The Duchess of the Shallows (3 page)

As she shopped, she could not help but notice the quiet conversations that went on behind hands, or beneath the haggling of merchants. Ever since the appearance of the coin and the letter, it seemed as if she saw the Grey everywhere. Every turned head, meaningful glance and knowing nod seemed a turn of phrase in a language she did not know. How many of the speakers were Grey, even now engaged in the trade of secrets, rumors, and favors known as
fruning
? Until today this loose confederation of thieves, spies and information brokers had seemed almost a fairy tale, but in a few days Duchess might find herself amongst their company. Assuming she passed – and survived – Hector's test.

Two rough-looking men wearing red woolen caps approached as she stepped away from a stall, and without thinking, she stood aside to make way. She was not the only one. No one in the lower districts risked a conflict with the Red, who ran every extortion and protection scheme from the harbor to Market District. Many of the stalls in the market, and most of the business in the Shallows, were painted with a red hand, a sign that the owners had paid their protection money. The redcaps also kept the Shallows safe from the petty gangs and the worst elements of the Deeps that the city guards, the blackarms, ignored. The chief of the Red was known as Uncle Cornelius; no one seemed to know if he had a surname, nor did it matter. There was only one Uncle in Rodaas, and even Duchess had heard of him.

It was time to attend to the evening's needs. New clothing, she decided, the darker and less conspicuous the better. Tailors and weavers also did business in the market, and she moved quickly from stall to stall, finding a sturdy pair of boots here, a dark cloak there, and a new tunic and leggings that fit her slender frame well enough. Catching herself in a mirror of beaten brass she took stock. Even with her shoulder-length brown hair she'd look more like a boy than she liked, but there was nothing for it. She was not dressing for a party. By the time she completed her purchases fifth bell had rung and the market was shutting down. She still had a small pile of silver sou that she slipped into a deep pocket; she'd learned young that, in the market, the deeper the pocket the safer the coin. On the way out, she passed the fountain and tossed in a half-penny for luck. She could spare the coin, at least for now, and she
definitely
needed the luck.

Darkness was falling and the fog was creeping up the hill
,
but Bell Plaza was still alive with the traffic of merchants and lower nobility headed to slum in the taverns and brothels of the Shallows. Lightboys swarmed around, looking for custom and mostly finding it. Many of the Deeps children hired themselves out at night, to guide those looking for entertainment and to guard them from the cutpurses who lurked ever ready to relieve visitors of their coin. Each lightboy carried a lantern for the first purpose and a long stick for the second, and Duchess had seen those sticks in action. It was best not to trifle with a lightboy on the job. All of the lightboys knew Lysander, and therefore Duchess, so she nodded politely to them as she passed.

She headed back towards the garret, but as she rounded a corner she caught sight of a group of unruly young men, well dressed and well-liquored, catcalling and teasing passers-by. Looking more closely, she recognized the band of whores and fools that Lysander had always referred to as either the ganymedes or, more often, "the girls." The composition of the band varied as new boys joined and older members moved on, but Lysander was invariably the leader.

She took note of the current roster. There was Poor Gabe, whose clients treated him more roughly than he liked and paid him less than he wanted, though Lysander always said there was something in the boy that asked for it; he played the martyr too well. Ponn had broad shoulders and a tough look, but everyone called him Squeak because his voice was girlishly high. Deneys was tall as a tree and thin as rail and, according to Lysander, the current favorite of the master of the tanner's guild. Manly Pete supposedly preferred women and was a ganymede only for the gold, although he rarely earned more than a silver. Lysander was there as well, with his arm around a relatively new addition – Bran or Brenn, she thought his name was – and they were stumbling along in drunken unison with the rest of the girls. Looking more closely, she saw that Bran-or-Brenn looked as if he'd taken a beating: one of his eyes was blackened and swollen and he appeared to be favoring one arm, though he seemed far too drunk to care about either.

It was hardly unusual to see a ganymede sporting bruises, and on more than one occasion Lysander himself had stumbled back to the garret in various shades of black and blue. Unlike whores in established brothels, the ganymedes went unprotected by the blackarms, the Red, or someone like Minette. The ganymedes were
a law unto themselves, answering to no one and protected by no one, so it was little wonder they so often took a beating.

Before she could hail them the ganymedes disappeared around a bend, no doubt heading towards their next cup of wine. She decided not to follow; she had a long night ahead, and she didn't want to start it tavern-hopping. Whatever this test of Hector's might be, it was best she face it with all her wits about her.

* * *

She busied herself before last bell by trying on her new clothes, pleased with the fit if not the fashion. Someday she was going to
have
to try wearing a dress. Then, restless, she paced the garret, the squeak of every board under her feet as familiar as the voices of Noam's family as they made the morning bread. She considered going out for a walk to burn off some nervous energy, but knew the evening fog would by now be thick upon the hill. It was never perfectly safe to roam the Shallows alone at night, but something about the chill, damp mist always made her think of the gray figure from her dreams.

Almost as an afterthought she knelt near the fireplace and pulled aside a loose floorboard, revealing a small wooden box. She brought it to the hearth, opened it and removed two small matching daggers. They'd been a gift from Lysander for her last birthday. Duchess was no stranger to a blade – Noam had seen to that – but the knives the baker had used to train her were not nearly as sharp as Lysander's gifts. She thought someday she'd like to learn to throw a blade as well, but these weapons were not weighted for such.

She sat at the fire for a long while, sharpening the daggers with the whetstone that also sat in the box. Then she hung one of the daggers from her belt and slid the other into her boot, making what she what she hoped was a grim smile. Hector didn't seem dangerous, but she decided that if he showed her steel, she'd
respond in kind.

She napped fitfully but was soon awakened by a tremendous crash of thunder that brought with it a torrent of rain. It was unusual enough to bring her to the garret’s window, where she watched Shallows folk running for cover. Such a strong rain was unusual in Rodaas at any time, and certainly so early in the spring. Most of the year rain was a fine mist or a light drizzle that lasted for days, and had to fall for hours before anything got very wet. The appearance of such a strong downpour did little to ease her nerves, but she refused to take it as an omen. By the time it let up, around eleventh bell, the street outside Lysander's window had become a swamp. The mud wouldn't do much for her new clothes, she reflected ruefully, but it would keep people indoors, which on this night was all to the good. It seemed also to have driven away the fog, another good thing. After one last check on her daggers, she took to the muddy streets, following the run of water south towards the Deeps.

The moon was cloud-hidden and since most of the lightboys had been driven inside by the rain the night was darker than she liked. Still, it made keeping to the shadows easier. The cobblestoned way was slippery with mud so she took her time; the last thing she needed tonight was a turned ankle. She followed the water as it flowed downhill. She passed few people, and they either never saw her or paid no attention.

She left behind Noam's shop, and the other humble but neatly kept homes and businesses of the city's working poor. As she neared the long slope that marked the edge of the Shallows, the cobblestones gave way to a muddy, narrow rut, and the buildings she passed looked older and shabbier...and, strangest to her eyes, largely wooden. The majority of structures in the higher districts, and even in the Shallows, were constructed largely of dark gray stone. In the Deeps, few if any of the structures were stone, and she had heard dreadful stories about fires that had gotten out of control and leapt quickly from house to house and street to street. Having had her own experience with a house fire, she found the prospect terrifying.

Until this afternoon, Duchess had only rarely been this far south, and had never dared descend fully into the Deeps, where the days were dangerous and the nights lawless. A knife in her boot wouldn't protect her there at night. A
sword
in her boot wouldn't protect her. But there was no need. Hector's shop stood just at the edge of the hill, marked by a small wooden sign depicting three silver coins spilling from a pouch. The sign creaked in the breeze over the paint-peeling wooden doors, which were three steps up from the muddy street. A light burned inside, but following instructions she slipped around to the back door and knocked three times. The door opened immediately, as if Hector had been standing just behind, and he gestured her inside.
The gesture was brusque, but also strangely eager, as if this meeting were not a chore but a long-awaited moment. She stepped warily through, a hand near her dagger, but Hector closed the door behind her, taking no notice. She was in a sparsely furnished living space, which boasted a small hearth, several rickety chairs, an even more rickety-looking table, and a small bed piled with furs that had seen better days. Hector took a seat and motioned her to another, and she faced him across a warped and pitted tabletop on which burned several stubs of candle.

"I see you left your friend at home. Very wise. Keep it up and this might turn out to be worth the trouble I am taking." The buried keenness in his voice was even more troubling than his earlier peevishness, and since she found herself lacking a pointed retort she said nothing at all.

"The mark you showed me this afternoon is a sign," he continued, his voice dropping to a near whisper, "but it's vague, and that means the opening of this door of yours depends entirely upon me. Either I'm satisfied with your performance or I'm not. In this, I am the door ward."
And he rattled like a loose hinge, she thought, but she remained silent, following Minette's long-ago admonition that silence was more valuable than gold and stronger than stone. Hector was guardedly excited about
something
, she was certain, and like a child who had come up with the most brilliant idea, he could not wait to tell her.

He leaned forward, thin elbows on bony knees. "How well do you know the city?"

"Well enough," she replied warily. "I've lived here all my life."

"You know the
Shallows
, yes, but what of the other districts? Like, say, Temple?"

This turn of conversation was suspicious, but there was nothing for it but to answer. "I know the Walk, and the parts around Beggar's Gate."

He nodded impatiently. "Yes, of course you do...how else would someone like us get into Temple District?" So now she and Hector were an
us
, she noted. "But what do you know of who lives there?" She wasn't certain where he was going, so she replied with a
shrug.

"You'll need to do some footwork, then. Good. That'll make this a better test." He raked back gray-brown hair and went on. "Two nights hence, the Baron Eusbius is throwing a little party on his newly purchased and refurbished estate in Temple." Something about the way he said
baron
dripped contempt, but she filed that away for later consideration. "Most of the petty nobility will be in attendance, if only to gawk at the new lord." The word
new
caught her ear, but he
went on before she could ask. "The baron is known as something of a collector: artifacts, paintings, other objects of art. Bastard doesn't have an eye for it, mind you, never did, but he knows
value,
and has a habit of acquiring what he wants. This party is mostly an excuse to show off the new estate, as well as his latest acquisition, a fancy dagger he got somewhere." Hector flashed a cold, yellow smile. "I want that dagger to vanish."

She looked at him. "You want me to steal a dagger?" This was more than she'd bargained for; she was no burglar.

Hector's grin widened. "I'm afraid it's not that simple. The importance of this party can't be understated. It's the baron's first public event since he came into his title, and the nobles will be watching." Hector leaned in closer, warming to his topic. "You see, he..."
He caught himself and smiled smugly, folding spindly arms across his chest. "Suffice to say Eusbius reminds the lords of something they'd rather forget. And more than a few of them have been waiting for him to trip up. So if he were to bungle the party, say, by losing the main attraction…well, the good baron would be very embarrassed, wouldn't he?"

Duchess considered this. "But if this dagger goes missing, won't he just cancel the party? Then nobody is embarrassed."

Hector nodded, a glint in his eye. "That's why the dagger can't disappear tonight or tomorrow. It has to disappear during the party." A cold finger touched her heart. Hector was asking her not only to break into a baron's estate in Temple District, but to do it while that estate was crowded with guests. They’d take both her hands if they caught her.

Hector went on heedlessly. "If the dagger disappears just before he can present it to the guests, he'll be the laughing stock of the city, and I will open your door. And," he continued with the air of one conferring a great favor, "I'll pay a fair price for the object."

Her stomach had turned to ice and her legs to jelly, but she kept her face a mask. She had no idea how she would even begin. "What does this dagger look like?" she asked, hoping she sounded braver than she felt.