“This way, please,” he said, gesturing down an alley.
Sancia realized they were heading toward the Slopes: a stretch of Old Ditch that ran along the main shipping channel. It had once been used as a waterfront, back before the houses, but it had fallen into disrepair and started flooding repeatedly, until finally it’d been abandoned.
But as they turned a corner, Sancia saw it was not abandoned any longer.
A huge tent had been built over the Slopes, about three hundred feet wide and fifty feet tall. Stacked within were piles and piles of crates, barrels, bags, and wagons. She saw there were men stationed around the tent, with curiously lightish-colored skin and fair hair. They had hard faces and hard eyes, and they bore rapiers and espringals and watched the alleys keenly.
Gregor made right for them. Sancia followed, unsure what these men were guarding—but then she caught a whiff of corn, and pepper, and she realized.
It’s food, she thought. Spice. God, even wine…
This was a surprise. Ever since rebellions had broken out all over the slave plantations, food and wine had been scarce in Tevanne, but especially in the Commons.
She had an idea. She flexed her scrived sight, and studied the men before the big tent, and saw their weapons light up with scrivings and bindings.
She felt dread bloom in her stomach. There’s only one kind of person in the Commons who’d have access to food and wine, and scrived weaponry…
“How did you come to know these guys, Gregor?” she asked.
“I consort with many types of people, Sancia,” he said. “That is what a good chief of security does. It’s easier to stop a threat if you know it’s coming first. But…this is the only person I know of who could possibly confirm any of what you are suggesting.”
“Okay?”
“However…they have been very interested in you. They have asked me repeatedly to let them see you. Though I’ve been reluctant to allow that to happen.”
“Okay…why?”
One of the men saw Gregor approaching and walked forward to intercept him. “Not open today,” he said in a curious accent. “Still too early.”
“I am not here to purchase,” Gregor said. “I am here to see Miss Carbonari.”
The man frowned at him mistrustfully. “Why would you get to see her?”
“Because I have politely asked, I should hope.”
The man opened his mouth to respond when a second guard sidled up, tapped him on the shoulder, and whispered something in his ear. Comprehension bloomed on the man’s face. He looked somewhat embarrassed. “Oh,” he said. “Ohh. I will let her know you’re here.”
The man entered the depths of the tent. Gregor turned to Sancia and said, “If asked, you are a scriving prodigy, and nothing more.”
“What?” she said, startled.
“If anyone were to ask,” he said, this time slowly and clearly, “you simply have a natural gift for scriving. There is nothing unnatural about it. Understand?”
“What have you been telling these peop—”
The man emerged from the stacks of crates. “She will see you now.”
Gregor waved a hand, and together they entered the tent.
The light within was a dim yellow, filtered through the cloths and skins above, and there were glimmering oil lanterns staggered throughout the stacks of crates. Though it seemed to be a small labyrinth, it was quite populated: men and women shifted among the goods, or slept on crude pallets, and though they hardly cast an eye at Gregor, many of them stared curiously at Sancia.
Sancia’s eye traced over them in the dark. Some of them had their upper arms bared. Every time, they had a small brand on their left triceps—denoting, Sancia knew, which island had once owned them.
Finally they wound through the depths of the tent until they came to a small makeshift office. A woman sat in the corner, behind a tiny, rickety desk, bent over a stack of papers, an oily candle fluttering just inches from her eye.
She looked up at Gregor. She was dressed plainly in a jerkin and breeches—unusual for a woman, but a choice Sancia herself often opted for—and was perhaps about his age, though she looked a little older, due to a life of hard living. Her skin had probably once been lighter than that of the average Tevanni, but was now dark and lined from years in the sun, and her iron-gray eyes were stuck in a perpetual squint. Still, there was an evenness to her features, and a confidence to her bearing, that made her attractive to look at.
“Gregor,” she said. Her voice was low and sonorous, but her words were stiff. She was obviously not from anywhere close to Tevanne. “Morning. It’s been some time.”
Gregor bowed. “Good morning, Polina. How goes your trade?”
“Booming, as always.” Her hard eyes flicked to Sancia, and narrowed. “Ah. So. You’ve finally brought her.”
“I have.” Gregor sat on one of the crates. “I fulfill my promises.”
“You remain an unusual Tevanni, then.”
“Though I would like something in return,” said Gregor.
The woman’s mouth tightened. “Perhaps not so unusual, then.”
“This would not be anything too dear. Just information.”
“As we’re in a city whose might is founded on that very thing,” she said, “I wonder what definition of ‘dear’ you’re using.” She stood, walked the short distance to Sancia, and stuck out her hand. “I am Polina Carbonari.”
Sancia shook her hand, which was as hard as old wood. “Sancia.”
Polina gripped her hand a little too long. Sancia realized she was feeling her calluses, her skin, her nails. The woman smirked a little and released her.
“You are Sancia Grado, yes?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re quite a celebrity. I’ve heard many rumors that there was a slave girl working in Orso’s shops, doing many wonders with scriving. Are these rumors true?”
“I’m not a goddamn slave anymore. And they don’t feel much like wonders when you have to work your scrumming ass off to get them going. But yeah, I guess.”
“How did you come to have this skill for scrivenings, might I ask?” asked Polina.
Sancia felt very aware of Gregor’s eyes on her. “They’re called scrivings. But just like any child can have a skill with a viol,” she said, “any person, Tevanni or no, can excel at scriving.”
“Is that so?”