Javel could not stand still. He had spent most of the morning pacing in front of the window, which was spattered with tiny droplets. Cold rain had been falling in Demesne on and off for the past two weeks, and the unpaved streets of this neighborhood, the Breen, were nothing but a wet bog. Winter came to the Mort capital several weeks earlier than it did to New London; Javel was grateful that Galen had insisted they bring heavier clothing. Sometimes Galen’s caution was annoying—like having a mother along—but more often than not, that caution was also justified. Javel had learned to trust the man’s instincts, and several days ago, when Galen suggested that it was time to move along to new quarters, they had packed up and moved into the Breen.
Javel had not expected to like Demesne. Even before it had taken Allie from him, Mortmesne had been a dark realm, evil kingdom in the fairy tales Javel had heard growing up. But Demesne was, after all, only a city, buildings and alleys and streets, and Javel had been a city dweller all his life. Demesne was bigger than New London, and boasted impressive construction, most of its buildings made of brick instead of wood. The streets gleamed with windows, for glass was nearly as cheap as brick in Mortmesne, the result of a glut of supply from Cadare. The Red Queen was no fool; she’d made sure that glass was affordable even for Mortmesne’s poor. The city was filled with such small gestures, the trappings of quality of life, plazas and public parks. It was the facade of an easy, open land, incongruous with the image of Mortmesne that Javel had always carried in his head.
But the plazas and parks were actually under close surveillance by the Queen’s Internal Security, watching to see who gathered with whom. The windows meant that very little could be hidden.
“Calm yourself, Gate Guard,” Galen murmured from the desk, where he was busy writing a message to the Mace. “You’ll wear out the rug.”
Javel halted in front of the window. Once still, he could feel steady pounding under his feet. Steel foundries, brick kilns, and many other types of industry operated beneath the streets, and the noise was horrendous, even indoors. The racket made ground-floor space extremely cheap, and they had been at Meiklejohn’s Pub for two days now, paying daily rent to the extremely bad-tempered publican. Galen, ever cautious, had expressed some concern about asking Javel to stay in a pub, but Galen needn’t have worried. Demesne’s pubs were not like those of New London, dark holes where a man could get lost and drown. And Javel had never felt less like drinking in his life. Dyer had been gone all night, but soon he would return, and if he’d been successful, he would return with Allie’s location.
They were a badly mismatched group. Queen’s Guard or not, Galen was too old for such an enterprise. Dyer and Javel had reached an uneasy balance of civility and mistrust, but Javel knew that, all things being equal, Dyer would like nothing better than to run him through. Dyer often baited him, and it was an easy business, for Javel could not argue with Dyer’s two recurring themes: Javel was a traitor and Javel was a drunk. Several times, Galen had broken them up when the argument was just about to tip over into violence—though Javel knew he would come off badly in such a brawl—but any truce they made was no more than temporary. Dyer loathed him, and Javel often considered telling the truth and saving him some time: Dyer could not possibly hate Javel more than he hated himself.
But their odd partnership was often effective. Galen, who had grown up in a border village, spoke excellent Mort, good enough to blend in with the people of the city. They let him do most of the talking—Dyer spoke good Mort, but with a slight accent that might be picked up by a keen ear, and Javel, who did not speak Mort, was not allowed to talk at all. Javel had to admit that Galen was a savvy negotiator. He’d gotten them the rooms in Meiklejohn’s for next to nothing, and even more importantly, he’d ensured that the landlord would leave them alone.
Then there was Dyer. Javel had assumed that Dyer had been sent along primarily as a sword, for he was well known to be one of the Queen’s best. But he had other talents: it had taken him only two days to pick up a girl in the Auctioneer’s Office. Since then, there had been several more meetings, from each of which Dyer returned with an increasingly unbearable air of having made sacrifice for Queen and country. The three of them were posing as merchants up from the south, and Dyer was also feigning a gruesome interest in the slave trade. Last night, the girl had been meant to show him the Auctioneer’s Office itself, but when Javel woke this morning, Dyer still hadn’t returned. Now Javel could do nothing but pace in front of the window. The Auctioneer’s list held the name, location, and origin of every slave in Mortmesne, for Gain Broussard’s office was nearly as efficient as Thorne’s former Census Bureau. Word had reached Demesne almost a month ago: Arlen Thorne was dead. The Glynn Queen had ended him, and even the Mort consensus seemed to be good riddance. But for Javel, news of Thorne’s death had not brought the satisfaction he might have expected, only a sense of futility. He would have bet his last pound that Thorne had died believing he had done nothing wrong, but even if the man had discovered some late form of repentance, the world remained full of Thornes.