‘Get over here,’ Picker snapped, ‘both of you! Keep your eyes open.’
‘Shopping’s gettin’ murderous,’ Antsy said, ‘Bluepearl had us illusioned most of the way hack, alter we snilled out an ambush-’
With one last glare back out on to the street, Picker took them both by their arms and pulled them unceremoniously towards the door. ‘Inside, idiots.’
Unbelievable, a night like this, making me so foul of temper I went and turned down the first decent marriage proposal I’ve had in twenty years.
Blend was sitting in the place she sat in whenever she smelled trouble. A small table in shadows right beside the door, doing her blending thing, except this time her legs were stretched out, just enough to force a stumble from anyone coming inside.
Stepping through the doorway, Picker gave those black boots a solid kick.
’Ow, my ankle!’
Picker dropped the stack of flatbread on to Blend’s lap.
‘Oof!’
Antsy and Bluepearl pushed past. The ex-sergeant snorted. ‘Now there’s our scary minder at the door. “Ow, oof!” she says.’
But Blend had already recovered and was unwrapping the flatbread.
‘You know, Blend,’ Picker said as she settled at the bar, ‘the old Rhivi hags who make those spit on the pan before they slap down the dough. Some ancient spirit blessing-’
‘It’s not that,’ Blend cut in, folding back the flaps of the wrapper. ‘The sizzle tells them the pan’s hot enough.’
‘Ain’t it just,’ Bluepearl muttered.
Picker scowled, then nodded. ‘Aye. Let’s all head to our office, all of us-Blend, go find Mallet, too.’
‘Bad timing,’ Blend observed.
‘What?’
‘Spindle taking that pilgrimage.’
‘Lucky for him.’
Blend slowly rose and said round a mouthful of flatbread, ‘Duiker?’
Picker hesitated, then said, ‘Ask him. If he wants, aye.’
Blend slowly blinked. ‘You kill somebody tonight, Pick?’
No answer was a good enough answer. Picker peered suspiciously at the small crowd in the bar, those too drunk to have reeled out into the street at the twelfth bell, as was the custom. Regulars one and all. That’ll do. Waving for the others to follow, Picker set out for the stairs.
At the far end of the main room, that damned bard was bleating on with one of the more obscure verses of Anomandaris, but nobody was listening.
The three of them saw themselves as the new breed on Darujhistan’s Council. Shardan Lim was the thinnest and tallest, with a parched face and washed-out blue eyes. Hook-nosed, u lipless slash of a mouth perpetually turned down an II he could not restrain his contempt for the world. The muscles of his left wrist were twice the size of those of the right, criss-crossed with proudly displayed scars. He met Challice’s eyes like a man about to ask her husband if his own turn with her was imminent, and she felt that regard like the cold hand of possession round her throat. A moment later his bleached eyes slid away and there was the flicker of a half-smile as he reached for his goblet where it rested on the mantel.
Standing opposite Shardan Lim, on the other side of the nearly dead fire, with long fingers caressing the ancient ground hammerstones mortared into the fire¬place, was Hanut Orr. Plaything to half the noble women in the city, so long as they were married or otherwise divested of maidenhood, he did indeed present that most enticing combination of dangerous charm and dominating arrogance-traits that seduced otherwise intelligent women-and it was well known how he delighted in seeing his lovers crawl on their knees towards him, begging a morsel of his attention.
Challice’s husband was sprawled in his favourite chair to Hanut Orr’s left, legs stretched out, looking thoughtfully into his goblet, the wine with its hue of blue blood slowly swirling as he tilted his hand in lazy circles.
‘Dear wife,’ he now said in his usual drawl, ‘has the balcony air revived you?’
‘Wine?’ asked Shardan Lim, brows lifting as if serving her was his life’s calling.
Should a husband take umbrage with such barely constrained leering from his so-called friends? Gorlas seemed indifferent.
‘No thank you, Councillor Lim. I have just come to wish you all a good night. Gorlas, will you be much longer here?’
He did not look up from his wine, though his mouth moved as if he was tasting his last sip all over again, finding the remnants faintly sour on his palate. ‘There is no need to wait for me, wife.’
An involuntary glance over at Shardan revealed both amusement and the clear statement that he would not be so dismissive of her.
And, with sudden, dark perverseness, she found herself meeting his eyes and smiling in answer.
If it could be said, without uncertainty, that Gorlas Vidikas did not witness this exchange, Hanut Orr did, although his amusement was of the more savage, contemptuous kind.
Feeling sullied, Challice turned away.
Her handmaid trailed her out and up the broad flight of stairs, the only witness to the stiffness of her back as she made her way to the bedroom.
Once the door was closed she threw off her half-cloak. ‘Lay out my jewellery,’ she said.
‘Mistress?’
She spun to the old woman. ‘I wish to see my jewellery!’
Ducking, the woman hurried off to do her bidding.
‘The old pieces,’ Challice called after her. From the time before all this. When she had been little more than a child, marvelling over the gifts of suitors, all the bribes for her affection still clammy from sweaty hands. Oh, there hud been so many possibilities then.
Her eyes narrowed as she stood before her vanity.
Well, perhaps not only then, Did it mean anything? Did it even matter any more?
Her husband had what he wanted now. Three duellists, three hard men with hard voices in the Council. One of the three now, yes, all he wanted.
Well, what about what she wanted?
But… what is it that I want?
She didn’t know.
‘Mistress.’
Challice turned.
Laid out on the vanity’s worn surface, the treasure of her maidenhood looked… cheap. Gaudy. The very sight of those baubles made her sick in the pit of her stomach. ‘Put them in a box,’ she said to her servant. ‘Tomorrow we sell them.’
He should never have lingered in the garden. His amorous host, the widow Sepharla, had fallen into a drunken slumber on the marble bench, one hand still holding her goblet as, head tilted back and mouth hanging open, loud snores groaned out into the sultry night air. The failed enterprise had amused Murillio, and he had stood for a time, sipping at his own wine and smelling the fragrant scents of the blossoms, until a sound alerted him to someone’s quiet arrival.
Turning, he found himself looking upon the widow’s daughter.
He should never have done that, either.
Half his age, but that delineation no longer distinguished unseemly from otherwise. She was past her rite of passage by three, perhaps four years, just nearing that age among young women when it was impossible for a man to tell whether she was twenty or thirty. And by that point, all such judgement was born of wilful self-delusion and hardly mattered anyway.
He’d had, perhaps, too much wine. Enough to weaken a certain resolve, the one having to do with recognizing his own maturity, that host of years behind him of which he was constantly reminded by the dwindling number of
