by Mark Smylie
“Aye, we know that,” grunted Stjepan.
The gate captain appeared on a stone landing just inside the gates and called out to them, waving them over to the side. “Ho, Black-Heart!” said the man, a tall, balding Aurian with pockmarked skin. He wore an infantry half-harness and the High King’s colors, with a mail skirt, cuisses and poleyns, and light leather boots that laced in the front, his brace of sword and dagger hanging on his left. The landing was high enough that he had to lean over a wooden rail to shake Stjepan’s hand, even with Stjepan mounted. “Welcome home.”
“Sir Owen Lirewed, good to see you,” said Stjepan. “You remember Harvald and young Erim?” Harvald barely looked over at him, his eyes intent on the city street before them, but Erim gave Owen a courteous half-bow from the saddle.
“Aye, that I do,” grinned the gate captain. “Is your return to the city official?”
“I think perhaps it might be best if I were still somewhere afield,” said Stjepan, casually slipping some coins into Owen’s hand.
“I’ll leave your names off the official reports, then,” Sir Owen said. “Best of luck with the unofficial ones.”
“Yeah, well, nothing we can do about that, really,” said Stjepan sourly.
“I suppose not,” laughed Sir Owen. “The city missed you, Black-Heart.”
“You’re a liar, Sir Owen. I’m sure it didn’t notice I was gone at all,” Stjepan said with a light touch of his fingers to the brim of his hat, and then they urged their horses forward into the growing morning traffic of the street ahead of them as the gate captain laughed at their receding backs, jangling the coins in his hand.
The West Gate opened up onto the start of the High Promenade, which ran straight out in front of them to the main plaza of the Market Quarter in the outer city, through the Gate of Eldyr, up to the great University of Therapoli and its Quarter, to High Plaza, and then angled down through High Quarter to the foot of the High King’s Hall. The other great avenue that bisected the city, the Grand Promenade, stretched from the South Gate of the city to the lower plaza of the Foreign Quarter in the outer city, through the Gate of Erginus, split around both sides of the Forum, and then went all the way to the Plaza of Ergist abutting the High Quarter to meet the High Promenade where it descended in front of the High King’s Hall, and then angled around the Hall to the East Gate. The two broad avenues cut across the entire city, largely paralleling each other and the shore of the bay until the High Promenade curved down to meet the Grand Promenade.
Despite the early hour, with the sun barely up, the street was already bustling as merchants and shopkeepers began to unlock their doors and windows, and the market plaza’s stands and kiosks were being occupied and opened. The quarter’s Market Court was already open, the hall’s great double doors already filled with merchants and sellers lining up their carts and wagons to have their goods weighed and measured for sale in the plaza or at auction. The trio paused by the side of the Promenade, the traffic flowing around them.
Erim noticed that Harvald had his hood pulled over his head, shielding his face. “Think you can escape notice?” she asked.
“One can only try,” he said with a smile, but his eyes were nervous again, scanning the street traffic.
“There’s no way to enter this city without being seen,” Stjepan said quietly. “One of the guardsmen in Owen’s command is in the pay of the Painted Prince, Owen knows that for certain. And another reports to Lord Rohan, which Owen may not know at all.” He met Erim’s gaze, and raised an eyebrow with a half-smile.
Ah, our little game, she thought. Spot the thief, spot the spy. They both turned and started looking discreetly about. “There’s one of the Gilded Lady’s rats,” Erim said casually after a moment, nodding at a young street urchin begging at the nearest corner of the market plaza. “And that lot over there is with Jon Dhee’s crew, and they’ll be looking to cut a purse or two,” she said, indicating another group of urchins scampering about at the entrance to an alleyway.
“Mm, there’s a couple of others that report to Dhee here, this is his corner of the city. He’ll sell what they see to the Guild Princes, and to Liam White-Eye, and to Petterwin Grim,” Stjepan said. “And then Liam and Petterwin will sell to the Squire of Mud Street, Mardin Green down by the docks, Mina the Dagger, and Mother Silva. Though Petterwin Grim and the Fat Prince will have their own lookouts here somewhere.” He squinted down the street. “And I’m going to guess the drunks in front of the Spiked Maul are Lord Hugh’s men,” he said. “They’re a little too polished for this hour of the morning; the Inquisition never gets that right.”
“Ah, the old broad over there,” said Erim, indicating with her chin a muttering old woman in drabs pushing a cart into the market plaza. “That’s the Fat Prince’s chief lookout near this gate. There’s another lot of urchins that she uses as runners. They’ll be nearby somewhere.”
“And the bravos up on that balcony over there, with a perfect view of the gatehouse; I’ve used that balcony myself,” Stjepan said, indicating three slim, rough-looking men in tight black leathers with head scarves tied over their long blond hair and short swords and daggers on their sword belts, casually eating from a bread basket as they observed the passing traffic. “From the Bastards of Baker Street, but I’d lay odds they’re on hire to another crew to be in this part of the city, and looking for someone in particular. Hopefully it’s not us.” One of the men caught that Stjepan was eyeing them, and they gave each other a slight nod; but the bravo went back to scanning the travelers entering the gates. “Nope, not us.”
Erim scanned the rooftops. “Lots of birds,” she said with a bit of apprehension. Sparrows, pigeons, and doves perched on the rooftops, occasionally diving into the street after some morsel. More waddled past them; gulls and terns circled lazily in the air up from the docks and the shore of the bay.
Stjepan glanced up, his eyes narrowing. Erim could hear him whispering under his breath. “Aye, some of them are rune-marked, and have the hint of a binding enchantment about them. Probably eyes and ears for the Brass Coven, and for Naeras Braewode, and the Sisters of the Scales,” he said after a moment. “And so news of our arrival will be spread far and wide through the underground of the city amongst those that trade knowledge for coin, if any should happen to care about it.”
“It’s funny that someone will make a bit of coin or earn a bit of bread just to tell someone else that we’re back in the city,” said Erim. “I mean, I’d be happy to tell them myself if they paid us. That’d be a fine play, to walk up to Jon Dhee and say ‘Hi, I’m back, now give me a penny.’”
“Do you think . . . do you think the Nameless Cults will have someone here looking for us?” Harvald asked, licking his lips, his voice a low whisper. “I mean we did just raid a temple of the Rahabi.”
Erim hadn’t thought of that, and she looked around with a bit more concern.
“Maybe,” Stjepan said with a shrug. “Even if they don’t have a lookout here, one of this lot will sell to them, maybe without even knowing it. Some of this lot could even be from the Nameless themselves, serving two masters at once. The eyes and ears of the Hell-Prince of Intrigue are everywhere, and Amaymon the Spider takes many guises as he spies for the rest of the Forbidden.” All three of them spat to the side at the mention of the name of one of the Forbidden.
“And on that note, I guess it’s time to split up,” Stjepan said cheerfully. “If you get followed, run.”
Erim barked a laugh. “Fuck you, Black-Heart,” she said.
“We’ll meet at Gilgwyr’s tonight. Be there by midnight. Leigh should be there by then, assuming he manages to get into the city,” said Harvald.
“Ah, Leigh doesn’t need to walk through the gates,” said Stjepan with a cold laugh. “And if he does, he won’t look like himself. He’ll be there.”
“And we’ll translate the map then, yes, once Leigh’s here. I think it’s important that he be there,” Harvald said to Stjepan, his voice straining.
“It’s fine, I already told you that I would wait,” Stjepan said, holding up his hands, much to Erim’s relief. “I’m even letting you hold onto the map, just so I don’t get tempted.” It had been the only real source of tension on the journey back to Therapoli; Stjepan had wanted to begin translating the map while they were still on the road, but Harvald warned they should only do so in the relative safety of the city, with its resources at their disposal, and with some exiled magus named Leigh that Erim had never met present to aid them in the deed. She’d seen a real fear in Harvald while she watched them argue, and so had Stjepan, who had finally relented with a puzzled look on his face.
So they split up, Harvald heading due east up the High Promenade, intent upon the city house of his father, while Stjepan and Erim headed south down toward the Foreign Quarter. Stjepan let rooms over near the University Quarter, but he always stopped at the baths of the Foreign Quarter upon returning to the city.
Stjepan paused at the Fountain of Ymaire, where he would continue down Sea Way toward Low Plaza and the baths, leaving Erim to turn onto Cobble Street to make her way toward her rooms above Fuller Cort’s Laundries. His gaze scanned the morning crowd of laborers and artisans heading to work or the markets. He listened to the wind, heard the cries of shop clerks and heralds, the rattle and clang of industry, the call of gull and cormorant. He sniffed the air, smelt horse offal and human piss, baking bread and wafting perfume, hearth fires and the salty brine of the bay. It’s not home, but at least it smells clean, he thought. He looked up and saw vultures circling in the air, high above the city.
“I wasn’t kidding; if you’re followed, run,” called out Stjepan.
“I wasn’t kidding either; fuck you, Black-Heart,” Erim called back in response.
She watched him angle off down the narrow Way. She was always amazed at how Stjepan could look both completely at ease almost everywhere he went and yet not seem to be a part of the place he was in. He seemed at ease roughing it in the wilderness, with not a soul around for miles, and at ease moving through the busiest parts of the city, as though he was comfortable being in his own skin, and she was a bit envious of that. But at the same time there was always something different about him, and it wasn’t just that he was an Athairi in the middle of an Aurian city, or that he was wood-born in the Erid Wold but had a University education. It’s the look in his eyes, she decided. That look of judgment, as though he’s not one of you; half the world sees that look and wants to get away from him. The other half instantly wants his approval. She watched him disappear down the street, then turned away.
Though she was city-born, Erim felt like she could hold her own in the country—at least Stjepan had felt she could, which was good enough for her. She might not have Stjepan’s knack for sights and sounds, or know the name of the bird making a lovely song, or which leaves from what plant could make a poultice for an infected cut. But she didn’t have to have a roof over her head, or a bed under her, to fall asleep at night, though admittedly she preferred it. She liked to look up and count the stars, and see if she could guess which one was a great hero and which wasn’t. She didn’t fall behind, or complain, or step on the wrong twig at the wrong moment like some city folk might.
But she always felt like she risked doing something wrong, of not seeing the danger signs when they were coming. The country often made her feel lonely, and small. The general lack of human contact, of human structure, of the man-made, left her at a loss. She didn’t understand its rituals and behaviors, the languages and signs of animals and birds and trees, of hunters and farmers, its codes and rules. The deeper she went into the countryside, the more tenuous became the rule of the Middle Kingdoms; so tenuous, so risky, that deviance from its considered norms could bring ruin and disaster. Where Stjepan found freedom and open air to breathe, she found constriction and confusion. In the country, amongst either Danians or Aurians, a woman dressed as a man wouldn’t want to be discovered, for in her experience country folk tended to be more fixed in their ways than city folk, and looked askance at anything different. Except the Athairi, perhaps, but they were different than just about everyone else anyway, thanks to their varied ancestries, their fae blood and Düréan blood, the touch of magic that sparked within them.
Or unless, as amongst the hill folk of the Manon Mole, or maybe the savage clans that filled the Highlands of Daradja and the Mael Kingdoms of the west, that a traveler was so far outside of civilization that the rules of culture no longer applied, and a descent into barbarism was the inevitable result. But someone like her could hardly think of such wild places, amongst outlaws and brigands and barbarians, as places of safety or refuge.
Cities were where the civilization of the Middle Kingdoms had its deepest roots, where Divine King culture felt at its strongest, and therefore cities were where cracks could appear and be tolerated, where deviance and difference took an honored place beside and within the rush and roar of commerce. Back in a city, her adopted city, she started to feel the many layers of herself again. I know this, she thought. I know what to do. She knew how to read the street and ken where trouble was brewing, when to step to one side so the ashen-faced herald on his galloping horse missed her, where to buy the best fresh-baked bread in the city (the Date & Plum on Baker Street), how to avoid getting her purse cut on Upland Street. She knew the names of the Princes of the Guild, even if she didn’t know their faces, and of many of the Marked. She knew where all the brothels were, and which dancing girls in the taverns on Wall Street and the Street of Furs were willing to give the customers a little extra for the right word and tip, and where the rent boys sold themselves over in the Old Quarter. She knew where, if she were running low on coin, she could earn her next meal, doing something that sent a little shiver of a thrill up her spine.
She felt a nervous excitement, her skin alive and tingling with the possibilities of a city, her city. The city made it so easy, dangled every vice and temptation in front of her, and promised to look the other way. It rewarded her when she gave in, when she said yes, please. She could see it in the moon-eyes that young serving girls were giving the knights prancing by on their finely caparisoned steeds, hear it in the wolf whistles that ne’er-do-wells hanging on the corner gave to a young strumpet strutting by, in the occasional long glance that a man or a woman would send her way. The city is calling you: we’re all going to Hell, you fit right in here, so come along with us for a fine fucking ride. She swallowed and pressed ahead for home.
She found herself almost short of breath, flush with excitement, when she arrived in front of Fuller Cort’s Laundries, and dismounted and led Cúlain-mer into the rear courtyard, greeted by the familiar sight of laundry lines hanging with sheets and shirts, the smell of soap and bleach and perfumes, and the singing voices of the washerwomen. The mute young stable boy, Giles, came and took her horse with a grin and a short bow. His silent greeting was followed by a long meow from a large calico cat, one of the yard cats the house kept for ratting, and she bent down to scratch its head. She’d nicknamed it The Countess, after the notorious Countess Uthella, wife of the Earl of Uthmark, though she didn’t dare use that name out loud. She slung her satchels and bags over her shoulder before stepping into the back halls. It didn’t take long for the mistress of the house to spot her.
“Ah, Master Erim, you’ve returned!” the plump, shiny woman called out.
“Lady Cort, it’s good to be back,” Erim said with a slight bow. Everyone called her Lady Cort, even though she didn’t have a drop of noble blood in her.
“Fuller’s over on the other side of the laundries, he’ll be so very glad to see you,” Lady Cort said, and Erim blushed and nodded. She headed off through the laundry rooms, past the huge vats of steaming water, ignoring the giggles and glances of the women working. She found Fuller Cort paying out some coins to a deliveryman near the front doors of the laundry.
“Young Master Erim,” said Fuller, glancing over at her.
“Your wife said you’d b
e here, Master Cort, and I am glad she was right as usual,” replied Erim with a stiff bow. Fuller looked her over once with his beady eyes, long and slow, and smiled, dismissing the deliveryman with a nod.
“You owe me thirty shillings, Master Erim,” said Fuller when they were more or less alone. “We held your rooms like you asked, while you were gone, with the promise of payment upon your return. That’s two months of winter you owe us for, and now spring is upon us a full ten days.”
“I have the money, Master Cort,” she said huskily, looking up at him from under her dark bangs. She fished out one of the gold crowns that Stjepan had given her, and dropped it in Fuller’s open palm; he looked surprised and almost disappointed. “The expedition didn’t go as we thought, and a full return on our efforts might take a little while longer. But I’m told it will be considerable.”
“Well done, Master Erim,” said Fuller, with a smile that seemed forced. “I’ve been very patient, and have kept this a secret between you and me. I have had to deceive my wife, and tell her that you are up to date in your payments.”
“For which I am eternally grateful, Master Cort,” said Erim quietly. “I hope to be able to leave some small coin on deposit, should I have to leave again soon.”
They looked at each other for a bit longer in awkward silence.
“Well then, I assume you’ll want a bath, after your long journey,” said Fuller finally. “I’ll have some of the girls bring up hot water to your rooms. So you can get nice and clean.”
“Thank you, Master Cort,” said Erim, with a short bow. She felt his eyes on her backside as she left.
She was happy to wend her way up several flights of old wood stairs to the loft room she let up on the top floor of the laundry building, followed by the softly padding paws of The Countess. It had taken her a while to find the right place to live in the city; the building was old and made of plastered stone, and often the odors from the laundry downstairs were a bit overwhelming, but the Corts largely let her alone and didn’t ask too many questions, though she was certain Fuller Cort very much wanted to. The loft was quiet, and isolated, and the building, being a laundry, had lots of pipes put in, and most importantly her space came with its own copper bathtub. Stjepan could head off to the public baths, but she couldn’t. She opened the shutters to let in light and air, glancing about at the rooftops and balconies nearby, then unpacked and stowed her things and checked on the odds-and-ends she’d left behind while some of the washerwomen brought up buckets of hot, steaming water to fill the tub. Some of them would giggle and blush and smile, and she eyed a few speculatively, but most were plump, and plain, and looking for something she couldn’t offer them.