The Duchess of the Shallows

THE DUCHESS OF THE SHALLOWS
by Neil McGarry & Daniel Ravipinto

The Duchess of the Shallows

A Peccable Productions book

Learn more at

www.peccable.com

This is a work of fiction. All names, places and people are products of the authors’ imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved

©2012 Neil McGarry and Daniel Ravipinto

Cover illustration and map illustration © 2012 Amy Houser

www.amyhouser.com

To Star and Jack, who saw the lights of the city long before we ever arrived.

Thanks to our test readers: Daniel J. Linehan ("He Who Must Be Obeyed"), Mark Fabrizi, Sean McGarry, Rosemary Auge, Rob Wetzel, Amy McClenahan, and the many others who very graciously agreed to enter the Grey City and get to know the people who live there.

Chapter One: The color of her coin

Chapter Two: In the market

Chapter Three: Over a barrel

Chapter Four: What the fire forged

Chapter Five: A beggar at the gate

Chapter Six: Chasing the Grey

Chapter Seven: Houses high and low

Chapter Eight: Laying out the tiles

Chapter Nine: Letters and lightboys

Chapter Ten: The job before the job

Chapter Eleven: A fox and a rabbit

Chapter Twelve: Something sharp and pretty

Chapter Thirteen: Duchess takes a fall

Chapter Fourteen: A harsh mistress

Chapter Fifteen: Hector changes his mind

Chapter Sixteen: Minette locks a door

Chapter Seventeen: What the Uncle wants

Chapter Eighteen: Duchess makes her mark

The time had come to leap before she looked.

Duchess crouched on the edge of the channel, her hands gripping cold, rough stone. She took a deep breath to steady herself, tasting metal. She shivered. Even though spring ruled above, down here winter held dominion. The water that flowed through the channel two feet below her would be cold, passing from darkness into darkness, and she swallowed hard. She was terrified now that she had come to it, and part of her wondered if there were some other way. She could very easily drown in the long, wet dark, or become trapped just past the arch only to be fished out by the baron's men…or by the Brutes, which would be even worse. But the estate walls were smooth and tall and she was no acrobat. No one would open a gate for her even if she had the coin for a bribe. There was no other way.

There were shouts from the courtyard above, and she could imagine the baron's men fanning out, double-guarding the exits, beating the bushes and searching every shadow. They would be hindered by crowds of ghosts and gods, but in the end they would find her. She was out of time. It was either a blind jump or the baron’s justice.

She jumped.

Chapter One:
The color of her coin

The instant she showed the old man the coin, Duchess knew something was wrong.

Her sixteen summers had given her little experience in dealing with men like Hector, but as she held up the mark she could tell from the look in his eyes and the set of his shoulders that he was now more anxious than she. She turned the small, worn piece of brass in her hand, the wan light trickling through the windows catching on the edges of the raised markings on either side: a large letter
P
encircled by a snake devouring its own tail. She watched him and tried to look as if she did this sort of thing every day.

He squinted to see the coin more clearly, tilted his head and sneered. The expression did little to improve his appearance. He'd been standing at the far corner of the dimly lit room when she'd first entered the pawn shop, hunched over a splintered broom that was nearly as skinny as he. His tunic was threadbare, his breeches even more so, and both were dulled by the same dust that tickled her nose. He looked like someone's dotty uncle, except his eyes were bright with suspicion.

Still, the coin had caught Hector's attention, bringing him in for a closer examination. And now she found herself so taken aback by his doubt and fear that she found she had nothing to say. A mark was a mark, wasn't it? Surely he'd seen others in his day. Any moment he would smile, reveal that she'd done precisely the right thing by showing it to him, and then they'd proceed with their business. She hoped.

As if coming to some decision, Hector stepped away more swiftly than she would have expected and went back to his broom. He swept vaguely, head bowed, although through the dishwater mop of his hair he kept one eye firmly upon her. As far as she could tell his sweeping served only to shift the dust around the piles of junk that crammed the room from wall to wall. She made out cast-offs of every description: rusted weapons leaning near furniture in various stages of disrepair, boxes of paste jewelry lying on rolls of cloth and piles of clothes that ranged from fine to filthy.

He worked quietly for a long moment. She debated simply taking the mark and leaving when Hector suddenly broke the silence. "Where did
you
get something like
that
?"

"I found it in a pie," she said casually, trying to seem more confident than she felt. "I was told to show it to you. You've been shown."

"And what am I supposed to do?" he replied, scowling as if to cover his uncertainty. "Hold your hand? Kiss your arse?"

She hesitated. That bit of brass represented an incredible opportunity, one she'd long coveted but certainly never expected, but of course it would never do to say so. "I was told you would know how to open a door," she settled on. In any case that was all she really knew.

Hector rolled his eyes, but Duchess sensed that his impatience was more than a little feigned; perhaps he found it safer to be angry than scared. "As if I have nothing better to do with my time." She looked at the broom in his hands, raised an eyebrow, said nothing. He flushed angrily. "What do you know of the Grey?"

Again, she found herself taken aback.
No one spoke openly of the Grey, not even Minette, who was as formidable as anyone Duchess had ever known. That Hector would do so on such short acquaintance made a part of her sit up and take notice. "I know most people don't speak of it to strangers," she said. She turned the coin over, and over again, passing it from hand to hand, feeling more certain of herself. She suddenly wondered that the Grey allowed someone like Hector into their ranks. He was no Minette.

Hector flapped a hand in dismissal, but Duchess could tell she'd struck home. "You can flash that pretty coin of yours all you like, but it doesn't mean anything on its own."

"It meant enough to put you on the jump," she replied as coolly as she dared. "You just about broke your legs scrambling over to get a look at it."

He grunted. "Well, hand it over," he said, and Duchess was suddenly reminded of one of the fishwives who often bought biscuits in the morning. She was large, loud and friendly, but she always tried to get more than she'd paid for by pretending to misunderstand the deal she'd just reached. Hector was older, skinnier and creakier, but his manner was the same.

Duchess shook her head, closing her fingers tight about the coin. "I was told to show you this mark; no one said anything about handing it over." He made as if to protest but she rode over him. "Now can you help me or not? Or shall I take this elsewhere?" She wasn't sure just where she'd take it, but Hector didn't need to know that.

For a moment she thought she'd overplayed her hand, that Hector would simply ignore her and go back to his sweeping, and she sensed that a part of him wanted to do precisely that. Clearly a mark was
not
always a mark, she thought, glancing at the coin in her hand. The origin and purpose of that piece of brass might be unclear, but the letter that had accompanied it was not: Hector was to be her guide into the Grey. His eyes measured her for a long moment, then he sighed. "All right, all right," he grumbled, setting aside his broom, and his tone and manner changed, as if he were reading from a script long since memorized. "It is within my rights to demand a test before I open this door of yours." He
gave her a yellow smile, but it was a forced and brittle thing. "Though I imagine
someone as worldly as you already knew that." She hadn't, of course, but she'd be damned if she'd admit it.
"
With a little luck," he continued, "you'll not survive
the test and I can have done with you." She said nothing, refusing to let him frighten her. Instead, she simply tapped the coin against the edge of the table. His eyes flicked to the mark and then back to her. Again he sneered.
"
Come back tonight. Last bell. Knock thrice on the back door."

She was done here. She slid the mark back into her pocket and turned to leave.

"One more thing," Hector added as she reached for the knob, "When you come back, don't bring
that young man who's been skulking on my doorstep. Come alone."

* * *

"So it's a test," said Lysander as they left the edge of the Deeps, heading north towards the Shallows and the garret. The sheepish smile with which he'd greeted her when she left Hector's shop made clear his embarrassment at being caught eavesdropping. She filled him in on what had happened with Hector, but he'd heard most of it from the doorstep anyway. "Makes sense, I suppose. The Grey must have some way of initiating members, of weeding out the high from the hopeless. He sounded like he knew what he was talking about."

"And if I pass the test? Do I get to join the Grey?" The streets were busy at this time of day and in Rodaas ears were everywhere, so they stayed close together to keep the conversation private. The morning fog was already rolling in off the bay, slowly climbing the hill from the Wharves and snaking into the Shallows. The early spring sun, masked by the usual gray cloud cover, gave little light and less warmth, and Duchess found herself shivering at the damp chill in the air. The warped and rotten wood shacks of the Deeps had given way to the slate-gray stone buildings of the Shallows. "Gray above, gray below and wet in between," her father had once said of Rodaas. As in many things, he'd been right.

"Probably, and maybe you'll earn yourself a mark." Against that gray background his tumbling blond curls and light blue doublet were vivid; Lysander was never one to blend into his surroundings. Duchess, on the other hand, was all brown: brown hair, brown eyes, and light brown tunic and leggings. She touched the mark in her pocket, and as usual Lysander read her mind. "You didn't earn that one. It was given to you."
"And I don't trust it, Lysander. Hector's reaction…wasn't what I expected. Not that I'm complaining about an invitation to the Grey, but to have something so strange dropped into my lap like this..."

"Are you
sure
you don't know who P is?" Lysander asked. "I wonder, did Noam take you in as a favor to the Grey? Do you think it's connected to your parents?"

This turn of conversation made Duchess uneasy. As far as Lysander knew, Duchess was the daughter of a cobbler and his wife, whose home had burned one summer evening. "That's as true as it needs to be," Noam had said when he concocted the tale eight years ago, "and as much as folk need to know. If anyone gets curious, just pull a sad face and start the tears. Nothing like a crying child to shut off nosy questions." Duchess had taken this advice to heart although at first those tears hadn't been false. "Maybe that's it," she said evasively, ashamed at how easily the lie came. "So what do you think it'll be?"