Fable (Fable #1)(42)

I lifted myself up onto my toes, trying to spot the nearest ladder to the bridges. Beyond the next market, I could see shadowed figures scaling up over the rise of rooftops. I folded the map and shoved it into my jacket, slipping into the main street. People crowded between the buildings, coming to and from the market with baskets of potatoes and bushels of grain.

The mouth of the street spilled out into the square, where brightly colored canvas canopies and awnings cast a pink shade over the market. The dusty air was filled with the scent of roasting meats, and the vendor stalls snaked in wayward lines, their tables and carts stacked with fruits and fish and bolts of cloth in every color.

I shoved through, watching the bridges to keep track of where I was going. My belt and my coin purse were tucked safely inside my shirt, where no one could get to them without cutting through my jacket. But my hand instinctively reached between the buttons to find the handle of my knife.

A short woman with a huge silver fish slung over her shoulders pushed through the market, carving a path, and I followed her, sticking close until we were on the other side. I found the line to the ladder, and when it was my turn, I climbed the ropes. The cool wind blowing over the city hit me as I rose higher, the thick odor of the streets cleared away. I pulled the fresh air into my lungs, leaning into the netted wall of the bridge as people moved past. The wood planks bounced under my feet, slightly swinging, and I hooked my fingers into the ropes and looked out over Ceros. The rising brick walls and tattered roofs reached up from every inch of the city, the system of bridges weaving in between them all.

To the east, I could see the Pinch. It was the lowest part of the rolling landscape and the most densely populated. The crumbling structures were stacked on top of one another like teetering blocks.

“Miss?” A little girl stopped, pulling at the hem of my jacket. She held up a small square of white silk with a ship embroidered in blue thread. “Coin?” Her pale blue eyes looked almost white in the bright sunlight.

I stared down at it, the wrinkled cloth spread across her dirty hands. The ship was a large trader, with four masts and more than a dozen sails.

“Sorry.” I shook my head, moving past her.

I started across the bridge, keeping to one side and watching carefully. There was a time when I had the route to the Pinch memorized, but the bridges were confusing, and it was easy to end up in the opposite direction if you weren’t careful. I took a turn, going east until I found one that ran north. The late morning sun bore down, reflecting where the harbor crept out over the water. I couldn’t even tell which ship was the Marigold from here.

In the distance, the bells in the tower rang out, signaling the close of the market, and a moment later, a flood of people were climbing the ladders in a steady stream. I stepped onto a bridge that tilted up before it dropped back down again, and I could already smell it. The stink of the Pinch was something that burned in your nostrils and didn’t leave for days. And for those who lived there, it was something that became a part of them.

The streets below turned muddy and dark as the bridge slanted all the way down and came to a dead end. The ladder that dropped to the ground was covered in the same muck. I pulled the collar of my shirt up out of my jacket to cover my nose and held my breath as I climbed down. The shadows of the buildings cloaked most of the Pinch in shade, despite the time of day. The sound of wild dogs barking and babies crying echoed through the narrow street, and I pulled my map out again, trying to get my bearings.

It looked the same as it did four years ago, except there was more of everything—mud, people, refuse. And with the walls of buildings pulling up around you, you could hardly see the sky overhead.

I followed the alley that broke off from the main pathway. It twisted through buildings so narrow that I had to turn sideways in places to get through. Eyes peered down at me from windows above, where wet clothes flapped on lines. The familiar broken archway reached over the roofs in the distance. The rusted iron was a garland of the same triangular sails that adorned Saint’s crest. I made my way toward it as the sun dropped, the temperature falling with it.

The alley widened again, opening up to a circle of wooden doors. All green but one—a brilliant blue with a bronze knocker depicting the face of a sea demon. Its wide eyes looked down at me, its tongue unrolled.

Saint’s post.

More eyes peered down from above, probably people my father had paid to keep watch. But I knew how to get in. I’d done it a hundred times. I unclasped my jacket and took it off, tucking the length of it into my belt before I fit my fingers into the crevices of the smooth white clay wall. My hands were bigger than they were the last time I’d climbed it, but the cracks and holds were the same. I lifted myself up, using the door knocker as a foothold, and when the edge of the little window was within reach, I leapt for it, catching the rim with my fingertips and swinging over the drop.

My elbow hooked into the lip of wood, and I fished the chisel from my belt. The edge slid in easily, and I shimmied it up to lift the latch. It was a small window, and I had to wedge myself in, dropping my belt inside and shifting my hips until I’d squeezed through. I landed on the tile hard, groaning against the sharp pain that exploded in my ribs, and pushed myself back up to my feet.

The room was dark, only the light from the small open window coming inside in an angled beam. I searched for a lantern, feeling along the shelves until the toe of my boot ran into the leg of a desk and my fingers found a candle. I struck a match and held the lantern up before me, the lump coming back up in my throat.