Nutmeg gave him a look from under her bangs. “Let’s go, then. I’m tired and hungry.”
“As are we all,” Rivergrace echoed. She pinched out all the lamps and sconces on the way, counting each to make sure she’d gotten all of them as she went out the door. Lily had drummed into them the dangers of a fire within closed walls and buildings such as these. Crowded city quarters were like tinder, just waiting for a wild spark. They dropped the latch into place and then the lock that only Lily had a key for. Hosmer dropped a pace behind them, as the night life of Calcort surged around them like an irresistible tide, carrying them down the lane. The night smelled of the hot summer dust and spilled ale, and the fragrance of flowers and oils on the women as they sauntered past.
“I think I shall wear my belled pants and blouse tomorrow night,” Nutmeg declared.
“Will you?” Rivergrace thought the outfit rather daring, as thin and clinging as it was, with its tiny bells ringing from the cuffs and sleeves.
“Hot enough. Unless it rains.” She peered at the visible sky. “What do you think, Hos? Thunderclouds?”
“Not yet but, aye, closing in. Tomorrow afternoon, I wager.” Like all the Farbranches, he had a good weather eye. They could feel the heaviness of the water in the air, the pressure of the sky and wind. Rivergrace lifted her chin, knowing only that rain was very very near. Thunder-storms, she could not predict, but rain, yes, she felt it. Of course, it was the word on everyone’s lips. They practically danced in the streets to pray for it, relief from the unrelenting summer heat.
Nutmeg hooked her arm through Rivergrace’s. “They say,” she began, “that the seaside great city never grows this hot, that wind off the water keeps it cool day and night, no matter how dire the summer.”
“Really?” She tried to imagine an ocean. She’d been told it held salt, so much salt that fish which lived there were far different from fish in the rivers. And how would it appear? Would it be like looking along an endless lakeshore? Would there be trees at its edge? Silver-winged alna diving along its shallow curves? “It might be dreadfully cold in the winter, with rain-driven wind.”
Nutmeg tilted her head. “Could be. I’d like to visit sometime, though.”
“I would, as well.”
“In the summer.”
“Definitely.”
Hosmer grunted from behind them. “If we hurried a bit, we might make it t’ the table before the stew gets cold.”
Rivergrace stretched her long legs, making Nutmeg scurry along to keep up. “I’m just worried about making it before Keldan eats it all.” Indeed, cold stew on a simmering night didn’t sound all that disagreeable. Point of fact, a light dinner suited her better, some fresh greens and maybe a few edible flowers and fruit, a meal her brothers often sneered at. A bit of meat and gravy would only add to the flavor a little. She knew that her meeting her needs would be a far cry from that of the others, though, and the last thing she wanted was to be hearing stomachs growling and other complaints all evening. The growing throng made walking difficult. Shoulders and swinging arms buffeted her more than once.
Singing voices rose on the night air. She leaned down to Nutmeg. “I don’t quite understand why everyone is so high-strung tonight.”
“Petitioners’ Night. Actually, I think it goes on for several days, when we get to petition the Vaelinars for aid or redress from the first times.”
“First time what?”
Nutmeg looked up at her. “From the first time they came here and everything changed. Sometimes they took land. Sometimes slaves. Sometimes lives.”
That didn’t quite explain the tipsy celebration which seemed to be growing ever louder as they walked through the lane of taverns and closed shops, the poorer section of the quarter before it opened back up into homes and manors and closer toward their brewery.
Hosmer said, from somewhere close behind her, “The veiled ones tend to repay in coin, with few questions or proof needed. Many see it as a way to get rich quick.”
“Ah.”
“Fools,” remarked Nutmeg. “The Vaelinars never forget, and easy wealth never lasts long. When trade and craftsmanship is needed again, they’re often blacklisted. For generations.”
“Petitioners had better be certain of what they ask for, then.”
“A good idea, lass, that they should be,” Hosmer agreed.
Before any of them could comment further, a group of bakers’ boys and lasses came toward them, singing and knocking their tankards together, their flour-dusted aprons still worn about their necks and waists, their sleeves still rolled up for kneading, their faces flushed with the heat of the night and the drink. The Kernans seemed merry in a determined way, and the Dwellers among them reeled about with impromptu jigs. They spilled over the walkways and most of the narrow street with merry shouts and a spinning dance or two, heedless of anyone else pacing around them. Nutmeg and Rivergrace moved one way, and Hosmer found himself jostled all the way across by the revelers.
A Kernan stopped, her hands on her hips as she stared at them, her skirt tucked up into her waistband to reveal her petticoats and shapely legs, and cried out, “What are you doin’ with her?”
Rivergrace stopped so abruptly Meg bumped into her flank. “I ... I ...”
“Not you. You!” And she jabbed a thumb at Nutmeg. “She’s a disgrace for a Dweller like you. No veil, walkin’ th’ streets like a common tart. Think you’re gonna make yourself look all uppity trailin’ around with an elven castoff, do you?”
“Now wait here,” Nutmeg shot back. “That’s drink talking, not you. So I’ll forget what you said, and step around.” She began to steer herself and Grace by.
“Not so fast.” A burly lad stumped up behind, and soon the walkway filled with the entire group, nudging and shoving each other a bit to get closer to see what might be going on. It took a moment to recognize him, face lit up like a harvest apple with redness from his drinking, but it was Vevner from near their brewery. “Watch yer words, lass.”
The girl tossed her head. “I’ve had it up to here with snotty folk who think they’re better than us because they rub noses with the Strangers.” She leaned forward, her pouting lips curling into a snarl. “I work hard for me money. I don’t sleep wi’ or kiss fancy arses for it.”
Rivergrace sucked in her breath.
“I can show you cuts, bruises, needle pokes, and knotted muscles from the work we do,” Nutmeg returned in the baker lass’ face. “Not to mention, I have to
think
to do my job! No one’s counting what you do the lesser, so I’d appreciate the same respect.”
“Sewin’ in a shop for fine ladies? You call that work? Hah!”
Hosmer snorted. “I recognize you, girlie. Always first to belly up for our samplin’s, you are.”
“At least my father dinna have t’ buy me a job! Or me mother.” She put her face into Nutmeg’s.
“Oh, that’s only half my job,” Nutmeg added. “The other half is thumping ignorant bumpkins like you!” And she did, knotting up her fist and thumping the other on the head as if she held a hammer. The Kernan lass gave a surprised sigh and dropped as if poleaxed.
The fight still might not have started, except that someone reached round and groped at Grace while the others stood and stared at their unconscious friend. She jumped back with a squeal, flailing her arms about. “Get your hands off me!”
Hosmer put his head down and charged into the revelers with a snort like a maddened bull, sending them under his boots and flying out of his path. Anyone still on their feet clenched their hands, and the fray was on.
Chapter Forty-Four
RIVERGRACE THREW OUT the family rule of no kicking the second time she felt a boot swung into her shin. Stinging from ankle to knee, she kicked back. The resounding thud filled her with satisfaction. No knuckle- duster like her brothers or even her sister, she elbowed the body on her right as she dodged another free-swinging boot, grabbed it under the ankle shank, and pulled the owner off her feet and onto her rump. Nutmeg promptly ducked down and gave the girl a right to the jaw which would have done any of their brothers proud.
A tide of brawlers muscled her away from the others, driving her off the street and into the mouth of an alleyway. The rule about hair pulling promptly went the way of kicking as her ribbons were torn from her hair with a smarting yank on her scalp. A blow to the back of her knee brought her down, rolling, dust flying. Hard hands on her arms lifted her and set her back on her feet, with a low growl and a stink overwhelming her that sent her whirling about to see her rescuer, and no hope of finding him as the revelers surged around her. Dazed, with the stink of Bolger in her nostrils yet none seen, she shouldered her way back toward Nutmeg who stood with her arms curled and her hair wild about her face, knuckles bared.
Hosmer ducked a roundhouse swing with an irritated growl, sized up the fighter, and dropped him with one clip to his chin, then Rivergrace lost sight of him again as the crowd swelled around them. Vevner from their neighborhood bakery held him back, the two swinging fists with grunts of satisfaction as she lost them.
Grace backed up a step, doubling up her slender hand, and swinging away with her wiry strength, not decking anyone but still able to set them back on their heels with a whoof and a shocked look in their eyes. Her current target’s head whipped back, and he fell into the arms of a chunky lad who promptly hauled both of them out of the milling crowd. He flashed a grin at her and she recognized Keldan’s friend Curly, always first in line for apple culls in the morning. He put a thumb up as he dragged his pal away from the tide of fighters. Looking around, she ducked a fist swinging at her, came underneath, and kicked the swinger in the shin as hard as she could. An indignant howl followed. Nutmeg cheered her on, before the revelers turned rioters enveloped her, and muffled squeals, thumps, and yells filled the air. Grace waded in after, shoving and swinging a path to Nutmeg’s side. She turned back to back and said, “I’m ready if you are!”
A bucket of water came out of nowhere, raining upon the brawlers, soaking them. Neither had a chance to celebrate as a strong arm wrapped around Nutmeg’s and Grace’s waists and pulled them about. “What, by Tree’s blood, do you think you’re doing?”
“Fighting!” Nutmeg struggled against Hosmer’s hold, swimming through the air in an attempt to free herself.
“Not on my watch, you aren’t! Da will have my scalp.” Hosmer grunted as he held Nutmeg aloft and kept a firm grip on Rivergrace who found her hair being yanked from behind and let out an indignant squeal.
“We don’t need a riot among our neighbors.”
“You swung, too!”
“Tha’s beside the point. I know when to stop swingin’, as well.” He hauled them both out of the streets and put their backs to a shop wall, and eyed the mass of brawling bodies in front of them who no longer seemed to know or care who they were whaling the tar out of. “Lads!” he bellowed. “Nothing finer than to watch a lass down in the mud wrestlin’. My money’s on the redhead!”
Almost as primitive as the instinct to fight, the instinct to gamble boiled up. Another bucket of water appeared from nowhere, slung through the air and over the brawlers, with a cry, “A silver crown bit on the brunette in braids!” Curly bounced on his feet, bucket swinging in his hand, a wide grin splitting his face.
Hosmer released Grace but kept Nutmeg hefted in his arm, her feet flailing to reach ground, and waded through the crowd, sorting them into a motley sort of order by the sheer strength of his voice and presence. By the time the Town Guards trotted in with sharp whistles to announce their arrival, he had everything quieted down but two girls in the mud, with interested gamblers passing coin bits back and forth. The guard officer posted his two men who began to disperse the onlookers while he assessed Hosmer.
“You look a likely lad. Start this or finish this?”
Hosmer gave him an innocent grin. “I, sir, am merely observing.”
The officer grunted as his men pulled up the wet-and-muddied wrestlers and packed them on their way, with the last of the others. “I’d be grateful for the one and fairly vexed for the other.”
“Then, sir, it’s clear I finished this.”
His grin seemed to be infectious, for the officer responded with his own. “You’ve mettle to you. If you’re interested in being a Town Guard, look me up. First Guard Gregan Fist, aye?”
“If I’m interested, you’ll be the one I’ll look for. Hosmer Farbranch.” He set Nutmeg down, finally, where she gave an exasperated snort, and both men looked at her. Her cheeks took on the full red blush of a ripe, crisp apple and she decided to spend some time putting her apron and skirts into order. The two men shook forearms and Hosmer nudged his sisters down the walkway, saying, “If there’s no dinner left, I’ll have your hides for it.”
Nutmeg tossed her head and said not a word, striding in front of him as fast as she could, and Grace had to stretch her own legs out to stay apace. From behind them, she identified the sound of Hosmer laughing to himself.
At the second rousing rendition of the traders singing “Free Roads,” Sevryn made his apologies for an early evening and slipped out of the Petitioners’ Reception, his head slightly buzzing despite his attempt to inhibit the free flow of wine and other, heavier spirits being poured his way. Azel’s words buzzed in his head, far stronger than the liquor he’d had. Few heads turned as he left, and he slipped into the outer courtyard, feeling the hot, close summer air on him, speaking of weather moving in, clouds dappling the sky overhead. He leaned on a balustrade for a moment, accustoming his eyes to the dark, and then saw a man-sized shape move quietly out of view of the corner of his vision. Without turning his head, he narrowed his attention in that direction and saw nothing further, no branch waving in the courtyard garden he might have mistaken, no night bird winging low.
He took a few casual steps toward the far side of the courtyard, yawning as he did as if to clear a muddled head, never looking directly toward the corner but angling his way to a better view. As he walked, he unfastened his dress shirt to loosen his wrist daggers knowing that if the Kobrir were to strike, he’d likely not have a second chance. Anticipate the worst, accept the best.