Page 18 of The Ragpicker King
Raimon indeed appeared to have appropriated Montfaucon’s carriage, Kel noted—a steel-blue calash driven by matched bays. It was much lighter than their own, but they had reached the city traffic now. Even if Raimon had demanded the driver go hell-for-leather, the crowded streets would have prevented it. Ji-An slowed down, bringing their carriage in behind Montfaucon’s, to the undoubted gratitude of Andreyen’s horses.
Merren and Kel peeled themselves off the carriage floor. Merren groaned about his bruises as Kel peered out the window. A low red moon hung over the city, tinting the streets a pale cerise color. The Broken Market was in full swing, and the Ruta Maestra was crammed with stalls, naphtha torches blazing as buyers wandered the wide avenue, hunting for bargains.
They had slowed to a crawl, and Kel cranked the window down, trying to catch sight of their quarry. The steel-blue carriage had come to a halt at the side of the road. As Merren demanded to know what was going on, Kel realized it had paused before one of the Story-Spinners.
A hand emerged from Montfaucon’s carriage, and a shower of silver talents caught the naphtha light. Kel heard male laughter, the crack of a whip, then the bay horses started off again. Kel barely had time to catch hold of the window frame before their own carriage was once again lurching over the cobblestones, twisting this way and that to avoid pedestrians while keeping the calash in view.
“If Ji-An flattens any pedestrians,” wondered Merren, “do you think they’ll be able to trace it to us?”
They hurtled onto Ruta Taur, which cut up through the Silver Streets. The noise of the Ruta Magna fell away; here, among the placid homes of guildmasters and shopkeepers, there were far fewer foot travelers. The carriage slowed, Ji-An keeping a sedate pace so as not to alert Raimon.
Ruta Taurmeant “street of towers,” and indeed, the tall, thin houses showcased fanciful towers along the edges of the rooflines. They were built in rows, their sides close up against each other, with no space between them.
Montfaucon’s carriage had come to a halt in front of one of the row houses. It disgorged Raimon, who descended swiftly, after exchanging what looked like angry words with the driver. As soon as the door closed, the calash hurried off.
Their own carriage was only a little way behind, and Kel waited for Raimon to look back at them. But he didn’t turn his head, only went up the front stairs, unlocked the front door, and slammed it behind him.
“We needn’t have hurried,” Merren said, picking himself up off the floor again. “He was only going home in a snit.”
“He might not have been,” Kel pointed out, though he, too, would have bruises tomorrow.
Ji-An rapped her whip against their window, presumably to quiet them. She led the Ragpicker King’s carriage silently around the corner and onto a darkened side street of smaller houses. On the corner was a shophouse, the lower floor selling copper pots and pans.
There was a flash of movement; Ji-An had leaped down from the driver’s seat. The carriage door opened, spilling Merren and Kel out onto the paving stones. Jerrod, somehow, had regained his seat and was able to descend the steps of the carriage in relative dignity. Kel stretched, relieved at no longer being tossed around the carriage’s interior like a child’s bouncing ball.
“Thank you,” he said to Ji-An. “I have long been hoping someone would shatter my legs into multiple discrete pieces.”
“I am pleased to make your dream a reality.” Ji-An didn’t have a hair out of place, somehow. She looked as neat as ever, and even a bit smug, the collar of her closely fitted silk jacket flipped up around her pointed chin.
Merren sat down on the curb and put his head between his knees. “Is that how carriages are driven in Chosun?” he said weakly.
“It is how carriages are driven in Castellane,” Ji-An retorted. “Get up, Merren.”
“Let him sit,” said Jerrod. “Kel and I will do a bit of Crawling. See what we can see through the windows.” He cracked his knuckles, grinning in Kel’s direction. “Ji-An, you and Merren stand watch. If Raimon tries to leave his house or anything suspicious happens, whistle like a mockingbird.”
“I’m a city boy,” Merren complained. “I’ve no idea what a mockingbird sounds like.”
“It sounds however it wishes to.” Jerrod glanced around the side of the shophouse. “Kel, are you ready?”
Kel was not ready, but it seemed the time had come to put his lessons to use. “Merren and Ji-An, try not to stand out or do anything peculiar to attract attention.”
Kel and Jerrod slipped around the corner to the Ruta Taur. Allwas as it had been before, except now lamplight spilled from the upper windows of Raimon’s house, casting a dull illumination across the pavement.
“Now,” Jerrod said, “like we practiced,” and he began to scramble up the façade of the house. Kel followed, digging his fingers into the gaps between the bricks. As the street fell away below them, he tried to recall the varied instructions Jerrod had given him in the Black Mansion.Do not expect to dangle from your fingers; that will get you killed. Let your body lean into the wall. It’s all about how you distribute your weight. You can balance on a single nail if you hold yourself correctly. And don’t behave like a fool.
Jerrod was a great deal like Jolivet, come to think of it—at least as far as instructional technique went.
The sand-lime bricks were rough under Kel’s fingers. He leaned into them, imagining that the wall was lying flat on the ground and he was Crawling across it, gravity pulling his body toward the house’s façade. He passed a window, unlit, and glanced inside: He could see the shapes of furniture, an unlit fireplace along one wall. Several more windows went by, though there was nothing interesting to be observed: a kitchen with copper pots, a tepidarium with tiled walls.
“Here,” he heard Jerrod whisper. He was balanced on an ironwork railing just above him; it was very small, just wide enough for the two of them to stand on, but not wide enough for Kel not to feel faintly sick when he glanced down at the street below. Apparently, he’d forgotten his last lesson:Don’t look down.
He soon saw why Jerrod had paused. They were just below a window from which lamplight spilled; Jerrod was gazing inside with an impassive expression. Kel, balanced beside him, looked through the glass.
Inside was a bedroom, decorated in shades of red. Raimon had changed out of his party clothes and was pacing the room wearing only a pair of simple drawstring cotton trousers. Thick ropes of pinkish-white scars scored his shoulders, back, and legs—the markof his previous life as a professional fighter. And on his throat, clearer now that Kel was closer to it, the brand of the Tully. As they watched, he stopped, rubbed his forehead unhappily, and returned to pacing.
“Now what?” Kel whispered to Jerrod.
Jerrod shrugged, a complicated maneuver while still clinging to the building’s façade. “Now we go in.”
