Chapter Twenty-four
Despite being exhausted, or maybe because of it, I slept fitfully. Not because of the clatter and shouting of the rehearsal taking place in the courtyard—that kind of thing was second nature to me from years spent living near the night cart routes in the lower parts of Ildrecca; rather, it was the occasional silences, in which the squeak of a floorboard or a footstep in the hall could be heard, that caused me to crack my eyes and shift restlessly in bed.
At one point, I opened my eyes to see a dim figure moving about the room, and filled my hand with my knife before I was fully awake. But it was only Fowler, who gently pushed the blade aside and whispered something about locks and loaves. I tried to ask her who the hell picked locks with bread, but was already falling back to sleep before I could get the words out.
When next I opened my eyes, the sunlight pushing in through the window had a distinctly horizontal slant to it, telling me it was late in the day. I rolled to the edge of my bed, gasped at the pain the movement caused, and rolled back.
Cutters. Assassins. Fights in the dark. Right.
Maybe I’d just stay here for a bit.
I’d just settled back in and begun thinking about sending one of the innkeeper’s sons out for some pilgrim’s balm when Fowler said, “About time you woke up.”
I nearly leapt out of my bed, then stopped as a fresh wave of pain rolled through me. I groaned and looked off toward the other side of the room.
Fowler was seated on a stool, her back against the door, her arms folded across her chest. A ceramic teapot and an empty cup sat on the floor beside her, along with a partially eaten loaf of bread.
I didn’t bother to ask how long she’d been there. I already knew.
“You didn’t have to stay,” I said as I slowly sat up.
“Yes, I did.”
“It’s not as if Wolf was going to come back.”
“Who gives a f*ck about him coming back?” Fowler nodded at the room in general. “I needed to figure out how the bastard got past me the first time, and this was the quietest place to think.”
“Right.” I swung my legs over the side of the bed and took a breath. This next bit was going to hurt. “So what did you figure out?”
“He had to have been here for hours—even before Degan arrived. My guess is he slipped in when I was busy setting up one of the Crows I recruited.”
“Seriously? He got in while you were putting out more eyes?”
“Don’t even start.”
“But you have to admit—”
“I don’t have to do anything, including not kill you.”
I covered the fledgling smile on my face by taking a deep breath and letting it out. Then another. I stood up.
It was worse than I expected.
“Oh, Angels!” I gasped.
“Serves you right.”
I didn’t respond. We’d gone over the security lapse last night, as well as my encounter with Fat Chair’s men. Any high ground I might have claimed about having found Wolf inside my room had been washed away by Fowler pointing out just how lucky I was to have made it back at all. It had been hard to argue with her, but I’d managed it nonetheless. We were good at nonetheless of late.
As for the neyajin, well, I’d left that part out. Given our encounter with the assassins in the tunnel, and given Fowler’s propensity to hold a grudge, I didn’t want to tell her about their newfound interest in me. She’d clearly suspected something—we both knew I wasn’t good enough to fight my way past four Cutters with nothing more to show for it than a collection of fresh bruises and a bad disposition—but for once fatigue had won out over stubbornness and I’d finally been able to beg off any further argument for the time being.
I tilted my head, felt my neck pop, and then dipped my fingers into the pouch around my neck. It took all the willpower I could summon, but I made myself chafe the ahrami seed between my palms rather than immediately slip it into my mouth. My sweat would help open up the flavor, and if I was going to feel this lousy, I at least wanted to be able to enjoy one tiny part of the day.
“So how do you think Wolf got in?” I said.
“Short of climbing in through a window that’s too small for him? I have no idea. I had Crows working the roof and the yard, and an Oak sitting in the common room with an eye on the stairs all night.”
“Back rooms?” I said. I rolled the seed to the tip of my fingers and set it in my mouth. A faint shudder went through me, and my shoulders started to relax. Not pilgrim’s balm, but it would do. “Maybe the kitchen?”
“The innkeeper and his people say no, but I’m looking into it.” Fowler ran her hand along the back of her neck. “What I don’t understand,” she said, “is why Wolf didn’t just step out into the hall when Degan was here. If he was listening in, then why not simply end the hunt? It’s not like there’ll be a better time for him to have a face-to-face with Degan.”
“He thinks there will be,” I said. “He said this wasn’t the right time to approach Degan, what with Ivory Degan’s papers suddenly being in play.”
“And you believed him?”
“Hell, no. I think Wolf knew about the papers all along, or at least suspected. Degan said himself that Wolf is the expert on this. I think Wolf wants the laws and Degan together, and doesn’t want to jeopardize his chances of getting both by playing his hand too early.”
“Which means Wolf could be playing any number of games.”
I nodded. “It’s even possible he wants to find Degan for the reasons he said, although I doubt that’s the full story. Short answer? I don’t know. All I do know is that I stand a better chance of figuring out Wolf’s plan and helping Degan if I stay in the game instead of outside it. And that means continuing to dance to Wolf’s tune, at least for the moment.”
“Even though Degan doesn’t want your help?”
“Even then.” Because, whether he liked it or not, I wasn’t going to leave him hanging, not again.
I peeled off my shirt and looked down at the bruises on my chest and arms. There weren’t enough visible to justify how sore I felt, which meant the rest were deep and likely wouldn’t surface for a day or two yet. I grimaced at the thought.
Fowler shifted on the stool and cleared her throat. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance of talking him into helping us?”
“Degan made his position clear last night,” I said, tossing my shirt on the bed. I walked over to my travel chest and swung it open. “Asking now would only push him further away when I need to bring him closer.”
“And keeping silent is supposed to help with that?”
“The last time he asked me to do something, I did the opposite,” I said. “I can’t imagine repeating that course of action will win me any further love.”
“But if you told him about the Zakur and the—”
Fowler was interrupted by a loud knocking on my door. Given how fast she sprang out of her seat, I guessed it had sounded right next to her ear.
I smiled. Good. Served her right.
I was opening my mouth to tell them to go away when the door latch rattled against the lock. Then the knock came again, along with a voice.
“Drothe?” It was Ezak. “You need to come downstairs. Now.”
I looked at Fowler. She raised an eyebrow and shook her head. No ideas.
I let my gaze drift over to the washstand. Water and soap and a washrag sat, waiting. Tempting.
Damn actors.
“Tell Tobin that I haven’t even—”
“It’s not Tobin,” said Ezak. “Nor is it the troupe.”
“Then what is it?”
A longer pause than I’d like. Then, “Just come. Now.”
There were two of them waiting downstairs, not counting Ezak: a cove that could have doubled as a sandstone pillar in his spare time, and an old woman. Except for them, the inn’s common room was empty. Not even the owner was visible behind the bar.
No witnesses. Bad sign, that.
I stepped gingerly down off the last step. I hadn’t been able to find any spare lacings in my trunk, and so had simply slipped my feet into the laceless shoes and clomped my way down the stairs. I’d briefly considered trying to shove my swollen, aching feet into my traveling boots, but one look at the dirt-covered, sweat-stiffened footwear had convinced me it wasn’t worth the agony I would have experienced pulling them on. Now, seeing the situation in the common room, I was starting to wonder if something that allowed me the option of running wouldn’t have been a better choice, pain be damned.
The woman was seated off to one side, a stemmed earthenware goblet before her on the table, its sides damp with condensation. She wore a simple veil, drawn down below her chin, along with a beige head wrap over silvery hair and an off-white kaftan. The only color on her was a single ring on her left hand, gold set with a sky-blue sapphire the size of my front tooth. As for her right hand, it sat in her lap—lame, if I had to guess, given the subtle slackness in her shoulder and the right side of her face.
I faced the woman and salaamed. It seemed like the smart thing to do. She gave nothing away as she inclined her head in turn.
Fowler, though, wasn’t feeling quite so diplomatic.
“Where the hell are my people?” she demanded, pushing past me. “And who the hell are you, anyhow?”
The woman turned a cool eye toward Fowler. “You mean the ones watching the inn? They left.”
“Why?”
“Because I told them to. Do you understand what this means?”
“Yeah, it means I’m going to—”
I grabbed Fowler and pulled her back. “We understand,” I said. I turned to Ezak. “Your people are all right?” The yard, I’d noticed, was empty as well.
“They’re in the stables,” he said. He looked over at the woman. “I should go to them.” She inclined her head again, and he left.
“Dammit, Drothe,” said Fowler as she twisted her arm free of my grip, “if you think I’m going to stand by and let some old—”
“What you’re going to do,” I said, stepping close and dropping my voice, “is shut the hell up and go out to the stables with Ezak. Now.”
“The f*ck I—”
“No,” I snapped. “No arguments. Not this time. Not if you want the people you just recruited to keep breathing. Think: She cleared three blocks’ worth of Crows and Oaks with a word. What the hell will happen if you take one more step toward her?”
Fowler ducked her head and glowered at the room in general. I kept my hands loose and open.
“Fowler . . . ?” I said.
A heel to the floor. Hard. “Dammit!” Then she was out the door and stalking across the yard.
I didn’t envy Tobin if he even so much as thought about opening his mouth.
I faced the woman and her human statue.
“She has fire,” she said, tracking the Oak Mistress’s progress through a window. “She’ll either burn up the world or burn herself out. I like her.” She turned back to me. “We need to speak, you and I. Come here.”
I clomped-stepped over to her and took a seat. She leaned slowly to the side and looked under the table.
“You seem to be having trouble with your shoes,” she said.
“Really? I hadn’t noticed. Given how everything else has been going lately, they feel fine by comparison.”
The left side of her mouth twitched momentarily. “You know who I am?”
“I know you’re Zakur, if that’s what you mean. And that you’re high up in the organization. No one else could hush my people and clear out a place like this with just one Arm at her back.”
“‘Arm’?” She looked back over her shoulder. “What do you think of that, Ubayd?”
The pillar rumbled.
“Well, I like it. You’re now my Arm.” She glanced down at her lap, then back up at me. “Seems especially poetic in my case, don’t you think?”
“I—”
“Be quiet. It was a rhetorical question.” She raised her glass, causing ice to clink against the side as she sipped at whatever was inside. The inn didn’t normally stock ice. “We need to figure out what to do about you.”
I sat quietly and waited.
“Well?” she said after a moment.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you’d already figured it out and were just waiting for me to say something so you could tell me to shut up.”
Her left eye narrowed to a slit. Her right tried to keep up but fell behind. I focused on the narrower of the two.
“No one likes a cocky Imperial.”
“I find they’re not fond of belligerent old Djanese women, either.” I leaned forward and placed my elbows on the table. “Look, I haven’t had my coffee—or any of my other vices—yet, so I’ll be brief. You carry a lot of water around here. I get that, even without the walking obelisk behind you. And you wouldn’t have come to see me if you didn’t know the kind of pull I have when I’m at home. So what say we stop pretending to be hard and get down to business?”
The man behind her grunted and settled a fist that looked to be almost half the size of my head on his belt, putting it within easy reach of my face.
The woman didn’t seem to notice. Instead, she stared at me for a long moment before finally shaking her head. Ubayd’s hand uncurled but didn’t fall away.
“My name is Jaida bint Iyab Bakr al-Modussa al-Hirim,” she said, “although most people on the street call me Mama Left Hand. You’re called Drothe?”
“I am.”
A pause. “That’s all?”
“Most days it’s all I need.”
She sniffed and took another icy sip of her drink.
I’d heard her name as I’d worked the Old City, but only in passing. Mama Left Hand was so far above the street, she was viewed as more of a presence than a person. As the matriarch of the Hirim clan, she was said to hold considerable sway not only among the more shadowy parts of her clan, but even within the overall tribe itself. Even her nephew, Hamzah, the titular head of the Hirim, was said to defer to her on most matters.
Unfortunately for me, that meant she was also some sort of great-aunt a couple of times removed from Fat Chair. Not strong as blood ties went normally, but then, there was nothing normal about having someone like Mama Left Hand sitting across from me less than a day after her nephew had sent a gang of Cutters after me, either.
I eyed the Zakur crime boss, then the slab of Arm behind her, as I flexed my wrist and thought about the knife up my sleeve. Only if I wanted to die quickly.
“Very well, Drothe One Name,” she said. “Let’s get down to business. I’m here for a simple reason: I want to know what you’re going to do about Fat Chair.”
I’d been letting myself slump down in my chair. Now I straightened. “Me?” I said. “What the hell do you expect me to do, other than stay alive? He’s your family.”
“Yes, but I’m not the one who killed his favorite cousin.”
“His . . . ?”
“The one with the sword and small shield you met in the street.”
“You mean the one he sent at the head of three other Cutters to kill me?”
“That would have been Sa’d, yes.”
“And your grand-nephew is upset because I walked away? What was I supposed to do, let him dust me?”
“Family knows it would have made my life easier.”
“Well, I’m sorry to f*cking inconvenience you, but I—”
Her hand flashed up and the Arm’s flashed out. I was out of my chair and on my back in an instant.
“Mind your language,” said the Zakur matron. “I’ll not tolerate filth. You’ll not be warned again.”
I raised my head and looked between my legs back toward the table. It was a good six feet away. That had been a warning?
I climbed to my feet, wiped at the blood seeping into my beard, and clomped back over to the table. Her city, I reminded myself as I righted my chair and sat down. Her army.
Still, I didn’t hesitate to take up her goblet and drain the contents into my mouth. Winter wine—light and sweet and, thankfully, cold. I swished it around and spit out a red-pink stream.
My right ear was ringing. The side of my face sang a counterpoint of pain. I ignored them both.
“Okay,” I said. “I’m clearly missing something here. What’s your problem with Fat Chair, and how does it involve me?”
“The specifics of the problem are my business, and therefore none of yours. Suffice it to say Fat Chair is an ass—but a clever ass nonetheless. He’s locked up the Imperial Quarter tighter than even I thought possible. And while that’s helped some others in the clan, it’s gotten in the way of my interests. He’s like a stone in my sandal, and I’d have that annoying stone gone.”
“And dusting me would have gotten rid of said stone?”
“It would have had repercussions,” she said. “Killing a Gray Prince means something, even here in Djan. No, don’t swell up at the notion: It’s not what you think. I doubt anyone would have avenged you. But your death would have made him look shortsighted and dangerous. I need Fat Chair to lose face before I try to remove him: Your death would have been the breeze that preceded the storm.” She paused to purse her lips. It wasn’t a pleasant sight. “But then you had to go and kill Sa’d and give the fat fool a proper reason to come after you.”
“Vendetta,” I said.
“If that’s the same as a blood price, then yes. He’s put a price on your head. A high one. And even I can’t countermand that: It has roots too deep in tribal honor for me to touch.”
“What if I lie low?” I didn’t care for the idea, but I didn’t have the time or resources to go after this cove. “Stay out of his way?”
“He won’t let you.”
“And if I dust him instead?”
“I’d prefer you didn’t. Fool or no, he’s still family. If he’s to die, I’d rather it be from a Zakur blade.”
“What if it can’t be helped?”
“He has many cousins. Not many like him, but there are enough honorable ones that I expect you wouldn’t make it out of Djan alive.”
“So I’m dead if I try to defend myself, and likely just as dead if I don’t.” I turned my head and spit out more blood. “How the hell do you people do business, anyhow? I’m surprised you’re not all lying in the gutter from one another’s knives.”
Mama smiled. It was a grim thing, but I couldn’t help noticing a hint of longing at the edges, too. “There have been times . . . ,” she said. She sighed. “But there are rules and precedence, not to mention hierarchy, at play among the Zakur. We have our twisting ways of avoiding slaughter. None of which apply to you.” She met my eyes. “Is it really so different among your Kin?”
I opened my mouth to say it was, then stopped myself. The excuses and lines of loyalty might be different, but we had our share of butchery. Maybe even more, since we tended to rely on ties woven from fear and money rather than blood and family. Oh, there were traces of honor and obligation mixed in as well, but it was a rare man among the Kin who could inspire people that didn’t even like him to take up the blade in his memory.
None of which mattered just now since, except for Fowler, I was alone in a foreign land.
“So what do you propose?” I said.
She gave a lopsided shrug. “Disgrace him. Make him look the fool. Take part of the Imperial Quarter away from him.” She picked up her goblet and drained it. “In short, do whatever you were planning to do when you arrived in el-Qaddice, before all this happened. Only do it quicker.”
“Do whatever . . . ?” I said. “What I was planning to do was find someone and get out.”
Her eyes didn’t leave the bar. “Yes, of course you were.”
“Dammit, woman, I’m telling you—”
Her hand came up. Ubayd tensed. I froze. She spoke.
“Don’t take me for a fool. You don’t do what you did back in your Empire and then just happen to come to el-Qaddice. The story about the mercenary may play on the street, but I know too much about how things work to fall for that.” She lowered her hand. “If you want to try to take over the Imperial end of the route, I won’t get in your way. In fact, I might even be able to help. I can smooth things over with the clan on this end, get the price off your head, and present you as the best alternative to Crook Eye. I may even be able to make sure the shipments keep coming without interruption.” Her eyes came back to me. “Assuming, of course, you deal with my nephew for me.”
I started to open my mouth to say . . . I don’t know what. I knew I needed to answer her somehow: to agree or make a counteroffer or negotiate terms—anything to cover over my surprise over what she’d just said, over the implications she’d just made. To respond to the idea that I’d dusted Crook Eye back in Barrab so I could take over his connections in el-Qaddice. To make it seem as if I’d known about the dead Gray Prince’s arrangement with the Zakur and Fat Chair. To hide the fact that, yes, it had just been dumb luck that brought me down here and landed my ass in her clan’s business, as opposed to some kind of princely power play on my part. Because if I didn’t, my value, not to mention my credibility, with the woman before me would drop into the “expendable” range almost immediately.
Damn me for being too much the Nose and not enough the prince, anyhow.
“Well?” said the Zakur matron.
I drew the pouch out from around my neck and spilled two seeds into my palm. When I offered the bag to Mama, she declined.
“I’m not excited about the idea of getting involved in clan politics,” I said as I rolled the seeds between my palms. “But I get the feeling I don’t seem to have much of a choice in the matter.”
“You don’t. And don’t worry—you’re far from what I’d consider ‘involved.’ You’re a tool at best, an annoyance at worst.”
“Well, as long as you put it nicely . . .”
Mama Left Hand gestured, and Ubayd pulled her chair away from the table with barely a sound. When she rose, she did so slowly, but also without taking the Arm’s offered hand. It was clear it hurt for her to move; it was also clear she didn’t give a damn.
“We’ll discuss specifics once you’ve delivered on your end of the deal,” she wheezed. “In the meantime, I’ll start priming the clan for Fat Chair’s downfall.”
“About that.” I stood—slowly, to keep Ubayd happy—and put the seeds into my mouth. “I’m going to need more to go on than just ‘make him look like a fool.’ Some ideas or suggestions. Details.”
Mama shook her head. “If my hand is seen in this, it could ruin any rewards I may otherwise reap. Having this meeting is risk enough; if I give you any hints, their origins might be traced back to the Zakur, and thus to me. The deed is on you alone, Imperial.”
She turned away. Ubayd handed her a stout cane, which she used to begin hobbling toward the door. In this, she let the Arm help her.
It was a setup—even I could see that. If I somehow succeeded, she’d come out ahead without having lifted a finger; and if I failed she wouldn’t have risked a thing. Either way, I’d be at her mercy when payment time came around. She could just as easily laugh in my face as honor her word, and there wouldn’t be a damn thing I could do about it.
I needed something more, not only to save face, but to feel that I wasn’t letting her walk all over me—even if I was. I needed to get something out of this as well.
“That’s not good enough,” I said to her retreating back.
“It will have to be.”
“And if I were to go to your nephew instead?” I said. “To cut my own deal with him?”
She stopped. Craned her head over her shoulder until she was regarding me with her drooping eye. “Even you’re not that stupid.”
“I’m a marked Imperial in Djan: What have I got to lose?”
“Besides the obvious?”
I didn’t answer.
Mama screwed up her face in a way that made me think of lemons. “What do you want?”
“I need help on the street.”
“I told you, my hand can’t be seen—”
“Not with Fat Chair,” I said. “With something else—something that’s my business alone. Something that won’t make a bit of difference to you or Fat Chair or the rest of the Zakur.”
“What?”
I put on what I hoped was a winning smile. “I need help finding some old books,” I said.