Chapter Nineteen
Joaquim stretched out next to Viane in the narrow bed they shared, trying not to wake her. It was late afternoon, but they had spent much of the night drinking in the tavern; his head pounded, but not as bad as it should have. They had coin in plenty ever since his first job as a smuggler the week before, and Joaquim was beginning to see what had attracted Viane to the life. It was probably time for him to return home and report to his parents; if they didn’t see him every other day, they began to worry. Not that they nag any less, Joaquim thought, resisting the urge to trace the curve of Viane’s body. At times, his intimacy bothered her, for some reason he could not identify, and he did not want to ruin the moment. No, he needed to go back and see his parents, persuade them not to send the Order looking for him.
Just a few weeks, he thought, for the hundredth time that week. A few weeks until Viane gets this out of her system, and then we go home, and I’m the hero. She’s warmed up to me well enough, I’d say. Marriage, a few kids, wealth, security. He just had to keep his parents appeased until he could get Viane out of this. It shouldn’t be too hard; he had already kept them from the worst of their debts, with the amber, and he would take more coin back this time as well.
The door slammed open, rebounding from the wall with a crash. Viane’s head jerked up, and she instinctively raised the blanket to cover herself. Salo let out his familiar, nervous laugh and leaned up against the doorframe. “Rise and shine, lovers,” he said. “Sipir has a big job for us tonight, you know.”
Viane lay down again and muttered, “Get out of here, Salo, or I’ll slit your throat. Night Sister take you, you’ve given me a headache that’s going to last all night.”
“I’m afraid you gave yourself that headache, love-bird,” Salo said. The lean man’s face twisted into a leer, and he added, “You two have been enjoying yourselves so much, it’s a wonder you even made it out of the wine-house last night. Anyway, Sipir wants to talk to everyone before we head out to meet the ship, so time to get up and ready.”
He left the door open, and Joaquim cursed him. Naked in front of Viane was all right, but naked when anyone could walk by was not appealing. He dressed quickly and fished his rapier and dagger out from under the bed, where they hid, pushed up against the far wall. Not much call for weapons, not down in the Gut. Being part of Sipir’s crew had its advantages, although Etio had certainly not seen it that way. He had left as soon as he could walk, but not before Joaquim had wheedled a promise out of him to keep Viane’s whereabouts a secret. The man had refused any payment for his secrecy as well. The old Joaquim would have thought Etio a fool. Now Joaquim wondered if he himself were not the fool.
Etio’s silence, though, was not Joaquim’s foremost concern. “Did you know about this?” he asked, climbing out from under the bed so he could see her face.
Viane grimaced, her wide lips turning down. “Why would I know where you kept your sword, Joaquim? You haven’t worn the thing in days.”
“Not the sword. The job.”
She shrugged and rolled onto her back, blanket falling to expose her breasts.
Joaquim shut the door, ignoring the mocking smile that came onto her face, and lit a candle—the windows had been papered over so many times, it would be a miracle just to open them. Viane’s flaunting of her body bothered him, but only partially because it made him recall her words about keeping the men on their toes. Is that what this is? Joaquim wondered. He did not want to know the answer to that question; he did not think he could face that truth, if it were a truth.
“Well?” he asked. “How long have you known?”
“This one’s been coming for a long time,” Viane said. “It’s huge; Sipir said we’d make more on this job than we would on everything else this year. Your good luck that you joined up when you did, although I imagine Grits and Tip have half a mind to kill you after tonight and take your share. They weren’t too happy about splitting everything another way.”
“Huge? And you didn’t think to tell me? Everyone else knew about it.”
“What did it matter?” Viane asked. “You’ll do it anyway, won’t you? I didn’t think you cared.”
“I care every time I put my whole family at risk of being shipped off to the galleys,” he said, biting off the words. “I care every time you stick out your neck and practically ask someone to cut it for you because you insist on carrying a couple of knives and nothing else.”
Everything about her seemed to change—her face smoothed out, leaving only a cold, dismissive mask; her shoulders drew back, she let the blanket drop, and began to dress.
“Come on, Viane,” Joaquim asked. He knew he had done something wrong, but he didn’t know what. Like half the bloody things I do, he thought. One wrong touch, one wrong breath, and she’s cold as ice. And in a few hours, she might be tugging my belt off, as though nothing happened. It drove him crazy, half-frustrated, half-intrigued. “Don’t act like this?”
“Act like what?” she asked. “I’m getting dressed; you closed the door, so I figured you wanted me to be decent before we go out.”
“Don’t get angry at me, I don’t even know what I did,” he said.
She pulled the shirt down and gave him an empty smile. “I’m not angry. Let’s go.”
Joaquim let the matter drop, but only because—just like every other time—he had no idea what had happened. He was starting to realize that, for all his own self-involvement, his own preoccupation with changing himself, his own problems paled in comparison with whatever Viane was struggling with. At times, she was like Viane of old—the girl who had almost cried when Joaquim had insulted her about losing her maidenhead; most of the time, though, she seemed to bristle with a defensive sensuousness, an aggressive sexuality. She seemed like two people, and Joaquim did not like one of them.
He snuffed out the candle and followed her into the main room of the small suite of rooms that Sipir kept for his crew. The furnishings were not fancy—straight-backed chairs with worn padding, thread-bare, mouse-chewed rugs that, when new, must have been almost more hideous with their brilliant oranges and purples. Joaquim was certain that, one night, the sagging bed he shared with Viane would give out completely, but since their room was barely wide enough to fit two people, he doubted the fall would do much damage. In spite of its less than ideal conditions, it was a place to be with Viane, and that made up for some of it.
Sipir was waiting for them, beard and hair curled and oiled, wearing the nondescript, middle-class Apsian clothes that let him blend into the city, even with his Jaecan coloring. He sat in one of the more reliable chairs. Salo, Tip, and Grits stood on one side of the room, and the Canian brothers, Juiot and Nenis, almost identical with their frizzy hair and beards, each as broad as two men, stood on the other.
“Good,” Sipir said in his almost-perfect Apsian. “Everyone is here. Just a few words of caution before I tell you where to go. These men are not to be harmed, no matter what. I don’t want a repeat of what happened with that Manc trader—understand, Tip?”
The stout man flexed his hands and nodded.
“You can put up with some motherless bastards for a few hours for the amount of money they’re paying; any of you cause them trouble, and I’ll kill you myself. No poking around, either. These men want their privacy—as much for what they’re bringing in as to who they are. No chatting with them. Salo, Grits, no gossiping with the sailors like the old women you are. This is big money, enough that we could knock Tides and maybe even Pontus off the harbor if we play our hand right. So that means no screwing this up. Also, all of you will help unload; no one staying back for lookout.”
Grits spat on the dirty floor. “Bad idea, boss,” he said. “That stinks, even from here. No smuggler plays it that way. At least, no one plays it that way more than once.”
Sipir did not change posture. He stared at Grits, unmoving. After a long moment, Grits spat again and looked away. Joaquim shivered. The raspy-voiced man was as tough as nails, but Joaquim could see why h
e drew back. Sipir was . . . deadly. That was the only word to describe him.
“I’ll stand lookout, then,” Sipir said, “since Grits has the heart as well as the tongue of an old woman. Make sure that none of you screw this up. We need to arrive at the beach by sunset. Juiot, Nenis, you’ll take a pair of dinghies and meet us there; the rest of you, split up and get there on foot. We’re using Strake’s line for this one.” The name meant nothing to Joaquim, but judging by the other men’s expressions, he decided he didn’t like the sound of it either. “Get going,” Sipir said. “I’ll see you all there at sunset; no later.”
He rose and left without another word. Joaquim repressed a second shiver; turning his back on Grits seemed like a fatal mistake, but Sipir hadn’t hesitated. Bloody fine group of people I find myself with, even if it is for the sake of love.
The Canian brothers left, grumbling to each other in their own language; Joaquim knew enough to pick out words, and the men did not sound happy about any of Sipir’s information. At least they had the good sense to keep their mouths shut when he was here. Grits was muttering with Salo and Tip, casting uneasy glances at Joaquim and Viane.
“Looks like we’re not welcome,” he said.
“We might not be the right word,” Viane said. “Remember, you cost them a good chunk of coin.”
“That wasn’t the only reason they were upset; Grits doesn’t seem to care about the coin right now. He’s pissed about something else.”
“Shut up,” Viane hissed. Then, more loudly, “Let’s get going.” She grabbed her knives from their room and led him out of the suite and down the stairs. Sipir owned the rest of the building, but Joaquim had not seen anyone else there, even though they passed two more floors on their way down.
Out on the street, the breeze off the harbor cooled Joaquim. Although Semença, still a pair of weeks away, marked the beginning of autumn, the weather had taken matters into its own hands, and the last of the summer heat had vanished a few days before. Today, the sun shone down, unobscured by the three puffy clouds that floated in the eastern sky, bringing just enough warmth to make the day pleasant, but not enough to set the piles of garbage and offal steaming. The breeze, in fact, made the Gut almost pleasant; Joaquim wondered why he had been so intimidated by the place before.
Viane continued down the street and he trotted after her. “So, what’s the matter? So they can’t talk to the crew of the ship, or the passengers? That doesn’t seem like enough to bother Grits.”
Viane let out a short laugh. Her shoulders relaxed, her pace eased, and she reached over to grab his hand. What did I do to make her change again? Joaquim wondered. “I forget how much you don’t know,” she said, but she squeezed his hand to take the sting out of the words. “The only reason smugglers survive is because they don’t trust each other; swapping lies is one part of that, keeping a few men with crossbows hidden is another. So is trying to swipe whatever you can without being caught.”
“And burning ships down to the waterline?” Joaquim asked. “And killing the crew of a whole ship? Is that all part of it too? Seems like a quick way to stop people from bringing in smuggled goods, if they all get their throats slit every time.”
“No,” Viane answered. “Killing those men was part of something else, part of trying to control the harbor. They were bringing that Syowan glass in for Pontus, and when Sipir found out about it, he sent us to intercept it.”
“How’d he find out?” Joaquim asked.
Viane squeezed his hand again and smiled. “The better question is, why didn’t they ever show up?”
“Well?” Joaquim asked, nettled by her teasing. “Why didn’t they?”
She smiled in response again.
“That’s bloody irritating,” Joaquim said. “Why don’t you just tell me?”
“Sipir said not to,” she answered. “No telling when you might run off; the boys still think you’ll be gone in a week or two.”
That’s what I’d bloody like to do, Joaquim thought. “Well, I’m not leaving until you come with me,” he said. “I want you with me.” He wondered, as he said the words if he did.
Viane swore.
“Come on,” Joaquim said, “you might not like the idea right now, but you have to admit there are better lives than smuggling.”
“Keep your voice down, you idiot. Etio’s up ahead,” she said. Just a few blocks away Joaquim saw Etio with a dozen more Order men, armbands flashing in the sun. Viane pushed Joaquim into an alley, past a group of men who reeked of the cheap wine of the Gut. One of them made to follow, but Viane’s dagger and Sipir’s name made the man blanch and turn back to his friends.
“What’s going on?” Joaquim asked as he turned down another sidestreet, past two small girls picking through the garbage. They were painfully thin, their shoulder blades visible under their rough spun cotton dresses. One squealed in delight as she dug out a clump of wilted lettuce. Joaquim felt sick to his stomach.
“Look at me, not at them,” Viane said. “What did you tell that idiot of a friend of yours?”
“Who? Etio?”
Viane nodded. With her large nose and large, angry eyes, she looked like a bird of prey swooping down toward him.
“Nothing, really.”
“What?”
“I told him I needed him to keep quiet about where you were,” Joaquim said. He flushed, suddenly embarrassed. It sounded like the move of a desperate man. I suppose I am, at that. “He’s a good man; he’ll keep his word.”
“Bloody likely,” Viane said. “The bastard’s down here trying to find us and cash in on the reward. At least he doesn’t know where Sipir’s building is.” It sounded like something the old Joaquim would have thought. Hearing it from Viane made it worse somehow.
“Etio is a good man,” Joaquim said. “He wouldn’t stab me in the back, the way Salo or Grits would. Bloody Bel, one of these days you’ll be lucky if the least that happens to you is a knife in the back.”
“If he’s such a good friend,” Viane said, “what in name of the Night Sister is he doing in the Gut with a squad of those bloody Order fools? What’s he doing so close to Sipir’s?”
“Maybe he’s worried about us,” Joaquim said. “I haven’t seen him since he left; could be that he wants to make sure we’re all right.”
“Or he wants some bloody coin to keep bloody silent,” Viane said. “Or he wants to drag me back to my father and double his profits.”
“You don’t know him if you think that, Viane,” Joaquim said. “Running with the tramps down here has changed the way you think about people.” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. Bloody fool, he told himself. He bit the inside of his cheek, waiting for the explosion to follow.
Viane took two steps away from him, then two steps back, her body tense again. “Fine,” she said sharply. “We’ll take another street. Take care of him, though, Joaquim. If Sipir catches wind of him down here, he won’t think twice about having his throat slit.”
Joaquim nodded. Viane made her way to another alley and glanced down it both ways, then motioned for Joaquim to follow. He pulled his purse from his belt and dug out two silver quints and pressed them into the girls’ hands. When he turned back to the alley, he saw Viane watching him. Blood rose to his face again, and he hurried past her down the alley.
She caught up to him and slid one arm through his and rested her head on his shoulder as they walked. Joaquim was so embarrassed he could not bring himself to look at her; no doubt she despised him for giving the girls coins, for acting like some pretentious nobleman who came down to the Gut for charity. That was probably how she saw him, he realized, as just another overstuffed, rich man’s son. Holding his arm like this, it was probably some elaborate way of mocking him, he decided, and he was not going to walk into her trap that easily.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice barely audible over the breakers and the cries of stevedores and hawkers.
His eyes betrayed him, sliding down to her face.
She looked out across the waves, her head still pressed up against him. Joaquim decided it was probably better not to say anything; it was clear that he did not understand Viane at all.