“All right,” Seth agreed. He leaned on his broom. “I’ll just let them have this one last meal.”
“Fair enough,” Morgan said. “Remind me to give you some money when you come inside; I’ll be wanting you to run down to Halvard’s later on.”
“I won’t forget,” Seth assured her as she disappeared through the doorway. Once she was gone, he turned to the birds. “Sorry, fellows,” he told them, “but rules are rules. You’ll have to find your bread somewhere else from now on.” In truth, the birds reminded him of himself—he’d been hardly better than a beggar when Deinol found him.
He went back inside, giving the room a cursory glance as he headed for the stairs. Roger was here this morning, putting in a drink and a chat before he started his day, as he often did. He was just the same as always: bright red hair, scrupulously clean-shaven face, and an endless appetite for talk. He might have no skills with a blade to speak of (Seth barely did, either, and Roger was always kind to him on that account), but he could talk his way out of just about anything. He smiled at Seth as he passed by, gave a customary wink. “Not too sleepy, I hope?” he asked.
“Not hardly, thanks,” Seth said, and couldn’t help smiling; Roger knew how many times Morgan’d had to yank him from his bed. “Early morning’s the ripest time for work, don’t you always say that?”
“And it’s a fact,” Roger said, nodding. “If a man’s trying to get anything of import done in the dark of night, you can be sure he doesn’t half know what he’s about. What’ll he do if his neighbor can’t sleep? But even murderers retire when the sun starts to rise.” He turned back to the bar. “Speaking of sleep, Morgan, you ought to try it sometime.”
“How funny you are, Roger,” she replied, barely looking up from polishing the bar.
“Funny? What’s funny about it? Sleep does wonders for the temperament—just ask your boy here.”
“Hey,” Seth said, “leave me out of it.”
Roger laughed. “Clever lad.”
“You swept the cellar, didn’t you?” Morgan asked, picking at an imaginary splinter in the wood.
“Aye,” Seth said. “Yesterday, like you asked.”
“But you’ll need to do the upstairs,” she said.
He nodded. “I’m on my way. You can give me whatever I’ll need for Halvard’s when I come back down.”
Morgan was still young, though Roger often said she acted like an old lady. She was lean and tough, but soft in certain places, if you knew how to look. And Seth had always thought she was pretty, with long dark hair and dark eyes to match. Roger said it was because he was fond of her, and Deinol said it was because he had more sweetness than sense, but Seth didn’t have to force it—it was just there, whenever he looked at her.
He had the day half planned out already: if he got the upstairs swept quick enough, Morgan wouldn’t mind if he dawdled a bit on the way back from the shop. Deinol would be up by then for sure, and he was never a hard man to find—not if you weren’t a guardsman. Maybe Lucius would be with him, and he could watch them spar, but Seth also liked it when it was just the two of them.
It was Deinol he loved best. Deinol had convinced Morgan to take him in in the first place. He never had a harsh word for him, and Seth could always come find him and talk to him, no matter when or where, and know that Deinol would be happy to see him. He never felt in the way, as he did so often otherwise.
But he’d hardly reached the landing when he heard Morgan calling for him again. “Seth, get back down here, would you? I’ve changed my mind.”
It wasn’t like Morgan to change her mind, so Seth ran back down quickly, settling the broom over one shoulder. He found her peering into a pot, wrinkling her nose contemplatively.
“The stew’s almost out, but it seems a shame to get rid of this last bit,” Morgan said. “It’s not enough to make much of a profit, but perhaps Braddock and those bandits would be interested.” She smiled at him. “More for us if not, eh?”
Seth smiled back. “I can go get them if you’d like.”
“Would you? Braddock never strays far, and the others are probably just loafing about somewhere, as usual.” She shook her head. “Ill at the thought of honest work, yet they can rob a caravan like professionals. Sometimes I’d swear mine’s the only honest business in all of Sheath.”
“I’d back you on that wager, Morgan,” Roger called, holding his tankard high.
* * *
Seth darted through the alleyways, his feet finding the way almost by reflex. When he first came to Sheath, he’d gotten lost at least a dozen times in succession; he’d thought he’d never learn his way around. And now here he was, traversing with ease what a stranger would call a maze. The thought made him smile.
It hadn’t taken but three people asked to hear the story: Lucius and Deinol had gone to practice as usual, but this time Braddock was with them. Seth knew where they’d be: there was a nice wide alley that hit a dead end behind the ruins of a Ninist vestry. He arrived just in time to see Lucius strike Braddock so hard with the flat of his blade that Braddock lost his footing, falling forward onto the cobbles as Lucius stepped back.
Deinol watched with evident amusement from where he leaned against the wall, well out of the fray. But then he saw Seth, and his eyes brightened. “Got away from Morgan, have you? Come and watch. Lucius is having the best of it.”
“So far,” Lucius said, but Seth could tell he was pleased.
Braddock spat the dust from his mouth, bracing his weight against his weapon as he struggled to his feet. He was fighting with a sword today, and no doubt that didn’t help him: Braddock preferred axes, but even though the three of them had always practiced with live steel, his favorite ax was still far too dangerous to spar with. “You damned cocky bastard,” he hissed, his teeth gritted.
Deinol laughed. “I’m a damned cocky bastard, Braddock. Lucius is just good.”
The man in question loosed an easy smile, lowering his blade. “You’ll go again, then, Braddock? You don’t look licked just yet.”
“And it’s a look you’ll never see on me; bet your throat on that,” Braddock replied, rolling his shoulders to work the kinks out. “Try me.”
“With pleasure.” Seth was always struck by just how fast Lucius was; he darted forward on the balls of his feet, seeming scarcely to touch the ground, or to flash from point to point as if by magic. Combining that speed with the surprising reach of that slender Aurnian blade he always favored, Lucius could bring a fight to you before you so much as had time to set your stance.
Braddock scowled, met the blow hard, but he was a born brawler, and strong enough to absorb the impact without breaking his block. He turned at the point of disengagement, flinging Lucius back with what seemed a mere flick of his wrist. But Lucius had reflexes such as Seth had never seen, and he refused to lose his balance, skidding only slightly.
“Not bad,” Deinol offered.
“Wasn’t asking you,” Braddock grunted, hefting his sword aloft for a mighty swing.
Lucius knew better than to take that head on, and the opposing blade hissed by his left shoulder. Braddock turned gamely at the end of the stroke, trying not to overreach, but Lucius swept his blade under and up, aiming right for Braddock’s chin. Braddock pushed back off his heels, then doubled back for a charge after the sword point passed him by. Lucius ducked as quickly as he could, just tearing the cloth at his elbow. They all paused a moment, squinted, but there was no blood.
“I daresay you’re getting angry with me, Braddock,” Lucius said with a slow grin.
Braddock shook his head. “Don’t like to lose, that’s all. Especially not to you.”
“And if I say you shall?”
Braddock didn’t bother answering in words, just brought his sword over and down with such force that Seth was tempted to close his eyes. But Lucius dodged easily, sending his sword’s edge skidding across the alley wall before clipping Braddock’s wrist almost gently.
With a muttered curse, Br
addock wheeled after him to strike again, but then Seth, with a sudden start, remembered why he was there. “Er,” he mumbled, “you see, Morgan says … Morgan says you’re to come right away if you hope to get what’s left of the stew—”
“Not now, boy,” Braddock snapped, and Seth’s voice died in his throat.
But Deinol came to his rescue, as always. “Now, fellows,” he said, “this fighting’s been getting a little too heated anyw—” But at that instant, Braddock caught Lucius square in the stomach with his flat, and Lucius, swept back with the force of it, nearly rammed right into Deinol. He caught himself before he could fall, though he swayed dangerously on his feet.
“Get you—for that,” he panted, with a determined smirk. Then he leaped into the air.
Braddock managed to get his sword up just in time to block, but Lucius wouldn’t be deterred, snapping one foot under their blades as he landed and catching Braddock in the ribs. When Braddock shifted to favor his wounded side, Lucius turned his sword sharply, connecting with Braddock’s cheek. The skin turned instantly red from the sting of the impact, but thankfully Lucius had struck with the flat, and there was no cut.
“Bastard—” But as Braddock tried to bring his weapon around and down, and Lucius set his stance in preparation, Deinol stepped between them, his own sword drawn, blocking Braddock’s blow. “That’s enough,” he said, trying to see behind him. “Lucius—”
“Don’t you interfere,” Braddock spat, shoving Deinol sprawling to the ground.
“Ow!” Deinol clutched at his sword. “You damn idiot—”
“—not your fight—”
“—just making him madder, Deinol—”
“I’m not finished with him—”
“You think I’m finished with you? Just trying to get you to calm—”
“—out of my blasted way—”
“If that’s how you want to play, you oaf, allow me to—”
“Er,” Seth tried, “you really shouldn’t—not all at once like—oh dear.”
Somewhere along the way the duel had turned into a brawl, and now all three of them were giving as good as they got. But just as Seth was turning to go fetch help, he was brought up short, hiccupping his heart out of his throat. Morgan was standing at the mouth of the alley, and she did not look pleased.
He ducked his head. “Morgan, I told them, but—”
“Never mind, Seth,” Morgan said quietly. “I’ll handle this.” She finished tugging on her gloves—thick leather, only slightly worn despite all the use they’d seen—curled her fingers once to check the joints, and strode nonchalantly into the fray.
They were so focused on one another that they didn’t even see her until it was too late. Her first blow caught Deinol right below the eye, and he recoiled, staggering back with an oath. Lucius, the most even-tempered of them all even on his worst day, retreated immediately, dropping his sword in favor of holding both hands before him in a gesture of surrender. But Braddock was still plunging after him, oblivious to all else, and Morgan half turned, giving him what could most properly be called a box on the ear. His head whipped around, just in time for her free fist to connect with his jaw. It took him more than a few moments to recover himself after that.
Morgan stood in their midst, nodding slightly in grim satisfaction. “Now then,” she said. “I suppose what stew we have left will be reserved for Seth and me. There may, however, be some bowls of soup available, provided there’ll be no more fighting today.”
They said nothing. It was probably wise, Seth thought.
* * *
When the lot of them trooped into the Dragon’s Head, Roger couldn’t help but burst out laughing.
Morgan was at their head, looking a little more miffed than usual, but also, to Roger’s trained eye, slightly remorseful. It was easy to see why: Deinol was massaging his cheek with the back of his hand, and while Braddock was too proud to show his hurts, the streak of red along his jaw was evidence enough. Seth trailed after them, and Lucius brought up the rear, trying his best to assume a sufficiently grave expression—he’d gotten off without a scratch, no doubt, but Roger wouldn’t have expected any less from him.
“Well, now,” he drawled. “Been brawling again, have we?”
“Go to hell,” Braddock said succinctly, heading toward his usual corner.
Roger beamed at the rest of them, but even Deinol seemed subdued. “It’s not a good day for jests, Roger,” he moaned, collapsing onto a barstool. “Gods, Morgan, you don’t play around, do you?”
Roger sighed. “No sense of humor—none at all. Is it any wonder her life’s so devoid of romance?”
“Will someone plug up that monkey,” Braddock growled, “or I’ll have to break my word and have just one more fight today.”
“Best to keep quiet, I think,” Lucius said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Plenty of time for ragging when your life’s not in danger.”
This was very true.
“Ah, well,” Roger said, “I suppose I prize my own skin as highly as the next man. Speaking of, Morgan, did I hear something about stew?”
The looks he got could have pierced steel.
* * *
Morgan closed the Dragon’s Head at midday—so she could take a quick rest before nightfall, she said, though Seth wondered if she’d actually be able to sleep. She left him to himself until sunset—even going to Halvard’s shop could wait until the morrow, she’d decided—but before he could even begin to think of what he wanted to do, Roger caught him by the sleeve as he headed out the door. “Say there, boy,” he said softly, with another of his winks, “how’d you like to feast your eyes on a secret?”
Seth hesitated, looking up at him. “If it’s such a secret, why would you show me?”
Roger grinned. “Because it’s too delicious a find to keep to myself, and telling someone now makes it less likely I’ll blurt it out when I’m in my cups. Besides, you’re a discreet lad, and we share an appreciation for forgotten things, don’t we?”
He was right about that—Roger knew Seth had a weakness for his stories. He rocked back on his heels, considering it. “It’s not … unlawful, is it? Because Morgan will—”
Roger waved a hand at him. “Gods, boy, no. I’ll dream up plenty of unlawful ways to make use of it, I’m sure, but I’ll not make an accomplice of you. I can respect honesty in a man—not enough to want any of it for myself, but there you have it.” He cocked his head. “So? Will you be seeing it, or won’t you?”
Seth finally smiled. “I’ll come,” he said.
He thought he knew the streets, but he’d no doubt Roger could walk them backward with his eyes closed. He never once looked about him to check the way, just strode forward confidently on his longer legs and left it to Seth to scramble after him. Seth counted every turn they made, checking each intersection to make sure he still knew where he was, and to his surprise found they were soon leaving Sheath entirely. The narrow jumble of streets straightened, but didn’t widen, into the long lanes of the Wilting Roses, the largest cluster of cheap brothels in the city. The air was awash with conflicting perfumes and experimental oils, sold as often as applied, and washing lines crisscrossed overhead like flags at a festival. Seth was mildly terrified they might be mistaken for customers, but Roger moved through the chaos with singular purpose, and it seemed that Seth could remain unnoticed in his wake. But as the streets sloped upward and finally widened out, the buildings got shorter, grayer, and older, and the strong scent of perfume gave way to the faint whiff of soot. There could be no doubt about it: they were passing into Wallward Heights.
“Roger,” he finally whispered, “are you sure this is a good idea?”
Roger looked back at him, surprised. “What’s the matter? Haven’t been any patrols based in Wallward since Elgar built them that new garrison in Edgewise. Moved them right out of the place I want to show you, in fact.”
“Aye,” Seth said, even though he hadn’t known that, “but you’re … not exactly popular
in Wallward, are you?”
Roger scratched his head a moment, then burst out laughing. “Oh, that? That bit about the southern plague? That was more than a year ago; nobody remembers that. Besides, even if they did, it’s not like they could prove anything. They want to forget it ever happened—trust me.”
Since it was agreed upon (though not always followed) that thieves didn’t cheat thieves, Roger kept his swindling schemes out of Sheath, foisting them instead on unsuspecting residential neighborhoods. Wallward Heights had been privy to a particularly lucrative one concerning the southern plague, and a cure that, Roger had assured him, really did work, for all he knew. The trouble was that no one had actually come down with the southern plague for the better part of a hundred years.
“You see, lad,” Roger continued, “while cheating a man by selling him something that doesn’t work is all well and fine, you’ll do your best when you sell him something that does work, but that he doesn’t need. The world is crammed to bursting with things that people don’t need, and you can get most of them for practically nothing until you decide to set the price. That cure, for instance. Now, remedies are good business to start with, because all you have to do is describe an ailment in enough detail and you’ll convince someone in your audience that he has it. And that’s all anyone can prove I did. So they couldn’t come charging up to me, demanding I return their coin just because I sold them something they only thought they needed—it was their mistake, not mine. But between you and me…” He hesitated, then lowered his voice. “Just between you and me, it was the symptoms of the southern plague that gave me the idea. It starts with a tingling in the hands, right? And then the fingers or feet go numb? Well, hypothetically speaking, apply a bit of snow’s down and you can get much the same result, can’t you? So I go around the neighborhood, explaining about the plague, detailing the very official nature of my cure, shaking a few hands—just a few, mind; don’t want to overdo it—and … well. Between my natural charm, a few cold fingers, and mankind’s tendency toward overactive imagination, they didn’t stand a chance.”
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