Jay Lake - Endurance

Stumbling outside, I realized I’d hardly been the only one sick in the place. Ah, well.

I resisted the expediency of jumping into the harbor to clean up. For one thing, it would probably have made my mess worse. Also, the morning was quite chilly in that strange way when the sun shows his cloudless face distant and cold, reserving all his fires for himself. Cold seawater seemed a terrible idea. Instead I slipped into an alley and took to the rooftops. Even stumbling tired on the backside of a drunken evening, I could manage that. People didn’t ask so many questions around a rooftop cistern as they did at a watering trough or a public pump. I was not willing to face Kohlmann grubby and ale-soaked, and all the less so anyone from Kalimpura.

When I did find water, I was careful to splash it out, so as not to foul someone’s morning tea. As I was alone on the roof anyway, I stripped to my skin and made a decently thorough washing of the business as I resolutely ignored the cold. While naked, I examined my belly. It had developed a definite bump that suggested I either needed more exercise or less sex.

The leathers seemed too tight and sweaty to me, so I slipped into the patched robe without them underneath. I might have wished for something more formal-stately even-but this would do for the moment. I made a bundle of the rest of it, which in turn reminded me I had not sewn a bell last night. No time now, but I promised myself two bells this coming evening. Checking my knives, I began a rooftop run back toward the Textile Bourse.

The councilor would be expecting me soon. Arriving in the flush of a strong workout would mask the last of the ale scent on me. The burn in my muscles could only improve my outlook.

So I ran harder.

The problem with running the roofs is that it is a lot of work. I’d been living in the woods for the last five months, and much of the time before that aboard ship. Every alley must be leapt. Every street must be climbed down into and scrambled back up from on the other side. All in a foolish robe that kept tangling in my legs until I bound it up in a clout.

Certainly the bakers’ boys and vegetable sellers of the early morning saw me. I was not attempting stealth, or speed. Just seeking the reward of strong effort, and making myself difficult to follow.

In those objectives I was confident that I succeeded. I finally stopped on the flat roof of the silk weavery two blocks down Lyme Street from the Textile Bourse. Their biggest loom stood almost as high as the eaves within the inner court, though the mechanism was heavily shrouded against the morning damp. Already someone was at work within on a smaller loom, the clack of the shuttle audible below me.

My breath heaved awhile, and in time, so did my stomach. I had little left to spew, and deeply resented the necessity. So the baby did not like pickled eggs. Fine. Perhaps she did not like ale, either. Or vigorous exercise.

Wiping my mouth, I placed my free hand on my belly once again. “You and I will need to reach some agreement, little friend,” I said quietly. “We cannot live together if you will be so demanding.”

I was certain to be ignored, but I had to try.

Finally recovered, I spied up the street to see whether Kohlmann was assembling an ambush for me. Two guardsmen stood as expected before the Textile Bourse. A honey wagon moved down the street collecting slop buckets from those buildings not connected to the ancient sewer system. Mange-ridden and dirty white, a three-legged dog nosed through garbage in the gutter.

Quiet yet busy, as only a city at morning could be.

The baby moved. Demanding… what? “Easy,” I whispered.

Was this how mothers spoke to their children? I had no idea then. With no memory of my own mother, and having been raised by a number of indifferent and cruel mistresses, how could I know? The thought frightened me. Perhaps I would become Mistress Tirelle, a sword-edged check on my daughter’s ambitions.

And when had I decided she would be a girl, anyway?

The thought comforted me. I was not ready to raise a man. I might not know mothering, but I believed I understood something of being a woman. Otherwise I’d want Septio back, which was pointless. Not even his ghost remained. And besides, I’d hardly loved him in any way that mattered.

I settled in on my rough, empty stomach and watched for Kohlmann. After a while the buttery-yeast scent of baking prompted rumbling in my gut. Despite the recent spewing, my desire for those cardamom rolls grew almost to a fantasy. I ignored my hungers until the councilor emerged from within the Textile Bourse and scanned the street.

No one suspicious or alarming had passed by in the meantime, so I climbed down behind the silk weavery. As it happened I would walk right past the teahouse on my way to meet Kohlmann, so I tapped on the shuttered window. The cinnamon-skinned woman cracked it open to peek out at me. She shook her head, but smiled anyway. A moment later she came out a side door with a napkin folded around several of the rolls.

“You take.” A shy slyness glinted in her eyes.

I dug for my purse, now rolled into my leathers.

She shook her head. “Ah, no, you take for gift.”

“Thank you for the kindness,” I told her. With a sharp nod, I trotted off through the crisp morning to meet Kohlmann.

“Hello, Green.” The councilor stood at the bottom of the steps. Glowering guards loomed over our heads at the top of the flight. Kohlmann was dressed this morning in severe suit of dark wool, which made a rather unfortunate contrast to my patched and now-sweaty robe.

“Good morning,” I replied, then found myself overcome by the scent of food in my hands. Greedy, I opened the napkin to reveal three cardamom rolls still steaming from the oven. “Would you like one?”

“No, thank you. I have already broken my fast.”

I could not determine from the dryness of his tone how serious he was, so I took Kohlmann at his word. The rolls went down very quickly, warm and solid within me, offending my gut not at all. I wiped my hands on the napkin before tucking it into the end of my bundle of leathers, intending to return it later.

“You are not approaching this embassy from Kalimpura with the august trappings of your position,” he said.

The leathers were sweaty and tight and reeked of waterfront bar. I wasn’t about to tell Kohlmann this, but I definitely didn’t want to put them back on, either. Not before a good cleaning, and possibly some work letting out the seams a bit further. “I intend to appear as a supplicant,” I told him, lying cheerfully. “The Prince of the City will appreciate such a humble approach.”

“Hmm.” His expression left little doubt as to his opinion of my story. “Are you otherwise ready?”

To face the Bittern Court woman? Always. And never. How ready could one be? “Let us go. Where is the embassy housed?”

“They have taken a mansion in the Velviere District.”

That was second only to the Ivory Quarter as a fine address within the city of Copper Downs. Oddly, though perhaps not a coincidence, the Temple of Endurance was in the Velviere District, being built on the site of one of Copper Downs’ ancient mineheads that long predated the houses of the wealthy. While I knew much concerning the great families and remnant aristocracy of Copper Downs from my days in the Factor’s house, I didn’t have enough information to associate them with their particular properties on a street-by-street basis.

“I trust you will lead us there.”

“Of course.” Kohlmann nodded to the guards; then we set out together.

The councilor was precisely my sort of conversationalist. That is to say, taciturn. Nonetheless, as we walked along Lyme Street, I indulged my curiosity in one matter on which he might usefully enlighten me.