Free Path of Smoke by Bailey Cunningham Page A

my friend, it’s possible that we can work something out.”
    Before she could reply, he grabbed his drink and walked back to the entrance. Morgan gave him an expectant look.
    â€œWell? What did she say?”
    â€œShe knows who Julia is, but she’s not quite willing to tell us. Not yet.”
    â€œWhat does she want?”
    â€œFel.”
    The miles stared at him. “What?”
    â€œDo I need to draw you a picture? She wants to peel off your lorica.”
    Fel reddened, staring at the floor. “Out of the question.”
    â€œJust go and flirt with her for a while.”
    â€œThat was supposed to be your job.”
    Fel’s voice had a strangled quality to it that Babieca hadn’t heard before. He tried very hard not to smile. “I have to clean up a pile of puke. I assure you that your task will be far sweeter. Now go. Make us proud.”
    â€œThis is ridiculous,” Fel muttered.
    â€œOnce we’re a company, we won’t have to resort to these sordid activities.” He could no longer keep himself from smiling. “For now, we’ve got to—how did Morgan put it—be creative in the face of adversity?”
    â€œI’m sorry,” Morgan whispered.
    â€œI despise both of you right now,” Fel said. “I hope you understand that.”
    Cleaning out the necessary was no joyful task, and by the time Babieca finished, he was covered in sweat and unsightly stains. He’d also torn a hole in his tunica, which would do nothing to improve his appearance. When he emerged, Fel was still talking with the ale-wife. She saw him, disentangled herself politely, and walked back to the entrance of the caupona.
    â€œYou stink,” she said.
    â€œWhat a triumph of logic. Did you find out where she is?”
    Fel looked embarrassed. “Yes.”
    â€œWell done! You must have really—”
    â€œFinish that sentence, trovador, and I’ll carve out your guts.”
    â€œUnderstood.”
    â€œIt was very sweet,” Morgan said beneath her breath, as they followed the miles. “She definitely has a soft side.”
    â€œThat threat goes for both of you,” Fel said, without turning around.
    They circled the edge of the Subura, until they came to Aditus Claustrum. The street was packed with squat, three-story insulae. Laundry hung from lines suspended over the alleys. The vici wasn’t precisely disheveled, but it was a far cry from the northern part of the city. This was where people with shaky prospects tended to settle. The ground floor of each insula was rented out by various shopkeepers. Babieca saw mercers, silk merchants, and scent-peddlers. The dyers had to work at the edge of the city, on account of their stink. Urine was used to fix most dyes. A concession was made, though, in the form of bottles placed outside the shops. Occasionally, a passerby would stop, piss into one of the bottles, and then continue on his way. At the end of the day, the shop owners would deliver the bottles to the outskirts of the city and collect a few coins for their malodorous gift to the dyers.
    Fel stopped outside a small workshop fronting one of the insulae. A tablet affixed to the wall proclaimed that the builder could fix anything. A shattered organ leaned against the wall of the workshop, attesting to the fact that the sign wasn’t completely accurate.
    â€œShe must have earned herself an apprenticeship,” Morgan said. Her expression betrayed a flash of remorse. “Maybe we should just leave her alone.”
    â€œI don’t think so.” Babieca squared his shoulders. “You know that she’s a part of this. No amount of hiding will save her, in the end.”
    â€œDo we really need to rush the inevitable?”
    â€œWhat we need,” Fel said, “is a fourth. An artifex could be very useful.”
    â€œYou don’t know her very well,” Babieca said. “She isn’t the most agreeable