Page 152 of The Ragpicker King
“I’m not interested in hearing about Beck from you, Jerrod,” Kel said. “When I think about how long you’ve been lying to me, I just—” He shook his head. “I just need to see Prosper Beck. TherealProsper Beck,” he added, before Jerrod could interrupt. “Not some goon you dress up and sit behind a desk to fool me.”
To Jerrod’s credit, he didn’t try to deny the ruse. “Beck’s doneenough for you,” he said. “Keep the amulet. Get out of Castellane. Don’t ask for anything else. I’m telling you this as a friend.”
“Really?” said Kel. “Whose friend? Because I know who Beck is now. Whoshereally is.”
Jerrod did not move or make a sound; only his expression changed. Even under the shadow of the hood, Kel could see his face harden. He wondered for a moment if he’d picked the wrong strategy. Perhaps the truth would only make Jerrod angry, defensive, more inclined to keep Kel away from his employer.
And then Jerrod smiled. There was little amusement in it, and a great deal of wryness. “I wondered if you’d figure it out someday. She was always a little careless with you.” He beckoned to Kel, indicating he should follow. “Come with me, then.”
They made their way through the narrow curving streets of the Maze, Jerrod silent at Kel’s side, which didn’t bother Kel, as his mind was buzzing. Rather abruptly, as they turned onto a narrow alley that twisted off Arsenal Road, Jerrod said, “Does Merren hate me?”
“No,” Kel said. “He was angry at you. It’s not the same thing. You could go back, you know. And see him. It’s not as if Andreyen would stop you.”
“He hasn’t tried to seeme,” Jerrod said crossly.
“I would point out that he doesn’t know where you are,” said Kel, “but I see you are committed to your own obstinacy.”
Jerrod muttered something that Kel suspected to be uncomplimentary, and then stopped at a tall, battered-looking town house that tipped slightly eastward, as if slowly lurching off its foundations. A scratched plaque by the red-painted front door indicated that this had once been the harbormaster’s house, before shipbuilding had moved to the Arsenale and the Maze had become what it was.
“Wait here,” Jerrod said coldly, and disappeared through the red door.
It was a warm night, but still Kel shivered, standing alone in thealley. It was late—two in the morning, he would guess—and he could not help but wonder what was happening at the Palace. The Castelguards would have seen Conor push him over the cliff; Conor would have told them Kel was dead. They would have no reason to disbelieve him.
He wondered what Jolivet would think. If anyone would mourn him.
The door opened. Jerrod, in the doorway, said, “She’ll see you,” in a tone that indicated that he had advised against that very thing. Kel climbed the front steps, brushed past Jerrod, and found himself in a clean, plaster-walled house, with low ceilings and wooden floors. A stairway disappeared up into shadow. A single lantern hung on the wall, spilling very little light.
“That way,” Jerrod said, pointing down a short corridor to a closed door; a bar of illumination was visible below the frame. “And Kel—”
Kel, halfway down the hall, turned. “Yes?”
“If you hurt her...”
Kel spread his arms wide. “I’m unarmed.”
“I didn’t mean—” Jerrod broke off, shaking his head, half disgusted. “Just go.”
Kel went. Down the narrow hall, through the door, into a room illuminated by a leaping fire in a soot-blackened grate. The greenish tiles of the fireplace surround were cracked, the walls newly painted white, the furniture oddly dainty, as if it had been pilfered from the house of a noblewoman. Kel suspected that, in fact, it had.
She sat on a spindly gilt chair near the fire—ifsatwas the right word. She was sprawled in the chair, her legs up over one arm, her feet, in knee-high leather boots, dangling over the side, dangerously close to knocking a cut glass decanter off the side table. Tight trousers with a sheen like oilskin were tucked into the boots, and over those she wore a half-buttoned admiral’s coat, dark blue with yellow piping and brass buttons down the front. Her blond curlsspilled down her back, over her shoulders, a sharp contrast with the stiff masculinity of her starched collar.
“Antonetta,” Kel said. “It’s good to see you.”
She looked at him without expression. “You’re soaking wet.”
“I fell in the ocean,” Kel said dryly. “After escaping from the Trick.”
Her red lips curved into a smile. “And you don’t look the least bit chewed on by crocodiles. It seems that amulet reallydoeswork.”
Kel’s heart was pounding, but he’d had years of practice masking his feelings, hiding his physical reactions to stress and shock. “You gave the amulet to Conor,” he said. “How sure were you that he’d use it the way he did?”
“You forget, I know him, too. Not as well as you, but well enough. He never has cared about anything more than he cared about you.” She rose to her feet, the admiral’s coat swirling around her legs. The coat must have been cut to fit her. It skimmed distractingly over her curves. Kel reminded himself that he was furious with her and had been since the Solstice Ball. “You figured it out,” she said, and there was a strange note in her voice, something he couldn’t quite define. “I wondered if you would.”
Because you think I’m a fool. Because you think you can lie to me and I’ll never realize it.
She came toward him. Kel stood still, very conscious that he was barefoot, still wet from the sea, his damp hair stiff with salt. None of that seemed to bother her. She came closer to him—close enough to put her hands against his chest. Close enough that he could smell her perfume, soft and flowery, intriguingly at odds with her masculine attire. She said, “Now you know.” She raised her eyes, wide and clear, her pupils unchanged by posy-drops. “Now you know. Do you hate me?”
“I could never hate you, Antonetta,” Kel said.
