Endurance

by Jay Lake

  No wonder I’d felt a need to sharpen my knives this morning. I would be lost to the Wheel before I would place myself under this woman’s influence.

  Pulse pounding, I backed slowly through the crowd, pushing toward the open street beyond. Someone bumped me, then shouted out my name in Seliu. This was not the time to confront whatever had brought people across the Storm Sea in search of me. I ran, sprinting out of the alley, down past the Cooper’s Brewery, and away on the stones of the city. I might not have been as fast as before, but I was still faster than those behind me.

  * * *

  Winded, but safe, I paused for breath in an empty lot near the old wall, now simply a dividing line between the Greenmarket and the Ivory Quarter. Crumbling bricks rose forty feet to a walkway that joined four surviving towers. It was pretty enough, in a desolate way, and a tribe of indigenes had made their stick-and-daub homes atop the walkways and tower crowns, so that the whole thing looked as if it had been colonized by enormous raptors.

  A firecart offered meat sticks, while the strange little people who lived atop this section of wall passed in abundance on their own errands. No Selistani were in evidence.

  I fished out a copper tael from my limited supply of coin and bought a length of some birdflesh. I didn’t ask what fowl, and the man did not say. It tasted mostly of charring, and a bit of sage, but that was enough for me in the moment. My hands were busy and I looked as if I might belong there.

  Truly, I needed to stop wearing black leather. That was like a fart at a temple service—marking me out and making people stare. I resolved to purchase a colored wrap at the very next opportunity, and decide later how to be safely anonymous on a more consistent basis.

  I pondered whether Chowdry had known that the Bittern Court woman had arrived across the sea from Kalimpura. Persons of her status did not voyage alone, either. He’d said important people had arrived from Selistan, some mission or embassy calling here at Copper Downs. It was beyond unlikely that I would not be involved in their purposes.

  Had Chowdry brought me back to Copper Downs only to betray me?

  Or had the Selistani stranger asking after me at Briarpool been searching on behalf of the visitors?

  Perhaps it did not matter so much, except as concerned future trust between me and Chowdry. Enough that I was here. Enough that a woman who’d tried to claim my life back in Kalimpura had made a challenge in one of my safest places. Not particularly welcomed there, from the look of things, but still, she had come to me.

  I fingered the hilt of my long knife. This was Copper Downs. We had no Death Right, and not so much in the way of governance these days. She would be hard-pressed to hire locals to kill me, unless they were complete fools. Anyone she had brought with her would be lost here until they learned both the streets and the local customs. I knew Below, and they did not. I could take her far more readily than she could take me.

  This was my home ground.

  Simply slaying the Bittern Court woman out of hand, either quietly or publicly, had much to recommend itself as a strategy.

  My child moved at that thought, and I caught myself. I had only days ago dreamt of a quiet life of cooking and peace, and here I was now plotting another death. That for the sake of my convenience.

  I needed help, I realized. I could not pursue this on my own, not if an entire embassy had arrived from Kalimpura. Endurance might be of some aid, but my trust in Chowdry was provisional until I could understand what he had known before he came up to see me at Ilona’s cottage. Not just what he had known, but more to the point, what he might have failed to tell me.

  Any mission of note from Kalimpura would be accredited to the Interim Council. While the councilors were venal bastards to a man, they were venal bastards with whom I could work. Furthermore, they did owe me.

  I headed for the Textile Bourse, seat of the Interim Council ever since my slaying of the Duke had vacated the palace on Montane Street. The Lyme Street building was a fraction of the size of the old palace, and crowded to the rafters with clerks and ministers of government, but it had thus far kept them free of the taint of the old regime, free to create their own, novel disgraces.

  * * *

  The building had not been fully repaired since the day last spring when we brought the god-king Choybalsan down from the roof. Almost six months past, now. His lightnings had shattered much of the facade. As for the damage to the street, I’d accounted for that personally. The cobbles I’d broken had since been filled in with gravel to keep the street traffic flowing while presumably someone sought funds for more permanent repairs. The shattered windows were boarded over, while the front door was replaced with stout, iron-banded oak. The flowers that had sprung up full-grown with Endurance’s theogeny were long vanished.

  The banner of the city still hung overhead, a copper shield in four parts, surmounted by a coronet and a ship. As I’d assumed, the Interim Council had not relocated during my time in the High Hills. That was confirmed by the two very large guardsmen at the door. They were the sort of accessory that served as a timeless classic in the halls of power.

  I paused at a little teahouse I did not remember from the days of struggle. That was not so long ago, yet it felt like half my life had passed since. Just outside the teahouse, on the edge of the street itself, small round tables of lacquered wood perched on twisted metal legs, inviting me to take my ease in ironwork chairs. A twinge in my back reminded me that I hadn’t sat like a civilized person since leaving Ilona’s cottage. Nor had I enjoyed any tea, let alone the rarer vice of kava, a habit I longed to acquire in detail some day just for the sake of the steamy brown richness of the stuff.

  The streets were no place for me to linger, but neither could I dash into the Interim Council with nothing more on my mind than a panic at seeing a tradeswoman from across the sea. I compromised by taking a chair in the shadows next to the rippled glass window. That position carried an excellent view of the Textile Bourse while keeping me relatively anonymous. For once today, the black leathers would work in my favor.

  I had begun to understand why the mothers of the Temple of the Silver Lily had so disliked my Neckbreaker guise. The affectation was beginning to gall even me.

  A short woman with cinnamon-colored skin placed a basket of well-buttered cardamom rolls in front of me. Where were her people from? Suddenly I was hungry beyond measure. The smell had drawn me, I realized. I nodded at the woman, whispered “Kava, with cream” in my gruffest tone, and fell to.

  What with one thing and another—riot, revolution, godhead—I have rarely found time to practice my baking. I am a good hand with breads, thanks to Mistress Tirelle, who did her best to make the most of what could be made of my enslavement in the Pomegranate Court. It was not just my empty stomach or the demands of the baby, I was sure, that led me to find these pastries the most delicious I had ever eaten.

  I knew I should have meat, greens, some fruit. The Temple of the Silver Lily had been quite clear on the care and feeding of pregnant women. But this soft, crisp-edged bread that came apart in my hand, steaming of butter and spice, and melted on my tongue, was divine. I did not even notice when the woman brought me my kava, until its insistent smell wedged past my obsession with the baked goods.

  After the cardamom rolls, even the kava seemed a bit tame. Still, the rich bitterness overtook my palate much as a fine wine might do. A good third of an hour had passed before I finally came back to myself. I had intended to sit, and plan, and consider my statements on broaching the Interim Council. Instead I was brushing crumbs and shining dark droplets of kava off the front of my leathers.

  “I must have needed that, badly,” I said aloud.

  The cinnamon-skinned woman was back. “More?” she asked, with an accent I could not place any better than I could place the unusual color of her face.

  “My thanks, but no. I need to move on. Those were the best rolls I have ever eaten.” I considered subtleties of texture and flavor. “A wash of egg white, yes, with sea sa
lt and a pinch of sugar to go along with the cardamom seeds?”

  She looked surprised. “You are baker?”

  “Not really.” I smiled at her. “I trained for a while, to be a palace chef.” That wasn’t even a lie, exactly, though it was only a fraction of the truth.

  With a dubious glance at my clothing, the woman nodded. “You need work, maybe we use early morning. You wake before sun?”

  I was sorely tempted by her offer, if nothing else to learn the secret of these magnificent rolls. The distractions of food were always of interest, even if unwise at times. And cooking had ever soothed my troubled heart. “Unfortunately, I often do wake early. But I have work enough, though I thank you.” Saying I had work was a lie, though not in spirit. I slipped her one of my last silver taels as gross overpayment, decided to trust my quick thoughts and quicker tongue, and, much relieved, stepped into the street to stride firmly toward the Textile Bourse.

  * * *

  Even those few rods of distance were haunted with more memories than I had realized. To this day I am still learning the power of place to summon recollection; back then I had scarcely begun to understand it.

  Here I had fought alongside Skinless and the Factor’s ghost and most of the pardines to be found in Copper Downs that day. Here my old enemy and older friend Federo had died when the god Choybalsan finally left him. Here Endurance had been birthed from the wild power and passion of the moment. Here was where I had last seen the Dancing Mistress, my dearest friend.

  By the time I mounted the steps to the damaged portico fronting the first floor of the three-storey stone facade, the contented peace that the teahouse had brought me was fled as swiftly as mist on the water. I faced the two brawlers in their ill-fitting uniforms, which I did not recognize. One of the dormant regiments? Copper Downs had never been good at armies.

  Each was more than a head taller than I, and they had the sort of muscles that scared off would-be footpads just on principle. If this pair didn’t know who I was, they would soon learn. A lesson that would profit them little, though I’d be glad of the workout.

  “I am Green,” I announced. “Here to meet with the Interim Council.”

  Instead of the brutish resistance I’d expected, they both pressed back against the stonework of the building. A quick glance exchanged between the two men served as the drawing of straws. The loser stammered, “You’re expected, miss. Ma’am. G-Green.” The winner opened the door and waved me inside.

  Expected? A curious choice of words, under the circumstances.

  Within was the same chaos of clerks and desks and stacks of paper that I remembered from the days of summer, though lit by oil lamps in the absence of sunlight from the tall, street-facing windows still boarded over. They moved in a swirling mass orchestrated by the formidable mind of Mr. Nast. The man doubtless directed his minions personally even while asleep in whatever closet he propped himself within to take his rest.

  I knew where I was heading. No one seemed inclined to either stop me or lend me aid, so I stalked through the wide room to the stairs with one hand on the hilt of my long knife. The path opened before me as if drawn by the finger of a god, and closed behind me with a murmur. The familiar black and white marble of the steps, mostly covered with more documents in their files and stacks, bore me upward.

  Near the top I turned and looked down at several dozen staring faces. I was tempted to bare steel, or simply yell some nonsense at them, for surely they would scatter like chickens before the cook’s axe. Instead I satisfied myself with a sharp nod.

  Oddly, several of them returned it, and more broke into smiles. I almost felt welcomed.

  Upstairs stretched a long, familiar hallway lined with offices and cluttered with even more desks. Here the more senior clerks and functionaries were not so shy about halting in their work to goggle at me, some grinning like cats in a buttery. I tightened my grip on my long knife and stalked with exaggerated deliberation toward the council chamber at the end of the hall. Lily Blades understood violence as theater, and theater as violence. As I approached the stained-glass door illustrating the wonders of felt, Mr. Nast stepped out.

  Pale, pinch-faced, severe as any Justiciary Mother, he had changed little. Mr. Nast also betrayed no surprise at my presence in his hallway. “Just on time, you are.”

  “I was not summoned.” In a perverse way, I liked this man, but he also brought out the argument in me—which was in all fairness never buried far from the surface.

  “As it pleases you to believe.” He bowed. I saw something stiff in the movement, and tried to remember. Had he been shot during last summer’s fight outside this building? The crossbow bolts had flown wildly. “Though it may stretch your credulity to hear such from me, I find myself gratified to see you well.”

  “I should say the same of you, sir.” I bowed in return, then released my weapon’s hilt to clasp his hand. “You are brave, and honest, even in the face of impossibility.”

  A shadow that might have been regret flickered across his face. “The council meets,” he said. “They expect you.”

  “So the trained bear at the door said.” But why? No one but Chowdry knew I was returning to the city just now. While I could imagine various treacheries of the old pirate, conspiring with Nast and the council was not among them.

  Nast quirked a small smile, then rapped on the door.

  “Now what?” shouted someone within.

  He pushed through. “The Lady Green is here.”

  The Lady Green!? How in the name of all that was unholy had I received that promotion? I followed him into the meeting room.

  * * *

  Three of the five who’d sat within the last time I came calling on this council were dead now. Federo, at my hands. Stefan Mohanda, also at my hands in his guise as the Pater Primus of Blackblood’s temple. And Mikkal Hiebert, killed in the fighting I’d brought down upon them all.

  The two survivors surely had my role in the recent council successions much on their mind. Roberti Jeschonek, of the sea captains, who had taken over chairmanship of the Interim Council amid the disruption following Federo’s death; and Loren Kohlmann of the warehousemen and brokers. They were seated with three other men. None of the new councilors were known to me.

  This room was much the same, with its brass lamps, and high narrow windows with more stained glass depicting the husbandry and processing of wool, all surrounding the long table I’d slammed my knife into on my last visit. That scar was still visible in the glossy finish of the mahogany.

  None of them seemed surprised to see me, either. My heart sank.

  Jeschonek rose as if to counterbalance that fall. “Green. Welcome back to the city. I trust your retreat to the High Hills was restful and in good order.”

  “And it would be still if someone hadn’t dragged me back.” I eyed the new men suspiciously.

  “May I introduce Councilor Lampet? He sits for the great families of the Ivory Quarter and the Velviere District.” Lampet was small, dapper, and entirely bald, wearing a suit of silks and wool with a too-precise mustache. I hated him instantly, both for his looks and for the wealth whose interests he represented here. “To his right is Councilor Kohlmann, who you already know.” Thick-bodied and brutal-faced, Kohlmann simply nodded at me.

  “Whom,” you twit, I thought, letting my returning stare remain blank and ungracious.

  “On this side of the table is Councilor Ostrakan, of the bankers.” Ostrakan could have walked down any street in this city unnoticed. A talent he shared with some of the most dangerous of the Lily Blades. I marked him out as the greatest action risk in this room of supposedly thoughtful men. I also noted that Jeschonek was giving me a moment between introductions to assess each man.

  “Finally we have Councilor Johns, who represents the trading interests. Including those from beyond our shores.” That was intriguing. Johns appeared as Petraean as anyone in the room, but his portfolio bespoke foreign influence reaching into Copper Downs.

  I n
early laughed at that thought. I was foreign influence reaching into Copper Downs, for all that they’d bought and paid to bring me across the sea as the smallest child. And, of course, the Bittern Court here now on my trail.

  “We amuse you?” asked Lampet. His voice was as oily as his appearance.

  Kohlmann stirred, then clearly thought the better of warning his colleague. I credited the man with sense, but held myself tight, very glad of the roll and kava that now steadied my nerves. “Hardly,” I told him. “You would be surprised what amuses me.”

  “No, we would not,” Jeschonek said seriously. He glared at Lampet. “None of us.”

  “So tell me.” I drew one of my short knives again, laid it down across my previous scar upon the table. I allowed my gaze to pause on Councilor Johns. “What is that woman from Kalimpura’s Bittern Court doing here in Copper Downs?”

  Johns answered, to no surprise of mine. “She did not come alone.”

  I had sudden visions of an invasion of the Street Guild or worse; Kalimpuri enforcers in Copper Downs. This was news that I could wait out, though. No point in showing eagerness to this cage of snakes.

  After a moment, Johns spoke as if I’d asked anyway. “The Prince of the City has voyaged to Copper Downs from Kalimpura to grace us with his person, leading an embassy from his people. He has required your presence in attendance upon his mission.”

  At that I did laugh, long and loud. The five of them stared, variously puzzled, bemused, or alarmed.

  Finally I asked them: “You do not understand anything of Kalimpuri politics, do you?”

  “We understand a delegation,” Jeschonek said. “With monied traders, men under arms, female assassins, and coastal pirates in the Prince’s train. Someone has gone to a great deal of trouble to seek you out.”

  I was struck by his mention of female assassins. Had some of the Lily Blades sailed across the Storm Sea in the company of the Bittern Court woman and her fellow conspirators? That seemed almost inconceivable, unless a person of great will had bound them together. Not the Prince of the City, a pretty fop meant to distract the foreigners, who could not likely command a pair of buttery maids. At least not beyond his bedchamber.