She Who Waits (Low Town 3) (24 page)

Yancey laughed, though it cost him something to do so. ‘What you been keeping yourself to?’

‘Women and sweet wine.’

‘Chores and cheap beer,’ I corrected.

‘How your studies going?’

Wren shrugged, all cool nonchalance, but he started to speak strange words in a low voice, and his eyes took on the glazed half-stupor that befalls a practitioner when he initiates a working.

The candle sparked to life, the flame rising higher than its source would merit, melting through the wax rapidly. It produced smoke apace, but the exhaust remained in a tight ball rather than dissipating into the gloom. Wren kept up his muttering, then brought his hands up in the shape of an hourglass.

The mist answered his direction, forming into the outline of a woman, inhuman but somehow quite alluring. She stood in place for a moment, offering herself to view, hair curling trails of vapor, an ample chest and full spectral buttocks. Then the apparition rose one ephemeral leg over Yancey, straddling his body beneath the covers. Another moment and she leaned over and set her lips down onto the center of his forehead.

Wren stopped chanting and blew softly, and the vision evaporated into the ether.

Yancey laughed and clapped and laughed and clapped until I began to worry he would exhaust himself in celebration. For fifteen or twenty seconds he lost all awareness of his imminent demise, of the pain he was in and the pain he would leave behind. I reminded myself to give Wren a pass the next time he did something that made me want to smack him.

‘Where you send her!’ Yancey asked once he finally tired of exertions. ‘Things was just getting interesting!’

Wren smiled and inspected his fingernails.

‘Yes, we’re all very impressed,’ I said. Though actually I was pretty impressed. ‘You head back downstairs now, boy. Keep an eye on Mrs Dukes.’

Wren didn’t like being kept out of anything, though in this particular case I think he was happy enough to turn the sight of Yancey’s shell into an unpleasant memory. ‘I’ll get back at you soon, Rhymer,’ he said, then slipped down the stairs.

I wasn’t sure if he knew it was a lie. Yancey knew it, though.

Neither of us spoke until we heard Wren’s footfalls down the steps. We didn’t speak for a while after that, either. All of the energy and good humor seemed to have left with the boy.

‘He’s come together,’ Yancey said.

‘He’s getting there,’ I half agreed.

‘You done a good job.’

I sniffed and shrugged. ‘Adeline deserves most of the credit. Adolphus gets the rest. All I done is taught the boy vice.’

‘No one needs any help with that. What you here for?’

‘I need you to do something for me.’

It was not the first time I’d said this to him, and the low, sickly chuckle Yancey offered seemed to acknowledge it. ‘Done – so long as it’s within reach of the bed.’

‘I’m taking your advice.’

‘A rarity indeed. Which bit?’

‘That piece about getting out of Low Town, and not ever coming back.’

I’d been thinking about finding passage out of the city since before I’d discussed the possibility with Adolphus. I’d been thinking about finding passage out of the city for about thirty-five years, if we were being honest, but the last few days had calcified this vague wish into a viable reality. In theory, finding my way to exile should have caused no great difficulty. The Free Cities, as their title would indicate, welcomed any newcomer who could pay their way, and the Empire had no legal claim to my presence. In practice, there were eyes on me, even before I’d found myself embroiled in this latest business with the Sons. Signing my name to the manifest of a passenger ship, waiting on the quay with the rest of the pilgrims – let’s just say there were a whole host of folk who might have wanted to drop by and make sure my goodbye was permanent. Nor did I imagine the Old Man would allow me to slip his grasp, remove myself from the board at the height of his game. The surest way out was to do things sly – which is more my custom anyway.

The Islanders were the best sailors in the Thirteen Lands, as even the ugliest-minded neighborhood drunk would acknowledge, albeit after he’d spent ten minutes on a list of their perceived vices. They were also the best merchants and as such, the best smugglers. Indeed, to the Islanders, there was little distinction between the two – their aversion to customs duties was virtually an inherited trait, one lamented by port officials throughout the known world. Yancey of course had never been a sailor, never been anything but the best damn musician in the city, which was more than enough. But his brother had been a coxwain in the Navy, before he was lost to a storm a year or so back, and he knew plenty of people that had stuck to tradition.

There were other ways to find my way out of Rigus. Merchants that owed me a favor, ships’ captains that could be bought or frightened. If we were being honest, in some strange way I thought it might be good for Yancey. If you care about someone, let them do you a kindness. It would be the last in a long line he’d done me.

It took a moment for the news to sink in. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Good. Fucking great.’

‘Me and the boy and his folks. One of the Free Cities – I’ve heard New Brymen is nice, but frankly the where’s not so important, as long as it ain’t here.’

‘When you looking to move?’

‘It would make me very happy not to be in Rigus in a week’s time.’

He thought that over slowly, going through the contacts he’d accumulated in a lifetime of being well liked. ‘I think I can handle that,’ he said. ‘Won’t be cheap.’

‘Doesn’t need to be,’ I said. ‘But it needs to be quiet – can’t anyone hear about it before it happens.’

‘I’m not so far gone you need to explain me that.’

He seemed pretty far gone. ‘I know you’re not in the best way right now,’ I said. ‘If you ain’t up to it …’

‘I’m up to it,’ he snapped, and I almost smiled at the burst of energy. ‘You know Isaac Gaon? Runs a galleon for one of the big trading houses?’

‘By reputation.’

‘He and my brother used to be in the Navy together. He’s solid as they come, and happy to do me a favor.’ He nodded to himself, the pieces settling in a comfortable line. ‘Isaac Gaon would be perfect.’

‘You’ll put a word in his ear?’

‘Today, and I’ll make sure he gets back to you with speed.’

‘That would be grand,’ I said. ‘Just grand.’

And then we fell into our second uncomfortable silence, one that lasted longer than the first. This close to the end, patter seems disrespectful. Words carry extra weight, you strive to make every sentence a summation of some great truth.

‘Am I going to see you before you split?’ he asked.

That was the question right there. ‘Absolutely,’ I said, though I was far from certain this would be the case. ‘But I’m not sure when. I’ve got business needs taking care of, before I cut and run.’

‘This business would be why you’re so desperate to leave?’

‘It would.’

‘Make sure it don’t take care of you.’

‘That’s certainly my intent,’ I said.

It was time to beat a retreat, but here again I faltered. I ran through all of the normal salutations, found each absurd, even insulting. ‘Farewell’ – he would not be able to do that, it was clear. ‘See you soon’ – perhaps, perhaps not. Our language has yet to develop a proper send-off for leaving a close friend’s deathbed.

He saved me. ‘Stay loose, old man.’

‘As best I can,’ I answered, before bending down to wrap his frail body in an awkward embrace. He returned it to the degree that he was still capable. I wrinkled my nose at the overpowering smell of carrion, and felt miserably guilty for doing so.

Wren and Ma Dukes sat across from each other at the kitchen table. I couldn’t make out what they were discussing, but I heard her laugh, buoyant and bright, like her son’s. It was the first time I’d seen her laugh in a long time, and I didn’t get to see it long. She snapped her jaw shut when I came into the room, narrowed her eyes against any further levity. Belatedly, I wished I’d lingered longer in the hallway, given her a few more minutes of simple cheer.

‘We’re moving,’ I said.

Ma Dukes turned pointedly towards Wren. ‘Stop by again soon,’ she said. ‘I’ll make you a proper lunch.’

‘Soon as I can,’ he answered, though if you were looking you could see his eyes falter. He’d need to get better at lying.

Wren stood up from his chair and pulled on his coat. I jerked my head towards the exit, and he tipped his head to the matron and followed in the direction I’d indicated.

The door slammed shut. Ma Dukes grabbed a cigarette off the counter behind her. I couldn’t remember her smoking, back when she’d allowed me to be in the same room with her for more than a moment.

‘Is there anything I can do for you?’ I asked.

‘Can’t nobody do nothing for me.’

‘How you fixed for coin?’ The Rhymer had been keeping his mother afloat these last years, signing over the greater part of his earnings even when they’d begun to dry up.

Her sneer cut across her face like a wound. ‘I wouldn’t take a copper from you if I was dying of hunger.’

I’d held out some hope for reconciliation, here at this final stage, when it wouldn’t much matter anyway. But things don’t really work like that – Ma Dukes was held tight in despair. Her trials had left her with a full skin of bitterness, and I was a convenient, even deserving, target.

I didn’t mind, if it made her feel any better. I doubted I did. ‘I’ll stop by again in a couple of days.’

She grunted and turned her attention towards the far wall. I joined Wren out in the street.

I spent the first half of the walk home figuring out a way whereby some of my money could go to Mrs Dukes without her being the wiser. I didn’t have much time – it would need to be taken care of before we split town. And I’d have to be slick enough to make sure she didn’t smell my hands in it, or she wouldn’t take a clipped copper. Her pride wasn’t for my benefit, she had a spine stiff as an old oak. A familial inheritance, though one it seemed that would die out with her.

I spent the second half of the walk home thinking about this last, about the funeral I would never attend, and a good man taken before his time. The second half of the walk home, and a good while longer.

I
dropped the boy back at the bar and spent most of the rest of the afternoon catching up on my rounds. Generally I’m one or two steps up above direct hand-to-hand transactions, which is to say that I sell things to people who sell things to junkies. The upside of not having anyone work for me is that I don’t have to pay, trust or talk to anyone. The downside is much of the grunt work falls on my shoulders. I could pawn it off to Wren, of course, but in general I preferred not to have him carrying anything that could set him up for five years in the poke. The hoax knew not to bother me of course, and Black House generally didn’t display much interest in anything as petty as a narcotics transaction, but then again, you never knew. If a rival decided to set me up for a fall, or there was just some rookie guardsman who hadn’t learned who staked his retirement fund – well, Adeline would never let me hear the end of it.

It was two or three chilly, not particularly interesting hours padding my way around Low Town. A few dozen bartenders and street hustlers, the occasional pimp and fixer. Most of them meant nothing to me, cogs in the mill, the end product a few tarnished pieces of gold. One or two I would have gone so far as to call passing acquaintances. Yancey had been right, they wouldn’t miss me when I was gone, nor would I lose any sleep when I made it to the Free Cities wondering whether Tam Half-Eyed was still able to pass out joints of well-cut dreamvine to deaden his patrons’ wits while his tame whores ran through their pockets. All the same, I went through the motions with particular meticulousness. It wouldn’t do to give anyone the sense that this was the last time they’d see me, that anything was any different from the hundred other times they’d scored off my stash.

I came back to a slow late afternoon at the Earl. The place was almost deserted, two old men playing a confused game of chess beside a roaring fire, a handful of other drunks sipping their way into nostalgia.

Wren sat at the counter, picking the burrs out of a suspiciously familiar looking bag of dreamvine. Next to him sat the rest of his makings, fine leaf tobacco, a twist of paper. He knew what he was doing – I’d taught him well. Or badly, depending on how you looked at it.

Adolphus leaned against the other side of the bar. He started when he heard the door open, his face guilty enough to get him hung in front of the most impartial tribunal in the Thirteen Lands. Adolphus was not strong on deceit – I made up for his slack, though.

‘She’ll be at market for hours yet,’ Wren said, trying to calm him, voice smooth, fingers nimble. ‘She’s got to buy dinner for the rest of the week. Sit down, try and enjoy yourself.’

Adeline endeavored to keep her household inviolate despite the sea of iniquity in which she swam – which is to say that Wren wasn’t allowed to smoke dreamvine, and Adolphus was strongly encouraged to similarly abstain. I was a lost cause of course. Like any wise ruler Adeline measured severity with leniency – Adolphus and Wren were never to indulge in narcotics within the Earl’s confines, and in exchange Adeline committed herself to not making sure of that fact between the hours of roughly three and five on Sundays.

I thought it a broadly sensible arrangement, one our actual authorities might look into introducing on a wider scale. Adolphus worried about it every week, just the same.

Wren finished rolling the joint, brushed the refuse onto the floor and lit it off one of the candles leaking gold light into the air and melted wax onto the bar. He had that pleased sort of swell the youth get when breaking laws, however mild the offense or rash the motive.

Adolphus took the spliff between fingers the size of blood sausages, and brought it to a mouth that could have swallowed a suckling pig in one bite. He coughed like it was his first time – twenty years with me, the man still didn’t know how to smoke correctly. Puffed his lips out like a monkey, and held in each lungful of vine till he near choked. When he handed it over the tip was wet with saliva.