The Silver Lake Read Free Page A

expression. The sense of unease, or rather, uncertainty, he amended, was still with him, but now he could feel that it had nothing to do with the morning’s plan. It was more like a vague sense of ... maybe-ness, he thought for want of a better word, hovering off behind the clouds. Probably nothing more than a warning that the rains would come early like Brax had said they would and they’d get soaked before the day was done. It had been an unusually cold Low Spring, and High Spring looked to start just as miserably.
    Passing Oristo-Cami with its high, wrought-iron fence, vast sweeping cinar trees, and tall, ruddy-brown painted statues of the bi-gender Hearth God, Cindar favored the abayos-priest frowning down at them from the top step with a scowl of his own and the sense of unease suddenly returned. Spar’s chest tightened, afraid that Cindar would start into his usual tirade—this close to any temple it was never a good idea—but instead he just turned the corner, leaving the woman unengaged, and Spar breathed a sigh of relief as the unease passed.
    Beside him, he felt Brax relax as well. When a heavyset brush merchant arguing with his own delinkos and a thin, gangly youth overladen with packages pushed past them, the older boy gave them a speculative glance, but allowed them to pass unmolested. Spar nodded his approval. Brax was a good thief—Cindar said he could lift the nectar from a hummingbird’s beak without it feeling his fingers when he put his mind to it—but he was also reckless and impatient. There’d be plenty of pickings at Usara-Cami later; there was no point in running any risks before that. Spar was relieved that both Brax and Cindar seemed to agree with him this morning. It wasn’t their trade that put them in danger of being snatched by either the priests of Oristo or the garrisons of Estavia, he thought, it was Cindar’s temper and Brax’s overconfident bravado. Without him to watch their backs, they probably would have been either snatched or stiffed a long time ago.
    A chill breeze drove its fingers through his thread-bare jacket and he acknowledged the random admon ishment with a silent nod. Without them, he probably would have starved, he admitted. Maybe. Remembering the extra asper in his pocket, he gave a faint snort. And then again, maybe not. With a smirk, he hurried to catch up with the others as they headed for the dozen blue-and-white banners that fluttered above the treetops at Usara-Cami.
    They reached the God of Healing’s Dockside sub-temple a few moments later. In keeping with tradition, it was no more than a single story high and built around a central, hexagonal courtyard lined with great cinar trees, but its fine twisting minarets were as tall as those at the main temple of Usara-Sarayi and its high stone walls, carved to resemble a delicate latticework of ivy and climbing rose vines, rivaled anything even the Art God’s people could display
    A dozen junior physicians were already hard at work pushing several hundred people into lines based on obvious or not-so-obvious need when they arrived. After pausing to catch Spar up in his arms, Cindar took his place, exchanging mock pleasantries with a family of tinsmiths behind him while Spar leaned his head on his abayos’ shoulder to watch, through half-lidded eyes, as Brax vanished into the crowd.
    The sense of unease returned then, and he cast about worriedly, checking out those of Estavia’s garrison that he could see. The Battle God’s people knew full well why many of them were there and maintained a minimum of two troops in and around Usara’s temples for that very reason. But each one of the leather-clad soldiers looked bored and disgruntled so, as a light misting of rain began to dampen his cheeks, he shook off the feeling. It was just the weather after all, he told himself firmly. Havo’s Dance was scary enough without adding priests or Gods or garrison guards to the mix. Brax was good, so was Cindar; they’d make