“True, but much like bartenders, barbers know all the gossip. I would know, because I went through Serin’s accounts after he took his last flight, and he had at least a dozen of each on the payroll.”
“Bartenders seem a better choice,” she said, heat moving from her cheeks to her chest. “Drunks talk.”
“True, but do you really think the men and women we need to find are alehouse drunks?”
“Probably not.” Sighing, she opened the trapdoor. “We’ll do it your way, but there’s something you should know.”
“Oh?”
Forgoing the ladder, Zarrah jumped down and then looked up at him. “In this region of Valcotta, bathhouses are communal.”
HE WOULD NOT have suggested it if he had known.
Stepping over a pool of slush, Keris scowled as a cart proceeded to trundle by and splash
him, cold water soaking his clothes. The streets were as crowded as they’d been yesterday, only today he noted how many of the people seemed to be wandering without purpose, more than a few camped in alleys with all their worldly possessions. And he also noticed the drawings. Dozens of walls and fences bore white paint depicting a woman in a crown walking over piles of corpses, cutting the throats of children, and looking up at the sky while starved figures lifted pleading arms to her. Under the scowling eyes of a soldier, two women were trying to scrub paint that said Death to the Usurper off a wall, and Keris marked dozens of smaller paintings showing people enacting various forms of violence against a crowned figure.
For all the rebellion had been growing for years, this rise in visible dissent had to be relatively recent, for gossip of this nature traveled far. It suggested the conflict was coming to a head, and he wondered if it was Petra who willed it so, or the rebels themselves. The question made him want to
quicken his pace to catch up with Zarrah, but they’d agreed it best if they traveled separately to the bathhouse.
Zarrah had asked one of the serving girls for a reputable location while they’d eaten a small breakfast. The girl had suggested two, then pointedly looked at him and said, “Avoid the Tigress. It’s where the imperial officers bathe, and they don’t care to share steam with Maridrinians.”
Given that the rebels would want to avoid soldiers, it seemed like a good idea to avoid such a place anyway, so Keris had only shrugged.
Ahead of him, Zarrah turned right down a street, and he followed, watching as she entered a building with two massive glass elephants flanking the entrance. Steam poured out each time the door opened to admit a patron, and his step quickened with the prospect of finally being clean, and not at all at the prospect of being naked in the same tub as Zarrah.
Then four soldiers exited a building in front of him, the largest nearly colliding with Keris.
“Apologies,” he muttered, but the man, who was even larger than Bermin had been, ignored him.
“It’s unacceptable,” the massive man said, pounding a fist against his thigh. “Those who speak so against her Imperial Majesty should lose their tongues.”
“Agreed,” a female soldier answered. “But it’s hard to discover who is responsible for the graffiti.”
“The whole miserable city deserves to burn,” another soldier muttered, rubbing his hands over his arms, and the big man gave him a warning glare.
“Mind your tongue. Our business here will be through soon enough, and then we will turn our eyes toward warmer climes.”
Keris stiffened. Arakis was on the southern edge of Valcotta, so nearly the entire empire was warmer than this place, but the intensity of the big man’s voice didn’t suggest another domestic post.
His eyes flicked over their uniforms, marking the same regalia that Zarrah had said signaled the imperial guard. They strode toward another bathhouse along the street, one with glass tigers flanking the doorway.
Keris wavered for only a heartbeat, then followed them, hoping that Zarrah would forgive him for deviating from the plan.
Hot steam rushed over him, and Keris breathed deeply, inhaling the thick smell of scented oils. A young woman dressed in silk trousers and a stomach-baring blouse stood in the entrance behind a glass table balanced on the backs of more glass tigers. She nodded respectfully at the soldiers, more young men and women appearing to escort them into the back.
Then her brown eyes fixed on Keris, glossy lips curling in disgust.
Which was perhaps not unwarranted. Not only was he filthy, but he still wore the moldy sealskin coat given to him on Aren’s stolen ghost ship. His cloak and boots were stained, and the knees of his trousers had holes in them.
“This house caters to individuals of a certain class,” she said. “Please leave.”
He held up a golden coin.
The young woman’s eyes settled on it, jaw working back and forth. “Do you want to get yourself beaten?” she demanded. “This house is full of imperial soldiers.”
Keris added a second coin.
As always, the gleam of gold blinded eyes to both dirt and nationality, and the young woman smiled. “Perhaps we might take your garments here so that they may be laundered?”
“Past laundering, I’m afraid,” he answered. “If you could burn them and provide me with new, it would be most appreciated.”
There was no mistaking the relief in her eyes. Snapping her fingers, she waited for a boy to appear, then said, “New garments. Burn the old.”
Keris gleefully pulled off the cloak and overcoat and handed them over to the boy. The young woman held out a gilded box, in which he placed his coin and knives. She locked it and presented him with a small key on a chain. He put it over his head.
The boy disappeared with the filthy clothes, another appearing and handing him a cup of wine before leading him into the back.
Unlike Maridrinian bathhouses, which were usually dark, Keris was led into a large open chamber building with two massive glass elephants flanking the entrance. Steam poured out each time the door with a ceiling made of glass, though the light was muted by the excessive steam. A dozen pools with colored tiles filled the space, glass tigers spitting steaming water into each to keep it hot for the relaxing patrons. All were Valcottan, the few who noticed Keris giving him dark looks, though none made a move to complain.
The soldiers he’d followed in were already disrobed and in one of the pools, a woman with a stringed instrument singing near them.
“The rest of your clothes, sir,” the boy said. Keris pulled off his shirt and trousers, noting the boy’s eyes going to the bandage on his shoulder.
“Brigands.” Keris pulled loose the wrapping, handing it to the boy.
The boy gestured to a pool near the edge of the room. “The salt will serve you well, then, sir. A selection of clothing will be made available when you are ready to leave.”
The thick steam in the room provided a partial cloak as Keris waded into the pool, grimacing as the water splashed his injury. The soldiers he’d followed were barely visible through the steam, their heads bent together in conversation in the pool they shared on the far side of the chamber.
Retrieving some soap from the selection available, Keris scrubbed away the filth as he considered how to get near enough to overhear. He made himself busy washing grime from his hair, the cloud of grit that floated away to the drain stained slightly red from old blood. God help him, but it felt good to be clean.