by Fiona Patton
As long as you get out safely, Brax reminded himself cautiously. Plenty of lifters were snatched outside Usara-Cami on the last day of Low Spring. But they made it past the gate guards without incident and the three of them relaxed. As they headed back toward the market street and a proper breakfast, Cindar began to whistle.
They stopped at a small, moldy-smelling fishmonger’s stall built against Oristo-Cami’s outer wall to barter the lime slices and ginger for a large helping of fresh tchiros—the first of the season as hundreds of the small, silvery fish had come through Gol-Beyaz the day before on their way to the northern Deniz-Siyah Sea. After a pointless argument with the fishmonger, Cindar gave the bulk of the food to Spar after Brax had glared at him. Then, once his oldest delinkos had quietly slipped him the purses, he handed them each a few copper aspers. “Go eat,” he ordered, “then get back to work and meet me at Uzum-Dukkan after the noon song. Don’t go near that bastard ironmonger’s shop; he thinks I owe him money for a lock pick, and keep away from the bookbinders or I’ll skin you both. I’ll not have them filling your heads with romantic garbage.” Before the boys could even acknowledge his words, he was heading for his favorite and most disreputable raki shop in Dockside. Shaking his head, Brax turned back to the fishmonger who handed them an extra piece of tchiros with a neutral expression.
They passed it between them as they made their way through the crowded market streets. Brax haggled with a fruitier while Spar managed to hook two dried apricots off her counter, then they both ducked under an awning when the younger boy sensed a troop of Estavia’s guards approaching. With Spar tucked protectively behind him, Brax watched as the six armored soldiers passed them by, tall spears gleaming as brightly as the red painted eyes of Estavia on their leather breastplates, then led the way down a narrow close. Slipping into the deep, boarded-up doorway of an empty warehouse, he crouched and emptied the fifth purse he hadn’t mentioned to Cindar onto the wooden threshold between them while Spar kept watch.
“Five—no, piss on it—four aspers,” he said, peering at the smooth bit of metal in his hand. “One pretty good slug, and a half decent purse to barter with later; not bad.” Returning two of the coins to the purse, he handed it to Spar before his share and the slug went into a small cloth bag held around his neck by a frayed length of twine. “Not enough for a jacket,” he admitted, “but enough for tea with bread and honey before we meet up with Cindar later, yeah?” Pressing his back against the door, he tested its strength absently, before glancing up at the younger boy. “So, how’re you feeling now?” he asked.
Spar stuffed his apricot into his mouth before giving a careless half-nod, half-shrug in reply.
“Great.” Brax stood. “So, where do you wanna go, the bookbinders just ‘cause Cindar told us not to?’ he asked with a laugh, then sobered at Spar’s hopeful expression. Spar had a thing for beautiful books and Cindar was always afraid that some binder would fall for his wide blue eyes and wistful expression. If truth be told, Brax was a little afraid of that too, but unlike Cindar, he wouldn’t deny it to him if it happened. He didn’t think he would anyway. ”We’ll go this afternoon,“ he promised. ”But we have to make some shine this morning and we can’t do that with you gawking at books all day.“ At Spar’s reluctant nod, he leaned against the building. ”So where’ll it be? You wanna head over to the docks, maybe? The wharves’ll be full of ships tied up for Havo’s Dance, and their sailors’ll be out and about with the shine burning holes in their pockets. We could ... you know, catch it as it falls out?“ he said with an air of such exaggerated innocence that the younger boy gave a snorting laugh. His answering grin of pure avarice brought an equally greedy smile to Brax’s face and, throwing one arm over the younger boy’s shoulder, he drew him back onto the street. ”Well, c‘mon, then,“ he said in gruff imitation of Cindar’s voice, ”before the crowds thin out.“ Together they made for the high, flag-decked masts just visible to the north.
The territorial shrieking of the gulls and terns perched on the docks’ many stone piers announced their arrival long before the cold, glistening waters of the Halic-Salmanak Strait came into view. As Brax had said they’d be, the wharves were tightly packed with ships of every size, shape, and description, sails wrapped and cargo safely stowed away before the coming of Havo’s Dance. The wooden walkways were crowded with people: sailors from northern Volinsk and Rostov, glaring at each other from under their distinctively honey-brown and sun-bleached brows; Yuruk nomads of the Berbat-Dunya, looking both romantic and dangerous with their ornately carved horse bows and tall animal-tail standards, wild-haired Petchan hill fighters, looking half mad from the unaccustomed crowds even though most people gave them a wide berth, southern traders from the far off islands of Thasos and Ithos, and even a few farmers from the Northern Trisect come to barter the last of their dried fruit and beans for spices, clothing, and metalwork, all surrounded by dozens of local porters, donkey drivers, translators, salap sellers, money changers, scribes, and priests eager to accept their coin and their goods. Beside them carters and street vendors selling everything from raki, tea, and cider, to kindling, candles, and oil, lined up before every hostel, inn, and tavern on the docks. One harried looking youth in a leather apron passed a bag of flaxseed, two small white cats, and a broom through a doorway from one seller before accepting a large jar of honey perched precariously on top of a huge wheel of cheese and a joint of mutton from another, all the while arguing furiously with a local ratcatcher who was insulted by the purchase of the cats. Every establishment with room to lay a spare blanket in would be filled to bursting tonight as half the city crowded together to sit out Havo’s Dance in comfort and company, and all the city’s merchants were scrambling to take advantage of it before dusk. Including the ratcatchers.
Brax’s dark mood returned at the thought of the festivities they’d be missing. Cindar’d been thrown out of every half decent public house on the docks. If it wasn’t for him they could have spent Havo’s Dance by a warm taproom fire listening to songs and stories from across the sea, drinking rize chai and being fussed over by the more maternal servers, instead of crouching in their cold little room listening to him snore. Growling to himself, Brax made for a knot of inebriated Volinski sailors, determined to steal his way into a better mood.
Behind him, Spar followed, his own expression cautious. In this mood Brax was motivated but combative, much like Cindar, and needed extra watching.
An hour later they shared a boka stuffed with lufer fish at a food stall tucked under the shadow of a large fishing vessel from Rostov. The trade had been good, and Brax’s mood was considerably lighter. As the noon song began, he ignored Spar’s pointed glance with casual elan. He was probably just reminding him of Cindar’s order, and Brax had no intention of obeying him right then. They had a chance to make some real shine today and Cindar was probably so drunk by now he’d have forgotten his own name, never mind what time they were supposed to meet him.
So piss on him, he thought truculently. Maybe we’ll even go to Spar’s bookbinders just to spite him.
The younger boy dug him in the ribs.
“What?”
Spar jerked his head past the ship’s great prow and Brax froze.
Across the quay, two boys around his own age were just leaving Kedi-Meyhane, one of the better dockside inns. They were well-dressed in warm hide jackets and sandals that looked almost new, and the younger of the two was wearing a woolen cap that came down over his ears, protecting them from the cold. Brax felt a sudden stab of jealousy as his fingers dropped to the pommel of his knife.
“Graize,” he spat. “And Drove.”
Beside him Spar’s face had twisted into an uncharacteristic mask of hatred. Like Spar, Graize had latent, almost instinctive prophetic abilities, but unlike Spar he was able to use that ability to lift the ripest pickings in Dockside without causing so much as a ripple from the authorities; an ability their abayos often reminded both Brax and Spar of when pickings were slim. But Graize a
nd Drove had also robbed Cindar himself as he’d lain passed out before a raki stall last autumn. Brax had sworn he would kill him for that one day.
Now, as the other boys passed them by, ignoring them with studied contempt, Spar glanced over at Brax worriedly, but the older boy just gave a sharp shake of his head.
“ ‘Sall right,” he growled darkly. “There’s too many people around.”
“We’ll get him one day,” Spar assured him gravely, the danger inherent in the situation driving away his usual silence. When Spar spoke, Brax listened. “Graize’s just a cheap trickster,” he added. “He’ll slip up. Then we’ll get him.”
Nodding, Brax jerked his head in the direction of the marketplace. “Yeah, besides, we need to get Cindar before he can drink away all our shine.” He allowed the younger boy to draw him away but, just before they turned the comer, he glanced back to see Graize sneering triumphantly at him, an expression of sarcastic invitation in his cold gray eyes. His face flushed in sudden anger, Brax took a single step back the way they’d come, but as Spar grabbed his arm, he made himself think clearly and, breathing heavily, allowed the younger boy to pull him down the close. Not now, but one day, he promised himself, one day they’d get him, just like Spar said they would. And even if that wasn’t one of Spar’s prophecies, Brax would make it one, but for now they had other, more important business to deal with. As they made their way back toward Uzum-Dukkan, he forced himself to put the other boy out of his mind.
Leaning against a stack of eastern timber, thirteen-year-old Graize grinned triumphantly as he watched his fellow lifters retreat. Seeing Brax and Spar was always good for a laugh, he thought, especially on a dark and grubby day like today. Fishing through his pockets, he pulled out a bag of dried figs, popping one into his mouth, before turning to his companion.
“I guess they remember last autumn,” he said with a wicked chuckle, tossing a fig into the air. It was snatched up by a passing gull and he tipped his head in acknowledgment of its skill. “I wonder if their abayos does,” he wondered idly.
Beside him, Drove snickered. “Him? Not likely, he could hardly see straight, he was so drunk.”
“He could hardly even see crooked,” Graize added. “He was facedown in the dust.” He snickered at the memory. The sight of Cindar lying, snoring, on the street had been too good an opportunity to ignore. Brax and Spar had come running a few moments later but not before he and Drove had striped the man of his purse, his belt, and his knife. They’d have had his sandals off as well if a troop of garrison guards hadn’t appeared around the corner, forcing them to make a run for it. Brax had sworn he’d get even with them, but Graize had just laughed at him from the safety of a winding close. Brax was no threat to either of them and Spar was only a child.
He began to laugh again, his gray eyes paling until the pupils stood out like jet-black dots, giving him an unfocused, otherworldly gaze as he remembered the look on Brax’s face just now. A passing butcher’s delinkos whistled appreciatively at him and he smiled back at her with an easy grace, used to the attention. Light brown hair was unusual among the Anavatanon, gray eyes even more so. The priests of Oristo who’d raised him until he’d run away at the age of eight had believed he had Volinski blood and had treated him kindly but distantly. The leader of the pack of young lifters he’d made a place for himself in had believed Incasa was sending him visions that were slowly leaching the color from his eyes, and had treated him like a respected seer.
Graize didn’t care which, if either, were true. He believed in himself and his ability to get whatever he wanted from people. If their beliefs helped him to do that, then they could think whatever they liked. He knew he would be rich one day. And powerful. He’d seen it. He’d dreamed it, and he always got what he wanted in his dreams.
He bared his teeth in the direction Brax and Spar had retreated. What he wanted from most people was their shine, but what he wanted from Spar was the acknowledgment that he was the stronger seer; from Brax ... he paused. He wasn’t sure what he wanted from Brax, submission certainly—the cocky little bastard always acted as if he were better than everyone else—but whether he wanted submission in friendship or in enmity he was never quite sure. The conflict confused him and confusion made him angry, so he usually chose enmity. He knew that Brax and he would make a powerful team; he’d dreamed that, too. He’d even told the ungrateful little jerk that last summer when Spar lay dying from an infected injury and Cindar was too drunk to do anything about it, but Brax had been too scared to leave them. If Spar had died, he might have pried him away, but Spar had recovered and Brax had turned his back on Graize’s offer. He thought he didn’t need him, but that was going to change soon enough; Graize could feel it.
Maybe, he thought spitefully, he should change it for him. If he knifed Cindar the next time the drunken old fart fell down in the street, Brax would have no choice but to come crawling to him. And he needed him to come, crawling or not. Brax was key, somehow, to either his own prosperity or his obscurity. Graize hated to admit it, but he’d dreamed that as well. Brax was key.
Something flickered past his vision and he glanced about suspiciously, but when nothing untoward presented itself, he shook it off. Probably nothing more than a passing harbinger of rain, he decided.
Or a passing harbinger of Cindar’s own passing, his mind supplied.
Graize nodded, his lighter mood returning like the sun after a rainstorm.
“They’re gonna lose Cindar to the raki or the garrisons one day soon enough,” he noted out loud. “Then both of them’ll have to either come crawling to us or starve.”
Beside him, Drove nodded in silent agreement. Two years older than Graize, he’d survived on the streets his whole life and knew just how harsh it could be without protection. As a small child, he’d begged for food with his crippled mother in the Tannery Precinct, the poorest section of Anavatan. When she’d died, he’d joined the same gang of lifters as Graize had, using his size and strength to help them hold their territory until they’d come to the attention of the dockside factor—a kind of thief’s procurer—who’d carved out his territory by threatening any lifter who wasn’t already protected by an abayos. He’d objected to them plying their trade without paying for it and had set the garrison guards on them. Only he and Graize had managed to avoid capture. Now they worked together running dice and shell games to fleece the dockside delinkon. With his quick mind and sharp prophetic abilities, Graize formulated the plans while Drove provided the solidifying strength needed to carry them out. Together, they made twice as much shine as they had with the lifters and, so far, they’d managed to avoid the local factor, rival gangs, Estavia’s guards, Oristo’s abayos-priests, and any divine attention—no mean trick in the City of the Gods. Graize was concerned, no, more like obsessed, Drove amended, with Brax and Spar, but he couldn’t see why. Half starved dockside rats were as commonplace as the actual rodents they were named for in Anavatan.
He said as much to Graize now and the other boy turned, his pale eyes sparkling wickedly.
“So, do you feel like being rat-catchers today and chasing them down?” he asked, fingers drumming excitedly against the pommel of his knife.
Drove just shrugged. “If you want to, but I kinda hoped we could go to Usara-Cami today,” he answered.
Graize gave a sneering laugh. “What for? The pickings are far better here.”
“Well, I have these ... um, things on my neck.” He pulled his fleece-lined collar down to show the other boy a scattering of red spots beneath the patina of dirt. “Terv thought it might be the smallpox,” he said quoting the ash collector’s delinkos from the Kedi-Meyhane, the only person he knew with any kind of an education other than Graize.
“Terv doesn’t know his arse from the moon,” Graize answered scornfully. “They’re flea bites.”
“You sure?”
“Completely.”
Drove looked disappointed. “Still, I could get some, you know, salve for them.”
“Soak your clothes in lye. That’ll get rid of them.”
“The bites?”
“The fleas, stupid.” Bored with the conversation, Graize moved off toward a group of delinkon gathered around two porters gesticulating wildly, a pile of bundles lying on the ground between them. “C‘mon, there’s gonna be a fight,” he said over his shoulder. “Time to work.” Sidling up behind the crowd, he leaned toward the ear of the best dressed youth, a jeweler’s or goldsmith’s delinkos by the look of him.
“A silver asper says the scrawny one throws the first punch,” he whispered.
Watching the larger of the two porters bunch his hands into fists, the youth nodded eagerly. “It’s a bet.”
Behind them, Drove grinned to himself. No one ever won a bet against Graize; he always knew who was going to throw the first punch.
As if to prove him right, the smaller of the two porters aimed a wild swing at the larger man’s head, but before the crestfallen delinkos could even reach for his purse, Graize had proposed another bet. And so it would go, Drove knew, until the youth had run out of shine or the dockyard guards had come to restore the peace. But, by then, Graize would have discovered another opportunity, anyway. Drove chuckled to himself. It was going to be a very profitable Havo’s Dance this year, he thought happily; nothing was going to go wrong.
Tucked between the planking at his feet, the host of gathering shadows felt the prophetic bond between all four boys tighten like a noose and agreed.
Three streets away, Brax and Spar had almost reached Oristo-Cami before the older boy stopped shaking with rage. Seeing Graize and Drove had brought up all his old feelings of resentment and frustration, and seeing them prosper without an abayos just made it worse. He was so distracted by his anger that he almost didn’t notice when Spar misread a step on the uneven cobblestones and stumbled. He threw out a hand reflexively, catching the younger boy before he realized what had happened—Spar never stumbled, not even when he was tired. Turning, he saw the younger boy’s eyes widen in fear and felt a shiver run up his spine. He glanced about quickly but couldn’t see anything that might have alerted Spar to danger.