Sworn in Steel (31 page)

I blinked, trying to understand what I was seeing.

“In this,” said Raaz, “I do not work for the despot. It is a personal matter—a
tal
and a tribal matter. Jelem was exiled for . . . let’s say
‘politics,’ although that’s not quite right. It’s not for me to talk about. But the point is, there are those who think it was ill done, and wish to correct the matter. The
Imperial magic you bear can help with that correction.

“The secrets Jelem possesses are nowhere near powerful enough to bring down your empire, or to draw their attention: You know this, since you were the one who portioned it out to him.
But.” He raised a finger. “It’s powerful enough for his friends to seek vengeance in his name, and perhaps even secure his return to Djan. Believe me when I say, I have no wish to
see what you carry fall into the hands of another
tal
, or even the despot—I merely want the chance to turn the bones of
my
enemies to iron and watch them burn.”

In point of fact, I didn’t know this—not for certain. When I’d made my original deal with Jelem, there hadn’t been another Mouth on hand to consult when it came to the
notes and the glimmer. All I’d had to go on was what I was able to parse out on my own, both from the papers and Jelem’s reactions to my terms, and a healthy helping of bravado. To hear
Raaz say what I’d passed along wasn’t going to bring down the empire, or even a corner of it, was frankly a relief. But that didn’t mean I had be excited about passing those
secrets on to a group of
yazani
whose only character reference came from the man who’d tricked me into smuggling the magic into Djan in the first place.

Not the best testimonial, but Angels knew I’d heard worse over the years. Hell, I was worse. And it wasn’t as if I was going to get any better offers. Besides, I didn’t want to
keep the package on me indefinitely—that could only lead to bigger risks and worse outcomes.

Still, nothing said I had to just hand it over.

“All right,” I said, “I can work with that. But like I told you when I first sat down, I’m going to need something more. The price has still gone up.”

Raaz ran his gloved hand over his chin. The fingers seemed fuller again. “What did you have in mind?”

“I’m not sure yet,” I said as I finally slid the papers over to him. “But I figure I’ll come up with something.”

“I’m certain you will,” said Raaz as he snatched up the packet. He began to turn it over in his hands, and then froze. “The seal on this has been broken.”

“Has it?” I said. I leaned forward. “Huh. So it has.”

His fingers flipped the folds back. He began to leaf through the letters. I’d looked at them earlier and hadn’t been able to find a damn thing besides tedious accounts of
Jelem’s daily routine in Ildrecca. My guess was either some kind of code or, more likely, a hidden magical script.

I stood up and brushed at my pants while Raaz shuffled the papers, turned them over, and shuffled them some more. He glared up at me.

“Only half of the pages are here,” he said.

“You got all that from that quick read through? I’m impressed.”

“I know because Jelem wrote to tell me what to expect. This isn’t it—or, not all of it.” He waved the papers at me. “Where are the rest?”

“Safe,” I said, as I resisted the urge to run my hand along my doublet’s seam. “And they’ll stay that way until I get the rest of my payment.”

“That wasn’t our deal.”

“Our deal said nothing about how many pages you get, or when . And I’m not stupid. I know that if I still have what you want, you’ll be quick to answer when I call. But if you
already had all of Jelem’s papers?” I shook my head. “No, when I need people, I tend to need them in a hurry. This way works best for me.”

“And what about what works best for us?” said Raaz, standing up. “What if something happens to you before we get the rest?”

“That doesn’t sound like my problem,” I said as I turned away. “It sounds like yours. I suggest you think about ways to keep it from happening, yes?”

I gathered up Fowler with a look and headed for the exit, pausing long enough to direct a nod toward the vestibule of the Banished god as I went. Somehow, it seemed appropriate.

I
woke up to a pounding, startled that I’d been asleep. Last I’d remembered, I’d sat down on the edge of my bed to unlace my
shoes. They were still on.

The pounding continued.

“What?”
I yelled.

“M-m-master Drothe?” said a voice halfway between boy and man—one of the hosteler’s sons. At a guess, I’d say the one with the pimples—his voice had the right
crack to it. “The l-lady left instructions to wake you when, that is . . .”

“Spit it out, boy.”

“That you, um, should get up and, uh, keep your appointment. Sir. With the secretary?”

Shit.

I looked up at my room’s small window. It was well on into dusk—likely past the time I was supposed to have called on Heron. I’d slept maybe all of four hours in the last
thirty, I guessed.

“Why didn’t you wake me sooner?” I shouted as I stood up. I couldn’t believe Fowler would have let things run this tight.

“I tried, sir, only you wouldn’t answer. And the lady was, um, very clear about why I shouldn’t enter your room.”

Judging by the tremor in the lad’s voice, I could guess just how clear Fowler had been. Not that I’d set up any surprises for visitors, but a little healthy hesitation on their part
of the help never hurt.

“And where’s the lady herself?” I said, drawing on my slops. “Why didn’t she wake me?”

“She’s abed, sir.” Pause. “She was also very specific about why I shouldn’t wake her, either.”

I’d just bet she was. Fowler hadn’t been in much better shape than me by the time we got back from the temple.

“Have a mug ready for me downstairs,” I said, slipping my last remaining
ahrami
into my mouth. “I’ll take it on the way out.”

I lingered in my room just long enough to put on a less-dirty shirt, pour some water into a basin, and splash it over my face and through my hair, and then ducked out the door. The local public
baths would have to wait until later.

The common room was filling up as I came down the stairs—not only with the actors, but also some of the local inhabitants of the Quarter. Having people in from Ildrecca was a draw for the
Angel’s Shadow, and Tobin and company were making the most of their celebrity status through stories, songs, and as many free drinks as they could scare up. The locals were happy to barter
liquor for gossip of home, and I noticed the hosteler didn’t frown nearly so much as the day we’d arrived.

Tobin caught my eye as I came down the stairs and began to rise. I scowled and shook my head. I didn’t have time for complaints cloaked in bluster just now. The troupe master scowled right
back, stood, and began pushing his way across the room.

I reached the door first. A boy—the one with the pimples, ha—met me there, eyes wide, a steaming mug in his hand. I took it from him and kept going.

Behind me, I heard Tobin boom out my name. I kept going.

Ezak was still out in the courtyard, working through a combat exchange with another actor named Paollus in the dying light. Neither looked up as I came out into the yard.

That should have been my first clue.

The tip of Ezak’s staff caught the front of my left ankle as I passed. He didn’t strike or sweep so much as push my foot back, using the tip of his weapon to lift my leg up and
behind me. Before I knew it, I was down in the dirt of the yard.

I rolled over, a curse forming on my lips, my hand already going for a blade, when I felt Ezak’s staff tap me on the chest.

“Don’t be hasty,” he said. “No harm done.”

“Hasty?” I said, pushing the length of ash aside and sitting up. “The last damn thing on my mind right now is—” I stopped when the butt of the staff appeared in the
air before my face.

“No need,” repeated Ezak, “to be hasty. Tobin just wants a word with you. Has since earlier today.”

“Tobin can wait until I get back.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” said Tobin as he came across the yard. “It can’t wait, especially not if you’re off to where I think you are.”

“And where might that be?” I said.

“To see the man who controls our collective purse strings.”

I sighed. “Heron.” I stood up. Ezak didn’t stop me, but he didn’t lower the staff, either. “Fine,” I said, brushing myself off. “What’s so urgent
that you need to knock me down in the damn yard?”

“The play,” said Tobin, his voice heavy with meaning.

“What about it?”

“It’s unworkable,” said Ezak.

“Unworkable?” said Tobin. “Were that only the case! It’s a disaster. The dialogue is wooden, the characters anemic, the story half a pace removed from a funerary march.
Any company in its right might would either walk away from a monstrosity like this or rewrite it.”

“So you don’t like it?” I said.

“Don’t . . . ?” Tobin’s color rose faster than his drama. “We . . . I . . .”

“No,” said Ezak. “We don’t like it.”

“And you want me to do what about that, exactly?”

“Petition Heron!” cried Tobin. “Tell him the state of things. That we can’t perform the work. That it’s not to our style.” The master stepped in closer.
“We’re a tragedy and comedy company, you see. Highs and lows. This is more . . . I don’t know what to call it. Ezak?”

“Atrocious?”

“Besides that.”

“Mmm. Historical?”

“That’s it: It’s more of a historical. Well, more a commentary, if truth be told. On the Despotate, of all things. Lines and lines and lines of explanations, of exposition, of
exclamations
about the nature of some ancient despot and politics and—”

“It goes on,” said Ezak.

“Precisely.” Tobin glanced about and waved me closer. When I didn’t move, he bent his head and leaned in. The picture of a conspirator. “Now, I was thinking,” he
said. “If you were to tell Heron that it doesn’t work for us—don’t mention anything I’ve said here: For all we know, the hack who penned this may be a state treasure,
Angels help us—rather, say we’re afraid we won’t get the proper feel for the piece since we’re not Djanese. That we won’t do it justice. Or maybe
that—”

I folded my arms. “You were there when he handed it over,” I said. “You heard what he said. The wazir picked the play out himself. Do you honestly think they’re going to
give a damn whether it fits your ‘style’?”

Tobin straightened. “I would hope that he’d respect a troupe’s desire to present its best face before the padishah.”

“He’s going to understand that you’re bitching and complaining and trying to get things your own way. And, if I’m lucky, he’s going to tell me to go to hell. If
I’m not so lucky, he may simply tell us to get out.”

“I don’t—”

“Listen,” I said. “I know we’re being dealt shit, all right? And I know you aren’t happy about it. I’m on my way to see Heron right now, and the way I see it,
I can do one of two things: I can either ask for more time or ask for another play. Considering we only have a handful of days before we’re supposed to perform, I can’t think that
asking for a completely new work—one which might even be worse, or take days to get, or both—is the better dodge.”

Tobin’s displeasure was truly epic in its scope. I could see why this man was on the stage. “So you’re saying you won’t even try?”

“I’m saying I’ll get what I can, but I’m not about to ask for what I can’t get.”

Tobin fumed and scowled and looked ready to argue some more, when Ezak stepped neatly between us. I couldn’t help noticing the move put the staff in front of Tobin’s face.

“Then we’ll take what we can get,” said Ezak, looking directly at his cousin. “And be grateful for it.”

Tobin grumbled a moment more, then turned and stomped back to the inn. Ezak faced me.

“Apologies for the trip,” he said, “but Tobin was going to be impossible until he spoke with you.”

I nodded. “I understand.”

“Good.” He looked over his shoulder at the remaining actor with the staff. “Well, I suppose I—”

“Ezak?”

“Yes?”

“My saying ‘I understand’ doesn’t mean it’s forgiven. You know that, right?”

“I—”

I held up a finger. “You get one. That was it. Try to lay wood—or anything else—on me again, and it won’t be my understanding you’ll be wanting at the end of the
encounter. Understand?”

Ezak’s mouth compressed into a thin, tight line. “I understand.”

“Good. Make sure your cousin does as well. You know the arrangement: I may be your patron, but I have other business in el-Qaddice—business that’s more pressing than your play.
Trust me when I say you don’t want your interests to get in the way of mine.”

“I’ll not forget.”

I turned and left him standing there in the deepening dusk. As I made my way out in the Quarter, I heard the solid
thok!
of wood striking wood. It sounded harder and faster than
before.

Once I got beyond the Quarter’s gates, I quickly realized that while I’d paid attention to the route coming down from the padishah’s estate, navigating in
reverse in a town you don’t know, on little sleep, while periodically being looked over—or outright stopped—to be sure you had a patronage token, can be a different thing
entirely. Fifteen minutes and three false turns into my trek, I gave in and slipped a pair of copper
supps
to a street urchin of maybe fourteen who looked to be on the verge of graduating
to thug.

The day’s crowds had all but vanished, but I knew that the souks and gardens and wine shops would fill up again once the full heat of the day had left the streets. Most Djanese were at
their coffee or baths now, relaxing and gathering themselves for the city’s second wind. With the stars would come late dinners, and even later meetings and assignations. El-Qaddice was a
city that ran—at least partly—on my time, a trait I found both pleasing and frustrating at once.

Our path was a bit roundabout, especially since I refused to follow the “shortcuts” the urchin kept suggesting. While they might’ve gotten me where I wanted to go, they could
just as easily have ended up with me clubbed, stripped, and abandoned in some backstreet grotto. Urchins in Ildrecca weren’t above making arrangement with various gangs from time to time, and
I doubted it was any different here. Regardless of his motivations, my guide stopped urging detours after my fourth refusal.