A day later, Sithe was neck-deep in the market district of
Moonguard, weaving and dodging through the intricate dance that was commerce in
a big city. She picked up a little bit of everything: a roll of thread,
needles, fruits imported from east of the Aubrith River, new shoes for David and a
traveling cloak for Elliot—who was set to leave for Eastwharf mere days from
today—along with any number of spices, scraps of random materials better left
unnamed, candles, a few fingers of chalk, and a jug of foreign-vintage wine.
As she did this, Godric eventually fell into step beside
her, along with another boy that looked patently identical to him, save for the fact
that while Godric’s hair was cropped short and seemed to jet out in spikes from
his head, the other boy wore his own locks long, pulled back into a tail that
wanted desperately to be a braid.
“Abney’s in a foul one again,” Godric said.
The other boy, who could only be Godric’s twin brother,
Fuller, put in: “Brought his daughter with him out to market today. Six, maybe
seven. Thin as sticks. Dolled up and real pretty ... leastways she would be, ‘cept
the part where she keeps flinching at things like she thinks there’s monsters
hiding in everybody’s shoes.”
Sithe frowned. “What do you think?” she asked quietly. She
barely moved her lips, as she headed off on a path that only she could see. She
bumped into a noblewoman nursing a babe at one of her mammoth breasts. The
woman started to snap and snarl at Sithe, until she got a good look at the
matron’s face and realized who she was.
Being the only heiress of a city legend had its
benefits.
“Is she one of ours?” Sithe continued eventually.
Godric spoke up first: “I’d put money on her. Keeps her eyes
down, never talks, kind of squeaks when anything so much as touches her.”
Fuller nodded decisively. “Definitely ours.”
“You know how this works, boys,” Sithe said, admonishing. “Intuition
and instinct is fine and good, but it isn’t enough. If this is all you have to
report, then we have a sign to dig deeper. That’s it.”
The boys looked crestfallen, but only for a moment. Fuller got
a spark in his eye, and he said, “She was dragging behind, she was, looking
woebegone and some such-like at some other’ns. Kids, I mean. And Abney, he
looks at her with this piggy look on his face” —here Fuller scrunched up his
face in imitation— “And he says, ‘Move yer feet, girl! On with it now!’ And she
goes, ‘Yes’m, Master. Sorry, Master.’ Don’t she call him Daddy, or Papa, or
Sire. Calls him like he’s her owner. Tell me that ain’t a sign, Missus.”
Sithe’s expression soured.
* * *
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