He gestured toward the arched entrance to the Scab. Once, the gate had probably been imposing, but now it was covered with lewd graffiti and looked as if it might collapse at any moment.
When they passed through, the first thing Shamur noticed was the mingled stench of various types of waste. Like the residents of other precincts, the inhabitants of the Scab tossed their refuse into the street, the difference being that no night-carter dared enter the rookery to collect it. The smell was sickening even with the muck half frozen. She hated to think how foul it was in the summer.
She and Thamalon began working their way from one tavern to the next, for despite the evidence of poverty abundant on every side, the Scab had more than its share of such establishments, squalid little ordinaries operating in dank, low cellars, cramped rooms devoid of seating, or even out in the open wherever some entrepreneur chose to set a keg on a pair of trestles. The nobles eavesdropped on the conversations of the rough men swilling stale beer and raw spirit, and joined in when it seemed feasible. Shamur was relieved to see that, as he'd promised, her husband's impersonation of a blackguard was reasonably convincing.
She enjoyed the game of fishing for information, knowing that if they misspoke, they'd likely face a room full of naked blades. But when they were simply traversing the streets, the sordid life of the Scab depressed her. Primarily, it was the children. She saw infants gaunt with starvation. Toddlers scavenging through the mounds of trash. Gangs of ragged, hard-eyed youths ranging the streets in search of the weak and unwary, not robbing for sport as she once had, but simply to survive. Little girls selling their bodies. Even a filthy, drunken surgeon of sorts who mutilated youngsters to prepare them for a life of begging.
At this last spectacle, Thamalon gave a wordless growl of disgust. "I've always heard it was bad in here, but I never dreamed it was this bad. There must be a way to clean up this cesspit, or tear it down and build something better. To put the needy inhabitants to work, and send the villains packing."
"The thought does you credit," she replied. "Someday soon, you can explore the subject with the city council, assuming, of course, that we make it out of here alive."
"Yes," he said, "assuming that." They descended a short flight of stairs to yet another wretched cellar taproom, the sole difference being that the proprietor of this one had apparently gone to the trouble to give it a name and a sign, clumsily daubing a pair of crossed blades on the door.
Snitch liked spying in the Crossed Daggers. The tavern was no warmer or more comfortable than a number of other filthy little taverns scattered through the Scab, nor was the conversation of the inebriated louts who drank there any more diverting. But the host, prompted by what Snitch regarded as preposterous optimism, kept a bottle of good brandy under the bar, just in case a discerning and prosperous customer ever wandered in by mistake. A gall-trit like Snitch, a gray, bat-winged gremlin the size of a human hand, had no trouble sneaking up and raiding the supply, then slipping back to his hidey-hole undetected. Licking his chops with his long tongue, relishing the aftertaste of the liquor, he was just about to resume his post, a shadowy depression in the dilapidated wall, when the man in brown and the woman in black and gray walked in.
At first glance, they looked like just another pair of bravos, cleaner and less brutish than some, perhaps, but nothing out of the ordinary save for the fact that Snitch had never seen them before. Still, Avos the Fisher had captured and trained him to be his watchdog when he was only a pup. He'd been spying long enough to develop an instinct for it, and that sensibility told him to observe the newcomers closely. His crimson eyes narrowed, and his big, pointed ears perked up.
For a few minutes, the strangers sipped their ale quietly, seemingly keeping to themselves, but Snitch, a professional eavesdropper himself, sensed that they were attending to the conversations of the other patrons. As time passed, he judged from the subtle way they shifted closer that they were particularly interested in the remarks of a scrofulous tough with symbols of strength and good fortune tattooed on his cheeks and brow. The drunk was boring the taverner with a slurred account of his various exploits as a hired sword.
The willowy woman sauntered up beside him, rested her hand lightly on his, and, when he lurched around to face her, gave him a smile.
"Moon above," she purred, "I've been through a scrape or two in my time, but nothing as dicey as you describe. You just might be the toughest warrior I've ever met, and I insist that you do me the honor of letting me buy you a drink."
Snitch noticed the woman's companion looking on with a hint of ironic amusement in his green eyes, but the drunk took her flattery at face value. "Sure, darling," he said, leering, "you bet."
He tried to throw his arm around her and yank her close, but she evaded the fumbling attempt so deftly that, inebriated as he was, he might not realize she'd even moved, let alone avoided the embrace on purpose.
"I imagine you get hired for all the serious fighting that goes on around here," the woman said. "Did the Quippers use you on that crew they put together a day or two ago?"
Snitch bared his needlelike fangs. Since no one outside the gang was supposed to know about that particular job, his master would be more than interested to know that strangers were asking questions about it. The galltrit waited until none of the humans was looking in his direction, then spread his membranous wings, sprang from his perch, and flew out the door.
Shamur and Thamalon trudged down yet another twisted alley in search of the next tavern. The cold wind whistled down the narrow passage. The snow began to fall a little harder.
"Another miss," Thamalon grumbled, "and I daresay the oaf with the tattoos would have confided in you if he'd known anything. Your imitation of a lickerish trollop was quite convincing."
"You'd know, wouldn't you?" she snapped.
"Ah," he said, "I see we're back to decrying my venery."
She felt a pang of guilt. "I'm sorry. I don't know why I do that, either. Plainly, you don't deserve it. Everyone in our circle takes lovers, and no one regards it as shameful, or indeed, anything but natural. Even the cuckolds and forsaken wives don't care. Why should they, when they're dallying with paramours of their own?"
"You never did," he said, "at least as far as I know."
"No."
"Another way of spiting yourself, belike." "I don't know," she said. "Perhaps I simply realized that if my masquerade made it awkward to be intimate with you, I'd likely have the same problem with any other man."
"I'll tell you a secret," he said. "When we first married, I didn't want the same kind of half-hearted union as our peers. I intended to forsake all other women and devote myself to you alone. But later, when you rebuffed me…"
He shrugged.
"Of course," she said glumly. "Why shouldn't you seek the beds of other women, when I appeared so averse to having you in my own?" She sighed. "Tazi asked me that very question once. Of course, I refused to discuss the matter like a human being. I went all cold and haughty, the way I usually do with her."
He grunted. "I can't say I'm sorry. I see no reason to burden the children with every sad detail of our travesty of a marriage, although I suppose they must realize-" He stopped abruptly to stare down the alleyway.
Shamur did the same. Bullies armed with slings, cudgels, and blades were slinking out of doorways and up cellar steps.