The Silver Lake (4 page)

But it was still risky, he cautioned himself. Spar would only be eleven years old, and Cindar would never willingly let Brax take him away. He’d come after them, and Brax wasn’t sure he could protect them both if Cindar really lost his temper.

Forcing himself to loosen fists suddenly clenched, Brax shook off the burst of anger. It didn’t matter what they could do in two years’ time; it only mattered what they could and couldn’t do right now. And right now they couldn’t leave because Spar, no matter how old he acted sometimes, wasn’t ready.

Are you?
his mind prodded.

He didn’t know, he allowed, but he was ready for something. Lately he’d begun to feel restless and impatient, itchy even, and it wasn’t head lice, he’d checked. Last week Cindar had said it was
urges
and suggested with a leer that he go give his virginity up to one of Ystazia’s bawds—the Arts God’s people were the most learned of all those involved in the sex trade—far better than Oristo’s who had a habit of preaching afterward-but they also expected the greatest offering and, since Cindar hadn’t
offered
to put up any shine to pay for it, Brax had approached another street thief, a fifteen-year-old girl named Tamas, and she’d taken it for free.

It hadn’t helped. Well, not for long, he amended. He’d gone looking for her a few days later but found out she’d been snatched by the local garrison and had been given a choice: prison or the temple of Oristo. She’d chosen the temple, which had upset him more than he thought it should have. He’d have chosen prison.

Which was only the truth. Standing, he made a show of searching the crowds for his companions again, but really to see if any trade he was in the mood to exploit presented itself. He found what he was looking for fairly quickly: a well-dressed, well-fed apothecary’s family pointedly haranguing a junior priest to hurry up and deal with the “riffraff” in front of them so that they might have their turn. With a hard smile, Brax jumped down from the dais and vanished into the crowds again, heading their way.

He returned to Spar and Cindar just as they reached the head of the line. The physician-priest making a brief examination of the younger boy listened with half her attention as Cindar outlined his ailments: rickets and scurvy this year—last year it had been consumption and strangulary. Harried skepticism was evident on her face but she spoke briefly to the young delinkos at her side who handed their abayos a small, cloth-wrapped package with the instructions to make an infusion of the contents twice daily.

Then Cindar caught him by the back of the jacket and it was his turn to be examined. Simple-minded, prone to fits, Cindar declared. Brax tried to look vacant-eyed and twitchy and their abayos was rewarded with a hard look but also another very small cloth bundle and the suggestion that they visit the Hearth God’s temple if he was unable to keep his delon healthy. Cindar thanked the woman with a show of earnest helplessness, but as they made their way toward the gate, he spat at the wall.

“Bloody spies,” he snarled. Then his mood lightened. Setting Spar back on his feet, he lifted the two packages to his nose. “Not a bad haul, though,” he observed, taking a deep sniff of each. “Dried lime slices and old ginger powder, milk thistle and chamomile, I’d wager.” He glanced at Brax. “How’d you do?” he asked under his breath.

“One pretty tight, two about half, and one nothing but crap,” Brax answered carelessly. Cindar tried to look equally unimpressed, but Brax could see the corner of his lip twitch upward. Four without alerting anyone to his presence was a very good morning’s work.

As long as you get out safely,
Brax reminded himself cautiously. Plenty of lifters were snatched
outside
Usara-Cami on the last day of Low Spring. But they made it past the gate guards without incident and the three of them relaxed. As they headed back toward the market street and a proper breakfast, Cindar began to whistle.

They stopped at a small, moldy-smelling fishmonger’s stall built against Oristo-Cami’s outer wall to barter the lime slices and ginger for a large helping of fresh tchiros—the first of the season as hundreds of the small, silvery fish had come through Gol-Beyaz the day before on their way to the northern Deniz-Siyah Sea. After a pointless argument with the fishmonger, Cindar gave the bulk of the food to Spar after Brax had glared at him. Then, once his oldest delinkos had quietly slipped him the purses, he handed them each a few copper aspers. “Go eat,” he ordered, “then get back to work and meet me at Uzum-Dukkan after the noon song. Don’t go near that bastard ironmonger’s shop; he thinks I owe him money for a lock pick, and keep away from the bookbinders or I’ll skin you both. I’ll not have them filling your heads with romantic garbage.” Before the boys could even acknowledge his words, he was heading for his favorite and most disreputable raki shop in Dockside. Shaking his head, Brax turned back to the fishmonger who handed them an extra piece of tchiros with a neutral expression.

They passed it between them as they made their way through the crowded market streets. Brax haggled with a fruitier while Spar managed to hook two dried apricots off her counter, then they both ducked under an awning when the younger boy sensed a troop of Estavia’s guards approaching. With Spar tucked protectively behind him, Brax watched as the six armored soldiers passed them by, tall spears gleaming as brightly as the red painted eyes of Estavia on their leather breastplates, then led the way down a narrow close. Slipping into the deep, boarded-up doorway of an empty warehouse, he crouched and emptied the fifth purse he hadn’t mentioned to Cindar onto the wooden threshold between them while Spar kept watch.

“Five—no, piss on it—four aspers,” he said, peering at the smooth bit of metal in his hand. “One pretty good slug, and a half decent purse to barter with later; not bad.” Returning two of the coins to the purse, he handed it to Spar before his share and the slug went into a small cloth bag held around his neck by a frayed length of twine. “Not enough for a jacket,” he admitted, “but enough for tea with bread and honey before we meet up with Cindar later, yeah?” Pressing his back against the door, he tested its strength absently, before glancing up at the younger boy. “So, how’re you feeling now?” he asked.

Spar stuffed his apricot into his mouth before giving a careless half-nod, half-shrug in reply.

“Great.” Brax stood. “So, where do you wanna go, the bookbinders just ‘cause Cindar told us not to?’ he asked with a laugh, then sobered at Spar’s hopeful expression. Spar had a thing for beautiful books and Cindar was always afraid that some binder would fall for his wide blue eyes and wistful expression. If truth be told, Brax was a little afraid of that too, but unlike Cindar, he wouldn’t deny it to him if it happened. He didn’t think he would anyway. ”We’ll go this afternoon,“ he promised. ”But we have to make some shine this morning and we can’t do that with you gawking at books all day.“ At Spar’s reluctant nod, he leaned against the building. ”So where’ll it be? You wanna head over to the docks, maybe? The wharves’ll be full of ships tied up for Havo’s Dance, and their sailors’ll be out and about with the shine burning holes in their pockets. We could ... you know, catch it as it falls out?“ he said with an air of such exaggerated innocence that the younger boy gave a snorting laugh. His answering grin of pure avarice brought an equally greedy smile to Brax’s face and, throwing one arm over the younger boy’s shoulder, he drew him back onto the street. ”Well, c‘mon, then,“ he said in gruff imitation of Cindar’s voice, ”before the crowds thin out.“ Together they made for the high, flag-decked masts just visible to the north.

The territorial shrieking of the gulls and terns perched on the docks’ many stone piers announced their arrival long before the cold, glistening waters of the Halic-Salmanak Strait came into view. As Brax had said they’d be, the wharves were tightly packed with ships of every size, shape, and description, sails wrapped and cargo safely stowed away before the coming of Havo’s Dance. The wooden walkways were crowded with people: sailors from northern Volinsk and Rostov, glaring at each other from under their distinctively honey-brown and sun-bleached brows; Yuruk nomads of the Berbat-Dunya, looking both romantic and dangerous with their ornately carved horse bows and tall animal-tail standards, wild-haired Petchan hill fighters, looking half mad from the unaccustomed crowds even though most people gave them a wide berth, southern traders from the far off islands of Thasos and Ithos, and even a few farmers from the Northern Trisect come to barter the last of their dried fruit and beans for spices, clothing, and metalwork, all surrounded by dozens of local porters, donkey drivers, translators, salap sellers, money changers, scribes, and priests eager to accept their coin and their goods. Beside them carters and street vendors selling everything from raki, tea, and cider, to kindling, candles, and oil, lined up before every hostel, inn, and tavern on the docks. One harried looking youth in a leather apron passed a bag of flaxseed, two small white cats, and a broom through a doorway from one seller before accepting a large jar of honey perched precariously on top of a huge wheel of cheese and a joint of mutton from another, all the while arguing furiously with a local ratcatcher who was insulted by the purchase of the cats. Every establishment with room to lay a spare blanket in would be filled to bursting tonight as half the city crowded together to sit out Havo’s Dance in comfort and company, and all the city’s merchants were scrambling to take advantage of it before dusk. Including the ratcatchers.

Brax’s dark mood returned at the thought of the festivities they’d be missing. Cindar’d been thrown out of every half decent public house on the docks. If it wasn’t for him they could have spent Havo’s Dance by a warm taproom fire listening to songs and stories from across the sea, drinking rize chai and being fussed over by the more maternal servers, instead of crouching in their cold little room listening to him snore. Growling to himself, Brax made for a knot of inebriated Volinski sailors, determined to steal his way into a better mood.