Chapter One
Wishbone’s accustomed alley smelled of the catch dragged from the harbor to the fishmongers. To be fair, so did most of his customers. The only light spilled from the Royal around the corner, where the beer was cheap, yet so foul that Wishbone couldn’t bring himself to drink it. The alley was not well traveled after the sun went down. Wishbone could rely upon two or three other boys who worked within shouting distance to come running if a customer gave him trouble. Lane kicked like a cart horse, and Kestrel (who only passed as a boy if he wore makeup on his wrinkles and kept to the shadows) could use the knife he carried.
The crowd that spilled from the Royal’s narrow front door swirled as a covered coach and pair nudged around the corner. There were no arms painted on the coach’s sides, but graceful construction and the beautiful matched pair of bays signaled money. The Royal’s clientele moved toward the coach. Then, realizing that the glass-shielded coach lamps did them no favors, they scrambled back from the illumination. The gleaming horses’ hooves slipped and sparked on the cobbles, but neither the coach nor the man driving it seemed lost on the narrow street. The gray-cloaked coachman snaked the driving whip gently over one mahogany flank, indicating, perhaps, what he might do to any who impeded their progress. The lamps were bright enough to lay bare Wishbone’s territory all the way to the end, and he was not pleased with the exposure.
The coach halted opposite the barrel Wishbone used for a seat. The bays pricked their ears and glanced about in disapproval. The door opened, and out stepped a swirl of black: a cloak like folded wings, a wide-brimmed hat, gloves, boots, and layers of fine cloth that reflected or absorbed the faint light, whispering of money.
He was tall. That much could be seen through his enveloping clothes. He moved with easy balance over the slick cobblestone way. The cold made his breath into a jet of vapor. His hair was thick, curled, and dark with tiny, gleaming flecks of gray. What could be seen of his complexion was darker than usual, like a heavily-tanned sailor’s, only silk-smooth. His eyes had irises the color of violets and no visible whites; the pupils were slit up and down, like an animal’s.
Wishbone shivered. Did the gloves conceal fingers with extra joints, as rumor said? A fragrance emanated from Wishbone’s guest. Musky and spicy, as if a predator beast had slept in a bed of rare herbs, it was detectable even over the foul air of the alley. Unlike every other customer who had come to Wishbone, this one appeared neither ashamed nor furtive.
“You’re a shih-aan,” said Wishbone.
“And you are a human,” said the shih-aan. He smiled, revealing the point of a fang. “I offer you my hospitality tonight.”
Wishbone cocked his head. “Is that all you offer?” he asked.
The shih-aan’s smile did not waver. “Twenty-five crescents.”
It was a respectable sum for a night’s work, though not as much as Wishbone might expect from a client who wore such clothes and commanded such a coach. But whores who left the relative safety of the docks for the wealthier parts of town did not always return. What could his friends do then, tell the city guard?
He’d heard stories about what shih-aan did to humans. Plenty of men would swear they knew of someone who’d been gutted and cut into steaks by one of the demon creatures. If you pressed them about it, though, it always happened back during the war, and there were soldiers who had collections of shih-aan ears taken on the battlefields of Feras-aan. Since the treaty, a few shih-aan had always lived in Bronlyn Harbor, trading in fine cloth, building ships and not, generally, eating anyone. Still, there were stories.
Wishbone knew he should decline. Kestrel, who had lived so long through an abundance of caution, would never have considered the offer.
On the other hand, storms had kept the fishing boats to harbor for the past three days, and the sailors and fishermen were saving their coins for hot stew and beer. Wishbone’s purse was flat. What the inhuman customer might do to him was theoretical, whereas his fate at the hands of the dock patrol if he didn’t have bribe money tomorrow was more certain.
“Forty crescents,” said Wishbone.
Gloved in black velvet, the shih-aan’s fingers touched Wishbone’s cheek. “I am intrigued,” he said. “Why do you think that you merit such a sum?”
Keeping his eyes on the shih-aan’s, Wishbone kissed the gloved fingertips. “Find out,” he said, “or get out of my alley.”
That earned him another smile. “What is your name?” asked the shih-aan.
“Wishbone.”
“Forty crescents,” the client agreed. “You may call me Sir.” For so much silver, the shih-aan could call himself King Rendel the Third if he wanted.
Wishbone left at the heels of the shih-aan, equally hooked by money and fascination. The cloaked driver held the coach door for him as if he was someone important. Sir followed him inside and latched the door with those impossibly graceful hands.
As the carriage negotiated the narrow streets between the dock and the Hill, Wishbone tried to relax into the fine leather seat and act like he did this sort of thing every day. Sir clasped long-fingered hands upon one knee and appeared to doze. Wishbone tried not to stare. He kept glancing under his lashes at the demon who had bought him for the evening, looking for signs he had made an irretrievable mistake.
The carriage door opened in the secluded courtyard of a detached, two-story house with a garden gone dead for the season. Lamplight brightened windows on both floors. Stone gargoyles lurked amongst the cornices, casting disturbing shadows into the trees.
“Inside,” said the shih-aan.
They entered through the front door. A servant bowed and took the shih-aan’s cloak and hat. Young and male, neither shih-aan nor human, he had mahogany skin and black hair exactly the same color as the bay horses. His ears were slightly pointed. He was strikingly handsome, and Wishbone wondered why, with such a dish at home, the shih-aan fished for meals down by the docks.
“Good hunting, tonight, Sir?” asked the servant, in passable Bronlyn tongue.
Sir lifted the servant’s chin with one finger and kissed him shamelessly on the mouth. The ardor and the fearlessness of that kiss went straight to Wishbone’s loins. The two spoke for a moment in a tongue made all of sibilants and liquid trills. The shih-aan patted Wishbone on the shoulder. “Follow Terefar. He will guide you to a bath.” Sir turned his back and mounted the stairs, disappearing upward past a painted landscape and a gilt-framed mirror.
Wishbone stared at Terefar, feeling smug, because no matter what Wishbone smelled like, Sir had chosen him for the night. The servant dropped his eyes, took up a candle from a claw-footed table, and opened a door. Wishbone hurried after him toward the back of the house.
The bathroom had a tiled floor and a half-filled sunken tub. A stove against the back wall held three steaming kettles. Terefar lit a lamp that hung from a wall bracket and emptied the kettles one at a time into the bath.
“Please,” he said, and pointed to a tray of soaps and oils, a robe hanging on a hook, slippers, and a pile of towels on a little table. “Leave your clothes here. They will be returned.” He spoke hesitantly, as if he had to think before pronouncing each word.
Wishbone waited until Terefar had closed the door before he stripped down and dipped a toe into the bath. The water was pleasantly warm. He slid in and grabbed for a bar of soap that smelled of lavender. The soap foamed between his hands, and Wishbone slid it all over his body as the luxurious water soothed away the late autumn chill.
He unbraided his hair and opened a tiny bottle of expensive-smelling oil. Ducking his head under the water, he scrubbed his scalp with the oil. Dirt and dead hair floated on the water’s surface.
By then the bath was beginning to cool. He climbed out and picked up one of the towels. He dried himself completely, then wrapped the plush robe around his body and stuck his feet in the slippers. There was a wooden comb, a razor, and a tooth stick on the table beneath a mirror. He worked the comb through his pale hair until he’d got most of the tangles out, then set it back in a braid. His three chin hairs hadn’t re-emerged since the last shave two days ago at the public baths, so he ignored the razor.
Wishbone looked at himself in the tall mirror. The public baths had mirrors, too, but usually he was in too much of a hurry to take in the details of his person. His face was thin, as was his body, hidden in the oversized robe, and an old scar made his upper lip look crooked. His eyes were a pale blue, not exotic and green like Lane’s. With his hair tied back in a braid, his ears stuck out. He undid the braid, toweled his hair dry, and used the comb to straighten the part. Finally, he made use of the tooth stick, which tasted of cloves.
Opening the door, Wishbone found Terefar waiting with his candle.
“Follow, please,” said the servant. He turned without waiting, and Wishbone hurried after him, down the hall and into the kitchen. An enormous, iron stove radiated heat, warming the air and the stone floor. Copper pots hung in ordered rows from hooks on the walls. Rows of little bottles with unreadable labels filled the shelves. A bent old woman with dark skin and pointed ears like Terefar’s was placing a plate and goblet on the table. But for her exotic looks, this could have been any well-appointed kitchen.
The plate held slices of beef cut thin and laid out like a fan around a small mound of mashed parsnips. The food was hot, though the meat was pink and bloody on the inside. It tasted pleasantly of pepper. Wishbone ate every scrap before taking up the goblet. The wine was cool, honey-colored and sweet, as unlike the sour beer he drank at the dockside taverns as well water was unlike the sea. Wishbone swallowed it down and felt the warmth penetrate his insides.
“You are finished?” asked Sir’s pretty servant, who had stood behind Wishbone’s chair the whole time. “Then come with me.”
They passed up a narrow back stair to a carpeted hallway. The walls were covered with heavy tapestries woven with pictures of human lords and ladies at the hunt, in their gardens, dancing. Terefar knocked on one of the doors, waited for an answer, then opened it and ushered Wishbone inside.
Wishbone expected a bedroom. Instead, this looked like a drawing room. Sir sat back on a brocade-covered lounge chair, reading a book. Freed from the hat, his curled hair spilled down past his shoulders in a thick fall of darkness. The small amount of skin that showed glowed a burnished tan in the light of the roaring fire. The door closed behind Wishbone with a click that made him jump. Sir smiled, this time showing both canines, so long and sharp that Wishbone wondered how he shut his mouth without puncturing his lips. Wishbone noticed the coils of rope on the floor next to Sir’s chair. They worried him. He’d been bound by clients before. Usually they displayed more enthusiasm than skill, and he had to pretend that he couldn’t get loose. Sir struck him as the sort who wouldn’t use something he couldn’t use well, though.
“Your name is not a common one amongst your people,” said Sir, marking the book and placing it on an end table. “Tell me how you acquired it.”
Wishbone tugged the robe more snugly around his body and looked away from Sir’s inhuman face. “There’s a child’s game. The breast bone of a goose or a turkey is shaped like a bow. One child grasps each end, and they make wishes. Secret wishes. Then they pull on the bone until it breaks. The child with the biggest piece gets their wish.
“There’s a trick to it. If you let the other person pull while you hold your end steady, you almost always get the bigger piece. I used to win all the time, and my little sister would cry and tell my father I’d cheated. He patted me on the head and called me his Wishbone.” Sorrow like a physical blow to Wishbone’s breast came with the memories of his father calling him something else when the man had stumbled on Wishbone and Athel the smith’s son behind the barn. He mastered himself, but it appeared that the shih-aan’s predator eyes missed nothing.
“What did you wish for?” asked the shih-aan.
Wishbone shook his head. “It might still come true.”
The shih-aan tugged his gloves free and fanned his fingers so that Wishbone could see the extra joints on each one. “Perhaps even tonight. Remove the robe.”