“I’ve been chased, shot, cut, beaten, and dragged a hundred leagues in the blink of an eye.” He shrugs and offers me a hand. “I need a drink.”
I stare at him a moment, conflicted. He carried me. He took an arrow for me. I’ve had few kind masters in my long, strange life. Cruelty, I understand. But kindness frightens me, for my defenses are weak against it.
Warily, I take his hand and he helps me up. He leads me down a narrow stair along the outside of the building we’re on top of, down to the street.
“Why did you want that prince to die?” I ask.
Aladdin halts, looking back at me with wide eyes. “Not so loud! Gods.”
“Well?”
“Are you always this nosy?”
“I am when someone asks me if I’ll kill for them.”
He lets out a short breath. “I changed my mind about that.”
“I still want to know.”
He rubs his hand across his face. “We’re here.”
Aladdin steps off the street into one of the many narrow capillaries that lead into the deeper bowels of the city. Walls close in on either side, and lines hung with worn, clean cloth crisscross over our heads. Wind rustles the fabric, so it seems as if the air is filled with whispering ghosts. Through the closed shutters that dot the walls, only the faintest lines of light can be seen.
Aladdin steps behind a stack of rotting crates and holds up a fist to knock on a small wooden door. We wait in the darkness, breathing in the smell of baking bread, and beneath that, the stench of piss, rat, and simmon, a drug made from corris leaf. This last scent wafts out of the door before us, and when it opens suddenly, a wave of the smell washes over us.
The man behind the door is broader than he is tall, but every inch of him is muscle. Leather straps cross over his hairy chest, while his bald head glistens with sweat in the light of the lamp he holds.
“Two coppers,” he says in a bored tone, without looking up.
Aladdin clears his throat. The man glances at him, then straightens. “Oh. It’s you. Balls, boy, what happened to you? You look terrible.”
“Been traveling. What’re you doing out of prison, Balak? Thought you got ten years for that pig you stole.”
Balak grunts. “That pig they claimed I stole. The bastards can’t prove nothing. The Phoenix sprang me.”
Aladdin tenses slightly. “What, he’s still knocking around?”
“He loosed a bunch of us from the prison, those of us he thought were unjustly condemned. Petty thieves, debtors, and the like. Guards have rounded up a few of the fools not smart enough to stay low, but they won’t catch up with me again.”
“Did you see his face?” asked Aladdin. “Has anyone figured out who he is?”
“Never saw nothing but a shadow slipping by, unlocking the cells. He’d knocked out all the guards, cleared the way out. Nobody knows who he is, but he’s got the whole city singing his praises. Look there.” Balak points to a wall across the street, where a crude red flame has been recently painted. “Sign of the Phoenix. It’s like the whole bloody Tailor’s Rebellion all over again.” The man’s eyes widen, and he drops his gaze. “Sorry, lad.”
Aladdin shrugs. “Anyway, he’s an idiot. This so-called Phoenix will end up on the gallows before long, like all the other fools who think they can make a difference in this city.”
Balak laughs and steps aside to let us pass through the little door, then shuts it behind us.
We descend steep, narrow stairs in the dark, the smell of simmon and sweat growing stronger the deeper we get. The passage grows lighter, and the swell of voices reaches our ears. Aladdin pulls the hood of his cloak low over his face.
We step abruptly into a cavernous room packed wall to wall with sweating bodies. Braziers circling the wooden pillars give off acrid smoke that obscures the ceiling. The air is so thick with simmon that it is impossible to see the other end of the room. Aladdin takes my hand so that the press of bodies doesn’t pull us apart, and together we wind our way through the crowd. There are mostly men down here, and a few night women, all of them drunk or clouded by simmon, all of them sweating. With my free hand, I wrap a strip of black silk around my face, covering my mouth and nostrils in an attempt to block out the stench.
“Welcome to the Rings!” Aladdin calls over his shoulder. “Stay close.” Though we are inches apart, it is difficult to hear him over the sudden roar of the crowd. A potbellied man jostles me as he lifts his arms to cheer, and the blast of his odor leaves me gagging.
“For once I think I prefer my lamp,” I mutter.
A harried serving girl, dressed in little more than scraps of fabric that reveal her lithe figure, steps up to ask us what we want to drink. Then she does a double take and peers closer at Aladdin.
“You!” she hisses. “You were banned for life from this place! Ugh, Balak is the most worthless doorman I ever—”
“Quiet, Dal.” He tugs his hood lower. “I’m in disguise. Bring a flagon of the strongest liquid you have, will you?”