Kalimpura (Green Universe) (7 page)

“
All
cities are foreign,” he replied with the fervent conviction of the mountain-born.

I raised my bowl to him and carefully took another sip. One of my few regrets of the path of my life since those days has been that I shall quite possibly never taste bournewater again. “In any event, I have come to bid you farewell, and ask certain needed questions of my fellow southerners before I depart.”

With a wide sweep of his arm, the Tavernkeep gave me freedom of the room. “They are yours.”

“Sadly, yes.” I smiled.

“Would you like some dhal when you are done?”

I cocked an eye at him. “You cook Selistani now?” His
kitchen
had cooked Selistani for a year or more, but always with human hirelings. Chowdry, specifically, at least until the business of the Temple of Endurance had grown to engulf his days.

“One learns,” he said modestly, followed by a spitting word that had to be the pardine tongue, though I had quite rarely heard that language spoken.

“One does,” I said, taking careful note of the sounds of his people. “As I am a brave woman, I shall try your dhal.”

Leaving my bowl behind, and eschewing the din of pot and spoon this time, I went to wake those at their slumbers and ask them certain questions.

*   *   *

I spent an instructive time speaking quietly to sleepy men.

These were my people. Not just in the sense of sharing a birthplace or a skin color. Or even, to a degree, a language—I would never be quite as fluent in Seliu as I was in Petraean, though I had shaken the Stone Coast accent that was in my voice when I first relearned my native tongue. Rather, it was this group that had stood frightened in the snowy streets of the Velviere District to oppose Surali and her thugs not with fist or stave or sword, but simply by their presence.

These men—some of them, at any rate—had stared down crossbows and swords for me. And they’d done it under Mother Argai’s leadership. In doing so, they had taught me that violence did not always have to be met with more violence.

This was a new idea for me in those days.

I explained that Mother Argai had been hurt and almost killed by an attacker intent on harming me and my children. That another young woman had been killed and my tent burned. They were solemn and sorrowful until I mentioned this was Surali’s doing. The muttering that arose from that was more than satisfactory.

I knew that Surali’s Bittern Court must have a few informers, and perhaps even an active agent or two, among these men. That was too easy an opportunity to pass up.
How
active was a different question. As well as how loyal.

“Even in defeat, retreated from this place, that woman seeks to strike me down. Others, innocents, have again died in my stead by her orders.” I squatted low, bringing my face down closer to these men, most of whom were still lying in their blankets as we spoke. “You know that she does not stand for what you wish in life. If any of you were truly her creatures, you would not have troubled to cross the sea to this cold place.”

It was the same argument I had used on them before. Selistan was not a society that encouraged people to rise above the station of their birth.

“Every one of you had the bravery to come here. Every one of you works hard now, or seeks to. Most of you will bring families over in time when you have saved enough taels and obols. Surali and her kind do not care for you. Do not care about you. She does not want choice. And so she attacks me, who shows all of you what you might be and who you might become.”

Not exactly a true accounting of Surali’s motives as I understood them, but not so far from the reality, either. And this casting of her intent would make sense to my countrymen.

Several of them glanced at one of their number. He was skinny, with a large mustache, and seemed to be preoccupied with scratching under his sleeping robe.

That would be my man, then. I continued to play to my audience.

“Someone in this city has hidden a dangerous agent of the Bittern Court away. The man who tried to kill my babies was dressed in leather head to toe.”

“So are you,” observed a member of my still awakening audience.

“Well, yes, but that’s different. I’m a Lily Blade. Besides, this would-be killer’s face was covered, too. Except for the eyes.” It had been a strange costume.

“Who is he?” asked the agent, paying closer attention now. “What did he tell you?”

“Mostly he screamed.” I let an edged smile tug at my mouth. “People tend to do that when they are dying in pain.”

A number of the men winced, including the agent. I stood and stepped over to him. “I know that people sometimes make mistakes,” I said gently. “Mistakes can be forgiven.” I bent down, my knees creaking and my abdominal muscles complaining as I did so. “But sheltering this killer? That will not be forgiven.” With one finger I tapped his sweating forehead. “That will be
punished
.”

All these men knew who I was. Every one of them knew my reputation. Just so this fellow, who shook a bit. I popped one of my short knives out of the right sleeve of my leathers and slapped the blade lightly against my left hand. “If you happen to know of someone who might have given this man shelter, I would be pleased to hear of it. I might even forget where I heard it, should what I find bear fruit. Because I will harvest a reckoning for the threat to my children.”

“I am a poor man,” he gasped.

“We are all poor.” The circling point of my short knife had seized his vision.

“I-I am p-poor. Sometimes there is a bit of extra money.”

“Sometimes there is.” I let the point approach his nose, until he grew cross-eyed. “Sometimes there is forgiveness after confession, too.” Speaking brightly, I added, “Which would you rather have just this moment? Forgiveness, or a bit of extra money?”

His gaze fixed on the tip of my blade. “F-forgiveness, Mother Green.”

Leaning even closer, I growled in his ear, “Then give me a reason to forgive you, fool.”

His words flowed now. “A-a man, one of these whitebellies, in-in-in a uniform. I always m-met him by the great red house on Montane Street. S-sometimes they are needing things written or read back to them in Seliu. I knew they kept one of us inside.”

May all these pale bastards be broken on the Wheel!
The great red house on Montane Street would have to be the seat of the Reformed Council. Originally a mansion, it had long served as a bank until Lampet and his little band of plotters had set up a second government to compete with the Interim Council that had ruled the city since the fall of the Duke.

Though I’d already abandoned the politics of Copper Downs, they had apparently not abandoned me.

It made sense. Especially given how Surali had worked through the Prince of the City’s embassy to manipulate the local government here, when they had been in town.

I slapped my short knife against my palm again. Councilor Lampet and I were due to have a little chat quite soon. “You may keep your life,” I said generously to the spy. “But I might suggest new employment.”

“Th-thank you, Mother.” He scuttled back on hands and knees, leaving a warm puddle behind.

I was pleased that I had not killed him. Perhaps I was growing more mature after all. With a nod to my fascinated countrymen watching in riveted silence, I went back to the bar for my dhal.

*   *   *

As I was preparing to leave, one of the men came up to the bar to speak quietly with me.

“Ghuji, is it?” I said, dredging a name from memory. I signaled the Tavernkeep for a second bowl of dhal. Likely a small enough payment for whatever he had to tell me.

Ghuji nodded, then stared at his feet. I glanced down just in case he was wearing interesting shoes. Horny, callused nails on grubby toes greeted me.

A peasant, as I would have been, had I been allowed to remain in the country of my birth. That was a bit surprising. Most of the Selistani in Copper Downs were either sailors who’d jumped ship or laborers who’d come looking for a different kind of work. Selistani with any decent amount of money had no reason to emigrate, while the peasants and urban beggars had no resources with which to attempt an exodus.

“Are you from the east?” I let a bit of a Bhopuri accent slip into my Seliu. In Kalimpura, this would have marked me as a hick, but I’d picked up a sufficient handful of regional accents to make a pretense when needed. Sometimes being a hick was useful. People tended to ignore you, for example.

As, I suspected, people ignored Ghuji.

He looked up at me and smiled grimly. “A village in the Sister of Morning Mountains.”

That would be the northeast coast of Bhopura. I’d never been there, though I’d glimpsed the peaks from aboard ship when passing Cape Purna.

“A long way from there to here,” I said, though his part of Selistan was physically closest to the Stone Coast.

“Longer when there is no path home. My village was burned.”

I waited to see if he would say more, or perhaps wanted me to ask, but Ghuji’s gaunt smile faded. Now he held my eye.

“What can I do for you here and now?” I asked, taking care with my words. His reason for speaking to me was less clear.

“The man Paavati was telling you of?”

“Yes…” Well, at least we were on topic.

“When you saw him, his face was covered with leather.”

A statement, not a question. Interesting. “Yes. I could see only his eyes.”

“Men like him burned my village. Everyone was being slain. Even the chickens and goats.” He paused for a deep, shuddering breath. “They spared me only because they did not realize I had been working down inside our well, repairing the brick courses. I was staying in shadow for hours until the screaming had long stopped and the crackle of flame had died. When I climbed out, I saw them rooting through the ashes of our little temple.”

I was both fascinated and appalled. “For what?”

He shrugged. “Our small portion of silver? Our idols? I do not know.” Then he leaned close and said something that would stay with me a very long time. “But these men, they are in Kalimpura as well. From there, I think. The beggars know them as the Quiet Men. When their faces are uncovered, they pass as do you and I. When their faces are covered, they kill.”

Like Blades, but with far less discretion. I had never heard of this sect or order. Oh, would Mother Vajpai want to know of this.

Assuming she did not already.

I took a stab at the circumstances here in Copper Downs. “This Quiet Man sheltered in the Red House on Montane Street?” The Red House was what the Reformed Council’s quarters were called around town, in a fit of particularly poverty-stricken imagination.

Another shrug. “I do not know. But he has not been among us here since the Prince of the City departed.”

I pushed the steaming bowl of dhal in front of him. My purse was empty, I had no money to pay this Ghuji, but I could feed him. The Tavernkeep and I had our own understandings.

“My thanks,” I said. “But please, a question: Why are you telling me of this now?”

A third and clearly final shrug. “No one will act against the Quiet Men. No one will admit they exist. But you slew one of them. Perhaps knowing what I could tell you will help you slay more.”

“He died in a fire that he himself had set,” I told Ghuji on impulse. “I made certain of it.”

Something flickered in the man’s eyes as his shoulders sagged. “Be careful,” he said, then turned away, though not without taking his bowl of dhal with him.

I watched him thoughtfully a few moments before releasing my attention. There was a red house to visit on Montane Street. One last time I turned to the Tavernkeep. “It has been a pleasure to know you.”

“May your soulpath be broad and rich.”

“And yours.”

With those words between us, I left, headed for the neighborhood of the old Ducal Palace.

*   *   *

Though it was still yet morning, I was already exhausted. I also buzzed with excitement. After spending months being pregnant, and even just a week tending to my babies, it was good to be out in the world. With a purpose, at that.

I did not propose to take on a building full of guards. The Reformed Council had Lampet’s lads, the Conciliar Guard regiment raised by the councilor I trusted least out of any of that lot. The only reason Lampet was not running the city right now was that he had another plan. That, and I had forsworn politics in this place.

It did occur to me that setting fire to the building might be a solution to my problems. A bit messy, but it would smoke out any more Quiet Men or other agents of Surali’s who might be lurking there.

Though I had to admit, the clerks and maids and guards who doubtless filled the place were not at fault. Somehow, it didn’t seem right to kill them just to get at Lampet and one or two men he might still be sheltering.

I snorted. Motherhood was making me soft.

Lampet had sought harm to my children. I had no doubt it was he who had struck whatever deal with Surali. Anyone who worked to support the councilor was part of the problem. The clerks and maids could go hang if they couldn’t see what it was they served.

Still, that did not mean they deserved to die.

By the time I reached Montane Street, I had talked myself out of killing everyone in the place by fire. The next most likely plan seemed to be to broach the front door. That had obvious drawbacks, starting with overenthusiastic or underinformed guards.

Finally I slipped into an alley to look over the back of the Red House. I didn’t want to be seen approaching, so I started several blocks up, mugging an innocent clothesline inside someone’s courtyard for a shapeless gray cloak to cover my leathers.

No point in announcing myself prematurely if I was not going straight into the visitors’ entrance.

*   *   *

Back in my days of training within the Pomegranate Court, I’d spend quite a bit of time reviewing architecture with Mistress Celine. This was for several reasons, not the least of which was that I was expected to become a mistress of a great house, and a wise mistress knew exactly how everything in her domain worked. Chatelaines and majordomos were all to the good, but a family or household could be robbed into penury without proper oversight.