that crammed round the Godsquare and the trading quarters close by. Not the smart end of town, not here, but close.
He wished his bells would shut up, or that he dared take them off, but no rack, no sailor would ever be without his endless prayers to Forn the merciless. He’d rather be shot than drown, sink down into the Deeps and an endless watery grave. Both those things paled before what rose in his mind now.
Josie had been supposed to meet him in the Godsquare, there and then. Maybe they’d already got her. On the tail of that, even as his breath heaved with the thought that they’d caught her, came another, more traitorous image. Maybe she’d set him up. Maybe this was the revenge she was after, for his betrayal. The worst thing for a Gan, for a woman, and she was both.
Those guards had known his true name. The only woman who knew his true name was Josie.
He dragged himself up the wall by way of a derelict bed and onto the roof. A proper roof now, one he felt at home on with nests of chimneys, ridges, dormers, cupolas and sharp gables with fancy fretwork to hide among. He ducked behind a cupola with a weather vane in the shape of a shark twisting in the breeze and kept still, to keep his bells from chiming and to help steady his breath and heart.
Plenty of military-style swearing drifted up from below but no footsteps in this alley. Yet—it was only a matter of time until the stallholders showed them the way. He took a deep breath and tried to think. Few options, none very palatable. These guards were maybe looking for Josie too, and might already have her. Or, with luck, she’d kept out of their way because they were looking for him. A slim hope.
Someone had set him up. Someone had said “In the green shirt” right behind him, a woman’s voice, soft and low, a voice he knew but it had been too quiet to say whose for sure. The guards had all been heading his way even before that. They’d known he was going to be there, and the only person who knew that was Josie, or whoever had sent the note. And his little-magics had itched him like crazy and he’d still gone, because he’d been sure—well, hoped like mad—it was her. How many people knew he’d do that? Not many. Josie, Holden, Guld. Maybe a few of the crew, gossiping little rumor-mongers that every sailor was. But he was sure they didn’t know his true name. Holden did, and Josie. Skrymir and Van Gast’s young son, Ansen, who crewed for Josie. No one else that he knew of. Only one woman on that list.
The sneaky sound in the alley of someone trying to be silent and failing wafted up to his little hidey-hole. No bells, not sailors. Guards. No time to think now, only do. He cast his gaze around, peering into a dark crusted with stars and the tiniest sliver of a moon. Not much to see by, but enough. He ran, the joy of it dimmed for once, the burn of a betrayal worse than the burn of his breath. But those guards wouldn’t catch him, not Van Gast, because he was good, better than good, and the fuckers could never get him.
Chapter Eight
Holden hurried along the wharf after Ilsa and Tallia. He wasn’t sure in his mind which of them he wanted to find more, but they both headed for the city walls and he followed as best he could. Ilsa was easier to spot, her chestnut hair fluttering, men moving out of her way, some watching appreciatively as she passed, others drawing away with grimaces of disgust at her Remorian looks. Tallia was more difficult, being small and dark like most everyone else, though she got the same sort of appreciation and none of the drawing away. Holden lost her more than once before they reached the entrance to the city proper and it was only because she seemed headed the same way that he found her again.
By the time they reached the Godsquare it was sunset. Orange light bounced off the ancient walls and made all the stone more mellow. Lamps appeared across the square, and the sudden change made it hard to see for long moments. When his eyesight cleared, both Ilsa and Tallia had been swallowed by the crowds.