strangely ever since I mentioned Eusbius' name."

He watched her for a long moment, saying nothing. Then he stood and wandered to the window. He pressed his head against the glass, watching the people wandering in the Shallows below. "This is the second time this week I've heard the name
Eusbius
, I'm sorry to say. That man..." He watched the movement outside. "I only know a little about him," he said at last. "But it's what I
don't
know that frightens me."

It was rare for Lysander to admit to such a thing, wise in the ways of the city as he was. She said nothing; best to let him speak his mind in his own time.

"For once I don't have the whole story," he said, turning from the window, "And perhaps this time I don't want to know." She signaled for him to continue and he wandered back to the hearth, picked up his knife, and poked idly at a chunk of sausage. "You know Brenn, right?" She nodded, suddenly remembering the boy she had seen with Lysander the day before on her way back from the market, the one who looked as if he'd been beaten. Brenn, Duchess recalled, was as light-fingered as Lysander, although not nearly as clever. "He's...had some dealings with the baron."

"So? That's hardly unusual. You've all had noble clients at one time or another."

"We have," he allowed, looking at her darkly, "but it
is
unusual for Brenn to come back from a job quite that beaten. He's not into the rough stuff, you know." He popped the piece of sausage idly into his mouth, as if eating were better than talking.

"What happened?"

He chewed at his chunk of sausage for awhile, then gave up hope of swallowing and simply talked around it. "That's the thing; nobody knows. Deneys had the notion of getting him blind stinking drunk last night in an attempt to get the tale out of him, but even though he could barely stand, he wouldn't talk."

"I don't understand. What's so frightening about..."

"
That's
what's so frightening, Duchess. This is Brenn I'm talking about. Brenn, not some delicate blossom, or even a Poor Gabe. The boy can stand up for himself." He swallowed tremendously. "I've never known him to keep quiet about a job no matter how badly it went. And after he bagged himself a nobleman, he wouldn't shut up about it. He had a bright future as a kept boy, bruises or no. But he won't talk about why it ended...or where those bruises came from."

"What do you think it could be?"

"I don't know. I'm left with only my imagination, and somehow that makes it worse. And now you tell me you plan on sneaking into the house of a man who can frighten Brenn into silence, with no plan and no promise you'll walk back out. What do you want me to say to that? What do you want me to
do
?"

She weighed her response for a long moment, then stood, brushing crumbs from her trousers.

"I want you to help me find Brenn."

* * *

"It had to be arsing Trades, didn't it?" Lysander muttered, leaning dramatically against a wall, huffing and out of breath.

When she insisted they visit Deneys, she'd forgotten how much Lysander hated walking through Trades District. But there was nothing for it; Deneys' own garret was here, paid for by the guildmaster who liked his kept boy close at hand and yet prudently distant from his own home and family. And since Brenn was currently living with Deneys, they'd gone through Trades Gate at the north end of the market, then started the long climb up Craftman's Lane, a steep switchback road that zig-zagged through the district. Halfway up, Lysander had started complaining, and she'd decided some conversation would keep his mind off the climb.

"You know Trades is the newest district, right?"

He mopped sweat from his brow with a sleeve, and Duchess had to keep from rolling her eyes. "The damned city was ancient before the Rodaasi got here. How new can it be?" he muttered as they resumed their climb.

She laughed. "
Relatively
new, then. The city hasn't been redistricted in hundreds of years, but I'm sure Trades was the last one."

"So where did the craftsmen work before that? It's not like the city could have survived without them."

"The Shallows, I think. Butchers, tanners, dyers, and all the rest."

Lysander waved a hand dramatically in front of his nose. "Ugh! That must have been awful! The Shallows smells bad enough as it is."

"That's why they moved, actually." They crossed one of the district's many man-made canals, which powered the waterwheels used by various tradesmen. The bridge was not as well maintained as it might be; many had been burned during the War of the Quills, and had not always been rebuilt with care.

He glanced at her playfully. "And I'll bet you a handful of florin you know who made them move," he teased, without rancor. He was long accustomed to the little bits of city history she'd picked up from her father's books, and bless his heart, had never asked the source of her knowledge.

She giggled and poked him in the ribs. "You'd win. It was Empress Agiri."

Lysander hooted. "What kind of name is that?"

"The kind you didn't make fun of if you wanted to keep your head." By now the air was full of the sound of trade: the ringing of hammers on metal, the lowing of cows and the bleating of sheep, and the shouts of apprentices, journeymen and masters alike. The twisting streets, unsuitable for wagons, were crowded with wheelbarrows and three-wheeled carts, and they had to weave a careful way through the traffic. By nightfall, the area would be quiet and occupied only by patrolling blackarms. She'd rarely been in Trades; it was too hard to maneuver the bread cart around the streets there, and the prospective profit too meager. Most of the craftsmen went to the market for their bread. Noam had always talked about buying a new cart, so he could cater to the workers and save them the walk, but...well, none of that was her concern, anymore.

"Well, she's been dead Mayu knows how long, but my apologies to Her Highness. Why would she order the craftsmen to move? It's not like she could smell them way up there in Garden."

"
She
thought she could, and since the emperor doted on her that was good enough for him to order all the craftsmen to move out of the Shallows. Well, actually, he gave them a choice: move to the new district or set up their shops in the imperial dungeons."

"And they replied, 'You know, I've always wanted to work in the steepest and rockiest part of the city!'" They'd reached the crest of the Lane, and looking down they could make out, far below, the gate in the outer wall of the city, widened long ago so that cattle, goats, and other livestock could be driven directly from outlying farms into the district. They made their way down the other side of the rise. "All because the Empress decides the smell is too much." He shook his head as they turned down an alleyway. "I rather prefer our Violana's attitude: Leave Me Alone." They reached a narrow wooden staircase. "Anyway, enough of politics. We're here."

Deneys' apartments were less shabby and more roomy than Lysander's, but he seemed eager to be rid of Brenn all the same. "He slouches about all day staring at the walls," Deneys told them in a low voice. "It's nerve-wracking, and it's ruining my beauty sleep." Brenn, staring listlessly into the empty hearth, took no notice. He was dressed in wine-stained breeches and nothing else. Duchess had never paid much attention to Brenn, who was dark, short and slender where Lysander was tall, blond and fair. He might have been attractive except for the black eye and the purple bruises that adorned his neck, chest, and back.

"Mind if we borrow him for a bit?" Lysander asked.

"You're welcome to him," sniffed Deneys. "Perhaps he can afford to do nothing all day, but some girls have to work for a living." He waved a hand about him. "This place isn't free."

"Come on, Brenn," Lysander said in the brusque tones he used with the ganymedes in his charge. "We're for a walk, all three of us. Let's go." Brenn mumbled something incomprehensible and tried to wave him off, but Lysander was having none of it. "No nonsense, now, or else Deneys will end up disappointing his good friend the guildmaster tonight, and we can't have that. Up, up, up." Eventually they got him on his feet, into a tunic and some shoes, and out the door.

"Don't hurry back," Deneys drawled as he closed the door behind them.

"Let's get him to the Square," Lysander said to Duchess, as if Brenn were not present, which she reflected was almost true. "Out in the open by the fountain." Brenn was moving slowly, dragging his feet with every step, so they each took an arm to keep him from stumbling. Lysander locked eyes with her over Brenn's slumped head;
this
, his look said silently,
could be you
. Descending a winding stair Brenn
did
stumble, nearly sending the three of them tumbling all the way down to the Shallows. Duchess found herself impatiently biting her lip, and she had to remind herself that useful information about the Eusbius estate would be worth a fall.

Iron Square was to Trades what Bell Plaza was to the Shallows, except smaller and less crowded. It was lined on all four sides with neat stone buildings, from which came the clanging sounds of metal on metal; many of the district's smiths and armorers had their workshops on the Square. A large fountain sat at the center of the area, and from it apprentices frequently drew water to temper metal or tan leather, or to wash out the slaughterhouses. No nymphs frolicked here; instead, an impossibly squat and muscular stone man holding a hammer stood vigil amidst the splashing water. At the moment a bentback old man was filling a bucket, and two younger men were washing soot-blackened faces and hands.

As they approached, the sound of that flow seemed to hit Brenn like a physical force and he stiffened in her grasp. "No," he said, coming alive for the first time since they'd seen him. "No, no, no." He wrenched his arm from her with surprising strength, nearly sending her to the cobbles, and pulled away from Lysander with equal force. He then bolted straight across the Square, nearly bowling over the old man as he was turning away from the fountain. The man squawked and dropped his bucket as Brenn flashed by, sending its contents splashing on to the cobbles.

"Don't just stand there!" Lysander called to her, taking off in the same direction. Duchess looked after them and sighed. "More running," she muttered. And then she was off as well.

Bruised and battered though he might be, Brenn could still run quickly enough. He darted through an arched doorway and along a curving lane, his feet slapping smartly against the cobbles. Lysander, slightly taller and with longer legs, kept pace, but Duchess, still sore from the previous evening's adventures, found herself lagging behind. As they passed a narrow alley Lysander pointed wildly down its length without glancing behind, and she, trusting his greater knowledge of the district, changed direction without question. Sure enough, the alley cut straight and the shortcut would have brought her out well ahead of Brenn...but for a trio of nattering gray-bearded tradesmen who filled the narrow way from wall to wall.

"What's your rush, m'dear?" one of them challenged her.

"Probably stole someone's purse," said the second, clapping a hand to his own.

Her breath was coming so hard she never heard what the third had to say. By the time she got around them the shortcut amounted to a short delay, and Brenn was still ahead. She gritted her teeth and willed her aching legs to move faster. They complied, reluctantly.

They came to the top of a long hill that descended to a canal that marked the southern border of the district. The gate to Market lay not far beyond that canal, which was spanned by an arching wooden bridge. Once Brenn got across it and through the gate he could lose himself amongst the stalls and the shoppers, and they might spend the next week trying to find him again. Duchess didn't have that kind of time. Lysander had achieved an admirable speed but Brenn possessed the strength of terror. Lacking both, Duchess looked about desperately. Three apprentices sat under an overhanging roof, sharing a skin of ale, their wheelbarrows parked nearby. They hooted as Brenn and Lysander bolted past, and then looked at Duchess with more interest. She, in turn, had eyes only for their wheelbarrows.

"Sorry!" she said, skidding to a halt. She grasped one of the barrows – which was less balky than the bread cart, she noted – heaved it around, and sent it rolling down the hill with as much force as she could muster. Its owner's cry of outrage was lost under the sounds of creaky wheels on cobbles. The barrow rattled along, picking up speed as it went, and soon it was flying along like the chariot of some petty god, sending up loose stones in its wake. A stray cat ambled out of a narrow space between buildings, took one look, and leapt away, hissing. Lysander, she saw, never even tried to dodge aside, and she blessed him for remembering that day in the alley.

Brenn heard the barrow coming and veered sharply left as the thing barreled by, missing him by a good three feet before crashing to a halt against a smithy wall. The maneuver took away some of his speed, however, and before he could make it up Lysander crashed into him like thunder, sending the both of them sprawling. The sound was music to Duchess' ears.

Behind her, one of the apprentices guffawed. "You missed!" he mocked.

She turned back with all the smugness she could muster. "I meant to," she gasped.

* * *

An hour later, they were sitting on broken crates in an alley in Market, not far from that place of long-ago cat-catching. Leaving Lysander to guard their charge, Duchess had gone to the market and bought bread, wine, and half a roast chicken, and they'd sat quietly as Brenn fell to. He'd eaten in silence, his back against the wall, but even after he'd finished, he wouldn't say a word.