and storms and rivers and an awful lot of boredom. High times, eh?’
‘Towering,’ said Corlin, eyes narrowed to blue slits. Shy was getting the distinct feeling they wanted her somewhere else and that was making her want to stay. ‘And what’s your business, Master Zacharus?’
‘The turning of ages.’ He had a trace of an Imperial accent, but it was strange somehow, crackly as old papers. ‘The currents of destiny. The rise and fall of nations.’
‘There a good living in that?’
He flashed a faintly crazy smile made of a lot of jagged yellow teeth. ‘There is no bad living and no good death.’
‘Right y’are. What’s with the birds?’
‘They bring me news, companionship, songs when I am melancholy and, on occasion, nesting materials.’
‘You have a nest?’
‘No, but they think I should.’
‘Course they do.’ The old man was mad as a mushroom, but she doubted folk hard-headed as Corlin and Savian would be wasting time on him if that was the end of the story. There was something off-putting to the way those birds stared, heads on one side, unblinking. Like they’d figured her for a real idiot.
She thought the old man might share their opinion. ‘What brings you here, Shy South?’
‘Come looking for two children stole from our farm.’
‘Any luck?’ asked Corlin.
‘Six days I been up and down the Mayor’s side of the street asking every pair of ears, but children ain’t exactly a common sight around here and no one’s seen a hair of them. Or if they have they ain’t telling me. When I say the name Grega Cantliss they shut up like I cast a spell of silence.’
‘Spells of silence are a challenging cloth to weave,’ mused Zacharus, frowning up into an empty corner. ‘So many variables.’ There was a flapping outside and a pigeon stuck its head through the curtains and gave a burbling coo. ‘She says they are in the mountains.’
‘Who?’
‘The children. But pigeons are liars. They only tell you what you want to hear.’ And the old man stuck his tongue in the seeds in his palm and started crunching them between his yellow front teeth.
Shy was already minded to beat a retreat when Camling called from behind. ‘Your breakfast!’
‘What do you reckon those two are about?’ asked Shy as she slipped back into her chair and flicked away a couple of crumbs their host had missed.
‘Prospecting, I heard,’ said Lamb.
‘You ain’t been listening to me at all, have you?’
‘I try to avoid it. If they want our help I daresay they’ll ask. ’Til then, it ain’t our business.’
‘Can you imagine either of them asking for help?’
‘No,’ said Lamb. ‘So I reckon it’ll never be our business, will it?’
‘Definitely not. That’s why I want to know.’
‘I used to be curious. Long time ago.’
‘What happened?’
Lamb waved his three-fingered hand at his scar-covered face.
Breakfast was cold porridge, runny egg and grey bacon, and the porridge weren’t the freshest and the bacon may well not have derived from a pig. All whisked in front of Shy on imported crockery with trees and flowers painted into it in gilt, Camling with an air of smarmy pride like there was no finer meal to be had anywhere in the Circle of the World.
‘This from a horse?’ she muttered to Lamb, prodding at that meat and half-expecting it to tell her to stop.
‘Just be thankful it ain’t from the rider.’
‘On the trail we ate shit, but at least it was honest shit. What the hell’s this?’
‘Dishonest shit?’
‘That’s Crease for you. You can get fine Suljuk plates but only slops to eat off ’em. Everything back to bloody front…’ She realised the chatter had all faded, the scraping of her fork about the only noise. Hairs prickled on the back of her neck and she slowly turned.
Six men were adding their boot-prints to the mud-caked floor. Five were the kind of thugs you saw a lot of in Crease, spreading out among the tables to find watchful places, each wearing that ready slouch said they were better’n you ’cause there were more of them and they all had blades. The sixth was a different prospect. Short but hugely wide and with a big belly on him, too, a suit of fine clothes bulging at the buttons like the tailor had been awful optimistic with the measurements. He was black-skinned with a fuzz of grey hair, one earlobe stretched out around a thick golden ring, hole in the middle big enough almost for Shy to have got her fist through.
He looked pleased with himself to an untold degree, smiling on everything as though it was all exactly the way he liked it. Shy disliked him right off. Most likely jealousy. Nothing ever seemed to be the way she liked it, after all.
‘Don’t worry,’ he boomed in a voice spilling over with good humour, ‘you can all keep on eating! If you want to be shitting water all day!’ And he burst out laughing, and slapped one of his men on the back and near knocked him into some fool’s breakfast. He made his way between the tables, calling out hellos by name, shaking hands and patting shoulders, a long stick with a bone handle tapping at the boards.
Shy watched him come, easing a little sideways in her chair and slipping the bottom button of her vest open so the grip of her knife poked out nice and perky. Lamb just sat eating with eyes on his food. Not looking up even when the fat man stopped right next to their table and said, ‘I’m Papa Ring.’
‘I’d made a prediction to that effect,’ said Shy.
‘You’re Shy South.’
‘It ain’t a secret.’
‘And you must be Lamb.’
‘If I must, I guess I must.’
‘Look for the big fucking Northman with the face like a chopping block, they told me.’ Papa Ring swung a free chair away from the next-door table. ‘Mind if I sit?’
‘What if I said yes?’ asked Shy.
He paused halfway down, leaning heavy on his stick. ‘Most likely I’d say sorry but sit anyway. Sorry.’ And he lowered himself the rest of the way. ‘I’ve got no fucking graces at all, they tell me. Ask anyone. No fucking graces.’
Shy took the quickest glance across the room. Savian hadn’t even looked up, but she caught the faintest gleam of a blade ready under the table. That made her feel a little better. He didn’t give much to your face, Savian, but he was a reassurance at your back.
Unlike Camling. Their proud host was hurrying over now, rubbing his hands together so hard Shy could hear them hiss. ‘Welcome, Papa, you’re very welcome.’
‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
‘No reason, no reason at all.’ If Camling had rubbed his hands any faster he might’ve made fire. ‘As long as there’s no… trouble.’
‘Who’d want trouble? I’m here to talk.’
‘Talk’s how it always begins.’
‘Talk’s how everything begins.’
‘My concern is how it will conclude.’
‘How’s a man to know that ’til he’s talked?’ asked Lamb, still not looking up.
‘Exactly so,’ said Papa Ring, smiling like it was the best day of his life.
‘All right,’ said Camling, reluctantly. ‘Will you be taking food?’
Ring snorted. ‘Your food is shit, as these two unfortunates are only now discovering. You can lose yourself.’
‘Now look, Papa, this is my place—’
‘Happy chance.’ Of a sudden Ring’s smile seemed to have an edge to it. ‘You’ll know just where to lose yourself.’
