into a glass box, and a series of alternating ceramic pestles came down, mercilessly squishing the fruit.
Akstyr cursed again, this time out loud, and strode out of the cafe. Worried that he’d made a huge mistake, he forgot to pay attention to his surroundings. When a hand stretched out from behind a vendor’s cart to clasp his forearm, he jumped two feet.
He whirled toward the source, his own hand scrabbling for his knife, but he stopped before drawing the blade. A woman stood before him-a familiar woman. She was leaner than Akstyr remembered, with a hawkish nose and knobby wrists protruding from a clean but oft-patched dress. The long braid hanging over her shoulder was the same, though gray strands mingled with the black now.
Akstyr stepped back, pulling his arm from her grasp. With stiff formality, he said, “Mother.”
She smiled, a gesture he had rarely seen, and stepped forward, lifting her arms. She must have noticed his stiffness, for her hands dropped. “Son.” Her smile remained.
Akstyr searched the crowded street behind her. “Your sweet-thistle-dealing lover not around?”
“Lokvart? No. We… We’re not together any more.”
“I see.” Akstyr did not know if that made him glad or not. It’d been more than eight years since he’d seen his mother, and time had worn the edge off his bitterness. Sometimes he felt proud that he’d survived without her help, that he was learning the Science, and that he might be somebody who mattered someday.
“Yes.” His mother took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I know that probably doesn’t mean anything to you at this point, but I was wrong to… I never should have been with someone like that. When he made me choose you or…”
“The sweet thistle?”
“You or him, I should have left. But I was afraid of being alone again with no roof and no job and.. I’m sorry,” she repeated, then found her smile again. “You look good. You’re a man now.”
“Why are you here?” Akstyr eyed the street again. Though this wasn’t the type of neighborhood gangsters roamed, the new bounty on his head left him uncomfortable standing out in the open. “You haven’t looked for me for eight years. Why now?”
“Eight years? Has it been that long? It’s only been since this summer that I was able to wean myself away from the thistle.” She slipped a hand into a dress pocket and pulled out a paper.
Akstyr tensed. Not someone else toting around his new wanted poster.
But she unfolded a pair of newspaper clippings. “I’d thought… I’d feared you had died on the streets all those years ago. Then I saw your name this summer and again last week, mentioned with those other people that are… helping the city, is that right?” Moisture brimmed in her eyes. “I know you won’t believe this, but I’m proud of you.”
“Uh. All right.” If his mother had ever shown that she cared for him, Akstyr might have felt more at her proclamations, but all they were doing was making him uncomfortable.
She dabbed at her eyes with a worn dress sleeve. “I never thought a child born of the blood of a thieving rapist could ever be anything special.”
Akstyr jammed his hands into his pockets and resisted the urge to say that her blood wasn’t anything special either.
“But you’re doing something with your life, aren’t you?” She met his eyes. “You’re not going to be worthless like your Ma.”
What was he supposed to say to that? All Akstyr remembered of his mother was yelling, mostly yelling about what a burden he was and that she wished he’d never been born. He couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t had to fend for himself, stealing food and swiping clothes from lines strung between alley walls. These tears and kind words-apologies-were unfamiliar. A part of him wished to believe it was real, that time had changed things, changed her, but most of his parts were too busy being suspicious. To hunt him down after all these years, she had to want something.
“I have to go,” Akstyr said.
His mother stepped forward, a hand outstretched.
Akstyr stepped back again, and she dropped it. She closed her eyes and seemed to fight to mask a hurt expression on her face. Akstyr tried not to feel like a bastard, but she was making it hard.
“I’m busy,” Akstyr said. “That’s all. We’re getting ready for a mission.” Which was true. Amaranthe and the others might be back any hour.
“I understand,” his mother said. “But please tell me where I can find you again. It was chance that I saw you today.”
“I don’t know. We’re going to be out of the city for a while.”
“When do you leave? At least let me buy you one of those dog-shaped cookies that the bakers at West Quay make.”
The ones he used to steal as a boy; yes, they had been his favorites. He’d almost lost a hand to a humorless baker who’d moved surprisingly quickly for someone so ponderous. Boys shouldn’t have to steal cookies. Yet… it meant something that she remembered his fondness for them.
“You don’t have to buy me anything,” Akstyr mumbled. “I’ll try to get to the Quay tomorrow night if you want to meet me then. We’re leaving the morning after that.”
“I’ll be there,” she said.
Akstyr strode away without looking back. He didn’t want her to think her appearance mattered in his life, though he feared he’d volunteered himself up for disappointment. Either she wouldn’t show up, and he’d wish he hadn’t wasted time going, or she would show up, and she’d probably want money or something from him.
Maybe Sicarius would find out about Akstyr’s deception and kill him before then, making the whole situation moot. Great thought that.
Amaranthe and Books climbed creaky wooden stairs leading to the attic of an old print shop owned by the university. A newer building with steam-powered presses had precluded the need for the dusty screw presses housed below, and visitors were infrequent, usually students and rogue scholars printing subversive documents on the sly. Should any of those people chance upon the outlaws living in the attic, they couldn’t very well turn anybody in when they were participating in illicit activities themselves.
Outside, beneath the noonday sun, Sicarius was finding a place to hide their stolen farm lorry. At least Amaranthe hoped he was doing so. She had asked him to, but he hadn’t acknowledged her with a word or even a look. In fact, he hadn’t spoken since they left Sergeant Yara’s village. Part of it might be that he was worried about Sespian, but she knew part of it was irritation with her.
Amaranthe pushed open the door to the attic and found Maldynado and Basilard sitting across from each other at a desk, playing Strat Tiles on the railway map Amaranthe had laid out before they left for the training exercise. Akstyr sat cross-legged on a crate a few feet away from them, a book open in his lap, though she’d caught him gazing down at the floor instead of at the pages. He flinched when Amaranthe met his eyes.
“Hullo, boss.” Maldynado waved a tile in the air.
Amaranthe gave him a friendly nod, but added, “Nobody’s keeping a watch?”
“Oh, we didn’t need to,” Maldynado said.
Basilard lifted his eyebrows.
Maldynado pointed to a bank of southern-facing windows where sunlight peeped inside, leaving bright rectangles on the whitewashed floorboards. “The dust on those sills started cowering, so we knew it was you coming up the stairs.”
Amaranthe paused, torn between coming up with a rejoinder or rushing over to the windows with a kerchief.
“Don’t do it, boss,” Maldynado said, apparently guessing her thoughts. “It’s bad enough that you cleaned the glass last week. Secret hideouts are supposed to have grimy films over the windows, the better to camouflage one’s clandestine operations.”
“Yes, speaking of clandestine operations,” Amaranthe said, “now that we’re back together, we can collect the items on my shopping list and finalize our plans.”
“ Shopping list?” Akstyr curled a lip. “I don’t want to go marketing.”
Maldynado’s lip twitched, too, perhaps because his pretty face made him the group’s designated shopper.
