“Maybe. Maybe not.” He no longer looked the part of a wealthy Domoran. During their journey, he’d stripped off the sash snugging his tunic to his waist and wrapped it around his head. Many men wore similarly styled hats or caps, so his impromptu headgear wouldn’t be out of the ordinary and noted. Most of all, he’d have to remember to change his stance, the way he moved, and other telltale markers of his body’s language that might alert someone familiar with him, and who’d no doubt waste little time in notifying whichever Domoran family had issued a bounty for his capture. With any luck he’d be in and out of the city with what he needed before he was discovered.
They merged with the river of people flowing into the city.Their two guards narrowed the gap between them until they were single file, and Gharek’s horse practically nosed the haunches of the front guard while the rear guard’s mount did the same to Siora’s horse. Gharek slouched in the saddle, adopting the posture of a smaller, more sickly man. He squinted one eye as if partially blinded from some long-ago injury. No one paid attention to him or his companions from what he could tell, but he held his breath, tense with the expectation of some outraged voice shouting his name and pointing, or worse, hearing nothing except the deadly rush of air through an arrow fletching before a broadhead embedded itself in his chest or back.
Once inside Domora, the lead guard guided them out of the milling throng to a spot not so crowded. The noise around the gates was near deafening with the shouts of soldiers ordering people to not dawdle and vendors touting their goods to travelers willing to spend theirbelshas. Zaredis’s man had to bellow for Gharek to hear him.
“To use while you’re here,” he said, tossing a bag of coins. Gharek snatched it neatly out of the air, cursing the man under his breath. Half the city’s pickpockets had likely seen the exchange and were just waiting for their new mark to slip in his vigilance. The soldier looked not at all apologetic over the annoyance he’d just caused him. “Remember, you have two weeks.” The second soldier thrust Gharek’s confiscated satchel at him while the other continued issuing instructions. “Dismount and take your supplies. The horses go with us.”
“How are we supposed to get back in a timely manner?” Siora grabbed her own tattered bag and swung down from her horse’sback. She clutched the bag to her chest, sparing only a brief glance at their escort before scanning the people around them and the many eyes now on their movements thanks to the money purse toss.
The man shrugged. “Someone will bring you replacements when you’re finished and ready to return.” He snagged the reins of both horses and turned his mount back toward the gate to join the second river of people leaving the city.
On foot and left to their own devices, Gharek motioned Siora to follow him to where a fruit vendor hawked a pallet of melons to passersby. His stomach rumbled at the sweet scent of ripe fruit, but he ignored the pangs and rifled through his satchel as Siora watched, pretending to drop his coin purse in there. To his surprise, he spotted both of his knives. There was something to be said for a military man who understood that an already difficult task would be made even more so if he was unarmed. A sleight of hand hid the money purse inside his tunic where cutpurses would have to strip him of his clothes to reach it, and he slid the two knives in the sheathes still attached to his belt. This was a reconnoitering mission, but one never knew when something sharp might be needed to dissuade an adversary or do away with one. His satchel was now empty except for a few road rations. If a street thief managed to snatch the bag, they’d be disappointed in its remaining contents.
He pointed to the bag Siora held. “Was everything returned to you?” She’d taken some of his supplies when she stole his horse. In her reduced circumstances, he doubted Zaredis’s men would want to keep what few things she called her own.
She pulled part of what looked like a thin shift from her bag and a pathetic-looking eating knife wrapped in a strip of leather to cover its edge and tip. A sad little blade, but Gharek neverunderestimated the resourcefulness of someone defending themselves. That little knife could do significant damage in the right hands, and he had no doubt Siora had used it once or twice in defense of herself. “This is all,” she said in a voice reflecting neither surprise nor disappointment.
The soldier hadn’t tossed two bags of coins, so Gharek assumed the one was supposed to see to him and Siora through several days while they were in Domora. He’d have to count the purse’s contents later, in a more private spot where they weren’t being watched by the city’s human scavengers.
Siora shrugged on her satchel, clutching the strap with both hands as if expecting to fight someone for it. “What now?”
She was right to be concerned, and standing here much longer only invited such a someone to come sniffing about. Gharek didn’t doubt his own abilities in a fight, but brawls drew attention, and it was the last thing he wanted. “We find a place to sleep for the night where the patrons and the bedbugs won’t eat us. It’s near dark, and I’m not inclined to wander the streets once the sun goes down. Domora is changed and I suspect more dangerous than it was before the empress died.”
“It reminds me more of Kraelag now.” Siora watched as soldiers marched past them through streets Gharek didn’t remember as being so filthy or so crowded, even at the gates, which received a daily influx of visitors who gathered to gain their bearings before dispersing into the city’s inner neighborhoods.
He reached for her hand, startling her when he entwined his fingers with hers. A small hand with delicate fingers. Her wide-eyed expression almost tempted a chuckle out of him. “I don’t want to spend hours searching for you should we get separated in thismob.” He drew her closer to him, noting her odd lack of resistance. “To any who ask, I’m Saborak, you’re my wife, and we’re from Beroe. Whoever might be looking for me won’t expect to find me with a companion.” He didn’t keep a mistress or bind himself to any woman for more than a few hours. Nor did he have friends. All who knew Gharek of Cabast knew him as a loner. Having Siora with him strengthened his disguise, and he reluctantly admitted to himself she was becoming more useful to him on this trip than he had anticipated.
“Do you want me to change my name too?”
“Are you being hunted by someone in Domora?” As soon he asked the question, Gharek winced.
Siora smiled. “Just you.”
“Then I think it unnecessary.”
They set off for the city center. None of the finer inns in the posher districts surrounding the palace would allow him and Siora near their thresholds, much less rent them a room for a night, not looking as poor and ragged as they did. His funds were limited as well. The money purse sat weighty under his tunic against his chest, but the price for a night in one of the city’s finer establishments would drain away the majority. Instead, he led Siora through a labyrinth of streets toward a lower rung of neighborhoods halfway between the gates and the palace district.
Here the streets were only marginally wider and no cleaner than those where the poor of the city lived. This was a borough of merchants who did their business from temporary stalls made of worn awnings and scavenged tree limbs, shops built of stone and mortar and everything in between. A marginally safer area of thecity where the less well-to-do were ignored instead of shunned or chased off by their more successful neighbors.
They took several more turns before stopping in front of a three-story building painted a garish blue. Balconies with railings painted red graced the facades of the top two floors, and the entire structure blazed with light inside and out from numerous lamps. Its luminescence in the gathering gloom, along with the sound of laughter spilling from the door and open windows, invited passersby to stop and enter.
“You want to stay in the Blue Rat brothel for the night?” Siora’s puzzled expression as she split her gaze between him and the building held a wealth of doubt.
He returned a similar look. “How did you know this was the Blue Rat?” While it would be easy enough to discern the nature of this business with one quick glance, there was no sign outside the door advertising the name.
She pointed to a spot not far from where they stood. “That’s a good place to beg if the brothel’s door minders don’t catch you and the men haven’t spent all their coin before they leave.”
Gharek stared at her. He’d learned more about his daughter’s nurse in the last few days than he had when she lived in his house for a season. He’d let her stay for Estred’s sake.
May she stay, Papa? I like her. She’s brave, and she likes me too.
Estred had rarely asked him for anything despite knowing he’d rearrange the stars to her liking if she asked it of him. Allowing some unknown beggar to become part of his household went against every instinct. He’d agreed first to letting her eat and tend the minor wounds she’d sustained from a well-aimed stone or two. Dinner hadbecome a night spent by the lingering warmth of the kitchen hearth, then a sponge bath and cast-off but clean clothes to replace the rags she wore. Soon a day turned to two days and those to a week and longer. Much to the disgust of the rest of Gharek’s staff, Siora had gained a place in his household as his daughter’s nurse.
He’d kept a close eye on her at first, as did his steward, the cook, and most of the maids, certain she’d steal something and run. But she’d stayed honest and pleasant, and under her care Estred had blossomed. His household had never accepted the new nursemaid, who showed little concern for the ostracism. Her focus had been on Estred, and in brief, memorable instances, on him.
She’d once warned him to be careful and stay safe when he intended to travel Domora’s streets in the late hours when the more feral members of the city’s population roamed about. Her worry had puzzled him greatly. No one, except Estred, worried about him. He’d chalked it up to Siora’s desire to keep a roof over her head and food in her belly.
Enslaved by Dalvila and hollowed out by the tasks she set to him as her cat’s-paw, Gharek hadn’t bothered to delve deep into the new nursemaid’s history. It was enough that his daughter was happy and safe under Siora’s wing, or so he’d assumed. He’d assumed wrong.