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Wynnderlan III "The sword of a god." The words rang in my head, as if spoken next to me; the voice agonizingly familiar, a thin thread tied to a face and a name, memory so fragile it could break at the slightest tug. Blue mist... "You don't have the real swords...fake..." I rasped, the blood throbbing in my head. A stupid lie, transparent, but Hadyn's eyes narrowed and his foot shifted. And then a piece of paving stone hit him in the side of the head. Grabbing Hadyn's knife arm at the wrist I brought my knee up hard into his lower ribs. It was a weak blow but hunched as he was to pin my shorter frame, my knee connected sharply. His arm against my throat dropped and I slammed my forehead into his face. Hadyn staggered back, more startled than hurt but giving me enough room to scramble away, trying to fill my lungs with air while fighting the urge to heave up the contents of my stomach onto the frozen ground. In the dark and shadow there was no sign of whomever had thrown the paving stone but I was not about to let the efforts of my invisible rescuer go to waste. I took to my heels. My legs had all the strength of wet paper and it seemed the fires of the Netherworld were burning in my lungs. I stumbled my way over dirt mounds and fallen headstones, my ordinarily nimble feet betraying me. I heard Hadyn curse from behind me and hoped another paving stone had found it's mark. I had wriggled away from him but Hadyn was not done with me. I cleared the yard and the deep shadows cast by the church walls. Then, I got my first lung-full of air and across the silvery court, my feet flew. The streets surrounded me, narrow and tangled, a beautiful sight. My chest was tight and a stitch ate at my side but I couldn't stop. Hadyn knew these streets nearly as well as I did; it had been me who had taught them to him. Newly released from captivity in a city he had only seen in the procession through on his way to prison, Hadyn had been lost when I met him. A head taller than me and unafraid even in his predicament, he had sneered at my dapper albeit ragged attire and demanded I guide him to the nearest harbor. A kick to the groin had dissuaded him from using physical force to acquire my services; the only time I ever had the upper hand on Hadyn in a fight. I'd shown Hadyn many of the secrets of the city, but there were still more I'd kept from him. It was the first thing a thief learned, to never tell his fellows all that he knew. It was for just such a time as this. My foot slipped on the wet paving and I went down on one knee, my breath rasping horribly in my throat. I was fleeing with all the stealth of a blind ox. Such a performance would have earned me a smart beating in my years of tutelage under Pegglin. It wasn't hard to be soundless shadow under favorable circumstances, the old thief was want to say. It was when one was wounded and hunted, when the walls were high and the roofs wet, the dogs keen and the guards alert; it was then that it took a real thief to disappear in plain sight. I was being sloppy. Somewhere a window slammed and my heart leapt, coming down to thunder in my chest. A ragged memory of frozen ground and lantern light glancing off of hounds teeth and rough coats...blood dark on the ground... I pressed the heel of my hand against my forehead, as if to physically push the thoughts from my head. Think of getting to the tower. Think of getting to the tower....I took a deep breath - as deep as my injured throat would allow - of damp air, rank with the smells of the city and shook the memory from my mind before it could go further. The clock tower was part of a shipping office. It had been built as a striking tower only though shortly after towers all across the city appeared with real clock faces in them, much to a excitement of the denizens. Fire had destroyed the warehouses and most of the office but the tower till stood. No one had rebuilt or cleared away and the blackened rubble still lay in a tangle long ago picked over for anything of possible value. It's bulk loomed before me. There was no redeeming quality in the sea air. Even in the winter the harbor stunk worse than the city. In my already nauseated state, it was stomach-churning. I drew shallow breaths as I passed the fish stalls. Out on the water ship lanterns burned. Though it had been built for prosperity like the rest of Deadman's quarter the harbor had fallen to ruin. Shabby ships dropped anchor every evening and money exchanged hands in the dirty offices in-between the fishers stalls. Hoards of cats roamed the harbor, lured by the fish offal and ship-fed rats. It had been one of them, a tiger striped kitten with green eyes, that had shown me the way into the tower. Darting into the rubble of the collapsed offices, I'd followed the kitten through a dangerous maze of precariously balanced ceiling beams till it had disappeared through a tiny opening in the wall. Carefully moving away some of the rubble to enlarge the hole, I'd discovered a way into the tower. For a few hours of secure rest it would serve it's purpose. Inside the tower I jumped to catch the ladder, pulling myself up painfully over missing rungs, climbing to emerge through the trap in a space black as pitch, my side throbbing. There was the faint smell of oil in the air. I crawled forward on hands and knees and then dropped to the floor, groaning as my bruised side took the weight. I rolled half under the turret clock till I was facing the ladder opening, my back to the wall. Curled, I lay still in the dark and ordered my thoughts till sleep claimed me. I woke some time later with the uncomfortable certainty I was no longer alone. I continued to breathe in the slow deep rhythm of sleep and listened, ignoring the fresh complaints of my injured body and chilled limbs. In the closed space of the tower I would be able to hear even the slightest sound; and yet I heard nothing. Still the presence was heavy, setting my skin to tingling. A square of light came from the second trap overhead where the ladder continued to a second floor but it did not light the turret room. I lay and waited for the other occupant of the tower to move. The moments stretched long. At last there was the faint sound of a shoe being drawn across the floor followed a few breaths later by a soft sigh, like someone who had been waiting for a lengthy period. A soft, pensive sigh... I lay still, bemused. Was it just another vagrant taking shelter in the tower? The sound of movement made me tense. They were moving towards me. I rolled away, trying to get out from underneath the turret clock, giving up my pretense of sleep. Whoever they were, there was little chance their intentions were benign. They stopped out of reach of a kick as I came upright, crouched against the far wall. "Who is there?" I demanded loudly. My question was met with a weighty silence. Then: "Orthanian." I bit back a laugh of surprise. It was a child; not only that but a female one. And giving a very unusual name. "Orthanian? Who cursed you with that name?" Again, silence. I was thirsty and chilled from a night in the tower but I kept my posture, back to the wall. Even sweet sounding children could handle a knife in Deadman's quarter. "Let's have a look at you. Stand there, by the trap." The dim square of light high above the floor gave access to the bell. The child did as she was instructed. In the vague light I could hardly see her face but I could see what she was doing with her hands. I edged around the turret clock and stood facing the little beggar. She was short and slight and looked hardly past her seventh year. Dressed in a too large dress and a coat that pulled at the shoulders she looked throughly truant. She glanced up at me, her mouth and eyes grave. An adults expression on a child's face. "You should be more careful where you spend the night." I stepped around her and dropped down the ladder. Brick dust rose in a heavy cloud as I landed. I'd be covered in it before I'd crawled my way through the confusing paths out of the rubble. Even though I was still small enough to fit through the tight places, emerging dusted red was not auspicious for one of my line of work. The clock tower was a child's hideaway. I'd leave to the little tramp. It was a chill grey dawn. Droplets of water clung to every surface and fell in a freezing shower when disturbed. I straightened, feeling the lasting pain of deeply bruised muscles. Mulled wine and a pastry. Or perhaps a dozen pastries. My mouth watered at the thought of the flaky crust breaking open with steaming chunks of meat in rich salty juices. A soft step behind me vanished the delicious vision. The little tramp stood amidst the rubble her hands in fists at her sides, somber eyes fixed on my face. I made a shooing motion with one hand. Her expression did not change. I doffed an imagined hat and bowed low, a sudden pain in my side making me gasp and cough which turned to a laugh. I straightened slowly the smile still in place. "M'lady Orthanian," I murmured in affected court tones. She frowned. Over the water, gulls screamed. Turning on my heel I scrambled over the piled rubble, keeping a wary eye out for anyone taking an unusual interest in me. I ducked behind a curtained coach that was rolling it's stately way down the street, incongruous in the setting to those not familiar with Deadman's Quarter. Staying out of reach of the driver's whip I used it to hide my exit down a narrow side street. My mouth felt dry and wooly and a stitch was growing in my side. I ran a hand over the new growth of hair just coming in over my head. I looked like a plague victim or a galley slave. It would be hard to work looking as I did. My usual long hair had been more than a vanity, long hair was the style favored by the higher classed, a fashion set by the members of the palace court. Long hair and tall boots. Ragged, dirty and shorn I could not walk among the moneyed as usual. I'd come away from Renfrew's house without so much as a gold earring. The thought immediately brought to mind another gold earring; a twisted loop of gold dangling an amber gem. I smiled and set off through the streets, away from the sea. The sky was a uniform washed-grey when I turned down a street that looked to be a dead end. Wider than most streets in the quarter it was lined with tall, stately buildings built wall to wall now decaying in silent dignity. The end of the street was cut off by a house that faced inward. Despite that I was aware of the many escape routes. I scanned the street. A girl with half a dozen dirty geese in tow; two filthy children loitering outside a shop. Three houses down the Cold Moon tavern was identified by a crescent shaped sign over the door. I hadn't stepped foot through the door since the summer before last, but I knew my confederate would be willing to help me. No one else there would recognize me by sight and more importantly it was a place Hadyn would not go. I stepped through the door without even a cursory dusting off. Inside the yeasty scent of bread in the oven was fighting against the scent of stale straw, spilled ale, dogs and the perpetual smell of lamp oil. A staircase lead to the second floor from the foyer. In what would have at one time been a dining room of some state a girl was lighting a fire on the hearth atop a pile of old ashes. She glanced over her shoulder. I shook my head, forestalling her words of welcome. "I'm here to see Madam Dashree." The girl shrugged and pointed a ashy finger toward the kitchens. The long room was four steps lower than the rest of the house and I found my entrance blocked by a lithe black hound lying across the lowest step. Children's voices bubbled in some happy conversation from some corner of the room, mixing with adult tones. I stepped over the dog without challenge but a curious sniff at my leg. A long table sat in the center of the room, three children sitting at one end spooning away porridge. Two women worked over the bead ovens and a tall man with hair trimmed as short as my own was watering ale. Two skewered geese roasted over the fire, the spit turned by an old woman seated in a chair. Her nearness to the hot coals didn't seem to bother her and though the room was too hot she wore a shawl knitted of dyed yarn. Grey hair, still surprisingly thick was carefully braided and fastened. She turned the birds with one hand and the hand lying in her lap was horribly scarred and misshapen. Her eyes were cloudy with blindness and in her ear she wore a twisted loop of gold with an amber gem. The hound had risen to follow me and one of the children catching sight of me called, "Mam, here's a man to see someone." The two women turned and the man glanced up but I stopped in front of the old woman and knelt to bring me eye level. She had heard me enter and faced me calmly, still turning the spit. I had no doubt she already knew who it was who knelt in front of her. I reached out and touched the earring glowing softly in the golden light. "Cyfarchion, dear lady." A smile curved her wrinkled lips at my use of a title. She let go of the spit, catching my hand in her's. "The fingers of a thief. Would you steal back a gift?" She moved her hand to my face, pushing back my cloak hood, touching my shorn hair. The others in the kitchen had gone back to their work. Other than a few curious glances they left us to our conversation. I knew none of them recognized me; they would not have remembered me even unchanged. Madam Dashree seemed to have the same thought. "You've changed." She sighed and dropped her hand to her lap. "What have you done now?" It had been a year and more since I'd come to see her but the time seemed to mean nothing to the old woman. I laughed and sat back on my heels. Her fingers were as keen as her wit and much sharper than most people's sighted eyes. "I went when I should have stayed and stayed when I should have gone. But it's a matter between friends, I wont bring trouble here." It was a light promise and Madam Dashree knew it. Her mouth formed a wry smile. "Child, you are trouble in the flesh." I grinned. A hot flush of heat over my body sent a stirring of dizziness to my head. My stomach grumbled at the same time and a growing state of misery threatened to undermine my jaunty, careless air. Madam Dashree did not need sight to know how I was feeling. She clicked her tongue in disapproval and stood, pulling me to my feet. "Go up to my room. I'll have some food brought and we can talk." I raised her scarred hand to my lips, giving her a lady's salute. "Thank you. I knew I could beg your help if I came." She chuckled and left her chair, walking carefully. I stepped around the tail-wagging hound and left the kitchen's warmth and smells for the drafty hall. The girl who had been lighting the fire met me there. "There's someone come after you," she said with a distracted glance. My scalp tingled. Hadyn? Renfrew? "What does he want?" The girl shook her head and stepped around me. "She. She's waiting in the taproom." I considered ignoring the message and going straight up to Madam Dashree's room but curiosity and apprehension drew me across to the doorway. I stepped in warily. Sitting in front of the newly lit fire, her booted feet dangling some inches above the floor, her dirty face as solemn as when I'd left her in the rubble heap by the harbor was my little tramp from the clock tower. |