Southern Colonies.
Back to the beginning.
Haut found Lysander Vex at the Seventh Street bakery.
He'd been following him since dawn. From the Vex estate's front gate—where Lysander walked out alone, no guards, no servants—through the Merchant's Quarter, past the stalls that were just opening, the carts that were just rolling.
Haut moved through the crowd like a piece of it. Hood down. Face bare. The burns kept people from looking too long. He used that.
Lysander stopped at a stall selling bread. Haut slowed, bent to tie his boot. When he straightened, he'd counted the silver in Lysander's purse, the weight of it, the way it pulled at his coat. Seven coins. Maybe eight. Enough for a day's shopping. Not enough for anything more.
Lysander bought two loaves. Paid with a full silver. The woman behind the stall started to make change. He waved her off.
"Buy something for yourself."
Haut watched the woman's hands. They didn't shake. She was used to this. She tucked the silver into her apron and handed Lysander the bread without another word.
Haut filed it. The woman didn't thank him. She expected the coin. Lysander gave it without waiting for thanks. This was routine.
At the honey cake stall, Haut moved closer. He was buying cakes now, two of them, the ones with nuts on top. The woman behind the counter wrapped them in paper. Lysander set a coin down. Another full silver.
"For your sister?"
"For my sister."
The woman's hands paused on the paper. "How is she?"
"Well. She'll be better when she's eaten these."
Haut watched the woman's face. She knew the sister. Knew her well enough to ask. Lysander answered like a man who'd answered the same question a hundred times.
Haut filed it. The sister was known. The sister was cared for. The sister was a thread.
The flower seller's stall was at the end of the row.
Haut didn't follow Lysander there. He crossed the street instead, took a position at a butcher's stall, pretended to examine hanging meat while he watched.
Lysander stopped at the stall. The girl behind it was young. Thin. Her stall was empty. The flowers were dead. All of them.
Lysander stood there. The girl didn't speak. He didn't speak. Then he reached into his coat and pulled out a handkerchief. Set it on the counter.
Haut's eyes moved. The handkerchief was white, clean, folded. He watched the girl's face. She was going to cry. She was trying not to.
"My mother says a clean handkerchief is the most useful thing a person can carry."
The girl looked at the handkerchief. At his face. "I don't have anything to sell you. The flowers are dead."
Lysander picked up a flower from the back of the stall. Blue. Dried. The petals were crumbling.
"This one. How much?"
The girl stared at him. "It's dead."
"I know."
He set a coin on the counter. Silver. Full silver. The girl's hands shook when she picked it up.
He tucked the flower into his coat. Walked away.
Haut watched the girl stand at her stall with the coin in her hand and the handkerchief on the counter. She was crying now. She didn't move to wipe her face.
Haut filed it. The flower. The coin. The way Lysander had picked it up without asking, like he already knew she'd say yes. The way he'd given her a way to take his money without begging for it.
He left the butcher's stall and followed.
Lysander walked through the market for another hour. Haut stayed twenty paces back, sometimes thirty, sometimes ten, depending on the crowd. He moved when Lysander moved. Stopped when Lysander stopped. He was a shadow that didn't need to be invisible. People didn't see him. They saw the burns and looked away.
At a leather stall, Lysander stopped to talk to a man with missing fingers. Haut drifted to a fruit seller, picked up a pear, set it down. His ears were on the conversation.
"The price is double what it was last month."
"The tannery burned. You know this. I have to bring the hides from the north now."
"You're bringing them from the north, or you're paying someone else to bring them and taking the difference?"
The man with missing fingers went quiet. Lysander waited. Then he laughed.
"I'm joking. Double is fine. I'll take three."
Haut filed it. Lysander knew the price was wrong. He paid it anyway. He paid it without anger, without threat. He made the man laugh before he took the loss.
At the edge of the Warrens, Lysander stopped at a door between a butcher's shop and a tailor's.
Haut didn't stop. He walked past, turned into an alley, circled back. He found a window with a view of the door. Waited.
Lysander knocked. Three sharp. Two slow. Three sharp. The door opened. A man's face appeared. Old. Tired. His hands were shaking.
Lysander stepped inside. The door closed.
Haut waited. He counted the seconds. At twelve hundred, the door opened. Lysander stepped out. His hands were empty. His face was the same. But his eyes were different. Tighter. Not sad. Something else.
The man stood in the doorway. His hands weren't shaking anymore.
"Next week," Lysander said. "I'm bringing honey cakes. Tell her she needs to be better by then."
He walked away. The man watched him go.
Haut filed it. The knock pattern. The way Lysander's eyes changed when he came out. The way the man's hands stopped shaking.
At the side gate of the Vex estate, Lysander stopped.
Haut was across the street, leaning against a wall, pretending to rest. His eyes were on the guard. The same guard from Kael's reports. The one with the mug, the half-closed eyes.
Lysander reached into his coat. Pulled out a small paper packet. Handed it to the guard.
"My mother's cook makes a honey tonic. Give it to your daughter. Tell her it's from a friend."
The guard took the packet. His hands were shaking.
"My lord, I can't—"
"You can."
He walked through the gate. The guard stood in the doorway, watching him go.
Haut waited. Three minutes. Five. No one came. He walked away.
Late afternoon. Vell's warehouse.
The door was open when Haut arrived. Vell was at her desk, her hands still, her eyes sharp. She looked up when he entered.
"You're back."
"I need the potions."
She studied him. "You have the blood?"
He pulled a small glass vial from his coat. Dark liquid. Thick.
Vell took it. Held it to the light. Nodded.
She reached under her desk and pulled out a small wooden box. Locked. She unlocked it with a key from around her neck. Inside were two glass vials. Clear liquid. Colorless.
"Three hundred each. Six hundred total."
Haut set a leather pouch on the desk. Fifty silver. His last cash.
"You're short."
"The rest from the next shipment. Huang's fish will be here in two weeks. You'll take your cut from that."
Vell looked at the pouch. At his face.
"You're betting everything on this."
"I'm betting what I have."
She pushed the box across the desk.
"One is for the face. What is the other for?." She looked at him.
He took the box.
"Haut."
He stopped.
Vell was counting his silver. She didn't look up.
"If they find out, they'll burn this city to the ground looking for you."
"I know."
"They won't find you?"
"No."
She nodded. Kept counting.
He walked out.
That evening. The Silver Toad.
Haut sat in the back corner, a cup of wine in front of him, his back to the wall. The room was loud, crowded, full of men who'd spent the day counting coins and women who'd spent the day watching them.
He was watching a man across the room. Fat. Well-dressed. His hands moved fast when he played tiles, faster when he counted his winnings. He was cheating. The man across from him was too drunk to notice.
Haut watched the cheat's hands. The way he palmed a tile, switched it, set it down. The way he looked at his opponent's face before he raised. The way he breathed slower when he was bluffing.
He filed it. He might need it later. He might not.
Later. Haut's apartment.
Kael was on the beam when Haut returned. The bird had been flying all day. He'd seen Lysander enter through the side gate. He'd seen the guard close the door. He'd seen the lights go on in the eastern tower.
Haut sat at the table. He pulled out a small notebook. Wrote:
Lysander Vex. Twenty-four. Second son. Not the heir.
Walks the market alone. No guards. No servants. People know him. They expect him. They trust him.
Spends silver freely. Doesn't wait for thanks. Doesn't need it.
The woman at the bread stall expects his coin. She doesn't thank him. He doesn't wait for it. Routine.
The girl with the flowers. He gave her a handkerchief before she could cry. He gave her a coin for a dead flower. He gave her a way to take his money without begging.
The man with the missing fingers. Lysander knew the price was wrong. He paid it anyway. He made the man laugh before he took the loss.
The guard at the side gate. His daughter was sick. Lysander brought medicine. The guard's hands shook. Lysander told him he could take it. Didn't ask for thanks. Didn't wait for it.
He knows the city. He knows the people. He's been doing this for years. This isn't performance. This is habit.
He doesn't look back. He doesn't check if he's being followed. He's never had to.
He has a sister. She likes honey cakes. She's been sick, or sad, or something that requires honey cakes. The woman at the stall knows her. Asks about her. Lysander answers the same way every time. Well. She'll be better when she's eaten these.
He's not performing. He's not trying to be good. He just is. That's what makes him dangerous.
He closed the notebook.
Kael made a sound. Haut looked at the bird.
"He's not a mark. He's not a target. He's a man who walks through the city and everyone who sees him is glad they did. The woman at the bread stall. The girl with the flowers. The guard whose daughter was sick. They all trust him. They all expect him. They all watch him walk away and feel better for having seen him."
He stood. Walked to the window. Looked out at the city.
"I need to know more. The sister. The fiancée. The father. The brother. The people inside the walls. The ones who see him every day. The ones who know when he's not himself."
He looked at Kael.
"Tomorrow, I follow him again. The day after. The day after that. I learn his face. His voice. The way he moves when he thinks no one's watching."
Kael made a sound. Agreement.
Haut lay down on the cot. Didn't close his eyes. He was already planning. The wedding was in three days. The party would be crowded. The family would be distracted. The guards would be watching the guests, not the walls.
He didn't know how he was going to use what he'd learned today. But he would.