Endurance (29 page)

I once again took my leave of Lyme Street, my back turned toward the Textile Bourse. Trotting through the rain in search of a chophouse, I twice thought I spied Skinless, but that did not seem likely. The avatar bulked far too large to be out in the streets unnoticed. His very size would have ignited a panic, let alone his rather gruesome aspect. Shadows at play? Or some trick of Blackblood's seeming?

In time I found a laborers' kitchen with a single shared stewpot serving duck soup, alongside brined eggs and a hard, dark bread that was not the most usual local style. It was outrageously cheap, in part because the ducks were actually pigeons. I did not care so much. They served from a small cart meant to be drawn by two people. That pair worked their little kitchen—an old woman and her much older mother. The mother tended the pot, took in the copper taels and half-taels, and ladled out the rations of soup. The daughter, still old as my grandmother had been, at least to my eye, wiped out the bowls and restocked them for use, kept a regular supply of dark braided dough shoved into the little oven at the base of the cart, and more or less continuously chopped vegetables and plucked pigeons to replenish the soup vat.

I resisted the strong urge to take over from her.

This was the common food of the sort I would have been forced to turn my nose up at during my Pomegranate Court days. Even now, in a different mood I might have questioned the wisdom of my choices. Still, crowded against the eaves of a tack shop in the rain among a dozen large, silent men who mostly reeked of horses and drank down their soup with a dull-eyed intensity, I knew again what it meant to be of Copper Downs.

What it meant to be human.

To these folk, the sundering of the gods and the laddering dependencies of the divine world were not even rumors. The men around me lived in a small world of rented pallets stuffed with straw and bedbugs, of food from a corner cart because there was nowhere to cook in the places they worked and slept, of working fourteen days out of every fortnight and never sitting down to rest their weary bones.

Who were the gods to these people? The only thing they had faith in was the price of the night's meal. If it had been in my power to grant miracles, I'd have left them all with a pocket of silver taels and a happier future on the morrow.

As it was, I just left them. Even the Eyes of the Hills tucked deep within my clothing had fallen silent.

*   *   *

I was feeling chastened when I scrambled up to my overwatch by the Tavernkeep's place. The rain made the roofing tiles dangerous, but it was nothing I could not handle so long as I moved with some deliberation and took sensible care of myself. The baby had definitely upset my balance, and my abilities continued to shift in unexpected ways.

Surely I would not care to be pursued across wet rooftops in this condition. Even so, I could find a watchpost. That thought made me wonder in turn if I shouldn't attempt to ensure I wasn't likely to be pursued in the near future.
I am working on it,
I promised myself.

The High Hills kept looking like a better choice, that much was certain.

The Tavernkeep's place was being overtly watched this evening. Two men loitered by a garbage fire near the alley mouth, but they weren't begging or eyeing the passersby for someone to roll. The glances they stole were aimed toward the Tavernkeep's door. After several minutes, as a lone man turned down the alley, their outbreak of studious inattention was as good as a flare telling me what it was they waited for.

I scanned the rooftops around me. Nothing moved in silhouette. The day was on to dusk now, and the rain obscured much of everything in dull, glittering curtains. I was not willing to trust that I hadn't missed a watcher. Samma, or Mother Argai, for example. They had my skills and my training. Though in truth any of us Blades would have tried for the nest I currently occupied before seeking another post.

Anyone else who watched was hidden in one of the other buildings, or simply drinking comfortably inside the inn below. Smarter than I, in either event.

The rain was wearing down my earlier reluctance to approach the pardines with the Eyes of the Hills in my possession. I'd carried them in the presence of Iso and Osi, after all. Inside would be warm and dry, and offer good Selistani cooking. My resolve melted at that last thought. Especially in the face of simply crouching here in the wet, watching for the Rectifier.

I debated drawing off the two by the alley mouth, as opposed to the merits of simply slipping into the building unnoticed. Neither plan was completely without risk. The question was where I wished to place my emphasis.

The wet weather being what it was, climbing cornices did not appeal to me. Instead I scrambled along the tiles until I was right above my watchers, though still on the opposite side of the alley from them. A few minutes' scrounging turned up some broken bricks. I then waited for my opportunity, confident it would not take long.

My patience was soon rewarded when a clot of longshoremen approached, heading for a round of healthy drinking after their work. They'd already begun at the dockside, that much was clear from their singing and their collective erratic, rambling gait. I laid three brickbats out before me and considered my timing carefully. Just as the group rambled past my alley-mouth watchers, I lobbed my brick ends one by one. The first came down in the trash fire with a satisfying thud, sending a shower of sparks twisting up into the rain. The second, already launched, landed among the longshoremen, cracking someone a good hit to the noggin, while the third bounced at the feet of my watchers as if dropped there.

Provocation committed, evidence in place, and yes … attention drawn. The crowd of drunks didn't even bother with the usual shouted obscenities, choosing instead the swift vengeance of an offended mob.

As I hurried back to my descent and quickly slipped into the Tavernkeep's place, I wondered whose men I'd just set up for a beating. My money was on the Selistani embassy having hired poor local talent. The Interim Council would have found better people to do the job, while the pardine Revanchists would simply be waiting within. As for Blackblood, well, if I
had
glimpsed Skinless earlier, that would have been the god's effort to monitor my movements.

*   *   *

Inside the Tavernkeep's place, I brushed the water off my coat. I might have hung it up, but I preferred as many layers as possible to keep the Eyes of the Hills closely guarded. Especially here.

Besides, someone might steal it. There'd been a rash of clothing thefts lately.

The crowd of Selistani men still occupied the inn as if it were their own, but quite a few more pardines were present this evening. Including, I was delighted to note, the substantial bulk of the Rectifier. He was recognizable as always by his fur knotted into little square mats secured with the knucklebones of priests. Much as a Lily Blade's leathers did for us, his unusual grooming advertised—loudly and with an alarming bluntness. I admired the Rectifier for his sense of presence, and wished for myself his utter fearlessness.

Swiftly I eeled through the crowd. The room had that familiar fug of too many men spending too much time in close quarters, overlaid with the homey scents of Selistani cooking and the sour odor of spilled beer. The Rectifier was deep in conversation with two pardines I did not know. They showed off the cultivated wildness of the Revanchists that I'd previously noted among the Dancing Mistress' companions. When I approached the table, I realized Samma was seated there as well, her place hidden from me before by the Rectifier's looming so large.

Samma?

So, all the pieces were coming onto the board again. I thought quickly. She knew that I held the Eyes of the Hills. So did whomever she might have told of my forcing them from her. This game could already be blown, at least that far. I was unsure how committed the Rectifier was to the Revanchist cause. He was a traditionalist, to be sure, but I simply didn't know if he was that sort of traditionalist.

Nothing to do but play it through.

I stepped in between the Rectifier and Samma. “Hello.” I tried to keep my voice from being overtight with tension.

She jumped slightly. Samma had not seen me enter, then. I thought she might have been hiding from my line of sight behind the old pardine rogue. I'd certainly used her hard enough the last two times we'd met.

The Rectifier's huge head turned slowly toward me. He looked me up and down twice, with almost exaggerated deliberation. His lips curled to show a bit of fang. I understood pardines probably better than most humans, after all my time with the Dancing Mistress, so I knew to watch his ears—they did not lie flat. I smiled back, letting him see my own modest fangs in turn.

Then the Rectifier jumped up, sending his chair over backwards to skitter into a table full of men betting at some fast card game. I leaned away, but restrained myself from palming my short knives as he bellowed “
Green!
” and swept me up into a rag-doll hug.

When I extracted my face from the matted, musky fur of his shoulder, I realized the entire tavern was staring at me.
Mark the exits,
wailed a futile voice within. But I was too busy to play the spy as well, even in my own defense.

“My old friend,” I said in my warmest tones. To my surprise, the feeling was genuine. The Rectifier was the only person besides Ilona who had always dealt completely fairly with me. Even when I'd thought we might be fighting to the death in front of the Textile Bourse, the day we brought down Choybalsan, the Rectifier had been utterly straightforward.

He put me down, then turned with a growl to look for his chair. It was handed respectfully back by an abashed man in a linen kurta. The Rectifier gave a sharp nod, which was the height of courtesy for him, before sinking to a seat once more. I leaned on the table between him and Samma, giving her a bright smile.

She cringed.

Not so good, that. She had reason to flinch from me. Even so, I sensed that something was afoot. More to the point, something
new and unpleasant
was afoot.

“You part the waters of trouble as claws gut a deer,” the Rectifier rumbled.

He was the biggest pardine I had ever seen—tall, broad, and barrel-chested, unusual for a folk who ran to lithe and lean in their form. I was pretty sure he was the biggest pardine most
pardines
had ever seen. Sheer size gave him a voice that sounded as if it came from a well.

If the Rectifier wanted to drive straight to the point, I was happy to oblige. “Trouble parts me like a comb through hair, I am afraid.” I stole another quick glance at Samma.

She still looked guilty, not angry. Whatever counterbetrayal was in the offing would be close at hand.
I've earned it,
I thought with regret, but I had no time for such games.

“Some persons seem to believe that making more trouble lessens it.”
That
from a man who killed priests for a hobby. On saying those words he glared at the Revanchists with whom he shared the table. I recognized one of them from my previous visit.

“And how is the Dancing Mistress?” I asked that one sweetly.

The half-wild pardine gave me a cold stare. Or as close as he could manage—I'd been glared into submission more times in my life by harder-hearted women than he'd ever be. “She has not asked after you,” he finally replied.

If Samma were not here as, what, witness? messenger? accuser? I could have begun the negotiations right now to direct the Revanchists against the Selistani embassy. The lie of the Eyes of the Hills hung heavy in my pocket, but no less real for all that. “Give her my regards. Our mutual interests have not lessened, as I am sure she is fully aware.”

The Rectifier's enormous hand pressed heavy upon my shoulder. “Green, do not bargain with those who hold history more dear than the present. I warn you—”

His warning was lost in Samma's startled gasp. The Rectifier and I both looked up to see what she was staring at.

Mother Vajpai and Surali had entered the Tavernkeep's place. Some watcher had done their job. Mother Vajpai had donned her full street leathers, something I had not seen her do in a very long time. The Bittern Court woman was dressed formally in a salwar kameez of watered dove-gray silk and white linen. The clothes she'd worn the day she'd asked the Temple Mother to grant her my death.

They approached through a widening wedge of silence.

Why had Samma been surprised?

This threat I would not meet seated. I pushed to my feet, all too conscious of my impaired balance, my slowed reactions, and the unfortunate fact that I'd spent much of the day in the chilly autumn rain. My muscles were tense and I was not sufficiently warmed to be prepared for a fight.

Mother Vajpai's face was slightly flushed. Had she run here? To limber up? Though I could not envision Surali doing such a thing.

All around the room the Selistani stood and stepped back, crowding the walls to be away from the tables and us. The pardines did not react so. Few of them realized what they might be seeing next. A handful of the humans darted for the door, but most watched.

Not only would there be a fight, there would be a show.

“I doubt they mean to kill me here,” I whispered to the Rectifier, “but the one in leather is capable of it. The other has already called for my death, offering both funds and favors in return.”

“Are either of them priests?” he rumbled.

Technically Mother Vajpai was, but then technically so was I. “No,” I said shortly, with one last, sidelong glance at Samma. By herself she was not especially troublesome to me. As I'd recently proven, she'd never been half the fighter I was even on my off days, let alone when I was in the full flower of my practice. But as a foil for Mother Vajpai, Samma was still quite dangerous. And Mother Vajpai knew Samma and I were old lovers—first lovers, in fact. That fact could well cause me to hesitate at a critical moment.