“I’m not scared!” she protests.
I say my good-byes, which means more hugs and a promise to visit again as soon as I can. Ofalo walks me out, back through the perfect house and its perfect gardens. With him at my side, the other servants know better than to sneer.
“There’s a girl who takes her shopping,” I tell quietly. “Kuko.”
“Yes, my lady. She’s a good girl, a hard worker.”
“Did you know she’s been taking Tori to listen to agitators?”
There’s a long pause. “I had no idea, my lady. I’m terribly sorry.”
“Just take care of it.”
He inclines his head. “She’ll be dismissed at once. I’ll make certain whoever accompanies Lady Tori in the future is … reliable.”
“Good.” We pause at the front door. “I’ll expect your next report in a month.”
“Of course, my lady.” He bows deep, wispy beard swaying. “We are honored by your trust.”
His face is as calm as ever. I wonder what he thinks of me, if he thinks anything at all. Maybe he just sees me as a bottomless coin purse, a lifetime meal ticket.
If so, it’s for the best. He wouldn’t want to know the truth.
* * *
The cab is waiting in the street outside, Hagan lounging on his seat while the old mare munches from a feed bag. He straightens up as I emerge, his collar damp with sweat. From the halfsmile on his face, I can tell he likes the way I look in the kizen, all clean and feminine, like a noblewoman. I flash him an obscene gesture, and he laughs.
“Your command, my lady?” he asks.
“Take the highway to the Fifth Ward,” I say. “We’ll change and head to Breda’s from there.”
He nods, and I hop up to the carriage door before he can offer to help. Hagan clicks his tongue, and we move off at a slow walk. The Second Ward has wide, winding streets, lined with houses like Tori’s, set well back among their gardens for privacy. Huge round stones sit on squat pillars, carved with the circular emblems of noble houses. Lesser houses, here. Anyone with real power would live in the First Ward, or better yet in the Royal Ward, in one of the palaces the Emperor bestows on his favored subjects. Still, seeing Tori in her comfortable place, among the residences of those who might once have sold her life for a few coppers, gives me a warm feeling. It’s revenge on everyone who told us we weren’t good for anything.
She’s as good as any one of you rotting parasites. And all it takes is a bit of gold.
We pass back through the gate in the ward walls, waved through by bored guardsmen. Another difference between the Second Ward and the Sixteenth: here the fortifications only face outward, to defend the residents from the rest of the city. Back home, they face inward as well and we live under the crossbows and catapults of the Ward Guard.
It’s an hour’s ride to the Fifth Ward along the military highway that runs straight as an arrow from the docks to the citadel, cutting across Kahnzoka’s ancient, tangled streets like a knife dragged through a plate of noodles. High ward walls line it on either side, with shacks and lean-tos at the bottom, growing up like mushrooms in spite of the guards’ efforts to root out such unauthorized residents. A hundred hawkers have set up their wares along the road, wearing broad hats to keep off the brutal sun, shouting the virtues of fruit, sweets, cakes, pottery, silks, and a thousand other things. Small boys run alongside every carriage that passes, even my modest cab, announcing the services of their employers.
Far below, at the base of the hill, the Imperial Navy piers are visible, along with a slice of the bay beyond. The sleek, many-oared warships moored there show no signs of alarm. Ghost ship. A smile flits across my face. We’d both heard the stories of the dreaded Soliton as children, but I’d forgotten about them until now.
I’m more interested in the other carriages that pass us. I keep the heavy curtains mostly closed, peering out through a crack. The traffic is mostly transport wagons, hauling goods to the wealthy wards, with a few private vehicles mixed in. A squadron of Ward Guard cavalry rides past, hooves scattering mud. And, moving slowly, a matte black wagon pulled by gray horses, the driver anonymous under a hat fringed by a dark veil.
The Immortals are in town, and openly. I’d heard only rumors. Inside that wagon, behind mesh screens that hide them from view, the Emperor’s elites watch the crowds.
For hundreds of years, ever since the Divine Emperor was chosen by the Blessed One himself, mage-born have been permitted only among the nobility. Commoners who are touched or talented are taken from their families; depending on their Well and abilities, they are either inducted into the Invincible Legions or parceled out to noble families as breeding stock to improve their bloodlines. But a few always slip through the net, and the Empire is not overconcerned. The fugitives find ways of employing their powers that keep them beneath the notice of the Imperial authorities. So touched and talented are not unknown in the lower wards.
Adepts are another story. We are too dangerous to be left alone. The primary responsibility of the Immortals is to make sure that every adept born within the Blessed Empire is placed at His Imperial Majesty’s disposal. They are valuable assets for the Legions, securing the homeland against Jyashtani aggression or the machinations of lesser states. Their children—and they will be forced to have many—are adopted out into the noble families, who fight one another in the Imperial court for the privilege of taking them. The strongest make up new cadres for the Immortals, their loyalty the bedrock of the Emperor’s power.
The Emperor’s dark-armored personal guard have always been my private terror. Most of the young street children worried about being snatched by slavers, or being caught by the Ward Guard for real or fabricated crimes. And I’d fretted about those things, too, though more for Tori’s sake than my own. But Ward Guards would usually let you off with a beating, and slavers could be bribed or escaped. If the Immortals caught me, though, there was no coming back.
I sit back and let the curtain fall. There’s no reason to think I’m in danger of being found out. There are enough ghulwitches and deserters to keep the Immortals busy, not to mention Jyashtani spies. But my heart still beats a little bit faster as we drive on.
* * *
Breda’s is the closest thing I have to a home in the Sixteenth Ward. I move around as much as I can, from flophouse to apartment, with a backup always ready in case I need to disappear. Being tied to routine makes you predictable, complacent. But there are times when I need to be seen, when I want people to find me, and that’s when I set up shop in Breda’s run-down winesink.
It’s a big place, by Sixteenth Ward standards, on the ground floor of a half-ruined building right on the harbor. That’s one reason I like it—there’s always enough of a crowd to drown out a conversation, and plenty of eyes around to make sure no one tries anything stupid. The other reason is that Breda keeps things simple—no dream-smoke, no viper’s milk, and definitely no credit. Just jug after jug of watery beer and sour wine, and a yard-long club under the bar that he can swing harder than a mule’s kick.
I walk in, Hagan a respectful step behind me, and there’s a satisfying pause in the buzz of conversation, three dozen people taking a quick glance before they go back to their drinks and dice. The air is thick with smoke and the smell of salt water, and the floor is gritty with sand and rotten straw. Apart from the bar in the back corner, which is made from timber as heavy as a ship’s mast, the furniture is flimsy and cheap. Given how often things get smashed, I can’t blame Breda for saving his coin.
Breda always holds a table for me by the fire. It’s too hot in the summer, but I can sit with my back to the wall, and the crackle of the hearth adds another layer of protection against eavesdroppers. As soon as he catches sight of me, he scuttles out from behind the bar, all obsequious smiles. It’s a strange look for Breda, who’s near seven feet tall and thick as a side of beef, with a round, sagging gut and strings of greasy gray hair tugged over his bald pate. But he long ago decided it was better to be on my good side—or more accurately the good side of my employers.
It’s too loud to hear much, but he just bows and gestures me to my table, then scurries off to fetch drinks. I take my time on the way across the room, looking over the regulars for anyone out of place. I get a few quiet nods, and offer a few in return. The majority of the crowd are honest folk, at least in theory. Sailors, dockworkers, fishermen. But here and there are thugs, prostitutes, thieves, and killers. My people.