“How do you know? Were you there?”
“I got my ways, kid,” she said, snapping her fingers at him. She only called him “kid” when she was trying to frazzle him. She didn’t actually think too much about their slight age difference. For one thing, it didn’t really matter; they were close enough to the same for them to get along. For another, despite being bigger and older than she was, he was willing to do what she wanted most of the time when it came to jobs. Belamy’s house had been her idea, not his; and whether he’d thought it smart or not, he’d gone along with it without any hesitation.
“Whatever, doesn’t matter,” he said, shaking his head. “The point is, you gotta come see this thing. They said they’re doing one more show tonight, so ‘be ready and bring your friends.’ I can show you where the next one is.”
“What’s so great about it?”
“I’ve never seen anything like it.” His low voice cracked, and in his excitement, he seemed not to care. “The lights, the music, the jokes—it’s just…” Words failed him, but the message was plain. His scowl was nowhere to be seen, replaced by the shadow of blissful awe.
“Music?” In watching Twitch through the crystal, she’d heard echoes of the chatter and laughter of the crowd and her friend, but she had heard no music.
“Yeah, there’s music. So m-much more, though, Skate. Come on, you’ll love it.”
She scratched her head. It was late, and she was tired. It had been a much longer day than she’d wanted already. Still, the pleading look on Twitch’s face was overpowering. He’d never cared for street shows before—“beggars with better tools,” he’d called the performers—but this one must have been something truly special, because she’d heard nothing but admiration for it.
“Yeah, okay.” The acceptance split his face into a wide grin, and he waved her out into the night, snow falling steadily on them both as they went.
Chapter 19
In which a lady with a lisp almost falls over, a tale is told that no one knows, and a warning is delivered.
She pulled her hood up soon after they took off into the night; the snow was stinging her face because she was having to move so fast to keep up with Twitch. He moved with a fervor she’d only seen from him when on the run from the Guard, and she’d never fully appreciated how difficult it was to keep up with him when he was in a hurry. Even though crowds were fewer than during the day, the night was young and the roads barely covered with a new layer of white powder, so there were still plenty of people to negotiate around on their way toward the performance. Twitch almost knocked over an old peasant woman in his haste, sending her tumbling into Skate’s way as they went.
“Thtupid braths!” she croaked through the four teeth left in her head, shaking the knobby stick she’d been using to balance herself. “You coulda kilt me!”
“Sorry!” was all Skate said as she scrambled on, throwing an apologetic wave back at the old crone. Twitch didn’t acknowledge the cry, but kept on running at his breakneck pace.
They were headed toward the slums. This made no sense, as buskers couldn’t make any money off of people who had none, but the conclusion was inevitable as they left the vestigial splendor of the Old Town behind and began to skirt past the sordid shacks of the destitute. There were fires burning in hastily dug pits at odd intervals, where the desperate and the uncared-for huddled together to stave off the cold. There’ll be lives lost tonight, Skate thought as she considered the cold and the utter lack of protective clothing or blankets available to the people living here.
That was one thing she owed the Ink, she mused. They kept me from starving and dying. She did not have to sleep in the street if she didn’t want to, and she never had, after she’d taken up with them. The safe houses were open to members in good (or even iffy) standing. Food was available. If she hadn’t joined the Ink, she’d have been out here, wandering the paths of the worst kind of poverty, desperate for heat and food in the dead of winter. And apparently being treated to the most amazing street show ever performed in the streets of the city of Caribol.
Skate shouted at Twitch to wait. She bent over, her hands on her knees in order to catch her breath. It came out in translucent clouds that disappeared a few inches from her face. Twitch jogged back, his cloth-wrapped foot tapping impatiently on the packed snow while he waited.
Skate stared at the ground to collect her thoughts and her air. It was hard to see, now. There weren’t any lamps in this part of the city, and lights were scarce, a luxury few could afford. Even the moons weren’t helpful, being too low in the sky to shed much light. There were not many actual streets in the slum, and the Keepers certainly didn’t bother with this part of town; they only came to help when a fire threatened to spread to other parts of the city, which rarely happened. The slummers had, for generations, gotten used to dealing with things their own way, and their destitute community worked internally on all emergencies, knowing that help was unlikely to ever come.
The Ink did great business here, especially in the selling of alcohol and a dangerous substance called “opum.” Though Skate had never seen the stuff herself, she’d seen its effects often enough: users became very drowsy, usually barely able to stand. The Ink operated several houses in the quarter—dingy wooden structures that were nevertheless some of the best the area had to offer, and that existed solely as a repository for the comatose bodies of users. Skate didn’t know where opum came from, but she knew the trade routes into the port were the primary source of it. It wasn’t made here. Whenever the denizens of the slums did manage to get money, most of it that didn’t go toward the sparest of food went to either drink or opum. For some, the food was an afterthought. Starvation was common.
“You ready? It’s n-not much farther.”
She nodded, and the run began anew. Soon, they were nearing a clearing in the tents and hovels, in the middle of which stood a hastily thrown-together platform. The clearing turned out to be more of a shallow pit; it probably filled with water in the spring and summer. The snow had surprisingly been cleared away here, and the brown dirt was clearly visible for the torches tied to stakes around the clearing. No one was on the platform, but there was a homemade stool on one of the corners.
“Is this where it’ll be?” Skate asked.
“Oh, aye, girl, thish’ll be it,” slurred an old man sitting at the edge of the crowd. He was dressed in rags, and stared off past where she and Twitch were standing. “The mushic’ll come, and the lightsh, too. Bet on it.” He fell into a delirious cackle that sounded like it was tearing at his throat to get out. He clapped his hands as he laughed, showing a toothless grin. He continued looking past the pair, having clearly forgotten he was talking to anyone. Twitch rolled his eyes and pointed to a spot relatively free of people in the impromptu amphitheater.
They walked over and squatted down, rubbing their hands and shoulders to stave off the cold. It was not easy to stay warm, as the setting sun seemed to herald the return of more and more snow. It was melting as soon as it hit the ground here, so there was no danger for the time being that the area would become choked with the stuff. The cold and snow were also not much of a deterrent to fans and curious passersby. Dozens of people were milling about, chatting, passing around bottles, or trying to stay warm while they waited for the performance of a lifetime to repeat itself.