C H A P T E R F O U RMountain towns are all different, Han thought.
Mountain towns are all the same.
Geography drives architecture in a mountain town. In Delphi, the houses and other buildings were jammed together, like they’d slid down the slopes and jumbled into the available space along the river.
Houses built onto a hillside are deceiving: short one-stories at the back, and tall four-stories at the front. They reminded Han of brightly painted fancy girls that had seen better days. They backed into the mountainside and spread their long skirts down to the valley floor, their dirty petticoats in the gutters. The streets were narrow and tangled and cobbled with stone—a material plentiful and cheap in the mountains.
Forced into the rocky Kanwa canyon, the streets veered drunkenly around the smallest obstacles—sometimes losing their way entirely.
It was fully dark when they finally descended into the town. A choking pall of smoke thickened the air, requiring extra effort to breathe.
“It stinks worse than Southbridge,” Han said, wrinkling his nose. A different, unfamiliar stink, at least.
“They burn coal for heat and cooking here,” Dancer explained. “The smoke gets trapped in the valley. It’s worse in winter—the fires burn night and day.”
There was money in town. Intermingled with stores and businesses and more modest dwellings were street-front palaces and rich-looking row houses. Some of the houses occupied entire city blocks, faced with kilned brick and carved stone.
“Mine owners,” Dancer explained. “But even the miners make good money. The war in Arden has stoked the market for iron and coal, and prices are high. Lightfoot says the Delphians don’t mind the stinking air. They say they’re breathing money. It’s allowed them to keep their own army and stay independent of both Arden and the Fells.”
As they neared the center of town, the streets clogged up with people, reminding Han of Fellsmarch on market day.
It was a diverse crowd—black-skinned men and women from Bruinswallow, clad in the loose, striped clothing of the southerners. Southern Islanders with their dark skin, elaborate jewelry, and tangles of black hair. Leggy Northern Islanders with fair hair and blue eyes, some haloed with auras. Multiple languages collided in the streets, and exotic music poured from inns and taverns.
There was more evidence of wartime prosperity—elegant shops with all manner of trade goods; jewelry stores with glittering displays, take-away food stores with exotic offerings and intriguing, spicy smells. Han’s stomach rumbled and his mouth watered.
“Let’s find something to eat,” he said, resisting the temptation to nick a twist of salt bread from a street vendor. Hunger always seemed to bring out his old habits, but he knew better than to do slide-hand in unfamiliar territory, with no escape route laid out.
You don’t need to steal to eat, he reminded himself, touching the money pouch tucked inside his leggings as if it were a talisman.
Farther south, the city seemed darker than Fellsmarch. Everything was layered with a veneer of soot that soaked up light.
“Don’t they have lamplighters here?” Han asked, as their tired ponies plodded through a splash of light spilling from a narrow storefront church skirted on three sides with tall steps. A black-robed cleric with a golden rising sun emblazoned on his robes swept leaves and dirt out of the doorway, sending debris raining down on their heads.
Dancer shook his head. “No lamps, nor lamplighters,” he said. He fingered his amulet, conjuring a blossom of light on the tips of his fingers while Han looked on enviously. Han touched his own flashpiece, and power sizzled down his arm, exploding in flames that rocketed halfway across the street, startling passersby.
Embarrassed, Han tucked his offending hand under his other arm.
“Demons!” someone shouted in the Common speech. “Sorcerors! Blasphemers!” Han looked up in surprise to see the black-robed priest charging down the steps, swinging the broom over his head like a weapon, his face contorted with rage.
Ragger skittered sideways, rolling his eyes and showing his teeth to the irate priest. Han dug in his heels, and the pony lunged forward, carrying him out of danger. Dancer ducked his head and wrenched Wicked to one side as the broom whistled past.
The priest screamed after them, “Abominations! Harlots of evil! Begone, you wicked tools of the Breaker!” He shook the broom at them, seeming to think he’d driven them off.
“Shaddap, ya nasty crow of Malthus, or I’ll break you!” a bulky, bearded miner shouted at the priest, to general laughter. The priest retreated back inside, driven by a chorus of catcalls and threats.
“What was that all about?” Han said, when they were a safe distance away. “I’ve been called a lot of names, but never a harlot of evil before.”
“Meet the Church of Malthus,” Dancer said, grinning. “The state church of Arden. They have a foothold in Delphi, but I guess they’re not especially popular up here.”
Speaker Jemson had talked about the Church of Malthus at the Southbridge Temple School. After the disaster of the Breaking, the ancient empire of the Seven Realms had fractured. In the Fells, the old faith had continued, anchored by the temples where speakers taught about the duality of the Maker and the Breaker, and the Spirit Mountains, where dwelt the dead and sainted queens.
In Arden, after the Breaking, there arose an influential speaker who had pruned and shaped the ancient faith in a new direction. Saint Malthus attributed the Breaking to the Maker’s displeasure with the charmcasters that had caused it. Magic, he’d taught, was not a gift but the tool of the Breaker, and wizards were demons in his employ. Seduced by wizards, the queens of the Fells were equally to blame. Queen Hanalea in particular was seen as a kind of beautiful witch—a wanton totally without scruples.
Ever since, Church of Malthus had thrived as the state church in Arden.
“Do you think this is the kind of welcome we’ll get in Arden?” Han mused.
Dancer grinned wryly. “I think the less jinxflinging we do in Arden, the better.”
This was new to Han—the notion that magic was somehow sinful. The clans despised wizards, but it was more an issue of history and abuse of power. The clans, after all, had their own magic.
It was only the Demon King—Alger Waterlow, Han’s ancestor—who was thought to be unequivocally evil.
“This place looks good,” Han said, pointing out a two-story building with a broad front porch crowded with locals and soldiers. The tavern was called The Mug and Mutton, and the wooden sign out front bore a grinning sheep hoisting a mug of ale.
Han had an eye for taverns and inns. They’d been a second home for him since he was small—where food, drink, and easy pickings came together. He could tell which places were worth a visit by the smells spilling from them and the custom on hand.
He and Dancer dismounted. Dancer stayed with the horses while Han fought his way through the crowd onto the porch and into the noisy interior.
The clientele inside mirrored those on the porch, except for several families seated around tables. Some had come straight from the mines, their clothes black with soot, and their eyes shining against their grimy faces. Soldiers leaned against the walls, clad in a motley of uniforms—the sober dun colors of Delphi, the scarlet of Arden, unemployed mercenaries who showed no colors, and a few Highlanders and stripers.
Otherwise there were students, tradespeople, and fancies.
Han parted with a few of his precious girlies, booking a room and spending a couple of extra coppers on a chance at a bath. Delphi was pricy, all right.
Han and Dancer led their horses down a narrow alley to the stable behind the inn, ordered extra grain rations for the ponies, and entered the tavern by the back door.
Dinner came with the room and consisted of pork stew (not mutton), a hunk of brown bread, and a tankard of ale.
Han claimed a table in the corner with his back to the wall but close to the back door. That way he could see all the comings and goings without being obvious about it.
The serving girl hovered, flirting. At first Han put it down to personal charm until he realized with some surprise that, despite their days on the road, he and Dancer were as prosperous-looking as anyone in the room.
Han had been booted from plenty of taverns in Ragmarket and Southbridge on suspicion of slide-hand and cheating at cards. That and his chronic inability to pay. He found he rather liked sitting at a table to eat until his stomach was full, chatting up pretty girls without fear of being chased off.
“What’s the news of the war in the south?” Han asked the plush, apple-cheeked server. He touched her arm. “Who’s winning?”
She leaned close to Han. “There was a big battle outside the capital last month, sir. Prince Geoff’s armies won, so he holds Ardenscourt. He’s declared himself king.”
“What about the other brothers? Have they given up?” Han asked, wondering if the war would soon be over, and what that would mean for his future.
The girlie shrugged. “All I know is what I hear in the taproom. I believe Prince Gerard and Prince Godfrey are also still alive, and as far as I know, they’ve not given up.”
“There aren’t any princesses?” Han asked.
She squinted at him. “Aye, there’s one princess. Lisette. But princesses in Arden are just for show. And marrying off.”
Han glanced at Dancer, who shrugged. How would you even tell if a king’s blooded heirs were really his? Flatlanders were peculiar, for sure.
Han watched as the server walked away, wondering when she’d be off work.
He continued his study of the other patrons. It didn’t take long to figure out who was armed and who wasn’t, what weapons they carried, and who toted a heavy purse. A while longer, and he knew who was skilled at cards, who at nicks and bones, and who was cheating at both.
This was courtesy of Han’s brief stint as a card hustler. That kind of thievery was harder to prove, if you were any good at it. The bluejackets weren’t so likely to toss you in gaol for picking pockets at cards.
But he’d learned it was easy to get cornered in a taproom full of sore losers. Also that angry gamblers aren’t above smashing your head in, whether they know how you’re cheating or not. Especially when you’re only thirteen, and haven’t got your growth.
Dancer was edgy and restless all through the meal, flinching at sudden noises—the clatter of pots and pans on the hearth or two drunks shouting at each other. Despite his knowledge of Delphi and Delphian ways, he didn’t care for cities in general and crowds in particular. As soon as he finished eating, he stood. “I’m going up,” he said.
“I booked a bath,” Han said generously. “You go first.”
Dancer eyed him suspiciously. “Stay out of trouble, will you?” he said.
“Yes, Dancer Cennestre.” Yes, Mother. Han grinned at Dancer’s back when he turned away. Han motioned to the server and ordered cider. He meant to keep his wits sharp and his hand off his amulet.
Han idly surveyed the next table, where a foursome played royals and commons, a Fellsian card game Han knew well. The man facing Han was cheating—a needle point for sure. An overplush man in Ardenine flatlander garb, his round face was cratered from some ancient bout with the pox. Though it was cool in the common room, he mopped at his sweating face with a large handkerchief. Coppers and girlies and notes of promise were stacked in front of him, evidence of his success.
It didn’t take long for Han to figure out his system. The sharp was a busy man for someone so large, always flailing his hands around in a distracting way. He used the distraction to second deal, bottom deal, and palm cards. He won nearly every hand he dealt, and a good number of those he didn’t—losing just often enough to kill suspicion.
Han wasn’t impressed. The sharp was just your standard hand mucker with a rowdy, aggressive style of play. The smart players came and went, soon perceiving that they were at a disadvantage. But one player stayed throughout, stubbornly trying to win back her losses.
She sat with her back to Han, a brimmed hat pulled low over her head, collar turned up, shoulders hunched. Han guessed she was a girlie close to naming age, a Southern Islander from her dark skin and curls. Under her overlarge coat, she wore the brilliant colors Southern Islanders favored, but her clothes were ill-fitting, as though they had been borrowed, begged, or stolen.
Something about her seemed familiar—the way she tilted her head and danced in her chair, jiggling her leg as if she couldn’t quite sit still. Han craned his neck, but couldn’t get a good look at her face under the hat.
Han drank his cider and tried to ignore the drama playing out in front of him, but his eyes kept straying back to the girl and her increasingly desperate wagers. She ran out of money and continued with scrips for payment.
She should know better, Han thought. Anyone who wins that much is cheating.
Finally, the flatlander drained his mug of ale and slammed it down on the table. “Well, I’m cashing in,” he said loudly. “Mace Boudreaux knows enough to quit while Lady Luck’s still smiling.”
Two of the players scowled, collected their depleted stakes, and left.
The island girl did not rise. She sat frozen for a moment, then leaned forward. “Nuh-uh. Let’s keep playing. You got to give me a chance to win it back,” she said. Her voice was soft and musical, carrying the familiar cadence of the Southern Islands.
Han’s skin prickled in recognition.
“Sorry, girlie, I’m done,” Mace Boudreaux said. “Guess luck’s running against you. Time to pay up.” He raked in the money in front of him and secreted it in several hidey places on his person. Then pushed the payment notes across the table to the girlie.
She stared down at the scraps of paper on the table in front of her.
She doesn’t have it, Han thought. She’s done.
“I’ll be right back with the rest of it,” she said, jackknifing to her feet and turning toward the door.
The sharp’s hand snaked out and grabbed the girlie around the wrist, jerking her toward him. “Oh no you don’t,” he growled. “I’m not letting you out of my sight until you pay up.”
The girl tried to yank her hand free. “I don’t carry that kind of money around. I got to get it from my room.”
Boudreaux stuck his face in close to the girl’s. “I’ll just come with you, then,” he said, licking his lips and looking her up and down with a greasy smile. “If you don’t have the money, there may be a way you can earn it out.”
The girlie spat in his face. “In your dreams, you scummer-sucking, limp-nippled, gutter-spawned—”
“Do you want to go to gaol?” Boudreaux growled, brushing away the spit and giving her a bone-rattling shake.
The girl stiffened. Han could tell from the ropy scars on her wrists and ankles that she’d been in gaol. He guessed she didn’t want to go back.
“I’ll call the guard,” Boudreaux threatened, his voice rising. “I got rights.”
Before Han could put two thoughts together, he was standing next to their table. “Hey, now. Just a friendly game, right? No need to get the guard involved, is there?” He slapped the sharp on the back and punched him in the shoulder, grinning like a country boy deep in his cups.
Boudreaux glared at Han, unhappy with the unexpected intrusion. “It’ll be friendly as long as the girlie pays up. I got rights.”
“You can work something out.” Han swung around to face the girl, and nearly fell over from surprise.
It was Cat Tyburn, who’d replaced Han as streetlord of the Raggers. She stared back at him, frozen. Han blinked, looked again, and she was still Cat. She’d changed, and not for the better. No wonder he hadn’t recognized her at first.
She’d always been thin, but now she was skin and bones, like a razorleaf user. Her eyes seemed to take up half her face, and they were cloudy and dull—likely from drink and leaf. She’d always been proud, but now she looked beaten down. There were holes in her ears and nose where her silver had been, and her silver bracelets and bangles were gone also. All of it lay in front of the sharp.
Her face said that the last person she expected to see in the world was Han Alister.
Han grabbed Boudreaux’s arm to steady himself and cover his amazement. As he did so, he slid a spare deck off the table and into his pocket, his mind working furiously.
What was she doing there? Cat had been born in the islands, but as long as he’d known her, she’d never strayed far beyond the few blocks that made up Ragmarket. Why would she leave when she had a good gang, good turf, and a good living?
More important, how could he help her out of the mess she was in? It sure wouldn’t do her any good to land in a Delphian jail.
He could accuse Boudreaux of cheating, but he’d long ago learned to keep his mouth shut in a tavern unless he knew the clientele. For all he knew, he was surrounded by Boudreaux’s best mates.
Cat still stared at Han like he’d crawled out of the grave and given her a cold cadaver kiss.
“C’m over here, girlie,” Han slurred, taking her elbow. “Le’s you and me talk.” Her body went rigid under his hand, but she allowed him to tow her out of earshot of the pock-faced sharp.
When they were at a safe distance, Han suddenly sobered up.
“What are you doing here?” he hissed.
“I could ask you the same question,” she retorted.
“I asked first.”
Cat’s face shuttered tight. “I had to leave Ragmarket.”
“Who’s streetlord, then?” Han asked, stumbling into speech. “What about Velvet?”
“Velvet’s dead,” Cat said. “They all are—or disappeared. No need for a streetlord in Ragmarket now.” She shivered, her ragged nails picking at her coat. “They came right after you left. Killed everyone. I’m alive because I wasn’t there.”
“Who came?” Han asked, because it seemed expected, though he already knew.
“Demons. Like the ones that did the Southies.” She wouldn’t meet his eyes.
Han’s mouth was dry as dust. “Did they…were they looking for me?”
“Like I said, I wasn’t there.” Not an answer. “I didn’t know where you’d gone. I thought they’d hushed you too.”
Bones. He left death behind him even when he went away. No wonder Cat was jittery.
“I’m real sorry about Velvet,” Han said. “And…everything.”
She just looked at him, eyes wide, shaking her head no.
“Come on, girlie!” Boudreaux roared. “You two gonna talk all night or what? I want my money.”
Han waggled his hand at the sharp to quiet him and leaned in close to Cat. “How much do you owe your friend over there?” he whispered.
“Why?” Cat demanded with her usual charm. “What business is it of yours?”
“I don’t got all night,” Han said. “How much?”
She looked around the room, as if seeking escape from the question. “Twenty-seven girlies and some change,” she said.
Hanalea’s blood and bones. Han had money, but not enough to pay off her debt and still get to Oden’s Ford. And he didn’t mean to beggar himself paying off a cheating needle point.
Han tilted his head toward Boudreaux. “He’s cheating, you know.”
“He is not!” Cat hissed, looking over her shoulder. “I’m cheating him.”
Han knew not to smile. “Well.” He rubbed his chin. “He’s doing a better job.”
Cat’s hand crept to the blade at her waist. “The thieving dung-eater. I should’ve known. Well, we’ll see how he looks without his—”
“No.” Han put his hand on her arm to stay her. “I’ll play for you and win it back.”
Cat jerked away from him. “Leave off, Cuffs. I don’t want your help. I got into this myself, and I’ll get out of it my own way.”
“By cutting his throat?” Han shook his head. “In Ragmarket, maybe. You don’t want to get into trouble so far from home.”
She shook her head. “I don’t want to owe you,” she said.
Well, that he could understand. “You won’t owe me. I’m the one owes you a blood debt.”
Again, she shook her head wordlessly, swallowing hard several times.
“Let me do this,” Han said. “Please.”
“Anyway, the needle point’s done,” Cat said. “He won’t play. He said so.”
“He’ll play me,” Han said, pulling out a bulging purse and waving it under her nose.
Cat’s eyes went wide again. She swept back her hair, trying to act offhand, like she saw that kind of plate every day. “What if you lose?”
“Trust me. I won’t. I’m better than him,” Han said, looking into her eyes and willing her to believe him, though he had no idea why she would. “Just play along with me, all right?” he said. Facing away from the gambler, he prepped for the game, moved money around, stacked and stowed his cards while Cat watched, all squint-eyed.
“All set. Come on,” he said, possessing her arm and strutting back to Boudreaux’s table like he was the cock of the yard. “I’ll cover the girlie’s debt,” he said to the sharp. “If you play me.”
“Play you?” Boudreaux said disdainfully. “Nuh-uh. I told you I was done. If you want to pay what the girlie owes, go ahead, boy. If you even got the money.”
“My da’s a trader,” Han said, conjuring an aggrieved expression. “I got plenty of money. See?” He plunked his full purse on the table, in the process knocking over the sharp’s glass of ale, spilling the remains. “Oh, sorry,” he said. “Don’t know m’own strength.” He plucked Boudreaux’s handkerchief out of the sharp’s pocket and mopped clumsily at the spillage.
Boudreaux’s greedy eyes fastened on the purse. It was much more than Cat owed. “Well,” he said, wedging himself back in his chair, “mayhap I can stay a little longer.” He snapped his fingers at the server. “Bring me another ale,” he said with a toothy smile.
Han handed the sopping handkerchief back to Boudreaux and settled into the chair opposite the sharp. It figured. He had no trouble swaying a mark these days, now that he was out of the game. It was easier to believe in a sixteen-year-old with a wad of cash than a twelve-year. It was that lack of respect as a lytling that had forced him out of sharping into slide-hand and rushing on the streets.
Now he was better suited to the con. He could play the role of the son of a trader, out on his own for the first time. A warm and loaded mark for sure.
“You sit here, girlie,” Han said, patting the seat of the chair next to him and leering at Cat. “Bring me luck.”
Cat perched on the edge of the chair, angled away from Han like she might catch the itches. Her hands twisted together in her lap, her face hard and inscrutable.
“You deal first, boy,” Boudreaux said blandly. Typical sharp. Let the mark win first, to encourage him to bet bigger on the next round.
Han shuffled the cards, at one point losing hold of them, spilling them onto the table. Careful, he thought. Don’t overdo it. He scooped them up and reshuffled them with the bleary, intense attention typical of the very drunk.
It was easy enough to win the first round. Boudreaux folded, shaking his head mournfully, before there was much money on the table.
“Ha!” Han crowed, closing his hand over Cat’s. She flinched as if stung, and he let go. “You’ve brought me luck already.” She just looked back at him, unsmiling.
Why, Alister, why do you get yourself tangled up in these things? Han thought.
Now Boudreaux dealt the cards, and won, though Han didn’t allow much money to go out before he called for display. After that, it was back and forth a few times, and at the end of it, Han was ahead by ten girlies. He continued to play the drunken fool, loudly celebrating his good fortune and boo-hooing when he lost.
Han hadn’t even mucked the deck so far. The handkerchief was out of play, and Han ruined Boudreaux’s sleight of hand by insisting on cutting the cards before the deal. Plus he was naturally lucky at cards.
As Mam had always said, Lucky at cards, or lucky at life. One or the other. Not both.
Boudreaux’s enthusiasm waned along with his winnings. Cat just sat there scowling, as though Han were playing with her money.
Time to finish this, Han thought. I’ll teach the sharp a lesson, send Cat away with her money, and go to bed. The deck came back to him, and this time he seized it in a sharp’s grip and mucked it good during the shuffle. Boudreaux made the cut, and Han remade the deck during the deal. He watched Boudreaux’s face as he scanned his cards. The sharp cradled his hand close to his chest like a baby, and Han knew he had him.
They bet and raised and bet and raised, and soon there were stacks of girlies in the center of the table. The sharp asked for one card, and Han handed him the demon card that would seal the deal. Han fanned his cards within the shelter of his hands, peered at them, licked his lips nervously, and matched the sharp’s bets every time.
Cat kept looking from Han to the stacks of money at the center of the table, twitching the way she did when she was nervous. If he lost, he’d be in the hole big time.
But he wouldn’t lose.
By now several patrons had wandered over from the bar to watch the action.
“What about her silver?” Han asked, waving his hand at the pot as the wagers mounted. “Put that in and I’ll match it in girlies.” He grinned over at Cat.
Boudreaux pushed Cat’s studs, bangles, and earrings into the center of the table. “Display,” he said, spreading his cards on the table. “A demon triple, red dominant.” He looked up at Han and grinned a wolfish grin.
It was a fine hand. A very fine hand. That hand would beat just about anything. Except: “Four queens, Hanalea leads the line.” Han displayed his cards on the table and sat back, watching the sharp.
For a long, charged moment, Boudreaux said nothing. He stared down at the table like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Reaching out his thick forefinger, he stirred the cards in front of him as if they might reveal something else.
The flatland sharp opened and closed his mouth like a beached fish, and it took several tries before any sound came out. “That—that ain’t right!” he bellowed, slamming his hand down on the table, putting his replacement ale at risk.
Han briskly raked his winnings into his carry bag and tossed it over his shoulder, leaving enough girlies on the table to pay Cat’s debt. The key in such situations was a quick getaway.
Boudreaux’s piggy eyes narrowed with rage. He slung out an arm and took hold of Han’s shirtfront. “Not so fast,” he hissed.
“Let go!” Han said, trying to pull free.
“You’re a cheat!” Boudreaux shouted, producing a large curved knife from under his coat and pressing it against Han’s throat. “A cheat and a thief and a fraud.”
The onlookers surrounding the table stepped back a pace.
The blade was a nasty surprise. Most sharps and card muckers were cowards at heart, which was why they chose that mode of thievery. But Boudreaux outweighed Han twice over, and Han knew from experience that there was nobody more furious than a cheat cheated.
Han thought of the flash under his shirt, the knives at his waist, wondering if he could reach either or any without getting his throat cut.
“Now,” the sharp said, his florid face inches from Han’s, his beery breath pouring over him, “give over the bag, boy, and I might not cut off your ears.”
Focused on the blade under his chin, Han didn’t quite follow what happened next. Boudreaux yelped and disappeared, hitting the floor hard enough to dent it. His knife spun across the room, nearly beheading a miner snoring softly at the next table.
Han threw himself back, out of danger. Boudreaux flailed about on the floor like he had the spasms. And behind him, deftly avoiding his flying limbs, was Cat, a garrotte twisted around Boudreaux’s throat.
Oh, right, Han thought. Cat was a deft flimper, as well as a demon with a blade.
The sharp’s face turned red, then blue, and his eyes bulged out alarmingly. Cat bent low over Boudreaux, crooning to him, some lesson she wanted him to learn.
Boudreaux’s flailing diminished, became less organized.
“Cat!” Han shook off his astonishment and put his hand on her shoulder. “Leave him go. You don’t want to swing for him.”
Cat looked up at him, blinking as if surfacing from a trance. She let go of Boudreaux and sat back on her heels, stuffing the garrote into her pocket.
A commotion at the front drew Han’s attention. A clot of brown uniforms filled the doorway, colors of the Delphian Guard. Han swore, knowing he’d stayed too long. He stood slowly and pulled Cat to her feet. Keeping hold of her hand, Han began backing toward the rear door, but a bristle-bearded miner the size of a small mountain stepped into their path.
“You’d best stay, boy, and take what’s coming to you for what you done,” he growled, grinning as though he personally were looking forward to the show.
“I didn’t do anything,” Han complained, the refrain of his entire life. It was just his luck to get mixed up in a barroom brawl in a strange country and get tossed in gaol. It would mean a quick end to his career as a wizard sell-sword for the clans. He’d let down Dancer, who’d have to travel on alone. What was the last thing Dancer had said to him before he went up to bed? Stay out of trouble.
Han closed his hand around the hilt of his knife, looking for the clearest path to the door. Then slowly he released his grip. He might get through the door, but he wouldn’t get away clean with Dancer upstairs and his horse in the stable.
Cat pulled her hand free and drew her own blades, keeping them hidden flat against her forearms.
“What’s going on?” one of the brownjackets demanded. He wore an officer’s scarf knotted around his neck, in unfamiliar flatland colors. He pointed at Boudreaux, still on the floor. The sharp rubbed his bruised throat and sucked air in great gasps. “What happened to him?” the officer asked.
Han opened his mouth, but the miner beat him to it. “That cheating thiever Mace Boudreaux got beat at cards for oncet. Turns out he’s a sore loser. He jumped the boy what beat him, and we had to settle him.”
To Han’s astonishment, heads nodded all around.
“Who settled him?” the officer persisted.
“We all did,” the miner said, glaring around the room as if daring someone to contradict him. “We all joined in.”
It seemed that Cat was not the only one who’d lost money to Mace Boudreaux. He wasn’t getting much sympathy from this crowd.
“Where’s the boy what beat him?” the guardsman demanded.
For a moment, nobody spoke, but then Han’s miner gave him a shove forward. “This is the one,” he said. “He done it.”
The brownjacket looked Han up and down as if he couldn’t believe it. “Good at cards, are you, boy?” He raised an eyebrow.
Han shrugged. “I get by.” He felt rather than saw Cat moving up beside him. Just like the old days, when Cat had his back.
The brownjacket grinned and stuck out his hand. “I’d like to buy you a drink, then,” he said, and the rest of the patrons whistled and clapped and stamped their feet.
It just goes to show you, Han thought. You never know who’s in the room when you get into a fight.
It was a struggle to get out of there after that. Boudreaux recovered and slunk away unnoticed. Han had to turn down a dozen offers of drinks or he’d have ended up under the table. Cat retreated to a corner, seeming to disappear into the shadows, but every time he turned to look, her eyes were fixed on him.
Probably wants her money, he thought.
It was near closing time when he finally extricated himself from the crowd of well-wishers and joined Cat at her table. Fishing into his carry bag, he withdrew a handful of girlies and counted them out.
She watched, saying nothing. Han didn’t expect effusive thanks, but still. Cat usually had plenty to say.
He pushed the stacks of coins across the table toward her. “There you are; you’ve made up your losses and more.”
She looked down at the money but made no move to touch it. “What is it about you?” she demanded. “Wherever you go, people make way for you. You walk in a stranger and end up the toast of the taproom.”
“What are you talking about?” Han growled. “I got nothing—no family, no place to live, no way to make a living.”
She reached out and fingered the sleeve of his jacket hesitantly, as if he still might turn to vapor and smoke. “You got fine new clothes and you got a full purse. You sell off a big taking or what?”
Han instantly felt even guiltier. He pressed his lips together and shook his head.
“Why would you risk your stash for me?” she persisted.
“Wasn’t my stash,” Han said. “I took it off Boudreaux before we played.”
Like he was some robber out of the stories that took from the rich and gave to the poor. Ha. He was the poor, usually.
“If you already had his money, why’d you play him, then?” Cat asked.
Han shrugged. “He needed beating and I thought I could do it. Never thought he’d pull a knife.” He didn’t say aloud what else he was thinking. If you beat somebody at the thing they’re best at, they’re more likely to give way.
Cat eyed him like she didn’t much believe him. “You still never said. What are you doing here? Where are you going?”
Han shrugged. “I had to leave Fellsmarch, too. We thought we’d try our luck in Ardenscourt,” he lied. The fewer people who knew where they were going, the better.
She lifted an eyebrow. “We?”
“I’m traveling with a friend,” Han said, leaving Cat to make whatever assumption she chose. “How about you? I didn’t know you played nickum sharp.”
“I’m still learning, as any fool can see,” she said, scowling.
“Well, you can’t earn reliable money sharping unless you get more practice at card mucking. Better find another line of work meantime.”
“I’ve looked,” Cat said glumly. “I been here for a couple weeks. I tried to get on at the mines, but they won’t hire if you’re marked as a thief.” She held up her right hand, branded by the queen’s law. Least they hadn’t chopped it off.
“How’d you end up here, anyway?” Han asked.
“I was on my way to a place called Oden’s Ford.”
Han was taking a gulp of cider, and nearly inhaled it. Coughing, he set the mug down. “Oden’s Ford! Why are you going there?”
“It was Speaker Jemson’s idea,” Cat said, poking at the stacks of coins. “They got schools there, he says. He wanted me to go to the Temple School.”
“Why not go to Southbridge Temple School?” Han said, trying to sort out what this might mean to him. “Why would Jemson send you all the way to Oden’s Ford?”
“If I was still in Southbridge, I’d be dead. Just like Velvet.” Cat yanked off her hat and slapped it down on the table. “They was hunting me, the demons that killed the others. It was just a matter of time before they caught me. So Jemson, he says, go to Oden’s Ford. He’s always dogging me to go and study music, and he’s tight with the master of the Temple School there. He told her all these stories about how I can play the basilka like some kind of angel choir, and got me enrolled. He paid my fees—said the Princess Raisa gives money to Southbridge Temple students. He give me an old horse and some money, and put me on the road.” Cat scrubbed her hand through her curls.
Cat was a rum player on the basilka. Back in Ragmarket, she used to play to pass the time until darkman’s hour, when the Raggers went to work. Some days Han would just lie there, halfway between waking and sleeping, letting the music carry him someplace else.
“Jemson says if I study music and art and reading and writing and pretty talk, I might get on as a lady’s maid or teacher or something.” Cat snorted. “Like they’d hire a marked thief.”
Han tried to get his mind around the notion of Cat as a lady’s maid.
Cat looked up and read his expression. “Forget it. I got this far, then I decided I an’t going. Jemson, he thinks he got me backed into a corner, but I an’t taking vows.”
“You don’t have to take vows to go to the Temple School,” Han said. “Some do, but you—”
“I don’t care. I don’t belong there, in a covey of bluebloods. They be sweet as flatland cider to your face while they’re gibing behind your back.”
She’s afraid, Han thought. She’s afraid she’ll be made fun of. Afraid she won’t be good enough. Maybe with good reason. What did he know about Oden’s Ford? Nothing.
Cat pushed the money toward Han and stood. “I’m glad for what you did, but I can’t take this.”
Han made no move to pick it up. “It’s your money. Not mine. I just took it back from a thief. If you don’t take it, you’ll be leaving it for the help.”
She shook her head stubbornly, biting her lip.
“Look,” Han said. “Here’s how I see it. I got a lot to answer for. I owe you. Just let me do this thing, will you?”
It was true. He desperately wanted to ease the load of guilt he carried around.
“If you want to do something for me, here’s what I want,” Cat said abruptly. “Let me come with you.”
“What?” Han gaped at her. It had been a whole evening of surprises. “You don’t even know what we’re doing!”
“It don’t matter,” Cat said. “I an’t cut out for temple life, no matter what Jemson says. I’ll swear to you. Like before.”
Like when Han was streetlord of the Raggers, and Cat was his right hand. And more.
Han eyed Cat warily. With Velvet gone, was Cat looking to rekindle what had once been between them? That seemed like a bad idea. When they were together, they’d fought like two cats stuffed into a bag. He had enough drama in his life as it was.
As if she’d read his thoughts, she said, “If you’re walking out with a girlie, I won’t be inching in,” she said. “This is strictly shares. Strictly business.”
Thoughts pinged around Han’s head like coppers in a jar. Cat thought joining up with her old streetlord was a way to avoid going to school. But he was heading for school himself. He had no need of a crew and no way to support one. He’d be spending money, not earning money, so there’d be no shares.
He looked at Cat. She glared at him, tapping her foot because he was taking too long to answer. He couldn’t help recalling that when he’d wanted to go to Demonai Camp with Bird and she’d refused him, she’d had some good reasons, too.
If he refused her, she’d go back to the life for sure. If she went back to the gangs, she’d be dead before she turned twenty, demons or not. Streetlords never got old.
Maybe Jemson was right—maybe school was what she needed. Han wouldn’t get any thanks for trying to save her. But there might be a way.
“You can come,” Han said finally. “But we’re going to Oden’s Ford ourselves. You come with me, you got to go to school.”
“What?” She sat frozen, hands pressed against the table so hard her knuckles were white. “That’s a ripe clanker if I ever heard one.”
“It’s true,” Han said. “Why else do you think we—”
“Liar!” Cat shook her head, eyes glittering. “You’re a glavering, gutter-swiving, muck-sucking liar, Cuffs Alister, that’s what you are. You an’t going to Oden’s Ford, no bloody way.” Cat scraped back her chair and stood, fists clenched, vibrating with rage.
“I swear it,” Han said, sliding to his feet and keeping the table between them in case she drew a blade on him. “I’m sorry. I should have told you, but I thought you—”
“Shut it, Cuffs. If you didn’t want me to come with, you should’ve just said so.” She scooped up her money and stuffed it into her carry bag. “You think because you’re pretty that every girlie wants to walk out with you. Well, you an’t so pretty that I can’t find somebody else.”
She stalked out of the tavern, letting the door slam behind her.
Well, Han thought. Least she’s more like her old self, anyway.