Low Town Read Online Free PDF Page B

child has to rely on the Crown for justice, her soul will never know peace.” He let his one eye linger on mine.
    This time I didn’t flinch. “That’s not my problem.”
    “You will allow her violator to walk free?” The traces of Adolphus’s Skythan accent hardened during his frequent moments of melodrama. “To breathe our air, foul our wells?”
    “Is he around here somewhere? Send him over, I’ll find something heavy and brain him with it.”
    “You could look for him.”
    I spat an apricot pit onto the floor. “Who was it pointing out that I operate on the other side of the law these days?”
    “Shrug it off, make jokes, play the fool.” He banged his fist against the counter, setting the heavy wood shaking. “But I know why you went out last night, and I remember dragging you off the field at Giscan, when everyone had fled and the dead choked the sky.” The planks of the bar settled to equilibrium. “Don’t pretend it doesn’t bother you.”
    The trouble with old friends is they remember history you’d prefer forgotten. Of course, I didn’t have to stick around and reminisce. The last of the apricots disappeared. “I’ve got things to look in on. Throw the rest of this junk out, and give the boy supper if he returns.”
    The abrupt end of our conflict left Adolphus deflated, his fury spent, his one eye drawn and his face haggard. As I left the tavern he was wiping at the countertop aimlessly, trying not to weep.

I started out from the Earl in a sullen mood. I rely on Adolphus for a dose of morning levity and felt ill equipped without it. Between that and the foul weather, I was starting to wish I’d kept to my original inclination and spent the rest of the afternoon wrapped in bed and burning dreamvine. Thus far, the best that could be said for the day was that it was half over.
    Last evening’s unexpected encounter had interfered with my intention of visiting the Rhymer—a circumstance I needed to rectify. He’d forgive my absence, likely he’d already heard the reason, but we still needed to speak. This time of day he’d either be working the docks or up at his mother’s house. His mom had a tendency to try and set me up with women in her neighborhood, so I decided he was at the wharf and hobbled off in that direction, the pain in my ankle proving as reluctant to dissipate as the one in my skull.
    Yancey was likely the most talented musician in Low Town, and a damn good contact besides. I had met him during my time as an agent—he was part of a clique of Islanders that performed at balls for court officials and aristocrats. I helped him out of a bust once and in return he started to pass me information—little shit, background chatter. He never rolled on anyone. Since then, our career trajectorieshad trended in opposite directions, and these days his skills were in request at some of the most exclusive gatherings in the capital. He still kept his ears open for me, though the uses to which I put his intelligence had changed.
    The irony of the situation was not lost on either of us.
    I found him a few feet off the west quay, surrounded by a handful of indifferent bystanders, playing a set of Kpanlogo and spouting the rhythmic poetry for which he was named. For all his skill, Yancey was about the worst street performer I’d ever seen. He didn’t take requests, he set up in spots unused to traffic, and he was surly to onlookers. Most days he was lucky to make a few coppers, a modest reward indeed for a man of his abilities. Still, he was always cheery when I saw him, and I think he got a kick out of displaying his dizzying abilities to an ungrateful public. He made enough coin playing to the upper crust to make whatever he got busking meaningless anyway.
    I rolled a smoke. Yancey hated to be interrupted in the middle of a performance, regardless of the setting. I once had to pull him off a courtier who made the mistake of laughing during his set. He had that unpredictable temper common to