Tash worked her way around the fair. It was one of the largest she’d ever been to, and Dornan had been transformed to ten times its normal size. It was getting to lunchtime, and delicious smells eventually made her give in and eat a pastry with a flaky crust and spicy meat and potatoes inside. She asked the vendor if he’d seen Gravell. He hadn’t, but another customer said, “The big bloke? He was in Milton’s bar in the center of town earlier.”
Tash stomped back to the town and found the bar. It was gloomy and the smoke hung low from the ceiling, though not low enough to affect Tash, who was tiny compared to most of the clientele. She checked all the corners for Gravell but he couldn’t be seen, so she asked the landlady, who said he’d left earlier. “Said he was going to the bathhouse.”
Tash went back to where she started—the bathhouse was close behind the cobbler’s shop. She walked past the window and saw that the gray boots—her boots—were still high on their shelf. Round the back of the shop and down an alley, with fields behind, was the bathhouse.
She’d been here before and knew the layout. It was a small building that had started out as a barn but now had three large wooden baths in it. Each bath was like a huge wine barrel with steps up to it. The water was heated by a fire in the yard and carried to the baths in large pitchers by two scrawny boys employed for their height and long arms.
At the front of the barn was a separate area where four barber’s chairs stood. Last time Tash was here, she’d been with Gravell and he’d been the only customer, but now it was busy. The chairs were all currently occupied, and more men waited on a row of stools nearby. Hair was being cut and dyed, beards were being trimmed and boots shined at the same time. She asked one of the barbers if he’d seen Gravell. The man glanced at her dreadlocks and said, “You could do with a good trim, luv.” He snapped his scissors at her and laughed. Another of the barbers joined in, saying, “We could get rid of all that. It’d cost you, though.” Everyone was looking at her now.
Tash stood her ground. “Have you seen Gravell? The big bloke. Big enough to kick the shit out of you both in one go.”
The men only laughed and Tash was trying to think of another comment when she saw the man who ran the bathhouse, so strode over and asked him if Gravell was in the bath.
“He’s a friend. My boss. It’s important.”
“Privacy is our watchword.”
Tash rolled her eyes and said, “Bollocks is your watchword, more like,” and she was pleased with how confident she sounded, even if the words didn’t make much sense.
She walked round behind the barn, hoping to find a way in. There was a small door that the boys used to carry the hot water in to the baths, and Tash waited until one of them carried a pitcher into the barn and slipped in behind him. There was a series of three curtains partitioning the left side of the barn, and she knew that behind each was a bath. But which one was Gravell’s? Only one way to find out . . .
Tash sidled into the first curtained-off area.
There was a pair of boots behind the bath. Fine dark brown leather with green stitching. Very nice. And definitely not belonging to Gravell. There was a splash from the bath as its occupant ducked underwater, and Tash took the chance to dash behind the tub, but blocking her way was a ladder from which hung numerous towels. She had to squeeze behind it and, just as she did so, her back to the wall, her eyes fixed on the rim of the bath, a youth rose out of the water. He had his back to her as he swept the water from his shoulder-length brown hair and stood, revealing shoulders, waist, hips, and buttocks. Then he turned round, to reach for a towel.
He stopped, arm out, staring at Tash.
Tash stared back. The young man was naked.
Tash’s eyes rose and she realized the man wasn’t totally naked. He was wearing a gold chain with a strange pendant. At first she thought the man’s skin was red and blotchy from the heat of the water, but then she realized that he was covered in bruises.
“Seen enough?”
Tash turned her head away, shielding her eyes.
“Sorry, wrong bath!”
And she slid between the ladder rack and the wall and on to the next bath, feeling the eyes of the young man on her all the time. She peered round the partition. The half-barrel bath was huge, but Gravell still managed to make it seem small.
She slid round the curtain and smiled at him winningly.
Gravell said, “If this is about those bloody boots you can leave now.”
EDYON
DORNAN, PITORIA
THE BATHWATER was no longer hot and Edyon’s aches hadn’t eased by much. He’d paid the lads at the bathhouse to wash his piss-stinking clothes, giving them six kopeks each, promising the same again if the clothes were dry by the time he was.
Edyon gently soaped his body, going over the events of the morning as he went over each lump and bruise: Madame Eruth’s refusal to see him; Stone’s trap (stupid, stupid!); the beating; and then, most surprisingly and pleasantly, the young man called March with the beautiful eyes. March had improved his day immeasurably and certainly fit the handsome-foreign-man prediction. He’d drink with him tonight, eat with him, perhaps more.
Edyon floated on his back, thinking of March’s face, his lips on the water bottle. Nice lips. Not too fat, not too thin, just right. Yes, he’d see March tonight, but he really needed to see his mother too. The money for Stone was a big problem. Fifty kroners was a lot of money. His mother had it, but she wouldn’t just give it to him. Edyon would have to explain why he wanted it. And he suspected that if he lied to his mother, Stone would somehow find out and hold it over him forever. The only way to avoid that was to tell his mother what had happened. The truth. A full confession. That was the way forward.
You must be honest . . .
And yet, fretted Edyon, sometimes his mother was not good at understanding the truth. She loved him, he knew that, but she lacked an appreciation of what real life was like, at least for Edyon. When he’d told her that the university rules said that a father must put his son forward for a place, she’d said, “You’re too negative, Edyon. Rules are meant to be broken.”
At first he’d believed her, working hard with his tutors, first in languages, then in law. The people he knew in the fairs didn’t care if he had no father, that his name was his mother’s. And so he’d gone to the university at Garya and stood in front of the professor, explained his interest in law, and the professor seemed delighted . . . until the question of family came up, at which point the professor had politely, sadly even, but firmly pointed out that it was impossible. The professor at Tornia had been even clearer: he’d looked at Edyon as if he was a dog turd and said, “We only teach gentlemen.”
Since then Erin had suggested he try working as a clerk in court, which seemed even more laughable to Edyon. If a university treated him like shit, a court certainly wouldn’t be any better.
Erin was unusual in being a successful businesswoman, and being an unmarried mother wasn’t unique, but her disdain for convention was the problem. She had affairs with men and made no effort to hide them or pretend that she was interested in marriage. She’d once said that if she met a man who was attractive, loving, and intelligent, she might marry him—but that she doubted such a combination existed. And that made Edyon wonder what she really thought of him. At the core of it, Edyon thought that his mother didn’t actually like men very much, and the older Edyon got, the more like a man and less like a boy he became, the less she liked him too.
And so now that he had to confess his crimes to her, he wasn’t totally sure his mother would be sympathetic. She hated thieves above all else. She was ruthless with those who stole from her, taking them to the local courts, demanding the harshest of punishments. Any servant who took even a crust from the stores without permission was punished.
Still, what choice did he have? He would have to confess: tell the truth and swear that he’d never steal
again.
And of that he was certain. He would never steal again.
This was the crossroads. This was his choice.
No more.
Edyon submerged himself, as if cleansing himself completely of his old ways. Then he stood and turned to get a towel, and that was when he saw the girl.
She was scrawny and small, like many of the urchins who followed the fairs. But this girl was different. Her hair, for a start. She had long blonde dreadlocks, tied back in an unruly bunch. Her skin was brown, the color of dark honey from the south, but her eyes were blue, a sea-sparkling blue. He knew who she was, of course. Edyon had seen her at the fairs at Goldminster and Cheamster. She went around with the huge man, Gravell, who was rumored to be a demon hunter.
“Seen enough?” he inquired, and the girl hid her eyes, mumbled an apology, and dashed through the curtain.
With a wry smile, Edyon wrapped the coarse towel round himself and gingerly stepped out of the barrel. He felt a little better, but no more than that. He couldn’t face even patting his body dry and so just stood still and tried to relax. As he rolled his shoulders it became impossible to ignore the conversation on the other side of the curtain. The deep voice had to belong to the demon hunter, Gravell.
GRAVELL: I told you, I’m in negotiations.
THE GIRL: It doesn’t look like it.
GRAVELL: You can’t rush these things. I’m sussing out the interest. I was hoping that Southgate would be here, but he’s in Tornia. Flaxman’s around but I hate his guts and I’d rather starve than sell it to him.
THE GIRL: How long will it take?
GRAVELL: It takes what it takes. Can’t I have my bath in peace?
THE GIRL: How long?
GRAVELL: A couple more pitchers of hot water, a bit more soaking, then I’m going for dinner, and then—
THE GIRL: No, not how long will you stay in the bath! How long until you’ve negotiated?
GRAVELL: You’re turning into a nag.
Silence.
THE GIRL (quietly): Fine, well, I wouldn’t want to nag. To stop my nagging I just need a small loan.
GRAVELL: What for? Not those boots, is it?
THE GIRL (wheedling): Gravell, honestly, he has an even better pair, with fur and tassels. When you see them you’ll realize they are the most beautiful boots in the whole world.
Sound of splashing.
THE GIRL: So? Can you loan me four kroners?
GRAVELL: FOUR KRONERS?
Sounds of more splashing.
THE GIRL: It’s not so much.
GRAVELL: FOUR KRONERS? FOR BOOTS?
THE GIRL: It’s my money. How I spend it is up to me. You spend that on gambling and women.
GRAVELL: Exactly, not on boots!
THE GIRL: I just need the loan. In fact, really it’s not so much a loan as an advance.
GRAVELL: I don’t do loans. And I don’t do advances.
THE GIRL: But . . . if he sells the boots they’re gone for good.
GRAVELL: And you’ll have saved four kroners.
THE GIRL: And I’ll hate you forever.
GRAVELL: There’s a couple of cobblers here at the fair. You can get different boots. Nice boots. At a sensible price.
THE GIRL: But I want the gray suede boots.
GRAVELL: And on what occasion will you be wearing these boots with fur and tassels?
THE GIRL: Any occasion I please, if they’re mine.
GRAVELL: Then you’ll have to buy them with your money when you get it.
THE GIRL: But I’ve done the work. I’ve risked my life. It’s just up to you to sell the stuff. If you did your part of the job as efficiently as I did mine, I wouldn’t even be asking for a loan or an advance. You owe me the money.
GRAVELL: I told you, no.
THE GIRL: You’re . . . you’re . . . I hate you!
This was followed by a clatter and a splash, a growl from Gravell, a scream from the girl, and then by Gravell swearing and shouting, “Bring my boots back!”
“You can have these when I get mine.”
This was followed by more splashing and cursing and threats of the direst kind, then the sound of the curtain swishing and Gravell shouting again. Edyon peered out of his own compartment to see Gravell naked, huge, hairy, wet, and furious in the middle of the barn. The boys who worked there were watching and grinning. Gravell shouted to them, “Ten kopeks each if you get her!”
The girl replied, “He doesn’t pay! He’ll make you wait for what he owes you!”
This infuriated Gravell more than ever. “You! Besmirching my name!” And he growled and ran after the girl. The boys seemed keen on earning some money if they could, so one of them shut the small door to the back of the barn and stood in front of it with his arms crossed. The other advanced on the girl. She was startlingly fast, though. She ducked round the boy and went close to Gravell, shaking his boots at him.
Edyon wondered briefly how she and Gravell caught demons. The danger of it. The adventure. He wanted to help the girl. She should have her boots. Surely Gravell would keep his purse near his bath . . . so Edyon slipped round the curtain onto Gravell’s side as the shouts and curses carried on beyond.
Gravell’s clothes were in a pile on the floor. Edyon quickly rummaged through them and felt something warm. He snatched his hand away. Was there an animal in there? The pile of clothes didn’t move—but they glowed faintly, purple. Edyon parted the clothes and saw beneath them a large bottle with a braid round its neck. The bottle was clear thick glass, but inside was a swirling mass of purple smoke.
Edyon had seen demon smoke before, but only in the tiny quantities they sold in smoke dens. The first time he’d visited one, at the fair in Cheamster, he’d inhaled it all at once, copying a man who seemed experienced in the matter. Edyon had passed out and woken up the next morning in a back alley, without his purse. That’s how he learned that copying the smoke addicts wasn’t the wisest idea. The second time, he knew to take just a small amount, sniffing it into his nose and down to his lungs, holding it in for as long as possible and then releasing. The sensation was extraordinary, the most perfect relaxation in his life. That smoke had been pale and sluggish, barely moving in its tiny vial. The smoke in this bottle was intense and fast moving. And there was so much of it, enough for a hundred inhalations or more.
Edyon’s hand reached out and, as he touched the bottle, the smoke seemed to gather round his fingers, as if it was alive to his presence. Edyon had to have it. The bottle was in his hands now, heavy, as if full of sand, not smoke. Edyon gazed into the swirling cloud of purple. It was almost hypnotic, but he was quickly brought back to the present by a screamed warning from Gravell: “Watch her kick. Her kick! No! Don’t let her get past you!”
Edyon slipped back to his side of the curtain and wrapped a towel round the bottle, but the purple glow could still be seen. The chase was coming his way. As his curtain was whipped aside, Edyon dropped the towel-wrapped bottle into his bath, and the girl carrying Gravell’s boots ducked behind the towel ladder, pulling it over one of the boys in hot pursuit.
“Yes, you should run!” shouted Gravell, and there was a laughing answer from the girl.
“Well, at least I can run, old man.”
Edyon put the towel ladder back in place and straightened the curtains. The purple glow in his bath couldn’t be seen. It all looked normal.
The sound of Gravell’s shouting came from outside, getting louder as he returned, grumbling about the girl and how slow the boys were.
Edyon took a step up to the bath but stopped at the sound of Gravell’s roar, so loud that the curtain seemed to quiver.
“The little thief! I’ll kill her! I’ll tear her legs off!”
Then there was the sound of Gravell dressing and cursing and muttering to himself.
“So, steal my smoke, wi
ll you, missy? Well, I’ll get you, and when I do I’ll teach you what happens to smoke thieves. You’ll be begging to be put in the stocks . . .”
Edyon was still standing by his bath as Gravell stomped away. All was quiet again. He shivered. He heard the boys come in and check Gravell’s bath area, and the boss of the bathhouse giving them orders to tidy everything up.
Edyon climbed back into his bath.
The water was hotter than he remembered, and he sank into it with a smile. He felt around for the bottle and found that it had sunk to the bottom. He held on to it and lay back and his aches began to ease away.
CATHERINE
THE PITORIAN SEA
The seed-stolen slow rot of nutshells, open coffins on the forest floor
“Life’s Journey,” Queen Isabella of Brigant
THE SEA crossing to Pitoria took three days. Catherine’s farewells in Brigant had been brief. The most surprising was the one with her father, who had come to her room for the first time ever on the morning of her departure. He had demanded to see her jewelry, taken away the smaller and cheaper pieces, and given her a heavy gold and diamond necklace in their place.
“It was your grandmother’s,” he grunted when Sarah put it round Catherine’s neck, then added, “You’re my daughter; now at least you look like it.”
And that was that. He had appeared on the quay as she boarded her ship but hadn’t spoken to her, reserving his conversation for Boris.
Catherine’s good-bye from her mother was longer but hardly an outpouring of emotion. She kissed Catherine on the cheek and handed her a thin volume of poems and a new book on Queen Valeria.
“What have you decided about your new life, Catherine?”