Free Among Thieves by Douglas Hulick

I had secreted the letter.
    “No more than usual.”
    “Who from?”
    I met her eyes, but kept silent.
    “Fine,” she said. “Be that way.”
    “I explained things to you and Eppyris when I moved in.”
    “And I didn’t like it then.”
    I smiled. This was an old battle between us. Cosima didn’t believe in secrets; I didn’t believe in not keeping them.
    “My building, my rules,” I said.
    “Humph.”
    I’d acquired the two-story brick and timber building a couple of years ago from a Kin named Clyther, along with the note to a loan he held on Eppyris. Clyther hadn’t exactly wanted to sell, but the property and arrangement appealed to me, and I had enough on Clyther to change his mind. Once in, I had forgiven the apothecary’s debt in exchange for a silent partnership in his business and had moved into the rooms upstairs. My plan had been to live here just long enough to ensure I was getting my fair cut of the profits, but, somewhere along the way, things had changed. The three rooms above the shop had become a haven from the street, and Eppyris and his family had become a welcome relief from my gritty nights. My smart investment had managed to become my home.
    So much for plans.
    Cosima changed tact. “Your washerwoman stopped by earlier with your clothes,” she said.
    “I saw them at the foot of the stairs. Thanks.”
    “The least you could do is let me bring them up, seeing how you refuse to let me wash them for you.”
    I had a brief image of Cosima lying just inside the door to my rooms, the traps having sprung, her blood and my laundry mingling on the floor.
    “No.”
    “You know I’m going to see that mysterious apartment of yours someday, Drothe.”
    “Mm-hmm.”
    “What are you hiding up there, anyhow?”
    “One of the emperor’s consorts. She’s pregnant, you know—doesn’t want her little royal bastard killed.” Any heir born to the emperor was killed outright. There could be no claimant to the imperial throne, save one of the three incarnations of the emperor himself.
    Cosima elbowed me in the ribs. “Don’t even joke about that. Next thing you know, we’ll have imperial guards tearing the place apart.”
    “They’re not allowed in my rooms, either.”
    Cosima gave a small laugh and pointed at my cup. “You want me to brew you up some fresh? I make it better than Eppyris. Angels, anyone makes it better than that man!” She laughed again. It was an exceptionally good laugh.
    “No, thanks. I’ve had enough.”
    “How about something more to eat? I saw that pear you had—not enough for a mouse.”
    “I manage.”
    “Well, maybe I could—”
    “Cosima,” I said, “I’m fine.”
    She paused, then took a small breath. “That bruise on your face says otherwise.”
    I reached up and gingerly felt the place where Nicco had struck me. “A reminder.”
    “Well, I certainly hope you don’t forget whatever it is next time.”
    “I won’t.”
    We sat in silence for a while, then; me watching the passing traffic on Echelon Way without seeing it, her running through conversations without saying them. Finally, Cosima leaned forward and wrung out the bottom of her skirt.
    “It’s not his fault, Drothe.”
    Ah, here it was. I’d been wondering.
    “I’m not mad at Eppyris,” I said.
    “Nor he at you.”
    “I know,” I lied.
    “It’s just that . . . he’s proud, Drothe. And it’s not as if you’ve demanded anything of us. A little medicine, some herbs now and then—what’s that? I keep telling him he’d be hobbling around on crutches, selling poultices in the street, if you hadn’t gotten Clyther to—”
    “Cosima,” I said, “leave it be.”
    She bit her lip, and looked wonderful doing it.
    “He’s not an angry man, Drothe. Just . . .” She let the sentence trail off.
    Just unhappy having a criminal as a landlord. And a neighbor. And a friend to his wife.
    I took a sip of my cold bitter tea. I was just beginning to frame a reply when I noticed a familiar