Half a moon now: even chances. I fingered the silk of my skirts, trying to think. And the sun rose higher, and the Greenmen would be changing shifts . . .
Don’t trust anybody.
“Why me?”
“You’re pretty,” I heard Raffin say, just as Phandre said, “He’s bored.”
That I believed. I wasn’t that pretty: A year ago, I’d still been able to pass as a boy.
The merchant trader had hauled anchor, and was pushing away from the docks.
I looked around carefully. Still no sign of Greenmen. Yet.
“Do you have any food?”
CHAPTER TWO
They had food, and plenty of it — the remains of a lavish feast, abandoned halfway through when thirst overtook their appetites. Once I was settled in the boat, Raffin pushed me a tray laden with the carcass of a peacock (I think), and Durrel blanched as it passed over him. I tore a piece of cold meat from the bird and shoved it in my mouth, as much to stop myself from screaming, “Row! Row!” as to quiet the roaring hunger in my belly.
Merista sat across from me as I ate, looking worried. She was obviously the reluctant party in this outing. Raffin had said she was Durrel’s sister, or near enough. Cousins, raised together? The Decath were like that, intertwined with every noble family in Llyvraneth, and probably beyond. It was impossible to tell how important these two were. People said the Decath were ciphers; nobody could pin them down politically. That could be useful — or it could be dangerous. I had no idea who Merista’s family was, but the plump little pussycat didn’t seem like much of a threat.
“What’s your name?” Phandre demanded again. This time I was prepared to answer.
“Celyn.”
“Of course it is,” said Raffin, pinching off a bit of my meat. The Taradyce were minor nobles, but they owned half the riverfront in Gerse, and court circles in town were overrun with Taradyce brats and Taradyce bastards. He didn’t wear the round green brooch the nobs affected to show their loyalty to Bardolph, and he didn’t strike me as a rat who’d lark out strangers to the guards for a handful of gold marks. Not that I was ready to wager my life on that yet.
“Your family name,” Phandre said impatiently. Hers — Séthe, he’d said? — meant nothing to me, but she obviously thought herself something special. Clad all in green, the only one of the lot, besides me. No brooch either — and if she’d had one, I’d have lifted it. She reminded me of a kestrel, the beautiful but temperamental hunting birds flown by the nobs. You never knew whether they would nibble sweetly from your fingers, or lash out and nip a chunk of flesh from your hand.
“Contrare,” I said, hoping somebody would remember that.
“Never heard of them.”
“I have,” came an unexpected voice. Durrel slid upward in his seat. His doublet — neutrally gray and broochless — was much the worse for a night in a boat, and he tugged unconsciously on its hem. He had a boyish face and a shock of mousy hair, untidily smashed by his soft cap. “Jewelers, right? Up in the Third Circle?”
“I — yes.” Why had he said that? Durrel watched me evenly, an unreadable expression in his dark eyes. This was just as likely to be a trap as it was to be helpful, but for now it was all I had. At least he’d picked something I actually knew about.
“Merchants.” I could hear the sneer, even if she hadn’t made it plain on her face.
“Oh, Phandre, leave her alone.” This from Merista. “What happened to you? Did you run away?”
Better and better. I nodded faintly, glancing to shore. Where were they? You couldn’t go an hour in the city without seeing one on the nearest street corner —
“Indeed?” Raffin said. “Here, have some grapes. Tell us, what circumstances did the merchant’s daughter find so intolerable?”
“What?” I hadn’t been listening.
“Yes, do tell. Who were you running away from? Arranged marriage? Overbearing nurse? This should be amusing.” Phandre gave a barely disguised yawn, then broke into a grin. “I know — you’re a Sarist!” She shrieked with laughter, much too loud.
“Phandre, that’s enough.” Raffin’s voice had turned abruptly hard, and he grabbed her wrist. Phandre yanked her arm away, but seemed to realize she’d gone too far. She sank a little lower in her seat.
“Ignore her, Celyn,” Raffin said. “I don’t know why we let her out of her cage.”
He plunged the oars into the Oss and pushed off again. I didn’t realize I’d been holding my breath until we were back in the water and I felt the pressure on my chest lifting. I could almost let myself relax. Almost.
“Go ahead, Celyn, give us your tale,” Durrel said.
Apparently, my presence here depended on an entertaining — and convincing — account of my history. Well, I didn’t worship at Tiboran’s table for nothing, did I? I said a quick prayer to the god of liars and took a long swig of the wine to fortify myself. I looked my audience over.
“First of all, I am not a Sarist,” I began, trying to sound light. The others gave that the laughter it deserved. “My parents are dead.” That was all true enough, but Merista gave a mew of sympathy that made it seem like tragedy anew. I turned to her. “Since then it’s been just me and —” I paused. Tegen’s advice: Tell the truth; it’s easy to remember. Luckily, my companions took my hesitation for a clench of grief, nothing more. “My brother. He couldn’t stand that I’d come of age before him, and was already eligible for my inheritance.” That was reasonable: Girls came of age at fourteen, but boys not until twenty-one. My “brother” wouldn’t be the first man galled by that.
“How old are you?” Phandre demanded.
“Sixteen,” I continued. “So —”
“You look like a ten-year-old!”
That was an exaggeration. I couldn’t help being tiny, but I had all the right parts, and this stupid gown was supposed to show off my assets. I held my arm out toward Phandre.
“Here. Why don’t you cut off my hand and count my growth rings?”
Raffin laughed, but Phandre turned scarlet. “How — how dare you, you city brat! I’ll have you flogged for speaking to me like that!”
I tensed, the platter of fowl balanced on my knees. I could reach my dagger. I could cause a scene. I could climb ashore and forget them. But I would rather go to Favom Court — and beyond. I took a deep breath. “Your pardon, milady.”
Durrel held up a warning hand to Phandre. “Please go on.”
“So . . . my brother finally came up with a plan to get rid of me.”
“Murder you?” Merista cried, fingers pressed to her lips.
I closed my open mouth. “No.”
A soft voice suggested, “Marry you off?” Durrel was watching me intently now, but it was impossible to tell what that look held. He seemed kind enough, but I wouldn’t be the first girl led to ruin for trusting the pretty gazes of a nobbish boy.
I turned my eyes to shore instead, where the green domes of the Celystra loomed over the city — and here my god Tiboran betrayed me. “No. He sent me to the Daughters of Celys.”
Pox and hells! Why not claim to be a Sarist? Why not just tell them the truth? Greenmen paid dearly for errant Aspirants; why should I suspect these nobs were immune to temptation — or fear? People sold out their loved ones all the time, and I was nothing to these people.
Durrel exchanged one long silent look with his cousin, and I wondered desperately what shared thought was in that grim gaze. But Raffin leaned back and regarded me with something like respect, a lazy smile on his languid face. Finally, though, Phandre broke the silence.
“Convent school!” she said. “I’d’ve run away too. Gods, imagine it! No clothes, no maids, and the food!” She shuddered.
I didn’t have to imagine it.
“Well, clearly you never made it to the school,” Raffin said, taking a handful of my silk skirts.
“No, I did,” I said, catching up again. “And had Tiboran’s own time getting out again, let me tell you! It took months of plannin
g — just to get the clothes alone. . . .”
“Weren’t you scared?” Merista broke in, her voice small and breathy. “Out on the streets alone? Where were you going to go?”
“I — I hadn’t thought that far.”
She folded her hands in her lap and looked at her cousin. “I think we should take her home. Her brother — not to mention everyone at the Celystra — must be worried sick!”
I sat very still. If Tiboran ever loved me . . .
“Now, now, cousin,” Raffin said, “don’t be fobbing off your own feelings on our fair guest here. You seemed perfectly willing to come yesterday afternoon.”
“Well, I didn’t know you were planning on sailing out of the city. And besides, I only came along to keep an eye on Durrel. I don’t trust you, Raffin Taradyce.”
“Don’t I know it,” he said, toasting her with the wine bottle. “Come on, Meri. You’d not condemn our lovely friend to a life as a convent sister! Not even you could be so dull. Little Celyn here obviously wanted an adventure, and I think we’d be failing in our duties as her hosts if we didn’t provide one. Besides, you know what they’d do to her.” His voice had grown solemn.
Merista, eyes wide, shook her head.
“Probably shave her head and hang her for a Sarist,” Phandre said quietly.
Merista looked stubbornly unconvinced. “Durrel —” she pleaded.
Raffin looked between us all. Finally he turned to Durrel. “This is your voyage, brother. What say you?”
Durrel looked straight at me. “Celyn?”
“I am at your mercy,” I said. And that, at least, was the honest truth.
Durrel leaned back in his seat. He seemed to be reviving some, now that the sun was higher in the sky.
“I knew your father a little,” he said, startling me. “Janos, right?”
I nodded jerkily. It was extraordinary, really, considering I had only just invented the man.
“He was a good man,” he continued. “Steady. I don’t think he’d want to see his daughter in a convent. Celyn Contrare, will you accept my personal welcome as my guest aboard the Taradyce Swan?”
I stared at him, my heart a cold knot in my throat. Was this nobleman offering me his protection? That was almost as good as money. Hastily I shifted the platter of meat to the cushioned bench and knelt before him on the floor of the skiff.
“Milord, I do most humbly accept your offer of hospitality. May the gods find me worthy.”
“Get up, girl!” Raffin cried. “He’s not making himself your liege lord!” He yanked me back to my seat. “But I think I speak for us all — except our tedious cousin there, who is not yet of age and who therefore does not get a vote anyway, when I say: Bugger the convent!”
I hooked the wine out of his fingers. “I’ll drink to that.”
The bottle made its rounds once again, but the night was catching up to all of us.
“Pass me that, Raff. My head is splitting.” Durrel hunched forward, rubbing his eyes.
“It serves you right,” Merista said.
“Scold me later?”
Merista softened and slid toward him. “Here.” She pushed her heavy sleeves back and slipped a silver bracelet off into her skirts, where there was no way I could retrieve it without being seen. She tugged off her cousin’s hat and pressed her hands against his temples, fingertips on his eyelids, stroking gently. A moment later, Durrel sighed deeply and leaned his head back against Merista’s chest.
“Thank you,” he breathed. She shrugged — but something pricked at the edges of my thoughts. I hate that.
“Neat trick,” I said.
“I just know where to push hard,” she said, slipping her bracelet back on.
Raffin was cozying up to Merista. “Give us all a little love, won’t you?” She just scowled and shoved him away.
I faded in and out of the conversation after that, watching the city change shape around me. The tall houses along the river cast shim mering shadows on the water; green flags and banners rippled from every window and rooftop, concealing any other green shapes that might be lurking there. Once the riverway would have been a riot of color — not just Mother Celys’s green, but colors flown for all the gods, showing each home’s allegiance: Tiboran’s turquoise at a vintner’s house. Brown for Mend-kaal over the shop of a smith or a baker. Sometimes even Sar’s violet, for healers and mages. But that was years ago, long before anyone in this boat was born. It wasn’t exactly illegal, of course, but these days the only acceptable color was green. Or white — for a house in mourning.
Any other color would have your neighbors asking questions or men in green uniforms knocking in the middle of the night.
A movement on shore caught my eye, and I clenched my fingers on the rail as two bulky figures in identical green-and-gold livery emerged from the shadows, strolling the river walk as if it had been given to them by Celys herself. Their breeches, boots, gloves, and tunics were the bright crisp color of new-mown grass; the tree silhouetted against the golden circle of the moon emblazoned on the chest and back was the only embellishment. Unless you counted the nightstick.
Greenmen. Or more properly, the Acolyte Guard. Not King Bardolph’s secret police precisely; officially they were in the ser vice of the Celyst temples. But everyone knew they reported directly to the king and to his left hand, Lord High Inquisitor Werne Nebraut, seeking out signs, hints — even mere rumors — of heresy. A blue flag or a hearth statue of Mend-kaal earned a smack on the wrist and a brand of the full moon on the back of the hand. But anything that hinted at Sar, goddess of magic — well. Shaved heads were the least of an accused Sarist’s worries. Fire, flayings, bodies suspended above public circles to bleed to death . . . these were the marks of the Inquisitor’s affections.
I tried to stay out of it — well out of it. Politics was a game for the rich; street thieves like me didn’t choose sides if we could help it. I was just as happy picking a Celyst’s pocket as I was rifling a Sarist’s desk. But word was that Bardolph had lost control of the Inquisition, and now nobody was safe from his men in green — not even his own nephews, princes Wierolf and Astilan. I gripped the side of the boat, so tense and stiff I hardly needed my corset to keep me upright, and tried to look invisible. The men in green walked the shore, cudgels swinging as they peered over the passing boats.
I heard a creak of the skiff’s polished wood, a faint rippling splash of the oars, and realized that my party had gone silent. Merista sat still and pale, Durrel clasping her hand. Raffin’s expression was unreadable, but Phandre —
“Bastard pigs!” she cried, flinging the empty wine bottle into the water hard enough to make me flinch. The Greenmen lifted their faces, and one of them gestured toward us.
“Raffin — row!” I lunged for one of the oars. But Durrel was faster, and together the boys turned the skiff into a black knife slicing through the water. Merista skillfully loosed one of the smaller sails, and the Swan picked up speed. As we cruised out of Nob Circle, Phandre lurched up on shaky legs and made a rude gesture to the pursuing Greenmen. Raffin reached out a long velvet arm and pulled her roughly down again.
Finally we rounded the wide swath of the Oss that swept through the Third Circle, Gerse’s busy merchant district. Raffin and Durrel relaxed their pace, but I watched the shore long after we’d left the Greenmen behind. I expected some sort of dressing-down of Phandre, who sulked in a frothy green heap, but Raffin burst out laughing, and even Merista looked exhilarated.
“Don’t get too cozy there,” Raffin said. “We still have to make it out of the gates, and it’s going to take some diplomacy, if the Greenpigs alert their friends at the checking station.”
Durrel straightened, tugging on his doublet. “Right. Well, the last I heard, insulting the Guard wasn’t a hanging offense, but we don’t need to make enemies. Meri, raise the sails. Phandre, do — what you do.” He gave a vague wave in the direction of Phandre’s bosom. Obligingly, she adjusted the fit of her bodice and gave her hair a tu
mble. “Celyn, try not to look terrified, all right?”
He laid a reassuring hand on my sore knee, but I flinched away. “What if they won’t let us through?”
“Don’t worry. Raffin and I are the sons of lords, and Phandre is . . . persuasive. They’ll let us through.”
I dropped my eyes, smoothed the folds of my skirts, and nodded. But I was calculating the distance from the guards’ station to shore — and whether it was something I could jump.
Eventually we pulled in sight of the city gates and the great sandstone arch that could — at one quick word from the guards — cut off our exit from Gerse. I had only seen the iron bars lowered over the Oss Gate once, for nine days the previous winter, when Bardolph ordered a crackdown on foreigners in Gerse, and the Guard swept through the city, burning out immigrants and traders. The city had smelled of smoke for weeks afterward, and ash had coated the Oss, sometimes inches deep. We should have gotten out then, Tegen had said more than once in the last year, fled through the gates the instant the king lifted the restrictions.
But we were city brats; neither of us had been able to imagine a life outside of Gerse. The spiraling streets, the crowded squares, the tumbledown buildings of the Seventh Circle — that was home in all its squalid glory. Tegen had always said we’d still be there when Marau sent his crows for us.
And he’d turned out to be right. I pressed my eyes closed, blinking away the vision of blood coating his beard, the last taste of his lips on my mouth.
Raffin skillfully steered the Swan into the queue of merchant vessels, liveried barges, and water transports ferrying citizens out of the city. As we waited, my companions fished about for their documentation — municipal papers or house seals that would allow them free passage past the gates, onto the King’s Waterway. I froze. What was I supposed to offer up — Chavel’s letters?