The Duchess of the Shallows

by Neil McGarry

  He whirled about and this time his hand caught the end of the cat's tail. The cat twisted with boneless ease and lunged at him with its claws, but the boy was faster. While releasing the tail with his right hand he snatched almost casually with his left, seizing the cat by the back of its neck. The animal lashed back and forth in his grip, but the boy, obviously a veteran cat-catcher, kept it away from his body so its slashing claws found only empty air. A few of the boys cheered, and Duchess found herself laughing and clapping. The boy seemed flattered by the attention, and he sketched a clumsy bow in her direction while still holding the thrashing animal at arm's length. Then, amazingly, he released the cat, which dropped to the ground and then darted for the meager shelter of a broken old crate.

  "You went through all that to catch it, and then just let it go?" she said, unbelieving.

  He sniffed imperiously. "The point is in the catching, not the keeping." He examined his arm for claw marks and found none. "What did you expect me to do, eat it?" The boys laughed, but instead of getting angry Duchess found herself even more intrigued.

  "Where did you learn to do that?" she asked.

  One of the boys snorted. "Same place Lysander earns his coin," he answered. "On his back. In an alley."

  "Except usually he's the one whose tail gets grabbed!" put in a pale boy with a big red pimple. The others laughed mockingly, pointing and jumping up and down, and Duchess thought there might be trouble until she saw that Lysander himself laughed loudest of all.

  "Like I haven't seen you in an alley with your pants down, Aaron," Lysander shot back, unfazed. "And at least when mine come back up they're filled with silver, not shame." Aaron flushed and the others laughed again. Duchess had never known boys who acted like this; most of the Shallows boys she’d seen were tough and mean, not capering and catcalling. She wasn't exactly sure what they meant about earning coin in an alley, though; she'd ask Noam about it later.

  "Can I try?" Duchess asked when the laughter had died down, gesturing towards the corral. Yesterday she would never have dreamed of asking such a thing, but under Lysander's blue-eyed gaze she felt more confident.

  Lysander laughed and looked for a moment as if he might refuse, but then a sly grin crept across his lips. He shrugged. "Why not? The first time's hard, but then again the poor thing's tired by now and shouldn't be as fast."

  Duchess drew herself up to her full height. "I'll bet I could catch it fresh," she said, trying to sound confident. The boys ooohed, and Lysander arched an eyebrow in mock surprise.

  "Well, then by all means, my lady, do have a turn," he said, bowing again. She pushed past him and entered the circle, where the cat awaited. It didn't look tired to her, and at this distance those claws and teeth seemed much more formidable. Still, she couldn't back down now, not with all of those boys watching, so she rolled up her sleeves and moved towards it cautiously.

  The cat arched its back and hissed menacingly, and she hesitated. Yes, those teeth were sharp. She swallowed and spread her arms as Lysander had done, but part of her was wondering if there were a way to do this without getting any closer to those teeth.

  "Gods! She's going to be in there all day!" Aaron teased, but Duchess saw that this time Lysander did not join the laughter. Instead, he watched her with no hint of mockery. That bucked her up a bit. Acting on impulse, she backed away and, never taking her eyes off the cat, lifted her left foot and slipped off her shoe. The cat tensed, and she knew that in a moment it would bolt. She hurled the shoe as hard as she could.

  When the shoe hit the ground perhaps a foot to the left, the cat leapt away to the right...just as Duchess moved that way herself. The animal tried to cut between her legs but she was ready for that, and her hand shot out and snagged the cat just behind its head, as Lysander had done. She lifted the cat one-handed and turned to Lysander with a triumphant smile. "I did it!" she cried...

  ...and then the cat twisted limberly in her grip and slashed her once, twice, and then a third time with its claws. She shrieked and threw it away from her, clutching her wounded arm to her chest. The animal righted itself in mid-air, landed atop one of the walls of junk, and was away in a flash of gray before any of the boys could catch it.

  "Ha!" Aaron exulted, smiling smugly. "You missed!"

  Lysander snorted in disgust. "She meant to miss, you dolt. That shoe sent the cat running exactly the way she wanted, and she was ready for it." He turned to Duchess. "Not bad, new girl. You got your first catch and your first scratch, all in one day." He came over. "Speaking of which, let me take a look." She held out her arm, instinctively trusting him, and he examined the long red scratches the cat had left. "Not bleeding, but they'll probably sting for a few days. Be glad you didn't get bitten; that means infection." He showed her his right hand, marked with a scar on the webbing between thumb and forefinger. "Got bitten here once and it swelled up like an autumn pumpkin. Good thing Marna sometimes works cheap."

  "Midwife Marna?" Duchess exclaimed. "I know her too!" She smiled widely and Lysander returned it, and there was a warm glow in her chest, a sensation she hadn't felt since coming to live in the bakery.

  "I think that’s cheating," Aaron said after a moment, face screwed up in contempt. "There’s nothing in the rules about using shoes." He stood with hands on hips, his face alive with scorn.

  Lysander shrugged. "I don’t recall any rule other than catch the damn cat. She caught one…which, come to think of it, is more than I can say for you today. Maybe tomorrow you'll worry less about the rules and more about being faster than a three-legged Shallows hound."

  Aaron’s face clouded up ominously. "Alright. Maybe instead I'll show you I'm tougher than a milk-mouthed lapcat," he threatened, advancing with fists balled.

  Lysander stepped liquidly away and snatched up a long piece of wood that looked as if it had once been part of a crate. He twirled it in one hand with enviable grace and assumed a ready stance, feet spread wide. "Ever get your arse handed to you by a lapcat?" he asked lightly. Duchess gaped; Aaron was larger, but Lysander was obviously more nimble and that stick he held was moving almost too quickly to follow. It was easy to imagine him landing two blows for each one of Aaron's.

  When Aaron hesitated Duchess knew he was beaten. He struggled for a retort but the other boys were already hooting and shouting him down. "I'd watch it, Aaron! He's likely to do more with your arse than hand it to you!" one shouted. She was so impressed by Lysander’s courage that she found herself cheering along with them.

  Lysander flapped a hand at them, clearly done with their company. "I want to talk to Madam One-Shoe here, so all of you can run along. Go on, get moving. I’ll see you later." Duchess was surprised to see that, despite a few whines and gripes, and a dark look from Aaron, the boys obeyed, kicking apart the trash corral as they made their way along the alley and back to the street.

  Lysander tossed aside the stick, picked among the garbage and handed back her shoe. She slipped it on, noticing that the bottom of her sock was black with grime from the alley. She'd catch nine hells from Noam’s wife for it, but that worry felt distant and unimportant. "Nice job," he said, looking her over as if she’d only just arrived. "And throwing the shoe to distract it, that was clever. I’ve been catching cats for years," – he smiled modestly – "and I’m not sure I would have thought of that."

  She ducked her head, glowing at the compliment. "By the way," she ventured, suddenly shy, "it’s not my lady or Madam One-Shoe…it’s Duchess. My name, I mean."

  He cocked his head. "For true?" When she nodded, he arched those lovely eyebrows again. "Hmm. Duchess. Strange, but I like it." He started back toward the street, gesturing for her to follow. "Well, Duchess, are you hungry?"

  "I don’t have any money," she told him. It was true; Noam had said he’d start paying her once she was old enough to push the bread cart, but that was still some time off.

  "I do." They stepped out into the street and turned towards the Shallows, for which Duchess was grateful. If they went to the
market they might run into Noam, and he would definitely want to know what she was doing wandering about without Jossalyn, and with a stranger. "There’s an ale house on the Wynd – the Merry Widow – that makes sausages with garlic and peppers. I’ve been craving one all day. Come on." She'd never been in an ale house, so she needed no further encouragement.

  "Where do you get money?" she asked him, hurrying to keep up. Lysander didn’t seem much older but his legs were a lot longer. "Are you a lightboy?" From the way he'd wielded that stick, she felt sure of it.

  "I was, not long ago, but I've recently…uh, had a change of profession."

  "Why?"

  "To make more money."

  "Doing what?"

  "Great gods…do you always ask so many questions?" He shook his head as they passed under the stone arch of Market Gate into Bell Plaza. "You wouldn't understand," said Lysander. "I’ll bet you don’t know anything about ganymedes, or even brothels, for that matter."

  "I do so know about brothels!" She was less informed on ganymedes, but she didn’t want to admit that. "I’ve even been in one. I’ll bet you haven’t."

  He smiled then, and even at that young age she had recognized an adult sadness in the expression. It made her heart ache. "Oh, one or two," he said. "So, Duchess-of-the-Hundred-Questions, which brothels have you been in?"

  "The Vermillion."

  He stopped short and peered at her skeptically. "The Vermillion. You are just full of surprises, aren't you? And I suppose you know the name of the man who owns it?"

  She snorted and crossed her arms. "The man’s name is Minette. Now do you believe me, or do you want to know what kind of gloves she wears?"

  Lysander blinked. "You know, you’re certainly not like your sister."

  Duchess scoffed. "Jossalyn’s not my sister; she’s just one of Noam’s daughters. I hate her."

  He frowned. "You’re too young to hate anybody," he told her with the authority of great age. They made their way across the plaza and along the Wynd, dodging a mule-drawn cart and bevy of women carrying baskets of wet laundry.

  Duchess thought about that for a moment. "How old do you have to be?"

  "Don’t know," he replied, "I'll let you know when I get there." The ale house was there, under a sign featuring a mug and a plate, and Lysander pushed through the door, gesturing for her to follow. Inside was dark and smelled of beer and damp and – her stomach growled – cooking meat. At this time of day there were only a few patrons, and these were quietly sipping from tankards or sleeping with heads on tables. An emaciated woman stood behind the bar, grilling meat, peppers and garlic over an open fire in the hearth. She was so thin that Duchess wondered if she ever took time to eat any of the food she prepared, but she decided she’d better not say that. The woman smiled gauntly when she saw Lysander.

  "You can’t stay away, can you dear heart?" She gave the grilling meat a stir with a long spoon. "But who’s this?" she said, looking Duchess over. "Noam’s girl, aren’t you? He know you’re drinkin’ ale, now?" Abashed, Duchess shook her head and said nothing, wondering what Noam would do when he found out she’d been in an ale house.

  Lysander grinned. "What Noam doesn't know won't hurt him, Shari, but if he finds out...well, it might hurt me." He favored the barkeep with a dazzling smile, and Duchess felt her own heart melt. "You don't want to get me in trouble, do you?"

  Shari peered at him suspiciously, then sighed and threw up her hands. "Fine, fine...Noam won't hear a word from me. But if that little girl gets sick in here you'll be the one to clean it up, you hear me?" She didn't seem displeased, though, and handed over two clay cups of ale willingly enough, along with sausages served up on hunks of bread. Lysander paid her from his own purse, Duchess noted with awe, just as Noam might do. When he wanted food, he bought it with his own money, and never mind asking anyone's leave. She envied that freedom.

  They sat at their own table, and Lysander asked, "This your first time drinking ale?" Duchess nodded, suddenly intimidated by the cup with its dark contents and heady smell. "Well, go slow, because the first taste is always the hardest." She picked up the cup and took a careful sip, tasting both sweet and bitter at the same time. Father had sometimes let her taste wine when she was small, and Noam turned a blind eye to occasional gulps from his tankards of beer, so the bitterness didn't bother her at all. The drink was strangely thick as well, almost as if it could be chewed instead of drunk. It wasn't bad. She tried some more, and Lysander laughed.

  "Caught your first cat and didn't choke on your first cup of ale," he laughed, drinking from his own cup. "You are a wonder." He dug into his sausage and Duchess followed suit, finding the meat as tasty as the smell had promised. The juices dripped mostly onto the bread but also on her dress, but she didn't care. She was having the time of her life...let Noam's wife give her hell for a greasy collar.

  "You said that girl was not your sister, but was Noam's daughter," Lysander asked after a moment, his mouth full. He swallowed tremendously, then washed it down with a gulp of ale. "So what does that make you?"

  Noam's warnings rose up in her mind and she nearly choked on her sausage. "I...my parents died. Both of them. In a fire. They were cobblers." She tensed, waiting for the inevitable follow-up questions. When was this? Where did they live? Who were they related to? The answers to those questions could start rumors, rumors that could lead whoever had burned her house right to her. Her throat felt tight with old fears and she nearly squeezed her sausage into pulp between nervous fingers.

  Lysander, bless him, asked none of these things, but simply shrugged and tore off a piece of bread. She felt a stab of shame that he'd been so wonderful to her and she was lying to him in return, but the baker's training was hard to gainsay. Instead, she held her tongue and drank her ale.

  They sat in silence for awhile, concentrating on the food, but it was a good silence, and for some strange reason Duchess felt like crying even thought she wasn't sad. Finally, Lysander pushed his platter aside and turned to her, a serious expression on his face. "So do you really know Minette?"

  She nodded, puzzled that it was so important to him. "Noam has known her since forever, and I go there all the time."

  He looked uncomfortable, and he toyed with a crust of bread on his near-empty platter until it disintegrated into crumbs between his fingers. "Do you think..." He trailed off into a mutter, then coughed loudly into his hand. He started again. "Do you think you could you introduce me to her?" he finally asked, strangely shy. It was a reaction she'd scarcely expected from this confident, brash boy.

  She shrugged. "I suppose. But why?"

  He stared at her as if she'd gone daft and leaned in close. "Why? Because she's on the Grey, that's why!" he whispered fiercely.

  "What's the Grey?"

  Lysander rolled his eyes. "Say that louder next time; the empress didn't hear you." She flushed with embarrassment. He must think her a complete fool. She looked around nervously, but neither Shari nor any of the other patrons were paying attention.

  "So what is the Grey, then?" she whispered back. "Is it like the Red?"

  He laughed. "If a cat's like a dog!" And so he told her, starting with marks and fruning, and ending with legends like Looselimb Llarys and Naria of the Dark.

  "I know Naria!" she exclaimed, then blushed at how loudly she'd spoken. "Well, the stories, I mean."

  "Well, I'm going to join the Grey one day," Lysander stated with utter certainty, toying with his cup. "But only a member of the Grey can let me in, and that's why I want to meet Minette." Duchess had never suspected Minette was so important, but if Lysander said so it must be true. Suddenly her heart was pounding. "Lysander," she asked as calmly as she could. "Does the Grey know everything that happens in the city? Everything, everywhere?"

  "That's what they say," he replied, grinning. "In Rodaas, the only road that leads from the harbor to the palace is the Grey Highway."

  The Grey Highway. There it was, then. The path that could lead her out from the Shallows, o
ut past the Market and the Temple, to Scholars, where the truth of what happened to House Kell might be found. A path that could lead her to the very top of the great hill, past Garden to the palace itself, such that she might look down and once and for all understand the truth of it all.

  She realized then how long she'd been away. Much longer and Noam would be angry, particularly when she returned alone. Still, in that moment, Noam's anger seemed very small. Her world had just gotten much, much larger, and now she thought there might be a way through it. And perhaps a companion to join her on the way.

  "I'd better get back before I get in trouble." She stood, then said shyly, "Are you...going to catch more cats tomorrow?"

  He smiled. "I suppose. But if you're coming along, leave that other girl behind. She's no fun." He got to his feet, and she realized she still had a half-cup of ale. She bolted it down in one draught, just to prove she could. She was still sucking the cup dry when Lysander's laugh came like water over stones. "Finally! No more questions!"

  * * *

  Eight long years of flour and bread and stories and lies, and nothing to show for it but four florin and a copper mark. But there were no more excuses and there was no more time. There was only one way through, one path that led from Noam's bakery, past her father's burning house, to a place where she could separate truth from rumor, fact from fable. There was only the Grey Highway and the will to walk it.

  Chapter Seven:

  Houses high and low

  "You are completely mad," Lysander said flatly.

  She was back in the garret, sitting near the hearth and facing Lysander over the bread, strawberries and sausages she'd picked up on the way back from the Godswalk. Lysander had still been abed when she returned, but her repeated nudgings and the prospect of food had finally roused him partially out of sleep. Word of the mission from Hector had brought him the rest of the way.