winds at every rumbling of your gullet, old friend, weâd still be in shanty towns picking sand from our teeth.â
âAs you say,â he muttered.
The line for the ferry to the Salt Baths was long, but not so long they couldnât all be crammed onto the floating conveyance. Detan, tugging Tibs along beside him, sidled up to the end of the line and freed his friendâs arm. He worried Tibs would go wandering off at the merest sniff of scallion, but Detan was too busy working at blending in with the uppercrust to keep an eye on him. When youâre with the high-tossers, itâs all hands-in-pockets and slouching like a loose grain slide. He couldnât be seen caring about anything, that would give the game away.
And these were definitely the uppercrust. Seemed no one wanted to arrive at Thratiaâs with sand in their hair or dust on their trousers. All the better for him â he liked a variety of marks to choose from.
As he tipped the brim of his hat down over his eyes to add that roguish mystique the upcrust ladies were all aflutter over, Detan reflected that all the posturing in the world wouldnât make up for the holes in the knees of his britches. Which left the gentlemanâs last resort â good, hard grains.
It didnât help matters much that Tibs was trying to blend in the same way. Detan leaned over to hiss a whisper at the man, which was a funny thing to do when you were both slouching like your spines were made of rotwood.
âYouâre supposed to be my manservant, remember? Donât look so blasted confident.â
Tibs rolled his eyes. âWhy canât you play the manservant for once?â
âBecause I actually know the plan. And besidesââ he waved an arm down his torso, ââno one would believe it.â
âYouâre right, youâd make a terrible manservant.â
âYou dustswallower! Iâd be a marvelousââ
âExcuse me, sirs.â The ticket seller reached their spot in line, his little pad of yellowed passes ruffling in the breeze. âItâs two silver grains each to the baths.â
Detan wasnât much surprised to see Tibsâs jaw drop open at the price. Tibs wasnât a man to go about wasting his grains, and during normal circumstances Detan was right glad for his persnickety friendâs tight-pocket affectations. Now, however, required a different sort of dealing. The kind of dealing that got filthy men past top-button gatekeepers. In Detanâs experience, such a thing required the liberal and unfettered lubrication of gold. It was just a crying shame he didnât have any.
âOnly two? By sel! Such a bargain. Certainly fair enough to leave a little left over for yourself, eh my good chap?â Detan leaned in as he spoke, plunking the requisite grains into the official looking pouch as he plunked another silver in the manâs personal pocket. While the ticket seller had been looking at them like something unpleasant scraped off his shoe, he now seemed inclined to their favor. Or, at least, he wasnât scowling.
The ticket seller tapped his pocket with the edge of his hand, feeling the weight, and shrugged. He took their names on a slip of paper, his brow raising slightly at Detanâs, but the silver weighed enough to stifle any comments.
âEnjoy the baths,â was all he said.
After he shuffled off, Tibs hissed in Detanâs ear. âMoonturnâs worth of rent, that was.â
âAnd a lifetimeâs worth of goodwill!â
âIf by a lifetime you mean until we find ourselves in this line again.â
âDo you ever plan on seeing the baths again?â
âWell, noâ¦â
Detan beamed and threw his arm around Tibsâs shoulder. âWhat did I tell you? A lifetimeâs worth of goodwill!â
Chapter 5
P elkaia sat before her vanity mirror and squinted at the unfamiliar face staring back at her. Somewhere
Learning to Kill: Stories