his trade over by the Council Hall, claiming Alec had passed him riding in a carriage with the Duchess Tremontaine’s crest on it, all decked out in green velvet and gold lace. That was a little startling, because Willie’s pretty reliable, but not nearly as startling as when St. Vier turns up again the next day, and Alec a day or so later, hair cut short but wearing the same old black robe, rattier than ever. So we couldn’t help ragging on Willie with, “So where’s the gold and velvet, Willie?”
No velvet—and no money, either. Maybe he spent it all to spring St. Vier. I know that Alec is broke again because I try touching him for five in silver against my next lucky job uptown and he gives me one of those speeches that basically translates as “Get away from me or I’ll get St. Vier to rip your balls off.” Nice to know they’re still such excellent friends. Everything back to normal. Except word trickles down from people with legitimate jobs up in the city (meaning Riversiders who just couldn’t hack it any more, gone up there to scrub floors and dishes) that Alec is in fact a very close relative of the duchess. So maybe he’s lying about the money. But, then, why doesn’t he buy himself some decent clothes?
Alec came storming out of the bedroom in their rooms at Marie’s, shoving his hair back behind his ears. Richard stopped practicing long enough to get out of his way. Alec never really knew where his body was in relation to anything around him.
“Have you seen my boots?” Alec demanded. “I took them off last night, and they’ve vanished. I think someone ate them. I’m going to the market. Please don’t consume anything else useful while I’m gone. The shad are in, and they sell out fast. I’ll bring some home. Where are my boots?”
“Behind the bed.”
“I’ve looked there.”
“Look again.”
Alec emerged fully shod, clutching his robe to his throat. “I’ve lost my cloak pin.”
“It’s here.” Richard picked it up off the mantel, careful not to dislodge Alec’s small collection of precious books. “Do you want me to come with you?”
“To protect me from murderous fishwives?”
Alec shoved his hair back behind his ears again, and shook his head with annoyance as it fell forward.
“There’s nothing you can do about it,” Richard said. “Just wait. It grows when it grows.”
“How philosophical,” Alec drawled sarcastically. “How very like the wise old farmer in the tutelary readers for young people.”
“How long did it take you to grow it out the first time?”
“Years,” Alec growled. “And everyone still laughed at me when I got to university because I looked like a new boy. It had just gotten good and long when I left. The one thing I finally got right. And then I had to go and cut it, just to make a nice impression on the Council for the duchess.”
“Well, it worked,” Richard said.
“Not that it wasn’t worth it,” Alec added. “She nearly died when she saw me all cleaned up.”
The hair would grow long again; meanwhile, there was still enough for Richard to sink his fingers into, and he did.
Nobody knows who owns most of Riverside, but it’s probably Alec’s relatives, and they’ve probably buried the deeds, because who really wants their very own piece of this crumbling rabbit warren? Like there’s that crazy cat- lady at the top of that old pile on Ferrian Alley. You’d pay
Young guys always believe in luck. Most of them never get old. And some, like that Alec, have it all, even if they may not look it at first.
Richard wasn’t looking for the letters, but the swordsman had a very good sense for what was around him. He always knew where things stood in a room, and he knew when anything changed. The letters were hidden all over the place: under the mattress, behind Alec’s books on the mantelpiece, even in an old pair of winter boots gathering dust in the corner because they needed resoling but no one could ever remember to take them out.
Richard knew Alec would never burn the letters, because there was writing only on one side, and Alec was terrifically cheap. Richard could see that it was good paper—thick and heavy laid, the ink on it crisp and clean. He had no idea what the writing spelt out. But he did recognize the seals, heavy with wax that Alec would probably melt down sooner or later to reuse:
I was there at Rosalie’s the day the news came.
“Tremontaine!” Willie called, breathless, across the tavern. But Alec wouldn’t look up from his dice. He was losing, as usual, but as usual refusing to quit and cut his losses.
“Hey, Alec, listen up!” Nimble Willie finally reached the table where Alec was dicing with Hal and Fat Rodge. “Hey!” he panted. Really, he could hardly breathe. “Didn’t you hear me calling you?”
“I heard you calling
“I’ve got news.”
Alec’s fingers tightened on the side of the table, and could you blame him?
“Your granny’s gone.”
“My ‘granny’? Which ‘granny’ would that be, Willie?”
“You know what I mean. It’s the duchess. The Duchess Tremontaine. She’s dead. Last night. I came to tell you.”
“Oh, re-ally?”
He lifted the dice and looked at them for a long time.
“Snake eyes,” he said, and threw.
We all stared at the two perfect spots there in the middle of the table. Then Alec got up and left the tavern. No one saw him again for days. But Hal kept his money for him, down to the last brass minnow, tied up in a handkerchief. You didn’t want to piss off St. Vier. And clearly, Alec’s luck had turned.
“Aren’t you going to see her off?” Richard asked. He was practicing in their rooms with a blunt-tipped sword, stretching and exercising against the wall, which was pitted with the marks of other practice bouts. Alec had steel of his own, a darning needle he’d learned to use in his time at university. It, too, was blunt-tipped, which was good, considering the uses to which Alec put sharp objects.
“I avoided her while she was alive. It seems hypocritical to pursue her now.”
“I heard there might be fireworks. You love fireworks.”
“They had fireworks last year for Lord Galing. It cheered everyone up. I’m sure the late Duchess Tremontaine would want us all to be as miserable as possible. There will probably be a choir.”
Richard knew he was treading on dangerous ground, but he was genuinely curious. “They’re not expecting you, then?”
Alec stabbed at the sock. “Oh, they’re expecting me, Richard. The show won’t be complete without the idiot grandson parading with his savage swordsman.”
“Wear your scholar’s robe,” Richard said cheerfully. “It’s black. It will give them fits.”
“Shall I put a silver chain around your neck and lead you in the procession?”
Richard winced. “That bad, eh?”
The needle fell still in Alec’s hands. “Bad? Oh, so you’d actually mind? I was beginning to think you liked the idea.”
Alec hated people knowing anything about him. Even Richard. And now it was out. All over the city. All over Riverside.
“If you wanted to go, I’d come with you, that’s all.”
Richard went back to practicing, striking his sword rhythmically against the wall, careful not to look at Alec but hearing his acid, honey voice:
“By all means, let’s go to the Tremontaine funeral and join the solemn procession of important people
