Page 56 of City of Stone and Silence

“I see.” He rubs his arms, where the Melos gauntlets would appear. “Understood. Lead the way.”

I push through a curtain of hanging rags into the shop. It’s as dark and dirty as the pawnshops I remember from my childhood, with narrow aisles between dusty wooden shelves crammed with broken things. Anything remotely valuable is up front, where the proprietor can keep an eye on it, so the shelves by the door hold only junk: waterlogged books, broken dolls, soiled clothing, and bloodstained linens. There’s a three-string with only one string remaining, and a lantern with shattered glass.

Toward the back of the shop, a low table sits in front of a small, banked hearth. An older man, long strings of hair teased out across a balding scalp, rests beside a strongbox and a few shelves of more intact items—clothes, knives, cookware, odd nautical tools. He looks up at us, and his mouth narrows.

“Buying or selling?” he says.

“Neither,” I tell him. “I need to meet Borad Thul.”

He barks a laugh, and his mind rings with honest surprise. I glare at him, and his expression hardens.

“You’re looking for Thul?” His eyes flick to Garo. “I don’t know what your business is, but trust me, you’d be better off elsewhere.”

“My business is my business,” I say. “I just need you to tell me where to find him. I can pay.”

I put my hand in my pocket, where I have my meager savings in a small pouch. When I pull it out, I can feel the pawnbroker’s derision.

“Thul doesn’t like unexpected visitors,” he says. “He prefers people to come running when he whistles, and not before. And trust me, you don’t want him to call for you.” He shakes his head. “Look, tell me your trouble. Might be we can work something out.”

I take a deep breath and put my hand in my other pocket, producing a small object. It’s a statue of the Blessed One, which normally adorns the shrine in my room. The little ornament is the size of my fist, and made of solid silver, with gold chasing and tiny diamonds set in the eyes.

I hesitate for a moment before offering it. Not because I’m sentimental about the thing—it was a gift from Narago, as part of the supplicator’s campaign to make me more pious—but if it gets back to Ofalo that it’s gone, things are going to the Rot. At best, he’ll assume one of the staff stole it. At worst—

But Isoka needs me. No time for quibbling.

“Then I’d like to sell this,” I tell the pawnbroker, offering the statue.

The level of greed that comes off his mind, a bilious, yellow-green fog, nearly makes me sick. It wars with the quivering high note of fear. He peers at the little thing, frowning.

“Where’d you steal that?” he says.

“Do you care?”

“Little girl”—I bristle, but he ignores me—“I care if it means some aristos’ guards are going to break down my door looking for it. Plus a thing like that’s hard to shift. If I melt it down for the metal, it’s only going to be worth—”

“A visit with Borad Thul,” I interrupt.

His expression sours. “You have to be joking.”

“Do you want it or not?”

“I…” Greed and fear—fear of Thul, fear the whole thing might be a trap—war in his mind. For a moment I feel a hot wind of aggression as he considers simply taking the thing off me. But the fear grows, stronger and louder, and he shakes his head. “Get out of here,” he says. “Go on. I don’t need this kind of trouble.”

I swallow hard. We can try to find another pawnshop, another of Thul’s minions, or—

I lean closer to him, and lower my voice to a whisper, too soft for Garo to hear. “Let me tell you something.”

His eyes narrow, and he leans forward, too. “Listen, girl—”

“You’re going to take us to Thul,” I whisper. “Now.”

And I reach into his mind.

It feels vile, like sticking my hand in an open sewer. The pawnbroker’s thoughts swirl furiously around me. I don’t know what I’m doing, not really, but I reach out to the bilious cloud of greed and pull. It spreads, covering everything else, smothering the fear. I find a wellspring of suspicion, like deep black oil, and stomp down on it, pressing it out of sight.

My gut heaves, and I clamp down to keep from vomiting. The pawnbroker sits up, and blinks.

“And you’ll give me the statue?” His mouth crooks in a grin.