by Kim Fielding
My stomach rumbled, reminding me I hadn’t eaten, so I donned my cloak and headed to a food cart a few streets away. That was something I liked about being in my neighborhood—I knew where to get cheap food that wouldn’t poison me. I was wise enough not to ask what kind of meat roasted over the vendor’s small fire. Today I bought two skewers and ate them on the spot, following them with a tiny loaf of bread that tasted of sawdust.
My hunger staved, I considered going to the Weeping Wyvern for a pint of watery ale, but instead I returned home in case the old lady showed up with payment. Or maybe another client would appear. That, or the goddess Lyadra might materialize and shower me with gold coins from her basket.
As I stood at my door, fighting the recalcitrant lockspell, someone approached from behind. I whirled, hand on the hilt of one of the knives at my waist.
“Daveth Blyd?” The man did not hold a weapon. He was a decade older than me, medium height, and slightly built, his hair reduced to hardly more than a few wisps. He wore coarse workman’s attire, but it wasn’t his. His teeth were too good and his skin too fair, his carefully trimmed fingernails far too clean. He’d probably borrowed the clothes from a servant.
“Yes,” I said carefully.
“I’d like to employ you.”
Huh. Maybe Lyadra really would show up.
I conquered the lock, opened the door, and ushered him inside. While I lit lanterns to dispel the room’s usual gloom and hung up my cloak, my visitor looked around, disdain clear on his face. He took a chair before I offered, sitting carefully as if he were afraid it might collapse. I sat across from him at the wobbly little table. I didn’t offer him tea.
“What do you want?” I asked bluntly.
“I am Lord Uren.”
If he expected me to gasp with surprise or to genuflect, he was disappointed. I wasn’t at all shocked he was a nobleman—it was either that or a wealthy merchant. His name didn’t mean anything to me, but then Tangye—as the capital of the kingdom—overflowed with titled men and women.
“What do you want, Lord Uren?”
He straightened the sleeve of his tunic, then examined his fingernails. I’d have bet the queen’s treasure that his hands were soft. “I wish to employ you,” he said. Which he’d told me already, but I didn’t point that out.
“For what? You want me to see if I can catch your wife in bed with another lord?” Actually, she was more likely to be romping with the gardener or a tradesman, partly because they were more convenient for quick trysts and partly because more than one blue blood had found themselves drawn to flexing muscles and glistening sweat.
“The Lady Uren would do no such thing!” he snapped. “Her reputation is unsullied.”
I refrained from snorting, but only because I really needed this job. “If not the wife, then what? Thieving servant?” I hoped so—that was easy work.
But he shook his head. “Not exactly. However, I do want you to recover an item that was stolen from me. And bring me the thief as well.”
Interesting. Before I could agree to anything, I needed to know why he’d come to me and not to the city guard. They were usually responsive to serving and protecting the rich and powerful. Especially if they sniffed the possibility of a reward.
“Does this person live in the Low Quarter?” Even some of the guards were hesitant to come here.
Lord Uren made a moue of distaste. “No, of course not. Actually, I am not sure precisely where his home is, but I am quite sure it is not here.”
“Yet you came here to hire me. Was it my stellar reputation?”
“No.” He scratched absently at his leg. Perhaps a flea had bitten him. I hoped so. “You see, this incident is rather… embarrassing. I’d prefer that nobody learned of it. I’ll be paying for your discretion as well as your… skills.”
Ah. I rarely had wealthy clients, but when I did, most chose me for the same reasons: I didn’t run in their rarefied circles, and I had no cohort to tell tales to. The guards gossip worse than a group of drunken witches. You could safely assume that if one guard knew something, so did every one of his or her colleagues and their families as well. And word spreads fast. When I was a guard, I’d seen cases where half the city knew the murderer’s motive before the victim even realized he was dead. So if a person didn’t want the world to know about a philandering spouse or other humiliation, they turned to me and I kept my mouth shut.
“So what’s your story?” I asked, more comfortable now that I was coming to understand the situation.
“Several days ago I hired, er, an entertainer.”
I smirked. “What kind of entertainer?”
“He is a singer,” Lord Uren replied, eyes narrowed. “Quite talented. I was having a small party, so I hired him along with some musicians and dancers. But the next day, I realized a valuable item was missing.”
“What item?” I found getting information out of this man a tedious task, but I wasn’t in a hurry. I had nowhere else to be.
“A ring. It would be precious for the jewels and fine workmanship alone, but it is also an heirloom. It’s been in my family for over six hundred years.”
I wondered what my ancestors were doing six centuries earlier. Skulking through the Low most likely, wondering where their next meals would come from.
“Are you sure the ring’s gone?” I asked.
“Of course. I keep it in a box in my private chambers. I often wear it to morning prayers in order to feel closer to my forebears. When I opened the box the morning after the party, it was empty.”
“You’d just had a party, which means your house was full of people, including all your servants. What makes you think this singer— What’s his name?”
“Jory Pearce.”
“What makes you think Jory Pearce is your villain?”
“The box was in the innermost room of my chambers. I keep that room locked and never permit servants inside unless I am there. None of the guests would have gone anywhere near it.”
I cocked my head. “But Pearce did.”
Even in the lamplight, I could see the flush spread over his cheeks. “Yes.”
“So Lady Uren’s reputation is unsullied, but yours… not so much?”
His lips thinned. “My lady and I have an understanding. She knows that my tastes are… varied. She lost interest in amorous pursuits some years ago and prefers to visit the Finches, so she permits me to do what I wish. As long as it doesn’t endanger our fortune or reputation.”
I was skeptical that his wife was truly so permissive, but it did happen. A lot of the nobles wed for convenience rather than love, and plenty of those couples maintain a public marriage while each partner plays around on the side. If so, Lady Uren was likely enjoying her own amorous pursuits somewhere else—with a pretty chambermaid, maybe—and not caring much what her husband did in his spare time.
“All right,” I said. “So you let him into your room and he entertained you with more than his singing. Would he have had a chance to steal anything?”
“Yes. It was foolish of me and I should have known better, but I stepped out for a few minutes to find a servant. I wanted more wine.”
He’d probably already had enough wine by that point. Enough to convince him that showing his prized bauble to an “entertainer” was a good idea. I didn’t mention that, especially because I couldn’t blame him. I’d made poor choices myself after downing too much ale.
I leaned back in my chair. “Why not let it go? I know the ring means a lot to you, but I’m sure your palace is filled with antique gewgaws with monetary and sentimental value. Why drag someone like me into it?” I didn’t ask another question, although I wanted to: Why pursue some poor singer over this thing? If Pearce were caught, a judge would immediately convict him for stealing something expensive from a lord, and by the end of the day, he’d be swinging from a rope in Hangman’s Square. Nobody deserved to die over a piece of jewelry, no matter how many generations of lords had worn it.
But Lord Uren�
��s eyes were devoid of compassion. “I’ve avoided morning prayers all this week—I told the servants I was ill. I can’t do that much longer, and soon everyone will notice that I am not wearing the ring. My good wife, my fellow members of the Undercouncil. As I said before, it will be an embarrassment. And my son will be deeply disappointed that he is unable to wear the ring someday.”
“Embarrassment and disappointment are worth hanging a man?”
“Yes.”
I could refuse the job. But what was the point? Lord Uren would find another way to dig up Pearce. Besides, it was Pearce’s own fault for being a greedy fool. And I needed the money.
“Can I just bring you the ring? That will solve your problems.”
Lord Uren was not a large man and didn’t look as if he had any idea how to fight. I could have gutted him within seconds. Yet something in his gaze chilled my blood, and I was suddenly certain my would-be employer was a dangerous man. Tread softly.
“I require you to bring me the ring and Pearce,” Lord Uren said firmly. Of course—because his pride had been bruised. People react more violently to damaged pride than to physical blows. I knew that as well as anyone.
I lifted my chin. “How much will you pay?”
With a brief grin of triumph, Lord Uren removed a purse from his belt. He unfastened the knot and upended the contents onto my table.
I have to admit it—I gaped.
A tiny mountain of coins lay heaped on the wood, and they weren’t copper briquets or bronze remi. No, these were crowns, each a miniature artwork in gold and silver, each worth twenty remi or a hundred briquets. Enough of them to pay my room and board for the better part of a year.
I closed my mouth and gave Lord Uren a hard look. “This is enough for now. I’ll need this amount again when I bring him to you.”
He didn’t even blink. “Fine.”
Gods and goddesses. What could I do with that kind of payment? Almost two full years without worrying how to keep a roof over my head. I might even have enough to buy a little house of my own—at the edge of the Low perhaps—and never again have to worry about impatient landlords. The only time in my life I’d felt secure about my bed and board had been years ago when I was a guard.
“All right,” I said to Lord Uren. “Tell me everything you know about Jory Pearce.”
AS IT turned out, Lord Uren knew almost nothing about Pearce apart from the name of the place where he often sang. Even the lord’s assertion that Pearce didn’t live in the Low was little more than an assumption, although he was probably right—I’d certainly never heard of the man. Anyway, Lord Uren gave me the few scraps of information he possessed, then left. He looked eager to be rid of me and my neighborhood. I’d wager he planned to bathe as soon as he got home.
The sooner I searched for Pearce, the more likely I was to find him. Besides, I wanted to be free of this job as quickly as possible. It sat uncomfortably on my shoulders despite the generous pay.
That pay was my first task, actually. I know that a lot of people keep their valuables in lockboxes. But I don’t care how well made the lockbox is or how strong the reputation of the wizard who made it, I know a counterspell that can open it. And if I know a counterspell, so do a hundred other Lowlers. Which is why, when I have anything worth stealing, I keep it in a bank.
Naturally, none of those fine houses of finance—all of them backed by men and women like Lord Uren—have been eager to set up shop in the Low. I’d have to make the trek to the Silver Quarter, so I hid my new purse in the folds of my tunic and left my apartment.
The name of my quarter comes not from the status of those who live here but rather from its geographical location in the flat space between two hills. The river bisects that narrow plain and floods every few decades—drowning desperate lives and creating even more misery—but nonetheless shacks and decrepit buildings crowd the riverbanks. As you ascend the twin hills of Tangye, the station of the inhabitants improves.
The Smiths Quarter on my side of the river contains skilled tradespeople, artisans, and the businesses they interact with. Above them, temples from small to grand command fine views from the top of Sevi Hill. Their priests and priestesses rarely deign to walk among the common folk. But when the highborn have finished their prayers, they descend on a wide road through the Smiths Quarter and down into the Low, generally carried in enclosed litters by their servants. The Royal Bridge—flanked by ancient statues of long-forgotten rulers—crosses the river and deposits you into the rest of the Low.
Climbing the lower slope of Sevi’s twin sister, Seli Hill, is the sprawling Silver Quarter. This is home to the expensive shops, their rich merchant owners, the financial district, and varied places of entertainment, including the establishment where Pearce allegedly sings. Above that area is the Royal Quarter, which contains the palaces of the nobility, and at the top of Seli Hill is Tangye Castle, the home of our queen.
I’d been near the castle only once, when I was sworn into the guard. I harbored no particular desire to visit again.
The streets were crowded this afternoon, and the air tasted of ash. I threaded my way through the throngs and down to the river, pausing where I always did as I began to cross the bridge. I leaned over the railing and looked down at the reeking water.
Several dozen men and women stood waist-deep in the river, casting nets. When they spied me, a few waved, and I waved back. “Catch anything good today?” I called.
“Not yet,” a tall woman shouted back. “But my next cast will bring me a basket of remi!” She cackled at the ancient joke.
The tide was out, so children crawled on the beach, poking at the mud with sticks and turning over stones and bits of stranded flotsam.
In the city of Tangye, almost everything that broke or died or was lost or discarded ended up in the river. A short distance past the Eastern Gate, all the refuse washed out to sea, unless captured in nets or stranded on shore during low tide. The scavengers would pick through the items, keeping anything of the slightest value. Broken things could be repaired or salvaged and their components repurposed. Lost items could be sold. Animal corpses, if not too decomposed, could be skinned for hides and rendered for fat. In either case, the bones were picked and pounded for fertilizer.
The scavengers and I had a standing agreement—they notified me of any human bodies they fished out. I didn’t care what they took from the bodies—clothes, jewelry, coins. I just wanted to know who’d shown up dead, because sometimes clients had paid me to find those very people. Of course, the clients hoped I’d deliver a living relative, but just knowing their loved one’s fate brought some solace. And I got paid either way.
I’d always assumed that someday it would be my bloated corpse the scavengers pull from the river. If so, they would have been welcome to whatever items may be on my body. Nobody would have been looking for me.
Now, I waved again before proceeding across the bridge. People teemed as thickly on the opposite bank as they had on my side. Mindful of the small treasure in my purse, I was relieved when I reached the less crowded—and considerably better-smelling—Silver Quarter.
My financial institution was among the most modest, but it had stood steadfastly for over five hundred years. I trusted it would last at least a few decades more, which was all that mattered to me. At the front of the building were thick stone pillars carved with scenes of bounty and prosperity, although centuries of trailing hands had rendered the lower carvings almost indecipherable.
Private guards flanked the entrance. They scowled at me in my shabby clothes and placed their hands on the hilts of their swords.
“Daveth Blyd,” I said, showing the silver pendant at my neck as proof that I had an account. They stepped away from the door and allowed me to pass, their frowns still in place.
Most of the large foyer had been dedicated to the goddess Lyadra. Behind an altar stood her huge gilded statue holding an overflowing basket of food in one hand and a bulging purse in the other. I wondered what deities ne
eded money for. I’m not exactly the religious type, but I left a few briquets on the altar as offering on the principle that it couldn’t hurt.
The large room was as hushed as a temple, with the bankers and customers speaking in near whispers. My bootsteps echoed loudly as I crossed the polished stone floor. I walked to the nearest unoccupied employee, a rounded young woman with sand-colored hair.
“Daveth Blyd,” I said as I again showed the pendant.
She briefly touched the bit of silver with the tip of a slender metal rod. When the pendant emitted a flash of green light, she nodded with satisfaction, tucked the rod away, and smiled. “How can I help you, Citizen Blyd?”
The title was a courtesy. My forebears hadn’t held it, and I’d never had enough money to buy it myself, something she quite likely guessed. But I smiled back and didn’t contradict her. “I’d like to add some money to my account.”
That made her happy. Bankers always preferred deposits to withdrawals. I wondered if they all carried a drop or two of dragon blood, just enough to make them want to hoard.
After a few moments of searching, she pulled a ledger from the vast bookshelves behind her and brought it back to the counter. She spelled it open and frowned when she saw the entry next to my name. “Citizen Blyd, you have only—”
“I know. This will fix it.” I reached into my tunic and pawed at myself in an undignified way until I released the purse, which I handed to her.
Her grin returned when she saw the contents. “Very good, Citizen Blyd!”
I waited while she carefully counted every crown—save the one which I held back for my immediate use. She placed the coins in a carved wooden box, sealed it with a spell, and wrote a new balance next to my name in the ledger. Or at least I assumed she did; like most Lowlers, I’d never learned to read. I placed my thumb against the bespelled parchment to signal my approval. A convoluted little symbol appeared where I touched. I’d been told each person had a distinctive sign, but I didn’t know whether the sign reflected some aspect of the personality. If so, mine was twisted.