Hettie rubbed her forehead, smelling the first hint of fetid air. She would reach the lakeshore before midnight. Good. It meant a warm bed to sleep in unless she went to the temple again and slept on a pallet on the floor. The sound of Paedrin’s arm breaking made her stomach clench in revulsion. His injury would hamper him for many months. Perhaps she should bid him good-bye.
It was a strange compulsion, actually, and she wondered at it. Why should she care a bushel of figs about saying good-bye to Paedrin? He was a haughty, arrogant Bhikhu who had less sense than a sheep. Why bother? It nagged at her that he had saved her life amid the dangers of Drosta’s lair. Of course, she had gone down there in the hopes to steal the blade while he fought the creature. But when she was struck by it, he had come to save her.
She bit her lip. What a foolish boy he was. He had no idea at all that she was using him to her own ends. Most males were blinded by beauty. Start off angry and contemptuous. Treat them with apathy and revulsion. Then slowly dribble out a compliment or favor them with an occasional smile. They would become your servants for life. It was the way of the world. For certain, it was the way of the Romani.
What harm would it do, though, to stop by the temple and see him? She did not care for him. She did not care for anyone, even her brother.
A part of her had died, she realized, when she saw her father poison her sister over an act of disobedience. Maybe that part of her was still dead. But for some reason, she wanted to see Paedrin again. It was a foolish thought. She had probably derived a small flicker of pleasure arguing with him. That was probably it. She decided not to see him. It would be better for him, after all, to never see her again. She was rather sure that Kiranrao would kill him if they ever crossed paths again.
“A wise leader, a past King of Wayland actually, wrote this in his personal history at the end of his very successful reign. I found his advice in the Archives and think it some of the wisest advice ever written: ‘Be courteous to all, but intimate with few, and let those few be well tried before you give them your confidence.’”
– Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
Most of the main streets of Kenatos were named. There were major thoroughfares that connected the different regions of town inhabited by the different races: Aeduan, Preachán, Vaettir, and Cruithne. But the streets themselves were a blend of the different cultures. The higher elevations of the city were dedicated to the founders of Kenatos; this area included the Paracelsus Towers and the Temple of Seithrall. The temple was the largest structure in the entire city, occupying the entire upper heights—a fortress hewn out of stone carried from Stonehollow and ferried across the lake. It had taken nearly a generation in its construction. Hettie had heard it whispered that Kiranrao was the only man ever to have plundered the fortress.
Keeping her sights on the enormous structure, she wove through the streets leading to Gracesteeple Gate and entered it. Rubbish littered the streets and beggar children approached her instantly, but with a subtle hand sign, they dispersed. The sun had already set and the lights were aglow in the streets, spewing no fumes or smoke and casting the stone with a silvery hue. Only the main streets were lit at night; Hettie marked her way down a side alley that was surrounded in shadows. The smell of offal was oppressive, and she wrinkled her nose. She found one street further in littered with the homeless, hunkered beneath tattered blankets. A few moaned at her passing, but she ignored them. At the final crossroads, she turned to the right and saw a candle in the window of a shop. It was the solitary shop on the street.
Hettie approached it cautiously and then rapped firmly on the door in a sequence she had learned. She waited a few moments, then knocked again. The lock turned, and a burly young man opened the door. His face was pockmarked and his chin full of wispy tufts. His hair was a dirty brown, though his eyes were a stunning hazel. He looked at her warily; he opened the door wider and let her in without a word when she showed her carnotha.
The smell of bird droppings choked the air and the sound of dozens of different species filled the room with exotic sounds. A woman waddled between the cages, stuffing little crusts between the haphazard bars. Her hair was obviously dyed, and her clothes too tight-fitting for one of her girth. A silver cane was gripped tightly in her left hand, helping to steady her as she maneuvered between the vast cages filled with rainbow-hued parakeets, canaries, finches, and warblemoss. Little playful finches ducked and bobbed their heads and sang in trilling tunes at her as she entered.
The young man shut the door behind her and bolted it.