And not even the first time you've gotten paid, fool. Their arrangement had been, of course, that he was to be paid in advance to secure his services. But their contract detailed that he was to prove himself reliable through a temporary 'trial phase', during which Mastodon had paid a partial deposit. Now, having given her no reason to squirm about commissioning him, it was time to collect the rest of what he was owed.
“Thank you, Mastress,” he offered, briefly inclining his head.
She shook her own. “So gracious,” she noted, as if disapproving. But it was halfhearted, inconsequential. She would not presume to rule him.
Perhaps I should curb that. Did it register as a certain weakness? He didn't know. It was impossible to know how to go about acting in such a fraternity. He simply could never be sure – was always guessing, or second-guessing.
“Well, off with you,” she dismissed before he could fashion a response. He turned to leave without another word, strolling out with his riches, feeling out of place no matter what he did. Even when he could utterly compose himself – that felt almost more out of place than anything. Because he should never in good conscience be able to achieve such composure given the circumstances.
There was no way to win.
Your life of crime just paid off, he found himself thinking as he walked the cave-like halls to his courtyard. A look of disgust penciled itself across his face at the thought. Suddenly he knew he would not be able to bring himself to so much as test the weight of the money bag – something that would normally have been a tempting, natural motion. He wouldn't count it. He wouldn't spend – would he spend it?
He took pause at that, wondering. What a novel idea. There were possibilities there...and something he could certainly use. He imagined it would end up being too tempting...
Really, he was obligated. He'd as good as committed to making an appearance at the soup kitchens when the princess was to serve in a few days' time; he really had little choice but to solve the matter of his unstately garb. He could always show up in his usual attire and simply play the adventurer again, but the nature of such an undertaking seemed much more reliant on a night setting. Surely he would never get away with such swashbuckling during lawful, daylight hours. As well, he had a much greater chance of being recognized if he went out like this during the day – and to such a public place! He should not go at all, but – ah, he had been a fool. He'd mindlessly committed, grasping at the chance to see her again.
Now, he would do nothing to dismiss that fool, and remain enchanted with the opportunity.
So – yes. Better clothes.
As long as he sported his face, of course, he could not risk making a visit to any high-profile dealers for the articles. He would have to settle for the lower-quality copy-cats down on Market Street. Half the time the bargainers down there could not even speak coherently in the common language, and one was wiser not to question their sources for their wares. They would have to do, though. Hopefully Princess Catris would not notice the difference. The noble-born usually could – one could count on them to – but given the humble circumstances of their next meeting, perhaps she would not. He would stand out above the masses there, and hopefully that would be enough.
Arriving at the courtyard, he reached into the bag Mastodon had given him and tossed Seth one of the smaller pouches that divided the sum into more practical amounts.
“Take a share,” he said.
Seth caught it, just before it thwacked into his throat. He turned it over in his hand, considering it, as if sifting through peculiar soil.
“Nothing like getting paid for this,” Godren remarked. “When it was bad enough getting away with it.”
Seth did not respond, and when Godren checked on him over his shoulder, his friend was up-ending the pouch without expression into the fountain. Taken aback, Godren came to stand next to him, watching the coins sink to the bottom and settle there, single-handedly wasted.
“What–” he began.
“It's going to take that many wishes, Godren.”
He could not argue with that.
They stood for a time, regarding the shimmering representatives of a thousand un-heard wishes, lying cold and hard on the bottom, where they would sit, and tarnish, and, hopefully, one day be accepted as an offering by the gods, who might choose to go easy with their judgment of the innocent as they flew low over the Underworld.
*
Adorned in his fancy new bells and whistles, Godren made his nerve-laced way toward the soup kitchens a few miles west in the city. He had opted for a simple, pure white shirt and new pair of black breeches to replace his adventuresome garb, figuring that the princess would not judge the details of his attire as tediously if he was less ambitious with those details. A respectable ruffle cascaded down the front of the casual but flattering low-buttoned shirt, as well as clasping his wrists with gentle frill at the ends of the sleeves. Surely that was enough to boast his wealth but simply appear as if he'd opted to go casual for the outing.
He had also, of course, invested in a new pair of boots. That was a necessity. His old ones, scuffed and beaten, would never draw themselves up next to his flawless new attire. Now, he sported a lovely unmarred pair, black and polished.
So, now that he had the costume, he need only devise a story to go with it. After all, he was expected to relay adventure stories upon this visit. That was their agreement.
He honestly did not know what he was going to tell her. And, honestly, he did not much care, he realized.
Feeling airy and polished, he breezed down all the side streets content with the idea of making something up on the spot. He could not concentrate enough to compose anything ahead of time.
The 'soup kitchens' manifested as an alley lined with tables that the poor could approach, behind which stood the old fortification that the volunteers employed for the cooking and preparation. Godren paused at the edges of it all, avoiding the teeming fray of the hungry, searching for the face that had become all too familiar to him of late. He did not see her at first, among the sea of peasants.
A second sweep showed him why; she was dressed just as they were.
Godren marveled, caught in wonder at the unexpected sight. It was perhaps for security, he supposed; while dabbling in such a neighborhood, she would not necessarily want to stand out – whether to be targeted, or to be distracted from the purpose she had come for. But he also saw it as gesture of good will, a tribute to the poor: a princess willing to walk in their shoes for a day.
She was all the more lovely because of it.
Filling his lungs, he broke from his idle stance and approached. He treaded lightly, but no one studied his face here. They were here for the soup, for the promise of a warm meal in their waifish bellies. Today, their bellies were their eyes. And the princess was the face they went to, with nothing but thanks.
There was no conviction here.
He went up close to the tables, his lips tweaked at the endearing sight of Catris ladling an unmanageable number of bowls at once, executing the task with impressive efficiency, a soup stain on her sleeve and one spilled down her bodice. She smiled with affection at those who came to her table, greeting them and holding small talk, somehow keeping up with the masses and making them all feel like pampered individuals.
She was gifted.
When there was a break in traffic, he took his turn and wandered up.
“My lady,” he said as her head was down, her concentration snagged from spooning soup into a bowl. She looked up, hair in her face. Then she smiled.
“A good day to you, sir,” she greeted, and thrust the bowl of soup at him, an impish grin possessing the innocent smile. “This should do the trick.”
It was an ironic blow, being treated such, since he had taken pains to appear wealthy yet it hit right on the mark of the reality he was hiding.
“I'm only joking, Lord Ren,” she revised, putting the soup down for the next taker who might want it. “This is an unspeakable improve
ment.”
He took in her own attire once more. “Well, unlike me, then, the rugged style does nothing to disarm you of your charms,” he said back.
Her eyes came up from the soup once more, delightfully taken aback. But then, slowly, she her lips curved again.
He turned his own eyes down on the table, taking in her work. “This is quaint,” he remarked in approval, nodding. “You do good work here.”
“It is readily enough accepted,” she agreed. “But what of your work? Have you come to recount the grand adventures of the streets to me?”
He nodded. “Though I have not yet devised a proper way to go about abridging them to spare a princess the gritty details. I am grossly aware that discretion is in order, here.”
“Please,” she said wryly. “I was not raised to faint at the smell of blood. Save discretion for those who cannot stomach their own corsets.”
“Well then. You cannot help but remind me of the time I grappled with an old woman. The women here are fierce,” he concurred in a confounded sense that was surely a compliment to her.
“Did she win, then?” Catris wanted to know.
“I'm afraid...this is one of those instances I absolutely must use my discretion, my lady, and leave that detail out.”
She laughed. “You sore-losing oaf.”
He was grinning now, unable to help himself. And he hadn't lied.
Not yet.
He wished that could suffice as recounting his tales, and they could move on to safer topics. If only a mention was enough to satisfy.
“Well what did this old woman do to earn your ire? I must take lessons, and be sure not to irk you, if you are prone to grappling with women when they are not agreeable.”
“You should not be worried,” he reminded her, “if I was so easily corrected the first time.”
“Well where are the battlescars?” she prompted, sure that if he had lost to a woman, there would be horrid marks to prove it.
“Again, my lady,” he said with a wicked grin, “I'm afraid that calls for discretion.”
She had stopped serving soup, delighted and thoroughly taken with their exchange. A moral pang shot through him for distracting her thus, taking her away from her noble causes, but he was beside himself with gratification for having such an effect on her. Who was he, to charm her Royal Highness so? It went to his head.
“What else have you done, then?” Catris pressed. “Surely something more noteworthy than grappling with old women. That is not precisely what I had in mind when you said you adventured down all the dark alleys. Come now; don't disappoint me.”
Godren inclined his head modestly. “I've rescued a few damsels in distress,” he admitted. That was not a lie either. One came across these things when one lived in the street shadows. And he was not one to walk on by.
“Let me guess,” the princess said, “This is another time discretion is in order.”
“You catch on quickly,” he complimented her.
She shook her head once with a breathy chuckle. “You prove most difficult, Ren.”
“Only in your best interests.”
“I could hate you for saying that, you know. Coddling gets most wearisome where I'm from.”
“I would not want you to hate me. May I help you? Perhaps I can redeem my character that way.”
She considered, chewing the inside of her lip. “If you wish,” she granted, looking pleased and shy at once.
Godren moved around to her side of the table, and took up a bowl. She watched him for a moment, charmed, as he began the humble task of spooning soup, same as she had, without flinching or turning his nose up at the task.
Godren was not one to turn his nose up at a good bowl of soup.
Then Catris worked her own way back into the motions, and soon they were handing out bowls as swiftly as she had been upon his arrival. Conversation was limited after that, for there were a great many who demanded attention, but there were little things, here and there – little things passed between them as if they were comfortable old acquaintances, and this was just another day on the farm. It was not even disorienting, though it should have been. Godren found himself entirely comfortable, forgetting his station, forgetting her station. She was an angel, not a princess. An angel sent to walk among the people. They were all entitled to come to her.
It felt wonderful as well because it seemed he truly was redeeming his character with the act, what small traces that he could. It made up for some of the things he had done – was doing – in Mastodon's name. He did not only serve the crime queen. He served the Princess, and the kingdom, as well.
It by no means smoothed it all over, but it was one thing that lit a candle in his soul. One thing that he could be proud of. He needed things like this, to maintain his sanity.
Thank you, Princess. You have served the people of your city well today, more than you know.
Princess Catris Vandelta had allowed a criminal to redeem a small part of his being this day. Bless her for the rebel that she was.
When the crowd dwindled, Godren scraped the last bit of stew from the bottom of the pot, slopped it in a bowl, and handed it to her. “For you, my lady.”
She smiled, took it, and set it down only to scrape her pot as well, and hand him a bowl in turn.
*
Seth had bought a cloak, a pie, and a game of chess. The fountain in the courtyard was still amply glistening with currency, though. Godren was pleased to see that he was doing well for himself.
“Pie?” Seth asked.
“What kind?”
“The good kind.”
“Fair enough.” Taking Seth up on the offer, Godren went to the fountain rim and served himself a piece of the pie that steamed there. It was cherry.
“Chess?” Seth asked next.
“Most definitely.” A little fun was the perfect way to end an erstwhile lovely day.
Having himself a seat, Godren balanced his pie on his knee and went about setting up his pieces.
Seth eyed him. “You look fancy.”
“I was tired of looking bloody.”
“White was a bad choice.”
Grunting, Godren took a bite, and wiped crumbs from his lips. “It's a novelty. Short-lived, perhaps, but – ah. The good things rarely last.”
Seth tweaked an eyebrow in agreement.
They considered the board a moment, and then Seth made his first move. Godren followed suit, settling into a mindset of strategy, nursing the competitive streak he and Seth had always shared for the sport.
They were scarcely four moves in, however, when Bastin poked his head in.
“You,” he addressed, and the game fell like water through their fingers. “Someone was murdered in the eastern alleys of the Ruins. Mastodon says: clean it up.” With that, he left them to it.
A look of disgust stunk up Seth's eyes.
Godren could not say he relished such a task himself. He was not sure cleaning up murders was in his job description. But he supposed it was probably in the fine print somewhere in his contract. And if not, well – he did not suppose it would be in his best interests to argue it. He also supposed: it was at least better than killing. Disgusting and unfortunate, but not an atrocity that was on him.
Yet... It was certainly one way to ruin a perfect day.
19: The Package
Their next mission, as it turned out, boasted another unforeseen nature. “The gypsies are in town,” Mastodon said. “They should have a package for me.” She supplied them with a horse and wagon, told them where the gypsies were making camp in one of the lesser squares, and had Kane see them off.
“So she has it in with the gypsies,” Seth commented. “You know, she looks kind of like a gypsy.”
It was true. She could easily have passed for one among them. “You could be onto something, Seth,” Godren agreed. “But I daresay we'll never know.”
“What do you suppose they have for her?”
“I don't suppose we have clearance to suppose ab
out it.”
“Did she say that?”
“It's generally understood in the world of business, Seth. One does not pry into the boss's packages. Especially when business is shady, unless you want to get in that deep.”
“I didn't mean 'pry'. I just meant peek.”
“Any respectable package will be sealed for transport. I don't think a peek would look like any less of a pry, seeing as you have to open it either way.”
“Suppose it's not sealed.”
“You are the supposing-est friend I know. Do you know that?”
Seth wilted, and glowered. “I just hate secrets. I hate doing business blindly. At least with a gun you know what you're shooting at. Just what do you suppose we're delivering her? Hm?”
“You haven't even seen it yet. Give it a chance to give you some clues pertaining to its relative size and shape, if you must.”
It bothered Godren, too, of course – the idea of being the middleman for motives he was not privy to. But he was more wary of breaching a contract than Seth was.
They trundled through the city, lifting the cowls of their cloaks once they were out of the Ruins. Godren was thankful for the excuse of the cold. In summer, it would not be so easy to travel under the radar. As it was, no one would look twice at them for the cover-up.
The gypsy camp became evident before it was in sight. The glow of it blushed into the nearby streets, and there was the jingle of coin-adorned attire and the laughter of men. Also: the juicy smell of roasting meat. As they got closer, Godren made out a string of music as well.
They pulled in, and those nearest to the area in which they parked paused in their casual festivities to regard them, then rose to approach them. Godren swung down from the wagon, and directed his bearing accordingly. A dark-haired man with green eyes and a large gold ring in his ear sauntered up, looking somehow guarded and amused at once.
Godren extended a hand. “We're here on business,” he said. “There should be a package.”
Shaking his hand, the gypsy nodded. “Ah, yes. There should be. The code, if you please, gentlemen,” he prompted.
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