The Silver Lake Read Online Free PDF Page A

thought of the festivities they’d be missing. Cindar’d been thrown out of every half decent public house on the docks. If it wasn’t for him they could have spent Havo’s Dance by a warm taproom fire listening to songs and stories from across the sea, drinking rize chai and being fussed over by the more maternal servers, instead of crouching in their cold little room listening to him snore. Growling to himself, Brax made for a knot of inebriated Volinski sailors, determined to steal his way into a better mood.
    Behind him, Spar followed, his own expression cautious. In this mood Brax was motivated but combative, much like Cindar, and needed extra watching.

    An hour later they shared a boka stuffed with lufer fish at a food stall tucked under the shadow of a large fishing vessel from Rostov. The trade had been good, and Brax’s mood was considerably lighter. As the noon song began, he ignored Spar’s pointed glance with casual elan. He was probably just reminding him of Cindar’s order, and Brax had no intention of obeying him right then. They had a chance to make some real shine today and Cindar was probably so drunk by now he’d have forgotten his own name, never mind what time they were supposed to meet him.
    So piss on him, he thought truculently. Maybe we’ll even go to Spar’s bookbinders just to spite him.
    The younger boy dug him in the ribs.
    “What?”
    Spar jerked his head past the ship’s great prow and Brax froze.
    Across the quay, two boys around his own age were just leaving Kedi-Meyhane, one of the better dockside inns. They were well-dressed in warm hide jackets and sandals that looked almost new, and the younger of the two was wearing a woolen cap that came down over his ears, protecting them from the cold. Brax felt a sudden stab of jealousy as his fingers dropped to the pommel of his knife.
    “Graize,” he spat. “And Drove.”
    Beside him Spar’s face had twisted into an uncharacteristic mask of hatred. Like Spar, Graize had latent, almost instinctive prophetic abilities, but unlike Spar he was able to use that ability to lift the ripest pickings in Dockside without causing so much as a ripple from the authorities; an ability their abayos often reminded both Brax and Spar of when pickings were slim. But Graize and Drove had also robbed Cindar himself as he’d lain passed out before a raki stall last autumn. Brax had sworn he would kill him for that one day.
    Now, as the other boys passed them by, ignoring them with studied contempt, Spar glanced over at Brax worriedly, but the older boy just gave a sharp shake of his head.
    “ ‘Sall right,” he growled darkly. “There’s too many people around.”
    “We’ll get him one day,” Spar assured him gravely, the danger inherent in the situation driving away his usual silence. When Spar spoke, Brax listened. “Graize’s just a cheap trickster,” he added. “He’ll slip up. Then we’ll get him.”
    Nodding, Brax jerked his head in the direction of the marketplace. “Yeah, besides, we need to get Cindar before he can drink away all our shine.” He allowed the younger boy to draw him away but, just before they turned the comer, he glanced back to see Graize sneering triumphantly at him, an expression of sarcastic invitation in his cold gray eyes. His face flushed in sudden anger, Brax took a single step back the way they’d come, but as Spar grabbed his arm, he made himself think clearly and, breathing heavily, allowed the younger boy to pull him down the close. Not now, but one day, he promised himself, one day they’d get him, just like Spar said they would. And even if that wasn’t one of Spar’s prophecies, Brax would make it one, but for now they had other, more important business to deal with. As they made their way back toward Uzum-Dukkan, he forced himself to put the other boy out of his mind.

    Leaning against a stack of eastern timber, thirteen-year-old Graize grinned triumphantly as he watched his fellow lifters