The Dark Remains - Mark Anthony [119]
The air was warm, and sweat beaded on her brow. Even her summer gown, tailored as it was for the cooler climes of the Dominions, was heavy and hot here. She wished she was dressed as those around her, in bright, loose, flowing fabric. She settled for unlacing her bodice partway; in the Dominions this might have been improper, but in Tarras she doubted anyone would notice.
She almost passed through the Street of Flames without knowing it. Her throat had grown dry, and she was thinking of trying to find a vendor who sold iced wine. However, the lane she walked down was unusually empty, and its only decorations were dark cloths that draped the tops of marble columns at either end of the street.
Just as she was leaving the street, a breeze—sharp with the scent of the ocean—rushed down the lane, momentarily lifting one of the black cloths and revealing what lay beneath: a curving, coiling shape carved of stone, gilded with gleaming gold.
Of course, you dolt. This is the first street you’ve come to that wasn’t crowded. You should have known it would be like this. After all, they’re in mourning.
The wind ceased, and the black cloth settled again over the gilded stone carving of the flame. Her thirst forgotten, Lirith turned back down the street. There were a score of workshops, although all of them were dark and silent. She chose a large door near the center of the street. It was painted green and adorned with a golden hand—the sigil of the god Ondo, she guessed. She raised her own hand to knock.
“Go away!” said a muffled voice from the other side.
Lirith snatched her hand back. In the center of the hand was a small hole. So that was how they had seen her.
“Hello,” she said, trying to direct her voice at the peephole. “If you have a moment, I would speak with you.”
A snort. “You mean you would kill us and swindle us out of our gold.”
Lirith frowned. If the owner of the muffled voice was at all representative of his guild, then these goldsmiths were a suspicious lot. Then again, having one’s god murdered no doubt did little for one’s sense of security.
“That is not so,” Lirith said. “It would be quite impossible to swindle you out of your gold after I’d killed you.”
“Oh, well then, in that case …”
There was the click of a lock being turned, then the door swung inward a few inches. Beyond was a dim space and an exceptionally tiny and wizened old man in a yellow robe.
Lirith nodded. “Thank you.”
“Wait just a moment, girl.” A few wisps of white hair fluttered above the old man’s head. “You weren’t mocking me just now, were you? I think perhaps you were.”
“Of course not,” Lirith lied hastily. “I was merely trying to reassure you, that’s all. I’m completely harmless. See?” She spread her arms, showing her empty hands.
“Humph. Well, you’re certainly skinny enough. And you dress strangely. Are you a beggar, then? Don’t think we’re inclined to be generous with our gold just because your god was done in, too. You’ll not get anything from us!”
“You mean you know about Geb?”
“Geb, Shmeb! What does the Rat God matter when Ondo the Golden is no more?” The old man passed a withered hand before his eyes. “No more gold for the domes of Tarras. Dull and drab they shall be forevermore, like our hearts.”
Sympathy crept into Lirith’s breast. This poor man—he had lost everything that mattered to him, and she was teasing him. She reached out to touch his arm.
He batted her hand away with a stinging smack!
“Get that thing away from me, girl! The gods know when it’s been washed last. Probably never. Can’t you beggars ever ask for soap? Always so greedy for gold, you are. But you’d do well to make yourself presentable. Maybe then someone would take you as an apprentice so you could earn an honest living. Of course, no doubt you’re stupid and have no talents. But certainly the dyers would take you to stir their vats. That doesn’t require a shred of wit or skill. You’d be perfect for it.”
Any sympathy Lirith had felt for the other evaporated like water in the sun. She tried to speak,