Dark blue.
“So… ya just want me to steal you?”
Purple.
“Don’t ya belong here?”
Blue.
“You’re being held against yer will?”
The robe flashed purple so brightly that it made him blink.
“You’re not—ya know—cursed, are you? Ya aren’t going to hurt me—are ya?”
Blue.
“Is it okay if I fold ya up and stuff ya inside my tunic?”
Purple.
As big as it was, the garment compressed easily. Mince stuffed it in the top of his shirt, making him look like a busty girl. Because he was already stealing the robe, he also picked up a handful of parchments and stuffed them in as well. He was not going to find out who lived there while the occupants were out, and Mince did not want to stick around for them to discover that the robe was missing. Mr. Grim looked to be the type to know letters, or know someone who did. Maybe he could tell enough from the parchments for Mince to win the silver.
Royce sat on the bleachers in Imperial Square, observing the patterns of the city. Wintertide was less than two weeks away and the city swelled with pilgrims. They filled the plaza, bustled by the street vendors and open shops, and shouted holiday greetings and obscenities in equal measure. Wealthy, blanket-wrapped merchants rode in carriages, pointing at the various sights. Visiting tradesmen carried tools over their shoulders, hoping to pick up work, while established vendors scowled at them. Threadbare farmers and peasants visiting Aquesta to see the holy empress huddled in groups, staring in awe at their surroundings.
Betrayal in Medford. Royce read the sign posted in front of a small theater. It indicated nightly performances during the week leading up to Wintertide’s Eve. From the barkers on the street, he determined the play was the imperial variation of the popular The Crown Conspiracy, which the empire had outlawed. Apparently in this version, the plotting prince and his witch sister decide to murder their father, and only the good archduke stands in the way of their evil plans.
Four patrols of eight men circled the streets. At least one group checked in at each square every hour. They were swift and harsh in their peacekeeping. Dressed in mail and carrying heavy weapons, they brutally beat and dragged away anyone causing a nuisance or being accused of a crime. They did not bother to hear the suspect’s side of the story. They did not care who had trespassed on whom, or whether the accusation was truth or fiction. Their goal was order, not justice.
An interesting side effect, which would have been comical if the results had not been so ugly, was that street vendors falsely accused their out-of-town competitors of offenses. Local vendors banded together, forming an alliance to denounce the upstarts. Before long, people learned to gather at the squares just before an imperial patrol was expected to arrive, or follow the men as they patrolled. The spectacle of violence was just one more holiday show.
Two good-sized pigs, attempting to escape their fates of Blood Week, ran through the square, trailed by a parade of children and two mongrel dogs chasing after them. A butcher wearing a bloodstained apron and looking exhausted from running paused to wipe his brow.
Royce spotted the boy deftly dodging his way through the crowd. Pausing briefly to avoid the train chasing the pig, Mince locked eyes with Royce, then casually strolled over to the bleachers. Royce was pleased to see no one watched the boy’s progress too closely.
“Looking for me?” Royce asked.
“Yes, sir,” Mince replied.
“You found him?”
“Don’t know—maybe—never got a name or a look. Got these, though.” The boy pulled some parchments from his shirt. “I snatched them from a house on Heath Street. It has a new owner. Can ya read?”
Royce ignored the question as he scanned the parchments. The handwriting was unmistakable. He slipped them into his cloak.
“Where exactly is this house?”
Mince smiled. “I’m right, aren’t I? Do I get the coin?”
“Where’s the house?”
“Heath Street, south off the top, harbor side, little place right across from Buchan’s Hattery. Ya can’t miss it. There’s a crest of an oak leaf and dagger above the door. Now, what about the money?”
Royce did not respond but focused on the boy’s overstuffed tunic, which glowed as if he had a star trapped inside.
Mince saw his look and promptly folded his arms. Tilting his head down, he whispered, “Quit it!”
“Did you take something else from the house?”
Mince shook his head. “It has nothing to do with ya.”