“Don’t breathe too deeply.” she whispered, smiling. I opened my mouth to reply, and she slipped something into my mouth. It was soft and sweet like a berry, but when I bit into it the juice was sour. As soon as I swallowed, the languor faded.
“I got caught out by that one when I was an apprentice.” The woman murmured, “I fell asleep in a broom cupboard, and nobody found me until the next morning. They had to sneak me out through the tunnels so the men wouldn’t see! Why is Dahra using it?”
I blinked at the sudden change of topic, “Um. I was trying to see. I think she’s having sex.”
“I doubt it.” The woman said flatly, and pressed her eye to the gap, “Why would she bring a man here just to put him to sleep?”
“Necrophilia?”
“Don’t be disgusting.” she wrinkled her nose at me, which was her way of laughing, and then turned back to the spyhole. Whatever she saw seemed to satisfy her, because she shrugged and patted me on the shoulder, “If you think that’s sex, my love, then we need to have a long talk at some point. Don’t stay up too late.”
I pulled a face and pressed my eye back to the hole. The man was snoring: loud, damp snorts with his mouth gaping open. Dahra looked as if she had forgotten the man was even in her room. Her entire attention was fixed on the vanity shelf. At first I thought that the glass vials and jars were her cosmetics, and then I realized that the dark liquids and glutinous jellies were potions. Dahra frowned as she ran her fingers along them, and the crystal stoppers chimed softly. She poured liquor from a frosted glass bottle into a shot glass, then trickled the liquid into the sleeping man’s mouth.
A drop of potion dribbled from the man’s slack lip. Dahra yanked her hand away, disgusted. The man began to splutter. His face darkened to a sickening purple. His eyes bulged, his back arched, and he sucked in a gasping lungful of air. Dahra had her hands clenched into fists as she watched him, and her lips moved as if she was praying. Then the man moaned, and blood rushed out of his nose and onto the pillows. He breathed out and slumped back down onto the bed.
Dahra rushed over to him and raised his head in her arms. “How do you feel?” she demanded. “Are you sick?”
“Oh my god.” The man croaked, and then his eyes shut and he lay still. For a horrible moment I thought he had died, and then he started snoring again. Dahra picked up the glass bottle and emptied it into the fire. Then fury overtook her, and she hurled it into the hearth. It shattered into a thousand pieces, and the man woke up with a snort.
“Go back to sleep!” she snapped, and then made an obvious effort to make her voice mellow. “Oh dear, you’ve had a nose bleed.”
The man wiped his nose and winced, “I’m sorry. I had a dream I was…”
What? I thought. Dying? I saw the man smile a little, and felt my cheeks warming as I realized the truth. The potion had made him feel good. Every bad thing about it had been waved away as a dream, and all he could remember was the soft pleasure it had brought him.
Dahra cossetted the man until he slept, and then she knelt down by the fire. She picked up pieces of glass until she could no longer force her trembling fingers to obey, and then she covered her face and wept.
CHAPTER 12
The complex Guinn owned had housed twenty smiths and carpenters for decades, and until the day he retired Guinn had never been alone. He locked the gates after the last one left, and loneliness hit him the second the key slipped into the lock.
He saw me as a daughter, he said. Did that mean I was supposed to see him as a father? At first, I loved my freedom far more than my new friends. I was constantly watched in the palace, and on the island every second had to be accounted for. There was something wonderful about having a whole afternoon dedicated to doing absolutely nothing.
Neither man would try to convince me to stay when I wanted to leave, or suggest that I go when it was getting late. I fell asleep on the workroom bench so often that Jonas padded it with a horse blanket and rags from Guinn’s laundry pile. I made a little nest beside the brazier and watched Jonas struggle over his lessons.
My friend had a natural talent for turning wood. He was also impatient. He did not finish anything to the high standards the master demanded. As soon as the basic shape was completed, Jonas considered the project done. After all, the object could be used! A rough chair could bear weight; a splintered bowl might hold water. He gradually learned to refine his work, but Guinn grew so frustrated that he stormed out several times a day.
I would hide my smiles and concentrate on my own lessons. Guinn had caught me doodling a pattern onto a diagram of a chair that I had thought looked too plain. He gave me a notebook and some charcoal, and soon I was sketching out ideas for new pieces. While Jonas sweated over his hacksaw and pyrography tools, I held trinkets between my knees and sanded them until they shone. I drew patterns onto the cups and bowls for my friends to emboss, and kept the brazier burning with sawdust and scraps.
When winter gave way to spring, Guinn took me to the market. We set up a trestle table and loaded it up with ugly things. Guinn made hinges, nails, knives and tankards in his forge. I had thought he only made candlesticks and gilded marvels for the palace, but was proud of his rough wares. I started spreading the hammers around to make the table less sparse. Guinn stopped me and unloaded another basket from our mule. I opened it and saw a collection of the things Jonas and I had made.
“Oh!” I said, “But nobody will want these.”
“Why not?”
I had no answer. I laid out cups and plates, napkin rings and buttons. We had shown them to Guinn to prove that we had finished our assignment, and then forgotten about them. He had polished each one with beeswax and stamped them with the mark of his guild. I was stunned when someone bought two buttons. More were snatched up as people pressed coins into my hands. I had never earned money before, and by the end of the day I was beaming.
The mule had been fully laden when we had left the workshop. We could have carried our leftover wares with our own hands. Guinn counted out a handful of copper lorets and carefully tucked the rest of the money into his belt. We bought two flagons filled with hot, spiced milk. I smelled cinnamon and bitter coffee, as well as orange peel and honey.
“Don’t just sniff at the damn thing.” Guinn watched me take a dainty sip and snorted. He handed me a gingerbread man. I bit its head off in one go.
I had never eaten food in the street before. I couldn’t help slowing down every time I took a mouthful. There was nothing I wanted to hurry home to. When night fell I would have to return to the palace. It would be days or even weeks until I found another excuse to see my friends.
Guinn abruptly caught my elbow. “Let’s go along the river. There’s a shortcut.”
“Shortcut? This goes right back to…”
“Alright, a scenic route.” He almost hauled me away from the main road. I scowled and shook him off.
“What’s down there, Guinn?”
He shook his head, still trying to think of an excuse, and then cursed under his breath when I strode away. We had walked to the market so early in the morning that everything had been shrouded in shadow, but in the daylight I could see the graffiti. Crude words and insults shouted in brazen black letters. I smothered a giggle. Did Guinn think I would be shocked?
Then I saw a wash of blue. I froze in my tracks.
The painting was quite beautiful. The women’s face was lovingly picked out, and her eyes glowed. The artist had spent a lot of time shading her breasts. The woman was cupping them and looking straight out into the street, daring the walkers to touch and feel for themselves. Nobody would; her skin was a repellent, blotchy sea-grey. She was grotesque below the waist. Rough scales erupted on her legs, with open slashes that mimicked gills. She was standing on something violently red. Desperate hands stretched piteously upwards as the woman’s pustular feet crushed bleeding flesh. A long umbilicus joined the Siren to its slaughtered child.
I covered my mouth and backed away. “It�
�s a lie.”
“There are others.” Guinn rested his hand on my shoulder, “You should be prepared for that.”
“I haven’t seen any near the palace.”
“They arrest people who deface the square. They might as well be spitting in the king’s face. But the guards don’t come this far into the city at night. Someone painted this by torchlight.”
“That’s impressive.” It was hard to force a smile onto my lips, but once it was there I felt better, “Someone risked their life to insult us, even though we’ll never see it.”
“No, princess. They don’t care what you think.” My friend touched the painting’s claw-like hand. “Most people can’t read, but they can understand a picture like this. A perfect stranger just told hundreds of people that the Siren are child-killers. There are other paintings. They’ve stopped calling you goddesses. You’re not even human, you’re just monsters. These people aren’t afraid, they’re angry.”
I swallowed, “That’s what we wanted.”
I could not put the painting out of my mind, but when we reached Guinn’s home I could not help smiling. Jonas waited impatiently by the gate. He had been varnishing, but he had bitten his nails and scratched his nose, so there were yellow streaks on his face. I proudly handed him the money we had made.
He grinned and rattled the box, “We’ll eat well tonight!”
“You eat well every night.” Guinn grumbled, “Anyone would think you had hollow legs.”
Jonas tilted his head to one side and looked at me appraisingly, “I know what we’ll spend the money on. When can you come back, Harriet?”
I wondered what on earth he was planning. “The next hunting trip is in two weeks. I’ll try to get left behind.”
Jonas looked a little disappointed, but he smiled and made me promise to save the date. I held up my hand and swore, and then told him that if he disappeared with my money I would haunt him for the rest of his days. The warm memory of the men’s laughter followed me all the way back to the palace.
After seeing the graffiti, all I could think about were the iron gates of the palace. We were only a few mistakes away from needing the bars and guards to protect us. If Dahra could not negotiate, and Clay could not charm people, then we might never make it back home at all.
Jonas wrote to me every few days. His letters were nothing more than notes – a few messy sentences about a joke he had heard, or a new project he thought I might like. He had been honest about his dislike of the palace. Writing to me was his way of making sure I had a way out – even if that escape was formed of paper and ink.
I knew that my letters were being read, but a few silly jokes meant nothing.
CHAPTER 13
“I’m going to spend my half on you,” was how Jonas greeted me two weeks later.
“On me! Why?”
“I’d like to show you the things normal people do for fun.”
When we got to Guinn’s Jonas proudly presented me with a second-hand tunic and a faded green skirt. He was boasting about his ‘disguise’ until Guinn reminded him that I wore sheer satin blouses, lace edged petticoats and embroidered silk slippers.
“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.” He grinned wickedly. “Your eyes lit up like candles when you saw her in her slip.”
“I thought you were asleep.” Jonas went beetroot-red. I pulled my feet up inside my skirt to hide my shoes, and pulled my shawl down over my shoulders. Guinn cackled at both of us and sent his apprentice back to the market.
My embarrassed friend found cotton undergarments and a patched-up bodice. Guinn rooted in a cupboard until he unearthed an old pair of leather boots. When I got changed I barely recognised myself. I could have been a completely normal Altissi woman.
“Wait.” Guinn said, and unlaced my wooden hand. “I’m sorry, Harriet, but…”
“Don’t worry.” I tucked the hand into my petticoat and left the bundle on the table. Two very unremarkable people walked out of the industrial district and headed along the cobblestone streets. Strangely, I felt exposed because nobody was staring at me. My silk dresses had drawn far too much attention.
Jonas took me to a street that was so narrow that he could stretch out his arms and touch the facing walls with his fingertips. The buildings leaned into each other as their top floors reached up for three or even four floors. It challenged the palace for pure nerve, but where those shining rooms were built to last the ages, these streets looked like a strong wind could blow them over.
We stopped at a large painted door. Each panel showed a man and a woman together, but not in the sordid way that the Siren painted onto the bathhouse walls. They were drinking, and dancing, and singing. There was so much movement in the paintings that the people could have walked out of the woodwork into the street. I ran my fingers along them as we passed.
Jonas paid six lorets to the doorman. He counted them twice before waving us through. The building smelled like smoke, but it rang with laughter. I blinked to accustom my eyes to the dark light, and then the corridor opened up into a large room. A wooden platform was at one end of it, and the rest of the room was full of tables and chairs. Throngs of people were sitting at them, most of them facing the stage. A man pointed us to one of the tables and we sat down. I was glad that it was at the far wall; I did not like the idea of being out in the open, even in my disguise.
“What do you want to eat?” Jonas asked.
“Is this an inn?”
“In a way.” he smiled. “It’s called a theatre. Performances run through the whole day, so they always have the kitchen working.”
I saw what he meant. It was barely noon, but the theatre felt like it was stuck at midnight. The lack of daylight and the smell of smoke and liquor were intoxicating. My stomach growled, though – even though my eyes were lying to me, my body knew that it was lunch time.
Jonas ordered a meal that he thought I might like. I had never seen food like it before. It was greasy, and salty, and wonderfully filling. I had no idea that anything could taste better than the exquisite fancies we fashioned on the island. Fondant angel cakes were supposed to be supreme, but they were sorely tested by the wonders of breadcrumb chicken.
While we ate, we watched the stage. People walked onto it to grudging applause, performed an act, and then were either cheered or booed off the stage. Anybody could perform, so there were quite a few bawdy songs hollered by people who had been pushed onto the boards for a dare. I laughed at them until my face felt sore. Then there were the slots where professional players showed off their juggling or dancing. If they did not trip on the uneven boards then they were showered with praise. I watched a man eating fire, a woman enchanting snakes, and even a pair of twins who wrapped their bodies together and walked on their hands like a single being.
The only acts I did not enjoy were grotesque. Deformed adults made their way onto the stage just so people could stare at them. A woman with a full beard was followed by a man whose hands were twisted into the shapes of claws. The crowd treated them to a reverent hush, and then someone would make a drunken joke, and the audience would become a howling mass of jeering fools.
In this way I saw the best and the worst of the theatre’s world. We stayed there for hours, and I watched the crowd as avidly as the performers on the stage. I could look at normal people without them looking back for the first time in my life. They were fascinating. They enjoyed the ludicrous and the depraved as much as they liked beauty and skill. I had never seen people devouring such a grisly fare. I had been a servant to beauty and nothing else.
The sun was setting when Jonas and I started walking back to Guinn’s. My head ached from the close air in the theatre, so we stopped at the river to breathe in the fresh air. Jonas leaned on the bridge next to me and raised a questioning eyebrow.
“You wanted to take Clay there.” I guessed. The man nodded, and I shook my head, “She would have hated it.”
“That wouldn’t have been important.” The man shrugged, “I’m glad you
liked it, though.”
“I loved it! What are we going to do tomorrow?”
“I have to work. Guinn needs some posts turned for a staircase he’s building.”
“Good, then I’ll help.” I grinned and patted his shoulder, “I’ve had fun. Next time, we’ll find something you’ve never done.”
“Deal.” Jonas held out his arm, and I took it with a sarcastic little curtsey.
Jonas and I grew perfectly comfortable in each other’s company. There was something fantastic about finishing a project together, and we could not bear to abandon our work and let it gather dust for the weeks we would be apart. When I had days away from the palace we worked through the whole night, laughing and talking until the sun rose and our hands were sore with splinters. Sometimes I fell asleep watching Jonas work, and sometimes he dozed off when he had sworn he was just sitting down for a few minutes.
One night we were having a break when his head started to nod. I caught his coffee cup before he spilled it. I watched him slump down against my ribs. It looked uncomfortable, so I pillowed his head on my lap instead, and settled in for the night. Jonas was so energetic when he was awake that seeing him sleeping was fascinating. He breathed so deeply that his chest swelled, but then he held the air for an impossibly long time. My lungs ached just watching. I tried copying him until my own eyes grew heavy, and then I rested my cheek against his tangled hair and slept.
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