“… you are getting better …”
“Liar.”
“… o, ye of little faith …”
“Faith never kept a drowning man from sinking.” Mia dragged long on her cigarillo. “But admittedly, we don’t have many options.”
“… we could stay up all nevernight and plait each other’s hair and talk about boys …?”
“… MUST YOU ALWAYS PLAY THE FOOL, LITTLE MOGGY …?”
“… IT IS PART OF MY CHARM …”
“… THIS MUST BE SOME NEW DEFINITION OF CHARM WITH WHICH I AM UNACQUAINTED …”
“If you two are done,” Mia growled, “go keep a lookout, aye?”
Emptiness filled her as her passengers departed, butterflies replacing them. Mia tried to shush her nerves, staring across at the braavi den and wondering what awaited her there. Close-quarter fighting. An inn full of hardened criminals. And whoever was selling the map would presumably bring muscle of their own. Bad odds.
Pushing aside her questions, Adonai’s warning ringing in her head, she crushed her cigarillo under heel.
“Right,” she nodded. “I need a dress.”
Mia walked across the crowded street as if she owned it, over the broken cobbles right toward the door of the Dog’s Dinner.fn2
Nevernight had fallen, wind howling down the thoroughfare. A summer storm had rolled in with it off the ocean, lukewarm rain coming down in thin curtains, the two suns hidden behind a mask of gray. But inclement weather was rarely a reason for folk in Godsgrave to stay inside on a weeksend, and the streets still bustled with folk on their way to their revels.
Little Liis was one of the more squalid sections of the ’Grave, but Liisian folk had flair, and growing up here as a girl, Mia had always found the colors and styles of their dress beautiful. They reminded her of her mother, truth told, and something in the music and aromas of this place called to the blood in her veins. Her outfit had been purloined from the chapel’s wardrobe to fit in with the locals; leather britches and knee-length boots, a corset over a velvet shirt, a glittering necklet, all various shades of blood-red. If she got murdered in there, at least she’ d leave a fine-looking corpse.
Up close, the doormen looked even more intimidating. They were under cover of the Dinner’s front awning, but both still looked a little damp and more than a little surly. The gentle on the left was almost as wide as he was tall, and his comrade looked like he’ d eaten his own parents for breakfast.
Wideboy held up a hand, stopping Mia short. “Hold there, Mi Dona.”
“Merry nevernight, my lovely gentles,” Mia smiled, dropped into a small curtsey.
“Can’t come in ’ere,” said Orphanboy, shaking his head.
“No riffraff,” Wideboy agreed.
Mia looked down at her outfit, sounding mildly wounded. “Riffraff?”
Four drunken sailors who’d sit comfortably next to the definition of “riffraff” in Don Fiorlini’s bestselling Itreyan Diction: the Definitive Guide stepped up to the door.
“Good eve, gentlefriends,” said Wideboy. “Welcome, welcome.”
The man opened the doors, a burst of flute and laughter rang within, and the mariners stepped inside without a backward glance.
Mia smiled sweetly at Wideboy. “I’ve friends waiting insid—”
“Can’t come in ’ere this eve,” the big man said.
“Not serving your kind,” Orphanboy nodded.
“… My kind?”
The thugs grunted and nodded in unison.
“Let me understand this,” Mia said. “You’re a band of thieves, pimps, stand-over men and murderers. And you’re telling me I’m not good enough to drink here?”
“Aye,” said Wideboy.
“Fugoff,” said his partner.
Mia adjusted her corset as meaningfully as possible. The braavi thugs stared at her without blinking. Finally, she folded her arms and sighed. “How much do you want?”
Orphanboy’s eyes narrowed. “How much you got?”
“Two priests?”
The doorman looked up and down the street, then nodded. “Give it over, then.”
Mia fished around her purse, and flipped one coin apiece to the doormen. The iron disappeared into their pockets quicker than a smokehound into the pipe on payday.
Mia stared at the pair, eyebrows rising. “Well?”
“Can’t come in ’ere this eve,” said Orphanboy.
“Not serving your kind,” Wideboy agreed.
The pair stood aside for a second group of revelers (carrying a street sign and a somewhat troubled-looking sheep), bidding them good eve as they stepped inside. Every one of them was a man. Peering into the room beyond, Mia saw every single one of the clientele was also male. And somewhere in her head, Realization tipped its hat.
“Ohhhh,” she said. “Riiiiight.”
“Right,” said Wideboy.
Orphanboy stroked his chin and nodded sagely.
“Well,” she said.
“… Well what?”
“Well, can I have my money back?” the girl asked.
“You’re terrible at this,” said Wideboy.
“Just awful,” agreed Orphanboy.
Mia pouted. “Mister Kindly said I’m getting better.”
“Whoever he is, Mister Kindly’s a bloody liar.”
The doormen folded their arms like a pair of synchronized dancers.
Mia sighed. “Merry
