Royal Airs (11 page)

“She’ll do it,” Josetta said. “She won’t want to give Darien an excuse to come to her house and start rifling through it.”

Corene shook her hair back and pasted a defiant smile on her face. “I say, who wants those old tunics and trousers?” she said. “Time to buy a whole new wardrobe.”

 • • • 

J
osetta stayed at Darien’s house through the end of the nineday, but only because she was still worried about Corene. Otherwise, she’d have been gone shortly after Alys made her memorable appearance. Her life had grown so unadorned in the past quintile or two that she was no longer comfortable with opulence. She couldn’t help thinking about how many people down at the shelter could have dined on the leftovers from each of their meals. She couldn’t stop imagining the wide hallways and gracious drawing rooms organized into makeshift beds and infirmary rooms.

Zoe was the only one who really shared her interest in working with the poor, because Zoe had been homeless herself, though never entirely without resources. During the rest of that nineday, they spent many hours playing with the baby and talking over plans for expanding the shelter. Buying a new facility to hold more beds, perhaps. Maybe even setting up banking facilities for a few of the more ambitious souls who wanted to start small ventures that might help them buy their way out of poverty.

“But it all takes time, and I keep running out of it,” Josetta said with a sigh. “And then Romelle will be coming to town, and I promised Darien I’d attend all the events. I think he’s just trying to find ways to keep me away from the shelter, even though I told him he’d never be able to do that.”

Zoe laughed. “Oh no, you don’t understand. If Darien can’t get you to do what he wants, he’ll do something
else
to achieve his desired end. He’ll work around you, but he’ll still get his way.”

“Then I can’t wait to see what he has in mind.”

She found out on firstday when she and Foley gathered up their things, slipped out of the house before anyone else was awake, and caught an elaymotive omnibus to take them down to the southern edge of the Cinque. Of course, there was no public transportation through southside itself, but there wasn’t much danger at this hour of the morning. They walked briskly through the nearly deserted streets, stepping around mounds of trash, mosaics of broken glass, and the occasional snoring drunk lying in the middle of the road. Now and then they passed a tumbledown building where the doors or windows were open, or a tired woman was sweeping debris off the stairs. But otherwise, this part of the city could have been uninhabited.

The shelter was one of the few buildings that showed tentative signs of life, with moving shadows visible through the windows and the faint scent of baking bread escaping from the kitchen in back.

It was a long, narrow, two-story structure that at one point had housed six small and horribly rundown apartments. Josetta had plowed more money than Darien thought was reasonable into buying it, rebuilding it, and adding amenities. Now, on the ground floor, there was a sizable main room laid out with five long tables where meals were served. Shelves against the walls were stocked with food and clothing and medicines that anyone could have simply for the asking. There was a large kitchen, a small office, and an infirmary with six private cubicles, each with its own narrow bed. On one end of the building was a public bath; on the other end, a small temple. On the second story were two dormitories, one for men and one for women. They had to be accessed by separate outside entrances to reduce the possibility of commingling. The upstairs level also held four small bedrooms for Josetta and the rest of the staff; these were served by a private interior stairwell of their own.

Since the place had opened, Josetta had never had fewer than ten people staying overnight. She generally dished out between twenty and fifty meals a day. She’d lost count of the number of people she’d treated for broken bones, knife wounds, and lung diseases, and she’d never paid attention to how many tramped through the baths.

It had been Zoe who suggested the baths, as well as an exterior spigot where people could fill water containers. The canal and a complex aqueduct system carried water to most parts of the city, but many of the underground pipes that served the slums had broken long ago, never to be repaired. Of course, lack of water was never a problem when Zoe was around. She had located, or created, an aquifer below the cracked streets, and drew its contents upward to a private well. Josetta sometimes thought that the easy availability of water was the single most important gift she had been able to offer the community she served.

“Looks like the place has stayed intact while we’ve been gone,” Josetta observed to Foley as she stepped up to the heavy front door.

“You have good people working for you,” he said.

More people working for her than she realized, it turned out. The minute they were inside, she was greeted by Callie, the thickset, no-nonsense, middle-aged woman who functioned as housekeeper and chief cook and nurse and tireless assistant. She and her two children had been the first people Josetta had ever housed at the shelter, one cold Quinnelay night when the youngest boy had a fever and the older one was half dead from exposure. The oldest boy had signed on to a merchant ship a quintile ago, but Callie and her other son, Bo, were two of Josetta’s most reliable workers.

“Who are these men? How long are they going to be here?” Callie greeted her as Josetta stepped into the main room. Callie had just carried a large platter of eggs and meat out from the kitchen and set it on a sideboard buffet. There were five or six patrons sitting or standing by the long tables, waiting to serve themselves, and they shuffled toward the food as Callie strode over to Josetta.

“What men?” Josetta asked, eyeing the people in the food line. Two were male, but they looked like the shelter’s typical visitor, a little stringy, a lot ragged, not entirely clean.

Callie jerked her thumb toward the far end of the building. “Cleaning sinks and showers. I told them if they were going to hang around here, they’d have to work, or I wasn’t feeding them. Or letting them spend the night, either.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Josetta said.

“They told me they were here for you. I thought you’d know.”

Josetta glanced over her shoulder to exchange a look with Foley. “Let’s find out who they are,” she said, and he followed her down the cramped hallway that led to the bath area. It was a large, utilitarian room of inexpensive stone floors and head-high stone dividers, offering up to a dozen people privacy at any one time. The best part about the room was its steamy warmth, a temperature it maintained even on the coldest day. Because Zoe had managed to tap a
hot
underground spring when she had gone rummaging around looking for water.

Despite the fog, it was easy to spot the two newcomers who were wrestling a hose in place so they could, yes, scrub down some of the stone stalls. They were both barefoot and stripped of everything except their dark trousers, but those trousers looked to be fine and well-made. Josetta was even more baffled as she approached them.

“Excuse me,” she called over the sound of the jetting water. One of them reached over to turn off the spray, and they both turned in her direction, bowing their heads in respect. “Who are you? Why are you here? I mean, I’m happy to have you volunteer, but—”

Behind her, Foley spoke in a low voice. “They’re Darien Serlast’s men. I recognize them.”

“Darien—”

“That’s right,” one of them piped up. “The regent sent us here.”

“Why? For how long?”

The men exchanged glances. “It’s our permanent assignment now,” one of them said helpfully. He looked to be about Foley’s age, in his early twenties, still young and enthusiastic about the notion of defending the crown. “You know how some guards serve at the palace, and some serve at the regent’s house, and some patrol the Cinque at night? We’re here.”

“Half a quintile at least, because that’s how long an assignment lasts,” the other one explained. “After that, we might be moved somewhere else and two new guards put in our place.”

“Or we might stay,” said the first one. “If you like an assignment, you can ask to stay on. I like it,” he added.

The other one waggled his head. “I don’t know. I didn’t think we’d have to be mucking around in the showers. Or doing laundry. But she said that was part of the job.”

“She” must be Callie, who was obviously going to get full value out of any able-bodied man who showed up on her doorstep like a gift. “I didn’t ask the regent to send me guards,” Josetta said. “It was thoughtful of him, I suppose, but—I’m going to send you back.”

“You can’t,” said the young one cheerfully. “We only take orders from the regent. And Captain, of course.”

“We were assigned to this place,” said the older guard, and Josetta heard hunti finality in his voice. “And we’ll stay till we’re assigned someplace else.”

She stood there a moment, feeling helpless and more than a little indignant, before she spread her hands in resignation. “Callie can generally speak for me,” she said at last. “If she asks you to do something, please do it. As long as it doesn’t interfere with your
assignment
, of course. And I’ll take the matter up with Darien the next time I see him.”

She turned to go, surprised to see a grin on Foley’s face. “I would have thought you’d be as annoyed as I am,” she said once they were in the hallway, out of earshot of the guards. “Or
insulted
. Darien clearly thinks you’re not skilled enough to keep me safe.”

“The regent’s right. One man is never enough to keep anyone safe.”

“Oh, so you think it’s a good idea for him to set up an
armed outpost
here?”

“I wish he’d done it a year ago.”

Josetta shook her head in exasperation, and then laughed. “I bet they didn’t count on the manual labor, though. Callie will have them scrubbing floors and changing linens, just like all of us do.”

“Won’t hurt them,” Foley said. “And it will make for lighter work for the rest of us.”

Indeed, over the next three days, Darien’s guards proved to be welcome additions to the small staff at the shelter, though Josetta did her best to resist liking them. They spent most of their time patrolling the neighborhood, but when they were actually at the building, they willingly pitched in. The younger one, Caze, was handy with carpentry tools; he rehung a sagging door and made repairs to the stairwell to the women’s wing. The older one, Sorbin, proved to be a competent cook who could take over the whole kitchen if need be. Both of the guards used their free time to show self-defense skills to Bo and the other two workers—rather fierce young women with painful personal histories. And even Josetta had to admit it was handy to have them around when a brawl broke out during dinner one night. Foley and Bo probably could have subdued the two men who suddenly started going at it over an insult no one else heard, but Caze and Sorbin broke up the fight and ejected the combatants with a professional ease that prevented the event from escalating into a frightening scenario.

Josetta didn’t
need
the extra guards. But it turned out she didn’t mind having them.

Caze and Sorbin quickly fell into the habit of making their last patrol of the day somewhere around midnight. Josetta generally spent those final hours working in her tiny office, answering correspondence, checking inventory, and balancing accounts. Foley usually prowled around the main room, folding blankets, straightening chairs, and otherwise putting things to rights. When Josetta was finished for the night, they would lock most of the interior and exterior doors before going upstairs.

The big door that led from the street to the central room was always left open so that the shelter could serve as a haven to anyone who was desperate enough to need one in the middle of the night. More than once Josetta or Callie had gone downstairs in the morning to find someone sleeping under a dining table, a half-eaten loaf of bread in his hand. Josetta had warned Caze and Sorbin that they needed to return by midnight or be stuck sleeping on the main room floor with any other lost souls who wandered in.

She left the temple unlocked, too. But then, she didn’t think there was a temple in the city that ever barred its doors.

Josetta was just tallying her last accounts when she heard men’s voices raised in the main room, accompanied by clattering sounds as if someone had stumbled into a piece of furniture. She grabbed her lamp and headed into the main hall.

Caze and Sorbin were back from their rounds, but with an interesting addition: Sorbin carried the limp form of an unconscious man over his shoulder, and he was bracing himself against the weight as Foley hurriedly unlocked the door to the infirmary. Caze strode over to Josetta.

“We heard the sounds of a fight, and we investigated,” he said. “Three men attacking this one fellow, so we chased them off. Can’t tell how bad he is—he’s unconscious, and he’s bleeding pretty hard on one side. He’s still alive, though.”

“Don’t think he would be if we hadn’t shown up,” Sorbin added. “They looked serious enough to be planning murder.”

“Go wake up Callie,” Josetta told Foley, and he disappeared. She followed Sorbin and Caze into the infirmary and waved a hand at one of the empty alcoves. “Put him here. Can you fetch hot water? Thank you.”

They nodded and marched down the hall, but Josetta was already focused on the injured man. She didn’t bother glancing at his face, because her more immediate concern was the blood welling up from his left side. She lifted his shirt to reveal a long gash that ran across his rib cage and plunged deeper just above his hip. The attacker had probably aimed at his heart, but the man had managed to deflect the blade or turn out of its direct path. The wound was still bad enough—and still bleeding.

She grabbed a clean rag from a pile of folded scraps and held it over the wound, bearing down with steady pressure. She could feel his chest rhythmically rise and fall with his breathing; she thought he was in pain, but not enough to indicate an injury to a lung. While she kept her hands in place, she made a quick visual survey of the rest of his body. His trousers were torn and muddy, as if he’d been knocked to the ground and kicked hard, and his right arm, which was missing a sleeve, was bruised and scratched. But there were no other major wounds immediately visible. He might have a concussion, but there wasn’t much she could do about it at the moment.