Sworn in Steel (17 page)

“And more.”

“I told you: the Prince of Plays,” repeated Ezak, still shaving the staff. “Son of the Despot. Pellias talked about him, remember?”

“I remember,” said Tobin. “I just thought he was in . . . well, no matter.” He looked me up and down. “And you think we can win this patronage, do you?”

“I’m willing to travel to Djan to find out.”

“That’s a large leap of faith,” observed Ezak, “considering you’ve never seen us perform.”

“I wouldn’t call it so much faith as desperation at this point,” I said. “But considering you were willing to have faith in me when it came to your plays, it only seems
fair to return the favor.”

Tobin and several members began to preen a bit at that; then the old matron, Muiress, cleared her throat in the center of the troupe and cut my legs out from beneath me.

“Plays we’ve yet to see,” she grumbled, not looking up from her embroidery. “Thief.”

The smiles that had been blooming in the hayloft faded. The old goat smirked.

“Good Muiress has a point,” said Tobin. “You ask for a fresh bargain without first having fulfilled the old one. A bargain of a much more serious nature. What say you to
that?”

“I say this bargain is as important to me as your plays are to you.”

“And yet we are still owed those very plays,” said Tobin.

“You are.”

“Just out of curiosity,” said Ezak, now looking up from his staff. “How do you plan to get the plays back?”

I folded my arms. “I don’t.”

“What?” This from Tobin. “But you—”

“I already have them.”

The building protest whooshed out of Tobin like a gale, followed by a rolling laugh. Smiles bloomed all around the room.

“My people lifted them from Petyr two nights ago,” I said. Not to mention some of the choicer items they’d found lying alongside the scripts in his warehouse. The trip to Djan
wasn’t going to come cheap, after all, and I needed to be ready to cover expenses.

As for Petyr, any complaints he might have had vanished with him into the harbor. I’d heard Fowler had tied the stones to his legs herself, had whispered Scratch’s name in his ear
just before he was pushed off the caïque.

None of this I shared with the troupe, though. Instead, I merely said, “We managed to get your props, too. And your wagon.”

Tobin tilted his head back, chuckling with delight. “Oh, well done, sir.” He put his hand on my shoulder, slapped it once, twice. Fortunately, it wasn’t the shoulder that had
Degan’s sword riding behind it. “Well done. You had us. For a moment there, I thought—”

“What?”

“Well, that you were reneging on your deal.”

“Reneging?” I said. “Never.”

“Good, because I—”

“But changing it?” I leaned in. “Well, that’s another matter.”

The good cheer that had been filling Tobin’s face drained away like water from a leaky tub. “Change it?” he said, echoing me.
“Change it?”
The actors, who
had begun to laugh and chatter, left off. Voices faded as faces turned to us once more. “We had a bargain—a bargain we honored by getting you into the city. It seems only fitting that
you honor your half as well.”

“It does,” I agreed, nodding. “And I will. But here’s the thing—when my people went to lighten Petyr, they found out that he’d already started selling some of
your plays. My guess is that he was figuring you weren’t going to be able to pay, and that even if you did, he’d be able to up the interest enough to claim that you only had enough for
whatever he hadn’t sold yet. A shitty thing to do, I admit—but that was Petyr.

“That aside, though, maybe you can start to see my problem: I’d promised to get you all of your plays, but they weren’t all where they were supposed to be. And as you said,
you’d fulfilled your half of the deal; I wanted to do the same. But to do that, I had to track down the other plays and get them back.” I shook my head. “What was I to do? I
didn’t want to come back with only two-thirds of a folio and be accused of breaking my word. So I sent my people after them—even went and recovered one myself. The only thing is, that
required more effort, more time, and more money on my part. And some of those people who bought your plays? Well, they didn’t want to give up their recent acquisitions. Some of them had to be
persuaded.”

“Persuaded?” said Tobin.

“Persuaded.” I let the word hang there in the air, gaining weight. I cleared my throat. “But the good news is we were successful in the end. Except.”

“Except what?”

“Except I had to go into debt for your plays. To my people. To other bosses.” I leaned in, whispered, “And I don’t like owing people things.”

Tobin wiped a hand down the side of his pants. “But surely you can’t blame us—”

I stepped forward, crowding him. Forcing him back.

“I can do whatever the hell I want,” I said, “because I have your swag. The only reason I haven’t done anything yet is that I gave you my word. And I’m going to
keep it. Whatever paper I pulled from Petyr’s warehouse is yours. But.” And here I looked past him, to Ezak and the actors and Muiress, still busy with her sewing. “If you want
the rest—the props and the wagon and the other plays—then we need to talk about Djan.”

Tobin blinked once, twice, and then took a deep breath and gathered himself. I could almost see the role dropping on him as he threw his head back and stood up straight.

Oh, hell, Tobin—don’t make me knock you down for being an ass.

He was just getting ready to speak, and I was just adjusting my weight, when Ezak spoke up.

“Add in your patronage,” he said, “and you have a deal.”

Both Tobin and I stared at him. Even Muiress turned to look. “What?” I said.

“You heard me: patronage.”

“To a thief?” said Tobin. “You’ll have to excuse me, coz, but that seems a bit desperate, even for us.”

“Haven’t you been listening to him?” said Ezak as he pushed away from the wall. I couldn’t help notice he was still holding the staff; couldn’t help remembering
Tobin telling me his cousin was the troupe’s weapons master. “‘My people, my thieves.’ ‘Other bosses.’ We’re not dealing with just any thief here, coz, but
a Kin of means. One with people to command.” He smiled knowingly. “A—if I’m not mistaken—prince among his kind. Isn’t that so, Master Drothe?”

“A Gray Prince?” said Tobin, turning back to stare at me.

I didn’t bother asking how Ezak had figured it out. My slips in words aside, it wasn’t as if I’d been going to great pains to hide things. And besides, Petyr had been crowing
enough about going after me that I expect it was an easy rumor to pick up just about anywhere in Dirty Waters.

I shrugged and nodded. “A Gray Prince,” I said.

“You always said you wanted royal patronage, coz,” said Ezak. “This is the best I can do.”

Tobin scowled. “True, but I meant the kind with a crown and a palace and a private cook.”

“Our prospects are thin,” said Ezak. “Without our papers, I haven’t been able to present the proper documents to the Minister of Plays. None of the inns will sign us
without one. Plus, it’s getting into late summer, which means most of the taverns are already set for players through fall.”

“Those prospects sound more than thin, coz.”

“No thinner than going back on the road, and at least this way, we’d have patronage, not to mention prospects at the end of the road.” Ezak grinned at his cousin’s back.
“And besides, wouldn’t you love to prove Pellias wrong about Djan?”

“Mmm,” said Tobin. “I always have disliked that pompous sack of . . . wind.” He glanced back over his shoulder at the rest of the troupe. Shrugs, nods, shakes of heads,
fairly evenly distributed. And Muiress, staring fixedly at her needle and thread. Finally, when she was sure everyone was looking at her, she sniffed and gave a small nod.

“Well, there it is, then,” said Tobin, turning back to me. “In exchange for your patronage and the return of our property—
all
of our property—we agree to
travel to Djan and perform before the Prince of Plays in your name. Given the nature of the agreement, I don’t think either of us can hope for much better. What say you, sir?”

What could I say? I reached out and took Tobin’s hand in my own, shifting the grip into the Clasp. “Looks like I’ve bought myself an acting company,” I said.

They all cheered.

Oh, Wolf was just going to love them.

Actors. Angels help me.

I
sat beneath the shade fly and adjusted the kaffiyeh on my head, as if the patterned cloth could somehow reduce the late-day glare coming from
beyond the shelter. With nearly a month of wasteland and desert behind me, you’d think I’d be used to it by now, but the light never seemed to dim, never seemed to change, save at
sunrise and sunset. It was either day or night out here, without cloud or haze or roof or laundry line to interrupt the relentless openness. A vast bowl of sand and stone beneath an equally vast
bowl of sky and heat. Or cold, if the sun was down. Except for the occasional dry riverbed or stone-capped well or crawling beetle, there’d been little to see and less to do, save drink, eat,
sleep, and survive.

That is, until now.

Now, we were camped halfway down the rolling slope of a huge valley, its far side little more than a purple-brown smudge in the distance. Below us, the caravan road twisted back and forth on
itself, following a drunkard’s path downhill until it finally stumbled into the valley floor. From there, the road split.

One path ran east, toward fields of golden barley and dark green vineyards, dipping and rolling among the plenty until the details melted into one another. The gray-white line of an aqueduct was
visible in the distance, as was a flickering line of silver. Small interruptions in the silver told me I was looking at boats and barges moving along the river Qadd, and not one of the many canals
that were said to stem from it.

The river valley was a place of plenty, bursting with near-forgotten colors after what felt like an age spent among graceless browns and dirty grays. Even the blue of the sky seemed richer here,
although I knew that was more me than any effect of the land on the heavens. A place that promised rich scents, damp earth, and cool water after a long journey.

It was also a place I knew I wasn’t going to be going.

I turned my attention to the other spur of the road below and followed it until it reached our true destination: the walls of el-Qaddice.

El-Qaddice was really two cities: one set above the other, separated by both geography and time. The upper city—the Old City—sat atop a narrow plateau that looked as if it had been
dropped into the valley from the sky. Sheer white city walls rose from rust-colored cliffs, the faces of which had been shaped by generations of stone carvers to form the elaborate geometric
patterns that signified the various Djanese gods. Behind the walls, towers and domes glittered in the late daylight, their surfaces set off by metal and glass and, in some cases, I was told, gems.
I suspected it was a hell of a sight when the sun hit it in the morning.

Down at the base of the plateau, things weren’t nearly as resplendent. Even from here, I could see that the Lower City was a sprawling collection of whitewashed, mud brick buildings set
behind a stout stone wall. A haze of smoke and dust hung over the place, and the only colors I could see came from laundry drying on the roofs. There was plenty of traffic in and out of the gates,
though, and the sheep and goats wandering the pastures outside looked fat enough, so I didn’t expect to be waking into abject misery. I suppose in any other setting, the Lower City would have
looked normal, possibly even prosperous, but with a prince’s ransom in gems perched on the shingles of the town above it? Well, maybe I was asking too much.

Regardless of how it was spilt up, el-Qaddice served as not only one of the summer capitals of the Despotate, but also a key pilgrimage and religious site. Even from the hill where our caravan
had set its final camp, I could see saffron-clad dots—pilgrims—making their way up the twisting road that led from the Lower City to the Old; imagined I could almost hear the tinkling
of the seven tin bells on their staffs. The thought made me shudder.

Four weeks on the road, and it had seemed as if every oasis, every caravansary, every damn well we’d stopped at had been festooned by at least one group of bell-jangling pilgrims. And each
group had been happy—no, eager—to explain, at length, how the bells represented their trespasses, and how each bell would be replaced with a brass one for every pilgrimage they
completed. And, of course, they’d rung their bells. A lot.

It wasn’t until two weeks into the trip I’d discovered that late summer was pilgrimage season in Djan, and that we were at its peak. I had refrained from making any fresh martyrs on
the road, but it had been a near thing.

“What are you brooding about?” said Fowler as she came over and settled down on the rug beside me.

“Ritual sacrifice.”

She laughed. Fowler had taken to the local dress on the road, with a long tunic, short vest, head scarf, and hooded burnoose—all in greens, save for the pale wheat of the vest—while
I’d stayed in a shirt and breeches. I’d finally traded out my doublet and jerkin for a sand-shaded coat and a striped kaffiyeh, more out of deference to necessity than style. Fowler
wore her drapes well, though, with the sash drawing the tunic in just enough to hint at the form beneath. The hang of the rest of the clothes only added to the effect.

She gestured across the expanse of low, rocky hills that separated us from the city. “Considering your assault?”

“Something like that.” I pointed at the Lower City. “We’re going in there,” I said, indicating a wide, arched gate, “and we need to get up there.” My
finger rose to indicate the Old City. “That’s where the Imperial Quarter is.” Most of the Lower City was open to foreigners, with only a few districts requiring an escort to
enter; the Old City, though, required patronage to get through the gate.

“And you think that’s where Degan will be?”

I shrugged, then reached back to adjust his sword against my back. After a month, I’d gotten used to the feel of it against my ribs and spine. It was comforting—when it didn’t
chafe, that is.