‘I’ll have a room. Send up a plate of that if you can find any more dogs. An ale too.’
He nodded. ‘Take Seven. End of the hall. Throw Elbert out, he don’t pay no-how.’
And so I ended up in Seven on straw pallet, crawling no doubt, with the patter and drip of the rain outside and Elbert’s moaning from the other side of the door as he picked up whatever came loose when he hit the wall. Eat, drink, shit, sleep. In the morning I’d clean up and spend a little gold to dress something closer to my part. It would take more than velvets and suede to get me into the palace though. Nobody there would believe King Jorg of Renar had come alone to the Gilden Gates, without herald or retinue.
The cut on my cheekbone still ached. A careless moment in Mazeno Port, drunken sailor with a knife. With my head down on the straw I could hear the bloodsuckers moving, tiny dry feet tickling over the bedding. The ceiling boards held my attention, eyes searching the patterns for meaning, until sleep took me.
The comfort of shaving with your knife is in the knowing that it is honed to perfection. Aside from that it’s a chore and leaves you scratchy however sharp the blade. I went down to break fast with a brick of the local dark bread and a flagon of small beer. Outside, the street lay bright but the sunshine lied and the air carried the scent of frost.
I walked on further into the great city, leaving Hosana stabled at the inn. The Olidan Arms to give it its full title – I’d not noted it in the downpour that drove me there. Named not for Father of course but for one of the more famous stewards who kept Vyene in the name of Emperor Callin in the years he spent on campaign to expand our borders east.
Beggar children followed me, though I hardly looked moneyed. Even here in the richest of cities. Little blond children, remote descendants of past emperors’ by-blows quite possibly, starving in the streets.
I pressed on into more exclusive neighbourhoods where town-laws chased away the urchins and gave me looks that said they’d do as much for me if I were a touch less scary. By two turns and a bridge, past ever more impressive homes, I came to one of the four great roads that lead into the heart of Vyene: West Street. Here, still a mile from the palace, trading houses lined the margins. Not market stalls, or merchant shacks, but grand houses of stone, slate-tiled, opening to the road with wares set out for display and rooms within for negotiating the sale.
I came to one such house, a tailor’s, with the proprietor’s name laid out upon a board fully ten yards long between the first and second storey windows. ‘Jameous of the House Revel’, no allusion to his trade, not even a pair of cloth shears marked out. Except for a man going toward the rear door with two bolts of taffeta over his shoulders, and another coming out the front with a fancy house-cloak on some kind of hanger, I wouldn’t have know what business occurred there. Unlike the leatherworkers next door, and the silversmiths further along, Jameous had his shutters folded against the chill, or perhaps just against curious eyes. There is, after all, nothing like a sense of exclusivity to draw in foolish money. And yes, I too was drawn in, though I would claim it was my need that drew me. The need to adopt the same plumage as the local strutting cocks so I might start to play the role of king once more.
The door, a heavy oak affair, had closed behind the man leaving with his cloak, or rather with his master’s cloak since he wore servant garb, albeit of finer cut and better repair than my own garments. I walked up and gave a rap.
The door opened a hand’s breadth. ‘This is the House of Revel.’ The creature addressing me appeared to straddle both genders, doe-eyed, fine-boned, and soft-voiced, but with close-cropped hair and flat in the chest. A hand moved to close the door, as if simply identifying the place should be enough to see me on my way.
I put my foot in the door. ‘I know that. It’s written in letters larger than your head just above us.’
‘Oh,’ said the woman. I’d decided on woman. ‘Who told you that?’
I gave the door a shove and walked on in.
A well-appointed room, stuffed chairs that you could drown in, a single soft, thick rug covering the floor from wall to wall, crystal lanterns burning smokeless oils. A large man, balding, tending to fat, stood with his arms raised whilst a second man moved around him wielding a measure tape. A third fellow stood with a ledger, noting vital statistics. All of them looked my way.
The measuring man straightened up. ‘And who might this be, Kevin?’
Kevin picked himself off the rug. ‘Sir, I’m sorry, sir – this … gentleman—’
‘I forced an entry, shall we say?’ I shone them my most winning smile. ‘I need some suitable clothing, and in a hurry.’
‘Suitable for what? Labouring?’ the big man scoffed. Kevin covered his mouth to hide a smirk. ‘Get on with it, Jameous, throw him out and let’s have this finished. I’m to be at Lord Kellermin’s within the hour.’
I resolved to be at least half-civilized. I was after all in the empire’s capital city, a place where one’s deeds are apt to resonate, where one’s words can spread. I fished out a gold coin and played it from finger to finger over the back of each knuckle. ‘There’s
