The Duchess of the Shallows (24 page)

She passed winesinks where voices sang in strange tongues, and made her way past taverns that exuded the scent of unfamiliar dishes: spicy, sweet, sharp and bitter. In the higher districts there were rumors that the food in the Foreign Quarter was made from children stolen from the Shallows and the Deeps in the dead of night, but Duchess had never believed that. If she'd had the coin she might have stopped to sample, but she had only a wet, stinking dress and one tightly wrapped dagger. Besides, the fewer people who took note of her tonight the better. Duchess had heard a great deal about the folk of the Foreign Quarter, and little good, but now that she'd seen for herself she found them exciting. Despite her situation, she thought she would like to come back one night when she had the time – and the coin – to enjoy herself.

The sights and sounds had relaxed her and exhaustion was taking its toll, so it was little wonder she did not see the crowd of blackarms until she was nearly on top of them. They were gathered outside a small, gray tavern that sagged heavily against its neighbors, nearly at the very top of Dock Street.
A brightly-colored sign showing a large-breasted, raven haired woman with a frown like a storm rising proclaimed it as
The Harsh Mistress,
and through the open doors and windows she could see a throng of sailors, stevedores and other Wharves folk, drinking, laughing, shouting and singing. The crowd was so loud and boisterous that they'd caught the attention of the local watch, who were busy restoring order. The street was crowded, and as Duchess weaved through the press one of the blackarms stepped backward and bumped into her. "Pardons, sir," she muttered, but before she could move on a hand shot out and seized her arm in a grip of iron.

"
Here's
your pardon," the man said, and Duchess felt a jolt of recognition. He was sober now, and wearing a black armband as well as a blackened eye and a split lip from the beating the lightboys had given him, but there was no mistaking those small eyes and that beetled brow. Those eyes were dancing with triumph, and he grinned as he painfully tightened his grip. "Where's your blade, knife girl?" He shook her roughly, his face inches from hers. "Maybe it's with my purse, do you think?" She was frozen in terror; the gods of ill fortune, who had stayed their hand all evening, had forborne no longer. The drunken brute she'd robbed that night in the Shallows was here again, this time stone sober and surrounded by a dozen of his companions. If he arrested her for a robber he'd find the dagger, and soon she'd have two counts of thievery to answer. The first would earn her a flogging; the second, a noose.

She'd left Lysander just like this, helpless in the grip of some cruel stranger, and she'd done nothing and they'd called him rabbit and dragged him down the stairs and away to
some awful place and now the gods were punishing her in kind. The man pulled her closer, grabbing her other arm as well. "Where is it, girl?" he hissed, uglier in his anger even than in the stupid drunkenness of that night she'd robbed him. "Where's my coin? Where's my purse?"

One of his fellows, grabbing at a particularly truculent patron barked out a laugh. "Harrin's got himself another one!" he shouted.

"What's this, then?" said a sharp voice from behind her. Duchess turned to see a tall, slim man with the blackest hair she'd ever seen, blacker even than the arm band he wore. His skin was too dark for a Rodaasi and
his eyes too heavy-lidded; Ahé, she knew. He glanced briefly at Duchess but his attention was mainly on Harrin.

Harrin wasted no time. "Caught me a thief, Sheriff Galeon," he replied, giving Duchess another shake, and she felt the dagger at her breast slip ever so slightly. "A real purse-snatcher. Cut the thing right off my belt and left me penniless."

Galeon nodded with mock gravity. "Oh? And what were
you
doing during this villainy?" His Rodaasi was good, with only just a touch of an accent.

"Well, I was on my back in the street," Harrin protested, and several of the other blackarms chuckled. Harrin glared at his companions defiantly. "She pushed a barrel of rainwater on me and..." The others burst into outright laughter and he reddened. The grip on her arm tightened until she thought her bones might crack. "And there were others!" he blurted out suddenly. "At least three! Hit me from behind while she distracted me! All of 'em at once! Grabbed my purse before I could get back on my feet!"

There was more laughter at this. "Only three, Harrin? Not six?" called one of the blackarms over the din. "Maybe they were Imperial Whites, and not thieves at all!" cried another. The laughter grew, now spreading even to the customers of the
Mistress
.

"Drenched and penniless in the Shallows, I was," Harrin muttered. There were more guffaws, but through it all, Galeon never cracked a smile. He gave her a longer look this time, and Steel sat up and sniffed the air. Duchess simply could not allow herself to be arrested no matter what the cost. Running away would not serve; in her exhausted state she wouldn't get two steps before they caught her. Attempting to fight twelve men with one stolen dagger would be equally foolish. Lysander could have charmed the purse (and the pants) off the
Ahé, but alive or dead he was not here in the Wharves.

She knew little of the Wharf Rats, the blackarms that patrolled the district, and of Galeon she knew almost nothing. But he was a blackarm, and like any blackarm, Galeon would be wary of starting a scene with a drunken crowd looking on. And in any case a foreign-born officer had at best a tenuous hold on authority. Would he test that authority on the word of a fool
like Harrin? Over a
Shallows
girl? Offering a quick prayer to Mendacue, god of trickery, she struggled out of Harrin's grip and as hard as she could slapped him full across the face. The noise of her hand on his cheek sounded louder than the bells from the city's hilltop, and in an instant every eye was upon her.

"Purse snatcher, hell!" she cried, trying to sound like the bawdiest wench the Shallows could boast. "You were the one that did the snatching that night! And I was the one on my back...that and then some." She lifted the hem of her wet and dirty dress, the one Malia had given her, to reveal one scraped knee and
one bruised. The blackarms guffawed. "And I never got a bit of that sou you promised, you stupid bastard!" She risked another blow, although this one he saw coming and it only glanced across his shoulder.

By now the other blackarms were bent over with laughter, slapping their thighs and wiping streaming eyes, and more sailors crowded out of the
Harsh Mistress
into the street, jostling and pushing, to see what the fuss was about. Soon there would be a mob out here. Duchess tried to calm herself as the dagger slipped a bit further. She glanced at Galeon out of the corner of her eye, hoping she wouldn't run out of breast before the officer ran out of patience.

Galeon fixed her with a searching look, then turned on Harrin. "She has no purse. In fact, all she has is the smell of bay water, which seems like your usual kind of woman."

"She's got no purse now, sir, but this was two nights past. In the Shallows." He gave both Duchess and the laughers in the crowd an ugly look.

"You never reported a robbery. Didn't notice it missing until now, is that it?" Galeon shook his head in disgust. "A sad tale even from you, Harrin. Well, I won't have it. Squabble with your whores off duty and out of my sight." He turned to Duchess. "You can be on your way, but in future I'd suggest you find a better class of clientele. You might start by not smelling like the harbor." Duchess ducked her head, weak with relief, but she did not miss the appraising look Galeon gave her. Before she had a chance to wonder the officer had turned to the rest of the blackarms. "Ho, Wharf Rats! Move out!" As one, dragging the sputtering Harrin in their wake, they moved away down the hill, carrying with them a few of the rowdiest patrons of the
Harsh Mistress
. The rest of the crowd dispersed, mostly heading back into the tavern, and Duchess hurried away, readjusting the dagger in her bodice.

The Wharf Rats had no reason to suspect her of the night's crime, and unless word moved downhill faster than the water that had carried her, Galeon and his men were most likely unaware of the theft of Eusbius' dagger. Still, the quicker she was away the better; Galeon seemed the kind to remember a face, and if he noticed that the scrapes on her knees were fresh and not two days old she'd be in for it.

Her shoes were waterlogged and she was bone-tired so the going was slow. As she drew closer to the Shallows the streets were busy with more familiar night folk - craftsmen enjoying a tankard of ale, whores plying their trade, lightboys on
the job, and the occasional noble enjoying a scandalous night in the low districts - and she had to move more carefully to avoid being recognized by someone she knew. She doubted anyone would connect her to what had happened at House Eusbius, but she wasn't willing to bet her life on it. As tired as she was, she dared not be careless now.

She finally limped, footsore and bedraggled, up the stairs to Lysander's garret. For a moment she considered taking herself over to the Vermillion for some hot wine to warm her, but thought better of it. Minette would have too many customers at this time of night, any of whom might carry the story of the wet girl with the curious cloth packet. The baron might even now be alerting the blackarms to the theft, and Duchess had no intention of giving them any assistance in their investigation. Best to keep a low profile until the morning, when the Vermillion was quiet and she could get the news from Minette. Besides, she was anxious to make sure Lysander was unhurt.

She was disappointed to find the garret empty, but she quickly started a fire and pulled off her wet clothes. Her shoes were ruined from the water, and she kicked them off with regret. The new boots she'd purchased would have to do until she sold the dagger to Hector. For a moment she considered throwing the stinking linen dress out of the window, but she was afraid someone would find it and connect it to her and to House Eusbius. Still, she dared not keep it, so after a moment's debate she cut it up with an eating knife and put it, piece by piece, into the fire, kneeling naked on the hearth and relishing the feel of the warmth on her skin. She washed with the basin, which would be good enough until she could use one of the tubs at the Vermillion. With
lots
of soap.

After she was as clean as she was going to get she put on her old clothes and unwrapped the dagger. The cheesecloth she burned, but she saved the bit of tapestry. Besides the knife, the ragged piece of cloth was her only keepsake from House Eusbius…not counting, of course, the gold medallion she'd filched from the baron's study. She grinned as she laid it on the hearth next to the dagger, gold glinting alongside silver. She'd sell both to Hector and live like an empress for a week, or a baroness at least. She'd lost Lysander's lockpicks, either in the cistern or the wild ride through the tunnels, but she'd buy him a new set.
Ten
new sets.

Once this work was done she sat by the fire, her mind filling with fears that until now had been crowded aside by other worries. How much would the baron put together, and how quickly? Had Malia already reported Rina's disappearance? Would any of the guests report Lysander's interaction with the missing kitchen girl? Had Anassa been found, and had she talked? Where was Lysander? Duchess was batting these questions around in her mind when she heard shouts outside, from the direction of Beggar's Gate. Uneasy, she cracked open the door and peered out into the street. A group of blackarms was passing, led by Malleus and Kakios, and she felt a gust of terror so sharp and cold she nearly fainted. They had known, somehow, and now they were coming for her. She could slam and lock the door, but they'd only kick it in. She could run, but they'd catch her. Hide and they'd find her. Beg and they'd laugh at her.

There was no need. The blackarms, shouting orders and commands to each other, spread out, one group headed towards the Market, another towards the Deeps, the third down the hill towards the Wharves. They never so much as glanced up at the garret where Duchess stood frozen in fear.

She went back inside and closed the door.

She glanced at the silver dagger on the hearth. She had to be rid of it, and soon. She didn't know if the baron was influential enough to order a house-to-house search of the Shallows, but she didn't intend to find out. She dared not seek Hector now, not with the blackarms thick as flies in the streets, but come the morning she'd find him and collect her coin and her admission into the Grey. She wouldn't even wait until evening, as he had specified. He'd be angry, but after having braved the party and the Brutes and the sewers, Hector seemed a much less formidable foe. She did not fear him.

She hid the dagger, the medallion and the piece of tapestry in the nook under the floorboards, then curled up under the blankets. Sick with worry for Lysander, she was sure she'd never sleep. She lay there, shivering though not cold, listening for the sound of blackarms at the door.

Chapter
Fifteen:
Hector changes his mind

She was in a strange house, a mix of her father's half-remembered country estate, Noam's bakery, and the Vermillion. Minette was in the kitchen, wearing a facet's mask and serving a soup of tiles and sou. Lysander sat on a golden throne in the courtyard, wearing fox ears and lording over the ganymedes who worked in the garden. She knew that someone was waiting to meet her at the carriage house and so she ignored Lani's pleas to help her with a special delivery.

At the carriage house was a strangely familiar dark-haired man, clean-shaven with an easy smile. He was leading a horse by the bridle. He gestured for her to ride, helping her up, and she suddenly realized she was very small. She looked down at him from her precarious perch as he led her out through the gates and towards the cold house that sat beside the river.

"Your brother is waiting for you," the man said. "The plums run straight down to the harbor and Hector'll never buy them in that state."