After a moment, Anaya sighed. “All right, it’s just vinegar. Though you deserve horse pee. Maybe it would shock you out of your mope.”
“I amnotmoping.”
“It’s been eight days, Rolan. You’ve done nothing but sleep and lie around sighing.”
“Maybe that’s because I’m a prisoner!” He waved his hands around, indicating the small kitchen. “Evaine won’t let me leave the house!”
Of course, if he really wanted to leave, he could have, at any time. A few months ago he’d have done just that—slipping out a window or door the moment Evaine’s back was turned.
Nobody had ever told him what to do. Why should he let them now?
Well. He knew why.
It was because a pitiful part of him—a part he still didn’t fully understand—wanted to prove himself to Luc. He’d gotten used to taking orders in the Arcanist’s house. With plenty of complaining and backtalk, of course, but still. It was only when he’d begun to listen that he’d begun to learn. Reading, writing, meditating on the Hollow Path, slinging knives into trees forty paces away… there had been some benefits to doing as Luc bid him.
Luc’s last order had been for Rolan to wait, here in the apothecary, until Luc sent for him. So he was waiting, miserably and, fine, yes,moping.
But Luc hadn’t sent for him, had he?
Wouldhe?
Rolan was beginning to have doubts.
“You’re a prisoner for your own good.” Anaya chewed her lip. “Rolan, things are nasty out there. There’s talk of arresting Luc. If they knew his apprentice was in the city… they might come for you too.”
Rolan slumped back into his chair. “There has to be something we can do. Where areyougoing?”
“To trade this vinegar for butter, at the little stall on the corner.”
“Let me come!” A distant part of Rolan wondered at the joy he felt at the idea of trading vinegar for butter. After days trapped in one small room though, just strolling down the alley and back sounded like a grand adventure.
“Well…” Anaya looked doubtfully at the door. “Evaineisgone for the afternoon, delivering remedies.”
The apothecary was busier than ever. Each morning more and more people turned up with wounds inflicted by Cryptics. Small ones, nothing bigger than a Rank One from what Rolan could tell, but still. They were dangerous when cornered, and they seemed to be more numerous than usual.
“Yes!”he said. “Let’s go get that butter!”
“We can’t go far,” Anaya said firmly. “And you have to cover your face—”
But Rolan was already moving, grabbing one of Evaine’s spare cloaks. The hood was deep and roomy, hanging nearly to his nose. “Ready!”
Anaya looked like she might be having second thoughts, whichwould not do at all. So Rolan grabbed her hand and pulled her out the door before she could change her mind.
Rolan couldn’t deny how relieving it was to walk outside and smell the comfortable, familiar scents of emptied chamber pots, burnt suppers, burning garbage, and sweaty armpits. It was infinitely more refreshing than clear skies, fresh grass, and damp forest. Sure, everywhere you went, there were eyes watching you, but at leasttheseeyes weren’t attached to things with teeth and claws that might rip out your heart. Most of them, anyway.
It was even nice to see the bulky outline of city guards lumbering about, particularly since Hoff was no longer a problem. With his hood drawn up, Rolan felt invisible.
On the corner, the dairy stall was busy with other customers. Rolan was familiar with the spot; he’d stolen milk from that stall before. It would probably be best to let Anaya handle the business side of things, just in case he was recognized.
Hanging back, he took the opportunity to savor the soothing hum of activity around him. There went Flaps, the old man whose soles were always peeling off his shoes, so heflap flap flappedwhen he walked, like a duck. And here came the grumpy butcher with a cart of meat to be carved up—not to be confused with thegrouchybutcher on the east side, either one of whom would be thrilled to carve up Rolan given half a chance. He’d pinched sausages from each. He didn’t recognize every face that passed, but he knew many of them. If not by name then by their habits, their quirks of appearance, their general mood.
A silent, masked Listener walked by, handing out sheets of paper reminding people of the importance of confessing. He thrust one atRolan, who took it automatically—only to freeze when he saw the cuffs of the man’s robe.
Bad stitching over a tear on the left sleeve.
Heknewthat sleeve. He knew those long, pointed fingernails.
Feeling nauseated, Rolan let the flyer drop. It fluttered to the ground as he hurried away, shrinking into a narrow alley.
