Sworn in Steel (16 page)

Jelem exhaled a gray plume out of the corner of his mouth. “Make things worse?” he said. “No, even considering your exceptional talents, I doubt you could find and crush enough
toes to make things worse for me. Where are you going in the Despotate?”

“El-Qaddice.”

He coughed. “El-Qaddice? Then I take it back: You might just find enough toes after all.”

“All the more reason for you to come along and make sure I avoid them.” Having a native with me would be helpful; having a native Mouth of Jelem’s ability could be crucial if
things turned ugly.

Jelem refused to rise to the bait. “Why Djan?” he said instead. “And, more important, why now?”

I’d thought about this after I’d left my sister’s and begun my nightlong hunt for Jelem: about the tales I could tell, the half-truths I could let drop, and the omissions I
could get away with. And I’d decided that, if I wanted what I needed, none of those would suffice. Of the countless people in the Imperial capital, Jelem knew more about what had passed
between Degan and me than any other soul, save my sister. So I simply said, “Degan’s there.”

The brass tip didn’t quite slip from his fingers, but it was a close thing. He covered it well by setting the pipe’s hose aside and taking up his own cup of sekanjabin. “Degan.
Really. Interesting. Any idea why?”

“Part of the reason I’m going is to find out.”

“And the other?”

“I hear good things about taking the waters.”

“Yes, of course,” said Jelem. “We’re famous for our ‘waters’ in the desert.”

We drank in silence for a while after that, each itching to learn what the other knew, each unwilling to show his hand for fear of losing any kind of perceived advantage. Finally, after a second
round of coffee and sekanjabin, along with a fresh tray of sweets, Jelem leaned in and set his cup aside.

“I cannot go,” he said. “While my family might be happy to see me, it would only be to put a dagger between my ribs. However, I still have associates there who might be
persuaded to help. I will send word ahead of you. With luck, they will be able to assist you once you are inside the Old City.”

“And the cost for this help?” I said.

“For my aid? Deliver a package. As for my friends in Djan, that will be between you and them.”

“What kind of package?”

“A small one.”

“What’s in it?”

“Small things.”

“What kind of small things?”

“Letters. Missives. Nothing you need concern yourself about.”

I tapped my finger on the side of my cup, watching tremors form on the surface of the coffee. “I generally find that when people tell me I don’t need to be concerned about something,
it ends up concerning me.” I looked up and met the Djanese’s eye. “What’s in the letters?”

Jelem smiled with all the charm of a snake. “I’m sorry, my memory must be slipping: Why did you say you were looking for Degan, again?”

I grimaced. “I just don’t want any surprises when some customs patrol pulls a packet of diplomatic secrets out of my pocket and looks to me for an explanation.”

“Then I suggest you hide them very well,” said Jelem. “Besides, you know I don’t deal with things like that.”

“No, your secrets are likely much more dangerous.”

Jelem shrugged. “Danger is in the eye of the beholder. But very well: I will show you the letters before I seal them. Acceptable?”

I regarded the man across from me, trying to read him, to decide whether he was playing me or not, and how badly. Problem was, he was too skilled a gambler to let me see anything, and I was too
proud to pretend I hadn’t.

“As long as you seal them in front of me,” I finally said.

“As you wish.” Jelem sipped coffee, sucked smoke. “But if you ask me, you should be worrying more about how you’re going to get into el-Qaddice than what I put in a
letter.”

“Travel documents I can handle,” I said. Crossing borders and getting into large cities required passports and travel papers, both in the Empire and Djan. The imperial and despotic
bureaucracies, not to mention tax collectors, were always happier when they knew who was going where for what reason, and how much they could make off the process. The farther you went and the more
borders you crossed, the more elaborate became the requirements, but I had people for that.

“Yes, I don’t doubt that Baldezar could falsify papers for you,” said Jelem. He’d met and worked with the master scribe I had reluctantly taken into my organization back
when I’d been on the run from Shadow. “And they would suffice, if all you wanted to do was get as far as Waas or Geshara on the Bay or some other merchant town. But we’re talking
el-Qaddice; gaining access to one of the political and religious centers of the Despotate requires more than a forged passport with a false stamp of passage on it, especially for an unknown
imperial traveling on his own.”

“What do you mean?”

“You need letters of passage. And for that, you need a patron.”

Djanese patronage. I’d heard about it but never had to deal with it myself. The few times I’d been to Djan, it had been to check with my contacts or pick up payment for one of the
more valuable imperial relics I’d had smuggled. Those meetings had all happened in some dusty little border village that barely rated a name, or in one of the larger merchant towns where a
simple passport and a couple of coins could get you through the gate without a second glance. I’d never needed to go deeper into the Despotate, and thus never needed the kind of contacts
Jelem was bringing up.

“How hard is it to arrange for patronage?” I said.

“For established merchants or diplomats? A small matter: A handful of atrociously large bribes and a promise or two usually suffice. But for a Gray Prince and Nose?” He shook his
head. “The purpose behind patronage is twofold: to maintain the old trade monopolies of the merchant tribes, and to discourage casual espionage. None of the merchant sheikhs have any reason
to vouch for you, and I don’t think you will find a prominent citizen willing to affix his name to a letter that makes him responsible for your actions. The Wandering Family knows
I
wouldn’t tie my fortune to you like that.”

“Yes, but you know me.”

“True, but we’re not talking about the misfortunes of my life right now. We’re talking about yours. And the simple truth is, without the proper letters of passage, you
won’t be able to enter el-Qaddice. It is, in many ways, a closed city when it comes to unknown or questionable Imperials.”

“Like thieves and former Noses.”

“Just so.”

I leaned forward and pushed my coffee cup around on the table. Between what I had drunk and the seeds I’d been slipping since finding Jelem, my hands had taken on a mild tremor. I
wouldn’t be coming down for a couple of hours yet, but when I did, it wouldn’t be pretty. I needed to get as much done between now and then as I could.

“What about forging them?” I said, making sure my voice didn’t carry.

Jelem arched an eyebrow, considering. “It’s possible,” he said, “but you have to understand that we Djanese do not look upon documents the same way as you Imperials.
Especially not official ones.”

“How so?”

“For you, it is a matter of what the paper says, what it allows you to do as defined by your laws; for us, it is more about who has affixed their name to the paper, as well as the splendor
of the document. In Djan, important documents
look
important; the contents are tertiary at best. Even minor officials go out of their way to embellish their certificates and reports. As
for something like a letter of passage . . . well, it’s complex. There’s an elaborate formulary specific to each writer’s house and tribe. The ornamentation, illumination, and
calligraphy that go into something like that are no small thing—and doubly so for a letter granting access to el-Qaddice. Gold leaf, elaborate seals, precious inks and dyes, even the blending
of the fibers of the paper itself, are all carefully proscribed for each patron. The letters are works of art.”

“And art can be hard to forge,” I muttered.

“Especially on short notice.”

“How long would it take?”

Jelem shrugged. “Much would depend on the patron, the style of embellishment, the cost and availability of materials . . .”

“Jelem, how long?”

“If it all came together quickly? A week, likely more.”

I didn’t think I had a week—not with Wolf breathing down my neck.

“There has to be a way,” I said. “No city is that tightly shut, especially not one as big as el-Qaddice.”

“Of course not,” said Jelem. “But the
Zakur
have no reason to welcome a foreign crime prince, and you don’t have the contacts to grease the other mechanisms that
could get you in. Perhaps if the empire and the Despotate were not growling at each other quite so loudly right now it would be easier, but unless you have an in with a respected caravan master or
suddenly learn to play the tambour and join a minstrel troupe, I can’t see an easy way into the city for you.”

“Shit.” I turned, ready to call for a new pot of coffee, when I caught myself. “Minstrel troupe?” I said. “Why would a minstrel troupe be able to get in to
el-Qaddice?”

Jelem waved a dismissive hand. “The sixth son of the despot, Padishah Yazir, considers himself a patron of the arts. He’s made an arrangement with his father—more like nagged
him into acquiescence, if truth be told—to extend the padishah’s patronage to various musicians and sculptors and poets, so they may more easily enter the city. He has a vision about
turning el-Qaddice into a haven for the New Culture, as he calls it. No one knows what this means, but my sources tell me that, at present, it consists mainly of poseurs and vagabonds using the
padishah’s patronage to stuff their bellies and empty his purse.”

“And he just gives this patronage away?”

“So I’m told.”

“To artistic poseurs and vagabonds?”

“On a good day.”

“Tell me,” I said, leaning forward, a smile forming on my lips, “how does Padishah Yazir feel about actors?”

“No,” said Tobin. “Absolutely not.”

“And why the hell not?” I said.

“Djan?” said the troupe leader, making a broad gesture toward what I expect was supposed to be Djan. I didn’t bother to point out that he was gesturing west, not south.
“Djan?” he said again. “Deserts, sir! Bandits! Nomads! Not to mention Djanese who speak . . . Djanese. Which, I might add, we do not.”

“Pallias’s troupe made a circuit of the Despotate a couple years back,” observed Ezak. He was leaning up against the wall on the far end of the hayloft, calmly looking down a
length of ash he’d been shaping into a staff. Judging by the pile of fine shavings at his feet, he was down to the finishing work. Between him and us, the rest of the troupe was seated on the
floor or the hay, their heads moving back and forth with the conversation like spectators at a game of court hands.

“And what did they get for it?” huffed Tobin. “Lost for a month, and then relegated to hamlets and trading towns. And the bribes! Don’t even get me started on the bribes
Pallias had to pay to those thieves masquerading as despotic officials.”

“And how is that different from some of our tours in the Empire?” said Ezak.

Mumbles among the troupe, both for and against.

“There’s water in the empire,” snapped Tobin. “And Imperials. They understand us well enough to pay, at least.”

“Usually,” amended Ezak.

“Mostly.”

Ezak shrugged and ran his small knife down the staff, drawing a thin curl of wood from its surface.

“The point is,” I said, “I have to travel to Djan, and I need you to come with me.”

“‘Need’?” said Tobin, rounding on me. “Need? And what, may I ask, is the source of this need?”

I’d been thinking about how to answer that question for most of the day. From the moment I’d left Jelem, through my conversation with Kells about leaving Ildrecca, then finding
Fowler and making her aware of the developing plan, I’d been coming up with possible responses in the back of my mind. Threats, bribes, deals, blackmail, cons—all the usual tools in the
Kin arsenal, and I’d discarded every one. I was going to be traveling with these people for over a month, sharing food and water and shelter, at the end of which I was going to be relying on
them to get me into el-Qaddice. And while I could start out the journey easily enough with lies or threats as a motivator, the odds of them still being effective when we reached el-Qaddice were
another matter entirely. A month is a long time to prop up a lie or keep an edge on fear, and I didn’t want to risk things falling apart in the middle of Djan. Far better to take my risks
here, at the start, before I’d invested not only time and effort, but hope. Far better to try the truth.

“I need to get into el-Qaddice,” I said. “I need to . . . talk to someone there. Problem is, I need a letter of patronage to get inside, and I don’t have one.”

“All the way to Djan for a talk?” said one of the men in the troupe. “Angels, man: Just write a letter. She can’t be that special!”

Mild laughter. I marked the man, making sure I remembered him, and why.

“Be quiet, Gauge,” said Ezak, reading my look.

“And how does our going to el-Qaddice help you get into the city?” said Tobin. “If anything, I’d think it would make it harder. Rather than one letter, you’d need
near a dozen.”

I was opening my mouth to answer when Ezak looked up from his carving and said, “The Prince of Plays.”

Tobin turned to face his cousin. “What? Of Plays? I thought that was in Assyram.”

Ezak shook his head. “You’re thinking of the Bey who pays for limericks with silver ingots.”

Tobin put his hands on his hips. “Are you sure? I thought he was in Tirand.”

“No,” said a voice from among the troupe. “That’s the countess who likes to hire actors to—”

“The point is,” I said, raising my voice before the speculation got out of hand, “one of the sons of the despot—the Padishah Yazir—has made it his practice to offer
patronage to artists who please him, and that patronage includes access to el-Qaddice.”

Tobin turned to face me. There was a decidedly avaricious gleam to his eye now. “Patronage, you say?”