Episode Nine

"This room is not sufficient," Lady Sosia Kemble said abruptly as they lay side by side on the bed. They had only finished making love thirty seconds ago and already she was complaining, "This room does not meet my requirements."
Dryden Heppac, still panting after his exertions, let his breaths merge together into a sigh. No, of course the room wasn't sufficient. The room was dreadful. It was a tiny square box. It had bare stone walls, a bare stone ceiling and a bare stone floor. The lack of decoration allowed one to fully appreciate the extensive and doubtless widening cracks in all the surfaces. There was a single tiny window, heavily grilled as if there was actually anything inside the room to protect. And if a view outside was possible, it would only be of Kieley Alley; a putrid narrow link between Fountain Square and Federation Row. Despite the almost total exclusion of sunshine, the heat of the afternoon had cascaded into the room. Dryden was lying still and naked and he still felt the sweat rising and trickling across his skin.
The bed was the only object stored in the room. And the bed was barely that. It was a single mattress; not even raised on bricks, the usual defence against marauding insects. Dryden watched a fat woodlouse crest the hill and begin waddling across the summit towards his legs. Just as cockroaches were basking on the walls and squadrons of ants were marching single file across the floor. And even the mattress was scarcely a mattress. It was a collection of sharp iron springs joined by a flimsy stretch of cloth. Dryden could feel at least three digging into him. He had seen the marks on Lady Sosia's back before, caused by his weight on top of hers pushing her body onto the vicious coils. Sometimes they broke the skin. Yet she never complained. Dryden suspected that she enjoyed the feeling.
She was still grumbling now, however. Gazing at the disintegrating ceiling, her fingers lost in her shaken mass of auburn hair, she repeated, "It is not at all sufficient. I told you what I required, Heppac."
He knew her requirements, true. And he knew that the room was the best he could do. She insisted that he pay for it. Lady Sosia Kemble, Mistress of the Tremmest Estates, would not pay for anything during their weekly liaisons. So he had to find somewhere inexpensive. So cheap that it would make such a tiny hole in his tiny wage that not even his perceptive wife Morran would spot the gap. Lady Sosia also demanded that they meet in his own neighbourhood. He therefore had to find somewhere in the back streets; and not use the usual landlords. Not somebody local like that damn Delpess, who would doubtless hang around the markets telling everybody about the mysterious piece of business he had just conducted. Renting a room to Dryden Heppac, no less, who already rented a sizeable apartment from Mr Delpess, who had only stipulated that the room contain a bed, who couldn't be using it for travel purposes because it was just around the corner from the home he shared with his wife and children. So what, Delpess would wonder very loudly, did Dryden Heppac need that bed for?
It had taken Dryden months to arrange. Months during which his only meetings with Sosia were public ones, fully clothed and lasting no more than five minutes. While she teased him and tempted him and made parts of him insane with anticipation. Finally he had found this room. He believed it to be safe. And she had decided,
"It simply will not do. You must find somewhere else."
He sat up. "Look, Sosia-"
"Do not call me that," she said sharply. "You may only call me that while you are inside me. At all other times, address me as Lady Sosia or My Lady."
Dryden sighed again. He didn't even call her Sosia when he was inside her. He called her slut or bitch or whatever demeaning name he could think of; and that was at her instruction as well. He glanced down at her, wondering again at her self-proclaimed status. Mistress of the Tremmest Estates, wife of a very rich, very old nobleman, childless and so heir to all his riches… Yet Dryden had never heard of a place called Tremmest. Sosia claimed it was somewhere in the north, but she had the features of a local and never seemed to leave the Triple Cities. On the other hand, she had clearly acquired money from somewhere. Her dress were always exquisite, her fingers sparkled with silver, the skin on her face had the preserved cast of expensive cosmetics. When he was entering her she squealed like a rodent. A second after leaving her, however, her voice instantly regained its sharp, cultured clarity. If she was simply an actress then she was obviously a very successful one. And she shared the popular believe that greater wealth equalled superiority in every aspect of a relationship.
"Look, this were the best I could find," Dryden argued, opting to call her nothing at all. "If you want summit better-"
"I wish for something worst. I thought I made myself clear on this matter." Sosia propped herself up on her elbows. "I mean, take a look around this place. It is almost habitable. I imagine that a family of eight could exist quite comfortably in here. And when I shake out my dress-" she nodded at the strip of finery lying crumpled on the floor – "I cannot imagine that a single cockroach will fall out. Where is the squalor, Heppac? I made my requirements quite clear. Where are the odours? The noises? The blood stains on the wall?"
"Keep banging on like this, there might be a few," he muttered.
Sosia laughed. She had an aristocrat's laugh too, a piercing giggle like fingernails scraping across slate. "Oh, do carry on threatening me, Heppac. You are so sweet when you do."
She started to run her foot idly across his thigh. Irritated with her and disgusted with himself, he wanted to move away but couldn't. He always wanted to move away from Sosia and never could. "This place'll have to do for now," he insisted stubbornly.
"Oh, please do not try to tell me you really cannot find anywhere worst. In Jakks Way? I imagine your own flat is barely more salubrious than here."
"Yeah it bloody well is. An' Jakks Way ain't the slums. We-"
It was Sosia's turn to sigh. "Please, Heppac, do not sing me that song. 'This is a respectable district, there's plenty worst than us'. I am so terribly weary of that tune. I believe that the poor of the Cities are even more obsessed with status and wealth than the rich. Which is pitiable because you have no cause to be. The truth remains, Heppac, that this most definitely is a slum neighbourhood. And I want to be in the absolute depths of it and I ordered you to take me there."
"You so keen on squalor, why don't you just shag a beggar in an alley?"
"Oh, but a beggar would just demand money. And then keep on demanding money. It would be too tiring. If that was all I wished for, I would simply hire a gigolo." She was suddenly sat up beside him, running fingertips over his thinning hair. "But the idea of you taking me in an alleyway," she murmured in his ear, "Now that is intriguing."
"Aye, an' it ain't gonna happen."
"Oh, and why not, pray? Because we might be observed yes? You could be found out. Then, of course, the news would wriggle its way back to your sweet little wife Morran."
"I told you not to talk about her."
"Oh yes, of course. Because that causes the guilt, does it not? Because Morran is not so sweet any more, is she, and not so little. Not now. Neither is her husband, of course, and so he should make do with her. But he cannot, can he? He still wishes for something younger, something more succulent. And he knows that is wrong and I do not believe he can ever quite banish the guilt. So we can never mention Morran-"
Dryden shook her off. Sosia fell back onto the bed as if he had struck her. Perhaps she wanted him to. He looked down at her in disgust. She wasn't really that 'young' or 'succulent'. She was his age, he guessed, in her early forties. Cosmetics had only preserved her face. The rest of her was gaunt, wrinkled, withering. He thought about his own body, his round belly and fat limbs and decaying skin. It was fortunate that the light in the room was so bad.
"I ought to start asking for money an' all," he muttered. "Least I'd get summit out of this."
Sosia laughed again. "Oh, but you do, Heppac. You get me."
"Aye, great."
"Is that not enough anymore? You get to nail an aristocrat. You get to fuck an aristocrat as if she were a dirty whore. I know the though excites you, Heppac. It is the dream of every common man, is it not? To have us underneath you, in your power. And perhaps next time…" She rolled over, spread her legs, spread her buttocks. "Perhaps you can enter me this way. Down the passage which every man fantasises about. Think, Heppac, think how that will demean me." Sosia rolled onto her back again, face contorted into a contented smile. She placed her foot gently on his chest. "You are imagining it already, are you not?"
"You're bloody sick."
"And you are growing hard again, I notice. Continue to picture it. Dream what it will feel like to enter me that way." Suddenly she straightened her leg, almost kicking him off the bed. "And all you will able to do is imagine," she added sharply, "Until you find me a satisfactory room."
"For fuck's sake-"
"Now get out, Heppac. I am done with you."

Episode Eight

Myran Smithson prodded Yaxi's left shinbone very gently. He moved his fingertips, insulated from her skin by velvet gloves, over her shattered and only partly repaired knee. He prodded that too, equally softly. He crouched down a little further and his faint frown grew slightly deeper. Finally he looked up at his patient.
"Well," he said with finality, "Your leg's shot."
Yaxi grinned at him. She was sat on one stool, her damaged leg bared and stretched out with the heel resting on another. "Hey, they told me there was a real kick-ass herbalist here in Ashel Street. They sure hit the nail on the head."
Smithson bowed his head in mock-gratitude. "The damage to the kneecap, to the cartilage around the kneecap… I don't know if anything could have been done about that. It's basically only half-functioning as a joint now. The shinbone… It's had a bad break and it wasn’t set properly. It might be too late to do the job now."
"Hey, don't pull a disapproving doctor number on me. I was kind of concentrating on other things just after it happened."
"Like what?"
"Not dying."
After pausing, though making no other reaction, Smithson said, "Normally I'd recommend coscock and brabbes leaves."
"So I guess I'm a normal gal 'cause coscock and brabbes leaves have both been wolfed down like they're blackberries."
"No good?"
"Well, coscock's mainly supposed to reduce the pain isn't it? I don't feel much pain so I guess that's done some good."
"Erish crowns are sometimes used on the more serious breaks."
"Yeah, I've tried erish crowns before. Not on this injury, on an earlier one. It's supposed to vary from guy to guy, isn't it? Well, with me it hurt like hell and so, so wasn't any use whatsoever."
"It's not my favourite herb either. You can cover yourself up again, by the way."
Yaxi did so, though indolently. She was showing her leg, and so modesty demanded that she have a private examination by the herbalist. Smithson's establishment only seemed to have two rooms. The back one was his bedroom, and he gave the impression that nobody save himself ever went inside. Accordingly, he had agreed to see Yaxi outside normal shop hours. Which meant the evening, which meant that the shop was only lit by two grimy lanterns and his gently crackling fire. There had never been any tension, however. Smithson dissipated the chance of any at the outset by remarking, "I probably don't have to tell you not to worry. We both know you can take me without even trying."
That was true; but Yaxi also found it easy to relax around Myran Smithson. He was a trim, slight, middle-aged man who radiated an aura of blandness. His hair was grey, his clothes drab, his face still free of defining wrinkles. His shop was similarly mundane. Many herbalists, even the poorer ones, tended to try and create an air of mystique. They burnt incense and had mysteriously bubbling cauldrons and painted cabalistic writing everywhere. Smithson's had bare stone walls, rushes on the floor, an improvised counter and not much else. Only the liquid herbs simmering above the fire and the solids stored in a vast cabinet behind the counter revealed his actual trade.
It was spartan but not slipshod, Yaxi knew. Everyone in Jakks Way spoke with admiration of Smithson's in Ashel Street. She had even heard him recommended outside the Triple Cities. He was said to know his art in a field excessively full of charlatans. Likewise, Smithson himself seemed calm but not ordinary. His speech and movements were measured and restrained; he always seemed to be holding something back. He was the first person Yaxi had met since moving to Jakks Way neither brazen nor ostentatiously cryptic. She suspected he was concealing a great deal and would continue to conceal it, and she was already warming to him.
"I'll have a look through my grimouries," he said, sitting down himself. "Off the top of my head, all I can recommend for the knee is fairy dew."
"Yeah, I tried that when my elbow got mangled up a few years ago. And I was, you know, leaping behind the bushes every half hour for the next week. I so don't want to hear about fairy dew."
Smithson smiled slightly. "Exactly how many old injuries are you carrying?"
"Well, sort of enough to groan every time the weather changes."
"And this particular one was caused by a castle falling on you?"
Yaxi gave him a sideways look. "Hey, just the gateway. Let's not exaggerate."
"No, let's not. And are we telling the truth at all?"
Another paused, then she asked, "Well, what do you think?"
"You sustained the injury about ten months ago, you said. Well, the only castle I heard about collapsing then was across the ocean in Ellniss. A fortress, really. The Dol Zigul fortress. And you couldn't have been there when that happened, could you?"
"Hey, these old castles are coming down all the time. They put the babies up with all their ginormous barbicans and portcullises and ramparts and the rest of the package. But do they ever give a thought to, you know, basic maintenance? I think not. Most of them are queuing up to topple over."
"Especially if you remove something like the cement."
Yaxi laughed. "Oh great Narlan. Morran Heppac sure whizzed that one around the neighbourhood in double-quick time."
"I think you probably meant her to, didn't you?"
"But you don't think it could have been the dread collapse of good ol' Dol Zigul that knocked my knee all to hell?"
They were staring at each other now, sensing that a contest of some sort was underway. Yaxi found Smithson's gaze rather difficult to meet. He didn't blink often enough and the composure in his pale irises was slightly too strong. She had, however, looked into far more unsettling eyes. "It couldn't really have been, could it?" the herbalist answered.
"And why's that?"
"Because the ballads tell us that Dol Zigul only collapsed when three heroic adventures slew the sorcerer king who dwelled inside. Thus stopping his army of lizardmen marching out of the desert, as they were poised to do, and sweeping across the land of Ellniss leaving carnage in their wake."
"And you don’t believe it's sort of possible two of those adventurers have hired a flat just round the corner from you?"
"It's possible. I don't believe it's likely. Just as I don't believe a mighty fortress was ever built in the desert because what would they build it out of. I don't believe a wizard powerful beyond all reckoning could find nothing better to do with his life than shack up with a bunch of lizardmen. I don't believe lizardmen could get organised into the proverbial shagging team in the proverbial brothel, let alone a mighty army. Frankly, I'm not even sure about the lizardmen themselves. All I've ever seen are skeletons in carnivals. Each one looked rather like a big iguana that's been messed about with."
"You sure don't have much time for the bards, do you?"
"Some of their songs make a pleasant sound," Smithson said politely.
"And the continent of Ellniss itself?" Yaxi smile. "Really there or, you know, just another big hoax?"
"A lot of sources indicate its existence. No-one whose word I trust has actually been there."
"And this chosen group of trustworthy guys. Including yourself, do they kind of number between one and zero? Hey, I've heard a tale about your own leg injury," Yaxi added. "I heard you picked it up when a rogue Guardsman shot you with a crossbow."
"I've heard that one as well."
"Would the first time have been, you know, from your own mouth when you were making it up?"
"It's a perfectly feasible account," Smithson said. "A projectile missile could tear the tendons and cause permanent damage."
"Yeah, yeah. And I guess it's perfectly feasible that a bear chewed your leg up in the wilds by the Sunken Sea? You told Morran that one to her face without cracking a muscle, she says."
"I believe bears are still found in those parts."
"But you're still holding that you're a guy whose word can be trusted?"
"I only said that I rely on it. I wouldn't recommend anyone else do the same. Not unless I'm telling them what herbs to use." He shuffled to his counter. "I see if I can find any I've overlooked, like I said. But I'm afraid you shouldn't get your hopes up."
"Hey, I've gotten used to sitting on the little devils whenever they show their faces."
"I normally have a glass of revolting wine at the end of my shift," Smithson said, reaching under the counter. "Care to join me?"
"Sure," Yaxi smiled, hiding her surprise. She hid her reaction too when she took a beaker and the wine was as bad as described. Smithson didn't drink his own at first. He simply sat holding the glass, not moving at all. Yaxi studied him surreptitiously. He was as good at stillness as anyone she had met. And the other masters of that art had been hunters of one kind or another. They were waiting for their kill. Smithson was simply letting himself be absorbed into the atmosphere of the dim room, turning himself into a still life.
"It's difficult," he said eventually in the same flat tone. "I see a lot of injuries that I can't cure. The body just breaking down. It's difficult when it happens to people who rely on strength or mobility for their living. You need both, I imagine."
"Well, sort of more a steady hand and good depth vision. If I lost a thumb or an eye, I'd be royally screwed. But, yeah, that loss of mobility is so a might pain."
"I imagine. I never know what to tell them though. Change your goals, change your whole outlook. Because that's what they have to do, whether they like it or not. Some realise that. They manage it. Some don't. They're the ones who've really let their injury destroy their lives. It comes to own them."
"And how have you coped yourself?"
"I've been lame for as long as I can remember. I've never had to realign. This has always shaped my plans."
Yaxi smiled. "Hey, so is this finally putting to bed the story about being mauled by the wild boar with the rogue Guardsman on his back?"
"Not necessarily," Smithson said instantly. "Wild bears could maul a baby. It's happened."
"Whatever. And, advice appreciated and I know what you're saying But I'm realigning, believe me. I'm realigning like hell. I've just taken a flat in the Triple Cities and, boy, was that not on my map a year ago. I can't say it's easy or that my new plans are, you know, at all sane, but I'm trying. My husband's been a massive help, though I'm only saying that 'cause you don't know him. It'd be obvious if you'd ever met him. Hey, he used to be in the Guards. Kind of years ago, before I met him. You're sort of an ex-Guardsman yourself, aren't you? Or is that just another gammy leg story you've put around?"
Smithson almost smiled again. "No, that one's solid. In the force for over a decade."
"Yeah? Radav barely lasted a year He sort of disses the whole experience now. Says he only enlisted to get weapons training and all they taught him was where he wasn't legally entitled to kick people. Once he left, he just went back to kicking them there anyway. Course, that's his story. I think he signed up 'cause he had a quick burst of that good ol' patriotism. Is that the same in your case."
"I've never really had bursts of patriotism. It's always been a constant. I joined up because they give herbalists a steady living."
"So why did you bail out."
"It was never anything other than steady." When Yaxi gazed rather ostentatiously at the lack of riches held by his current enterprise, he explained, "I expect to be turning a corner any day now."
"Uh huh. Well, if you ever want to swap old army tales with Radav, feel free to drop round."
"Thanks. But I'm still in touch with a few ex-Guardsmen. Sometimes I get dragged round to their taverns where they sing 'Great Hammer of Harkanas' and talk about their old glory days all evening. I really do have my fill of that." He studied her for a moment and added," If the offer's still open if your husband doesn't want to talk about his army days…"
"That will not be a problem, actually. Getting Radav to talk about his past usually requires, you know, pliers. Not just your itsy-bitsy dentist pliers either. The great big ones. Yeah, sure, we keep, well, sort of anything but open house, but feel free to drop round."
"Thanks. I might do that."
Yaxi felt the tiny thrill experienced by everyone to whom Smithson gave a nod of genuine friendship. The favour was so rare, so infrequently granted, that it meant something. So did Smithson himself. He ran a tiny herbalists with an impoverished clientele. He was a man of consequence, though, even if the reason why wasn't obvious. Yaxi also felt stirrings of professional interest. Smithson's poise and opaqueness hinted that he knew about her world. He could have lived there once; he could even still be partly inside it. She had an insight which she didn't think would be applied to anybody in prosaic Jakks Way. He could, she mused, be one of us.

Episode Seven

"What did your Stonnie expect?" Mrs Cobson demanded. "Talking to you like that. You think he should get away with it?"
"I ain't saying that-" Morran began.
"Just not a slap, eh? Didn't think you were one of those, Morran."
"I ain't, an' I ain't saying-"
"Sometimes it's the only language kids understand. 'Specially the lads. Too many parents nowadays not raising their hand to their kids. Ain't modern enough for them. An' look what we end up with. Kids everywhere running riot, not listening to a word anyone says."
"I ain't saying Dryden were wrong to hit Stonnie," Morran protested, trying to keep her temper in check. "But there's ways of doing it an' he chose the wrong one."
"How can there be-" Mrs Amecco began and was glared at ferociously by Morran.
"You give your kids a slap or two when needs be," she was informed. "You don't belt 'em in the face like you're some drunk in a pub fight."
There were five women sat in Morran's flat that morning. From the outside they looked like that middle class cliché, the sewing circle. Neighbouring wives clustered together to gossip, busy themselves, fill an otherwise vacant morning. And the quintet did gather regularly to keep each other company and exchange news mostly about families and neighbours. They worked feverishly as they talked, however, and on items much less refined than a wealthy lady would touch. This was their livelihood; Mrs Cobson self-employed, the others thrown commissions by contractors. Mrs Cobson was mending holes in grimy socks, fastening buttons back to tattered shirts. Mrs Amecco and Mrs Chorley, two battered and rangy women who looked like sisters and may indeed have been related given the tangled thickets of Jakks Way's older families, both knitted relentlessly. Zesheyek was stitching sequins into lengths of cloth to form rather unenthusiastic brocade. Morran, meanwhile, was trying to liven up drab dresses by fastening aged strips of lace to hems and necklines.. She had first formed the circle. She also encouraged the women to offer up any problems they were having regarding pay or supplies. These were usually solved communally, albeit also surreptitiously. The tactic would not have pleased their contractors, who used domestic labour primarily to avoid the problems of a unionised workforce.
"Don't see how the method matters," Mrs Cobson declared. "So long as the message gets hammered in. My dad used to take his belt to me, I recall, an' a damn heavy one it was too. Twenty strokes of that we got sometimes, right on the bare. An' it did me no harm in the long run."
"You reckon?" Morran muttered.
"What do you think, young Zesh?" Mrs Cobson asked. "Kids are still brought up the old style in Notruf, I hear."
Zesheyek hesitated. She was conscious that Morran had introduced her to the group, that Morran had first found her the sewing commission. And that on this occasion she didn't precisely agree with Morran. "I guess you've got to be careful of, of really hurting the child…" she began diplomatically.
"That ain't the point," Morran snapped. "You've got to stay in control. Dryden ain't. He loses it every time. Stonnie's old enough to spot that now. Every time he gets hit, he loses a bit more respect for his dad. An' that ain't the worst. Stonnie's getting bigger an' stronger. Soon he's gonna be bigger than Dryden. An one day soon he's gonna get right up, hit his dad back an' put him down. You can see it coming. An' then where the hell are we gonna be? How are we gonna keep him under control then?"
There was a silence, filled by the clatter of colliding knitting needles. "Well," Mrs Cobson said eventually, "Guess that'll be the time for your Stonnie to leave, won't it? He'll be out of school soon, getting a proper job. Can't keep him at home forever."
"That shouldn't be the reason why he leaves. Just 'cause his dad can't control him anymore."
"Got to go sometime," Mrs Cobson said phlegmatically.
"Why don't you sort out your Stonnie?" Mrs Chorley ventured. "If his dad-"
"'Cause it's the dad's job," Morran said. Her annoyance grew when she noticed Mrs Cobson nodding agreement but she continued anyway. "That's the way it works. The dad takes care of the sons, the mum of the daughters. Dryden's got nowt to complain about. I've got twice the work he has."
"Aye, but I reckon Stonnie's twice as much work as your two girls together," Mrs Cobson said, almost smiling.
"Now, maybe," Morran replied darkly. "We'll see when they get to his age. An' when they start keeping the company he does."
"You think that's the problem?" Mrs Amecco asked. "The company-"
"Course it is," Morran interrupted. She rarely let either of the identical knitters finish their sentences. Few people did. Both quiet and self-effacing, Mrs Chorley and Mrs Amecco tended to get casually bullied by stronger personalities. "Plain as your boots. Look at that little Marksen thug. Stonnie's gotten twice as bad since he started hanging around him. You know that Marksen, don't you?" she asked Mrs Cobson. "Bloody hooligan."
"I know him. Know his whole family. They've all gone to bad."
"Aye. Dad's up at the New Reystone Prison an' here's hoping they never let him out. An' the son's following right in his footsteps. That Cepu Boldan's been sniffing around him, I hear. Reckons he could be a fine new member of his gang, no doubt. So a great example he'll be setting for our Stonnie. You know," Morran added, feeling she and Mrs Cobson had been in agreement for slightly too long, "You're always banging on about folks moving here an' causing trouble. But some of the ones already here, the Markens an' the Boldans, they ain't no angels either."
"Ain't saying they are," the older woman sniffed. "Just that we don't need any more devils. You prefer your Stonnie to be hanging round the East Zabric?"
"Why not? Least they might teach him how to cook."
Zesheyek laughed. She had sensed Morran's unhappiness at having her own son's problems analysed by Mrs Cobson. That little victory, however trivial, had been important to her. Seeking a question which was relevant but not too upsetting to her friend, Zesheyek eventually asked, "Is Stonnie leaving school next year then?"
"Looks that way. Even if we had the money to keep him on, he ain't interested. He's got the brains but if he don't use 'em, what can you do?"
"More and more kids are staying on till seventeen," Mrs Amecco said incautiously.
"An' the bulk of 'em still ain't," was Morran's angry reply. "Anyway, it's not your education that counts, it's the job you get at the end of it. Our Saska might stay on," she continued more evenly. "She's keen on the idea. If we pinch a few coppers an' this keeps bringing in the money-" she nodded at her stitching – "I reckon it's possible. I ain't worried about Stonnie leaving though. That place he's working weekends now, he says they'll take him on full time."
"A warehouse on Leighman Way," Mrs Cobson said with disapproval. "Asking for trouble."
"Aye, well, the twenty thousand pubs next door might be a bit of a temptation for some. But one thing Stonnie ain't shown signs of becoming so far, that's a pisshead. I checked this place out before I let him set foot in it. It's OK."
"Deal in funny goods, some of them warehouses."
"An' this one don't," Morran said firmly. "'Cause it's OK. Stonnie's a good lad at heart. He just needs to keep his head together. An' stay away from thugs like that bloody Marksen."
"And Cepu Boldan," Zesheyek said.
"Aye, well. He knows about Boldan. An' he knows that if he goes anywhere near him, he won't just have to leave home. He'll have to leave bloody town. 'Cause I will take care of him myself that time an' I'll give him the biggest bloody thrashing he's ever had."
"And once thrashed, he'll stay thrashed?" Zesheyek asked. She was mimicking one of Morran's phrases but doing so supportively. Her reward was a grateful nod.
"Damn right."
Zesheyek smiled. She was glad to see Morran's usual aura of combative self-assurance fully restored. At the same time, the conversation depressed her a little. They had so many of these in the sewing group. Mrs Chorley and Mrs Amecco brought similar tidings of their children, Mrs Cobson of her grandchildren. They had such limited dreams for their sons and daughters. They just accepted it. That their offspring would be tossed from the fabled Triple Cities education system at the earliest possible opportunity onto whatever menial tasks they could land upon. Which seemed to Zesheyek far beneath the rural labours which her own family carried out. They weren't helping things grow, helping animals breed or die, producing anything truly of value. They were stacking and polishing. Carrying out tasks which somebody had decided, probably arbitrarily, ought to be done. It was an existence, not a living.
And even these menial hopes were always threatened. The fears of the women were the same too. Of the darkness which not just surrounded Jakks Way but had penetrated it. Boys like Marksen, men like Boldan. Zesheyek had met Marksen a few times and he did unsettle her. Only twelve years old, he had already learnt the traits of cunning and false courtesy. He was always polite to her. He was polite to everyone. And she knew that the moment he passed from her hearing he would start spraying insults about her. He would be encouraging boys like Stonnie, who were far too impressed by his sly intelligence, to do likewise. She thought she also knew that his pockets, where his hands were permanently buried, always held a weapon; and he would produce it given any encouragement.
As for Cepu Boldan… Zesheyek had only heard of his reputation. She thought some of it must be exaggerated. The numbers of men he had killed or banks he had robbed. Not so the accounts which really frightened her friends, however. Of how he seduced promising neighbourhood boys, whispering of the money they could earn in his gang, the power they would accrue, the revenges they could enact. Dragging them in further and further until they were too far from the light to ever escape. Boldan was getting very good at that, the women said. He practised at it.
Only Zesheyek was different to them. Her son would have a chance of escaping. To rise above the meaningless drudgery of Jakks Way and the servile status of her own family. It was small, it carried a risk of making his life far worst. But while the chance existed, she had to pursue it for him. She sensed a trace of jealousy in Morran that her friend's son alone had this opportunity. The envy had erupted as a tiny geyser when Zesheyek first told her and still emanated a few tiny dribbles occasionally. The fountain was almost dry, however. Morran was too strong to heed it. Instead she had put almost as much faith as Zesheyek into the chance which the tiny, unborn boy had. She would, if necessary, fight just as hard to preserve it. Because it had somehow become hers as well as Zesheyek's as well as her husband's. The baby was the best hope they all had.

Episode Six

Dryden Heppac seat. The afternoon sun saturated the terrace. Above, below and beside him other families were taking their leisure on their own terraces; including, had he known it, the controversial new arrivals the Tansons. Behind him his wife Morran and his three children were commencing the uproar which generally followed their communal Sunday lunches. Dryden ignored all peripheral details, however. He had closed the curtains to the terrace and locked the doors. Every week he was alone to remain undisturbed for this hour. And he had been transported off the terrace. Away from Jakks Way, across Jalkin to a site separated by both a few streets and an unimaginable gulf. Huwdone House, the home of the Christotan federal government.
The magic which had teleported him there was actually fairly mundane. The great presses of the Ocheverry Printing Works in Forgar. A lot of under-employed writers with university degrees but poor connections, who had therefore developed grudges either specific or general. And a population like that of the Triple Cities, with basic literary skills, a few spare coppers each week and a desire to see politics reduced to a pantomime. The result was the newsheets. A perennial and distinctive feature of the Cities, forever corralled with the words 'irreverent', 'satirical' and sometimes 'grotesque.'
There were a great many different newsheets, fresh titles appearing each week and others vaporising just as regularly. And a wide range of styles were bundled into that single lazy category. Some did in fact give weighty, intelligent analysis of current affairs. Some were earnest calls for revolution; some preferred to ignore what the ruling classes did in assembly chambers and focus on what they – allegedly – did in their beds. Others were devoted to religions, sports or the arts. Dryden's choice of reading each week was The Messenger. A long-established title, it was a standard example of a classic newsheet. And that suited Dryden because he considered himself to be a standard example of a classic Cities resident. The Messenger gave a mixture of serious news and unfounded gossip. The tone throughout could best be described as snide. It considered Christoté's leaders to be greedy, bigoted and incompetent and rarely made exceptions. Yet it did not really question the structures which they stood upon, nor the assumption that Christoté was still the greatest nation on earth. A man like Dryden could emerge from The Messenger with his sense of superiority renewed, towards both the men who ruled him and the world which his country ruled.
It was also the right length for his weekly period of solitude. Eight pages and large print – that filled an hour nicely. But as he read now, tracing the words with a finger as he did, one phrase continued to trouble him. Not because it contained a difficult words. The Messenger knew its readers and did not use difficult words. Perhaps its writers, sometimes appearing only semi-literate themselves, did not know any.
Nor was he puzzled by the nicknames which dominated some of the stories. Many newsheets used them for news which wasn't exactly based on empirical facts; which were therefore not precisely news. The accounts of whose wife who was sleeping with, or which poverty relief fund had just been plundered by whom. Nicknames were very useful in these cases. While censorship barely existed in the Cities, libel laws certainly did. A great many newsheets had been obliterated by damages awarded after incautious accusations. But if a story said Jack-In-The-Box was copulating with Hangdog's mistress, the editor could claim with a straight face that he was talking about somebody entirely different to the man accusing him in the courtroom. The Messenger knew this because it had used the defence successfully more than once in the past. It employed its aliases consistently, however, and with clues as to their real identity. So their established readers could know precisely whom was being accused of what.
Dryden knew most of their lurid cast of characters. Some were easy to decipher and featured regularly. The Spider, for example, was patently Holan Brightson, Principal Secretary of Huwdone House and the éminence grise's éminence grise. Fat-arse would be Holstace Fortraine, Baron of the Province of Dorlaf; again, not hard to guess as Fortraine couldn't make a public appearance without somebody commenting on the size of his posterior. Not all were understood by Dryden. He was a little puzzled about the identity of Knock-Knees, a new arrival to the low farce which was Christotan public life. But the cast of characters was so great that it was hard to keep up. The Messenger gossiped about almost everyone. From the meanest Guards sergeant or magistrate right up to the Chancellor herself…
Yes. That was the phrase which was making Dryden frown. The Chancellor her self. Four years after the election of Chela Tatel as Chancellor, the leader of the federal government and effectively the most powerful person alive, it still didn't seem right. It was like a comforting old cliché which had a strange new word inserted in the middle. Only monarchies were supposed to end up with female rulers, sometimes acquiring them by default. The countries which chose their rulers almost always selected men. Even Christoté, for all its boasts to be embracing gender equality. Dryden knew why Chela Tatel had been elected. The Spider – though we may as well use his real name, for this account cannot really be contested. Holan Brightson wanted to continue running the country behind a curtain. He had accrued immense power under the previous Chancellor ('The Walking Corpse') and wished for a new mannequin. So he selected Tatel, a protégé of his with very little personal influence, and systematically destroyed all other candidates. That was understandable to Dryden. Shocking, of course, but at the same time not remotely surprising. And it wasn't that Dryden disapproved of a female Chancellor. He was a just man. He tried hard to support equality and quite often succeeded. But still, the Chancellor her self…. The notion was somehow puzzling, somehow not right. Dryden also realised he had entered an age when all new developments belonged to this category.
Chela Tatel's nickname was The Office Girl. She justified it, however, and rarely featured in The Messenger's racier stories. As far as anyone had discovered, she worked every hour she was awake and usually stayed awake until she was almost fainting from exhaustion. And when she featured in The Messenger's political polemics, she was almost always treated with approval. Tatel hadn't become just another victim trapped in The Spider's web. At first, perhaps, but she was becoming increasingly independent, decisive and sensible. Under her, a government sunk deep in corruption and malaise was being hauled to firm ground. There were signs that Tatel would not just be the best Chancellor for fifty years – after all, the competition was scarcely strong – but actually a good ruler.
This notion troubled Dryden far less. Women being granted the trappings of power was something alien. Strong female governance in practice, though, was ingrained in his life. When he was growing up his mother was the dictatorial governor of a chaotic kingdom. His dim memories of his grandparents featured an obese old woman ruthlessly bullying a timid old man. His family now… Well, he liked to say that he and Morran were basically equal though his word ultimately settled all disputes. He suspected the truth was different, however. Especially since his back collapsed and his wages toppled with it while her own earnings grew. In those last few years he had never dared test who was truly the master of the household. This was his only authoritarian command left. That he could have one undisturbed hour a week to read. Even then he had to flee the apartment to get his peace and rely on Morran guarding the door.
And where did the power reside in his other relationship? The one he plunged into six months ago when rebelling against being sucked into the role of solid citizen, dependable father, obedient husband? That question barely needed asking. She had total command, of course. She controlled him utterly. When they fought it was only so he could emerge from their liaisons with the smallest fleck of dignity left.
What else could he do though? What could he create which allowed him any real freedom or power? Dryden sat back and stared into the blue sky, the comforting sarcasm of the newsheet forgotten for the moment. He wondered how many thousands of identical men in the Cities were doing exactly the same as he was that second. Fleeing their families for an afternoon, gulping down sunshine in their mean little terraces or putrid little back yards. Many no doubt also shifting position on their seats, trying to ease the aches from their damaged bodies. Looking forward to a future in which absolutely nothing would improve.
Dryden tried remembering the moment when he realised: this is it. This is the best I can get. He used to have the usual childhood dreams. To grow up into a great warrior, a great ruler, a great writer; anything, really, to set him above everyone else. And at some point the ambitions shrivelled and he knew greatness would always elude him. And he accepted this. The epiphany should have come when his parents took him out of school at thirteen, unable to educate him past the minimum legal age. That should have been the moment because it was when his future was effectively denied. When his development ended with him still partially literate, partially numerate, partially complete. It meant he would never find work which carried a proper salary or any sight of a ladder heading further upwards. Which was a career rather than just a means of survival. So he would never leave Jakks Way except to go somewhere just like it, or ever find a wife other than someone just like Morran. But he didn't think he truly realised this at the time. He vaguely recalled some sort of hope surviving for a while. Even a tremor of excitement, just for a short time, at becoming an adult. It happened gradually, he supposed. Awareness rising while determination was pressed down, until they met to form a perfectly flat horizon.
Besides, his future was being shaped even before he was thrown out of school with half an education. He might have inherited his father's business or learnt an uncle's trade. None of his family, though, owned even the humblest enterprise. They were employed by the Forgar workshops. That was the single gift they could give Dryden: an opening at the workshops. And that was all he could pass down to his own children. They still saw their futures as infinite and glowing. Even Stonnie, the eldest, who was starting to learn a few truths about the world and was almost permanently angry as a result. All three still had the vivaciousness which accompanied hope. When each one turned thirteen, Dryden knew he would have to cripple their lives and offer the same measly little gift as compensation. Together with the excuse his father had given him, doubtless learnt from his own father. I had it no better.
Dryden could, however, remember the exact moment when his dismal replica of a career had been capped permanently. Five years ago he was working at the Zierlona carpentry workshop. He was still only a tooth on a cogwheel, one small part of a long assembly line. But he had been at the Zierlona for nearly two decades and had progressed from entirely unskilled tasks to ones requiring a reasonable amount of concentration. Promotion to foreman, the standard reward for capable and loyal workers, was a reasonable aspiration. If granted another year or two, he might have achieved that. One morning, however, he bent down to pick up a chisel. A torrent of agony suddenly flowed down his back. He couldn't straighten up. He was imprisoned in his bed for weeks, unable to walk or stand properly. Even after a partial recovery he was unable to stand bending over all day – the precise position he needed to work on the assembly line.
Zierlona treated him remarkably well, he was told. Most workshops would have fired him immediately. Instead Dryden was allowed to work half-shifts, finding that he could manage about four hours at a time before the pain grew unmanageable. His wages were slashed in twain, of course, and his more routine duties taken over by an apprentice who was paid half that amount. And that was indeed extremely generous by the standards of the Forgar workshops. His bosses could have given him a foreman's job anyway, or any other post which didn't require him to be stood stooping all day. However, that was a little too subtle for men who really were unable to distinguish their workers from saws or hammers. Nor would they ever promote Dryden now. He was still loyal and capable. But he had given them a small problem, a tiny amount of extra work, and they would always resent him for that. Dryden's herbalist told him that two of his vertebrae had somehow fused together. Dryden didn't understand that but it sounded right, for his career had been fixed just as permanently.
He was, of course, unable to stop himself reliving the fateful morning over and over. What if he had never dropped that chisel, he kept wondering. What if he had bent down more carefully to retrieve it. What if… His priestess finally managed to end these hypotheses. The Goddess Ella, she told him, places everyone in their positions. She had meant him to be half-crippled as well as half-educated. What matters is not what one's role is but how one plays it. This also seemed logical to Dryden. He wondered, though, if the priestess thought the theory was any sort of a comfort. Because if true, it meant that absolutely every hope he had ever had was an illusion. The Goddess had marked him out at birth for mediocrity.
The voices in the apartment were growing louder. As often happened nowadays, what had begun as a good natured free-for-all was focussing into a real contest between Morran and Stonnie. He was starting to realise. Stonnie, twelve years old now, was becoming increasingly aware that his parents were not unique and not special. The usual categories could be applied to them, and the usual insults. And Stonnie was sensing that the only ways in which his father differed were failings. Some days Dryden did not leave for work until noon, others he came home for the afternoon. He could not work like other boy's fathers. Because he was weaker than other boy's fathers. He was barely a man and what work he did was really only for pin money. It was Morran who kept the family fed and clothed, Morran with her endless rolls of lace and cloth and her perpetually dancing needle. She was the strong one. Stonnie seemed to appreciate this more with each passing week and his respect for his father shrunk in proportion.
The two voices, one a mannish female one, the other still slightly uneasy with its newly gained masculinity, grew even louder. Dryden detected swear words coming from each. He tensed in irritation. Morran ran the household quite blatantly. She did whatsoever she pleased whereas his own actions – the ones she knew about at least – were expected to be presented for her approval. Yet she still didn't try to control their children properly. She was forever criticising Stonnie, castigating his poor school grades, his eating habits, his foul language and, most especially, his friends. There were no real commands handed out, however. She always let her son answer her back. And when he tested her discipline, as he was doing more and more, she just let it crumble away and finally there always came the shrill cry of:
"Dryden!"
He hauled himself to his feet, grumbling under his breath. Always that cry for the stern father. The appeal to a higher authority which didn't even exist anymore. Perhaps it was her way of indulging him, assuring him that he still had a morsel of power. But he thought it was just the familiar woman's trick to retain her children's love. Father would discipline them; then mother moves in afterwards to dry their tears.
Their two daughters had vanished, doubtless fleeing to their bedroom as usual. Morran and Stonnie were on the other side of the room, their postures betraying the cause of the argument. Morran was barring the doorway, all but clinging to the frame for support. Her son was trying to get past. He looked close to pushing her aside, even striking her down. Dryden thought that one day soon he would. Morran was furious rather than frightened, however, and turned her outraged face to Dryden.
"Did you hear what he just said to me? Did you hear what the little get called me?"
Dryden walked across the room, feeling the peace of the terrace drain away. "What did you call your mum?" he demanded, as sternly as he could.
Stonnie stepped away from the door. Perhaps unconsciously, he kept retreating until his back was against a wall. "Nowt," he mumbled, his head down.
"Don't bloody deny it now," Morran said triumphantly. "You try an' have the guts to admit it."
"I just wanted to go out," Stonnie said, his voice defeated.
"Aye, an' I said you couldn't. Not while you're hanging round that little Marksen thug. An' not till you do your homework for once."
"Don't see what's wrong with Marksen."
"You bloody well know what's wrong with him. Whole neighbourhood does."
"You don't even know him-"
"What did you call your mum?" Dryden repeated.
Stonnie looked up suddenly. His eyes were on a level with his father's, partly because Dryden now had a permanent stoop. He was still thin but muscles were building on his forearms and shoulders. He worked part time stacking crates at a warehouse; and quite a lot of his school hours were spent fighting. And he was still growing. "I called her a fucking bitch!" he shouted. "An' she fucking is for-"
Dryden's arm sprang out. Sometimes he struck his daughters too. Only on the back of their legs, though, only with an open hand. And he held back so much that he was sure they barely felt a thing and only cried because it was expected.
He used to punish Stonnie that way too. Now he balled his fist. Now he struck the boy on the jaw or, in this case, the cheekbone. And he let all his frustration, all his outrage at the injustices, explode through him and power his arm forward.Stonnie's head snapped back. His whole body shuddered back. His shoulders hit the wall and he slid down it to land in an untidy, beaten lump. His eyes were glazed for a moment. Tears then filled them as he gazed up at his father. Dryden looked down at him dispassionately for a second. Then, before the boy could get up or Morran could remonstrate with him, he turned. Before any consequences could reach him, he fled back to the haven of the terrace.

Episode Five

Cepu Boldan was, Mr Delpess considered, very conservative in certain respects. In particular, he liked a scene to look right. After each job, he and his gang, together with any associates contracted for the work, would meet in the back room of a warehouse. Mr Delpess owned the warehouse himself. To satisfy Boldan's sense of drama he always ensured that it was deserted the evening they gathered and all the windows of the room itself were boarded up. A single table stood in the centre of the room and two candles rested on that. Boldan himself always sat around the table together with those associates not permanently in his gang. Those who he did not trust, in other words. Behind them, a little too near for comfort, were members of Boldan's gang. Another pair waited either side of the room's single door.
For a long time almost all men in the room were statues. They waited mute, eyes transfixed on the one person granted movement. The gang's treasurer, a Kratzan called Menoney who was rumoured to have actually finished school. He too obeyed the conventions for the scene. First he took the great mass of coins from the sacks and bags and arranged them into little piles. Now he was placing the stacks one by one onto a pair of scales, their mass balanced by a weight of ten gold. One pile went on, a mark was made by Menoney's quill onto the balance sheet, off with it and on with another; a series of tiny chinks of metal which echoed through the silent chamber.
Only Menoney was moving yet the others were gradually transforming as they did. As the strokes of ink crawled down the paper, peace spread slowly through the room. The henchmen were becoming more relaxed. Mr Delpess felt his fear change into simple nervousness. He glanced at Boldan as often as he dared and watched amiability creep across even that visage. Boldan had begun to watch the tallying up armed with his usual scowl. When a particular number of strokes were recorded – the break-even point, Mr Delpess guessed – he let the crevices on his skin disappear. As they continued mounting up, he looked as if he might actually smile. And when Menoney finally ended his count, checked and double-checked his figures, Boldan did permit that rare movement to contort his face.
"Nine thousand, two hundred and fifty gold plus change," Boldan repeated. "Not bad, not bad. Thanks Menoney. Thanks everyone. A nice, straightforward job."
He paraded his smile around the room. Aside from Mr Delpess, he himself was the only man whose appearance did not match the scene. Even Menoney tended towards the burley, the unshaven, the lank-haired. Boldan, though, was a squat but tidy man in his early forties with a reassuring air. His clothes were unremarkable but well-cut and he appeared to visit both barber and bathhouse once a day. Cepu 'Blood-Eyes' Boldan looked like a mildly prosperous craftsmen and actually owned eyes which were a pleasant chestnut colour. The picture never reassured Mr Delpess. He had known Boldan for too long. He could remember when the man had been a straightforward thug, before he grabbed control of his gang and refined his image. And he knew Boldan got his nickname by bloodying other people's eyes, usually by inserting a dagger through them; and knew he still had this habit.
"Right," the gang leader continued. "Divvying up. First, Mr Delpess' five per cent as normal."
The man sat opposite Mr Delpess snorted. The landlord hadn't met him before the start of the job and would be happy never meeting him ever again. He was built too solidly, wore too few clothes and smelt a little too strongly. He was only ever referred to as Tatts, presumably because almost every inch of his putrid skin was covered with blue and green decorations. Mr Delpess would also be content if he never learnt the man's true identity.
"Don't see why," Tatts growled. "Fucker weren't even on the fucking job,"
"Mr Delpess gave the info which made the job so nice and straightforward," Boldan said calmly. "He supplied equipment and premises, including the room we're sat in now. He gets five per cent for that. He always does. It's the arrangement."
"Your arrangement. Take it out of your fucking cut, not mine."
"No. He gets five per cent of the total cut. Those are the rules. You were told the rules at the start, Tatts. You want to challenge them now?"
And it was understandable that Boldan was remaining so calm. The rules also said: Tatts was on his own. All the men who mattered in the room worked for Boldan. They mattered because they were now stood even closer behind Tatts, opening their cloaks, resting their hands on their swords and crossbows, awaiting the next instructions from their boss. Tatts only turned his head half an inch but must have seen enough.
"Guess it's OK," he said reluctantly.
"Good." Boldan smiled again. "I wouldn't like any of that 'thieves fall out' crap kicking in. Makes me tired that. Bad for business. So," he continued, slamming a bottle of wine onto the table, "Let's all have a drink. Celebrate together. Show that we're all still mates."
Tatts continued looking unhappy. No doubt he had heard the stories. Of Boldan's fondness for having a drink with his associates during the tallying up after a job. And of Boldan's habit of putting something into the wine of any associates he thought might become problematic. Mr Delpess had heard the tales too. He also knew they were true because once a man sitting right next to him had keeled over suddenly, purple face gasping for a breath which wouldn't come. Nonetheless, he drank from his own beaker without hesitation. Boldan was, amongst other things, frugal. He wouldn't waste poison. And if he decided to just cut Mr Delpess in half then there wouldn't be much he, Mr Delpess, could do to pause the event.
"There you go, sir." Boldan slid a very full bag of gold across the table towards him. "Thanks again for your help."
"And thank you, Mr Boldan." The landlord clutched the bag, feeling the hard, jagged coins. He reminded himself that this was worth the terrors, the dangers, the revulsion.
"Do Tatts' next, Menoney. He looks like he's eager for it. How's the reco going for the next job?" Boldan asked Mr Delpess.
"Proceeding very well, Mr Boldan. I'll have my recommendation and a nice full file to you by the end of the week, just as you asked."
"Which one is it likely to be?"
"Down to a short list of two now, the wagon train and the jewellers. And I imagine it will be the jewellers because while the security looks tighter there, I know of our fondness for targets which stay in one place."
"So let's hit the fucking jewellers," Tatts snapped. "Let's hit it tomorrow. Why all this pissing about?"
"That would be preparation and reconnaissance," Boldan replied, his tone growing dangerously courteous again. "All that 'pissing about.' That's what made this last job so easy."
"Dunno what were so fucking easy about it."
"Yeah?" Boldan looked around. "Lads? You said there weren't any problems."
"Floor got a bit slippy," a man standing directly behind Tatts smirked, "When Tatts here crapped himself."
Tatts spun round and leapt up with remarkable speed to confront the man. Not fast enough, however. And the hands which had rested casually on hilts and bows were now gripping them, pulling them free of belts. Tatts froze. Mr Delpess did as well. He was not really worried, though, not even for Tatts' safety. Because Boldan was still controlling the scene; and Boldan bellowed instantly,
"For fucks sake, you lot. What did I say one bloody minute ago about thieves bloody falling out? Quit it. You want to carry on like this, piss off and join the bloody apes over in Southmarket. Tatts, sit down. And Rollo," he snapped at the man who had allegedly slipped on faeces, "Wipe that off and shut it. You're not funny."
Tatts subsided. Rollo muttered a "Sorry, boss," but continued to smirk, knowing he had not really been chastised. Boldan pretended they were a professional unit but they were still only really a street gang writ large. Quick to squabble amongst themselves but always closing ranks against outsiders. Thinking how Boldan had taken his side against Tatts, Mr Delpess supposed that he was more or less considered one of them now. The notion left an ambiguous taste.
"And here's your cut, Tatts. Nice doing business with you. Let's stay in touch."
"Yeah. Right." Still apparently no happier, Tatts grabbed the money bag, made another abrupt rise and strode away. Mr Delpess watched the man guarding the door glance at his leader. Then he turned back to Boldan who, after a moment, nodded. Mr Delpess released a breath he hadn't been aware of holding. Yes, the nod proclaimed, Tatts is allowed to leave the room alive. The door was held open for him with mock-courtesy and slammed shut.
"So you'll get us the file by the end of the week, Mr Delpess," Boldan said.
Realising that he was being dismissed too, the landlord began a more circumspect departure. "Of course, Mr Boldan, of course. No hitches whatsoever anticipated, oh no."
"You had any other problems? No more fucking chancers knocking on your door asking for protection money?"
"Oh no. Your visit to those two scamps the other week has spread the word that I've all the protection I could ever need."
"Should fucking well think so. Little shitehawks. There's rules in Jakks Way, isn't that right."
"And where would any of us be without rules, Mr Boldan?"
"How's things in general? You taken on any interesting new tenants lately."
Mr Delpess sighed inwardly. He wouldn't have mentioned them otherwise, he told his conscience. Or: he probably wouldn't have. Boldan had asked him, however. If he stayed silent now, if Boldan found out anyway – which he almost certainly would – then he would be committing a deception. There were many actions which one didn't attempt around Boldan and one was to try and lie to him.
"One very interesting couple, yes, just took up a lease at No 5 Jakks Way. They call themselves Radav and Yaxi Tanson." And Mr Delpess imparted the very few things which he knew about them, and the rather larger number he had guessed. Boldan sat back frowning.
"The names ring a bell somewhere. Anyone know anything?" he asked the room in general. Silence answered him. "No fucking surprises there. They asked about the scene here?"
"Showed a remarkable lack of curiosity about their new home, Mr Boldan."
"Well, that doesn't mean anything. Could be that they already know. They're definitely players, you'd say."
"I imagine they have played with the highest stakes available, Mr Boldan."
"OK," Boldan nodded. "Get back to your homework now. And when you've finished that, I might want a new file. One on these new tenants of yours."

Episode Four

Yaxi, when she opened her door, came as a surprise to Morran. The near-black skin was there as described by Mr Dreyess, the sable, wavy hair, the broad shoulders. Morran had been expecting a fearsome warrior in riding leathers, however. Not one wearing an old, flowery gown with hair cascading town in a tangled waterfall. And who gave Morran a brief but entirely welcoming grin.
"Hey."
"Er, morning," Morran said, still nervous. "I'm Morran Heppac. I… er, I live in this building too. Next floor down, a couple of doors along, I think."
"Hey. Yaxi Tanson. I live here."
"Yeah. An' I thought I'd, like, pop my head in to say How Do. An' see if you were settling in OK."
The grin appeared again, more mischievous this time. "And to, you know, see who we are and get what I'm told is called in these parts a reet good gawp?"
"Er, yeah. I guess."
"Come in." Yaxi stepped back and closed the door. Morran took a quick but thorough glance around the living room. It was twice the size of her own and contained maybe a third of the possessions. The few items of furniture which did exist appeared to be brand new. The one exception was a large travelling chest by a wall, battered and stained almost to the point of parody. As Yaxi walked further in, Morran noticed how badly she was limping. She was surprised; this detail had failed to make it onto the gossip circuits. "You're the first to call by, actually," Yaxi continued, "Which kind of amazed me. I was starting to think nobody was interested in us."
"Oh no. We're interested all right."
Radav wandered out of the bedroom, wearing a faded shirt and an absurd pair of pale pink pantaloons. Morran had the feeling that, though it was nearly midday, she had got the couple out of bed. "One of the nosy neighbours," Yaxi explained after making introductions. "But she's quite up-front about being nosy so I guess that's OK. You want to sit out on the terrace?"
"Aye, ta," Morran smiled. "Be nice on a day like today."
"Radi," Yaxi said as she hobbled across the room, "Why don't you be a star and fix us some refreshments?"
"Summit wrong with you doing that?" Radav demanded truculently, though he was already heading for the kitchen nook.
"No, I think the phrase should have been, 'You break your legs or summit?' To which the answer, of course, is 'Oh boy, yes, in spades.'"
"Aye, OK. If you don't mind the neighbours thinking I've turned into a pansy boy."
"If the cap fits, hon, if the cap fits." Out on the terrace Yaxi fell gratefully into a cane chair, waving Morran into another.
"You've got him trained well," Morran smiled.
"He's adjusting. We're both, you know, having to adjust a bit."
"That a…" Morran waved vaguely at Yaxi's crooked leg. "That recent?"
"About six months ago now. But you'd better believe, it's not getting any better."
"You never know. We've got a decent herbalist nearby. Smithson. Mind you, he limps pretty bad himself. Was born with it, I think."
"Well, I know quite a heap about herbs myself. Radav does too. And we've tried everything there is to try and can pretty definitely say: this baby is here to stay." Yaxi shrugged. "You know, that's the cards you get."
"You mind if I ask..?"
"A castle gateway fell on it."
Morran gaped at her. "What, a whole gateway?"
"Well, all of it didn't land on my leg. Just, you know, a significant enough percentage. In the gateway's defence, I don't think it was aiming for me. I just kind of happened to be in the way."
"Hell. That's awful. This happen in the Cities?"
"No, not in the Cities. And it should also be said, the gateway wasn't the only thing falling down at the time. The whole of the castle was really. It's just that while we got out of the rest of it before that happened, the gateway was proverbial last hurdle I couldn't quite manage."
"A damn castle fell down. Where the hell was this?"
"Oh, you know. That place where the castle fell down."
"But what made it?"
"Well, to be totally honest, we kind of did. So I really don't have any cause to whine about some of it landing on me."
Morran stared, trying to decide if Yaxi's half-smile meant that she was joking. "You saying you knocked a castle down?"
"We-e-e-ll… we sort of removed the thing that was keeping it upright."
"What, like the cement or summit?"
"Yeah, I guess it was like the cement or summit." Radav stepped out onto the terrace carrying fruit cordials. "But we won't talk about it in front of the husband, if that's OK," Yaxi continued. "He's heard the story a few times before."
"I were there, remember."
"Oh yeah, hon, and you were a terrific help."
"Tried kissing it better, didn't I?" Radav said over his shoulder as he stomped indoors again. Morran received the impression of a couple who expressed their love mostly through bickering and mockery, and warmed towards them.
"That the sort of thing you normally do then?" she asked cautiously.
"No, not out of habit," Yaxi smiled. "And I think I can definitely declare us retired from the castle demolition business. You know, for a while at least." She took a long draught. "Orange and lime with just a touch of ginger. Say what you want but I think the man's a genius."
Morran sipped her cordial and rather agreed. "What you planning on doing here then? For a living, I mean?"
"Kind of not a lot for a while. Chilling. We've only just got up and, while we won't be going to such extremes every day, I don't think this'll be the only one."
"Yeah? Nice if you can afford it."
"Well, we can for a while. We've got a few savings to live on. So I guess for the next month or so we'll be kind of the idle rich."
"Don't get many of them settling here in Jakks Way."
"I know, but you sort of don't have to be as rich to live here, do you? So you can get away with being so, so more idle."
Morran studied Yaxi's face for a moment. Though illuminated perfectly by the harsh noon sunlight, it was impossible to read. "Well, when you're done with that…" she began carefully. "My husband Dryden works at the Zierlona carpenters up in Forgar. When his back lets him, that is. Lots of the folks round here are at one or other of the Forgar workshops. They treat you like shit but the wages are steady. So that could be summit your Radav might look into. I need to be home more, got kids to look after, the flat to clean an' so on. So I take in stitching, lacework mostly. There's always contractors looking for new seamstresses. Brings in a decent living if you can make the time. You with your leg like that, could be summit you take up. This the sort of thing you two have done in the past?"
"Conveyor belt assembly work and seamstressing?" Yaxi asked, raising her eyebrows. "Well, no, frankly. But hey, we're not ones to block off new avenues without having a peer down them first."
Morran laughed. "Fair enough. Your bloke's a local boy but you're from East Zabrial, I hear. That right?"
Yaxi nodded. "City of Mermaids, according to our landlord. Nice to hear some still calling it that rather than, you know, City of Psycho Headbanging Rebels or something."
"Yeah, we're getting more an' more coming here from East Zabrial, running from the troubles down there. That why you leave too?"
"Well, not so much. I left a way long time before that wagon had really got up to speed."
"Because of your man in there then?"
"Hm." Yaxi frowned. "Not really. I guess it would be because of 'my man in there' that I've not really missed it and so not wanted to go back to live."
"What made you first leave then? Work?"
"No. Force."
"What?"
"Force," Yaxi repeated in the same neutral tone, "Made me first leave." Morran blinked at her.
"What kind of force?"
"Well, that would be physical force."
Morran made one more attempt to interpret the calm, still figure. She failed; and, almost unprecedented for her, she was unable to find the courage to pry any further. Her laugh this time was a nervous one. "OK, I'll shut my gob for now. Good answers, by the way. Not really dodging but still leaving me wanting more."
"Hey, thanks. And thanks for a pretty civil interrogation too. There was some seriously subtle stuff going on at times there."
"Well, this is the Cities. We do stuff civil here. Sometimes. By the way… You got my husband's name. Dryden. He were my first husband but not my first love, buy me a few drinks one night an' I'll tell you about the others. I've three kids still alive, one age fourteen, one ten an' one eight now. I were born in the Cities, my folks were too but I think the family's from up Sharsaw way originally. We worship the Goddess Ella but I just mean go to temple once a week, I don't mean worship worship." Morran paused. "Right, that's the basics. Owt else you want to know."
"Is there anyone we shouldn't be making fun of in your presence?"
"Foreigners," Morran said instantly. "Especially Notrufans. Not that they are foreigners but they might as well be here. The old bloody one about the only reason Notrufans come to the Cities. Sick to my stomach with it all."
"Well, I've so never felt tempted to make fun of the good Province of Notruf, but I'll make sure I resist if it comes."
"Not that I'm Notrufan myself, like I said. But my mate Zesheyek, is an' she's treated like shit sometimes. I'll introduce you to Zesheyek. Lovely lass. I'd have brought her here today but I wanted to check you weren't a couple of psychos. No offence."
"None taken. And let's be honest, you've kind of not really found out that weren't not, have you?"
Morran abruptly exploded into laughter, the strangeness of the situation and the deadpan wit of the answers making something erupt inside her. Yaxi laughed for a second too, she noticed, but no longer. "Naw, I reckon you're all right. Owt else you want to know? About the neighbourhood?"
"Do you guys really stab each other at the Last Drop Inn every Saturday night?"
"You got that from Delpess too, I'm thinking. Well, I dunno what his mates get up to an' I don't want to. The Last Drop's OK. Worst thing that happens most Saturday s is a bunch of drunks singing bloody awful folk songs an' pinching the barmaid's bum."
"Sounds like my kind of place."
Morran stood up. "I'd best be off, if you don't mind. Tons of stuff to do, like always. Glad we did this. You two likely to accept an invite to dinner sometime soon? Say no if you want. My kids can be pretty rowdy."
"You know, you'd be seriously amazed what conditions we'd put up with if there's free food involved. See you later then. Radav'll see you out if you don't mind. Radi!" Yaxi hollered, then when he appeared, "You fancy doing the good host deal, showing our guest out and check she hasn't lifted any spoons."
Radav glared down at her. "Aye. OK. You hurt your leg by any chance?"
"Good guess. Hey, did you see that?" she crowed after Radav had escorted Morran out and returned to the terrace. "And don't pretend you didn't. I so know you were eavesdropping like a nosy old woman. Do I rule or what? The neighbourhood hath spake and it said: I'm all right. I'll tell you what else I am. I'm a goddess."
"You're a bloody headcase, that's what," Radav countered churlishly. "What were all that about knocking a castle down?"
"Well? We kind of did, didn't we?"
"That's no bloody reason to… We agreed. We'd slip in an' live quietly for a bit. Sometimes that seems like the only bit of the stuff we agreed that makes sense. An' now you-"
Yaxi sighed theatrically. "You know, I'm going to buy us a mirror tomorrow so you can take a good look in it and decide if we'd, you know, ever look like a couple of normal dudes. We could burn my bow and all my arrows instead of just hiding them under the bed, we could melt down your sword and all your knives and that card was never coming up. We look like a couple of highway bandits. Deal with it. My way of dealing is to get us some allies. That Morran woman looks like she could be one and I've made one hell of a start and that, hon, is why you should be worshipping at my feet right now." Yaxi paused, then added, "Hey, what is the old one about the only reason Notrufans come to the Cities?"
"I dunno. We're in the Province of Dorlaf here, ain't we? Notruf is the Province to the south-west-"
"Yeah, thanks, I kind of was still in school when I was five. So I don't need the lecture about how Notruf and Gesund are in the south-west, Zabrial's to the south-east, Dorlaf, Elsey and Kratz are the central Provinces and Schall's up to the north. And how they all used to be separate kingdoms before uniting to form the shiny, smiley Confederacy of Christoté. Just tell me the old one about why Notrufans come to the Cities."
"I dunno, do I?" Radav said. "Notruf's got no money. Place always has been a shitehole. Maybe they all come here to get work."
"That's the joke? Economic factors, arf arf arf?"
"You're in a hell of a mood all of a sudden."
"Well, you're not worshipping at my feet," Yaxi pointed out."
"You'd only be whingeing about me hurting your bad leg if I were."
"Did you hear, they've got a kick-ass herbalist here only he can't cure his own bad leg? I so want to meet him. Find out if he goes around crying 'Oh! The irony!' as much as me."
"If you find someone to swap bad leg stories with, that's it. I'm bloody leaving you. Actually, that could be it. Divorce. Women can't divorce men in Notruf, I hear. Only the other way round. So they all charge up here to do it."
"Yeah? Still not the greatest gag in the world, is it."
"That kind of joke ain't meant to be funny." Radav frowned at his wife. "'What made you leave East Zabrial?' 'Force.'"
"Well? It did, didn't it?"

Episode Three

While Golting was marvelling at Mrs Copson's memory for honest landlords, Morran was trying to catch up to Zesheyek. Her friend was already on the fringes of the market and heading back into the street of Jakks Way. "Zesh, don't let her get to you," Morran called out. "She's just a silly old cow."
"I know, I know. But-"
"She weren't even laying into Notrufans that time. Give her that much."
"She meant us though," Zesheyek insisted. "You know she did."
"Well, yeah-" Morran began.
"It was like what she said the other day. 'All come crawling here from Notruf and Gesund and the rest of the Provinces and you know they're only after one thing.' As if she's any idea why I moved here."
"Well, in fairness, you've never told her."
"What's it got to do with her? She isn't anybody, is she? She's just some nasty old busybody."
"Aye, OK. So don't-"
Zesheyek stopped walking abruptly, her face twisting with pain. Morran caught her arm and studied her carefully. "Don't get worked up, I were about to say," she continued gently. "Here, sit down for a sec. Breath deep."
"No, it's…" Zesheyek gave a weak smile. "I'm fine. He was just kicking again, that's all."
Morran noted again how Zesheyek always assumed the gender of her unborn child. "Aye, I remember that. First time it's magic. Hundred and fiftieth time it's, all right you little bugger, give it a rest."
Zesheyek managed a more convincing smile this time though didn't start walking again immediately. By chance they had stopped between their two tenement blocks, facing Morran's. Morran scanned the windows, eyes flitting across her own for a second, wondering which held the latest arrivals. "Mind you, that old cow could be right about the new couple being trouble. If Delpess says they are. 'Cause there's a bloke who knows what trouble smells like. An' goes out drinking with it half the time." After a pause Morran announced, "Maybe I'll know on their door myself some time soon. Give 'em a bit of a look over."
"Hell, is that sensible? If they really might be dangerous-"
"I know every person in my building, at least by sight. It's my home. I don't go hiding behind my door for anyone." At that moment Morran's composure was shattered by a trio of boys who ran past shrieking. One of them caught her elbow and almost knocked her over. "'Ey, you little bugger!" she called after them.
One of the boys stopped and whirled around. "Fuck off you fat old bat," he shouted, making his two companions scream with laughter.
"You what?" Morran bellowed back, apparently enraged beyond all measure. "You come back here an' say that, you little sod." She began a helpless pursuit of the boys as they scampered away again. "I know who you are, Tomas Morric. I'm coming to your house tonight an' I'm getting your dad to kick your arse for you. Same for you, Ses Wetteran. An' as for you, whoever you are, you better not show your face round here again. Get your bloody arses back here now…"
Zesheyek waved a farewell to her friend and slipped quietly into her own building. Morran, she knew, was enjoying the confrontation almost as much as the boys. Their trips out together tended to involve a high-volume argument with somebody. Afterwards the older woman would be energised, eyes shining and face glowing happily. Zesheyek was still a stranger to the Triple Cities, however. There were many local ways she could not understand and one was the apparent pleasure in making a spectacle of yourself in the middle of a public byway.
Though they faced one another, Zesheyek and Morran's apartment blocks were very different. Morran's was almost as good as the owner of most of its flats, Mr Delpess, claimed. It was barely a decade old, built in 1323; and its freshness was not important simply because it meant the fixtures hadn't had time to start rotting. By the 1320's, in the Cities at least, the idea had spread that even poor housing should not be laughably unstable, inflammable, unhygienic or generally unliveable. It was a notion which germinated hesitantly. For most of the history of the Cities, its rulers were content for many poor houses to fall down regularly, others to catch fire almost as often; for the inhabitants to be periodically wiped out by plagues and the survivors to do something called, for want of a better word, living in lightless, damp boxes. The residents themselves grew a little weary of this, however. Eventually they expressed their displeasure enough times to the politicians through ballot boxes and to the landlords by more informal means. Improvements were slow to emerge, of course, always held back by greed and indolence. But by 1334 there existed structures which were palaces by the standards of the old working class districts. In the new tenement blocks, apartments like the one Yaxi and Radav had just rented were top of the range. A family like Morran's, though, with approximately one and a half reasonable incomes earned by various means, could afford a flat reasonably spacious, warm, dry and safe.
The old monstrosities were not cleared, however. It was assumed, logically enough, that they would eventually all fall or burn down and could be replaced then. In the meantime they were dumping grounds for couples like Zesheyek and Kriyas. Their block was one of the old mansion houses. Belonging to the idealism of the first years of the Triple Cities, which fled north-west with the aristocracy and left their old houses to be covered in grime externally and partitioned up a hundredfold internally. Zesheyek had been told that her tiny third story flat had probably once been part of the master bedroom. Where she and her husband now lived was perhaps previously occupied by one of Christoté's founding fathers. Maybe; but the damp, the lice, the bare stone walls and the mouldering roof beams only ever inspired images of the meanest servants' quarters.
There was a range of sorts to cook on, Zesheyek told herself. And there was just enough room for a tiny dining table at one end of the room, a bed at the other. They could live there for now. When the baby came… But she thrust that worry to the back of her mind, along with all the other travails which would accompany the birth of her first son. For the moment, she would have to make do. Zesheyek was used to making do. While the memories of her old home were becoming more roseate every day, the reality was a tiny, odiferous cottage, itself only two steps from collapse and springing a dozen leaks whenever the rains came. She was from a peasant family in Notruf, the Christotan Province which treated peasants the worst of all; and one shackled to a baron who perhaps treated his tenants the least equitably in all Notruf. There had been several reasons for them to leave home and one was that home itself.
But she had been able to look out of the window, she remembered wistfully, and see the fields. Undulating gently until they rose to the line of quietly beautiful hills on the horizon. She had been able to steal half hours to walk the lanes, moments to immerse herself in the undemanding chorus of nature and to feel truly free. Here it seemed impossible to escape the harsh blare and glare of the Cities, however far she walked or gazed. Her old cottage had a proper range; a source of comfort in the winter, a focal point for the whole household. A place where true cooking could be managed too, not the thing she had now which was essentially just a hole in the wall. And they had a tiny patch of land at home, grew pumpkins and potatoes and swedes in it. Everything had to be bought in the Cities; everything dragged down their flimsy rope of fortune which rested permanently just above disaster. They made constant sacrifices just for produce which always seemed battered, tasteless, somehow lifeless. Zesheyek tried as hard as she could but saw the disappointment in her husband's eyes with every meal she put on his table. She was failing him. She was waiting for him to say so and wondered if she would have the courage for the rebuttal: this is your fault.
The dinner, another stew heavily spiced to try and hide the deadness, was just coming to the boil when Kriyas arrived home. The timing was rarely so fortuitous. He could often be late, sometimes not returning until midnight, so she had to find meals which could be left to simmer. Zesheyek didn't know what delayed him or even what his job in Forgar actually was. She never asked him. It brought wages and that was enough for her. Kriyas kissed her dutifully, pulled off his boots and sat at the table. Although on time, he looked as exhausted as always. She ladled the stew into a metal tureen, replaced the lid and put it in the middle of the table. She cut them both a piece of bread. Kriyas murmured the Ode To Evening. They both ate a single mouthful of bread. Afterwards Kriyas spoke the Ode To The Spirits, sprinkling a circle of dust around the tureen as he did so. Finally they both recited the Ode Of Thanksgiving, alternating between its six verses. Only then was Zesheyek permitted to remove the tureen lid and spoon out the stew.
All were prayers to the God Garrath. The Garran faith was followed by nearly half the Triple Cities. Yet the only ones who performed the same dinner rituals, the night rituals, the morning rituals, were also from Notruf. Many 'worshippers' did nothing at all, of course, but the pious locals performed rites which Zesheyek had never previously heard of. She was still trying to adjust to the alien services held at her local Garran chapel. She felt she belonged to an entirely different church, just as the whole notion of Notruf being in the same country as the Cities appeared a fallacy. Maybe this was, as Morran kept assuring her, merely a period of adjustment. And maybe she would come to appreciate the supposed compensations of Cities living over time – the freedom to say what she wanted to abuse her betters to their faces, to visit libraries of books which she couldn't read and theatres performing plays which she couldn't understand. Maybe, as both she and Kriyas had tentatively suggested before their journey began, they would wanted to stay permanently after their mission was completed. Maybe: but right now Zesheyek wanted to run home as soon as she could and spend the rest of her life trying to expunge memories of this inferno.
The stew was disgusting. Zesheyek didn't think she had cooked a good meal since coming to the Cities. She watched revulsion crease her husband's face as he ate. He always seemed on the boundary of making that complaint. Would he ever find the valour, she wondered. And would she for the riposte. The meals, the rotting vegetables and the stale meat and the inadequate hearth – it's not me. This is your fault.
When she calmed again, however, she reminded herself that timidity alone wasn't stopping the complaint. Kriyas could make do as well. He was polite and stoical and considerate; the three qualities which she always boasted about to others. He rarely said anything during a meal either, and neither did she. They were ill-suited as a couple, really, because they were too alike rather than too dissimilar. Both introverted, both quiet, both shy. And they hadn't known each other especially well before the wedding and seemed unable, for all the trials they had shared, to move closer together. Only when he was wiping up the dregs of his stew with his stale bread did he say,
"I saw the Morran woman outside. She mentioned you'd been to the market together again."
Zesheyek nodded. "She's a help when I go shopping. She stops me getting cheated."
"You see a lot of her, don't you?"
There was a rebuke there, Zesheyek decided, but Kriyas hadn't been able to get the tone quite right. Somewhat defensively, she replied, "She's been a good friend to me. I think she's a good woman."
"I'm sure she is," Kriyas frowned. He's young too, Zesheyek reminded herself, and just as inexperienced. A farm boy and a farm girl. And he was just as bewildered by the Cities as she was. They had first met Morran the day they arrived. The elder woman had been bawling across the street, requesting somebody to "Tell your damn Baron of Dorlaf to shove his legislation up a dark, warm passage." Then Morran spotted them and, with pause to change gears, greeted them with a cheerful "Always nice to meet new faces." Women in Notruf were not all, despite the stereotype, meek and subdued. They did not shout in the street, however, and certainly did not shout political statements. Not the ones who were 'good' at least. Searching for a safe comment, Kriyas finally managed,
"Maybe we should have her here for a meal some time. With her family, of course."
"We should probably go to hers first. If you like. I told you that she asked."
"Is that the custom here? The newcomers visit the hosts?"
"I don't know. I think it just depends who asks first."
"All right," Kriyas nodded. Zesheyek cleared the table and washed the utensils as best she could in a barrel of grimy water. Kriyas sat back and lit his pipe. Fed, at leisure, smoke ghosting out of his nostrils and his woman working around him, he almost looked like a proper head of a household. He almost looked grown up. He seemed to sense the façade and draw strength from it. His next comment was, "I'm glad you've found a friend. But you shouldn't get too close to her."
"I won't."
"Remember, these aren't our people."
"I know."
"And no-one must know why we're here. Not till the time comes. You've remembered that, haven't you?"
"Yes. Of course," Zesheyek said. She hoped the meekness in her tone would mask the guilt. One secret begat another begat another. And now the very best conversations, the only ones she could hope for, were like the last exchange. With questions phrased so that she could avoid answering with a direct lie.