Dace did calculations in his head. If he could sell the rags for one shaboozh each, he’d have five shaboozh for Makker and five for himself … . He’d be rich. How hard could selling be? He was already a good bargainer.
“And—” Makker lowered his voice to a whisper, “you don’t have to ask what happens if you don’t bring me my shaboozh.”
“Shaboozh, or the rags. You’d take back the rags?”
Makker laughed and pounded the table a second time. “I like you, Dace. I’m going to like doing business. with you.”
Pleased by his cleverness, Dace tucked the opah book carefully in his waist pouch. Makker had nothing else to say, and neither did Dace. He and Geddie left the table. They purchased a pitcher of cheap wine and retreated to her room.
“You were right,” Dace said.
Geddie nodded glumly. She sat on the cot, twining her hands together, ignoring the wine. Dace asked about her opah and was surprised when she said—
“Can’t I’m empty and Makker said, ‘not tonight’ when I asked. There’s no arguing with Makker. Said we gotta use yours.”
“Mine?” Dace muttered as the essence of the situation became clear to him: If he wanted to dip opah with Geddie he was going to have to dip into his profits. The allure of five whole shaboozh was almost enough to swear off both dipping and sharing.
Almost—but not quite. If he set aside one rag for personal use, he’d still wind up with four shaboozh: a tidy sum. And one rag, prudently parceled out, ought to be enough until Shiprisday. Except it wasn’t When Dace left Geddie’s room a few hours before sunset, he left a wasted rag behind, too. The lack didn’t bother him … half that rag was singing in his head, reminding him that he didn’t have to wait until next Shiprisday to claim his four shaboozh. He could sell all nine remaining rags tomorrovv …
Something had happened. Chersey knew it without her ring. For the last week Dace had been changing, but now the change was complete. He threw supper together. The meal was delicious, but it didn’t have the touch of pride. And when the plates were scraped, Dace begged off from playing with the children, preferring to hole up with Perrez.
“We’re losing him,” she told Bezul as they sat outside the shop, catching the breeze off the harbor.
Bezul looked up from the lantern he was repairing. “He’s in love. Whatever we think of that girl, he’s in love and love has to run its course.”
“Not love—not just love. I watched him prepare the supper. His mind was across the ocean—not dreamy. He’s been dreamy since she took him in. Now he’s determined … ambitious. That’s not love.”
“Not to a woman!” Bezul laughed, “but it’s a good sign in a man. I didn’t take an interest in the changing house until I’d fallen in love with you. A man accepts certain responsibilities, he rises to them, and makes something of himself.”
“What can poor Dace make of himself?”
“A fine cook—like as not, that’s why he’s gone off with Perrez … to press for introductions. We don’t know anyone who can pay a cook, but Perrez does. Gods love him, but my brother does get around the better parts of this city.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“I’m sure I am. He wasn’t ours forever, he’s just passing through, like everything else: one hand to the next. We’ll wish him well when he leaves.”
“Eyes of Ils! Are you possessed?” Perrez stopped short. The look on his face was not the one Dace had been expecting.
“Ser! I thought you’d be interested.”
The private door to Perrez’s room was outfitted with an impressive iron lock someone had long-ago brought to the changing house. Presumably it had once been paired with an equally impressive key, but the key had bypassed the changing house. Perrez worked the lock with a bump here, a rap there, and a just-so twist on the movable latch. Dace had watched the sequence so many times he could have performed it himself—though he didn’t, out of respect.
Perrez bumped, rapped, twisted, and led the way into his bachelor quarters. He locked the door from the inside—a far easier process—and struck a light for the oil lamp before destroying Dace’s hopes.
“I couldn’t be less interested. May I remind you that Arizak has stirred his stump and outlawed opah? Buyer or seller, it doesn’t matter, you’ll dance on a rope.”
“I’ve got rags that cost me eight padpols. I could sell them anywhere for a shaboozh .. but I’m offering them to you for twelve.”
“You’ve used the froggin’ stuff, haven’t you?”
“No,” Dace lied. “It’s business.”
“How much are you selling?”
“Nine rags.”
Perrez surged so quickly Dace backed himself into a corner. “Nine? Nine! Don’t lie to me, Dace; don’t even try. Opah’s handed off in books of ten rags. Nobody’s got nine, unless he’s used one.” He grasped Dace’s chin to make sure their eyes met.
“I’ve stopped.” At that exact moment, Dace was telling the truth.
“Eyes of Us, boy—where did you get it?”
“Makker .. , at the Frog and Bucket.”
“Maksandrus!” Perrez spat the syllables out and released Dace’s chin. “You don’t want to do business with Makker. He’ll gut you soon as look at you. Got himself thrown off a Mrsevadan ship for killing two mates—two in one voyage! And if Makker doesn’t gut you, his boss will. You’ve heard of Lord Night?”
Dace shook his head.
“If you turn over the frackin’ froggin’ rock that’s Sanctuary, Lord Night’s the biggest bug you find, the one with the biggest bite, the vilest poison. He moves the city’s krrf, Dace, and opah’s just krrf.”
“You’ve told me.”
“And you’ve bogged down anyway?”
“I’m not ‘bogged down.’”
“Look at me. Let me see your tongue.” For a moment, Dace resisted the command, then he obliged. “You’re dippin’, aren’t you?” Dace didn’t move, except to withdraw his tongue. “Dippin’s bad, but it’s not the worst. Far be it from me to tell someone how to live, but get clear of it, Dace, and stay clear of me until you do. While you’re doing business with Maksandrus and Lord Night, I don’t want to be anywhere close. Go to my brother, beg the froggin’ money you need to buy yourself out and stay out. Understand?”
Dace nodded. He understood—understood that he’d made a mistake coming to Perrez and that there was no way that he was going to make a similar mistake with Perrez’s brother.
Perrez unbolted the inner door, giving Dace the inner passage to the house warrens. The bolt slammed home behind him: Perrez was taking no chances. Dace hunkered down between a cauldron and a tangle of firedogs. He shivered, despite the heat, and shed a few tears before skulking up to the room Chersey and Bezul had made for him under the eaves.
A cool, harbor breeze stirred the air. Any other night, Dace could have fallen straightaway to sleep; tonight the memories of Makker’s grin and Perrez’s grasp kept him awake long after Bezul set the geese loose.
Dace’s tongue thickened as the opah tingle faded to nothing. He wanted wine, ale, tea, even water, but all the liquids were on the far side of a flock of geese. He’d send the flock into a frenzy and, truth to tell, Dace wasn’t thirsty, what he wanted was opah.
The more Dace thought about opah, the more he craved it. Finally, he crawled off his bed, found the nine-rag book, and touched stiff cloth directly to his tongue. For a heartbeat, the experiment was a failure, then his tongue began to burn, and the burning shot through his nerves. Before the fire ebbed, Dace pressed the cloth against his tongue again … and again.