Jame felt Kroaky’s hands tighten on her shoulders and thrust her forward into the surge.
It knocked her off her feet. Bodies tumbled over her, cursing, kicking, until she fought free and managed to scramble up. Even then, the run carried her along with it. She had surfaced between two battling guild groups. Boys on either side pummeled each other between strides, then sprinted to catch up with their standard bearers. Jame wove between their fists. Never before had she used water-flowing and wind-blowing on the run. Her main goal was to avoid being trampled, but in doing so she found herself slipping through the crowd toward the lead runners. They were nearing the plaza. Suddenly a boy in front of her tripped and his precious cargo flew out of his hands. Coming up behind, Jame caught the golden boot. Its protectors re-formed around her.
“Run, run , RUN!” they panted.
The plaza lay just ahead. In another moment she would burst into it.
“. . . the Great Mother,” Ruso had said, “whose day this is . . .”
Oh no. Not again.
Jame thrust the gilded boot into the arms of the red-haired boy who ran next to her and tried to brake. Those following carried her forward, a pace behind the redhead. Thus they rushed into the plaza, just before the girls erupted from a street to the right and the children from one to the left.
Everyone was shouting. His friends seized the redhead and hoisted him, dazed, still clutching the golden boot, onto their shoulders. They started a boisterous procession around the Rose Tower, followed by the other apprentices wildly waving their ribbons. The noise was an assault in itself.
Jame eased out of the crush. On its edge, a lean hand with grimy nails reached out to pull her clear. She found herself looking into Graykin’s wrathful eyes.
“Just what were you trying to do?” he demanded, all but shaking her.
“Not get killed, primarily.”
Kroaky shouldered his way through the crowd of cheering onlookers.
“There you are,” he said with a wide grin, “and you too, Master Intelligencer.”
Jame took in Graykin’s dusty robe and the dirty white sash bound around his waist, this time understanding the latter’s significance.
“You’re the master of the Spies’ Guild? How did that happen?”
Graykin fussed with the sash, half proud, half defiant. “I’d just arrived here and joined the guild when the last Change came. Believe me, I was more surprised than anyone to be chosen.”
“It’s been known to happen,” said Kroaky cheerfully. “Look at Lady Professionate. Just be careful which of his questions you answer, Talisman.”
“You can compel the truth now?” Jame asked.
Her servant squirmed. “As Master Intelligencer, from the unwary, yes. I swore that I would never use tricks with you and I won’t. However . . .”
“You would really, really like to try.”
“You never tell me anything!” he burst out. “For example, why did this boy just call you ‘Talisman’?”
Jame almost told him, but stopped herself.
“I’ll answer as I see fit, thank you. As for you,” she turned on Kroaky, “why did you shove me into that maelstrom?”
The ginger-haired boy shrugged. “For fun. Why else does anyone do anything? Besides, I hear that you Knorth are remarkably hard to kill. Consider it a test.” He took her arm. “Now come along if you want to see how these festivities end. But not you,” he added to Graykin. “You aren’t welcome where we’re going.”
II
LEAVING GRAYKIN BEHIND to melt resentfully back into the shadows, Jame let Kroaky tow her through the crowd, then shook off his hand. “Where are we going, and why do you keep touching me?”
“Don’t you like it? Fang does.”
“That’s another question: what is a Waster doing here?”
“That’s your fault, indirectly. She lost her family at the Cataracts. The Horde tends to eat its orphans, so she wandered westward to Kothifir in search of a new clan.”
“And those are the Undercliff
It knocked her off her feet. Bodies tumbled over her, cursing, kicking, until she fought free and managed to scramble up. Even then, the run carried her along with it. She had surfaced between two battling guild groups. Boys on either side pummeled each other between strides, then sprinted to catch up with their standard bearers. Jame wove between their fists. Never before had she used water-flowing and wind-blowing on the run. Her main goal was to avoid being trampled, but in doing so she found herself slipping through the crowd toward the lead runners. They were nearing the plaza. Suddenly a boy in front of her tripped and his precious cargo flew out of his hands. Coming up behind, Jame caught the golden boot. Its protectors re-formed around her.
“Run, run , RUN!” they panted.
The plaza lay just ahead. In another moment she would burst into it.
“. . . the Great Mother,” Ruso had said, “whose day this is . . .”
Oh no. Not again.
Jame thrust the gilded boot into the arms of the red-haired boy who ran next to her and tried to brake. Those following carried her forward, a pace behind the redhead. Thus they rushed into the plaza, just before the girls erupted from a street to the right and the children from one to the left.
Everyone was shouting. His friends seized the redhead and hoisted him, dazed, still clutching the golden boot, onto their shoulders. They started a boisterous procession around the Rose Tower, followed by the other apprentices wildly waving their ribbons. The noise was an assault in itself.
Jame eased out of the crush. On its edge, a lean hand with grimy nails reached out to pull her clear. She found herself looking into Graykin’s wrathful eyes.
“Just what were you trying to do?” he demanded, all but shaking her.
“Not get killed, primarily.”
Kroaky shouldered his way through the crowd of cheering onlookers.
“There you are,” he said with a wide grin, “and you too, Master Intelligencer.”
Jame took in Graykin’s dusty robe and the dirty white sash bound around his waist, this time understanding the latter’s significance.
“You’re the master of the Spies’ Guild? How did that happen?”
Graykin fussed with the sash, half proud, half defiant. “I’d just arrived here and joined the guild when the last Change came. Believe me, I was more surprised than anyone to be chosen.”
“It’s been known to happen,” said Kroaky cheerfully. “Look at Lady Professionate. Just be careful which of his questions you answer, Talisman.”
“You can compel the truth now?” Jame asked.
Her servant squirmed. “As Master Intelligencer, from the unwary, yes. I swore that I would never use tricks with you and I won’t. However . . .”
“You would really, really like to try.”
“You never tell me anything!” he burst out. “For example, why did this boy just call you ‘Talisman’?”
Jame almost told him, but stopped herself.
“I’ll answer as I see fit, thank you. As for you,” she turned on Kroaky, “why did you shove me into that maelstrom?”
The ginger-haired boy shrugged. “For fun. Why else does anyone do anything? Besides, I hear that you Knorth are remarkably hard to kill. Consider it a test.” He took her arm. “Now come along if you want to see how these festivities end. But not you,” he added to Graykin. “You aren’t welcome where we’re going.”
II
LEAVING GRAYKIN BEHIND to melt resentfully back into the shadows, Jame let Kroaky tow her through the crowd, then shook off his hand. “Where are we going, and why do you keep touching me?”
“Don’t you like it? Fang does.”
“That’s another question: what is a Waster doing here?”
“That’s your fault, indirectly. She lost her family at the Cataracts. The Horde tends to eat its orphans, so she wandered westward to Kothifir in search of a new clan.”
“And those are the Undercliff
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