Chapter Nine

JORY WOKE me up with more singing—something sprightlier than a lullaby—and a tray with breakfast and hot tea. I sat up and rubbed my eyes. “I could have fetched my own meal. You didn’t have to carry it up to me.”

“Oh, but balancing things up all those stairs brings back such memories!” he said with a grin. He set the tray on the floor near the pallet and then sat next to me. He poured and handed off a cup of tea, which burned my tongue.

“You are an interesting man,” he said as I bit into bread stuffed with spiced meat. Tasty and satisfying.

“I’m not.”

“One of the most interesting people I’ve met. I feel as if I could spend a lifetime peeling back your layers, learning more about you.”

That made me snort. “I don’t have layers.” I have no education and don’t think deep thoughts. I know very little except for the darkest sides of Tangye. I have no hobbies or special interests, no talents except fighting.

“Hmm. After you left the guard—”

“After I was kicked out.”

“—what made you decide to do this?” He waved a hand vaguely.

“Eat breakfast?”

“Find thieves on behalf of noblemen. Or whatever it is you do when you’re not after me.”

“I told you what I do. People hire me to track down lost loved ones—or find out if their spouses are fucking someone else.”

He looked at me over his teacup. “Yes, so you said. But why embrace such a strange profession?”

“What else can I do?”

“Fight.”

I’d seriously considered it in the weeks after the guards drummed me out.

Near the West Gate stood an arena where the rich and the moderately prosperous paid to watch people battle. The contests varied. Some used weapons, some magic, some bare hands. The spectators bet on the competitors, sometimes wagering huge sums.

“I don’t fight for sport.” When I fight, people end up dead. As Jory contemplated my response, I decided to turn the interrogation his way. “What happened to him?”

“Who?” he asked, knowing exactly who I meant.

“The tavern keeper’s son. The man you fell in love with.”

“I told you. When my money was gone, he was done with me.”

“Yes, but what happened to him?” I pictured him now, with gray in his hair and fat on his belly, leaning on a tavern counter and reminiscing about his youth, about his brush with wealth.

Jory was expressionless. “He disappeared.”

“How?”

“I couldn’t— After he was through with me, I stayed away from that tavern. I didn’t want him to see what I’d become. But I listened to rumors.” He shook his head. “I still loved him. Now who’s the fool? But a few months after my family disowned me, he was gone. Nobody ever saw him again. I like to think he developed a sudden taste for adventure and headed for the mountains.”

A nice fantasy, but Jory and I both knew what had become of a man who’d brought shame to a noble family. I wondered if any of the scavengers had fished his body out of the river Tangye.

I put my teacup on the floor and stood. The morning was old enough. Time to have a talk with a wizard.

JORY STOOD just inside the doorway with me, both of us ignoring the stares of the boys in the drawing room. “I should come with,” he said for the third or fourth time.

And again I refused. “No. You’ll only be in the way.” I was worried about his safety, but I also wanted to speak to the wizard without Jory present because he had his own personal spin on the truth.

“What if Uren’s men find you?”

It was a reasonable concern. I could evade them through the city easily enough, but they might be waiting near Arthyen’s house, hoping Jory or I would show up. Nothing to do about that, though, and I really wanted to talk to Arthyen. “I have my knives,” I said, briefly placing a hand on a hilt.

“And if they’re better than yesterday’s duo?”

“Then you can look for me on the banks of the river. If you pay the scavengers a few coins, they might keep an eye out for my corpse.”

“This isn’t something to joke about!”

I stroked his smooth cheek. “I’m not joking. Tell me where he lives.”

“In the Silver, high on the north side of the hill.” He named a street I’d never heard of, but then I rarely spent time in that particular area. “It’s a pale yellow house like all the others on that street, but it has his name over the door.”

My jaw worked. “I can’t read.”

There was no pity in his gaze. “Of course. I’m sorry. It’s been over a decade since I lost my privileges, so you’d think I’d be mindful of reality by now. Hang on.” He disappeared down the hallway. When he returned a moment later, he handed me a scrap of paper.

I examined the baffling glyphs written in black ink and then looked at him. “Clever. Thank you.” Then I turned on my heel and left.

The smoke was especially thick that morning, making people cough and lending a gray pall to everyone’s complexion. In the Smiths Quarter, some people had cloths tied over their noses and mouths, but nobody bothered with that in the Low, where the ashy scent was better than the usual reek of sewage.

I avoided the area near my rooms and the Royal Bridge, crossing over Meryasek Bridge instead. A statue of the king for whom the bridge was named stood guard on the northern side, looking as if he’d rather be somewhere else. I’d heard that the statue was erected while he was still alive, and when he died, they’d placed his funeral pyre right there.

I felt oddly cheerful for a man who might not survive the day. My clothing helped my mood. Someone had done such a fine job of repairing the rip that I could find it only with careful inspection, and the fabric smelled of lavender and witchbane, like the sheets at Branok’s house. Jory’s ointment had done its job. The heat and redness in my arm were gone, leaving nothing but a slight twinge. I’d slept remarkably soundly with Jory beside me. I’d eaten well for dinner the previous night and for breakfast this morning. And my lips still tasted of the kiss Jory gave me before I left.

As I walked through the Silver Quarter, I allowed my mind to wander more than usual. I wondered what it would be like to grow up in one of the fine houses I passed; to have parents, siblings, and other relatives; to never worry about where the next meal would come from; to learn reading and maths and… whatever else wealthy children were expected to know. I couldn’t fathom it. And judging by Jory’s situation, such a seemingly auspicious upbringing did not necessarily make for a happy adult. What kind of man would I be if I’d had all that as a boy?

I was glad I hadn’t gone to Arthyen’s the previous evening, a long trek from the Smiths Quarter and through his neighborhood’s maze of steep, quiet streets that turned and crossed seemingly at random. I wandered, asking the few passersby for directions that invariably sent me the wrong way. But when I finally stopped a tired-looking servant and asked her for the street, she sighed and shifted her burden of parcels slightly in her arms.

“You’re on it,” she said.

Jory had been right—nearly all the houses had paint the same shade of pale yellow. I don’t know if the residents simply liked the color or if it was a plan to confuse people. Fortunately for me, few of the houses had signs, and when they did, I could compare them to Jory’s note. I clutched that bit of paper in my hand as if it might save my life.

At long last I found the door with Arthyen’s name over it. The house was somewhat modest compared to those nearby, only three floors tall and without flower boxes in the windows. A thin tabby cat dozed on the front step.

I slipped across the street and into the deep shadows between the houses. And then I watched.

For a long time, nothing interesting happened. A middle-aged man walked up the hill, holding hands with two well-dressed children. A few more servants passed on their way down, probably fetching things from the shops. Two spider-fairies dropped from the roof next door and chattered to each other as they rooted in a small pile of leaves. I watched with mild interest; fairies were a rare thing in the Low. After the fairies scaled the house and disappeared over the roof, the cat woke up, stretched, and wandered off.

Just as I gave myself the all clear and deemed it safe to approach Arthyen’s house, the door opened and a man walked out. I very nearly shouted in surprise.

The man was me.

Tall and thin, with wide shoulders and long limbs. His face the one that looked back at me on the rare occasions I glanced in a looking glass. Narrow, with a square chin and a nose broken more than once. Pale blue eyes as flat as a basilisk’s. A faded scar across one cheek, barely missing the corner of the thin lips. Dark stubble. Equally dark hair—except where a growing number of white strands peeked through.

And he wore my clothes—the ones I’d left in my apartment. The old cloak with the new chausses and tunic. Black boots, but not quite as tall as mine. I couldn’t tell if they were as well made. The knife-belt at his waist looked familiar, but of course my own was right where it was supposed to be. I could feel its weight, yet I checked to make sure.

My doppelganger paused in front of the closed door, looking up and down the street. I was well hidden in the shadows, and he never even glanced my way. He stepped down. And then as I watched, unbreathing, he… changed. He grew shorter and heavier, and his hair turned mousy brown. The scar and stubble disappeared from his face, which became rounder and softer. At least ten years had fallen away from him.

Still wearing my clothing, he hurried up the hill and out of sight.

By the time I remembered to breathe again, I knew what I’d seen: an example of rare and powerful magic. I’d heard of enchantments that allowed one person to temporarily take on the guise of another but had never seen it firsthand. I’d certainly never expected the borrowed face to be mine. Now, of course, I had to figure out why someone would make such a mighty effort to look like me.

I was certain I wouldn’t like the answer.

I wasted a few moments trying to decide whether to chase after the imposter or confront Arthyen. I eventually opted for the latter, in part because I wasn’t sure I could hold my temper around my false self. He was wearing my clothes, and he or his compatriots had been in my rooms. I felt dirty.

Moving quickly before I changed my mind, I marched across the street and pounded on the door.

A young man opened it almost immediately, then raised his eyebrows. “Blyd! Did you forget something? Wizard Arthyen has another appointment in a few minutes.”

“I need to ask him something.”

Apparently blissfully unaware that my clothing had changed in a matter of minutes, the man nodded and let me into a wood-paneled foyer that smelled of fish and broiled cabbage. “He’s still in his office.” He gestured negligently toward an ornately carved door at the end of the hall and then disappeared up some stairs.

I strode past wood paneling decorated with paintings of the sea and knocked once on the door—firmly. Receiving no reply, I cautiously opened it and stepped inside.

And walked straight into the stench of death.