Or rather, who?” Rillen found himself fascinated by her hatred, so at odds with the naive softness of her. Entranced by the cruelty of her catlike smile.
“Joshing Josie.” She spat the name like the vilest insult and her tea shook in its glass. “You’ve heard of her?”
So that was where the hate was. What did it have to do with turning Van Gast in? “Who hasn’t? As bad as Van Gast, and they hate each…” He watched her face as he said it, the triumphal look as what she was saying hit home. “Josie? Are you sure?”
She shrugged and the sly smile deepened. “I have eyes, and ears. Some people only see what others want them to see, wouldn’t you say?”
Now there was a surprise. How could he use it? “What else do you know about her?”
A shrug, a twisting sneer. “More than I want to. Her and that Gan she’s taken on with, Skrymir. They’re in Estovan too. That’s why Van Gast is here, to find her. I don’t know why he bothers, she’ll whore herself to anyone if it gets her something. Wouldn’t surprise me if her and Skrymir were making little Gan babies on the ship she stole from Van Gast. She’s Gan too, partly, or so she claims. And she’s here to make money, don’t doubt it.”
Rillen blinked at the ferocity of her, the way she leaned forward, jabbing with a passionate finger. Here was the hate all right. Not at Van Gast, he saw that. This woman wanted to hurt Josie through Van Gast. No matter. If Rillen played his informant right, she could change everything for him.
“You’re sure you can do this? Get on his ship?”
Her laugh made Rillen’s spine shiver. “They think they’re so devious. I can get on Van’s ship. Easy as winking. And I’ll get you Van Gast.”
Rillen watched her go, the easy sway of her hips, an irrepressible spring in her step. He couldn’t be sure whether he admired her treachery or whether it was responsible for the chill creeping in the pit of his stomach. Whether he wanted to keep her close or as far away as possible.
She reminded him of a laceflower—beautiful, graceful, useful. And deadly to the touch.
* * *
Holden made his careful way back through the delta, his hand on the butt of his pistol the whole way. He stopped by the exotic animals again, watching the cat pacing in its cage. Lions Ilsa had wanted and he hadn’t even given her that. He tore himself away and kept his eyes open as he negotiated the winding pathways and shadowy alleys. The delta wasn’t for the fainthearted, and Holden wasn’t feeling his bravest.
He was just another rack now, he had to keep reminding himself. One more rack in a sea of them, among the sounds of bells that washed over him. His only protection was himself. So his hand was tight on his pistol, and he wished that he still had the other hand for his sword. He lost his way past the lion, couldn’t find the path that Tallia had led him down, but the city blazed with light ahead of him, drawing him on. He walked warily past drift-inns alight with booze and racks and noise, made wide berth round a brawl that spilled from one, across the street and into the next. Spotted the mugger just in time, as the man came forward with a club for the back of his head, whipped around and used the butt of his pistol as his own club.
By the time he reached the relative safety of the plaza, where his purse was more likely to be cut than he was, he was grateful for the crowds, the light and noise. He found a space and leaned up against one of the more substantial stalls to give himself a chance to catch his breath.
The delta behind was dark, lit with splotches of light that ran from the drift-inn windows. But he’d survived it on his own and that brought a smile to him, made him stand straighter. He’d survived it and would survive more. It would get easier, this freedom, this aloneness. He wiped an arm across his face to clear the sweat of a stifling night and felt like laughing at it, at himself, at the city.
It was easier as he pushed through the crowds to make for Mucking Lane and the ships. A few fell back before him at the sight of his Remorian features,