Beasts of Tabat (17 page)

Miche steps up beside us and I lose sight of Selene as I wave him back.

“Jump in if you see the chance, if you’re so inclined,” I tell him. “But we’re used to brawling, and you’re not. Stand back and keep the onlookers out of the way.”

As we open the door, the crowd’s roar modulates into a disappointed mutter as it realizes its members face three Gladiators rather than the crippled artist for whose blood it’s been calling.

“Time for you to disperse, good citizens!” I call. I allow a small you’re-not-worthy-of-being-taken-seriously smile to cross my lips. It’d be a shame not to provoke at least one or two into action.

Few seemed nettled enough by my tone to step forward. The wind has shifted and sleety rain drizzles down. Random gusts twitch the curtains of water this way and that. The streetlights shine, supplementing the failure of the obscured moons overhead.

“We don’t want any bloodshed,” Reticence says.

Speak for yourself,
I think,
I could use a good fight to help get my mind off Skye.

My smile deepens. The crowd surges forward and everything is lost in the fight.

* * *

There are some things worth doing well, for they are beautiful when done so.

Shoulder to shoulder, Reticence, Danokin, and I bob and weave, duck, swing roundhouses, kick, and dance. Fighting in pairs is common enough in the arena, and a trio isn’t unheard of, so we know how to move in unison, how to keep an inner beat that lets us know when and where to be.

A blue-hatted man draws a knife. Reticence and I exchange feral smirks as our own blades come to our hands. A delicate, dangerous dance.

There is nothing like this in the world.

The crowd is a hostile haze of movement. My blade swings in arcs to match those of Reticence and Danokin. I’m disappointed when I hear the shrill whistles of the Peacekeepers, the sound of the Duke’s officers’ boots rushing along the cobblestones of the street. By then, two of the crowd lie unconscious, and another has reeled away to rest against the closest wall, a hand over the ribs where I stabbed him through. Blood seeps between his fingers.

I recognize the two Peacekeepers and they me. The blue and buff uniformed officers drop respectful nods as they gather up those of the crowd who have not realized what was going on or were too slow or injured to flee.

I deliberately control my breathing. I can hear the rumors in my mind—“Faced off a crowd and wasn’t even winded!” before I incline my head in return.

One of the mechanical, wheeled men trundles in their wake, weapon barrels bristling like a spiky sea anemone. I hate the blankness of their stare. Something unnatural—not Beast or Human or even animal. Something other, something outside the natural order of things. With their mechanical soldiers, the College of Mages has finally gone too far in serving the Duke’s whim.

I say nothing of this. I don’t even let my expression change. The Human Peacekeepers chain their prisoners to the mechanical men, silver lengths stretched taut as an angry sentence’s arc. What does it say about their future? Impossible for anyone, or anything, to tell.

I stand watching the convoy move off along the street, dispirited shuffles turning into a more energetic trot as the prisoners realize the unforgiving nature of their captor.

“Time for a drink?” Danokin says.

I scan the crowd, searching for dark skin, a fall of moonlight hair.

“Who are you looking for?” he asks.

“Girl I was talking to. Did you see her?”

He shrugs. “All cats are gray in the dark.”

I laugh and nod but look again before shrugging.

Selene is gone, dispersed. I frown, then shrug and nod towards Danokin. Miche is still inside. I’ll dazzle him a little with his luck and take him home with me to scratch my itch. I’ll send a message to let Adelina and Leonoa know I won’t be coming.

They’ll understand. They always do.

***

Chapter Sixteen

Together

Teo worried because his birth coin was gone, even if it was back home safe.

He worried because the coin he’d taken was gone as well. Had the Moon Temple discovered his ruse? Or did they think he had forfeited his soul with the coin? He wasn’t entirely clear on what would happen if the Temples—and by extension the Moons themselves—were displeased with him. Were the Moons like people? Would one stop by a Temple and, while sipping chal with a Priest, say, “By the way, that boy Teo is down on Salt Way right now. You can find him if you send a messenger.”

No. If the Moons acted like that, people would be more scared of them. It seemed more like they talked about the Moons a lot but never really acted as though the Moons were watching.

What if the coin had no power over him, no matter what?

And what did it mean, that they had his Shadow Twin’s coin? She was dead, to be sure, but a Shadow Twin was as close to a ghost as it was. Could a ghost be harmed?

Wandering underneath the docks, he picked up a purplish red stone, fat and smooth, from where it lay on the icy sand and flicked it into the water. There were dead fish here, which were not good, but the little crabs that picked at the corpses provided a mouthful or two, particularly if you could get a fish cart to cook them by giving them an iron nought or by looking sad enough. Or you might chance on a canal eel by fishing with a thread and a pin, if you were lucky enough to have such things, and that was good for a fine dinner when cooked and half the meat given to the cart owner in payment.

Some places were good for scavenging, others were not. Anyplace there were food carts, there was promising detritus, but you fought for it with the gulls and the other street dwellers. Still, several times before he’d gathered a meal of bread ends and pastry fragments in the Waterfall plaza or near a tram platform. He could do that again.

The best was to find one of the political rallies, where they passed out food to draw people, but if you were under voting age, they would turn you away. Teo couldn’t pass for a full grown man, no matter how tall he stood.

He knew that many in his situation gave up to go work for the Moon Temples, but just as many preferred not to commit their lives for bread in their stomachs. Some adults joined and left, joined and left, a beggar confided to Teo, but after a while the Priests would turn them away.

They wouldn’t turn Teo away. He was promised to them. The thought still came to him: Wouldn’t that be easiest?

They would take him and keep him, and he would not see the outside of the Temple for years.

That was not an option.

Teo had been in very few of Tabat’s buildings so far, aside from stables, Figgis Bakery, and various sheds. Bella’s house—the one he’d been told she rented, at any rate—was not what he expected of a hero, but it looked comfortable. At least as comfortable as Jilla’s, perhaps even more so.

It was on Greenslope Way, one of a series of neat, three-story brick buildings, the tiles of their rooftops gleaming in the bare spots around their chimneys as they shouldered side-by-side. Slate paving led up to wooden stairs and then to an ample porch. It had the usual fan of colored tiles lining the doorway, and he recognized the one that stood for Bella.

He peered through the thick oval of glass—a glaring eye set on its side. A wide wooden staircase, the carved banister solemnly proceeding upward. A hallway and wide arch, shuttered now with sliding wooden paneling. A rug, moon red, growing darker in the shadows as it led towards a narrower archway.

Footsteps. He fled down to the street and hesitated.

He would go back down a few blocks. Figgis Bakery was there, and its alleyway was sheltered. They rousted people every few hours, but if you got there just after they’d cleared it, you could snatch an hour or two of warm sleep and perhaps even scavenge bread from the burned loaves they threw out.

* * *

The day’s as cold as iron and just as gray. I jam a knitted cap on my head as I leave, irritated by the need for it. I prefer to let my hair stay unfettered. Some admire its sleek dark shine. Miche left in the early hours, or rather I let him know it was time for him to return home. I don’t like waking beside a lover. They get ideas then of partnership, clingy and close.

I like waking by myself, knowing I need worry about pleasing no one. Jolietta used to rouse me with pinches or hard pokes. Once, back when I wore my hair long and braided, she grabbed that and jerked my head back from where I’d let it droop onto the table.

I still keep it short, but only because I do not want an opponent to have that advantage.

Not that I fear any opponent. Or even the reaction to my victory. Alberic predicts riots. So let them riot. A few fires will not destroy my city. If the Gods want Spring, I will lose, and that is that.

I stop in Figgis Bakery. I wonder what sort of pastry Skye finds most toothsome but then shove the thought away. A bag of pastries under my arm will put me even further in the students’ favor. That’s not something to be underestimated, with Lucya so cranky lately. I don’t think she’ll actually try to oust me from the school. Long before she comes to that decision, she’ll reckon the pros and cons with Merchantish accuracy and realize that, despite any perceived flaws, I’m more financial asset than liability.

That thought makes me smug as I survey the bakery’s interior: Counters full of pastries and loaves, and clerks in their neat white caps and aprons. The air’s unpleasantly warm in here; I snatch the hat off and jam it in a pocket before I run my hand through my hair. I ignore the usual sidelong looks as I wait at a counter, directing the bright-haired clerk’s harvest as she fills the bag with jam-stuffed rolls, cream-filled horns, and a dozen hyacinth cookies. I scatter coins on the wood, not bothering to count them, and leave with the bag clamped under my elbow.

I pause in the mouth of the alleyway running beside the bakery to adjust the bag’s position. Angry words catch my attention and I look to see another of Figgis’ clerks chasing a vagrant teen boy away from the side door. He backs away from the door and the menace of the clerk’s broom, almost colliding with me.

“Mind your feet,” I say. Startled, he spins, the ice underfoot sending him sprawling in the dirty snow lining the alley. I extend my free hand to help him up.

A northern boy, by the look of him: pale skin and brown-blonde hair. Badly dressed and skinny. The chain of bruises lining the side of his face touches me, makes me recall Jolietta’s unpredictable slaps and blows.

He reminds me of
me
, back before I acquired a glaze of confidence.

I pull him up. He’s lighter than I would have guessed, even given the gauntness of his face. I release his hand. He retreats a few paces, brushing ice from his clothing’s tatters.

Fishing in my pocket, I extract the cap and proffer it. “Here. You look like you’ll make better use of it than I.”

He says, “Are you Bella Kanto?”

I nod. His eyes widen.

“I’ve read all of your adventures, all of the ones in the penny-wides.”

“Every single one?”

He gulps as though I’ve caught him in some terrible falsehood. “The ones that made it to my village.”

“And your name?”

He sticks out his hand. “I’m Teo.”

We shake hands. His fingers are cold as ice.

“It’s a chilly day, isn’t it?” I say. “Come inside the bakery, and I will buy you an apple dumpling to warm your hands.”

He says, “They won’t let me in there. They chase me away.”

“That is because you are not with Bella Kanto.”

He trails at my heels as I reenter the bakery. Sure enough, a clerk steps forward as though to say something. But another clerk puts her hand on his arm and gestures to him to leave off. Teo remains at my heel like a well-trained hound as I go to the counter.

Here in the warm bakery, he manages to look even more bedraggled, colder, skinnier. I signal to the clerk to put three meat rolls and an apple dumpling in a bag and I hand him another of the dumplings. I push coins at her as he takes the bag.

The other patrons give us a wide berth. They’re not used to seeing the underside of the city in their warm and cozy shops, in their warm and cozy lives. A wool-skirted Merchant twitches the folds of her clothing aside as though afraid he’ll infect her. I quirk an eyebrow at her, smiling, and she turns red.

Teo trails me still as I exit. Outside we stand to watch the bakery carts rumbling in and out of their portal. Each time it opens, a wash of heated air surges out as the driver goes past. Some of them scowl as they see him, others smile and nod to me.

“Where are you living?” I ask.

He says around a mouthful of dumpling, “Here and there.” He shrugs over-nonchalantly.

“On the street, you mean.”

He shrugs again, then licks his fingers before he goes in for a meat roll. He crams the entire roll into his mouth.

I know that kind of hunger. I’ve been there far too often. It nipped at me all through the years with Jolietta and still haunts my dreams. It endears the boy to me even more, somehow.

“Come back to my house, Teo,” I say. “I’ll see you put up for the night. We can probably scare you up some warmer clothes as well. At least there’s a meal there for you.” I eye him. I’ll slip Abernia extra coin in order to fatten the boy up. He looks so miserable.

I feel a little guilt, not for the first time, about Winter and the rigors it poses for those living on the streets. They would have welcomed an earlier spring. How they must’ve cursed me over the years.

He’s ragged and filthy. Abernia will object. I’ll see him bathed and clothed before I present him to her.

* * *

I swing the door open. “Wipe your shoes on the mat or Abernia will fuss.”

I can tell the warmth inside is welcome. He shakes snow from his poncho and wipes his shoes clean with scrupulous care. I spark an oil lamp into life with a green tinted match and point up the stairs.

“I’m on the third floor. Door on the right as you hit the landing.”

He trots upward and I follow. The house smells of cinnamon and baking and citrus oil, and under that a whiff of dog. A thick runner of cloth, colored like its downstairs counterpart, covers the hall floor leading down the stretch of black-and-white pictures staring at us. He turns and goes up a tight spiral. Up above sunlight gleams feebly through the icy glass skylight, competing with the lamp to illuminate the confines as I come up behind him.

My doorway is painted with the blue and gold Gryphons of Tabat.

He raises an eyebrow.

I shrug. “Abernia makes the most of my presence here. So she plays up the Champion thing.” I unlock this door and open it. I step aside, and gesture him in.

Yet another hallway, but this one opens up into a much larger room. The sunlight welcomes us again, this time shining insistently through the glass.

Plushy softness, brilliant blue and gold, swallow our footsteps. Here the atmosphere is lemon oil and paper and penny-wide ink and leather polish with a hint of anise and metal and candies and the ginger and tomato leaf of Lucya’s ointment. He advances across the room toward the wide window, framed with stiff blue depths, revealing from outside, snow-laden pine boughs.

Movement in the trees catches his eye. He stiffens.

“There are Fairies out there!”

“Nothing to be frightened of. They’re minor city Fairies.”

“On the way here they attacked the man I was with.”

“Yeah? What did they look like?”

He says, eyes wide at the memory, “They laid an egg in him.”

“Ah. Only two kinds do that.” Jolietta drilled all of this into my head until I could have recited the names for all the minor species in my sleep.

I’ve adopted her pedantic tone, I realize. “What happened with the egg?”

“I cut it out of him.” His Winter pale face goes paler at the memory.

I pat his shoulder. He wavers like the Centaur boy under my hand.

“They attacked because you disturbed a hive, no doubt. Or one of you seemed easy prey. It’s their nature, boy.”

The thing that separates Beasts from Humans, Jolietta always said. Humans can overcome their nature, but Beasts cannot. That is why the Gods have set us over them.

“I’ve got fish biscuits around here somewhere. And those.” I point to a bowl of greenhouse fruit that Abernia stocks daily. I go to the tube and ring the buzzer beside it in order to shout down the tube. “Chal for two of us, please!”

I look at Teo, who is eyeing the fruit. I add, “And a round of soup and dumplings, and more biscuits perhaps?”

Teo goes back to staring out the window.

“Tell me your story,” I say.

He turns around to face me, his expression earnest and scared.

I look back at him.

I’ve seen the look he carries in his eyes before. It’s one more manifestation of the great Beast made up of all my fans. This boy has grown up on stories of me. He has played at being me. The first time that happened, it startled me. But nowadays there are people who’ve been reading the stories since they were old enough to unfold the pages of the penny-wides. More and more of them each year.

He doesn’t see me. He sees a smudgy illustration, something Leonoa drew while I read through the story, both of us laughing till our sides ached at the lies that Adelina had stuffed into each line.

“I was promised to the Moon Temples. But I didn’t want to do that. So I ran away,” he stammers.

I see. A runaway, and with as valid a reason for most runaways—that it wasn’t what we wanted to do. That was why I had left Jolietta and Piper Hill behind and had never looked back, never taken up as a Beast Keeper, nor sold any of Jolietta’s secrets to the other trainers or Scholars who come looking to talk to me every few years. She was legendary, Jolietta. She could get Beasts to do things that no one else could, had techniques for training that no one else will ever knew.

The door rattles as Abernia comes in, carrying a tray. She likes to keep an eye on my visitors, to monitor who’s coming and going. If I’m lingering too long in the front hall, she’ll wander out of the kitchen to keep a careful eye on what could be happening.