“I can tolerate a surprising amount of shit if it’s on my terms,” the old woman said with a smirk. “I’ll need a bath, aye, but I’ve any number of servants to draw one for me. Can you say the same?” She leaned forward. “That’s what loyalty is, Buc. That’s what I demand.”
55
“You wish to see your accounts, signorina?”
“You took your sweet time getting here,” I said, turning around in the comfortable leather chair at the junior maestro’s desk. His dark eyes flashed—I’d usurped his seat—but his mouth twisted into a grin so wide it couldn’t be true. I nodded toward the high, stiff-backed chair meant for patrons. “Have a seat.”
“The signorina jests,” he said. I gave him an equally false smile and said nothing, and after a moment he adjusted his gilded waistcoat and sat down, crossing his legs. “Your accounts?”
“I have none here,” I said. “You only hold the gold of the older families and mine was as fresh minted as the lire in your drawer.” I drew out a sack and tossed it on the desk. “Gold has a sound to it, doesn’t it?”
“Signorina…” He dry-washed his hands and tried to look into my eyes to convey assurance, but I saw his tongue dart between his lips. I’d unsettled him. “I don’t know where that came from, but if you have no account here, then I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
“It’s really more about me helping you,” I told him, kicking my feet up onto his desk beside the gold and crossing my polished boots. “This gold is going to take that anchor off your shoulders.” He arched an eyebrow. “I’m going to take care of your gambling debts,” I said, trying not to sigh. Gods, he’s a thick one. No wonder he lost so much.
“I mean, just think, maestro, if your father-in-law knew you were using clients’ coin to fund your … shall we say, your ‘fondness’ for gambling?” I scratched my chin. “Some would call it an addiction.”
When I nudged the bag with my boot, it jingled. “You can stop at any time though, aye?” I nodded. “’Course you could. No need for the chief maestro to know about your fondness for gondola races.”
“H-how did you know?” he choked, the color draining from his face.
“It’s my business to know,” I told him, flashing the sigil of the Secreto.
His eyes popped and I sat up, swinging my feet back down to the hardwood floor. I’d chosen a dark-blue outfit today, so deep a blue it was almost black, save for the brass buttons on my jacket. Not quite as close to black as the Secreto’s uniform, but close enough to fool any who hadn’t seen a Secreto up close. The Doga had warned me about showing off the sigil, but given that she was trying to kill me and overthrow the Empress, I was disinclined to acquiesce to her request.
“I’m doing you a favor, maestro. Now you’re going to do one for me.”
“W-what?” He cleared his throat, sweat beading across his forehead. “What do you want?”
“I don’t want to pull an inside job, if that’s what you’re thinking,” I said. He frowned. “That wasn’t what you were thinking? Are you sure you haven’t wondered if you couldn’t hire a couple of thugs to strong-arm you and make off with half the vault’s coin?”
I laughed as his bravado wilted. “Secreto know everything.” I wagged a finger. “I wouldn’t try it, though, boy. You haven’t the brains for it.”
“Tell me what to do,” he whispered, his voice catching the back of his throat, “and I’ll do it. I swear.”
“I just want you to help me shift some funds around,” I said. “First…”
“None of this makes sense,” he muttered when I finished. “Moving coin through these accounts makes them more difficult to trace, more hidden, true—” He glanced at me and looked away, licking his lips. “But, signorina, they’re still in the same name!”
“You’re not wrong,” I said. I picked up the bag of gold and hefted it so that the coin jingled loudly. “Do it anyway.”
Rounding the table, I drew a blade and he yelped. “Shh,” I whispered, holding the stiletto in one hand, the gold in the other. I put my mouth beside his ear. “The ways of the Secreto are mysterious, maestro.” I ran the edge of the blade down his cheek, and though it was too dull to cause harm, he jerked away, making another noise in the back of his throat. “So do it anyway. Do it now.”
* * *
Out on the street, crowds moved like an endless sea, everyone drinking in the unexpected sunlight. The clouds that had been threatening rain had moved on and while their darker, more ominous cousins were on the horizon, the morning was as beautiful as Servenza got at this time of year, and everyone was out to enjoy it. My heart was a thick lump in my throat and every fiber in my being cried out that I should draw steel, but I ignored the feeling as best I could, tapping my thigh to a beat only I could hear as I joined the wave of humanity. I’d never been afraid of crowds before; they were a wave I could ride with the best of them, having grown up in the crowded sections of the Painted Rock across from the Tip. Without Sin’s protection, my mind whispered of all the opportunities not to hear whispers or pickpockets, but to be attacked, knocked down, run over.
Stop it.
My mind stopped tripping over the possibilities, but the fear remained, embedded in my bones. I tapped my thigh more slowly, focused on my breath, and gradually, it all helped. If only it cured. Something swirled in my mind and I pushed it down. Hard. That’s not healing. That’s death. Without Sin I was afraid, but without him, my mind was clear and I could see what Eld had seen, what I’d failed to see these past few months.
Servenza was rougher than I remembered. The people around me weren’t wealthy, but they should have had enough coin to buy clothes that weren’t threadbare and faded where they weren’t patched a dozen times over. The populace always smelled outside the finer Quartos, but now the stench hung in the air like rot and all bent beneath its weight without seeming to notice. Here and there children darted through the crowd, most with no shoes. Not an unfamiliar sight in the Foreskin or even the Tip, but in the Mercarto or Painted Rock? Something is wrong. It’s been wrong for a while.
A new smell pulled me up short and the woman behind me spat a curse when she ran into me and I didn’t budge. She cursed again and disappeared into the throng while I made for the little cart on the corner where a boy and girl whose dirty-blond hair and matching thin features proclaimed them siblings. A dozen people stood in line, and getting a better whiff, I understood why. The cart was small, barely the size of a table, with a rough, metal chimney funneling flames up beneath a wide, metal bowl that the girl stood behind, sweating freely despite being in her shirtsleeves. She used a wide, flat ladle to stir noodles, broth, peppers, and a dozen other ingredients I didn’t recognize, dipping the pan to cause flames to shoot up occasionally. Every blast sent a wave of deliciousness into the air. Beside her, the boy scooped out a small bowlful and passed it to the waiting patron, pocketing two coppers in return. Other customers stood nearby, finishing their servings, while those who hadn’t eaten yet waited for empty bowls to be returned to the children.
When was the last time I thought about food? With Sin, I’d eaten of necessity. A lot. All the time. I couldn’t recall ever enjoying it or even considering what I was putting into my mouth. Gods. I’d always had a nose for tasty food, but was that a necessity? Apparently not to him. He killed my love of food like he wiped out my need for kan to slow my thoughts. Bastard.
I found myself standing in line, listening to the artists in front of me debate how to use the bottom floor of the building they rented, which seemed to be just beyond the cart.
“Maybe we should talk to the Sin Eaters? They’ve been bringing in crowds.”
“For free healing and to speak to loved ones leagues away, not to look at art. We can’t afford them and even if we could, none would go upstairs. I don’t know why I let you talk me into renting the whole damned building. If we can’t get people to look at our canvases on one floor, what will two accomplish?” one asked. “I told you we should have set up on
the bottom floor.”
“If they don’t have to strive to find the art … then what’s the point?”
“Making coin? Not starving to death.”
The first laughed. “You’d be right about starving if this cart wasn’t here.”
Despite the line, I made it to the front in no time, partially due to the fast service and more to do with how quickly everyone shoveled the noodles down their gullets. The girl’s attention was on her cooking, but she spared a smile for me when I slipped the boy a silver instead of a cupari, and he handed over the bowl with a spoon and noodle sticks so quickly I nearly dropped it.
“Gods, you make this from that?” I asked around a mouthful of noodles.
“I do, signorina.” She bowed her head, eyes never leaving the pan.
“Have you thought of charging more?”
“Every day,” her brother muttered.
“We cannot and keep our custom,” she explained. A man waiting for his bowl glared at me and I shifted to the side. “Carts such as ours cannot command more than a few cupari. Charge more and the patrons that can afford more will never come because they’re sitting down at one of the taverns or the like. The rest can’t afford more and will pass us by.”
“So you need a shop,” I said, slurping up noodles.
“And coin to afford it,” she said.
“’S not cheap,” her brother muttered around the smile he offered, along with a full bowl, to the waiting man. “Hard to find a place even if we had the coin.”
I nodded and turned away, lifting the bowl to my lips to drink the broth. Damn. I couldn’t stop myself from moaning. When I lowered the bowl I saw the two artisans entering their building still arguing about how to attract patrons.
“I’ve an idea,” I told the young chefs, turning back.
“What’s that, signorina?”
“I know of a building with a space sitting idle. You wouldn’t have to move far at all.…”
I told them what I’d overheard and explained my plan to have the artists move downstairs, put the pair of them upstairs. With gear fans properly placed, they could pump the smell of their cooking into the streets, which would attract patrons with enough coin to want to sit down while they ate. Said patrons would have to walk through the artists’ gallery to find the food.
“Everyone wins,” I finished.
“It’s a wonderful dream,” the girl said, her smile not quite reaching her eyes.
“If we were fecking rich,” her brother said out of the side of his mouth.
“Jaimi,” she growled. “Keep a civil tongue in your head. Apologies,” she added.
“None needed.” I slipped my hand into the other bag of lire I hadn’t shown the banking maestro—he’d been even cheaper to buy than I’d planned—and began counting gold coins onto the edge of the cart, using my body to conceal the amount. If my schemes went as planned, the banker’s debts would get paid one way or the other, and if they didn’t—fuck him. “I’m going to back you. Here and now.”
“Be serious,” the boy said, his eyes the size of oyster shells.
“I am,” I said. I kept counting and the pair’s jaws kept gaping wider. “Go pitch my—your idea to those fool artists.… The woman has some sense at least, so aim for her. Don’t take their first offer. Pay them and put the rest…”
Some of the people behind me started to mutter as the line grew longer. I turned slightly toward them and flashed my Secreto sigil, hiding it from the siblings. The patrons quieted and I turned back. “Wait a fortnight to open,” I finished. “Use the coin and time to prepare, but wait the full fourteen days.”
“W-why?” the girl stammered.
“You’ll understand, soon enough,” I promised. “In the meantime, hide that”—I nodded toward the coins—“and enjoy your final service in this tiny-arsed cart.” The girl swept the gold off the cart’s edge and into her front apron pocket, the fabric dangerously close to bursting open from the weight.
“Savvy?”
“S-savvy,” they said, both stuttering, looking poleaxed but excited.
“Wonderful.”
Eld had been right; I had been ignoring the situation of those on the streets. I couldn’t save all of them; I still needed to stop Sicarii. And the Doga. And take down the Gods. But I could help those I stumbled across. That was part of it, the part that would have brought a smile to Eld’s lips and made him stand taller. You stupid bastard. I swallowed the lump in my throat. The other part was that helping others had its uses.
“Can I beg a favor of you?”
“Anything, signorina!”
“I’ve a friend I was supposed to meet, but something’s come up. Could you possibly spare your brother here to run over to the Spired Quarto and give them this letter from me?” I slid the letter from my jacket. “You won’t be able to miss him, he’s a funny little sort of a person with strange spectacles. Tell him Buc sent you.” I held the letter out and faked an exclamation. “Now that I think on it, he may be able to help you with the gear fans I mentioned for your new place—”
* * *
“I’m so very sorry to hear of your loss,” the woman in crimson judicial robes said, rising from behind the bench.
“So you said,” I muttered, burying my face in my handkerchief, which I’d wet with water before entering the legal office. Blinking back tears, I looked up. “If you meant it, you’d help me. The priestess at Baol’s cathedral said you would help. I paid her!”
“Signorina … I appreciate the custom our Dead Gods provide, but the priestess isn’t an expert in common law and I’m afraid the section on the succession of fortunes is quite clear. I’m sorry I can’t be of more assistance, but unless you have incontrovertible proof that the dates on the signature page are wrong, then I’m afraid things stand as they are.”
“W-what proof would I need?” I asked, blowing my nose loudly.
“In this case?” The woman adjusted her wig, her lips twitching as she tried to tell me what I already knew. Hoped I knew. “Your. Erm. Father.”
“I don’t understand,” I said, frowning.
“He’d need to be here. To testify that he wasn’t in fact … dead?”
“You’re making mock of me?” I asked, my voice climbing with my eyebrows. I was right. “In my moment of despair and distress you wish me to go drag my father’s corpse from the mausoleum because my scheming brother reworked some dates on a piece of paper?”
“Signorina, I—”
“I’ll not be made a jester’s fool,” I cried, leaping out of the chair and stomping loudly across the hardwood floors. “I won’t!” I shouted, opening the door and storming out. As soon as the door crashed shut behind me I wiped my tears away and jogged down the stairs. Out on the street, the afternoon shadows told me I was running out of time, but I’d had to be sure the book I read had its facts right and that some law or other hadn’t cropped up since that would invalidate my plans.
I was still grinning to myself when I saw a boy with the fuzzy hair of one who’d just had his head shorn from having lice try to dart between two women. He knocked into the heavier one and went down onto his side in the muddy street, grasping at his bare ankle and shouting that she’d hurt him. The woman told him she’d hurt him again if he didn’t shut up, and her companion told him it was all he deserved for running around like a fool. What neither noticed was the small purse he held tight against his body, directing their attention to his other hand as he made a show of rubbing his foot. He kept it up for a few moments after they left, still sneering at him, then jumped to his feet, a spring in his step and a whistle on his lips.
“You!” I grasped his shoulder and spun him into the alley, pulling him back just before he slammed off the brick wall. “Think you’re clever, nicking purses off unsuspecting ladies?”
“I’m sorry, officer,” he whimpered, shrinking back. He’d taken my dark-blue coat and trousers and brass buttons as that of the blues. “They dropped it, is all. I was going to return it!�
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“An’ here I thought ye was a clever lad,” I said, letting some of the streets creep into my voice. “Fuck their lot.”
“Sirrah?” he asked, raising his eyes. “That is, I mean, signorina? Officer?”
“Let’s see how clever you really are,” I said, squeezing his shoulder. I could feel his thin bones beneath the threadbare jacket he wore. Let’s see if I’m as clever as I think. “What would you say if I asked you what the drowned do?”
All the tension leeched from his shoulders and he straightened up, grinning. “They rise, officer.”
“That they do lad,” I said, “that they do.” I dug out a scrap of folded-up paper that had a mark on the outside. “You know what this means?” I asked, showing him the blade I’d drawn in ink on the outside. I didn’t need Sin’s perfect recall to see it in my mind’s eye, flecked with blood from the girl I’d killed. Another debt I need to call due.
“I—I do, officer,” he whispered, his wide eyes flicking back and forth from me to the blade.
“I’ve orders, so I can’t return to the … you know where,” I said, dropping my voice. He looked around, but no one had followed us into the alley. Because no one gives a shit about little boys being pulled into dark alleys. I added that fury to what was already simmering inside me. “Can you deliver it for me?”
“I can try, officer, b-but, they won’t let me in,” he said. “I’m just another eye for Sicar—”
“Easy!” I hissed. “No need for names.” I pressed the paper into his hand. “You don’t need to give it to her personally. Just get it to one of the leaders and make sure they see the mark. They’ll take care of the rest.”
“They will?”
“They will,” I assured him.
I’m counting on it.
* * *
The Justice in Revenge Page 39