I hadn’t told Tain she’d been following me around the city. He knew me too well, and he’d have seen the mixed emotions her continual presence generated in me. She glanced at me, a quick, sidelong flash of calculation.
“Honored Chancellor,” she said, tilting her head. “You do not know how to talk to our people. I will speak to them for you.”
“Why?”
“Jov!” Tain glared at me, but he’d not been subjected to her commentary about our self-indulgence and ignorance and lack of tah for days, peppering his every movement, so her sudden offer of help probably didn’t sound so incongruous to him.
“Why would you help?” I asked. “You told us you wouldn’t admit to speaking with us. And you tell me at least once a day that the city deserves to fall, that we brought this all on ourselves.”
“You care so much about these petty matters, Credo Jovan,” she said to me, her voice cool but her eyes sparkling. “You should not pay so much mind to the things people say.”
“Should I stop listening when you talk?” I muttered, and this time I definitely caught a twitch of her lips.
“This is not about me,” she said, returning her attention to Tain. “This is about helping my people. They will hide if you go into the catacombs, but I could spread word that the lower city is being evacuated. Then those who want to come into the upper city can do so.”
“We’ll protect them,” Tain told her, hope burgeoning in his voice. “I’ve made it clear what will happen to anyone who attacks another one of our residents. And we can provide safe accommodation.” We had already planned for a whole section of the city for the Darfri and anyone else who could be, or felt, at risk from other residents. It wouldn’t be glamorous, but it would be clean and safe. And a damn sight better than living in a cave.
But I frowned. “You were worried about being branded a traitor just for talking to us. How could you pass on a message from us without putting yourself in danger?”
She pushed fabric back from one hip, revealing a long, curved dagger hanging from her woven belt. “You will see that my mother and brother will be protected, yes? You move them to your Manor. I can care for myself.”
“Are you sure?” Tain asked her. “You don’t have to do this. Your family’s already risked so much.”
“Forgive me, Honored Chancellor, but I do not offer for you. I offer for the sake of my people.”
“I respect that,” he said. “If I had any other viable options, I want you to know I wouldn’t allow you to bear this risk, but the truth is, we couldn’t think of a way to do this.”
“I know,” she said, with no trace of embarrassment. “I was listening to you talk. You two, you talk, talk, all the time. Like old folk around the fire.”
Tain laughed. “I guess we do. Let’s hope we’re good enough at it to convince everyone to stop fighting.” He stood up straight, stretching his back and shoulders. “Tell them to listen for the gongs, for the retreat signal. Three quick strikes in a row, pause, three more. It’ll keep ringing as long as we can manage it. At that signal, they should retreat over the bridge and head for Potbelly Square. There’ll be people there to help everyone find their way.”
“Three gongs, repeating, and go to Potbelly Square,” she said.
“Try to convince people to come now, if you can. Especially families. I’d prefer it if we didn’t have any panicking children running about if we have to call a retreat.”
An-Hadrea shrugged. “I will try.”
“Thank you,” Tain said. “Do you want me to send a guard with you?”
“Credo Jovan will walk with me to the catacombs,” she said, her inflection suggesting it was not a question. She looked at me, straight-faced. “But it will be best if I go alone from there.”
My mouth dried up as I struggled to think what to say. She rendered the issue moot, in any case, starting down the stairs without another word. I shrugged at my friend and then sprang after her, struggling to keep up as she slipped down the stairs and into the growing crowd at the base of the tower. We made our way across Trickster’s Bridge, dodging dozens of carts dragging equipment and supplies to the old city, the press of people and oku and carts creating a blanket of smells and sounds. The buzz of their endeavors almost made it feel like a busy day at the wharf or markets; though the suffocating closeness of the crowd made me as anxious as always, it was balanced by a feeling of familiarity. Strange how I could feel both at peace and on edge at the same time.
“I have not eaten this morning,” An-Hadrea said, stopping after we stepped off the far side of the bridge. “I will visit the ration station before I go below. You will eat with me?”
I searched her expressionless face, frustrated by my inability to read her intent. “I suppose.” Truth be told, I was starving. I’d proofed Tain’s meal last night but been too tired to seek my own, so hadn’t eaten anything since early yesterday but a few mouthfuls of Tain’s millet porridge and some lukewarm tea.
“Do you have special access to the food? Or do you wait in the line with the rest of us?”
“I line up,” I said, terse. When I visited a ration station, I did. Usually I ate from the Chancellor’s kitchen, one of the few private kitchens not commandeered for communal food preparation. But I wasn’t going to tell her that.
“Then let us line up,” she said, unruffled.
A passing group of men and women, approaching from the direction in which we headed, brushed too close for my liking, and one or two of them stared at the two of us walking together. We’d had no further reports of violence toward Darfri, but the air of ill feeling toward them was worse than ever. Given that the last Darfri to whom I had spoken had been murdered, I feared what our enemies within the city might do.
“Maybe you should think about dressing like a Silastian,” I told her, conscious that the wide gray scarf that covered her head and torso, while useful for blending into shadows, stood out among the crowds of white cloth and bare dark heads. She had not hidden her charm necklace.
She snorted. “I am proud to be Darfri. You have made us hide for your convenience for long enough.”
We were too early for a line at the station. “Porridge is just done, Credo,” the boy there told us. The ration station was a reconfigured school classroom with tables stacked with crude bowls and pots cluttering the floor.
“Mind if we take a few bowls?” As he scurried off, I said to her, “We’ve hardly time to wait to create a line to satisfy you, have we?”
She didn’t reply, but when the boy returned with two steaming bowls, she thanked him in her soft, lilting voice, and the lad looked at his feet, embarrassed.
I began the bland fare. Salt and spices had been the first things to be thinned from the rationing after fresh food. I didn’t need proofing skills to tell me this was millet and hot water, nothing more. Habit made me breathe in the scent of each mouthful first, and to work the food around my mouth as I ate, feeling for reactions.
My companion, on the other hand, dove into her food with apparent relish, using two spoons as she ate, the bowl nestled in her lap between her crossed legs. She looked up at me, midscoop, and laughed.