‘Pretty part of the world,’ Frey commented. ‘You’d think the Aerium Wars never happened.’
‘Aulenfay missed the worst of it the first time round, and got none of it on the second,’ said Crake. ‘You should see Draki and Rabban. Six years on and they’re still half rubble.’
‘Yeah, I’ve seen ’em,’ he replied distantly. He was watching a young family who were approaching on their side of the avenue: a handsome husband, a neat wife with a beautiful smile, two little girls singing a rhyme as they skipped along in their frilly dresses. After a moment the woman noticed his interest. Frey looked away quickly, but Crake bid them a pleasant ‘Good day,’ as they passed.
‘Good day,’ the couple replied, and a moment later the girls chimed ‘Good day!’ politely. Frey had to hurry on. The sight of their happiness, the sound of those little voices, was like a kick in the chest.
‘What’s the matter?’ Crake enquired, noticing Frey’s sudden change in demeanour.
‘Nothing,’ he muttered. ‘Nothing, I just suddenly . . . I was worried they’d recognise me. Shouldn’t have made eye contact.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry. I told you, I picked up a broadsheet in Marklin’s Reach yesterday. There was no mention of you. And Aulenfay isn’t the kind of place where they stick “Wanted” posters everywhere. I think you’ve been forgotten by the general public.’ He patted Frey on the shoulder. ‘Besides, considering the age of the photograph and your newly raddled and insalubrious appearance, I don’t think anyone would recognise you unless they had a particular interest.’
‘Raddled and insalubrious?’ Frey repeated. He was beginning to suspect Crake of showing off, in an attempt to belittle him.
‘It means formidable and rugged,’ Crake assured him. ‘The beard, you see.’
‘Oh.’
They came to a crossroads and Crake stopped on the corner. ‘Well, I must be leaving you. I have to go and pick up my equipment, and the kind of people who sell daemonist paraphernalia are the kind of people who don’t like non-daemonists knowing who they are.’
‘Right,’ said Frey. ‘Have it delivered to the dock warehouse. We’ll pick it up from there. No names, though.’
‘Of course.’ The daemonist turned to go.
‘Crake.’
‘Yes?’
Frey looked up the street, rather awkwardly. ‘That thing with Macarde . . . him holding a gun to your head and so forth . . .’
Crake waited.
‘I’m sorry it went that way,’ Frey said at last.
Crake regarded him for a moment, his face unreadable. Then he nodded slightly and headed away without another word.
Frey made his way to the South Quarter, a less affluent part of the city, where he visited a tailor and a shop that specialised in theatrical make-up. After that, he went looking for a game of Rake.
The South Quarter was about as seedy as Aulenfay got, which meant it was still quite picturesque in a charmingly ramshackle kind of way. The winding lanes and cobbled alleyways were all but free of filth and litter. Statues and small, well-kept fountains still surprised visitors at every turn. There were no rag-tag children or crusty beggars. Aulenfay had a strict policy against that kind of thing.
The Ducal Militia were in evidence, patrolling in their stiff brown uniforms. Frey kept out of their way.
