Graeme Talboys - Stealing Into Winter

‘It’s not much,’ she said, straightening her tunic, ‘but I thought the metal might be of use.’

He picked up each item and held it where he could see it clearly. ‘The bracelet is brass. You might get a few sous for it in one of the chandlers’ workshops. I can’t do anything with that charm, either, although if you find the right person you might convince them it’s pre-Evanescence. Fools will always pay over the odds for that.’

‘And the rings?’

‘Times are hard.’

Jeniche grinned. ‘Doesn’t work with me.’

Feldar grinned back. ‘That one is good, fine gold. Five crowns. The other two are plated silver. Three crowns for them.’

Jeniche was disappointed. She had been hoping for ten, but Feldar always gave her a good price. She nodded and picked up the bracelet and the charm. The smith folded the cloth over the rings and it disappeared into a pocket inside his work jacket. Jeniche knew the stones would be out of their fittings and the metal in a crucible before she reached the end of the street.

Eight crowns appeared on the table and Jeniche scooped them up. ‘Thanks.’

‘Hmmm. You be careful. Once the city guard is back on the streets, they’ll be looking for you.’

Jeniche sighed. ‘I don’t plan on being caught.’

‘What you plan and what happens…’ Feldar shrugged.

In the workshop, the bellows creaked and the charcoal fire beneath the crucible gave a soft roar. Jeniche left Feldar and his apprentice to their work and ambled along the alley trying to sort out her thoughts, edging round her grief for Teague. She peered into busy workshops, sold the bracelet, stopped to admire merchandise, bought a new knife to replace the one confiscated when she had been arrested, watched a party of Tunduri pilgrims in their green robes and wondered how people of the high mountains coped with the heat, tried to recall any hard facts about Occassus and failed.

When she reached Dillick’s tavern and went down the steps into the kitchen, the place was quiet, just as she had planned. She went on tiptoe past the two skivvies who were curled up and fast asleep in the corner by the pantry. It was their one respite in a long day’s work and Jeniche had no wish to deprive the two young women of the bliss of sleep.

The door to the servery was by the bar. Jeniche helped herself to some small beer from a keg and sat in a corner near the main door to wait. It was dark with all the shutters closed but there was enough light to see that there were several new tables and benches. It had been a short, scrappy brawl. At least Dillick had suffered as well, where it would hurt him most. He had probably had to spend the best part of his tip-off money on new furniture.

When Dillick’s pale face finally appeared in the gloom, Jeniche had long finished the drink, carved an elaborate design into the wood of one of the new tables with her knife, and begun to doze. He moved his oleaginous bulk between the tables, feeling his way as he went, eyes still dazzled by the afternoon sun. Even as a shadowy figure in the shuttered room, he managed to convey that mixture of servility and slyness that Jeniche so disliked.

‘Don’t open them just yet,’ she said quietly as he reached up to the nearest shutter catch.

Dillick froze. ‘Who’s that?’

‘Someone who is curious to know how the city guard can get here so quickly after one of your clients sits down to eat.’

The pale moon of Dillick’s face loomed toward her. Jeniche was reminded of a tulik worm, strange and poisonous creatures of the deep desert that come to the surface only on the night of a dark moon.

‘Is that you, Jeniche?’ The voice was pitched high with nerves.

‘Well?’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’ It was feeble even by Dillick’s standard.

‘Someone told them I was here.’

‘Could have been anyone.’ The face moved slowly away as Dillick backed toward the bar, knocking against a table and upsetting a bench.

Moving with long-practised silence, Jeniche crossed the room and stood beside him. ‘But it wasn’t.’

She heard a sharp intake of breath. It may have been surprise at her voice so close. It was more likely the cold, sharp point of her knife pricking the folds of flesh on his neck.

‘Anyone would know you,’ he said. ‘Anyone could have—’

She pushed the knife just a little harder.

‘Anyone?’

‘A lad like you. Out of the desert. Easily recognized.’

‘What makes you think I’m out of the desert?’ she asked, annoyed by the lazy assumption.

‘Skin that dark. Stands to reason.’

‘Not to me, Dillick. There’s more than just desert to the north of Makamba. A lot more.’

Jeniche pushed away the memories, saw Dillick frowning in the gloom. His was a small world. He’d probably never even left the city. Anything beyond the view from the city gates was beyond his comprehension.

Suddenly angry, Jeniche stepped back, keeping the point of the knife to Dillick’s neck.

‘There’s no need to—’ He cut off his protest with another sharp intake of breath as she pushed a little harder.

‘Just remember, Dillick,’ she said, keeping her voice low. ‘There isn’t a place I can’t escape from. There isn’t a place I can’t get into. There is nowhere you would be safe if I ever found out you were lying; if I ever found out you had gone running to the city guard after this little conversation.’

Small angular pools appeared first, fed from the corners and doorways from which they had never quite disappeared. They grew at a steady pace, unseen or disregarded. Sharp-edged and creeping, they moved out of the crevices and cracks, the sanctuary of awnings and cellar stairwells, onto the dusty ground of the alleys, streets and public squares. By the time Jeniche slipped out of Dillick’s place, the smaller pools of shadow were beginning to join together. It was the signal for the city to wake from its afternoon slumber.

A group of Tunduri monks and nuns stood directly outside the front entrance in the small space where there were benches for customers to sit. Jeniche began to push her way through, moving indecisive individuals firmly to one side or the other. She was almost clear when something snagged her tunic. Turning to free it from whatever nail or bit of rough timber she supposed it had caught on, she was taken aback to see the hand of a child gripping the cloth. The same smiling child she had encountered before.

‘I’m glad we met again,’ he said in impeccable Makamban. ‘I wanted to thank you.’

Jeniche was conscious that her mouth was open in surprise.

‘For the basket of food,’ added the young monk.

‘Food?’ She realized how stupid she sounded. ‘In the basket,’ she went on lamely.

The young monk smiled.

Jeniche looked away, not wanting to be caught by that look again and noticed that every Tunduri eye was fixed on her. Being the centre of attention was anathema. And the circle was growing. The Tunduri were attracting the attention of curious passers-by who were dawdling half-awake in the street. This, in turn, attracted the attention of soldiers who were fully awake. She had no thought they might have a particular interest in her, she was simply allergic to men in uniform, especially those that sauntered in her direction in that casual way that meant trouble.

‘It was kind of you.’

The child’s voice broke into her momentary distraction. ‘I have to go,’ she said, edging away.

‘You are from the north?’

She pulled her tunic from the boy’s grip. The question annoyed her as much as the assumption she knew the desert. Both things were actually true, but she wanted them to remain firmly in her past where they belonged.