Beka's POV
Rosto never came back to Eleni's that night. I tried to convince myself that I didn't care, but I certainly noticed.
In the morning, I rose and scrubbed my face. Once my eyes were clean of Ganiel's sleep dust, I noticed the dress that was draped over my nightstand. Eleni had taken one of her older dresses and sewn light blue trim on the sleeves and bodice. The body of the dress was a soft cream color. It was very pretty.
Quickly, I jumped out of my ragged uniform and attempted to put on the dress. It was a different, more complex make than I was used to; I ended up with extra lacings and even an extra petticoat.
There was a knock on my door and I heard Eleni's soft voice. "Beka, how does the dress fit?"
"I don't know." I answered honestly.
"May I come in?" Eleni asked gently. I nodded before I realized she couldn't see my face.
"Come in." I mumbled. Blood rushed to my cheeks. Eleni raised an eyebrow at the sight of her "famous" ancestress all in a tangle of skirts and lacings.
88
Squire Alanna came by the morning. I felt slightly better as copper-nob fumbled with her own dress. Eleni helped her get it on, and I was impressed by the change.
She's pretty, in a unique sort of way. It's not Kora's classic beauty, nor Aniki's deadly grace, but there's something about that mot that draws the eye. I suppose I can understand George's fancy.
Once Alanna and I were dressed all proper, Eleni decided we were in for lady lessons. First, she had to teach us to sit. "Sweep your skirts out like this." Eleni commanded. Alanna and I shared a worried glance.
It took nearly a half hour for us to get it right. Pounce had returned; he sat in Eleni's den purring over a ball of yarn. Mostly he ignored us; but then Eleni started to make tea. He darted back into the kitchen, sniffing boldly. The healer laughed and produced a small bowl of milk for him.
"He's foul-mouthed to begin with, and that cream won't help." Alanna muttered. I laughed. Pounce was too busy lapping up his treat to make a clever retort.
88888888888888888888
Rosto's POV
Rosto sat at the bar, gingerly sniffing his tankard of warm ale. He couldn't bring himself to take a sip; he should have ordered something to eat instead. It was early morning, and he'd been lurking around the Lower City all night.
Instead of taking a drink, Rosto mulled over the events of the previous night. Blasé's mot was a silly little creature, and a true doxie. Rosto hadn't been interested in her attempts to promote her "business" but he was interested in the oddly spiced hotblood she left on her bedside table. The scent burned his sharp nostrils; his tripes clenched in warning.
As the doxie fluttered around her kitchen, he studied the bottle, and noticed the note tucked underneath it.
"Suggestive." The word was written in with a smooth, wide script. It could have been a lover's note; excepting the small, charcoal snake drawn in the corner. It was, unmistakably, the latest symbol for the Shadow Snake. It differed from the one he knew, but the idea was the same.
His thoughts flew to Beka, but just as quickly, he rejected the idea that she was involved. He might not have been on speaking terms with her at the moment, but he knew her. Beka Cooper was a clean, honest mot. There wasn't a crooked bone in her body. He reasoned that someone had been inspired by her attack on the blacksmith; and a copycat had sprung from the shadows. It happened every so often in Scanra.
Rosto knew hotblood did odd things to the mind. Also, thanks to Kora's teaching, he knew about the powers of certain plants on the body. Combine the alcohol with the proper herbs, add a mild, undetectable spell, and even the most sarden and stubborn cove will become flexible. That must have been how the "shadow snake" persuaded the mumper to attack George several days ago.
Rosto could see why this particular doxie might use the laced hotblood on her own customers, but she wasn't wealthy or influential enough to have come by the drink on her own.
"Who gave this to you?" Rosto asked, indicating toward the wine.
The woman smiled lazily, smug. He was beginning to see that the mousy brunette was actually a vicious little mink. "An admirer." She said coyly.
Eventually, she tried to feed him some. Rosto danced around a bit, spun a tale about important matters elsewhere, and fled her apartment as soon as possible.
His thoughts drifted back to the bar, to his current reality. He sighed; he felt as though this was all a daydream gone wrong. Finally, he gave up on the ale and asked for barley water. His stomach churned unpleasantly as the water made him think of Beka once more. If he wanted to eat anything over the next several days, the first thing he needed to swallow was his pride. He needed to apologize.
Rosto's gaze wandered over to George, who sat lounging in his throne.
A Player shuffled into the Dancing Dove. The newcomer was a wiry young rusher, and he had a Rat with him. Rosto watched the scene idly as the cove tossed the prisoner before George. This promised to be interesting.
88888
Beka's POV
Brass found me again, on my way to the Dancing Dove. He's a brave little birdie alright; and fool enough to leave his flock. He pecked at me, and I brushed him away.
"I told 'im ta stop hiring others. Ya wants a job done right, ya does it yerself. Stop asking me ta be the middle woman. Didn't listen—'e never listened. Oy—Some players came and took my body. My body! I want it burned; I don't wanna go ta the Realms of the dead, looking like raw meat. At least take me to the goddess's temple!" Brass's wings knocked my face. I threw up my arms to protect myself. Once the bird was away from my face; I reached out and grabbed it. I held his chest, pinning his wings to his side.
"Now, you listen here, miss." I looked the pigeon straight in the glims. "I can't help you unless you give me somewhat to work with. What'd he look like? What's his name? Where does he live?" I was whispering, trying to look like less of a looby. What would a passerby think if they heard me discussing murder with a pigeon? Even I didn't expect Brass's rider to answer.
"He lives up at the palace." The woman's soul whispered back. Brass quieted under my hands. I've never had a soul talk back to me afore. Usually, they're so caught up in being…well, caught between realms; they usually can't muster the focus to talk to me. But this gixie was different. Mayhap she had animal magic when she was alive, and mayhap that gave her a special connection with the bird. I don't know. But Brass looked at me, and I had the feeling he was listening.
"What else can you tell me? What's his name?" But Brass's claw reached up and dug into the soft skin on my wrist. I yelped and let him go. The bird sped away, probably back to his flock.
I used my sleeve to blot the small drops of blood. I bought a small flask of spirits to wash out the cut. The merchant selling the swill was a spindly man, tall and dark-haired. When he spoke, he was polite enough, but there was something sharp in his tone. Something about it stuck in my head, but I shook off the sensation. His wares were cheap; probably a poor quality, but I didn't pay much mind.
Mayhap I was tired, mayhap my head and heart were sore from the spat I had with Rosto. Whatever the reason, I took a sip of the potent drink. As the liquid seared my tongue, I wondered how some folk drank it all the time. I immediately spat out most of it; the burning taste lingered in my mouth.
George's POV
Sometime during midmorning, Marek appeared in Court. As Beka would say, Marek had 'a Rat in his hobbles.' Swiftknife hovered over a man who was trussed up like a midwinter goose. George raised an eyebrow.
'Someone's been spending too much time with extended family.' George thought, with grim good humor.
"Your majesty, this grunt has information you may find interesting." Marek kicked the prisoner, who let out a muffled 'omph.'
George flicked his fingers, gesturing for Marek to remove the gag.
The prisoner was thirty-something, a thin, weak creature with mousy brown hair and dull grey eyes. He looked up at the Rogue fearfully as he gasped for breath.
"Well? Marek doesn't bother chasing small prey; you're either a large fool or…" He let his voice trail carelessly, but a knife appeared in his right hand. He twirled it and gazed at the man with eyes that were uncharacteristically chilly.
The prisoner stammered, "I…I…fed the pauper the hotblood wine, and then gave him some coppers to attack you. A doxie gave me the money for everything, said her man gave her specific instructions. I had a little fun, took the coin, and did as she told me. Never thought the mumper would be that daft…I found out later that the wine was spelled, made the person 'ceptible to suggestions."
"Who was the woman?" George's voice was ice cold.
"Said 'er name was Anne—I never met the man she worked fer. She was a woman—nicely rounded, knew how ta use her charms…" a small, smug smile flicked briefly across his face. Marek cuffed him, and the man returned to reality. "Blond, mid-thirties, green eyes—tough voice, for a woman. Wears a lot of green; ta bring out 'er eyes, she says."
"We found her, George." Marek interrupted. "After this one gave us the information, Scholar and I put our eyes for her."
"And?" George bit back a growl of impatience. Marek was being deliberately slow.
"And…" Marek took a deep breath. "She's…dead. Looks like somewhat din't want his miss blabbing 'is secrets. Musta fought like a wildcat, looks like she was beaten to death."
The prisoner had the grace to look horrified. "Anne! She was an innocent little la—
"Innocent enough to plot murder." George said darkly. "And now we've—quite literally—found another dead end. Whoever's behind this is a slippery old fish."
"Not a fish, majesty." Marek said quietly. "A snake." He held out a scrap of parchment. "We found this with her body." The charcoal drawing sent an involuntary shiver down George's spine. The Shadow Snake.
George distinctly remembered Beka's sooty uniform, her guilty face and sour mood. The first attack had been reported the morning after. He hated the connections his mind was starting to make. He had been a fool to trust "Beka" and such a mad tale.
888888
Rosto's POV
Rosto still sat at the bar, drinking in the information Swiftknife's Rat provided. The doxie he'd met, and the one who died—they were both tied to the cuddy using the name "Shadow Snake." The coward was relying on cheap tricks and puttocks do carry out his will; the Snake hadn't the courage to challenge George honorably.
Speaking of George…Rosto caught the dark look in the Rogue's eyes. George was fitting the pieces together; and one of those pieces was Beka. George had seen Beka in a temper, all sooty, right before the blacksmith claimed he was attacked by the snake. Undoubtedly, George suspected that Beka was the snake. In George's position, Rosto would be reaching the same conclusion.
Rosto let out a short hiss of breath. No.
Beka was at the door, nursing a small cut on her wrist. Her pale blue eyes flicked in Rosto's direction, and he saw a shimmer of regret in her gaze.
In five swift strides, Rosto crossed the room and grabbed Beka's uninjured arm, pulling her back out into the street. "Come quick, ask questions later." He murmured.