RINGS (The Paladin's Thief Book 2) Page 4

  “What do you know, Barkus? I don’t have a lot of time.” Or the extended skill set. Or the inclination. But he doesn’t know this. I take out my knife and inspect its edges in the gloom, copying something I’d seen others do.

  It seems pretty effective because Barkus starts talking immediately. “Sanjuste rolled in last night about the time we started sending people home, said he was looking for Petri.” Barkus is sweating now, and it smells like onions. I guess he’s not as tough as he looks.

  “I thought Sanjuste didn’t come around here,” I growl.

  “He must have heard about Tom.”

  I think about that.

  “Why was he afraid of Tom, Barkus?”

  “Everyone was. . . .”

  “Don’t waste my time.” I twitch my knife in the air a bit and he flinches.

  “Tom nearly slit his throat once for offering to do a bit of side-work. Please, Teacup. I’m not supposed to know that.”

  Outside I can hear Carmen calling for me. “Teacup?”

  Time’s up.

  Barkus is staring at my ring.

  I follow his gaze. “Yes. I am.” This is not strictly true: I haven’t taken any oaths. “Tell that bastard Petri if he—or any other thug, bookie, cobbler, or Nightshade—ever shows a face on Redemption Alley again, I’ll make them wish Master Tom was back in business.” I do my best impression of a Pale Tom sneer and strut to the door, adding at the last minute, “And if anyone even dreams of touching my kids or my friends, we’re going to have a little Pale Tom Party—one the world has yet to see!”

  Barkus fidgets but doesn’t say anything. He just nods, and his eyes flit to the cellar door, betraying a soft rustle there. I can see Tamara’s eyes peeking out from the crack and I resist the urge to shout “Boo.” A day ago, she’d have smiled at me and tried to cheat me out of a queenpence. All in good fun, of course.

  “Hi, Tamara,” I say instead. “Did you put anything different in that drink you gave Magnus?”

  “No.”

  I can hear her hair swish behind the door as she shakes her head.

  “He still can’t see well,” I say.

  “Try Carmanthum.”

  “We did.”

  “Sorry, then.”

  From the way her voice comes through the cellar door, I know she’s belly-down on the stone stairs. An odd way to hide.

  “That can’t be comfortable.”

  “It’s not.”

  I leave so they can get back to business, and before the craziness of what I’ve just done sinks in. Impersonate a Nightshade. Threaten the underworld. Send a message to Sanjuste and Petri that I don’t mind dancing daggers. I’m a survivor, not a killer, even if surviving means making threats at the right time.

  I start shaking on Main and don’t stop till I reach Redemption Alley, even with Carmen helping me. From a few doors down, I can see Valery leaning against the side of the house, rolling a stylus between her fingers while Lucinda pounds on my door in frustration.

  “Teacup. We know you’re up there!” It’s twice ironic since I now know that Val could open the door in moments with the stylus she’s playing with, but no need for Lucinda to know that.

  Carmen giggles and it lightens my load.

  “I’m coming, Lucinda. And don’t rush me on the stairs. I’ve had a very bad morning!”

  Carmen giggles again, this time joined by Valery, who has watched our approach till now with a sly little smile.

  I smile back at her. I can’t help it. I love my kids.

  Lucinda stops pounding and spins around sheepishly. “Oh! Teacup! I thought you’d stayed home.”

  “Nope,” I shake my head, remembering how tired I am.

  “Did you find Magnus or Timmy?” she asks.

  “No.”

  “They’ll turn up,” Carmen says, jumping in.

  I let Carmen lead me back upstairs and tell me what to do. When she says I need to go take a nap, I follow her directions to the letter, down to the detail of sleeping in a bed I haven’t personally used in seven years.

  When I wake up, Carmen has a bowl of broth for me, salty, with a bit of chicken in it to flavor the potato and carrot. It’s not the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted, but it’s close. She watches me apprehensively.

  “It’s good,” I reassure her. “Aren’t you going to join me?”

  Carmen glances over at Lucinda, who is flipping through one of the few books I’ve managed to hold on to over the years. She's staring at it hungrily while Val explains how I used to read her bedtime stories. “We ate about an hour ago,” Carmen says.

  “An hour? Plus cook time?”

  She nods, and takes the bowl from me when I finish, even though I insist on washing it myself.

  “Rest.” Her hand pushes me firmly back into my chair.

  “Ok.”

  I can feel Lucinda’s eyes on me, and I arch my eyebrow. What?

  She puts the book down and slides over, subtle as a pickpocket. Nobody else notices.

  “How does one properly hold a dagger?” There’s a determined look in her eye, the same one that says she won’t take no for an answer. “Someone has to protect you two,” she says, glancing at Carmen.

  “And Magnus?”

  She ignores the question. “What do I do?”

  “Depends on the kind,” I whisper back.

  What she shows me is a rusty, double-edged Ralfian with a thin, stubby crossguard and no quillons. It’s definitely past its prime but still functional, and only slightly oversized for her hand. Not a bad pick for a beginner.

  “Reverse, hammer, forward, and palm-enforced.” I flip through the basic grips at my side so no one else is likely to see. “Stick with forward. Only idiots and Nightshades use the palm-enforced, and reverse grip is for stabbing people from behind. Mostly.”

  “Thanks, Teacup.”

  “Just don’t use the pointy end on me.”

  She smiles reassuringly, eyes twinkling, and slips it back into her dress pocket. There’s a light snapping sound as it clicks into place.

  Interesting.

  The door bangs open downstairs and another small crowd rolls in. They’re arguing and talking, and a surprisingly-lucid Markel is bragging about having once been sober for a whole week.

  Timmy congratulates him for this incomparable effort. “If you keep that up, maybe Da’ll invite you to dinner.”

  Maybe I should reconsider my rules. I’m no saint, either.

  Lucinda is down the stairs in a flash.

  “Hullo, Lucinda!”

  “Hello, Markel. Nice to see you.” A pause. “Magnus. . . .”

  I can’t make out what she is saying to Magnus but his response is as calm as a summer breeze.

  “Lucinda, you have to report these things. The town guard needs to know, or they won’t be able to do anything.”

  “They won’t be doing anything anyways, not unless you bribed them.”

  More footsteps on the stairs.

  “Markel, come have dinner.”

  Markel declines Magnus’s invitation. “Promised Teacup I’d guard the door.”

  “Not a bad idea,” Magnus affirms. “We’ll send some food down.”

  They’re still bickering as they enter the kitchen. “Timmy said we could trust them,” Magnus argues. “Is there anyone honest in Ector?”

  I do my best to meet his eyes. “Yes.”

  He beams at me, but his aim is off again.

  Timmy pipes up. “Relax, Lucinda!” His squeaky boy-man voice is full of indignation. “We went to Northgate!”

  “You went all the way to Northgate?”

  I raise my eyebrows enough to remember Carmen’s helpful handiwork on my cheek.

  My son’s voice drips with sarcasm. “Why do you think we’ve been gone all day? ‘Cause we’re slow?”

  “What about Captain James?” Val counters. “Remember when he . . .”

  Timnus turns on her with a little more deference, but not much. He loves her, but he doe
sn’t love people assuming he hasn’t thought something through. Where Val rushes in, Timnus is a thinker, like his mother.

  “Val, have you seen Captain James lately?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I haven’t either. And with all this phlegm what’s been flying about, I sure wasn’t taking Magnus down to the barracks to look for him.”

  Val doesn’t argue the point. She trusts Timmy’s judgment as soon as she realizes he’s used it. Like I used to trust Sara’s. “Well, you should have at least told us that’s what you were doing. Lucinda and I searched all Lower Ector for you!”

  Timnus gives her “the look” but says nothing.

  Magnus shakes his head in disbelief. “You shouldn’t have to walk across the entire city to find a guard you trust.”

  “I think we’re lucky to have one we trust,” Lucinda mutters.

  Dinner is a quiet affair. We’ve never really thought about things—guards, for example—in Magnus’s terms. It’s always just been that way. Then Magnus says his eyes are getting cloudier and his headache is coming back. This puts a damper on everyone’s spirits, especially mine. It’s not supposed to last this long.

  The food is good though, and between Magnus and Carmen we have a feast that this house has never seen before. Skillet-cooked potatoes and carrots with garlic and butter. More sliced apples. Thick, brown bread slathered in butter and littered with shelled pumpkin seeds. Fresh milk. Two (small) braised chickens. A hard Dowardian cheese, courtesy of a grateful artisan, who had been—Lucinda discovered—hiding in his cheese basement for the last three weeks on the rumor that Pale Tom had been planning a hit on him. (Lucinda suspects the rumor to be the work of a competitor, but only Magnus complains about the injustice of such tactics. The rest of us are used to these sorts of things.)

  The clean-up happens equally fast, in spite of Magnus trying to help, with the twins prompting everyone else on the appropriate cupboard locations. Lucinda commits to doing the early morning shopping. Not just because she likes sleepy pockets. She used to enjoy doing the early market provisioning for Barkus. I wonder who he’s going to send in her place. Probably Geller, one of the cooks.

  Lucinda takes orders and asserts, “Magnus, you better take control of your purse or I might come back wearing something 'presentable.’”

  Magnus blushes. “You don't need to change your outfit to look presentable.” Since his walk to uptown, it’s evident that he’s a little more familiar with what some Ectorian ladies consider ‘presentable.’ “There is nothing wrong with what you’re wearing.”

  “Nothing?” Lucinda teases.

  Magnus blushes deeper.

  I take my leave because Carmen is looking pointedly at me as if considering the same thing. I can’t imagine her in something ‘presentable.’ Or if I can, I’m not admitting it.

  And I am most certainly not blushing.

  Lucinda whispers something in Carmen’s ear as I’m leaving, and Carmen’s broad grin shows bright, white teeth.

  I lean back around the doorframe to remind everyone of the facts: “Only half of what Lucinda says is true.”

  “I’ll take half,” Carmen retorts and Lucinda giggles.

  My knot-hole isn’t as cozy as I remember it. There’s laughter downstairs, and probably more blushing, and talk of taking food down to Markel, who is lounging on the front porch again. I crawl out my secret hatch in the brown wood shingles and peer over the eaves at him. He’s come up with a large mug of something strong, but he doesn’t seem to be drinking it. Rather, he’s sitting upright, scanning the stars and rooftops with intelligent eyes, the most sober I’ve seen him.

  I crawl back into my straw-filled attic platform and smell the faded grass and the bits of cloth I’ve gathered. It’s warm and clean. A safe-smelling place.

  I doze.

  Pale Tom doesn’t wait a second to come and visit me. “Didn’t you kill me?” he haunts.

  “No.”

  Pale Tom seems to consider this. “Hmm. I suppose that’s good,” He says, completely unaware of his hypocrisy, humming a dirge while I wade through a dreamscape of ropes and banners.

  “Who killed me?” he snaps eventually.

  “Magnus.”

  “Oh.” His voice is surly and he nibbles on a fingernail. “I was hoping to die in rivers of blood.”

  “You made a decent showing.”

  “But you must have helped. Did you at least stab, maim, blind, pickpocket, or otherwise exercise power over my ultimate person?”

  “I didn’t touch you.”

  “You did. I can feel it here.” He point’s vaguely to his collar bone.

  I shake my head adamantly, until I remember my small blade driving into his collarbone. I feel the warm blood beneath my fingertips.

  Tom sees my answer before I say anything. “Of course you did. That’s why I picked you.”

  “For what?”

  Tom starts to fade again. “Can’t remember.”

  And I’m back in my bed, sweating from the poison I took this morning.

  Now I can’t sleep. Below I hear Magnus’s relaxed breathing, heavy as he exhales, matched in cadence by the breath of my sleeping twins.

  There’s a candle in the kitchen. I can hear Lucinda chatting with Carmen, who is still working on a mysterious project that she won’t show anyone. They giggle as the bell tolls for the watch change. They weren’t joking about staying up late.

  I listen in. It’s a habit I can’t avoid, like eating, breathing, or climbing.

  Carmen’s talking about different stitches and what they’re good for, and why the upper crust are willing to make the trek to Lower Ector to visit her.

  Lucinda sounds impatient with this. It isn’t a topic that interests her, except in the practical way of getting oneself dressed. She turns the subject to me. “What about Teacup?”

  There’s a clunk on the table as one of them puts something down. Their voices dip out of range for a little while, but soon they forget. “ . . . wouldn’t hurt a fly, Carmen. He’s smart, but he’s also gentle.”

  “I know he isn’t like Brock, Lucinda, but I’m still afraid. And I don’t want to be in Lower Ector for the rest of my life, either. I’ve worked too hard for that.”

  “Teacup’s portable. You can take him with you. He fits in almost anywhere, and he learns quick. The two of you—the four of you—wouldn’t have to stay in Lower Ector. Have you seen the shoes Timmy can make?”

  There’s a weighted pause.

  “I like the kids, too.” Carmen’s voice.

  I start to smile, but my cheek hates me for it.

  The conversation turns to Magnus. I can tell because I catch his name, and it sounds like Lucinda is throwing it out there for advice. Their voices are too low to hear, but now Carmen is doing most of the talking, taking the tone of an older, more experienced sister.

  And then I hear sighs below, and the scraping of chairs. The candle goes out.

  “Thanks, Carmen. I needed that.” Lucinda’s voice.

  Carmen’s soft voice couples with the closing of a small fabric trunk: “He’ll come around, Lucinda. This is a very different sort of game you’re playing. Just be patient.”

  “I’m not very good at that.”

  “But you’re twice as clever as the rest of us. You’ll figure it out.”

  I wait in bed for sleep to return, but it’s flown the coop. I’m still shaking, and think it best to get a bit of exercise. Time to prowl, my body says.

  “Ok. Just don’t do anything foolish.”

  I won’t, it tells me.

  It’s probably true. I’ve always liked sneaking. Sounds say too much about a person. You can hide your soul by sneaking.

  I used to sneak into the house and surprise Sara at her workbench when I first took her ring. It was fun the first few times, until she actually swung her mallet at me in fright. I should have saved the surprises for the washbasin, where getting wet is the primary concern.

  Some ideas come far too late.r />
  And climbing. Pan’s beard, I like climbing. When I was little—not that I ever really got big—I would climb the trees outside the city gates until the branches started bending. I could get higher and faster than any other kid in town. The city guards back then called me “Lookout” because of this, and because of my habit of getting underfoot.

  I climb down and then back up my silk banner twice for fun, experimenting with different foot locks and drop rolls on the silk rope. Stalling. Curtain sliding. Swinging. I imagine the remaining poison beading out in my sweat, dripping on the planks below, and my thoughts wander.

  What is Carmen working on? I would never do anything to hurt her, but it won’t hurt to take a little peek, will it?

  Peek?

  Hah.

  The kitchen is pitch black now, but I don’t light a candle or anything. I know that Lucinda and Carmen have made up cots, and I know how to avoid them. Carmen’s box is on the opposite side of the room from where they’re sleeping, under the table.

  The thought of knowing what secret thing she’s working on fills me with excitement and dread, and I can’t say why.

  It’s probably some dress for the fat Duchess of Rose Row, or for the Lady Sterling, so bony and thin that the children say she has worms. This prospect is disheartening. Carmen can make the finest gowns. Why waste quality work on those sour faces, even if they do have deep pockets? I’ve seen the way they glide over the masses of Lower Ector.

  Take money where you can, I guess.

  Maybe this is why I struggle with paying taxes and buying bread. Picking a quality mark is hard. “You’re too soft,” Lucinda’s always telling me. “You could be the richest man in Ector!”

  Whatever. I’m not interested in making life harder for those already suffering. Lucinda gets this, even if she won’t admit it: more than half of what she steals buys food for the less fortunate.

  I decide against peeking, and climb halfway back up my silk banner. It’s none of my business what she’s working on.