The Duchess of the Shallows (31 page)

Hector looked as bruised as he had that morning, and sported two cloth-wrapped fingers, but seemed more energetic, and was busy setting his shop to rights. Most of the glass had been swept up and some of the clutter cleared away. After letting her in the door, Hector went back to his work, completely ignoring her. Duchess let him go on, aware that he was taking one last opportunity to exercise what little power remained to him. She watched him struggling to right a fallen bookshelf, sighed, and walked over to help. When they'd gotten it upright, he glared at her for a long moment and then disappeared into the further recesses of the shop. She took a seat and waited, unruffled, until he emerged carrying a thin gray cloak over one arm. He gestured for her to stand and she obeyed, surprised that such a secretive group had such an open mark of membership. He draped the cloak over her shoulders and stepped away.

"That's it?" she asked, nonplussed. She had thought there would be words, candles, or some other ritual, and not just the handing over of a piece of cloth. He snorted and went back to his work.

"What did you expect? A parade? A visit from Ventaris?" He shook his head in disgust, arranging books on the newly righted shelf. "You're on the Grey now, and I'll
frune
that around myself." He glanced at her contemptuously. "You
do
know what
fruning
is?" She gave him a look, which he ignored. "You'll figure out the rules as you go – we all do – but from this day forward you can expect reasonable help from the Grey and you will be expected to respond in kind. Information, favors, possible targets or jobs are all fair game. There’s little honor amongst thieves, but know that any lies you spread will find you out. You may make your own marks and give them out as you will, but you must pay full value when they’re called due." He bent to pick up more books. "You and I are square, and you're on your own. Don't come crying to me for help anymore."

It was Duchess' turn to scoff. "Hector, if it makes you feel better I can't imagine crying to you for anything."

He looked at her angrily. "You think you're better than I am, don't you? You've got a piece of brass in your pocket and one successful job under your belt, but right now, at this moment, you are lower than I am." She was taken aback and he savored her discomfort. "An initiate's standing, my dear, is derived from that of her sponsor, and after this business with the Uncle…well, you're looking at the second-lowest ranked member in the city. You can find the lowest by looking in that mirror over there." He went back to arranging books. "My name and my mark are nearly worthless, but I take small comfort in the fact that yours are completely so." He turned, grinning yellowly, and waggled a book an inch from her nose. "And that friend of yours, the boy whore, he's even worse. He's sniffed around the Grey for years now and hasn't gotten anywhere. You're a fool, true, but you've got the drive to at least
try
to better yourself. He's weak and lazy, little more than a clever tongue and a pretty face, and in twenty years he'll be lined and old with nothing but the bitter knowledge of what he might have been." He snorted and went back to his work. "I don't know which of you is more pathetic."

Duchess stared at him, any sympathy she'd felt melting away. What he'd said about her standing on the Grey was bad because it
felt
true, but the things he'd said of Lysander were somehow worse. Angry and strangely humiliated, she decided not to waste any more time with him. She removed the cloak, draped it over her arm, and tried to exit with all the dignity she could muster. She could make her own reputation, separate from Hector's, in time. She was certain of it. And he knew nothing of Lysander. She had one hand on the door when Hector took one last shot.

"You got through this by the Uncle's good graces. I know it, you know it, and so does everyone on the Grey. And they won't forget it." He smiled at her. "Have a good evening."

Chapter
Eighteen:
Duchess makes her mark

It was the second occasion on which a letter changed her life. She'd been returning from Ferroc and Nieces when the runner had found her. She wasn't hard to find these days, not since her induction into the Grey. Hector had kept his word and
fruned
her initiation, and since then she'd noticed a subtle difference in the way she was treated. The wineseller's surly wife, for example, had become unexplainably helpful the last time Duchess stopped by for a bottle, and had even given her an unasked-for discount on the purchase. One of the butchers in the market had saved her a particularly choice cut of meat, fresh from the slaughterhouse, and never asked an extra penny. Lorelei had treated her almost as a minor noble, and even Burrell had given her a queer look the last time she passed
the gate. There had been no secret hand gestures or significant looks; they just seemed to
know
about Duchess' rise in stature. She was fast learning that the influence of the Grey was all around…if you knew where to look.

After years of experience in verbal dueling with Minette,
fruning
wasn't nearly as difficult as she had expected. Some small part of her wondered if that had been Minette's intention, throughout all those years of visits and tiles and wine. Just how far ahead did Minette plan? Duchess wasn't sure she wanted to know. It was enough to know that Minette was a friend, if one of only questionable reliability. In
fruning
she had learned some interesting pieces of gossip. The
Old Mater had been seen with yet another new child, as usual claiming
it was her own. A certain ganymede had angered his escort at Lady Vorloi's last party by dallying with a broad-shouldered, stormy-eyed stableboy. (She had her suspicions on that one, but Lysander wasn't talking.) A young Domae weaver had petitioned for entrance to the guild, so far unsuccessfully. And finally, the strange dagger that had caused so much stir had mysteriously reappeared on Eusbius' manor, though the baron did not plan another party to display it. His humiliation at the first one was still the talk of the city, although already the story was beginning to pall as the nobles found more interesting scandals to discuss. Besides, most of them were already planning their yearly migration to their summer estates and the parties that would follow. By the time autumn came and they returned to the city, Eusbius and his dagger would be old news.
Fruning
was for spreading information as well as gathering it, and by chatting with these suddenly friendly merchants Duchess had done what she could to put her story on the Grey. A hint here, a nod there, the occasional (but deliberate) slip of the tongue…it was not only easier than she had anticipated but more enjoyable. She made sure to include Lysander's role in the story, for the day when he, too, might be admitted to the Grey. She did not fear that the tale would get to the blackarms; Shallows folk had no truck with such, and the Grey looked after their own.

Even half of twenty-five florin was a small fortune for someone like her, and she and Lysander had celebrated accordingly. Now that she was Grey no one in the Shallows questioned the source of her newfound wealth because most of them already knew and those who didn't were quickly informed by those who did. Lysander's jealousy over her rise in status had been ameliorated by both the gold and her insistence upon touting his role in her adventure, and she thought that despite all that had happened, in time it would bring them closer, two thieves who shared the glory of what even Minette admitted (in her own coy way) was a daring heist. Still, she thought it was time she found her own place to live, another concern on her list.

The day of the letter Duchess had been returning from a visit with Ferroc, a prominent member of the weaver's guild and a rumored friend of the Grey, one who would take the coin and do the work without asking awkward questions. It was said that half the burglars in the city commissioned her to make dark clothing, masks, and other accessories. After her successful escape from House Eusbius, Duchess had warmed to the idea of making a living stealing the valuables of those who didn't need them. In her most secret moments, she entertained the notion of becoming the next Naria of the Dark. But it was not burglary that brought her to Ferroc; she needed a mark. Marks, as she'd learned, were tokens that represented those who made them, and were a proxy for one's influence and position on the Grey. They were given as payment for favors received, or as a promise of some future service. They were always adorned with the personal symbol of their owner so, when necessary, they could be traced back to their source. Much as the colors - the Grey and the Red - were a mockery of the White, marks were in their way a lowborn reflection of the nobles and their family crests and sigils.

Marks could take almost any form, although they were always small, easy to hide and to carry, and of little inherent value, such as P's brass coin. She hadn't shown that mark to anyone else since Uncle Cornelius; she hadn't dared. If the Uncle's tale of a secret leader of the Grey were true, the mark had incalculable value, far more than all of the gold she'd gotten from Hector. Someday she might need a large favor, and on that day the mark would come in handy. And even more importantly, the mark and the snake symbol it bore was somehow linked to the very history of Rodaas and the rippling pattern of stasis and change that Minette had observed.

None of this, of course, had gotten her any closer to deciding on the design of her own mark. A coin just seemed wrong, and in any case having custom coins stamped was more expensive than she liked. She had kicked it around for a few days before her mind went back to the piece of tapestry she'd cut in Eusbius' gallery, in which she had wrapped the dagger. She'd saved the cloth as a souvenir of her adventure, but she thought that it could serve as the model for her own mark.

The status of the guilds had only improved since the War of the Quills, and with that in mind, Duchess had approached Ferroc, a small, quiet woman with gray hair rolled into a tight bun, with a certain respect. Ferroc's shop was located in the more respectable area of the Shallows just outside the market, where she and her nieces plied their trade. She'd not acted as if Duchess' request for a dozen silk handkerchiefs, crafted into triangular shapes that would resemble pieces torn from a larger cloth, was in any way odd. She had not blinked as Duchess described that the fabric should bear a pattern that resembled a map, and that each piece of cloth should be embroidered with a
D
. Duchess asked for them to be delivered to the Vermillion in a few days, partially because Duchess was uncertain where she would be living by then, but also because one of them was already promised to Minette in exchange for her help with the Uncle. Her first mark, promised before Duchess herself had risen to the Grey, but well earned. After all, with Minette's help she'd survived a visit with the Uncle, and not many bread girls could boast as much.

She was mulling over these thoughts when she felt a tug on her sleeve and turned to find a small child, one she recognized as a runner. Like Zachary with Hector, the lightboys often took work as runners during the day, carrying messages all over the city, through all of the districts. She'd seen them often enough during her work for Noam and had paid little attention. She wasn't important enough to have anyone bother to send a message to her. "You're the Duchess, right?" he said, all wide eyes and scraped elbows and knees. "The Duchess of the Shallows?"

"I...I guess I am," she replied, bemused; it seemed she'd been restored to the aristocracy, all unknowing. Without a word he handed her a neatly folded piece of parchment sealed with red wax. She'd never gotten a letter before (at least, not from a lightboy), but she knew enough to offer the boy a penny before he scampered off to his next errand.

She moved to the side of the street to examine the letter and sat on an old wooden box someone had thrown away. The red wax indicated the message originated with the Red, which was probably why the boy had not dared to spy on its contents. She slit the seal with her dagger
and unfolded the paper, and something heavy fell out. She managed to catch it before it hit the ground: a tarnished metal key. Her curiosity further piqued, she turned to the letter and read:

My Dear Duchess:

I must again thank you for the delightful talk we had the other day. It's always refreshing to speak with young people who are just starting out, particularly those as sensible as you. Helps me keep my perspective, and I might wish for that sort of cleverness in some of my own boys, although of course they wear a different color. Still, it is good to have sensible friends of any shade, wouldn't you agree?

I hear you've straightened out things with the newcomer, and for that I am grateful. I am sure you impressed upon her the need for discretion in this matter, and the importance of thinking more carefully before she acts. Since everything worked out, I assume you did. It's so nice to meet someone who understands the give-and-take of things in Rodaas and how easily complex things might be made simple.

I hope you don't think me forward, but I did a little investigating and found you a small place in the Shallows, just a few streets from the Vermillion, that I am sure you'll like. A lovely apartment over a curio shop near the Wharves. Do say hello to Nigel as you go in.

Please consider this just your uncle's way of saying thank you.

The note was unsigned, but since she had no known family she guessed well enough who'd sent it. The Uncle had delivered on his promise, and hadn't asked anything in return except for her silence. She hadn't
fruned
the news of her meeting with the chief of the Red – she wasn't eager for
that
kind of notoriety – and it seemed she'd made the right decision. Still, she did not doubt that the story had gotten around anyway, and she wondered if Hector had been right that the Grey would hold it against her. She rolled up the letter and pocketed it with the key, banishing those thoughts. She had enough to think about, most notably a visit to a certain curio shop near the Wharves.