“Like the wind,” said Degan. “Well, the wind if it had a bad eye, a bad leg, and a couple of broken ribs. He ended up dropping the book rather than let me catch him.”
“Where was I in all of this?” I had a vision of myself lying unconscious in the rain, a White Sash climbing out of the basement toward me, and I didn’t care for it much.
Degan eyed me a moment. “You weigh more than I’d expect. Did you know that?”
“Oh,” I said.
Degan nodded, then hefted the sack. “By the way, your clothes were ruined. I got these for you, instead.” He tossed the canvas bag onto the bed. I opened it.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” I said as I pulled out a scarlet doublet, the fabric pinked and richly embroidered with silver thread. A pair of matching knee pants followed, along with a set of cream-colored stockings. At the bottom, I found a linen shirt, complete with lace collar and cuffs.
“The Baroness Sephada sends her wishes for a speedy recovery,” said Degan, a distinct twinkle in his eyes.
Christiana. Of course. I could see her cackling with glee as she went through Nestor’s old things, looking for the least likely outfit to send my way.
Christiana… I looked up at Degan. The twinkle was still in his eyes.
“You couldn’t have gotten me my own clothes?” I said instead of asking him about my sister.
“And how am I supposed to do that?” Degan wiggled his fingers in the air. “I know what it would take to get into your place, and I like having all my extremities and organs.”
I sighed and looked down at the clothing in my lap. Then I held up the doublet and smiled. “Too big!” I said. “We’ll have to find something else.”
“Nonsense,” said Jelem. He came over and gathered up the pile. “Ahnya can have these altered and ready for you in no time.”
“You’re a cruel man,” I said sourly.
Jelem leaned in close. “I’ve been sleeping in a chair for two days because of you. This is only the beginning.”
It was three hours past dawn when I left Jelem’s via the front door, my features hidden beneath a great cloak. Jelem and Degan had left five minutes earlier, Jelem disguised as best we could manage to look like me from a distance. No one had melted from the shadows to follow them. I chose to take that as a sign that we weren’t being watched, rather than as a comment on our meager efforts at misdirection.
I tugged yet again at the refitted doublet I was wearing. Jelem’s wife had folded, cut, pinned, and stitched with amazing skill, but the clothes still felt like someone else’s. As Degan had pointed out, though, no one would be expecting me to walk around dressed like this, so I was better off in them than in my own togs right now.
At least my boots had survived; otherwise, I would be scuffing about in too-big slippers, their toes stuffed with rags.
I had Ioclaudia’s book with me, hidden beneath the doublet and my cloak. By all rights, I should have been taking it straight to Kells-after all, he was the one who’d tasked me with finding it in the first place, and I did work for the man. But the fight with the White Sashes, not to mention the Gray Prince’s dream, was still too fresh in my head to ignore. Until I better understood how Ioclaudia’s journal fit into the war in Ten Ways, I wasn’t going to give it to anyone. This wasn’t something I could just set on the table in front of Kells, boss or no, friend or no. I respected the man, but that didn’t mean I trusted him with a book on imperial glimmer-not when he was fighting for his organization’s survival.
I kept my head down and my eyes to myself as I maneuvered through the morning crowds. The crush of Lighters slowed me down, but it also helped me blend in with the mob more easily.
I reached the edge of Fifth Angel Square and paused to buy a steaming cup of butter tea. I let my eyes roam over the crowd, looking for faces or forms that seemed a bit too busy being disinterested in me. The tea was good, full of butter and salt and mint. Warming. It would sit well with the five ahrami and small breakfast I had had earlier. I finished it quickly and moved back into the crowd.
I circled the base of Elirokos’s statue three times, stopping to price carpets, haggle over a small bracelet, argue with a blind soothsayer, and admire a talented dancing girl with an unorthodox interpretation of the a’Sakar.
No one-there were no Tails, no Squinters, no Six-Foot-Gangs in sight. If anyone was following me, they were too good for me to see, let alone lose.
I went over to Mendross’s stall.
“I’ll be with you in a moment, sir,” he said as he rushed by, a basket of lemons in his hand. He was just about to give the basket to a well-dressed woman when he stopped in midstride, turned, and stared at me. His eyes were still moving up and down my outfit when the woman behind him cleared her throat.
“My fruit?” she said pointedly.
“Eh?” said Mendross. Then he blinked and nodded. “Oh! Yes, my lady, of course.” He spun around and handed her the basket, took her coin, and bowed his apologies, all the while still watching me out of the corner of his eye.
After she had moved away, Mendross turned and made an expansive gesture in my direction. “My lord!” he cried, loud enough to be heard three stalls over. “How good to see you! You must be here for those mangos you asked about last week, yes? Good news-they’re in, just as I promised! I have them around back. Please, come see for yourself and tell me they are not the most succulent fruits you have ever tasted!”
I smiled and nodded and tried to play the part. Mendross bowed and scraped and ushered me toward the bright curtain that separated his inventory space from the front of his stall.
“I almost didn’t recognize you,” he whispered as he pushed the curtain aside.
“Glad to hear it,” I said.
Mendross’s second son was lying stretched out across three sacks in the back, asleep, a wax inventory tablet on the floor by his arm.
“Spyro!” Mendross snapped. Spyro snapped upright and began scrambling for the tablet. “Forget that and mind the stall,” said Mendross. “And remember to push the plums-they’re going soft.”
The boy nodded and ducked out, barely sparing me a glance in his haste.
Mendross took one of the redder mangos, produced a small knife, and deftly carved out a long, wide wedge for each of us. He was right-they were delicious.
“So,” said Mendross as he wiped a dribble of thick juice from his chin, “do I get to hear the story behind the outfit?”
“No.”
“That embarrassing, hmm?”
“That unimportant,” I said. “I need to know what you’ve heard lately.”
Mendross settled himself on a small stool. “A lot. How much do you want?”
As tempting as it was to say, “All of it,” I knew I didn’t have that kind of time. I had been out of the game for more than two days-I needed the big picture first; the details could be sorted out later.
“Stick to Ten Ways,” I said. “Plus anything you’ve gathered on Nicco. Or Kells.” I paused to consider. “Or a scribe named Baldezar, for that matter.”
“Haven’t heard anything about any scribe, but where’ve you been that you need me to fill you in on the rest? It’s all over the street.”
“Just tell me,” I said.
Mendross carved off another slice of mango. “Get comfortable, then,” he said, and launched into his report.
It was ugly. Kin wars are always bloody, violent affairs, replete with ambushes in the street and bodies in the alleys, but this had gone well past that. Where past wars had usually been confined to byways and the dark of the night, Nicco’s men were openly attacking Kells’s in streets, markets, and squares, day or night, no matter whether the places were empty or full. No effort was being made to hide things from the empire, let alone give them a chance to turn a blind eye. Even worse, Rambles had supposedly told his people that any Red Sashes trying to interfere with the war were fair game. If Rags started going down to Kin gangs, it wouldn’t be a question of if the empire stepped in, but, rather, when and how hard.