8

THE NEXT AFTERNOON when I hang up my apron at the end of my shift, I get my first pay packet. I’ve worked six whole days, and the thirty brass bits clinking inside the envelope seems like both a fortune and a pittance. I pick my way nervously through Old Town, aware of the strange heaviness in my coat pocket. I wonder if I walk naturally, or if there’s an extra swing to my arms, a giddiness to my walk that might make me a target for Jaxon, or someone like him.

Tomorrow is my day off, and I plan to head down to Old Town market early to trade in my pilfered trinkets from Pelim House and my boots, and get a pair that fits and a change of clothes. A whisper flutters through my head, about how if I worked harder, longer, perhaps I could save up enough for a smidgen of scriv. The thought makes me laugh aloud, choking on my own naïve hope.

I’ll never be able to afford scriv now. Even uni-horn—a barely passable substitute—trades on the market at thirty-two copper bits an eighth. And trade in scriv is strictly controlled. The few merchants will sell only to House Heads or their official representatives. Never again, Felicita. Shaken by this realization, I lurch around the curve of the promenade and up Whelk to where the shabby green house is waiting.

Upstairs, Lils is already home, although there’s no sign of Nala or Esta. Verrel from the street theater is stretched out on the carpet smoking a roll-up and staring at the ceiling. Every now and again he hums a snatch of a tune from one of the popular low musicals that are all the rage in Old Town. Lils is deep in conversation with a skinny little Hob who is sitting cross-legged on a tea crate, stripping the husks off some withered green maize that must have fallen off one of the vegetable barrows. He looks my age, maybe a year or two older, and he has the leanness of poverty, the old eyes in a young face. All around him are white linen-wrapped bales, smelling sweet and dusty. They seem to have taken over the squat, covering every available surface. He’s one of Charl’s lackeys, I gather, come to drop off the ’ink.

“—and not,” the Hob says, jabbering away so fast that the words melt into each other, “for any reason. No reason that they can give, of course. Typical fucking Houses, ya know?”

“I know.” Lils prods at the stock she’s boiling up out of end-of-day market pickings.

“Just where do they get off? I mean, the best they can do is tell Esta that they’ll give’r compensation. What’s that worth? What do you pay someone when their family is dead? I mean, Rin’s ’er brother, he’s all she fucking has—had—left, and they think a handful of brass is gonna heal all ills?” He keeps asking questions, but doesn’t wait for anyone to answer. “Fucking Lammers,” he says. “Present company excluded.”

“Exclusion accepted,” says Verrel, and he sings a line from Merriweather’s Fortune before taking another protracted drag of his smoke.

The Hob is high. I’ve seen them a lot now around Old Town, strung out on the little silvery-gray leaves of poisonink. ’Ink can give you visions, make you think you can solve all the world’s problems, but it also tends to make you talk a load of absolute nonsense. The crakes take it. For inspiration, they say.

“Is this lot ready?” the Hob asks, hands twitching as he waves at the pot.

Lils sighs, stabs at the contents with her wooden spoon, and says in a patient voice, “Not for hours yet. Why don’t you go lie down and I’ll give you a shout when I dish up.”

But he’s not listening. He’s spotted me, and he hops down from the crate. The Hob is a little taller than he looked sitting down, but not by much, and he has a roguish grin that reminds me of Jaxon. I step back and brush a tangled lock of hair behind my ear.

“And this,” he crows as he approaches me, “this must be the latest addition to our happy little family. You’re the kitty-girl, right? Lils told me all about you.”

“I—” I take a deep breath because I have really had enough of this now. “Am. Not. A. Gris-damned. Kitty-girl. Will you lot get that through your thick Hob skulls!”

Lils laughs and keeps stirring. Verrel coughs on his hand-rolled ’grit.

“Oh,” says the Hob. “I like you.” He holds out one hand. “I’m Dash, by the way, kitty dearest.”

Right. I stare at the Hob. Even Jaxon was more impressive. He grins back at me as I scrutinize him. Like most Hobs, his olive skin is tanned a deep brown, and his hair is thick and black and unruly. It curls down to his collar and falls over his gray-green eyes. There are salt stains on his clothing, although, for a Hob, it’s pretty fine clothing. His waistcoat is silk, emerald green, and the buttons are black ivory from a sphynx’s tooth. He’s wearing a black neckcloth, loosely knotted in a lopsided bow.

“Shake his hand,” says Lils, “before he decides to throw himself from a window or something.”

So I extend my hand and take his. His grip is firm, his palms dry, and he seems utterly at ease with handshakes. Most Hobs are not interested in the practice. “Wonderful,” he says. “I’m off to bed.” And with that, Dash disappears behind the longest curtain, to an area of the house I’ve not yet been in.

“High as a Hob-kite,” says Verrel.

“Verrel, you go put a water-urn by him. Stupid bugger is going to need it when he wakes. Otherwise he’ll be bitching about his bad head for the whole of tomorrer,” says Lils.

Verrel sits up and stubs out the dog-end of his ’grit in a mermaid’s-ear shell near his hip. “Lucky me,” he says. “Lucky, lucky me.” He fills a small urn from one of the water pails that are spread out along the balcony and lopes off to Dash’s room, stepping carefully over the scattered bales.

“Here,” I say, nervous now, worried that I’ve botched this meeting and that when Dash wakes he’ll find a reason to throw me out onto the street. I fumble in my pocket and hand Lils the rough paper envelope. “For the bowl,” I say, nodding at the communal bowl that takes pride of place on the highest crate.

“You don’t have to give me all of it, you daft Lam,” she says, and tips five bits back into my palm. “Now you go get some sleep. I’ll introduce you to Dash when he’s himself again.”

“You mean … he’s not always like that?”

“Sweet Gris, no.” She makes a growly huk huk sound that for Lils is what passes for laughter. “We’d have strung him out on the rooftops long since if he was.” Lils takes a sip of her stock and licks her lips. “He has his moments, and when he does, we just leave him be until he’s worked through them. Then things get back to normal sharp-like.”

I cast a glance at the closed curtain and wonder just what kind of person he can be to somehow have all these people at his heel.