so unusual, given his wandering hand and the reputation of racks everywhere. What was unusual was that it wasn’t a “look out here comes a rack” kind of scramble for their purse to make sure it was still there. More a “don’t look at him, pretend he isn’t there, I don’t want trouble” kind of look. Odd.
He picked a likely looking shop jammed hard up against the outside of the city walls, all hung about with bright silk shirts in every color imaginable. The chime of his bells warned the shopkeep as he entered, and the man looked up, his face sliding into a trading mask, a smooth patina to run off his spiel. The mask slid back off when he saw Van Gast, and he reached under the counter for a pistol.
He pointed it at Van Gast, but his hand was unsteady, much like his voice. “I don’t serve your sort here. I don’t want any trouble. There’s a man down the end of the road, he’ll do for you.”
Van Gast tried a reassuring grin. “I only want to buy—”
“I don’t sell to Remorians, are you deaf?”
So that was it, the looks he’d been getting. “I’m not Remorian. I need something bright to wear before I die of grayness. Come on, what do you say?”
The pistol wavered and then jabbed toward his left wrist. “Maybe you weren’t born one, I can tell the difference, but you got a bond scar there. Take me for a fool? Your lot have been rampaging all over the place, causing nothing but blood and trouble. The Yelen put an edict out. You’ll be in their dungeons quick smart, or worse.”
Van Gast tugged his sleeve down over the fading bond scar on his wrist and used the distraction to slide his pistol out. He knocked the quivering shopkeep’s weapon from his hand and cocked the gun, though he didn’t point it. He just held it, loose and ready like his grin, and tried to keep hold of his temper.
“I’m not a Remorian, but if you don’t sell me some fucking clothes, I’ll steal them instead. Maybe everything else too. Or you could sell me what I want. I need to get some damn color on, now. I think the blue, don’t you?”
The shopkeep didn’t move for long heartbeats. Van Gast was just about to grab a shirt anyway when he piped up.
“You don’t act like one of them. They’re all raving, either murdering people in their beds or drooling in a corner.”
“That’s because I’m not one. The shirt? If you’re quick I might even pay for it.”
The shopkeep hesitated, considering, but the deliberate jingling of Van’s purse soon had him bustling about, relief making him gabble. “The blue, yes, how about this one?” He eyed Van Gast critically. “No, you need it wider at the shoulders. This one, it’s got several hidden pockets inside. Real Istarian silk, too, none of that fake crap they sell for coppers in the plaza.”
Van Gast slid off the Remorian tunic with a sigh of relief and reached for the soft silk. The brightest blue in the shop, and real silk as the man said. Perfect. The shopkeep had shut up and was staring at his side. Van Gast turned to hide the scar there, the bullet wound still a violent, puckered red, and shrugged the shirt on.
“Remorians have always been raving,” he said, more for something to say to get the shopkeep to stop staring than anything else. The scar was a reminder that he wasn’t invulnerable, and maybe that was why he hated it. It was also proof of what he was willing to do, the lengths he would go to, to get what he wanted, and that was why he was proud of it. As long as no one saw it. Besides, the scar clashed with the shirt. “At least this time, there’s a chance they’ll recover.”
The shopkeep brought out a spotted mirror and Van Gast preened in it before he transferred a few things from the gray tunic to the new shirt’s pockets. A scrap of cloth, a knife or two of course, and the glass dagger that sat smooth and cool against his skin through the thin silk.
“They say,” the shopkeep whispered, “they say there’s some of the mages left, in the palace with the Yelen. They say they’ve been re-bonding people.”
Kyr’s mercy, would it never end? “Then it’s a good job I’m not staying long. The green breeches, I think. And a good