Chapter Eleven

WE HAD several hours before nightfall and few ways to fill them. We’d already eaten, and neither of us felt sleepy. The old warehouse offered few entertainment possibilities. I’d spent plenty of time with nothing to do. Actually, most of my time I’d had nothing to do. But it was easier to do nothing alone than with Jory.

I sat on the crate for a while. Then I paced. I would have liked to throw my knives—extra practice never hurts—but I didn’t want to dull the blades when I had no way to resharpen them. I thought about the stolen knife, the one discovered among my belongings in the barracks. The salesman had told me it was enchanted to never lose its edge. That would come in handy. I sat again.

Jory moved around the edges of the large space, picking up bits of rubbish as he encountered them. His foot broke through a rotted plank at one point, causing him to swear, but he wasn’t injured and so continued his circuits unabated.

Eventually he wandered over to me. “Can people hear us when we’re in here?”

“Unlikely. Everyone avoids the place. If anyone did hear us, they’d probably assume it was the wraiths.”

“Good.”

He moved several paces away, until he stood near the center. “The acoustics in here are interesting,” he said. And then he began to sing.

The first time I’d heard him sing was in Two Gray Cats, where he’d enchanted me. The second time had been the previous night in Branok’s attic, where he’d lulled me. But when it came to magic, the third time always sealed the deal, and now he captured me. I could feel it happening with every one of his plaintive yet beautiful notes—it was a ballad about a woman whose children all died. Every sound from his throat cast a tendril my way, fine as spider’s silk but strong as steel, and those tendrils wrapped around me until I was fully trussed.

That song made me his.

It didn’t matter that he’d lied to me before and would probably continue to do so. Or that neither of us was likely to see another dawn. It didn’t even matter that he’d attached himself to me out of desperation and a lack of anywhere else to turn. Today, for just these few hours, I belonged to someone. And if I was bound to him, he was equally bound to me. Today, someone belonged to me.

I hadn’t thought I’d wanted such a thing. It turned out I burned for it.

After Jory finished his song, he wiped his eyes and smiled softly. “Come here.”

“I’m not going to sing.”

“No need to. Come here.”

As soon as I was within reach, he wrapped me in his arms and began to hum. I didn’t recognize the tune at first. But then he began to sing the words, and I knew them. It was another ballad, this one about a young girl whose husband goes off to war wearing a necklace she gave him. She waits for him until word arrives that he died on a battlefield. Then, unable to support herself any other way, she sells herself. Every time a man fucks her, she pretends it’s her lover—the only way she remains sane. And one day a terribly disfigured man arrives and pays to sleep with her. But he’s rough with her, angry at her for being a whore. Furious at him and unable to withstand her grief, she stabs him in the chest. As he lies dying on the floor, he calls her name and she spies the familiar necklace he wears.

It’s a terribly sad song, the kind that sentimental types ask for when they’re a little drunk so they have an excuse to break down in tears.

I always thought it was stupid. Why in all hells didn’t the husband identify himself immediately, and what gave him the right to resent the job she needed for survival? And why didn’t she recognize his voice or notice the damned necklace earlier? Maybe she was too far gone on trance-drops, which meant she was doomed in any case.

But when Jory sang it, the song wasn’t stupid, but instead made my heart ache. And when he began to sway our bodies to the music, I let him, even though I’d never danced. I assumed I’d be clumsy at it, but I wasn’t. It was like fighting or having sex, as intense as the one and as sweet as the other, and Jory’s voice never faltered as we slowly rocked and spun. When he ran out of words, he hummed instead.

At some point I became aware that the room was dark. Perhaps the sun had set long before and my eyes had been closed.

I leaned in against Jory, bringing the dance to an end, and kissed his cheek. “It’s nighttime.”

“Are you so eager to die?”

“No. But I can’t put this off much longer.”

He rested his head on my shoulder. “You feel so strong. I wish we’d met sooner.”

“And how would that have profited either of us?”

“I don’t know. I’m being greedy, I guess. Wishing for more time. Did you ever hear the story of the wizard Ederna?”

I well knew he was trying to delay our departure, but I indulged him. I didn’t truly want to leave either. “No.”

“Well. This was hundreds of years ago. Ederna was walking around the city, and she noticed something strange. In some parts of town, like the Smiths, everyone rushed around all the time trying to get things done. And in others, like the Low and the Royal, some people spent most of their days sitting around doing not much at all. Drinking, perhaps, or playing dice, or gossiping about the latest fashions.”

“I don’t think we worry much about fashion in the Low,” I teased.

“Shh. Telling a story.” He pushed on my shoulders until I sat on the floor, and then he draped himself sideways across my lap and leaned his head against the crook of my neck. “Ederna also noticed that small children would whine about being bored, while—”

“I never did.”

He kissed my cheek quickly. “I know. You were too busy staying alive. But I did more than my share of whining, such as during lessons or when I was expected to sit through an endless formal dinner. Ederna saw spoiled brats like me. And she saw adults who came home from work exhausted, did their chores, and fell into bed, sad at being unable to spend time with their families. Or old people avidly savoring their final years.”

Realizing I was missing an important opportunity, I threaded my fingers through his hair and toyed with his curls. “Ederna was an observant woman.”

“Wizards often are. She also had expensive tastes in clothes, food, and women, and her purse was feeling rather empty. So she went to her workshop, which I imagine was a small but beautiful space in the Silver, and she worked for ages. Finally she found a way to bottle time.

“She went first to the bored and unoccupied and offered to take time off their hands. She didn’t even have to pay for it—they were thrilled to be rid of it. And of course then she went to the harried residents and sold them that time. Business was brisk. More than! Soon the city folk were mobbing her, demanding more of her wares.”

“It didn’t turn out well for her, did it?”

He swatted my knee. “Let me finish. Her problem was that demand soon outpaced supply. It turns out that while some people waste time, far more don’t have enough of it. Her greed overcame her and she began to steal it. She’d creep into rooms while people were sleeping and take it from them. Not much, just an hour here, an hour there. She didn’t think anyone would notice. They did, though, because they were tired the next day and did their jobs poorly.”

He was a good storyteller. His voice was wonderful, of course, and he put as much feeling into it as he did when singing. I wondered how many tales he knew and how many evenings he could keep me enthralled with them. If we weren’t both about to be killed, of course.

“What happened to her?” I asked.

“The king had her dragged to the castle. He was—oh, I don’t remember which king. One of the cruel ones. He took her down to the dungeons and demanded she take time from all the prisoners. Take all their time and give it to him so he could rule for centuries.”

“What would happen to the prisoners if she did that? I mean, I expect they’d die, but would they age very quickly first? Or just keel over?”

“You are overthinking this,” Jory said, squirming a little in my lap. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It mattered to them. To the prisoners.”

“No, because she didn’t do it. She refused. And when the king had a tantrum, she stole all of his time and that of his guards besides, and she freed the prisoners, and then she fled the castle. She vowed never to transfer time again. She ran to the west, to the Dragonback Mountains and beyond, and that was that.”

“What about the king’s time?” I asked.

“Oh, see? When I was told this story the first time, that question didn’t occur to me. But you thought of it because that’s how you are.”

I grunted a reply, which made him laugh.

“Nobody knows what she did with the time,” he said. “Perhaps she took it with her over the mountains. Perhaps she threw it into the sea. But some people think she hid it somewhere in Tangye, and one day a lucky person will find it. Too bad it can’t be us.”

“I’ve never been lucky. Anyway, it isn’t time we need, it’s an ally.”

For a moment or two, he was silent, apparently enjoying the petting of his hair. “What would you do with an ally? Hope he or she is good at fighting? Because we’d need more than one of those to overcome Uren’s men and the entire city guard.”

“We’d need an army for that,” I said with a sigh. “No, we could get by with just a single person if he could force Uren to admit what he’s done. In front of witnesses, of course, and before he had us run through with swords.” And I might as well wish for gold to shower from the sky, because that was far more likely.

Jory went very still. “Daveth? What’s today?”

I had to think about it before answering. “Branchday,” I finally announced.

“And tomorrow’s Leafday.”

“That’s how it works—Roots, Trunk, Branch, Leaf, Bud, Flower, Fruit. Even a Lowler knows that.”

He leapt from my lap—gracefully, damn him—and resumed his pacing. I couldn’t see him, but I followed his progress via his bootsteps.

“A Finch would make a good witness, wouldn’t she?” he asked, nearly breathless with excitement.

“I suppose.” The Finches were gossips but known for their honesty.

“Uren visits a Finch every Leafday morning. His wife got him in the habit. She won’t sleep with him at all, you know? She just visits the Finches.”

“Do you expect him to show up tomorrow and pour out his heart to the Finch? Perhaps he’ll have a sudden attack of remorse.” I stood and brushed my hands on my chausses as if wiping away such a ridiculous idea.

“I don’t think he has a conscience. Which is a terrible thing, really, like being born without a heart. But what if we could somehow persuade him to confess?”

“The only way I know how to persuade is with the tips of my blades.”

“Precisely.”