Sworn in Steel (39 page)

A pause. “That’s all?”

“Most days it’s all I need.”

She sniffed and took another icy sip of her drink.

I’d heard her name as I’d worked the Old City, but only in passing. Mama Left Hand was so far above the street, she was viewed as more of a presence than a person. As the matriarch
of the Hirim clan, she was said to hold considerable sway not only among the more shadowy parts of her clan, but even within the overall tribe itself. Even her nephew, Hamzah, the titular head of
the Hirim, was said to defer to her on most matters.

Unfortunately for me, that meant she was also some sort of great-aunt a couple of times removed from Fat Chair. Not strong as blood ties went normally, but then, there was nothing normal about
having someone like Mama Left Hand sitting across from me less than a day after her nephew had sent a gang of Cutters after me, either.

I eyed the
Zakur
crime boss, then the slab of Arm behind her, as I flexed my wrist and thought about the knife up my sleeve. Only if I wanted to die quickly.

“Very well, Drothe One Name,” she said. “Let’s get down to business. I’m here for a simple reason: I want to know what you’re going to do about Fat
Chair.”

I’d been letting myself slump down in my chair. Now I straightened. “Me?” I said. “What the hell do you expect me to do, other than stay alive? He’s your
family.”

“Yes, but I’m not the one who killed his favorite cousin.”

“His . . . ?”

“The one with the sword and small shield you met in the street.”

“You mean the one he sent at the head of three other Cutters to
kill
me?”

“That would have been Sa’d, yes.”

“And your grand-nephew is upset because I walked away? What was I supposed to do, let him dust me?”

“Family knows it would have made my life easier.”

“Well, I’m sorry to fucking inconvenience you, but I—”

Her hand flashed up and the Arm’s flashed out. I was out of my chair and on my back in an instant.

“Mind your language,” said the
Zakur
matron. “I’ll not tolerate filth. You’ll not be warned again.”

I raised my head and looked between my legs back toward the table. It was a good six feet away. That had been a
warning
?

I climbed to my feet, wiped at the blood seeping into my beard, and clomped back over to the table. Her city, I reminded myself as I righted my chair and sat down. Her army.

Still, I didn’t hesitate to take up her goblet and drain the contents into my mouth. Winter wine—light and sweet and, thankfully, cold. I swished it around and spit out a red-pink
stream.

My right ear was ringing. The side of my face sang a counterpoint of pain. I ignored them both.

“Okay,” I said. “I’m clearly missing something here. What’s your problem with Fat Chair, and how does it involve me?”

“The specifics of the problem are my business, and therefore none of yours. Suffice it to say Fat Chair is an ass—but a clever ass nonetheless. He’s locked up the Imperial
Quarter tighter than even I thought possible. And while that’s helped some others in the clan, it’s gotten in the way of my interests. He’s like a stone in my sandal, and
I’d have that annoying stone gone.”

“And dusting me would have gotten rid of said stone?”

“It would have had repercussions,” she said. “Killing a Gray Prince means something, even here in Djan. No, don’t swell up at the notion: It’s not what you think. I
doubt anyone would have avenged you. But your death would have made him look shortsighted and dangerous. I need Fat Chair to lose face before I try to remove him: Your death would have been the
breeze that preceded the storm.” She paused to purse her lips. It wasn’t a pleasant sight. “But then you had to go and kill Sa’d and give the fat fool a proper reason to
come after you.”

“Vendetta,” I said.

“If that’s the same as a blood price, then yes. He’s put a price on your head. A high one. And even I can’t countermand that: It has roots too deep in tribal honor for me
to touch.”

“What if I lie low?” I didn’t care for the idea, but I didn’t have the time or resources to go after this cove. “Stay out of his way?”

“He won’t let you.”

“And if I dust him instead?”

“I’d prefer you didn’t. Fool or no, he’s still family. If he’s to die, I’d rather it be from a
Zakur
blade.”

“What if it can’t be helped?”

“He has many cousins. Not many like him, but there are enough honorable ones that I expect you wouldn’t make it out of Djan alive.”

“So I’m dead if I try to defend myself, and likely just as dead if I don’t.” I turned my head and spit out more blood. “How the hell do you people do business,
anyhow? I’m surprised you’re not all lying in the gutter from one another’s knives.”

Mama smiled. It was a grim thing, but I couldn’t help noticing a hint of longing at the edges, too. “There have been times . . . ,” she said. She sighed. “But there are
rules and precedence, not to mention hierarchy, at play among the
Zakur
. We have our twisting ways of avoiding slaughter. None of which apply to you.” She met my eyes. “Is it
really so different among your Kin?”

I opened my mouth to say it was, then stopped myself. The excuses and lines of loyalty might be different, but we had our share of butchery. Maybe even more, since we tended to rely on ties
woven from fear and money rather than blood and family. Oh, there were traces of honor and obligation mixed in as well, but it was a rare man among the Kin who could inspire people that
didn’t even like him to take up the blade in his memory.

None of which mattered just now since, except for Fowler, I was alone in a foreign land.

“So what do you propose?” I said.

She gave a lopsided shrug. “Disgrace him. Make him look the fool. Take part of the Imperial Quarter away from him.” She picked up her goblet and drained it. “In short, do
whatever you were planning to do when you arrived in el-Qaddice, before all this happened. Only do it quicker.”

“Do whatever . . . ?” I said. “What I was planning to do was find someone and get out.”

Her eyes didn’t leave the bar. “Yes, of course you were.”

“Dammit, woman, I’m telling you—”

Her hand came up. Ubayd tensed. I froze. She spoke.

“Don’t take me for a fool. You don’t do what you did back in your Empire and then just happen to come to el-Qaddice. The story about the mercenary may play on the street, but I
know too much about how things work to fall for that.” She lowered her hand. “If you want to try to take over the Imperial end of the route, I won’t get in your way. In fact, I
might even be able to help. I can smooth things over with the clan on this end, get the price off your head, and present you as the best alternative to Crook Eye. I may even be able to make sure
the shipments keep coming without interruption.” Her eyes came back to me. “Assuming, of course, you deal with my nephew for me.”

I started to open my mouth to say . . . I don’t know what. I knew I needed to answer her somehow: to agree or make a counteroffer or negotiate terms—anything to cover over my
surprise over what she’d just said, over the implications she’d just made. To respond to the idea that I’d dusted Crook Eye back in Barrab so I could take over his connections in
el-Qaddice. To make it seem as if I’d known about the dead Gray Prince’s arrangement with the
Zakur
and Fat Chair. To hide the fact that, yes, it had just been dumb luck that
brought me down here and landed my ass in her clan’s business, as opposed to some kind of princely power play on my part. Because if I didn’t, my value, not to mention my credibility,
with the woman before me would drop into the “expendable” range almost immediately.

Damn me for being too much the Nose and not enough the prince, anyhow.

“Well?” said the
Zakur
matron.

I drew the pouch out from around my neck and spilled two seeds into my palm. When I offered the bag to Mama, she declined.

“I’m not excited about the idea of getting involved in clan politics,” I said as I rolled the seeds between my palms. “But I get the feeling I don’t seem to have
much of a choice in the matter.”

“You don’t. And don’t worry—you’re far from what I’d consider ‘involved.’ You’re a tool at best, an annoyance at worst.”

“Well, as long as you put it nicely . . .”

Mama Left Hand gestured, and Ubayd pulled her chair away from the table with barely a sound. When she rose, she did so slowly, but also without taking the Arm’s offered hand. It was clear
it hurt for her to move; it was also clear she didn’t give a damn.

“We’ll discuss specifics once you’ve delivered on your end of the deal,” she wheezed. “In the meantime, I’ll start priming the clan for Fat Chair’s
downfall.”

“About that.” I stood—slowly, to keep Ubayd happy—and put the seeds into my mouth. “I’m going to need more to go on than just ‘make him look like a
fool.’ Some ideas or suggestions. Details.”

Mama shook her head. “If my hand is seen in this, it could ruin any rewards I may otherwise reap. Having this meeting is risk enough; if I give you any hints, their origins might be traced
back to the
Zakur
, and thus to me. The deed is on you alone, Imperial.”

She turned away. Ubayd handed her a stout cane, which she used to begin hobbling toward the door. In this, she let the Arm help her.

It was a setup—even I could see that. If I somehow succeeded, she’d come out ahead without having lifted a finger; and if I failed she wouldn’t have risked a thing. Either way,
I’d be at her mercy when payment time came around. She could just as easily laugh in my face as honor her word, and there wouldn’t be a damn thing I could do about it.

I needed something more, not only to save face, but to feel that I wasn’t letting her walk all over me—even if I was. I needed to get something out of this as well.

“That’s not good enough,” I said to her retreating back.

“It will have to be.”

“And if I were to go to your nephew instead?” I said. “To cut my own deal with him?”

She stopped. Craned her head over her shoulder until she was regarding me with her drooping eye. “Even you’re not that stupid.”

“I’m a marked Imperial in Djan: What have I got to lose?”

“Besides the obvious?”

I didn’t answer.

Mama screwed up her face in a way that made me think of lemons. “What do you want?”

“I need help on the street.”

“I told you, my hand can’t be seen—”

“Not with Fat Chair,” I said. “With something else—something that’s my business alone. Something that won’t make a bit of difference to you or Fat Chair or
the rest of the
Zakur
.”

“What?”

I put on what I hoped was a winning smile. “I need help finding some old books,” I said.

T
he sun was smearing orange and purple across the clouds on the eastern horizon when I left the Angel’s Shadow the next evening and headed
out of the Imperial Quarter.

My step wasn’t as light as I might have hoped, nor as quick. I’d spent most of the previous night and much of this morning working the streets in the company of one of Mama Left
Hand’s men: a cove named Dirar who had a penchant for rashari leaf and a nose for artifacts. We’d haunted scribal shops and secondhand booksellers, talking our way into private
libraries and out of tense encounters with rare document smugglers. We spoke with mercenaries in taverns, priests in temples, historians in gardens, and thieves in back alleys. Everywhere, people
knew Dirar, and everywhere they had the same answer: no word, no idea, no hints—but they’d watch and listen and look, to be sure.

I’d finally left him close to midday, with assurances on his part that we’d made a good beginning. I’d had a hard time sharing his enthusiasm, but had nodded and smiled and
crawled up to my bed with instruction not to be disturbed. Less than six hours later, I’d woken up to Fowler kicking my bed, telling me it was time to get my ass up and go meet Heron.

I’d thought about arguing, about telling her to go to hell, but we needed the stipend he held, not to mention however many days he’d managed to bargain out of the wazir on our
behalf. Part of me wanted to tell her to go in my stead, but I decided I’d rather drink the mug of coffee she’d brought me than wear it.

I made a quick stop in the stables before leaving to check on Degan’s sword. It was still there, and after a slight hesitation, I slipped it over my shoulder. It was probably just as safe
sitting in the rafters as riding my back—hell, safer, given the last several days I’d been having—but after finding Wolf in my room, not to mention Mama Left Hand in the inn, I
didn’t like the idea of it being out of my sight anymore. Too many people were taking too close of an interest in me, and Degan’s sword would make a handy bit of leverage if they found
it. Better I know where it was than be surprised again, as I had been with Crook Eye.

Besides, it felt good to have it on my back again.

This time around, I avoided the main entrance to the padishah’s palace and made directly for the Dog Gate instead. The same guard was there, keeping counsel with the yapping of the hounds
in the falling night.

I smiled at him through the iron bars of the gate as I came up. His eyes grew wide, then narrowed quickly. I noticed that he’d invested in a new sash. Smart. I didn’t want to think
about what it would have taken to clean the old one after I’d finished with it.

“He’s expecting me,” I said. “Again.”

The guard’s fingers shifted on his spear. I saw his eyes flick back and forth, looking to see if anyone else was near, if anyone else would see or hear what came next. His jaw clenched in
anticipation.

I sighed. He wasn’t really considering trying to kill me, was he?

“If you thought it was going to be hard to explain why you had my money and
ahrami
in your pocket last time,” I said, slipping my last seed into my mouth, “what do you
think will happen when someone finds my body lying out here, stabbed by a spear and mauled by dogs?”