Haman’s height made it fairly easy to keep track of him, though he blended well into a crowd with regard to his clothes; dressed as if he belonged here among the wealthy and elite, he seemed quite at home. Twitch stuck out, of course, but he was small and easy to forget once seen—and hard to follow over the heads and hats of the well-to-do. Haman turned a few heads as he walked, almost all from silly young women in wholly impractical heavy dresses.
The Plume, it soon became apparent, was a coffeehouse nestled among other shops—a bookstore, a haberdashery, a stationery shop, and a wine store were all cluttered around a central courtyard. The Plume’s sign had a set of feathers of a fantastical nature: delicate, long, and thin with a circular pattern at the end. Skate had never seen such a feather, but the sign held five of them arrayed like a fan, under which was the name of the shop etched in wood.
Skate lurked by the edge of the courtyard. Haman turned and spoke briefly to Twitch, and then stepped inside. Twitch turned and walked toward Skate. She didn’t want to be seen, so she stepped off to the side and let him pass. Then she made her way across the courtyard and stepped through the fine, heavy door of the Plume.
A bell rang above the door to announce her arrival, but none took note of it. The place was full today; the rich loved to discuss current events, the rumors of trysts among their fellows, the degradation of the poor—all topics great and small passed through the doorways of every coffeehouse in Caribol, and the Plume was no exception. Jokes and games of chance and waitresses and waiters fluttered around the room in a dizzying flurry, so that the arrival of a modestly dressed little girl was missed by all in the room. That did not include the watchful eyes of Haman Vaerion, who had placed himself alone a few seats from the door and was pretending to be very interested in a nearby conversation as he nursed a steaming mug. In reality, Skate knew that he had focused all of his attention on watching the door. His eyes scanned over her with a flicker of recognition and confusion. He did not get up.
Skate slipped around the tables toward the counter, where the proprietress stood with a hand on her hip. She was talking to a customer.
“Sir, I assure you, the drink came to you as you ordered it.”
“It did not; it did not!” He accentuated his words with small knocks on the counter with his knuckles. The old man had a bristly white mustache that hung over both lips. He was dressed expensively but not well; he looked disheveled and more than a little upset. “I asked for a dark cocoa flavoring, and I got a sweet flavoring. I cannot have sweet things—my poor stomach aches when I eat or drink anything sweet!” Though the grating of his voice betrayed him to be old indeed, his words and tone would have otherwise led Skate to believe she was listening to a particularly prissy, spoiled child.
The proprietress did an admirable job of hiding the roll of her eyes by wiping gingerly at her forehead with a handkerchief. “I shall send you another cup at half the advertised cost by way of apology for the error. Would that suffice, sir?” She smiled the practiced false smile of servants and salesmen, and the old man’s irritation melted into satisfaction.
“Indeed it will. I shall have to give the other to my…niece.” His cheeks flushed, and he shuffled back over to his table, where he joined the men and women there engaged in a rousing game of cards.
The owner’s smile vanished as soon as his back was turned. “Old cheapskate. You knew what you ordered the first time. You just wanted a discount on your drinks. And if that strumpet is your niece, then I’m a…” Skate never heard what she was, because the owner began mumbling too low to be heard, and swabbing off the counter with more force than was strictly necessary.
Skate announced her presence with a cough. “Ma’am?”
The owner stopped her mumbling and looked up in surprise. “Hello, young miss! I didn’t see you there; so sorry.”
“Not a problem—I mean, it is quite all right,” Skate said, catching herself. “I would like a cup of whatever kind of bean you deem most appropriate—plain, if you please.” The seat beside Haman became vacant. “I’ll take the drink down there,” she added, pointing in that general direction.
“At once, miss,” the owner said, arching an eyebrow at the girl. Her slip of words had not gone unnoticed but was also not sufficient to cause any genuine concern.
Skate stepped back and took the empty seat she’d wanted. Haman did not pay her any mind beyond a sideways glance. She took her drink when offered by the servant boy.
“That’ll be three blades, miss.” Skate’s eyes widened at the price, but she fished out the coins and placed them in his open hand. He seemed a little put off when she put her money away, but said nothing. When he left, Skate turned to find Haman looking directly at her.
“Hey,” she said by way of greeting.
“Hey yourself,” he said, taking a sip from his drink. “You’re supposed to tip here.”
“What?”
“That’s why that boy shot you a dirty look. You’re supposed to pay more than what they ask for. ‘Be open with your gifts.’ You know the words.”
“Not gonna happen. Three blades for a mug? That’s thievery, that is.” Skate took a sip from her mug and had to steady herself on the counter. It was the strongest brew she had ever tasted, and had a pleasant flavor she could not place. She’d never had a cup of coffee like it, and she decided as she took another sip that perhaps the price was not as unreasonable as she’d first thought. “And I oughta know, huh?”
Haman smiled at the joke, but it was a reserved smile, more out of politeness than any real mirth. “Everyone in this room ought to, in one form or another.” He cleared his throat and moved on. “Anyway, I fear we have much to discuss. I have heard troubling reports this morning.”
“From Kite.”
“Yes. I take it from that surprisingly accurate guess that you know what he told me?”
“I overheard you near the alleyway. He told you that I had learned some sort of powerful magic, and that I used it to attack him and his goons, and that I was leaving the Ink?”
Haman nodded and looked back at the nearby table in their animated conversation. They seemed to be engaged in a vigorous debate about the nature of taxation and its purpose between Caribol and Herzeschal, the capital city. One group of the coffee drinkers was convinced it was a politically driven choice of the crown being used deliberately to punish the merchant lords to placate the nobility. Another section of the table was adamant that it was not a political choice but an economic one; it was common knowledge that the kingdom had never fully recovered from the loss of a huge cache of goods at sea some months previously, and the crown had to recoup the losses somehow. Still another faction was almost frothy with rage at the other groups, and claimed this was the doing of the church; for how else could the High Weaver afford his fantastic cathedrals throughout the kingdom if not from extra money delivered to his feet by the reigning monarch? The arguments were loud and numerous, and seemed at points to be near blows, but never actually came to that.
“Is it true?” asked Haman.
“I don’t know. I’ve never even been to Herzeschal.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Not all of it.” Skate took a steadying breath before continuing. “I’m not a witch. I don’t know any magic.” She tapped out a skittish rhythm on the table with her index fingers. “The rest of it is true. I threw some stuff of Belamy’s at them, and it scared them enough to leave. Kite was the first to run.”