The Duchess of the Shallows Read online

  "I can't go back," she said at last. "To Noam's. The letter...whoever sent it told me that my time at the bakery was over, that I had to leave. So I have no place to-"

  "Had to leave? And Noam just threw you out?"

  "He didn't...he didn't throw me out, Lysander." There was anger mixed with the tears. "But he never spoke a word to stop me. He didn't even seem sur-surprised." She choked back a sob, and for a moment she tasted smoke in her mouth. She pushed herself away, hands balled into fists. "He never even asked to see the letter, or if this is what I wanted, or where I was going to go or..." She looked at Lysander nakedly. "He just...he just handed me four florin and sent me on my way." She could still feel Noam's hands, large, coarse and floury, folding her fingers closed around the coins. He hadn't even looked her in the eye, and she'd been unable to look back. "Eight years, Lysander. Eight years I lived in that house and he let me go like I was nothing."

  He took her hands in his own, pulled her closed and rocked her. She lay her head on his shoulder and sighed.

  "And what happened to the letter?" he asked, finally. Even in this tender moment, Lysander's mind was still working with its typical ingenuity.

  "I…I burned it," she replied, unable to look him in the eye. Although it was true she'd fed the rich vellum with its gray wax seal to the flames, she could never tell Lysander why, or the way her breath had caught when she realized the letter was addressed not to Duchess but to Marina Kell, the little girl who'd arrived at Noam's bakery eight years ago in the dead of night.

  "I'm so scared, Lysander," she said, remembering that terrible moment. "Every time I think I'm safe something happens. Eight years ago I lost my first home to a fire, and yesterday I lost the second to some letter I don't even understand. It's like I'm a little girl all over again, with people telling me where to go and what to do." She wiped at the wetness on her face, anger replacing fear and sadness. "I won't start over again, Lysander, not if it means depending on someone else who can turn my life upside down in an instant. I need something separate, something mine. A victory of my own. I don't have a family or a home or a job or a husband, but I have this" – she held up the brass coin – "and I have this" – she pointed at herself.

  He looked at her quietly for a long moment. "And you have this," he said, taking her hand and placing it on his own chest. She wrapped her arms around him and hid her face against his doublet as he stroked her hair for a long time.

  Chapter Two:

  In the market

  It was the same dream she'd had since she was small. The gray shape bore down upon her until she could barely breathe, and when she struggled it opened a rent and gaping hole where its mouth should be and let out a harsh, pealing laugh that rang and rang…

  …until she realized it was just the bells high on the hill, ringing the hour. She sat up, running her hands through her hair, banishing the last waking vestiges of the dream. No matter how many months might go by between visits, the figure always returned to pay a call. Once those dreams would send her screaming from her bed, but she'd learned young that there was little sympathy in the baker's house. Although by now she was used to the nightmares, they still left her shaken.

  From the light outside the window she could tell it was late afternoon. She slipped quietly out of bed to start a fire in the hearth. Lysander rolled over but did not wake, and she stole the moment to look at him, his sweet face with eyes closed and framed in soft blond hair. Lysander was the first boy to ever win her heart. He'd won a good deal more than that, one night when she was drunk on infatuation and he on wine. Although he claimed it was his first and only time with a woman, he'd risen admirably to the occasion. Not that she was an expert on such things; other than Lysander her own sexual experience was limited to some groping with a locksmith's apprentice in the alley near Noam's bakery. They'd never had a repeat of that evening - for her the infatuation had faded, and for Lysander the novelty - but in the year since they'd somehow gotten closer.

  But she'd woolgathered enough. If she were to face Hector alone later that evening, she should be properly prepared. She slipped out of the garret, leaving Lysander asleep behind her and heading towards the market.

  The shortest route was through Bell Plaza, the largest courtyard in the Shallows, a square area measuring nearly three hundred feet on a side and containing two of the city's great gates: Beggar's and Market. She headed north through Market Gate towards the shops and stalls of the city's main market. Although the day was passing and some of the sellers would be thinking of packing up their wares, she knew they'd stay open for her. Noam and all his family – natural and otherwise – were well known and well liked in the market.

  Duchess had fallen in love with the place from the first - the noise, the crowds, the smells and the bustle - and her affection had never wavered. Each stall, some old and rickety, others solid and newly painted, was as familiar as the fingers of her own hand. The cobbles were worn nearly smooth by centuries of questing feet, and the air was filled with the smell of a hundred different foods, the sounds of haggling and the splash of the fountain where stone nymphs frolicked amidst the falling water. The most memorable feature of the market was the wall that nearly bisected the area: eight feet high, fifty feet long, and built of the ever-present gray stone. There was no gate in it, nor did it completely divide one side of the market from the other. To get around, one had only to walk around one crumbling edge or the other. The wall had stood since time out of mind and no one remembered who had built it or why, but it had become a sign of status within the market. The stalls of the wealthiest or most prestigious merchants backed up to it, with the others spread out in less desirable locations on either side. Although Noam was neither rich nor well connected his stall stood against the wall, and no one could say just how he had achieved that exalted position. There had been some fine old fights over filling the gaps left when other merchants had moved or abandoned their slots, but Duchess had never heard that the baker had engaged in any such conflict. She'd never thought much about it, but now she wondered if that weren't yet another sign of the Grey's hidden influence.

  She knew most of the merchants who trafficked here. She nodded politely to Samual and his ever-present racks of plucked, upside-down-hanging ducks, chickens and pheasants. She waved to Marten and his two sons, who were loading bags of fruit on a wooden cart. She stopped for a word with Midwife Marna, and was regaled with the tale of a particularly difficult and bloody birth. She'd grown up with these people, who were by now more family than the Kells she only sometimes remembered. The market rumor mill was evidently a bit behind, and although there seemed to be a silent agreement not to ask Duchess why she wasn't pushing the bread cart, the curiosity was evident. Niam the milk merchant was the only one bold enough to ask after Noam, but she put him off, saying, "I'm running an errand for Minette, and if I'm late she'll kick me right down to the harbor." Niam was an unrepentant gossip but went in fear of Minette, for some reason Duchess never knew, and he clamped down on his questions.

  As she shopped, she could not help but notice the quiet conversations that went on behind hands, or beneath the haggling of merchants. Ever since the appearance of the coin and the letter, it seemed as if she saw the Grey everywhere. Every turned head, meaningful glance and knowing nod seemed a turn of phrase in a language she did not know. How many of the speakers were Grey, even now engaged in the trade of secrets, rumors, and favors known as fruning? Until today this loose confederation of thieves, spies and information brokers had seemed almost a fairy tale, but in a few days Duchess might find herself amongst their company. Assuming she passed – and survived – Hector's test.

  Two rough-looking men wearing red woolen caps approached as she stepped away from a stall, and without thinking, she stood aside to make way. She was not the only one. No one in the lower districts risked a conflict with the Red, who ran every extortion and protection scheme from the harbor to Market District. Many of the stalls in the market, and most of the business in th
e Shallows, were painted with a red hand, a sign that the owners had paid their protection money. The redcaps also kept the Shallows safe from the petty gangs and the worst elements of the Deeps that the city guards, the blackarms, ignored. The chief of the Red was known as Uncle Cornelius; no one seemed to know if he had a surname, nor did it matter. There was only one Uncle in Rodaas, and even Duchess had heard of him.

  It was time to attend to the evening's needs. New clothing, she decided, the darker and less conspicuous the better. Tailors and weavers also did business in the market, and she moved quickly from stall to stall, finding a sturdy pair of boots here, a dark cloak there, and a new tunic and leggings that fit her slender frame well enough. Catching herself in a mirror of beaten brass she took stock. Even with her shoulder-length brown hair she'd look more like a boy than she liked, but there was nothing for it. She was not dressing for a party. By the time she completed her purchases fifth bell had rung and the market was shutting down. She still had a small pile of silver sou that she slipped into a deep pocket; she'd learned young that, in the market, the deeper the pocket the safer the coin. On the way out, she passed the fountain and tossed in a half-penny for luck. She could spare the coin, at least for now, and she definitely needed the luck.

  Darkness was falling and the fog was creeping up the hill, but Bell Plaza was still alive with the traffic of merchants and lower nobility headed to slum in the taverns and brothels of the Shallows. Lightboys swarmed around, looking for custom and mostly finding it. Many of the Deeps children hired themselves out at night, to guide those looking for entertainment and to guard them from the cutpurses who lurked ever ready to relieve visitors of their coin. Each lightboy carried a lantern for the first purpose and a long stick for the second, and Duchess had seen those sticks in action. It was best not to trifle with a lightboy on the job. All of the lightboys knew Lysander, and therefore Duchess, so she nodded politely to them as she passed.

  She headed back towards the garret, but as she rounded a corner she caught sight of a group of unruly young men, well dressed and well-liquored, catcalling and teasing passers-by. Looking more closely, she recognized the band of whores and fools that Lysander had always referred to as either the ganymedes or, more often, "the girls." The composition of the band varied as new boys joined and older members moved on, but Lysander was invariably the leader.

  She took note of the current roster. There was Poor Gabe, whose clients treated him more roughly than he liked and paid him less than he wanted, though Lysander always said there was something in the boy that asked for it; he played the martyr too well. Ponn had broad shoulders and a tough look, but everyone called him Squeak because his voice was girlishly high. Deneys was tall as a tree and thin as rail and, according to Lysander, the current favorite of the master of the tanner's guild. Manly Pete supposedly preferred women and was a ganymede only for the gold, although he rarely earned more than a silver. Lysander was there as well, with his arm around a relatively new addition – Bran or Brenn, she thought his name was – and they were stumbling along in drunken unison with the rest of the girls. Looking more closely, she saw that Bran-or-Brenn looked as if he'd taken a beating: one of his eyes was blackened and swollen and he appeared to be favoring one arm, though he seemed far too drunk to care about either.

  It was hardly unusual to see a ganymede sporting bruises, and on more than one occasion Lysander himself had stumbled back to the garret in various shades of black and blue. Unlike whores in established brothels, the ganymedes went unprotected by the blackarms, the Red, or someone like Minette. The ganymedes were a law unto themselves, answering to no one and protected by no one, so it was little wonder they so often took a beating.

  Before she could hail them the ganymedes disappeared around a bend, no doubt heading towards their next cup of wine. She decided not to follow; she had a long night ahead, and she didn't want to start it tavern-hopping. Whatever this test of Hector's might be, it was best she face it with all her wits about her.

  * * *

  She busied herself before last bell by trying on her new clothes, pleased with the fit if not the fashion. Someday she was going to have to try wearing a dress. Then, restless, she paced the garret, the squeak of every board under her feet as familiar as the voices of Noam's family as they made the morning bread. She considered going out for a walk to burn off some nervous energy, but knew the evening fog would by now be thick upon the hill. It was never perfectly safe to roam the Shallows alone at night, but something about the chill, damp mist always made her think of the gray figure from her dreams.

  Almost as an afterthought she knelt near the fireplace and pulled aside a loose floorboard, revealing a small wooden box. She brought it to the hearth, opened it and removed two small matching daggers. They'd been a gift from Lysander for her last birthday. Duchess was no stranger to a blade – Noam had seen to that – but the knives the baker had used to train her were not nearly as sharp as Lysander's gifts. She thought someday she'd like to learn to throw a blade as well, but these weapons were not weighted for such.

  She sat at the fire for a long while, sharpening the daggers with the whetstone that also sat in the box. Then she hung one of the daggers from her belt and slid the other into her boot, making what she what she hoped was a grim smile. Hector didn't seem dangerous, but she decided that if he showed her steel, she'd respond in kind.

  She napped fitfully but was soon awakened by a tremendous crash of thunder that brought with it a torrent of rain. It was unusual enough to bring her to the garret’s window, where she watched Shallows folk running for cover. Such a strong rain was unusual in Rodaas at any time, and certainly so early in the spring. Most of the year rain was a fine mist or a light drizzle that lasted for days, and had to fall for hours before anything got very wet. The appearance of such a strong downpour did little to ease her nerves, but she refused to take it as an omen. By the time it let up, around eleventh bell, the street outside Lysander's window had become a swamp. The mud wouldn't do much for her new clothes, she reflected ruefully, but it would keep people indoors, which on this night was all to the good. It seemed also to have driven away the fog, another good thing. After one last check on her daggers, she took to the muddy streets, following the run of water south towards the Deeps.

  The moon was cloud-hidden and since most of the lightboys had been driven inside by the rain the night was darker than she liked. Still, it made keeping to the shadows easier. The cobblestoned way was slippery with mud so she took her time; the last thing she needed tonight was a turned ankle. She followed the water as it flowed downhill. She passed few people, and they either never saw her or paid no attention.

  She left behind Noam's shop, and the other humble but neatly kept homes and businesses of the city's working poor. As she neared the long slope that marked the edge of the Shallows, the cobblestones gave way to a muddy, narrow rut, and the buildings she passed looked older and shabbier...and, strangest to her eyes, largely wooden. The majority of structures in the higher districts, and even in the Shallows, were constructed largely of dark gray stone. In the Deeps, few if any of the structures were stone, and she had heard dreadful stories about fires that had gotten out of control and leapt quickly from house to house and street to street. Having had her own experience with a house fire, she found the prospect terrifying.

  Until this afternoon, Duchess had only rarely been this far south, and had never dared descend fully into the Deeps, where the days were dangerous and the nights lawless. A knife in her boot wouldn't protect her there at night. A sword in her boot wouldn't protect her. But there was no need. Hector's shop stood just at the edge of the hill, marked by a small wooden sign depicting three silver coins spilling from a pouch. The sign creaked in the breeze over the paint-peeling wooden doors, which were three steps up from the muddy street. A light burned inside, but following instructions she slipped around to the back door and knocked three times. The door opened immediately, as if Hector had been standing just behind, and he
gestured her inside. The gesture was brusque, but also strangely eager, as if this meeting were not a chore but a long-awaited moment. She stepped warily through, a hand near her dagger, but Hector closed the door behind her, taking no notice. She was in a sparsely furnished living space, which boasted a small hearth, several rickety chairs, an even more rickety-looking table, and a small bed piled with furs that had seen better days. Hector took a seat and motioned her to another, and she faced him across a warped and pitted tabletop on which burned several stubs of candle.

  "I see you left your friend at home. Very wise. Keep it up and this might turn out to be worth the trouble I am taking." The buried keenness in his voice was even more troubling than his earlier peevishness, and since she found herself lacking a pointed retort she said nothing at all.

  "The mark you showed me this afternoon is a sign," he continued, his voice dropping to a near whisper, "but it's vague, and that means the opening of this door of yours depends entirely upon me. Either I'm satisfied with your performance or I'm not. In this, I am the door ward." And he rattled like a loose hinge, she thought, but she remained silent, following Minette's long-ago admonition that silence was more valuable than gold and stronger than stone. Hector was guardedly excited about something, she was certain, and like a child who had come up with the most brilliant idea, he could not wait to tell her.

  He leaned forward, thin elbows on bony knees. "How well do you know the city?"

  "Well enough," she replied warily. "I've lived here all my life."

  "You know the Shallows, yes, but what of the other districts? Like, say, Temple?"