Naamah's Blessing

footsteps?” I asked gently.
    The young woman nodded. “He didn’t, though. He turned into the first tavern he came to. So I went home.”
    “You’re a good girl,” Balthasar said in approval, fishing in the purse at his belt. “What’s your name?”
    She curtsied. “Caterine, my lord.”
    He pressed several coins into her hand, closing her fingers over them. “A token of thanks for your concern. Buy yourself a new gown, my love.”
    Caterine peered into her hand and gaped. A good deal of gold glinted in her palm. “My lord!”
    Balthasar patted her on the head. “Or a dozen gowns, or a pony. Whatever you like. Come, let’s on to the wharf.”
    “See, I told you he was a good fellow, Moirin,” Bao said to me as we set out to follow him in the direction of the river, the girl Caterine staring after us.
    “So it seems,” I agreed. “Despite appearances.”
    “Keep it to yourselves,” Balthasar said with an ironic glance over his shoulder. “I wouldn’t want to ruin my hard-won reputation.”
    The taverns along the wharf were rough places, catering to the sailors and boatmen who frequented them. These were not establishmentswhere one went to enjoy the conviviality and slightly disreputable thrill of Night’s Doorstep. They were places where men went to drown their sorrows and brawl. To be sure, I received some strange looks as we searched for Denis de Toluard in them, and Bao unslung his staff after our first unsuccessful foray, holding it in a casual defensive pose, his dark eyes glinting in warning.
    The sun was beginning to set in the west, slanting rays gilding the Aviline River, when at last we found our quarry. It was in the fourth tavern or fifth tavern we tried along the docks; a fusty little place with rough-hewn walls streaked with the soot of decades’ worth of candle and lamp-smoke.
    “Him?” The innkeeper nodded at Balthasar’s inquiry, jerking his thumb toward the back of the room. “Oh, aye. I reckon that’s who you’re after.”
    Denis de Toluard was a wreck.
    When I’d first met him, I’d reckoned him a pretty enough fellow with a handsome face, brown curls, and bright blue eyes. Now his face was haggard and lined beyond his years, his hair was greasy and matted, and his bleary, red-rimmed eyes could barely focus on us as we approached him where he slumped over a table, surrounded by half a dozen drunken sailors.
    “Balthasar?” he slurred.
    Balthasar Shahrizai folded his arms over the chest of his elegant velvet doublet. “Time to go home, Denis.”
    “Nuh-uh. Nuh-uh.” He wrapped his hands protectively around a leather tankard, giving me a blurry look. “Moirin?”
    “Hello, Denis,” I said softly. I had lingering cause to be angry with him, but I couldn’t be cruel. Not here, not now. “Balthasar is right. It’s time to go home.”
    “No!” His hands tightened, denting the leather tankard. “I don’ wanna!”
    “You’re coming with us,” Balthasar said mildly, exchanging a glance with Bao. “Willing or no.”
    “I’m not goin’ anywhere with you. You didn’ even have the ballocksto come with us. These are my friends, my only real friends.” Denis de Toluard gestured around him with drunken dignity. “Sailed with ’em to Terra Nova and alla way back. Damn bloody Nahuatl, damn bloody place. Thierry, Raphael, alla them… Gone, all gone. And we did nothing. Nothing, I tell you! Don’ know what we could, but we didn’t.” He rubbed at his eyes. “They unnerstand, they do. So lemme be.”
    One of the sailors rose unsteadily, looming over the table. “You heard ’is lordship. Let ’im be.”
    “Sit down.” Bao tapped him smartly in the center of his chest with the butt end of his staff. The sailor fell back into his chair and looked surprised. Others rose with menacing intentions. Bao grinned and twirled his staff until it was a blur, making the air sing. “It’s been too long since I had a good fight,” he said cheerfully. “Go ahead.”
    Two of them lunged at him at once. Bao’s staff whipped left and right, and both sailors fell back, clutching their heads and groaning. He jabbed a third in the belly, and the fellow doubled over with a grunt of pain.
    “Bao, wait.” I tugged on his black-and-white magpie coat. “My lord Denis, listen. We need to talk to you. I have reason to believe Thierry is alive.”
    Denis de Toluard stared at me with bleary eyes.
    “Raphael, too,” I added.
    He held up one hand to forestall the sailors,