The Duchess of the Shallows (26 page)

The thought brightened her, and she was humming as she rose from the bath, dressed, and prepared to head for the market. She could feel the night and the tension and the fear of it all slough off her as she did so. Eusbius, the Brutes, the tunnels, the memories, the worries for Lysander...all of them felt so distant under the gray light of morning.

They'd done it. She savored that realization as she
waved to Lorelei and gave a sleepy-headed Daphne a hug on her way out. She toyed with it as she left the Vermillion and entered Bell Plaza, trying victory on her shoulders as Lysander would a new cape, turning this way and that to see how it looked.

She joined the ranks of Shallows folk passing through Market Gate but paid little attention to their chatter. Her eyes wandered over towards Beggars' Gate and she caught sight of the young girls looking for work. Had it been only yesterday morning she'd stood there herself? Had it been only yesterday that the mad plan she'd concocted had been a fearful future and not a successful reality?

Gorged on triumph, she nearly flew into Market District, thoroughly absorbed in her thoughts. She'd buy the best food the market could offer as a surprise for Lysander, and they'd feast before reporting to Hector. Lysander wouldn't be happy at being awakened, particularly after last night's adventures, but she thought a little plum wine would sweeten him. She'd buy bacon and eggs, as well, some more milk just brought in from Trades this morning, bread, honey, perhaps more early-season berries. The strawberries they'd eaten the other day had been luscious and she could do with a few more. There was no need to be thrifty now, with Hector's reward fast approaching, and the all the treasures of the Grey soon to be laid at her feet.

She was so intent on the task before her, and the wonders that awaited later in the day, that coming around a corner she nearly stumbled over a bread cart with one bad wheel, pushed by a big girl a few years older than herself.

She'd spent the last few days consciously avoiding Noam and his daughters, although she knew that someday she was bound to run into them. Yesterday she would have predicted that such a meeting would most likely end with her fleeing in tears, but with Lani standing there in the flesh before her, she suddenly wasn't sure why she'd been afraid. Although she had only been gone from the bakery a few days, Lani seemed somehow different. Duchess had grown up always a bit fearful of the bigger girl, although in truth Lani had generally been civil enough to her. Unlike Jossalyn, Duchess' constant rival and would-be overlord, Lani had usually either ignored or simply tolerated her. Now she seemed merely vaguely familiar, and no longer the girl Duchess had tried so hard not to anger. Duchess wondered if Jossalyn would now seem less irritating, or Noam less critical, or his wife less impatient, should she run into any of them.

For a moment she thought Lani would simply push by without speaking, and she wondered if she herself were now just as strange to the other girl. Then Lani smiled slightly, and Duchess did the same. Duchess found herself walking beside Lani as she pushed the cart up a rise towards the market, and without thinking she moved to lend a hand. Even the cart felt different.

"How is everyone?" asked Duchess, awkwardly. She wasn't sure what else to say.

Lani shook her head. "It was one of those nights. Jossalyn finally got caught sneaking out to meet that blackarm's son. You remember the one?" Duchess did; in fact, she'd been awakened more than once by Jossalyn's clumsy comings-and-goings out the loft window after dark. It was a wonder Noam hadn't discovered these nocturnal activities weeks ago. Given how rude and uncomely the boy in question was, Duchess hardly felt it was worth the trouble. She'd done what she'd considered her family duty at the time, and asked Deneys what he could find out about the boy. He'd returned and rather haughtily replied that while he did a good trade as a journeyman, he wasn't anything special. That had been enough for Duchess, and she'd let the matter drop, content to watch and wait for the ruckus when Noam discovered what was going on.

"Father must have heard something about it," continued Lani, "so he was waiting in the street when Jossalyn climbed down. He was furious, and you could have heard Mother yelling up in Garden." Duchess nodded and smiled politely, wondering that, not three days ago, such stories had been her life, before the mark and the letter and the door Hector had opened. Now it all seemed so petty, because either it had always been small or she herself had somehow gotten larger.

"And you?" asked Lani, struggling with the cart as it pulled to the right, as it always did.

Duchess chuckled, and it was the easiest laugh she'd had in days, and ever with Lani. The older girl noticed and her gaze sharpened. "Sorry," Duchess said, realizing she was blushing. "It just seems like a long time since I last pushed this cart. It always pulls that way, you know. You're out of practice."

Lani grinned ruefully, and Duchess thought that she, too, sounded freer and easier than ever. "I guess so. I'm covering for Jossalyn, who's not allowed out of the house until she's learned her lesson or her boy dies of pining for her, whichever comes first. After that she'll take over for – " She fell silent, suddenly awkward.

"For me," Duchess finished for her. How strange, she thought. What had made it so that she and Lani had never truly seen each other? Was it those cramped, tiny rooms over the bakery that had smashed them together? Was it the unspoken truth that Duchess was not nor ever would be one of Noam's true daughters? Was it the fear of the unrevealed reason their father had brought her into their home? What had made them bickering, silent, resentful siblings only days before? Is that why Lani now seemed somehow like a new person instead of a rubbing, galling annoyance, like a stone in her shoe?

They walked on in silence, and Duchess wondered if Lani were thinking similar thoughts. Finally they entered the market, and Duchess left her at the fountain. Meeting Lani had been a mildly pleasant surprise, but she didn't know if she was quite ready to see Noam as well. As she made to leave, Lani turned suddenly and hugged her, the first time Duchess could ever remember her doing so. At first Duchess stiffened with surprise, then returned the embrace, feeling strangely close to weeping at this quick goodbye to a new stranger.

"Goodbye, Duchess," said Lani, starting to push the cart across the square and towards the stalls on the far end. "Take care of yourself. Perhaps I'll see you around again?"

"I hope so," Duchess replied, surprised that she meant it. Then Lani disappeared into the crowd, and Duchess stood alone, the bustle of the city around her, now her only true and proper home.

* * *

She found everything she needed except for the strawberries, but she was lucky enough to find a basket full of early season blueberries, picked just the day before. As she shopped she overheard the merchants chewing over the baron's big party but Duchess contributed nothing to the talk; best to keep her own counsel. Besides, she was too busy basking in the knowledge that she knew more about last night's events than these people ever would.

The food went a long way towards improving Lysander's early-morning grouchiness and the wine took care of the rest, and not long after they were on their way back to Hector's shop. She pocketed the gold medallion, wrapped the silver dagger in an old shirt of Lysander's, hid it beneath her cloak, and they set out.

The day had turned out unusually clear for spring in Rodaas, and Duchess felt her spirits lift as she and Lysander made their way through the streets. They hashed over last night's party, and Lysander regaled her with stories of who was flirting with whom, what costumes garnered the most attention, and other trifles of high living. Not even passing near the Deeps, she thought, could dampen her mood that day. So emboldened were they by success and fine weather that they didn't notice anything wrong until they approached Hector's shop and saw that the front door stood open, its frame broken and splintered, as if it had been forced. Through the doorway they could see only darkness and hear only silence. Lysander's hand closed painfully on her arm, and they exchanged a look. "Time to go," Lysander hissed, pulling her back toward the street, but she raised a hand to stop him. She'd gone too far and accomplished too much to turn back now. "Bandits?" she whispered. "A gang from the Deeps?"

Lysander shook his head. "No way they'd come up this far in broad daylight. And if they'd come last night, the beggars would have looted the place this morning." Duchess was thinking much the same; in the Shallows, an open door was an open invitation to thieves. Lysander's grip tightened. "It must have been Ophion and the Brutes, last night when they were tearing up the Shallows. No one would dare rob any place they'd smashed up. Somehow they know what we did, what Hector asked you to do..." It was a disquieting thought, and for a moment Silk was tempted to run back to the garret with Lysander and hide. Steel, however, had other ideas.

"I don't think so," she replied. "How could they connect what happened to Hector so soon?" She removed Lysander's clutching hand and held it in both of hers. "We could spend the rest of the day arguing about it and still not know for certain. We have to go in." Lysander looked as frightened as she had ever seen him, but at last he nodded. Wordlessly, Duchess slid out one of her knives and handed him the other; she was glad she'd remembered to bring them. Moving slowly and carefully, they climbed the stairs to the shattered doorway and slipped inside.

The shop had been dark and cluttered the last time she'd seen it; now it was a disaster. Shelves had been torn down, tables overturned, and glass shattered. The junk previously piled on tables was now strewn around the room so thickly that the dusty floor was barely visible. Duchess took one step forward, glass crunching under her feet. "Hector?" There was no response.

Lysander tugged at her sleeve. "He's dead or gone," he breathed. "Let's get out of here." Duchess was about to take his advice when she heard a groan from further inside the shop. She picked her way through the mess, and behind an overturned table she found Hector, lying crumpled on the floor. She beckoned to Lysander, and he set down his knife and helped her wrestle the table out of the way. Murky light fell on Hector's face, and she gasped. He'd been badly beaten, much worse than Lysander: one eye was swollen completely shut, and a purplish bruise covered half his face. As he turned his head away from the light a line of blood trickled from a corner of his mouth and on to his shirt. With Lysander's help she turned him onto his back, and he groaned in pain from the movement.

His good eye regarded her dully from under his mop of hair, then his split lips curved into a poor copy of a smile, revealing bloody teeth. "So you've come back," he croaked, raising a hand to shield his face from the light. That hand had at least one broken finger, she noted. "Not too soon, either. Now help me up." Together they pulled the battered man to his feet and over to a splintered chair that creaked under his weight but held. Once he was seated he peered more closely at Lysander. "Oh, it's the boy whore," he said, sounding not at all pleased, "and it seems someone loves you almost as much as me." He turned and spat bloodily. "Make yourself useful for once and fetch me some water." Lysander gave Hector a sour look but rummaged around until he found a clay cup and flagon of water. As he handed him the drink, Hector muttered, "Stupid, stupid, stupid." He sipped, winced, and then noticed Lysander's glower. "I'm speaking of myself, boy, though I suppose that makes two of us."

"What happened to you?" Duchess asked.

He chuckled, then groaned in pain, clutching his side. "I didn't think things through, that's what happened." He drank again, more deeply. "I had some visitors early this morning, come to remind me how things work in Rodaas."

Duchess watched him. "Eusbius was more important than you knew." It was not a question.

His one good eye opened wide and looked at her reproachfully, as if the beating were her fault. "Well, he's better connected, at any rate."

"He traced the theft to you," she said, "and sent the Brutes to do this." She gestured at his face.

He rolled his good eye. "If only. I'm too far beneath that bastard's notice for the great Lord Eusbius to do anything so intelligent." He drained the cup then held it out to Lysander. "Fill it again, boy."

Lysander looked ready to snap, and Duchess was growing impatient herself. "I didn't come here to get you water or be your nursemaid, Hector. I came to collect. Or have you forgotten?"

He pushed himself to his feet, but this time she did not offer to help. "I am," he managed between labored breaths, "a little busy at the moment." He regarded the ruin of his shop ruefully. "I'll finish with you when things settle down." He grimaced. "
If
things settle down."

"That wasn't the deal. I went through hell to get your damned dagger, and now I want to be on the Grey."

He rounded on her, anger overcoming his pain. "And I'm telling you that I might not be on the Grey myself by day's end!"

This was unforeseen. "They're going to kick you out?" she asked uncertainly.

"There are no dead men on the Grey," he said, as if Duchess were quite the idiot. "It wasn't the Brutes who gave me their custom so early this morning. It was the Red, three of Uncle Cornelius' boys in a bad mood." Lysander sucked in breath, and Hector nodded with grim approval. "They were probably looking for that very dagger you no doubt have hidden under your cloak. If you'd gotten here earlier you could have spared me a beating."

Duchess felt a cold finger touch her heart as Zachary's tale came flooding back in a rush. A figure with enough power and wealth to support Ivan Gallius' betrayal of Hector. Someone who would profit from a petty smuggler getting the better of a member of the Grey, while not wanting to be directly connected himself. Who else but Uncle Cornelius, the much talked of but rarely seen chief of the Red?

"Does the Uncle know about me?" she asked, trying to keep the quaver from her voice. If so, she was a dead woman, sure as fog rolling off the bay.