Hope and Red (30 page)

“Thank you for killing Drem,” Hope said quietly. His death still hadn't lessened the loss she felt for Carmichael. But she was grateful he was avenged, nonetheless.

“The pleasure was all mine. Although I wish you would have been there to see the astonishing bank shot I made. One for the storybooks.”

“I think Carmichael would have liked you. Despite your insistence on presenting yourself as a rogue and a thief.”

“I
am
a rogue and a thief.”

“You never spoke about Old Yammy before,” said Hope suddenly. It was a small detail, but it seemed significant to her somehow. Yammy seemed like the sort of person who might appreciate his more refined qualities like reading and math.

“I don't talk about her a lot. People from my past in general.”

“But you still visit her.”

“Well, sure. She's one of the most quality people I've ever known.”

“Do you talk to Filler and Nettles about her?”

“Not much,” he admitted.

“Have they ever met her?”

“Filler did the once. When she came down to Paradise Circle and found me.”

“You see, this is what I mean,” said Hope. “You may be a rogue and a thief. But you're also a lot more than that. A scholar, a storyteller, and now I discover you are a painter as well? Why do you keep these parts of yourself separate?”

Red was silent for a long time. Hope began to wonder if he would even answer. If he even knew the answer.

“I guess because,” he said finally, “I never met someone who could really see all the parts of me before.”

Hope thought back to when she'd first learned that Red became an orphan at the same age as her. Their lives had been so disparate, but this one similarity was like a spike driven into the center of their being, on which their dreams, fears, and desires all pivoted. She had never known she could be so different from someone, yet understand them so well.

“Hope?” asked Red.

“Yes?”

“Back in that alley earlier today. You wouldn't really have killed yourself. Would you?”

Hope sighed and closed her eyes. “The Vinchen code says that the only true vengeance is the death of the offender. If the warrior fails in this, better that he die than live in such dishonor. I thought I had failed.”

“And your honor is worth that much to you?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “My vengeance is.”

Teltho Kan awoke naked and shivering in a dark alley near the western coast of New Laven. His skin felt raw, as if he'd been scraped all over with a dull razor. The cold wind raked painfully at him as he got slowly and unsteadily to his feet.

That had been a bad jump. So little time to prepare. No buffers, no safeguards. And he wasn't getting any younger. Another one like that and he might leave his skin behind along with his clothes.

Still, it had been necessary. He'd never have expected a rule follower like Hurlo to do something as heretical as train a female in the Vinchen Way. Perhaps he'd gotten eccentric in his old age. Or senile. The reason didn't really matter. He'd trained her well. She would have to be dealt with.

Teltho Kan looked down at his naked, shivering body, rail thin and taut with stringy muscle. First things first. He needed some clothes.

He walked unselfconsciously out to the main thoroughfare. There weren't any street lamps in this part of town and there weren't many people about. It was somewhat amusing to watch the few people who walked past him pretend not to see the nude old man lurking in the shadows.

Finally he saw a man around his height and build. The man was wearing a white peasant shirt, breeches, and boots with barely a sole intact. It wasn't ideal, but he didn't have time to be picky. When the man walked past, he stepped out of the shadows and touched the man's neck.

“Hells to you,” growled the man, and stepped away.

Teltho Kan watched him take three more steps. When he brought his foot down on the fourth step, his leg broke with a loud crack. The man screamed and swayed on one leg. Then that leg broke. As he fell, the man put out both arms to catch his fall. Those both broke on impact. The man lay there, all four limbs bent in unnatural directions. Teltho Kan continued to watch as the man wailed in agony, thrashing around, each movement breaking more bones in his body. Finally the man was only a quivering, whimpering mass of odd angles. Teltho Kan knelt down and tapped the man's forehead. His skull caved in, and he grew still.

Teltho Kan pulled the clothes off the body, which continued to make little pops and cracks at each movement. At last he was dressed and warm.

This girl of Hurlo's had sworn vengeance on him. If there was one thing Hurlo was likely to have burned into her brain above all else, it was fulfilling oaths. He'd always been implacable that way. If she was anything like her grandteacher, she would find his trail again, sooner rather than later. He needed to prepare. Next time, he would be ready for her.

24

I
t would have been difficult for Red to explain to someone who wasn't an artist the strange intimacy he felt when painting a portrait. He didn't know if it was just him who felt it, or if all artists felt it to some degree. Not that he was an artist…

They got started on the portrait at first light. Hope sat on a tall stool over by the window. Her blond hair, usually tied back tight, had been loosened for the portrait at Old Yammy's request. The morning sun streamed through it, making her hair look truly angelic. Yet even so, while seemingly serene and completely still, she still looked dangerous. And that, he had to admit, was part of her attraction.

But as he painted in Old Yammy's kitchen, it became more than the impulses of a leaky tom. He found himself drawn to tiny details about her. Things he wouldn't ordinarily have noticed. The slight upturn of her nose. The curved bow of her lips. The faint line of her eyebrows, as pale as her hair. The light dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose. The hard, clean line of her jaw. The graceful curve of her neck. And those eyes. So deep and blue, he felt dizzy if he looked at them too long. But he
had
to look. He had to do them justice on the canvas. If he got nothing else right, he wanted the eyes.

She shifted slightly and asked, “How long will this take?”

“The more you move, the longer it'll take,” he said tersely.

“But how—”

“Talking counts as moving.” He was being unfair. He'd never painted a portrait where the subject was as still as she was. There were moments he wasn't even sure she was breathing. And later, when he asked if she needed a break, she said no. He'd never known anyone who could sit that still for that long. It was like she'd put herself into some kind of Vinchen trance.

But he was in a sort of trance himself. He knew it, even as he was in it. He always got that way when he painted. Time stopped, and all other thoughts and worries receded. There was only the canvas, the brush, the paint, and the subject. Her.

It was late afternoon when he came up for air and saw that he was done. “Okay.” His voice was dreamy, like he was just waking up. “That's it.”

Old Yammy scrutinized it. “Your best yet. A portrait worthy of the subject.”

“Thank you.” He knew the warm buzz of euphoria would pass soon, as Red the pat tom from Paradise Circle reasserted himself. So he savored this moment.

“Let me see.” Hope stood up from the stool, seeming no worse off for having sat completely still for over eight hours. She came around and peered at the portrait over his shoulder.

“Hm,” she said and walked away.

A cold fist seized his gut. “You don't like it?” he asked before he could stop himself.

“No, it's beautiful.” A slow blush crept onto her pale, freckled cheeks. “You paint me flatteringly.”

“I paint you as I see you.”

“Hm,” she said again, then turned to Old Yammy. “I hope the payment is sufficient?”

“Oh yes.” Old Yammy gave Red a mischievous look. “It turned out just as I'd hoped.”

Red didn't like her expression. It reminded him of himself when he was pulling a con. That wasn't too surprising. After all, Old Yammy was one of his mentors. She'd tracked him down several years back. After his time as a pirate, but before he'd met Nettles. She'd wanted him to come back to Silverback, but by then, he'd become too invested in Paradise Circle. That hadn't stopped him from visiting now and then to learn what he could from her. While it was true she had formidable skill with blood magic and all sorts of medicinal remedies and poisons, fortune-telling was her most popular service, and anyone worth a fiveyard knew that stuff was nothing but balls and pricks. Deceit and chicanery were a necessary part of her business. She'd been the one to teach him that a clever mind could get you far more than clever fingers.

That didn't bother Red, of course. What
did
bother him was when he couldn't tell what con she was pulling, or on whom. Nine out of ten, that usually meant it was him. What it was this time, he couldn't say. At least, not yet. She was too clever for her own good, and Old Yammy's machinations had a way of revealing themselves, too late to be prevented, but early enough that you could recognize her handiwork if you were paying attention.

“Right…,” he said, narrowing his eyes at her. Then he turned to Hope. “You ready to go?”

“Nonsense,” said Old Yammy. “You haven't eaten a bite all day. I can't send you back out into the world on an empty stomach.”

“We might as well,” said Hope. “I hate to let Teltho Kan slip any further away. But neither of us have money. We don't know when we'll be able to eat again.”

Red flashed his grin. “Money can always be got.”

“I would prefer not to steal whenever possible.” She glanced at Old Yammy, then smiled back at him. “Besides, this may be my only opportunity to learn about Rixidenteron.”

“I'm suddenly not hungry,” he said.

As Red feared, the conversation over their meal focused almost exclusively on his early childhood exploits. They sat at the large table in the center of the kitchen and ate a thick vegetable stew as Old Yammy shared one embarrassing anecdote after another. Red wasn't sure which was worse, the smug relish with which Old Yammy told them, or the gleeful avidity with which Hope listened. Red imagined her saving up a hefty arsenal of details that she would judiciously deploy whenever she felt like making him squirm.

“So you've known him his whole life?” she asked Old Yammy.

“I didn't have this shop back then. His parents and I were neighbors for the whole of his childhood. I would have taken him in when his parents passed, bless them, but I was in prison that year.”

“Prison?” asked Hope. “For what?”

“Devilry. That's what the biomancers call it. Of course, they can bend the laws of nature as they see fit, and it's for the good of the empire. But if someone does it who isn't in their order, especially a woman? Well, surely that must be an evil power granted by a demon. They sweep through every five years or so, looking for anyone with real ability. If you're a man, they may recruit you. But if you're a woman, it's a year on the Empty Cliffs or death. I've since learned to spot them coming and hide my skill. But back then I was young and stupid and eager to impress anyone who chanced by.” She turned to Red, her face growing long. “I wish I'd been there. It was a hard year, so I'm told.”

“It was,” said Red quietly.

There was a moment of quiet, during which Red silently hoped neither woman would chase those particular memories into the light. He was grateful when Old Yammy then said, “Fortunately, I found him a few years later. He was changed by then. Already going by Red, his head filled with the wild roguery Sadie the Goat put there, that old sturgeon.”

“You've met?” asked Hope.

“Of course. And for all the trouble she's wrought, I'll always be grateful to her for saving this one's life and keeping him more or less out of trouble.” She poked Red in the shoulder. “But he's come by now and then to learn a thing or two from me over the years.”

“And what did you teach him?” asked Hope.

Old Yammy laughed, a rich throaty burst. “Wouldn't you like to know.” Then she laughed again.

Red was surprised by her evasion. It hadn't been any remarkable thing. He'd had no real aptitude for blood magic, so she'd taught him her other trade. The subtle art of convincing people of things. But perhaps her reluctance to talk of it was no great mystery. As she'd said to him many a time, a magician never reveals her secrets, except to her apprentice.

Still, there were hints of some long game she'd been playing since the night before. Whatever it was, Red dreaded its inevitable revelation.

But perhaps he was too suspicious. Because they left Madame Destiny's House of All with no shocking turns. Either she was playing a truly long game, or Red had been wrong to worry.

“Will you get word to Sadie?” he asked her. “She's down at the docks, working on a ship called the
Lady's Gambit
with Missing Finn. Just let her know we're okay, give her an idea what we're doing. Nothing too specific, though. I don't want her to worry.”

“I'll tell her what she needs to know,” said Old Yammy. Then she reached out and embraced him, something she rarely did. “It'll be a while until I see you again. You'll have grown up a lot by then. Promise you won't forget your Old Yammy, keen?” She squeezed him hard.

“Yeah, alright,” he said, a little embarrassed.

It was shortly after sunset when they set out. Hope kept her sword at her side, her hand resting on the pommel so she could feel it move while keeping it from actually pointing.

“What did Old Yammy mean?” asked Hope. “When she was talking about not seeing you for a while? Is she going somewhere?”

Red shook his head. “She puts on that she has some sort of Sight, like she can see the future. It's all balls and pricks, though. Nobody can see the future, because we haven't made it yet.”

“It's said the Dark Mage could see the future. Some believe it was what drove him mad.”

“Could you blame him?” asked Red. “I mean,
if
it was possible, which it isn't, then seeing the future but not being able to do anything about it? That would make anyone slippy.”

“What if they
could
do something about it?” asked Hope.

“Then it wouldn't be the future anymore, now would it?”

“Good point,” conceded Hope.

They walked silently down the main thoroughfare, each block bringing a different melody from a different musician: drummers, flautists, string players, singers, all of them performing for the few coins tossed into their hats. The lacies tossed coppers, silvers, even the occasional gold piece. Red wondered if there was some sort of competition among them on who could be the most extravagant. If you could afford to toss a gold coin to a string player just because you fancied his tune, you must be wealthy indeed.

“The lights and the music and the colors…,” said Hope. “I've never encountered a place like this before. It almost doesn't feel real.”

Red watched the lamplight play across her skin. Her hair was pulled back again, but it still had a faint angelic glow to it. The shadows and light flickered across her features in a way that made his fingers itch to paint her again.

“What?” she said.

“Huh?”

“You're staring at me.”

“Oh. Sorry.” He hurriedly faced forward again. That's when Old Yammy's long game hit him. She was playing pissing matchmaker, trying to get Red hooked on Hope. Before, he'd admired Hope's many attractive features, as any hot-blooded tom with a fancy for mollies might. But he was no lovesick piddle anymore. When he'd found out she was not for tossing, he'd been fairly successful in realigning his view of her into fellow wag and not a thing more. But now? He couldn't stop
noticing
things. All the little details he'd painted kept catching his attention. It was distracting, and it made his heart sick with frustration. But what could he do except bear it? The only other option was to get away from her as quickly as possible. But the mere thought of that froze his insides. That's how he knew Old Yammy's plan had worked, and he was well and truly sotted. Of course, Yammy didn't realize that nothing could ever come of it because of that pissing vow of chastity.

Hope lifted her chin and inhaled. “I smell the sea. My sword is pointing in that direction. Could he have left New Laven?”

“That's Joiner's Bay up ahead. It cuts into New Laven pretty deep. On the other side is Keystown. He could be there.”

“Good.”

“Not really. First we have to go all the way around the bay, or else find a way across. We could get word to Sadie and ask her to bring up your ship, assuming the ship is ready. Even if it is, that would take a day for her to sail up the coast from New Laven.”

“We're already further behind than I would have liked.”

“You were the one who said we should stay for dinner,” Red pointed out.

“A Vinchen knows when the limits of the body should be considered.”

“Meaning, you were starving.”

“Yes,” she said without a trace of embarrassment.

“Well, no matter how we cross, once we get to Keystown, we likely won't find it a friendly place, since it's imp headquarters. Teltho Kan is probably spreading your description all over. The imps around here may not have picked it up yet. But the ones up there will be looking for you, true as trouble. We'll need to disguise your more striking features before we cross the bay.”

She raised one eyebrow. “Which features are those?”

“The blond hair and the Vinchen leather.”
And the unearthly beauty
, he thought to himself with a healthy amount of self-mockery.