Endurance (8 page)

“A tool can serve two purposes. You will not go hungry, and a few less windows may be broken. We shall all rejoice on both counts.” His face pinched into what might have been a smile. “The more, ah, impulsive … among my staff also hold you in high regard. They seem to credit you with much to their benefit.”

“Thank you,” I said simply, and glanced about at the clerks and their assistants crowding the halls, oh-so-carefully not watching me in return.

Gossip eddied in currents behind me as I left them all behind. A small smile lingered on my face.

*   *   *

My experiences in the teahouse left me very much wanting a decent, protected place to sleep. The weather was already too close and miserable to curl up on a rooftop or find a reasonable straw heap. I could not risk the sort of cough I'd catch in the chilled damp of winter's encroachment. The Tavernkeep's establishment was impossible, of course, with this new embassy in the city and looking for me there. I did not feel ready to approach Endurance in his temple. Which left me with remarkably few options, short of simply renting a room like any traveler who ever came to any city on the plate of the world.

Even with some funds now beyond the few silver and copper taels I'd carried with me from Ilona's house, that did not appeal. Too much like an animal going to ground in an unfamiliar burrow.

So I did what I'd so often done in my later days in Kalimpura. I headed for the docks and found a winesink where I could occupy a bench in a dark corner. Along the way, I bargained a patched blue and green robe from a ragpicker for half a copper tael—I refused him a kiss—to wear over the silly leathers. For the moment, I stayed with the black for my evening's excursion. There are some places where appearance matters.

At random I chose a tavern called the Bilge Pump. Low ceilings, scattered tables battered by years of rough use and daily fights. A fireplace sat cold, though coals were heaped on the grate for later in the evening. The place smelled of bar fug—spilled beer, the old salt of sweat and bad food, and something rotting amid the cracks in the floorboards.

In other words, a typical sailors' bar, filled with the chatter of a dozen languages, and men of all sizes who shared a common look in their eyes and set to their stance. Working a deck with wide horizons will do that to a person.

No women but the serving girls. Ordinary enough for a waterfront bar. In my leathers with my ragged hair, so long as I kept my face tucked down, I could still pass for a boy. The scars helped that.

Not much longer would I remain a lad, not as the baby grew, but for tonight the disguise would hold.

I kicked a drunk off a bench and placed my back to the wall, my little bundle beside me. Ordering a plate of pickled eggs and a tankard of their darkest ale, I set myself to the old game from Kalimpura. I simply listened.

In those days, as in my years since, I was hot for news of the child trade. While that evil had never been struck from my list of worries about the world, now I listened simply for the sake of hearing someone else's troubles. So many voices, so many faces, so many races. No wonder I'd always liked the waterfront.

The Petraean was easiest for me to pick out.

“… docked me three weeks' wages, all for a lousy joke…”

“… in truth? Bloody odd doings on the posh deck, if you ask…”

In Smagadine, which I could barely follow: “… cheese sellers. I cut them…”

In Hanchu: “… you count, you count more, still they cheat you…”

Back to Petraean: “… raising the port fees again. Then demurrage atop that. The poor bastard was…”

In Seliu: “… not in the city, they say. But there was that fuss today…”

My eyes popped open, though I kept my head still so as not to betray my interest. I
knew
that voice. I certainly knew that language.

I took my time, trying to pick out the stream of Seliu again, but they had fallen silent. Or possibly changed languages. The voice didn't pluck at my ear in Petraean, though. Behind my tankard, I discreetly scanned the room.

Two men were leaving. Dark-haired, perhaps dark-skinned as I was, though that was hard to tell as they were backlit by the late daylight in the doorway. One turned and my heart went cold.

Little Baji. Sailor off
Chittachai
, and onetime crewmate of Chowdry.

That coastal trader couldn't have crossed the Storm Sea on a bet, not even with the hands of a god behind it. He had to have come with the Prince of the City's embassy.

Did that mean that Captain Utavi was here, too? Now
there
was a right bastard.

I considered quickly whether Chowdry's entire trip with me from our hasty departure from the trader off the Bhopuri coast had been a setup. Was the man a spy, trailing me from the beginning by the simple expedient of placing himself under my wing?

That was difficult to credit. Chowdry, even the new Chowdry the high priest of Endurance, was never a deep man. Such a game would be beyond his reckoning or his desires, either one.

But Little Baji could perhaps turn his old crewmate through old loyalty, or the threats of familiarity. Chowdry
had
said that there was an inrush of Selistani over the past few months. That seemed swift to me, for word of Endurance's theogeny could barely have crossed the Storm Sea and back in the time since.

Little Baji was no immigrant, though, or ship jumper. Not if I understood his words correctly.

I considered leaving, finding another place to spend the evening and possibly the night. But here I could watch the door, and was surrounded by dozens of men with no interest at all in either me or the people who seemed to be hunting me.

Soon enough the baby let it be known that she did not like pickled eggs, not the slightest bit. I held my gut behind my teeth and cleared my throat with more of the ale. The stuff grew less foul as I drank deeper and deeper of my allotment. For this I was glad. The drink seemed to carry some of my worries away with it, as well.

*   *   *

Some lessons in this life are difficult to learn, even upon repeated application. Then as now, I have discovered a certain, all too common foolishness at the bottom of a tankard. Morning found me with my cheek stuck to the table. The Bilge Pump was nearly empty. A tired slattern waved a mop at the floor. Several men snored about the room, while a handful of very dedicated drinkers continued to keep the bar from tipping over. A window I hadn't realized existed was thrown open, dawn's light lancing in from the left edge to lacerate my eyeballs.

I pried myself from the wood and found somewhat to my surprise that I hadn't been robbed. A long night of steady drinking with a bare blade clutched in hand seemed to have done the trick.

Precisely what trick I could not say.

The baby was not happy either. I stood to find a place to wash, and to my surprise spewed the remains of last night's eggs and ale. The poor woman with the mop gave me a long, despairing stare. Guilty, I fished a silver tael out of my new purse and gave it to her. The coin left a surprising number of its fellows behind for my future use. That amount would be a week's wages in this place, and could have rented me a rather decent room last night with a warm bath. This morning the coin purchased merely my conscience for the vileness I'd left on her floor.

Stumbling outside, I realized I'd hardly been the only one sick in the place. Ah, well.

I resisted the expediency of jumping into the harbor to clean up. For one thing, it would probably have made my mess worse. Also, the morning was quite chilly in that strange way when the sun shows his cloudless face distant and cold, reserving all his fires for himself. Cold seawater seemed a terrible idea. Instead I slipped into an alley and took to the rooftops. Even stumbling tired on the backside of a drunken evening, I could manage that. People didn't ask so many questions around a rooftop cistern as they did at a watering trough or a public pump. I was not willing to face Kohlmann grubby and ale-soaked, and all the less so anyone from Kalimpura.

When I did find water, I was careful to splash it out, so as not to foul someone's morning tea. As I was alone on the roof anyway, I stripped to my skin and made a decently thorough washing of the business as I resolutely ignored the cold. While naked, I examined my belly. It had developed a definite bump that suggested I either needed more exercise or less sex.

The leathers seemed too tight and sweaty to me, so I slipped into the patched robe without them underneath. I might have wished for something more formal—stately even—but this would do for the moment. I made a bundle of the rest of it, which in turn reminded me I had not sewn a bell last night. No time now, but I promised myself two bells this coming evening. Checking my knives, I began a rooftop run back toward the Textile Bourse.

The councilor would be expecting me soon. Arriving in the flush of a strong workout would mask the last of the ale scent on me. The burn in my muscles could only improve my outlook.

So I ran harder.

*   *   *

The problem with running the roofs is that it is a lot of work. I'd been living in the woods for the last five months, and much of the time before that aboard ship. Every alley must be leapt. Every street must be climbed down into and scrambled back up from on the other side. All in a foolish robe that kept tangling in my legs until I bound it up in a clout.

Certainly the bakers' boys and vegetable sellers of the early morning saw me. I was not attempting stealth, or speed. Just seeking the reward of strong effort, and making myself difficult to follow.

In those objectives I was confident that I succeeded. I finally stopped on the flat roof of the silk weavery two blocks down Lyme Street from the Textile Bourse. Their biggest loom stood almost as high as the eaves within the inner court, though the mechanism was heavily shrouded against the morning damp. Already someone was at work within on a smaller loom, the clack of the shuttle audible below me.

My breath heaved awhile, and in time, so did my stomach. I had little left to spew, and deeply resented the necessity. So the baby did not like pickled eggs. Fine. Perhaps she did not like ale, either. Or vigorous exercise.

Wiping my mouth, I placed my free hand on my belly once again. “You and I will need to reach some agreement, little friend,” I said quietly. “We cannot live together if you will be so demanding.”

I was certain to be ignored, but I had to try.

Finally recovered, I spied up the street to see whether Kohlmann was assembling an ambush for me. Two guardsmen stood as expected before the Textile Bourse. A honey wagon moved down the street collecting slop buckets from those buildings not connected to the ancient sewer system. Mange-ridden and dirty white, a three-legged dog nosed through garbage in the gutter.

Quiet yet busy, as only a city at morning could be.

The baby moved. Demanding … what? “Easy,” I whispered.

Was this how mothers spoke to their children? I had no idea then. With no memory of my own mother, and having been raised by a number of indifferent and cruel mistresses, how could I know? The thought frightened me. Perhaps I would become Mistress Tirelle, a sword-edged check on my daughter's ambitions.

And when had I decided she would be a girl, anyway?

The thought comforted me. I was not ready to raise a man. I might not know mothering, but I believed I understood something of being a woman. Otherwise I'd want Septio back, which was pointless. Not even his ghost remained. And besides, I'd hardly loved him in any way that mattered.

I settled in on my rough, empty stomach and watched for Kohlmann. After a while the buttery-yeast scent of baking prompted rumbling in my gut. Despite the recent spewing, my desire for those cardamom rolls grew almost to a fantasy. I ignored my hungers until the councilor emerged from within the Textile Bourse and scanned the street.

No one suspicious or alarming had passed by in the meantime, so I climbed down behind the silk weavery. As it happened I would walk right past the teahouse on my way to meet Kohlmann, so I tapped on the shuttered window. The cinnamon-skinned woman cracked it open to peek out at me. She shook her head, but smiled anyway. A moment later she came out a side door with a napkin folded around several of the rolls.

“You take.” A shy slyness glinted in her eyes.

I dug for my purse, now rolled into my leathers.

She shook her head. “Ah, no, you take for gift.”

“Thank you for the kindness,” I told her. With a sharp nod, I trotted off through the crisp morning to meet Kohlmann.

*   *   *

“Hello, Green.” The councilor stood at the bottom of the steps. Glowering guards loomed over our heads at the top of the flight. Kohlmann was dressed this morning in severe suit of dark wool, which made a rather unfortunate contrast to my patched and now-sweaty robe.

“Good morning,” I replied, then found myself overcome by the scent of food in my hands. Greedy, I opened the napkin to reveal three cardamom rolls still steaming from the oven. “Would you like one?”

“No, thank you. I have already broken my fast.”

I could not determine from the dryness of his tone how serious he was, so I took Kohlmann at his word. The rolls went down very quickly, warm and solid within me, offending my gut not at all. I wiped my hands on the napkin before tucking it into the end of my bundle of leathers, intending to return it later.

“You are not approaching this embassy from Kalimpura with the august trappings of your position,” he said.

The leathers were sweaty and tight and reeked of waterfront bar. I wasn't about to tell Kohlmann this, but I definitely didn't want to put them back on, either. Not before a good cleaning, and possibly some work letting out the seams a bit further. “I intend to appear as a supplicant,” I told him, lying cheerfully. “The Prince of the City will appreciate such a humble approach.”

“Hmm.” His expression left little doubt as to his opinion of my story. “Are you otherwise ready?”