The whispers around him were building up. He wanted to stay in line, but simply standing there in plain sight was beginning to garner more attention than he was comfortable with. Ducking his head, he slunk away and left the small square, picking a street at random to get lost in.
Damn the chancellor. He couldn’t even fetch a cup of water without being viewed with suspicion. Had to barter rare gems for threadbare robes and worn-out sandals. Neither Feiyan nor Helena had thought he had any choice but to work for Dola and her Basilisk masters.
Scorio drew up short and stared out into the middle distance, not caring for the moment how traffic had to flow around him.
He’d not asked for any of this. He’d not asked to be reborn as a Red Lister. To be cast through the Final Door. So now he was being forced to take back from the very Houses that had stolen everything from him. Wasn’t there a bitter fairness to that? They’d thrust him into this situation—what was he supposed to do, squat in the ruins and starve to death?
Scorio blinked and resumed walking. He’d speak to Dola, at the very least, and see what manner of work she offered him. He wouldn’t accept any mission from her. But if she afforded him a chance to redress the balance with the Houses and the likes of Praximar?
Then he’d take it.
First, though, he had to find his way to the Double.
He stopped a respectful distance from a couple of men standing at a street corner, both smoking from delicately arched pipes, their free hand tucked comfortably into their ocher robes.
“Excuse me. Could you direct me to the Double?”
Both men eyed him speculatively, in no rush to respond. They were slightly older, grizzled and worn, their hands swollen and callused from hard labor.
Scorio was about to nod respectfully and move on when one of them finally answered, his reluctance obvious.
“The Double?” Another long pause, another exhalation of greasy, iridescent smoke. “Bit of a ways. Head axially north three blocks, then radially west some five, maybe six.”
“That’ll take him through the Narrows,” said the second man, eyes squinted against the smoke.
“What of it?” The first studied his friend frankly. “Anyone headed to the Double should feel right at home there.”
The second man only shrugged and looked away.
“Three blocks axially north, then six blocks radially west. Thank you.” Scorio inclined his head and moved on, aware that he might be walking in the wrong direction, but not wanting to ask for clarifications and arouse more suspicion.
Instead, he stopped again once the two men were out of sight before a small crowd of kids who were kicking a leather ball around the street. “Excuse me, gentlemen.”
The boys eyed each other, amused and cagey at the same time.
A stocky boy with a black eye sniffed at him. “What’s the problem?”
“Simple question is all. Which way is axially north?”
They all glanced at each other again and then stared at him suspiciously.
“Axially north?”
“Right. Just point it out.”
Slowly, as if suspecting a trick, ready to snatch his hand back, the boy pointed toward the sun-wire’s hidden end.
“And radially west?”
“What is this?”
“Stupid questions, that’s all. Humor me, will you?”
This time the boy pointed up one side of Bastion’s curving wall.
Scorio pointed his own thumb in the opposite direction, over his shoulder. “So that’s radially east?”
The boy looked at him with growing annoyance. “And your mother’s a drippy tramp!”
The whole pack of them took off, laughing raucously.
Scorio snorted, looked about himself once more, and continued walking. He’d come a block axially north by luck. Another couple more and he’d turn to the left.
On he went, drinking in the details of the neighborhood as he walked on. A small square featured a long line of people awaiting their turn at another clamshell fountain set against a wall, each carrying an pail with them, everybody relaxed and chatting.
Here and there, he espied the red, snake-like creatures with fins growing from their necks, twining their way high about the rooftops or the branches of thorn trees whose canopies were horizontal planes of dull green, like a series of serried clouds that provided shade below.
The atmosphere on the streets, however, was tense; people eyed him suspiciously, others stood in tight knots speaking earnestly amongst themselves, while others hurried past, intent on reaching their destinations as quickly as possible.
Scorio reached his intersection. The street running radially west proved to be quite narrow. More of a shadowed alley than anything else, with cloth awnings slung out over its breadth.
“Great,” he muttered to himself, and plunged in.
Within a few blocks, he noticed the change. Windows were shuttered, and there was an absence of the gray vined planters. The rust-colored paint was almost completely gone from the ground floors, and the streets were in poor repair, cracked and fragmented and strewn with withered vines and trash.
People were still in evidence, but these watched him with a different kind of curiosity. More evaluating, sizing him up.
Scorio squared his shoulders, raised his chin, and marched on as if he owned the place. Still, he wasn’t surprised when a small crowd of men detached themselves from the shadowed side of a building to ease their way into the street and block his path.
Their leader was a lean, pale-skinned, one-eyed man with a stripe of white through his otherwise greasy black hair. A rolled-up cheroot jutted out of the corner of his mouth, unlit, and danced when he spoke without unclenching his jaws.
“You lost, my friend?”
“Not lost,” said Scorio, “and not your friend.” Three of the men drifted slowly around to cut off his retreat. Eight all told. All of them looking hard-bitten, their expressions ranging from amused to stoic. “Just heading to the Double.”
“The Double, is it?” The man’s sole eye widened in mock surprise. “An upstanding lord like yourself?”
Scorio allowed himself a small smile, but he felt a welcome flush of heat spread through his body. “I’m no lord. Step aside.”
Not the most diplomatic way to proceed, but Scorio realized that he was relishing this confrontation. After all the fear, the frustration, the anguish, and pain, he wanted someone to provoke him.
The man moved his head from one side to another, as if taking in all of Scorio’s angles. “Let me do you a favor. Steer clear of the Double. It’s not the right place for the likes of you.”
“I didn’t ask for advice.” Had his voice deepened? He opened and closed his hands, aware of the men around him but focused on their leader.
“The advice wasn’t free, my lord.” The man’s lips curled back to reveal yellowed teeth. “Why don’t you share what you’ve got with the rest of us to show your gratitude?”
Scorio smiled, the expression apparently unnerving the other man. “Oh my. I seem to have forgotten what I’ve got on my person. Why don’t you come check for me?”
“Doesn’t need to be like this,” said the leader. “Just hand over your goods and you can be on your way.”
“Hmm.” Scorio stared down the length of his nose at the man, his heart pounding, his muscles quivering. “Your mother’s a drippy tramp.”
A couple of the men sniggered, but the leader flushed. “Well, if you want it that way, fine—”
Scorio pulled the chalk out of his robes, bent, and raked a curving line behind him. The movement was sudden, sure, and confused the men, who startled, hands going up, but stared instead of reacting.
“All right,” said Scorio, rising to his feet. “Let’s get to work.”
And he lunged forward to slam his shin across the leader’s thigh. The huge muscle snarled up, the man let out a cry of shock, and then Scorio’s second blow connected: a vicious head-butt right into the fellow’s nose.