Sworn in Steel (4 page)

Which was what I kept reminding myself as I sat, a cup of fortified honey wine in my hand, and listened to the heavy man’s story wind down.

“And that, in a nut, sir,” he concluded, “is our predicament.”

I looked at the circle of faces around me. There were a dozen in all: seven men and five women. Most were expectant, several were carefully neutral, and at least two seemed dubious.
One—the oldest woman, who was busily mending a shirt off to one side—looked downright hostile, when she looked at me at all.

I was inclined to agree with her.

This was madness.

I turned my eyes from the rest of the troupe to the man before me. “And what do you want me to do about it?” I said.

Tobin—the broader of the two men who had met me in the alley, and who had proved to be the troupe’s leader—spread his hands. We were in the hayloft of a livery stable. Tobin
had rented it out as a combination sleeping ken and make-do rehearsal hall. I had, in honor of the hope I represented, been given the sole chair in the place.

None of them had figured out who or what I was, and I hadn’t offered to tell. Let them think me just another Draw Latch. It made things less complicated and kept expectations low.

“I saw how you moved, the pad of your step,” he said. “You’re a Getter if I ever saw one. And no friend of Soggy Petyr’s, from what I can fathom, either. ‘A
friend of my foe be mine foe as well; but let a man stand ’gainst one who stands ’gainst me, and ever after shall I—’”

“Save the soliloquy, or whatever the hell you call it,” I said. “Just because I slipped the steel to a couple of Petyr’s men doesn’t mean I’m willing to go up
against him for you.”

“Told you’d he’d tell us to flog off,” muttered a voice from the back of the troupe.

“Did I say I wanted our friend to challenge our tormentor?” declared Tobin to the room. He turned to Ezak. “Did I even imply such a thing?”

“You did not.”

“There, you see!” he said, turning back to me. “No such thing, sir. No, I merely ask that, in return for the bounty of our aid and hospitality, you retrieve something of ours
that has been wrongfully—nay, foully—taken.” He smiled a smile that was likely worth three hawks on a good night. “A pittance of an exchange, I should think.”

Their “bounty” so far had consisted of a basin of water to wash myself and my wound—the skin had split open from the blow to my back—some linen bandages, a cleanish shirt
and coat, and the promise to help get me into the city. In return, they wanted me to lighten Soggy Petyr.

It seemed that Petyr had branched out: he was now in the business of “holding” and “insuring” certain property that came through the warehouses he owned. Tobin and his
troupe had landed in Dirty Waters a week ago, fresh from a command performance in I-Hadn’t-Bothered-To-Pay-Attention-opolis. Unfortunately for them, most of their property—including the
chest holding all of their plays—had passed into Petyr’s hands and never left.

Props could be replaced, and costumes could be remade from secondhand drapes—but plays, well, those were another matter entirely. A troupe’s collection of plays was built over the
course of years: unique works written, purchased, cribbed and even stolen, all for the sole use of the company. A signature piece could keep a troupe working for years, while a successful new play
could open avenues of patronage and success that might have seemed unattainable just a season ago. If the actors were the scheming, turbulent, brilliant heart of the troupe, then the plays were its
soul. And a company cannot survive without a soul.

The problem was, recent personal issues with Petyr aside, I didn’t have the time or resources to crack the Petty Boss’s ken and make off with a trunk full of paper just now. Not with
news of Crook Eye galloping its way up from Barrab even as I sat here.

But it was equally clear that Tobin wasn’t going to take no for an answer—not when he had something he knew I needed.

I slipped an
ahrami
seed into my mouth. I took my time, letting it settle beneath my tongue, releasing its juices and seeping into my system. It would do them good to sweat a bit, to
think about what their options were if I said no. I embraced the flood of awareness and ease that came over me, listened as their feet shuffled in the straw.

Finally, I bit down. Then I stood up. The troupe shifted unconsciously, widening the circle around me. Tobin was the only one who didn’t give ground.

“Breaking into a roosting ken is hardly a pittance,” I said slowly. “Dirty Waters or no, Petyr’s a local power. He won’t leave the door standing open for someone
like me; especially not me, considering what I did to his people.”

“But surely—” began Tobin.

I held up my hand. “I’m not finished.” I looked around the room, making sure I had their attention. “If you give me some time—a few days, maybe a week—I can
get your chest for you.” Along with Petyr’s ass, depending on who I put on the job. “But it’s not something I can do right now, not on short notice.”

Toban scowled. “We weren’t planning an extended engagement in the Waters.”

“And I wasn’t planning to wash the blood of Angels know how many coves off me, let alone buy my way into Ildrecca from a bunch of Boardsmen, but there it is. I’m playing it the
best I can. I suggest you do the same.”

“And how do we know you’ll come back and do what you say?” This from the same doubting voice in the back of the troupe.

I didn’t take my eyes off their leader. “You could have turned me over to Soggy Petyr in exchange for your property. Maybe even have gotten more than your plays back. You
didn’t.” Tobin’s eyes narrowed. He dipped his chin a fraction, telling me he’d thought of that idea and discarded it. “That would have been the easy way, but not the
honorable one,” I said. “I don’t forget things like that. My word to you is good.”

The old woman snorted. “A thief’s word,” she muttered, not even bothering to look up from her sewing.

It suddenly felt as if the entire room was holding its breath. I sensed more than saw every pair of eyes, save Tobin’s, shift first to the old woman and then back to me.

I took a slow breath myself and forced a smile.

“Almost as bad as an actor’s honor, isn’t it?” I said.

The tiniest corner of her mouth turned up.

The room relaxed.

“It’s settled, then!” pronounced Tobin. “In exchange for aid and succor, our good Getter here will deliver us our property within the seven-night.” He extended his
hand and helped me to my feet. The sudden movement made me feel light-headed, but I didn’t resist. As I stood, his other hand came around and across my back—above my wound,
thankfully—drawing me closer.

“But know this, thief,” he muttered in my ear, his smiling lips barely moving. “I’m trusting you with the well-being of my troupe. If you fail, it’s no rain off my
hat—I’ll get the scripts another way, if I must. But if you put any of my people in danger, or tell Petyr who sent you, I’ll make sure you pay. Cousins we may be, but I’ve
closer relation than you, and they carry long knives of their own.”

I smiled as I returned the embrace. “I wouldn’t have it any other way,” I said. “Not any other way at all.”

I
parted ways with Tobin and his people three blocks inside the city’s walls, at the Square of the Sixteen Angels. True to his word, the
troupe’s leader had gotten me through not only the city gates, but Dirty Waters and the Lower Harbor as well, all without incident. I still wasn’t convinced we’d needed to lighten
my hair with ash and turn my goatee into a full beard using lambswool and glue, let alone stick me on a short pair of stilts known as “giant shoes”—complete with long pants and
false feet——but I hadn’t been in a position to argue. And besides, as Tobin had rightly pointed out, Petyr’s men would be looking for a short, dark-haired cove with sly eyes
and a partial beard, not a stiff-legged old man who clearly needed help walking. Mind you, the parade of actors half a block ahead, singing and performing as they went, hadn’t hurt when it
came to drawing eyes away from me either.

Not that it had been easy. If you had asked me halfway up whether it it was worth it, I’d have told you that I’d rather fight my way through all of Dirty Waters and half of the Lower
Harbor than take another step in those damn stilts. But now that I was standing on the ground, my own shoes on my feet and the stage makeup washed away in the fountain before me? All things being
equal? I still would have picked the fight.

“You’ll not forget our deal?” said the troupe leader as I flicked wet hair away from my face.

I glanced past him, toward a small group of Rags lounging in the shade of a building, their red sashes marking them as city guardsmen. They weren’t close enough to overhear, but they were
handy enough to cause trouble if Tobin decided to make a scene. “You’ll get your plays,” I said. “Don’t worry.”

The corners of Tobin’s mouth pulled back. Clearly, he was having second thoughts now that he’d gotten me into Ildrecca. A hawk on the wrist as opposed to a pair in the sky and all
that. “Yes, of course,” he said, “but I still—”

I stopped wringing out my hair and stepped closer to him. I even summoned a smile to my face. It wasn’t easy, given that he’d just questioned my word. Twice. “Relax, Boardsman.
I keep my promises.”

Tobin’s gaze went from my mouth to my eyes. He didn’t seem reassured by what he saw. “Yes, well, let us hope so.”

I gave him a final nod, handed him the patchwork coat they’d thrown over me to hide both of the swords I was carrying, and left.

I craned my neck as I walked, enjoying the sensation of once again taking in Ildrecca’s walls from the inside. This close they loomed, extending from shadow into sunlight, the dark brick
and beige stone turning to red and cream as it rose. Far up, I caught a glint—from a spear tip or helmet or bit of armor I couldn’t tell—as someone made their rounds on the wall.
I wondered if I’d be visible from up there, or merely a smudge against the street. Likely somewhere in between, if the hay-stuffed, fayed skins of the criminals hanging below the parapets
were any indication. There were four up there today. Two looked fresh, if the number of crows circling about were any indication.

I lowered my gaze and turned away. The bodies were supposed to be a lesson in what happened if you broke imperial law, but I’d always seen them as a reminder of the cost of being careless.
In this city, careless got you killed or caught, and I didn’t much care for the thought of either.

Was that what the problem had been in Barrab? Had I gotten careless? I didn’t think so, but then, you never think you’re missing things until it’s too late. And Crook Eye had
certainly caught me unawares, so maybe . . .

It had been another meeting, another attempt at me trying to mollify the established lords of the Kin. Another slow dance of words and smiles and threats. As the newest Gray Prince, I was the
unknown, the potential threat, and doubly so because no one had seen me coming—not even me. But kill a legend like Shadow, burn a cordon to the ground, stop a war and con an empire, and
people on the street start to think you know what you’re doing. They start to call you Prince. And who can argue with the street? Not me. Not a Nose who got lucky and was pushed to the top of
the hill. And not, it seemed, the other Princes; or, at least, not directly, and not right away.

You learned not to challenge the street in Ildrecca when it made pronouncements. Not if you were Kin, and not if you were smart.

And Crook Eye had been smart. Smarter than I’d given him credit for. Unlike the handful of other Gray Princes I’d met, he hadn’t come to our meeting full of bluff and bluster,
hadn’t cloaked himself in offers of mentorship, hadn’t tried to warn me about my newfound peers. He’d simply approached me, one smuggler to another, to talk business. And given
his web of contacts extended not only across the southern third of the empire, but deep into the lands and kingdoms beyond, I’d come. Warily, to be sure, but come I had. I needed those
contacts, needed that web. Needed money if I was going to build any kind of organization, and to do that, I needed to move more of the one thing I knew how to move: holy relics.

Crook Eye had known all of that, of course. But he’d also known more: He’d known how to take hold of me. Because, like me, Crook Eye had gotten lucky.

Crook Eye, you see, had found a sword. Degan’s sword.

I could still remember the shock that had ripped through me when Crook Eye held up the blackened and charred length of metal. The last time I’d seen that sword, Degan had consigned it to
the flames of a burning building—leaving it, and our friendship, to be consumed on the pyre of my mistakes. He’d risked everything he believed in, everything he was, on me, and
I’d repayed that trust with betrayal. It had only seemed right to leave the sword where it lay: who was I to touch the symbol of what Degan had lost?

So to see it in another’s hands, let alone Crook Eye’s? To have him threaten me with it? To have him say I hadn’t been alone when Shadow died? That I’d hired it done by a
degan? Well, that hadn’t sat well. Not his threats, and definitely not him holding Degan’s sword while doing so.

Only one person got to threaten me with that blade, and Crook Eye wasn’t it.

And so I’d drawn my own steel and taken Degan’s blade from Crook Eye at sword’s point.

And walked right into his hands.

Fowler was the first to realize it, of course. I’d been too angry to think about consequences, too focused on the sword to worry about having broken my Peace. But as Fowler had pointed
out, thanks to me Crook Eye didn’t need Degan’s sword to shore up his story anymore: He had something better. He had me clearing steel and breaking my word and threatening his
life—the exact things we’d both pledged not to do.

And I’d walked right into it. Crook Eye had set me up, and I’d repaid the bastard by making him look like a stand-up Gray Prince.

Dammit.

In the end, there hadn’t been any other choice: I needed to apologize. And so, gathering up my people and tamping down on my pride, I’d stalked back across Barrab to the meeing site
in hopes of finding Crook Eye so I could try to make amends.