I was breaking some final chunks of bread when Kora asked, “May I help feed them?”
“I don’t usually feed them from my hand,” I said. She was holding her fingers out to the birds. Shy ones like Mumper and Inky scuttled away. White Spice and Ashes tried to bite her fingertips, thinking they might be food. “Here.” I put the bread into her cupped palm. “Just know that they learn fast. Feed them from your hand once or twice and they’ll come straight to you after that. Do it often enough and they’ll climb on you.” Pinky tried to land on my chest, slapped my face with her wings, and took off. I sighed. “And they’ll leave scummer on you and their feathers in your room.” Slapper dropped to my shoulder. He wedged his clubfoot in the hollow between my shirt collar and neck, grabbed my ear, and tugged. “Curst things think they own you!” I pulled Slapper’s beak off my ear. He pecked my fingers until I gave him a bit of bread.
“But they’re so beautiful,” Kora said. White Spice and Ashes pecked at the bread in her hand. “Some of them, anyway.”
I put bread before Mumper and Inky. “Some are native to the Lower City. Others, well, folk breed pigeons in colors for racing and for messengers. Some of those birds escape. They bring in the pinks and the coppers and the whites.” I swore at Slapper, who’d bit my ear again.
“You’re an ingrate,” Rosto said behind me. He pulled Slapper off of my shoulder and my ear. Slapper voiced his pigeon war cry, a furious “Croo!” I turned. Rosto had the bird in the right hold, wings pressed flat to his sides. “You’re a warrior, aren’t you, for all you’re bent out of true,” Rosto was telling my cracked pigeon. “Stop attacking the one person who treats you well.”
I looked beyond Rosto. Phelan had come. He and Ersken sat cross-legged on the cloth with Aniki, eating breakfast. They looked as weary and beaten as I felt. Pounce was leaning against Phelan’s side.
Phelan looked at Kora, Rosto, and me as we finally sat and took up our own food.
“You need to rest,” Kora told Phelan. “Come to my rooms after breakfast and I’ll give you a tea that’s good for sleep.”
Phelan nodded. I don’t know if he was agreeing or if he did so just because something told him that was what he was supposed to do.
The rest of our meal passed in silence. We were closing up jars and packing odds and ends away when Phelan cleared his throat. “Ersken, Beka, I quit the Dogs last night.”
We both looked at him. I couldn’t say as I was surprised. If I read Ersken’s face aright, he was no more startled than me.
“Don’t hate me,” Phelan said. “If you don’t want me here come morning, I’ll understand.” Phelan’s eyes filled up but didn’t spill over. “It’s not the dying. Well, it is. But that Rollo was stupid and Otelia was drunk.”
“Drunk?” Ersken whispered. “On duty?”
My belly felt like it opened up into a huge pit.
“You think it never happens?” Phelan asked. “Mostly they put the drunks on Night or Day Watch, but Otelia doesn’t drink regular. But why’d they give a Puppy to those two?” He hung his head.
“Transfer to another district,” Ersken said.
Phelan was shaking his head. “I’m through. It’s everything. All Ahuda ever did was her work. They took her off patrol for just that, put her to marking the roll and training Puppies. And they send Puppies out to die in the Lower City. The Provost’s Guard is cracked. Don’t tell me different, Beka. I’m going to do sommat sane with my life.”
Phelan stood and walked out of my room before I could have said a word, could I have thought of aught. Truth to tell, I couldn’t. I felt I should argue. But hearing that Verene was given to a fool and a drunk had left me flat. I was ready to die in a fight. Goodwin and Tunstall would never use me as stupidly as Rollo and Otelia used Verene. But the thought that I might die for a stupid reason, that Verene died for so stupid a reason, preyed on my mind.
Phelan wasn’t the only one to quit. Hilyard was missing at training, of course. Good riddance. One of the other cove Pups left, though, and two of the mots. For one bad night, we’d lost nearly half of the Lower City trainees. Only one, the Crone be praised, was the Black God’s prize. It was a hard blow for those of us who remained.
Tuesday, May 5, 246
Around four in the afternoon.
I have had no heart for writing in this journal this week. The weather has been as cold and gloomsome as my spirit. I write today only because I must correct Goodwin’s and Tunstall’s maps and lists. All told we now have verified twenty-three suspected Shadow Snake kidnappings. In company with Kora, Aniki, Mother Cantwell, and Ersken, I have spoken to nineteen folk who lost children or were close to them as had children taken by the Snake. I have fifteen yet to check.
Granny had but one new name to give me today. Mother Cantwell had two. The names are drying up. I should be glad, but without more knowledge, I fear the Snake will escape us. I stare at the map when I come home at night, thinking, He will get away with it. He will get away with it all.
The poxy weather is no friend to any of us. Because of the storms, the trading fleets still have not come. There are no cargoes arriving from Port Caynn, which is to say, no one is getting hired to work the riverfront or the markets. Them that have jobs are keeping them, for fear they won’t get another, however bad their masters are.
If anyone is hiring diggers and telling them to keep their gobs shut, they are doing so. They will not risk losing work when no one else is finding any.
I know Crookshank’s people are looking to hire, or they have done so. Crookshank is greedy. He wants fire opals. He thinks only the Shadow Snake knows he has them, and no one believes in the Shadow Snake. He won’t be able to keep himself from getting more out of the ground, wherever he gets them from.
I must mark up the maps and add to the lists.
Thursday, May 7, 246
Noon.
Today I woke to pigeons everywhere in my room.
I yelled as Slapper hopped on my head to peck me like the demented cuddy that he is. “Pounce! I told you, never open the shutters!”
“All I wanted was some work,” a mot’s ghost said.
“It were strange, that they didn’t want me t’ say a word, but they was hiring.” That was a cove, not much older than me from the sound of his voice.
“I did all they said. Still, they poisoned me in me sleep,” another cove complained.
“We dug wi’ picks till we bled,” a ghost near my head told me. “Fillin’ buckets full o’ rocks with glass in ‘em – “
“I tol’ you, ‘twasn’t glass,” a new ghost interrupted. He had some kind of Carthaki accent. “It’s fire opal. It’s worth plenty of coin. I used to dig it back in the mines of Carthak. Gods’ fire, it’s called.”
“If you’re so clever, scut, why’d they kill you?” a hard-voiced mot asked. “They buried you deep as us, once we couldn’t get no more rock out wi’out diggin’ into the cellar wall an’ maybe collapsin’ the house.”
I sat up careful-like. Seventeen pigeons had raided my room. Nine were from the first group of murdered diggers. Eight of them were new. “Pox-rotted pus-leaking mumper bags,” I whispered as I got out of bed. Crookshank’s folk did it. They’d hired fresh diggers right under our noses. They’d killed them there, too.
I got dressed and grabbed my pack. Then I went out. I left my part of everyone’s breakfast at Aniki’s door. I needed to get to the Cesspool dust spinners while their gleanings from last night were fresh.
Pounce and I headed for Hasfush at the trot. For the first day since her murder, my grief for Verene was pushed back, eaten up by anger.
How did Crookshank do it? I wonder if Tansy knows. Impossible. She’d never have slept knowing nine people died to put pretty clothes on her back, let alone seventeen. It’s one thing to know your grandfather-in-law got rich from cheating thieves. It’s another to know – to let yourself know – he makes money on killing. And any killing he’d done before this was spoke of in whispers or laid at the Rogue?
??s door.
Hasfush is scarce to be seen in the first light of most mornings. Today, his foot was a soft whisper in the grit of the street. I knew just looking at him that he’d not heard so much as a scream. Still, I stepped inside his breezy circle to listen. I strained to hear any voices he’d caught up, but all I heard was whispers.
What did you expect? I asked myself. This lot said they’d been poisoned. I waited longer, grinding my teeth. But I heard naught that sounded like the voices of them hired to dig under a house.
At last I walked off. I made it a block down the street when I heard Pounce meow loudly. I looked back. He stood by Hasfush, violet eyes furious, his tail whacking in anger. He was vexed with me.
I knew why, too. I thought, Shame to you, Rebakah Cooper. Just because Hasfush don’t have what you want, that’s no reason to treat an old friend rude.
I’d given him nothing. No more had I taken away the burden of all the chatter he’d picked up since my last visit.
I turned around and went back. Pounce looked up at me. About time, he said.
“Don’t rub it in,” I told him.
From my pack I got a pouch filled with dirt I’d gathered on Palace Way. I stepped back into Hasfush. First I apologized for leaving him as I had. Then I poured out the grit.
His sides squeezed me, like my ribs squeezed when I took a deep breath. Hasfush was pleased. When he settled lower to the ground, I opened myself to voices caught in his breezes. Gossip, quarrels, flirtations, it all poured into my ears as he let it go.
Now a set of whispers caught my attention. “That’s the second crew. How long d’you think they’ll keep us guards alive?”
“‘s long as we do th’ work ‘n’ keep our gobs shut. Don’ be a fool, Jens. We’re mage-marked. Drink up. Hotblood wine makes it easier to stand what we do. And we’re paid well enough.”
I held still until I heard nothing in Hasfush but the brush of wind and street grit on stone. Once I’d paid my debt properly, I stepped out of his circle. Thinking, I started brushing dust and trash off of me.
“Jens. We have a name, Pounce,” I said. My hands shook. “Finally I’ve got a name. And I wouldn’t’ve had it if you’d not called me back to be polite.”
He leaped to my shoulder to purr in my ear. You learn slowly, but you do learn.
I had to fight myself not to run to Tunstall’s and Goodwin’s places with my news. Instead I visited all of my Lower City spinners in the hope I might get more. I did get a hint of an illegal slave sale and a kidnap plan. Those I could pass on to Ahuda.
Then I turned my attention to the pigeons. I bought bread and fed them in the fountain squares to glean what I might. At Glassman Square a mumper staggered by, soused. He asked me for coin, but I shook my head. I was busy. One bird’s ghost was telling me about her son. One day he’d said he couldn’t afford a ma that wasn’t able to work and drowned her in a washbasin.
The mumper stomped through my flock just when the ghost was going to tell me her killer’s name. “Hey! Puttock!” the cove yelled. “Wha’s yer matter – y’love them lousy birds more’n yer own kind?”
It was too much, knowing there were seven more digger ghosts today. He’d scared the bird and lost me the name of yet another murderer, to boot. So though it shames me to write it, I will be truthful. I lost my temper. I grabbed his ears and stared him full in the face. “Get out before I give you the nap tap.” I hardly knew my own voice. “You’re a shame to the woman who bore you. All her blood and pain, for what?” I let him go. “Find sommat of use to do with the life you have.”
He fell back two steps and made the sign against evil. “Ye’ve ghost eyes!”
“You’re drunk afore noon,” a woman shouted. “Begone, afore we stone you. You’ve earned it, spilling yer piss when folk never bothered you.”
Others who stood about the square joined her shouts. Some even threw rocks from the street at the mumper. Seemingly I wasn’t the only one he’d insulted. He stumbled away, chased by their jeers.
I made myself look at them. “Thanks,” I said.
“He’s a mule’s bum,” said the mot who’d first called out. “You was just feedin’ birds. It’s a treat, seein’ you bend down like you listen to ‘em talk. The cat there lookin’ like he listens, too.”
“Y’ talked to th’ tosspot like you’s a Dog,” a gixie said, wringing out something gray.
“Ain’t y’ seen ‘er with Tunstall an’ Goodwin? Evenin’ Watch, she is. Cooper, right?” the first woman asked. “Doin’ good work for only a Puppy.”
That was enough attention for me. I thanked them again and left. I still had enough time to give Jens’s name to Mother Cantwell and my other Birdies. There could be a hundred coves with that name in the city, but how many take Crookshank’s coin?
After watch’s end.
As soon as we finished muster tonight, I told my Dogs what I’d learned about Jens.
“Tricky,” Tunstall said as we walked to the Court of the Rogue. “He’s got that mage mark on his hand. When we do find him, I don’t know if Fulk is up to countering a death spell.”
“And mayhap it begins to work when we hobble him, even before he starts to talk,” said Goodwin. “We need to know where to lay hands on this Jens first. Then we’d best give Berryman that walk-along we’ve promised. If he can put a freeze on one of those mage marks, anyway.”
“He should,” Tunstall said. “He’s a gem mage, isn’t he? How many smugglers, thieves, and counterfeiters are marked to die before they sing the names of the ones who hired them? Berryman can do it.” He looked at me. “Do you know, Cooper, those spinner and pigeon informants of yours have their uses. Did you get anything else from them today?”
I told them the other bits I’d already given Ahuda, keeping watch on the streets and buildings in case someone felt brave enough to throw something at the Dogs passing below. Pounce trotted ahead of us, on the lookout for mice. It was a normal enough evening. The only oddity came when Goodwin spotted Yates Noll and his two friends down one of the twisty lanes off Stormwing Street. We stopped to watch. When they caught sight of us, they scurried out of view.
“There’s sommat I don’t understand,” I said. “What’s in that greasenob Yates to make those two rough lads talk fearful about him? He’s no prize bull.”
“Good question, Cooper,” Goodwin said without turning around. “I was wondering about that myself.”
“They’re hiding something,” said Tunstall. “I’ll put some seed before my Birdies. Maybe they’ve a song about Yates to sing.”
The gates of the Court were open wide. The guards were new since the night Crookshank had hidden a blade from the old ones. These muttered but let us by as Goodwin idly flipped her baton up into her grip on its thong and down again. Through the halls we passed, my fifth such walk now.
Kayfer was on his throne. He’d foreigners with him, two Yamanis with their hair in topknots. With them stood the Carthaki who’d had Kayfer’s ear my first night at the Court. They all looked like dangerous folk. The talk at the Mantel and Pullet was that the Carthaki was a gem seller. Were the Yamanis the same, come to wait for Crookshank’s rumored auction in August? I could feel my rough fire opal pressing against my thigh.
The first thing I saw when I looked away from Kayfer was Ulsa, seated at her table. As ever, she was dressed to startle. Tonight she wore a silk shirt that clung to what she had and silk breeches. Her personal guard sat at her table with her, mots and coves. Rosto guarded her back.
So did Phelan. He stood beside Rosto, wearing a tunic and breeches and carrying a sword. He’d gone to serve the enemy. That’s why Rosto had spoken to him.
When Phelan saw I was staring at him, he looked away. Well he should.
Kora caught my eye and shrugged. She sat on the floor where we’d talked that first night, laying out fortune cards. Already she had three coves waiting for her to tell them their futures. A fourth sat cross-legged beside her, watching as she put the cards down. She winked a
t me and murmured to her audience.
I continued to eye the room. I was telling myself that Phelan’s life was his own. If my lover got killed through the stupidity of his training Dogs, would I do as he did?
No. I would never do that. But he is angry with the Dogs. Rosto wants someone he can trust in Ulsa’s gang with him. Now he’s got Phelan. They say the line between rushers and Dogs is a thin one. For Phelan, it was thin enough to step over.
I looked for Aniki. She stood at Dawull’s back, hand on her sword hilt. With her stood the fellow who’d drawn blade on us when we’d visited Dawull’s court. Seemingly they had moved up in Dawull’s regard, from extra swords to personal guard. I wondered how they’d managed it, but I wasn’t going to ask Aniki. I’d a feeling I wouldn’t like a truthful answer. Nor would I care for it if Aniki lied to me. Usually such promotions meant blood.
Kayfer kept us waiting, as ever. Mayhap I wouldn’t have minded if it had come from a Rogue I respected. Coming from a daisy-livered slack-kneed spintry like him, it was hard to take. Whilst my Dogs talked to the Rogue’s chiefs, I crouched on my hunkerbones and looked at Kora’s cards, trying to see how fortune-telling worked. Pounce patted at a card with a smith’s anvil painted on it.
“Don’t look at ‘em, Cooper,” protested the cove she read for. “You’ll curdle my future. The purple-eyed cat’s bad enough.”
“Beka doesn’t curdle anything,” Kora told him, her voice stern. “Eyes like hers, they see clearest of all.”
“I don’t want that,” he said. “No more would any cove wi’ sense. We – Tricksters all, what have you wrought?”
I wondered what cracknob would call on trickster gods during a fortune reading until I realized he meant it for what was happening at the door. Goodwin and Tunstall moved together fast, like they hadn’t been half a room apart. By the time they reached me, I was up with my baton out and ready.
Crookshank strode toward Kayfer Deerborn’s throne, his eyes bulging. His hair looked like he’d torn at it with both hands. His velvet coat, trimmed in ermine, was half on, half off.