Meek

Berent Manor wasn't a manor, at least not anymore. Now it was a city block. It reminded Eli of the area he'd seen the other night, the one with what looked like old sprawling stone buildings. Or maybe an old stone estate, fallen into disrepair then swallowed by the spreading city.

This one stood higher on the hilltop--far enough from the tannery that he couldn't smell it unless the wind shifted. It was bordered on one side by a tree-lined boulevard and on the other three sides by a cramped neighborhood of narrow buildings that overhung the lanes, leaving them in perpetual twilight.

Eli walked the perimeter of the manor, getting a feel for the area, which straddled the upper slum and a solidly mercantile district. Empty mugs dangled on hooks outside a handful of homes, which in Rockbridge meant 'lodgers wanted.' So he spoke to the owners of a few, trying to find the best situation but also practicing acting as normally, as boringly, as possible. He claimed he'd just arrived in the city from an outlying town, and was looking for work as a bookkeeper.

Eventually, he took a room on the second story of the home of a retired shipwright. She seemed utterly uninterested in him, which he liked, and didn't offer meals, which he liked even more. He wanted to avoid seeing the same people over a table every day. Plus, he still couldn't stomach the thought of eating meat, but refusing a slice of ham or a chicken leg would make him memorable.

He thought about visiting Treli Trestan, the skinny torturer, but that would raise more alarms at the Keep. That would tell the marquis that there was a still a killer at large in the city. Whereas the brothers? That would do the same, actually, though hopefully less emphatically. Eli hadn't really considered that; he'd just wanted to kill them. Well, they were low-level enough that maybe they wouldn't be missed for a few days.

That night he slept in a proper bed--not a dungeon, not a cavern, not a clinic--for the first time in a lifetime.

The next morning he sat at the window watching the drizzle. His room overlooked a lane that stretched toward the manor, and he ate black bread with a slab of butter and sliced radishes as the puddles spread across the cobblestones. One of his sparks watched the interior of the house from the top of the stairs while the other floated outside, monitoring the street, and he felt ... okay.

He'd killed two men. The first people he'd ever killed. The first people he'd ever seriously injured. He'd hunted them in the grip of an emotion that once would've terrified him, but he felt better than okay.

With a flick of thought, he sent a spark to map a path from his window to the rooftop. In case he needed to flee. He couldn't imagine how anyone could trace him to the attempted assassination, or the murders, but he'd walked face-first into a lot of things that he couldn't have imagined in the past few months.

Better safe than dead.

Then he left the house and headed through the drizzle into the manor. A high iron fence, only half-intact, marked the edges of the block. A gatehouse or carriage house--some kind of squarehouse, at least--stood at both ends, while a far larger house with towers--the manor house?--loomed in the center. A handful of families lived in each gatehouse, and dozens lived in the central building.

Two main roads led into the manor, one that faced the Keep and one that approached from an angle. Eli wandered around the sodden buildings, taking note of the smaller paths. The main ones struck him as too heavily-trafficked for any kind of stealth, considering the marquis would want to approach unseen. Though who knows? Maybe if you made enough noise, you looked like you weren't trying to hide anything. Still, Eli expected less of a spectacle from the marquis. He hadn't struck him as the kind of man who'd play the fool.

He'd come from the direction of the Keep, of course, which left two probable approaches along the side paths--if there weren't tunnels or secret passages or something. And if the marquis didn't change his mind about coming and if he did come from the direction of the Keep.

After the rain stopped, Eli bought a handful of roast chestnuts and pondered while he ate them. The fact was, he didn't know what he was doing. So he'd keep things simple. What did he know? The marquis wanted to visit his agent, instead of summoning him. Why? Because he was too closely watched in the Keep? Even if every single servant was absolutely loyal, they'd still keep their eyes on him just to serve him. They knew his walk, his voice, and that made secrecy impossible.

Why else? He wanted to impress upon the agent how important this was. The marquis had almost died--would've died if not for a mage--and he didn't know whose hand was on the hilt. That must've frightened him. And the news that he'd been attacked must've spread.

So if he didn't respond, he'd look weak. He needed to respond disproportionately, just to maintain his reputation. No doubt he'd prefer to hit the right target, but Eli imagined that was secondary--for now. Mostly, he needed to strike hard. Only after that would he try to strike smart.

Well, good luck tracing this to a bunch of mountain trolls.

Of course, the marquis wouldn't come alone to visit his agent. He'd bring a handful of his most loyal and fearsome warriors, dress them like commoners. Would he send a few ahead? Possibly. And keep a few with him and ... and what about mages?

He'd bring them, too, if he trusted them. Though maybe he wouldn't want to introduce his mages, who stood with him in the daylight, with the agents who fought his nighttime battles. Yeah, he might want to keep his right hand and his left hand separated. That way only he--and maybe Cousin Ugenia, his spymaster--could see the complete picture.

The mages were recognizable, too. Crowds watched them rideat the head of raiding parties every month. Though after a brush with death--

Eli snorted to himself for thinking in circles. He didn't know what the Marquis planned. He couldn't know. So he'd work his own plan. He knew what he could do. Nobody else knew that. Nobody else could do it either. Nobody human could survive what he could survive.

Hm.

The blurred outline of a plan started to take shape in his mind. A reckless plan, but Eli couldn't beat these people if he thought like a human. They expected human.

So he'd give them something else.

He spent the rest of the day wandering the manor grounds. He downed a tankard at each of the neighborhood's cramped taverns and listened to the chatter with his ears and his sparks. By that evening he knew the names of straying husbands and wandering wives, of people mourning parents and those recently blessed with grandbabies. He'd heard that the bookbinder's daughter was being courted by a noble lass, and nothing good would come of it ... but he heard nothing about a playwright.

Maybe he should just ask. Or return to the streets near the theatre. But a spymaster's agent might be too aware of anyone taking interest in him. No, Eli would spend one more day eavesdropping in the neighborhood before he tried anything else. He didn't figure the marquis would be walking unaided for another few days yet.

At least.

The thought pleased Eli. He hoped he was suffering. He'd come so close to killing him, too. One twist of the dagger, and no amount of healing would've saved him ...

Well, no reason to worry at the past.

He stepped away from the street-corner game of tiles he'd been watching. He'd filled his basket with celery and carrots and a sack of dried beans--mostly to look like a man on his chores, but he also found himself looking forward to breakfast. Well, he wasn't sure about the beans. His troll stomach could digest anything, though. Maybe his taste had changed along with everything else.

Still, he crossed the street when he spotted a fruit vendor. She was the only street peddler who remained open this late, though even she was closing her stall while--

"... talk to sheave ought low, maybe he'll buy the extra or ..."

Eli stopped in the street when he heard 'sheave ought low.' Or 'sheaf at low?' Those were the same words--the same sounds--that the marquis had used in the clinic, referring to his spymaster's agent.

He started walking again, more slowly. One of the sparks had brought him a swirl of voices on the breeze, but from where?

From the fruit vendor, who was chatting with another woman, though he'd missed the rest of her words. One of them had said sheave ought low.

"Sorry to bother you," he said, after approaching. "I couldn't help overhear. Did you say you're trying to sell some extra ...?"

The woman thumped her stall. "Durinberries. They come in heavy this year, and they ain't to everyone's taste."

"I love them," Eli lied. He'd never been able to abide the smell of durinberries, much less the taste. "Happy to take any extra off your hands."

"Is that right?" she asked.

He pulled a handful of copper from his pouch. "Is this right?"

"Cool down, young feller!" the other woman laughed.

"I don't got it all here with me right at the moment," the vendor told Eli. "It's a whole crop we're talk about."

"Oh, so you'll be bringing them in over the next few weeks?"

"Yep. Some years the durin comes thick on the bush."

"And they're not to everyone's taste," he said, fishing for more information.

"That's right," the other woman said. "She outta have an auction, you and Sheave Ought Low."

"What's that?"

"Not 'what,' 'who'." She pronounced the name carefully: "Chivat Lo."

"Huh," Eli said, because he suddenly didn't know what else to say.

"Yeah. He's a writer-fellow, lives in the big house. I'm not much for the actors and costumes, but his copper spends as good as mine or yours."

"Lives in the big house," Eli echoed.

"In one of the towers, I reckon," she said. "Leastways that's what I heard."

"Well I hope he stays there," Eli said. "Instead of trying to buy my durinberries."