Because it is Sixthday there is no afternoon training. I wash with the others but plead a headache and retreat to my cubicle instead of soaking in the hot pool because I cannot bear their chatter. I dress in my underthings and my leggings, tie my Fives slippers just below my knees like I used to do when I sneaked out of the house, and wrap my Fives court tunic around one thigh. Kalliarkos wants me to be ready in case I have to climb the villa wall. The everyday loose linen sheath gown they issued me covers me from shoulders to ankles, hiding the other clothes. The ordinary garb of Commoner women makes me inconspicuous.
When I hear Gira, Shorty, and Mis leaving at dusk I hurry after so everyone else sees me leave with them. “I’m feeling better! Which play did you choose? Can I come?”
“The General’s Valiant Daughter,” says Mis with a laugh. “Come on, then.”
It does not take us long to reach the West Gate of the Lantern District.
Beneath the flowing ribbons I halt. “Listen. Will you meet me here later?”
Mis presses a hand over her eyes as if to hide whatever folly I’m planning from her sight.
“Lord Gargaron is a hard man, Jes.” Gira waggles a finger in front of my face. “Don’t cross him by trying to romance his nephew, no matter what his nephew says.”
“How could I be meeting him? The palace has some kind of wedding feast tonight, doesn’t it?”
Gira frowns. “That’s right. They do. Where are you going, then?”
Amaya has a look we sisters call her sad kitten eyes. I try it out now. “I can’t say. Please.”
They look at one another. After a moment Shorty shakes her head, foreseeing no good end to the night’s business, but points to the big brass water clock with its ticking gears, elaborate catchments, and column of trumpets that stands to the west of the gate. “We will be here when the fourth night-trumpet blows. If you’re not here, then you’re on your own.”
“Thank you! If you have to go back without me, say I vanished into the crowd and you lost track of me. It is Sevensday tomorrow anyway. It is our free day, isn’t it?”
“It is our free day, and you don’t have to be in until dawn on Firstday,” says Gira curtly, but I can see she is revising her opinion of me, wondering what kind of troublemaker I will turn out to be. “I don’t like to be the kind of person who gives advice, Jes, but whatever it is, I think you shouldn’t do it.”
“Who ever listened to good advice? I never did!” Mis’s laugh is drowned out by a blast of singing that washes over us from a determined group of revelers who swarm past, already drunk.
Gira seems ready to scold me again but Shorty pulls her away. I wait as they walk under the ribbon wheels. When I am sure they are out of sight I stride down through the lively streets, past the night market just opening for the evening with its tempting foods, and along the Avenue of Triumphs where my father was cheered. That day seems like it happened years ago.
Halfway down the Avenue of Triumphs stand monumental twin pillars carved with the victorious deeds of the much-loved and justice-seeking King Kliatemnos the Fourth and his wise and benevolent mother, Serenissima the Third, who acted as regent for him when he was a child. The side streets of this district are awash with taverns that cater to Patron military men and foreign mercenaries. Tonight the place is swarming with soldiers. I did not realize there were so many in the city. In a nearby tavern a man is singing a dreary account of the battle of Reef Cliffs, where as an adult Kliatemnos the Fourth died with a knife in his back just as his army achieved a decisive victory over the king of East Saro.
Kalliarkos wanted to meet here instead of outside the Lantern District because we’re less likely to be recognized and because it will not look strange for a young woman like me to get into a carriage belonging to a young man like him. In fact, while I’m waiting, four different foreign men crudely proposition me, and an unknown man in the crowd pats my buttocks in passing. A drunk Soldian actually tries to touch my breasts before I elbow him hard enough to wind him.
“Try that again and I’ll brew a magic to make your testicles wither,” I snap in my most highborn Patron manner. “Am I wearing white ribbons, that you feel you can accost me?”
His comrades drag him away, muttering about arrogant mules.
I move away up the street, scanning the traffic, and admire a small carriage that is being deftly woven through the wagons, carts, foot traffic, and fine carriages. Rigged for speed, it is just large enough to seat a driver and two passengers, although the passenger bench is empty. The driver wears a sand scarf wrapped around his mouth and nose, the sort of gear worn by a traveler in the desert. He pulls down the scarf, looking for me. In his court clothes, whip in hand, he looks so striking that I stare and stare as he almost drives past. Then I remember to push out of the crowd.
