I waited, but Khaemezra didn’t step through. Teraeth walked forward, but stopped when she raised her hand. The old woman ticked off a dozen or so seconds on her fingers, then grabbed at the air like pulling a curtain closed. The portal collapsed and vanished.
Teraeth turned to her. “Why aren’t we using the gate?”
“Because Relos Var is expecting us to.” Khaemezra addressed the third Brotherhood member. “Kalindra, once we’re gone, take the coach and lead Relos Var’s dogs on a chase, just in case he decides to protest the sale. Meet up with us later.”
The woman bowed. “As you wish, Mother.” She, too, turned and left.
The Manol vané who held my gaesh, Teraeth, looked me over. He wasn’t happy with what he saw. “You don’t blend in, do you?”
“When was the last time you looked in a mirror?”
He scowled, and then unfastened the front of his robe. Underneath he wore black trousers and a cross-tied tunic of thin silk that was almost, but not quite, a Quuros misha.
Teraeth handed me his robe. “Can you walk with that wound on your ankle?”
“If I have to.” Even as I said the words, I felt myself fighting to keep my balance.
The vané gave his mother an exasperated look. The tiny figure hobbled over to me and placed her hand on my leg.
The pain and the fever faded.
That quickly, the wound on my leg and the whip marks on my back healed. A number of minor scrapes and bruises I’d suffered during the three-month voyage from Quur to Kishna-Farriga also vanished. My head cleared of fever and my vision returned to normal.
“I … Thanks.”
“Save your thanks. You’re no good to us hobbled.”
I scowled. “Where did you find that necklace? It can’t have a twin…”
Teraeth grabbed my arm. “I will only explain this once. That man, Relos Var, doesn’t want you as a toy in his seraglio, and he doesn’t care who owns you. He wants you dead. He will do whatever he has to—kill whoever he has to—to make that happen. Being near you puts all our lives in danger.”
“Why? I’ve never met the man. I don’t understand!”
“And I don’t have time to explain. So I need you to follow my orders without question.”
“You’re holding my gaesh. I don’t have any choice.”
He stared at me for a moment as if he had forgotten what the silver hawk he clenched between his fingers meant, then grimaced. “Good. Let’s go.”
4: BUTTERBELLY
(Talon’s story)
Pre-dawn light tinged the sky with amethyst, and turned the wisps of Tya’s rainbow veil into half-imagined phantoms. Most shops closed at night, but the pawnshop owner and fence the locals nicknamed Butterbelly* paid no heed to the time. Two lanterns lit his cramped shop, while Butterbelly’s most precious possession, an oil lamp filled from the sacred Temple of Light,? sat at his right hand. His oil paints were spread over the battered old teak dining table he used for a desk; his canvas and brushes rested on an easel beside that.
When Butterbelly painted, he strayed into a world of beauty and light far from the ugly realities of the Lower Circle. He painted from memory and he painted all night.
His customers came to him at night anyway.
Butterbelly had just put away his paints when the alley gate bell rang. Rook entered, looking as though an army of Watchmen followed close behind. Butterbelly frowned.
He’d never seen the young man so scared.
Rook stepped into the shop, looked behind him, and shuddered as he closed the door. He stopped only long enough to rub the head of Butterbelly’s bronze almost-twin—his Tavris statue, fat god of merchants and profit. The gesture was habitual, done for luck.
“You got the guard chasing you, boy?” Butterbelly called out.
Rook stared at the pawnbroker, shocked, then laughed nervously. “Nooo. No, nothing like that.”
“You sure? You’re awfully pale and acting like you got a hell-hound on your ass.” Butterbelly frowned. “You’re not bringing bad business into my shop, are you, boy?”
Rook glanced around the pawnshop filled with strange tidbits, found artifacts, cases of jewelry, weapons, clothing, and furniture. Seeing it empty of customers, he crossed over to Butterbelly’s desk. Halfway there, his mood changed. Between the old carved mermaid scavenged from a Zheriaso pirate ship and the cabinet of secondhand Khorveshan silver, Rook’s fear turned to anger. By the time he reached the desk, he was livid with it.
“Butterbelly, I swear if you’ve set me up I’ll string you up from the rafters by the ropy guts in that big fat stomach—”
“Woah! Boy! What’s wrong?! I’d never cross you!” Butterbelly raised one hand in a gesture of surrender. He put his other hand on the crossbow he kept under the table to deal with difficult “negotiations,” just in case.
Rook moved his hands, flicked them over his sleeves, and suddenly held twin shivs. “I mean, you told someone else about the Kazivar House. Someone was there first.”
Butterbelly eyed the daggers. “Put those away, Rook. We’ve been good business for each other, ain’t we? The Kazivar job was your claim. And my tip came from a good source—”
“What source? Who told you about that house?”
“I can’t tell you that! It’s a good source. A trusted source. Never let me down. Why would I ring you out to someone else anyway? I make no profit that way. ’Sides, I know what the Shadowdancers would do if they even thought I was snitching.”
Rook scowled, but he lowered the knives. “Someone was there when I showed up,” he said.
“Shadowdancers?”
“I…” Rook bit his lip. He pulled his ring of key tiles from his belt, fidgeting with the strips. He counted past cypress, teak, tung wood, and bamboo as the samples clicked against each other. “No. Not one of ours.”
“What then?”
“I don’t know. They were killing someone, but I didn’t get a look at any of them.”
“You sure? You were white as the city walls when you walked in here.” And awfully shaken up for somebody who didn’t see nothing, Butterbelly thought to himself.
Rook shrugged. “The screams were something else. Didn’t want to see what made them.”
The fat man stopped and cocked his head in the teenager’s direction. “If you ain’t seen nothing and you ain’t got nothing, whataya doing here? I ain’t running a charity for orphaned boys, and even if I was, you’ve already found yourself a pa.”
Rook grinned and tucked his key ring away again. “Oh, I didn’t say I found nothing. Mouse trained me better than that.” He pulled a small bag from his belt and jingled it.
“That’s my boy,” the fence said. “Come bring that swag round here and let me feel the weight of its metal.”
Rook walked around the desk, saw the easel and canvas painting, and gave a low whistle. He set the small bag on the table.
Butterbelly smiled at the boy’s reaction. “You like her?”
The pawnshop owner was surprised to see pink color the boy’s cheeks. “Yeah. She’s … umm … she’s great.”
“That one’s going up at the Shattered Veil Club. Not finished yet. I want at least one more sitting with the new girl. What’s her name? Miria? Or something…?”
“Morea,” Rook said as he stared at the painting.
“That’s it,” Butterbelly said. “Cute girl.”