get her where she wanted to be more swiftly than great strides. They spoke of Geder Palliako’s decision to inspect the troops in Sarakal, of the rise in status of Fallon Broot, of the great debate about whether to replace the chairs in the Fraternity of the Great Bear. Clara listened and offered perhaps a bit less comment than she would have before. She felt the two different versions of herself sitting together, one hurt and shamed and cast out from her home, the other listening carefully for scraps of information that might give her advantage. When the time arrived, Caot and Essian left together, but Lady Tilliaken kept Clara back, inviting her to a small niche for a moment. She was still not welcome in the house even so far as a withdrawing room, but that Tilliaken wished a moment alone was interesting. Clara sat on the wooden bench while the lady of the house disappeared for a moment. She reached for her pipe before remembering that she couldn’t make use of it.
“Clara,” Lady Tilliaken said, stepping into the niche. She carried a folded cloth of yellow cream. “I wanted to ask if you had any need of this. It’s perfectly serviceable, but I’m afraid it doesn’t fit me any longer.”
The dress spilled forth from her hands, flowing like water. Clara felt herself go cold. It was a pretty enough piece of sewing, strong at the seams and the lacework well crafted. That wasn’t at issue. It was the offer itself. The fact—for it was now a fact—that the Baroness of Osterling Fells had become the sort of woman one offered secondhand clothes to. She wished now that she’d asked for the tobacco. If she had descended to charity, there seemed no reason to step away. She forced a smile.
“It’s lovely, Enga,” Clara said, taking the silk between her fingers. “And I have the perfect use for it.”
No, ma’am, I can’t,” the woman said. Her name was Aly Koutunin, and Clara had met her on the Prisoner’s Span the month before when Clara had gone to pass out free bread. She was younger than Clara by almost a decade, but the years had worn harder on her, and they might almost have been sisters.
“Your daughter’s getting married, isn’t she?” Clara asked. “She’s almost the right size. Even if she doesn’t choose it for the ceremony—”
“Not that. It’s just so rich.”
“If you don’t take it, it will be on the ragman’s cart by morning.”
“No!”
“I swear it,” Clara said, and her sincerity left no more room for dissent. Aly folded the cloth carefully, reverently, and pressed it into her sack. They stood at the edge of the Prisoner’s Span, looking out across the southernmost reach of the Division. In the west, massive clouds were building, high and white at the top, grey as slate at the bottom. Late spring storms often washed the lands near Camnipol this time of year, but just as often they missed, clinging to the horizon like a shy boy at a his first ball. On the bridge itself, a Firstblood man was leaning over the railing, shouting down to a woman in one of the hanging cages. From what little Clara could see, the prisoner’s expression was empty, her arms and legs poking out between the bars and over the abyss. The man shouted something about being a bad mother to her children and spat down toward her.
“True love, eh?” Aly said, following Clara’s gaze. “They’ve been like that most of the day.”
“And how is your Mihal faring?” Clara asked.
“He’ll come back up in three days, unless the magistrate’s too drunk to come,” Aly said. Mihal, her son, had been caught stealing coins from a merchant’s stall and had hung over the open air for two weeks now. It wasn’t his first time in the cages, and the magistrate had made unpleasant jokes about sending him over without one next time. Aly pretended to treat it lightly, but Clara saw the fear at the corners of her eyes.
The previous year’s battles had wounded the city, there was no question. Blades in the street and fires in the noblest quarters. Nothing like that could happen without leaving a mark. Only in the gardens and mansions at the northern end of the city did Clara see how it could be possible to view the worst as passed, the wounds as healing. Walk south and west far enough to reach the Prisoner’s Span, and the infection showed. It wasn’t