Perhaps the marshal-raised ascor was the key. Bowe needed to think about it further. He decided that he’d better make his escape soon, though, as Oamir had returned to discussing early history. He would come back to Oamir later when he’d figured out more. He needed to know the right questions to ask. The Green liked talking about what he knew, even if Bowe could only handle listening to it in small doses. “You want to become a newswriter?” Bowe asked Oamir.
Oamir broke out of whatever monologue he was reciting to scoff at the question. “Of course not. Peddlers of cheap gossip for the masses? I’m a historian. There’s been very few in Arcandis, and as a result, not much is known about our early history. Very little is recorded about where we came from. The oldest knowledge we have are ancient children’s picture books, which aren’t much use for history.”
A smile crept onto Bowe’s face as he remembered those picture books. He’d used to love reading them. Their tattered and faded pages; the simple stories full of mythical creatures like dragons, lions, and wolves. A thought occurred to him. If Oamir wanted to write history, what was his plan for survival? “What about the Green Path?” Bowe asked.
Oamir paused, blinking rapidly. “I have no interest in that. Teenage squabbling. Recording the histories—now, that’s an important task. I found something interesting recently…”
As he began to search through his papers, Bowe turned away and exited, waving to the newswriter as he passed, though the man didn’t look up. Outside, he thought of the strange Green, and it made him sad to think that he’d have no chance to write those histories. He was like Vitarr—he didn’t have the skills to walk the Green Path, but he deserved to live. Life is only for the worthy. There were different ways that people could be worthy, and most of those ways didn’t fit on the Path.
Helion was high in the sky and the streets were empty. Escay generally thought of reasons to be inside when the the light was purple. There was no logic behind it; Helion didn’t provide as much light as the sun, but it was still bright enough; it just wasn’t as hot. But watching the violet rays bending around the dark buildings, Bowe could understand. Everything looked creepier and most dangerous in the purple light. He shivered, though it wasn’t cold. There was one more thing he wanted to do tonight, so he put aside his irrational fear.
He pulled the hood back over his head and headed back toward Drywell Square. Likely the stall would be gone by now, but it was worth the chance. He kept his head down, his thoughts focused on what Oamir had told him and how he was going to sell those ruby garnets. He was still lost in thought when a shove threw him sideways. As he fell, he half-saw the light pink uniform of a Grenier marshal. He broke his fall with his arms, making sure that he landed facedown. He didn’t want them to see his face; he didn’t think the Grenier marshals were after him, but it was better to be cautious. “Watch where you’re going, escay,” a voice snarled.
Bowe lay still for a moment before turning to look up. Two marshals were strolling away from him. That’s a disadvantage to this disguise, he thought. Being treated like an escay. Bowe guessed they’d decided to shove him to the ground rather than walking around him; he should have been paying more attention. Bowe stood, brushed himself off, and continued on his way. That brought to mind another problem. Even meeting a Grenier ascor to give him a ruby garnet would be difficult. Drakasi had warned Bowe about returning to the Fortress.
Bowe spotted the stall he was looking for and moved toward it. Behind the stall, the old woman was packing up the carvings in boxes. He had been lucky to arrive in time to catch her; most of the other stalls had already been carted off.
“Closed,” the old woman croaked as he approached.
“Why do you pretend to be an old woman?” Bowe asked, picking up the lion carving again. It was made out of a dark, heavy wood, and the artist had caught the beast in mid-stride, its mane bouncing and its tail streaming behind it.
“If it isn’t mush-for-brains,” Iyra said, the croak gone from her voice. “How did you know it was me?”
“I didn’t until now,” Bowe said. “But I noticed your hands earlier—not the hands of an old woman. Something about them jolted my memory. And I wondered.”
“Hmm, evidence of intelligence. You can’t be the same waterlogged Green I dragged from the bay. Why did you kill poor mush-for-brains and steal his body?”
“Very funny.” Bowe didn’t let himself smile. She was still in the Guild. Even if they decided to make use of each other, that didn’t mean they were friends. “Why are you pretending to be an old woman?”
“It amuses me, and it helps with the haggling. Now I’m packing up. Give me back my lion or give me a gold piece for it.”
“A gold piece?” Bowe almost dropped the carving.
“Special price for you. Reports of your bargaining skills are legendary, and I wanted to get some of your money while I have a chance. I hear the Raine want their loan repaid.”
“Beautiful piece.” He turned it over in his hands, ignoring her barbs. “Who made it?”
Iyra snatched the carving out of his hand. “Give it back if you’re not going to buy it. What do you want?”
This was the moment. Was he was willing the work with the Guild? Whenever he thought about it, his mind went in circles. Was it a betrayal of the ascor? Was the Guild evil? Was the Green Path corrupted? If so, should he even try to walk it? He hadn’t figured it all out in his head. But on a deep level within himself, he’d accepted working with the Guild. He just had to go through with it. He took a breath and then blurted out, “I’ve decided to accept your deal.”
“Offer’s no longer on the table.”
Bowe jerked back. After all the soul searching, he hadn’t expected to get his acceptance thrown back in his face. But when he thought about it, he realized he didn’t believe her. “I doubt that. It took a great deal of effort to save me, and there was plenty of risk in making that offer. You want this more than I do.”
“Ah, now that’s more like the cocky little lordling I rescued.” She stepped around to Bowe’s side of the stall and shook her hood back. “Do you still fear infection from filthy escay?”
Those smoky gray eyes still had an effect on him. Bowe took a step back, which made Iyra smile widely.
He wasn’t going to let her get the upper hand this time. “You need me.” His voice wasn’t as firm as he would have liked.
“We can find someone else.”
That made Bowe pause. He’d been thinking about it from his standpoint, but what about hers? Why had she saved him? She’d said it hadn’t been by chance. Why were she and the Guild interested in him? And then it hit him—the way he was unique: he was the last Bellanger. He needed to use that.
“I want your biggest garnet set into a neck clasp and given to me.”
“You exp—”
Bowe didn’t let her finish. “Yes. That’s exactly what I expect,” he said. “And you’ll do it, too. That’s the only way you’ll get anything other than a cell in the Fortress for those garnets. And have the clasp brought to me in Bellanger Mansion.”
Bowe left before she had a chance to reply.
Chapter 8
35 Days Left
Glil followed Bowe into the tailor shop. “I still can’t believe you’re going ahead with this,” he said.
“I’ve done stupider things,” Bowe replied.
“That’s not something to boast about.”
The shop was dim and compact. It looked like a hovel from the outside, but it was clean inside. Cloaks, dresses, shirts, and pants hung from the ceiling and Bowe and Glil ducked under the clothes to reach the counter. Most of the clothes were white with a dash of color, as this shop mainly sold to ascor. A row of hats circled the ceiling, pegged on hooks set high on the walls. The tailor was so short that his head was barely above the counter. He rested his arms on the wood and dry-washed his hands. Behind him, rolls of fabric filled the shelves. “How may I help you?”
Bowe pretended not to see him. He
peered behind the counter and looked around. After a moment, his gaze finally fell on the tailor. “There you are. What are you doing down there?”
“Oh, a comedian. Lucky me,” the tailor said dryly. “No one has ever made fun of my size before. That’s a new one.”
“No need to be short with me,” Bowe said. When the tailor didn’t react, Bowe continued. “Fine, straight to business. Some people are no fun. We are two Greens out on the town, and we’re here to have some fun and buy some clothes.”
“I’m not here to have fun; I’m here to remind you to take this more seriously,” Glil said. “You are being too rash, risking too much on this one plan. If you don’t care about your own life, at least think about your loyal Defenders.”
Bowe looked around. “Ah, my numerous Defenders. Why don’t I take them into account? Maybe because they are invisible.”
“Not to interrupt,” the tailor broke in, “Oh—wait. I do want to interrupt. Very much so. Please make it stop. Why do two Greens want to buy ascor clothes? Shouldn’t you be out killing other Greens or some such?”
“My killing hand is a bit tired.” Bowe shook his arm. “All that slashing and beheading—nothing like a bit of shopping to take your mind off the blood and gore. Do you have anything in Bellanger azure?”
“To show off the bloodstains to maximum effect?” the tailor asked.
“No, I’m serious. Something for the ascor ball in two days, in azure.”
“He’s serious,” Glil added. “Can you talk him out of it?”
The tailor’s eyes narrowed as he realized what Bowe wanted. “You have money?”
Bowe slipped a pouch from his belt and showed the tailor the glint of gold inside.
The tailor became more animated. “I think I have one roll left. I nearly threw it out recently. I mean, who is going to wear anything with…” He trailed off. “Wait here.” He disappeared down some stairs in the corner.
Glil turned to Bowe. “Come on, give up this Bellanger stuff. I went along with staying in Bellanger Mansion—and that’s only because it beats sleeping in a doorway—but this is too much. Dressing up as a Bellanger and trying to gatecrash an ascor ball—getting refused entry is the best thing that can happen. In which case, you’ll just have wasted most of our money on clothes. I don’t even want to think about the worst case.”
“No one walks the Path without taking risks.”
“There’s a difference between taking a risk and walking into a fire and expecting not to get burned. Those balls are surrounded by marshals. Even Zidel and Reyanu couldn’t get in, and you’re still a Deadbeat as far as most are concerned.”
“Shhh. My numerous loyal but invisible Defenders think I’m an Elect. Don’t disappoint them.”
“Come on, stop making jokes. Get real.” Glil smacked a nearby cloak, causing it to swing back and forth. In the small room, the cloak hit all the other garments hanging up, and Glil and Bowe had to duck to avoid the moving clothes.
“Stop that.” The tailor had returned and was now unrolling a wide swath of azure fabric. He was short enough to stand below all the clothes.
“Amazing how you’re able to avoid the swinging garments without ducking. Do you have magical powers?” Bowe asked.
“Now that you’re potentially a paying customer, do I have to laugh at your jokes?” The tailor smoothed out the blue cloth.
“Go with your gut.”
The tailor showed his teeth in a grimace.
Bowe jumped back and grabbed Glil’s shoulder. “I told you goblins were real—they’re not just monsters in picture books.”
“Glad that you’re still finding everything amusing.” Glil turned his head away.
Bowe grabbed Glil’s shoulder. “Come on, laughing is allowed. We all fall off the Path. Best to go out in style.” Bowe had joked with Vitarr like this all the time. Vitarr understood. It was the ascor way—understanding that death was a mere falling from the Path. Bowe himself had forgotten that recently. Perhaps he’d become too upset at the deaths of Vitarr and Chalori. No, that wasn’t right—they deserved to be mourned. Still, there was no reason that Bowe couldn’t set forth on the Path with a laugh for the dangers it held.
“There’s a difference between falling and jumping headlong to your doom.” Glil kept his face turned away.
Bowe turned to the tailor. “He’s no fun today. At least he’s not talking about his rock people, though.” The tailor raised his eyebrows. “Yes, be glad you don’t know what I’m talking about. Now, about this cloth.” Bowe ran his fingers along the soft material. The rich dark blue color was gorgeous; at least his family had good taste. “You were about to throw it out. That makes it pretty worthless.”
The tailor gave a small smile. “Might have been worthless yesterday. Today, the value’s gone up.”
“It’ll be worthless again in a few days, most likely. I have a wild thought: rather than wasting white cloth, why don’t you make my whole outfit out of this material? You’ve enough, and it’s not much good to you unless I buy it. How many other Bellangers do you expect to walk in?”
The tailor snorted out a laugh. “You can be funny when you want to be.” Then, seeing Bowe’s face, his eyes widened. “You’re not joking. You actually want me to…” He looked down at the azure cloth. “To use this as the base material for your clothing and not just as trimming? And you want to attend the ascor ball? Do you know how many fashion crimes you’ll be committing? Not to mention how you’ll be boiled alive wearing something this dark coming up to the Infernam.”
The tailor was right on all points. Bowe had never seen an ascor costume that wasn’t mostly white. And he knew that light-colored clothing was needed to deflect the heat. But now that he’d gotten the idea in his head, he liked it. Gatecrashing the ball cloaked in Bellanger blue—what a sensation he would cause.
“I’ll only be wearing it at night, so the heat won’t be too bad,” he told the tailor. “What do you say? Can you create an outfit for me in time?”
“Certainly not. I’ve got a reputation. If people found out I created the monstrosity that you are describing…” He shuddered.
Bowe jingled his pouch in front of the tailor. “I’ll give you a gold for it. And, providing that the quality of the clothing is top notch in all respects, excepting the color, I won’t tell anyone who made it for me. What do you say? You get to turn a roll of worthless cloth and a day and a half’s work into a whole gold.”
“One gold?” Glil asked. “Are you kidding me? For the ugliest set of clothes that will ever see the light of day?”
Bowe could see that Glil was calculating how much of the Raine money Bowe was wasting. Pretty much all of it. Bowe was gambling everything on this one shot. He held his breath as the tailor thought for a long moment. “One gold, five silvers,” he said finally.
Glil groaned. Bowe took from his pouch one gold and two silvers and placed them on the counter. “Now, I know we are supposed to do that haggling thing, but I don’t feel like it right now, so can we skip it? We’ll just pretend you fought hard for one gold and three silvers and I refused to budge from one gold and one silver. We battled long and hard, eventually settling on one gold, two silvers.”
The tailor looked at the money, sighed, then slid the coins from the counter into his hand. It was just as well; Bowe needed his last silver for transportation.
Chapter 9
33 Days Left
The rickshaw seemed to be making more vertical than horizontal movement. It bounced with every half-turn of the wheel, and Bowe clutched his seat tightly, wondering if there was any way to back out now. There wasn’t, though—not really. The rickshaw puller had taken his last silver, and even then it had been a hard sell. The puller didn’t seem too keen on transporting a Green to the ascor ball. Using an enclosed rickshaw was the easiest way to get though the outer ring of marshals around Lessard Mansion; most of the invited guests would be using something similar, so this would at least get Bowe to the door. After that…
The rickshaw gave another almighty jolt and lurched to a stop. Bowe peeked out the curtain—they were outside the main entrance. A rolled-out carpet in Lessard green led the way inside. Marshals wearing mint-cream uniforms flanked either side of the carpet. Bowe waited for the rickshaw puller to announce him. Bowe, of House Bellanger, he was supposed to say. Instead, Bowe heard a hushed growl from above him. “Get out,” the man said.
Bowe shook his head up at the puller as he opened the rickshaw door and stepped onto the sea-green carpet. The puller didn’t even glance down at him; he pulled off as soon as Bowe closed the door, leaving Bowe to face the double row of spear-wielding marshals unannounced. Still, his clothes proclaimed him better than a newsbard shouting his name from the rooftops. They announced the arrival of a crazy person.
Bowe strode down the carpet, pretending he belonged there, but he quivered inside. One of the marshals almost let his spear fall at the sight of him, but recovered in time. None of them challenged him until he reached the main entrance. There, a more senior marshal blocked his path. He was short, and though he was only in his thirties, he was already balding. He wore a long sword at his belt. The way he stood suggested that he knew how to use the sword; the way his hand hovered over the hilt showed that he wanted to use it.
“I am Tokanu, and you are lost.” He scanned Bowe up and down. “In mind as well as in body.”
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