Well. This sounds shifty.
Barthl seems to recognize that, because he blusters, “They’re . . . catering . . . the wedding. One of the events, that is. Don’t ask questions.”
I never expected Barthl to be particularly adept at lying, but Ididexpect a degree of basic competence there. Clearly I’ve misjudged.
“No, sir, right away, sir,” I say meekly, and leave with the letter. The Madschplatt is in Lähl. This gives me an excuse to stay away from the castle even longer. Not that I particularly need it; I’ve left the sour milk pail out in the room to keep the entire riverfront wing reeking, and the rest of Castle Reigenbach is already in mayhem with preparations for next week.
I pass through the main gate as usual, but wait until I’m out of the guards’ eyeshot to pull a warm forest-green knit cap over my hair. I’ve wound the two braids into knots that the cap can cover completely, since the last thing I want is for my ginger hair to stick out. A spare yellow hat also waits in my satchel, because on the off chance that someone describes me to the authorities, I’d like it to be with an outdated hat color.
I’ve also brought Emeric’s notebook, knife, and writing charcoal, along with the money I fleeced off him earlier. Hypothetically I’m just going to talk to Joniza, but Joniza taught me herself: Better prepared than lucky.
I head to the Obarmarkt on the northwest bank of the Yssar, which caters to wealthier patrons than the southeast markets. Once I reach the Mittlstratz viaduct, I follow it until it intersects with the western curve of the Hoenstratz, then take the first staircase to the street. I’ve walked this route often enough that the only thing that gives me pause is the icy stone steps. Ragne takes no chances either, flitting above me as a black sparrow.
Once I’m at ground level, I find myself in the heart of Trader’s Cross. If Minkja were a clock face with Castle Reigenbach at the center, Trader’s Cross would be squarely where the hour hand points at nine. The neighborhood started with a single spice merchant, some say Magrabi, some say Surajan; all that’s certain is her wife sold traditional pastries on the side, until the pastries started outselling the spices. Traders went out of their way to visit before continuing to the Salzplatt just north of here. The traffic laid the foundations for first tea shops and specialty grocers, then textile merchants, pottery dealers, traditional apothecaries. The narrow alleys now bloom with garlands of Gharese prayer flags, bright woven Sahalian baskets, intricate geometric murals on the stucco, little shrines to distant gods tucked into pockets between houses.
I stash myself beside just such a shrine, dropping asjillinginto the offering dish before a statue of a winking fox as Ragne perches on the roof over the tiny idol, and wait. Maybe Joniza’s changed her breakfast routine, but if not, I’ll see her coming down the alley any minute now to toss a coin on her way to the restaurant.
All I need to do is convince her to help me. Well, no. First I need to apologize.ThenI need to convince her to take my offer to Gisele: I will cheerfully return the pearlsafterthe curse is broken, but only if Gisele tells Junior Prefect Emeric Conrad to piss off.
And to add a stick to that carrot: If she turns me down, I’ll just as cheerfully chuck the pearls into the Yssar on my way out.
But when I glance up, I discover that Gisele isn’t the only one who needs to tell Emeric Conrad to piss off.
Joniza’s picking her way through the crowd, bundled up to the point of absurdity in a thick fox-fur coat. (She never did take to the cold.) Right beside her and deep in discussion is the junior prefect himself.
Damnhim. I can’t believe he already tracked her down. Then again, if he knows about the Gänslinghaus, it couldn’t have been too hard.
I yank up the hood of my servant-issue cloak and duck my head, darting into the street. Emeric said he could see the curse on me, so I need to get out of Trader’s Cross before he spots it.
But when I reach the corner and dare a look back, he’s scanning the passersby, eyes narrowed.
What an unmitigated pain in the ass he is.
I hurry around the corner, through a cramped alley, heading south. After a few more turns I check again; all is clear. I let out a hiss of annoyance.
“Why did you leave?” Ragne chirps, landing on my shoulder.
“I think I was being followed.” The bells toll ten o’clock as I lean against a wall out of sight, thinking. “We’ll go to Lähl and deliver Barthl’s letter, and then I’ll come back and try to find Joniza again.”
We keep winding south, passing through the gate of the High Wall and into the Sumpfling district; if Trader’s Cross sits at nine o’clock on the short hand, I am dragging the long hand back to eight o’clock. Here, the buildings are far from the immaculate timberand-flower-boxes-and-painted-plaster affairs of the Obarmarkt. At best they match the sturdy brick and plaster of the Hoenring. At the worst . . . well, the Sumpfling floods at least once a year, so many of the lumber buildings are propped up on leaning stilts that I wouldn’t trust to hold against a stiff breeze, much less carry the weight of multiple people.
Beyond the High Wall, I trade my servant cloak for the worn shawl in my satchel. In the Obarmarkt, a servant of Castle Reigenbach can go anywhere she pleases, but Lähl is one of the parts of Minkja where that cloak makes me a target.
It’s a quick walk along the Yssar to reach the Stichensteg islets, which mark the unofficial border of Lähl. The handful of sandbars aren’t sturdy enough for a proper bridge, and the Wolfhünden saw an opportunity, so they control the network of flimsy rope bridges that stitch the islets to each shore. I thankfully only need to cross two, but I still have to pay a red penny to each of the brawny toll collectors stationed at either end of the bridges. There’s a minor commotion at the far end of the islets; the rope bridges have a tendency to snag bodies. Odds are a floater has washed up on a sandbar.
Lähl is the kind of district that you smell before you see, a stained and faded seven o’clock glowering spitefully up the long hand of the Minkjan dial. It bristles with docks like the Obarmarkt and the Untrmarkt, but these docks seem to jut into the Yssar a little more salaciously, like a drunk with a coin and an eye for an availablemietling. Amietlingused to just mean someone hired for any odd job, but these days it’s the politest term for someone whose job sites are mostly in the bedroom. Lähl is also the kind of place where both drunks andmietlingenare in plentiful supply.
It’s not quite a market and not quite a slum, but busier than both. When I’m not picking my way around puddles of virtually any substance that can be expelled from a human body, I’m weaving around shambling poppy-eaters, pinch-faced streetwitches, and bony old cattle being driven to the tanner.
Ragne has been following along as a raven, presumably to keep clear of the smell of the gutters, but she lands on my shoulder, head cocked. “These people are selling strange wares. One shouted that she is selling thewurstkuss. Why would someone pay her to kiss a sausa—”
“It’s an expression,” I say hastily. “Er, more like a nickname. It means—” I explain in the sparest terms, trying and failing to keep my face from burning.
Ragne blinks a crimson eye, head still cocked. “Someone else said they would roll a penny. What does that mean?”
“Uh, a lot like what I just said. But in other places, for very cheap, and you’ll probably get lice.”
“What is ‘Alms for the Vicar’?”
