by Jon Sprunk
Tomorrow night Caim, Low Town's favorite son, would die.
CHAPTER FOUR
Kit showed up while Caim stalked down a narrow lane between two dark rows of houses. One moment he was strolling by himself, eyes darting back and forth in search of hidden threats, and the next she was walking beside him. Or rather, she levitated beside him; her dainty feet never touched the cobbles.
“Welcome back, Kit. Off gallivanting again?”
“I don't gallivant, darling. I might flit about sometimes, or stop to watch a caterpillar weave its cocoon. Did you know they could do that? It's amazing! But I never, ever gallivant. As it happens, I was looking after your interests.”
Kit flipped over so she was hovering upside down in front of him. In defiance of gravity, her long silver hair stayed curled around her slim shoulders. Her violet eyes twinkled mischievously as she regarded him, and it was all he could do not to chuckle.
Those eyes were his first memory, peeking over the side of his cradle when he was a babe. She claimed to have been searching for a little brother and stopped when she found him, but with Kit the truth was often difficult to ascertain. Whether real or imaginary, she was without a doubt the most interesting person he'd ever met. She'd been everywhere, it seemed, and seen everything there was to see. She could fly so high into the sky he lost sight of her, or dive into the earth and return with tales of the secret lives of voles and worms. After he'd lost his parents, Kit had become his family. She was all he had left. If there were times, such as during his turbulent adolescence, when he tried to drive everyone else away, Kit always did as she chose. No one could sway her once her mind was made up. In that they were much alike, to his constant chagrin.
“Forgive me.” He turned onto one of Low Town's many crooked, unnamed streets. “What interests are those, dear lady?”
A pair of drunken merchant marines passed him in the gathering dusk. If they thought him odd for talking to himself, they said nothing, but murmured behind his back once they were past. Caim chewed on the inside of his cheek and ignored the itch in his palms.
“Hubert's on his way to the Vine,” Kit announced.
He touched the heavy lump of the purse inside his shirt. “Good. That's where I'm headed now.”
“And he's not alone.”
“Is that right?”
“He's got a whole gang of roughnecks with him. Most of them look like vagrants, but a couple might be able to handle themselves. One is the disinherited son of a former pimp.”
Caim smiled to himself. Ever since he had taken up his current lifestyle, Kit had endeavored to be useful to him. He had to admit she was an exemplary judge of people's capabilities. She could look at someone and spy out what they hid from others. That ability had saved his ass too many times to count. The trouble was that Kit couldn't be relied upon to always be where he needed her. She had a disturbing penchant for leaving him for days at a time and, even more unnerving, showing up with knowledge of things she shouldn't know, things no one could know.
“Should I be worried?”
Kit shrugged, turning around to stand right side up again. “He seems in a good mood. I'd say he was scheming something, but not against you.”
“Then I have nothing to worry about.”
The faded sign of the Blue Vine appeared around the next corner. One of the oldest wineshops in Othir, it had been owned by innumerable men and women over the centuries, passed down through families and sold off dozens of times. The current owner was Mistress Clarice Henninger, but everyone called her Mother.
She spotted Caim as soon as he pushed through the rickety door. “Caim!”
He held open his arms as she waddled across the common room to wrap him in a fierce embrace. A thick-waisted woman on the hoary side of fifty, she was every bit as saucy as a wench half her size and a third her age. The money purse tucked in his shirt ground against her massive breasts.
“Happy to see me, sweetling?”
Kit giggled while Caim disentangled himself as politely as he could manage. The Vine's taproom was dim, its windows tightly shuttered. The only light came from small oil lamps suspended from the ceiling and two stone-lined hearths. Thick shadows clung to the brick-and-niter walls. It was crowded this night. Most of the Vine's patrons were teamsters and porters, large men who made their living by the sweat of their brows and the strength of their backs. A few nodded his way. He returned the gestures with a slight dip of his chin.
“Want your usual table?” she asked.
Mother led him to a dim corner, swaying her wide hips with every step. Caim took off his cloak and slid around the table to sit with his back to the walls. From here he could see the front entrance as well as the door to the back room where the wine casks were stored.
“A cup of Golden Swan?”
Caim started to nod, but stopped himself. “No, I'll have the Asper tonight. In a clean cup, please.”
She laughed, grasping her breasts with both hands. “Of course, sweetling. All Mother's cups are clean!”
A pair of oldsters in shabby coats cackled over their stones game as she waddled back to the bar to fetch his order. Kit perched on the table and regarded Caim. Her large eyes glowed like purple jewels in the dim lighting.
“So you took another job?”
He flipped a penny to the wench who delivered his wine. She flashed him a welcoming smile, but he returned only a curt nod and leaned back into the shadows.
As the girl flounced off, he said, “You were eavesdropping?”
Kit twirled a wisp of silver hair in her fingers. “Mathias talks so loud I could hear him half the world away. I thought you were going to take a break.”
Caim took a sip and sighed as the cool wine trickled down his throat. “I was, but sometimes people need killing. That's what I do.”
“It didn't sound like you were too eager to take it.”
“Well, I couldn't stand to see Mathias beg.”
“You never say no to him.”
“He's a friend.”
Kit reclined on an elbow, staring up at him. “A friend wouldn't put you in danger for a few pieces of gilt.”
Before he could think of an answer, the door opened and a young man entered. The newcomer's colorless eyes swept around the room as the door closed behind him. He was alone.
“Hubert's here,” Caim said. “Why don't you go keep an eye on his roughnecks?”
Kit hopped off the table with a spin. “It doesn't sound like you need my help. Maybe I'll go watch fireflies instead.”
“As you like.”
As Kit vanished through a wall, Caim focused on the youth crossing the wineshop. Hubert Claudius Vassili looked every inch the foppish noble's son he was, from the floppy, wide-brimmed hat cocked roguishly on his head, complete with a ridiculous sky blue feather, to his fine cavalry boots, polished to a high shine. A slender rapier hung on his left hip, more of a showpiece than a real weapon.
Hubert stopped in front of Caim's table with a hand on his sharp, smooth-shaven chin as if considering where to sit, and said, “The blue falcon hunts at midnight.”
Caim kicked out a chair. “Sit down before you draw more attention to us than you already have.”
Hubert dropped his hat on the table and called for a cup of the house best before he settled into the seat. “Ah, Caim. It's good to see you again, but you don't have to worry. Every man in here is an ardent supporter of the Azure Hawks. They've pledged not to give up the fight until the theocrats are dragged down from their gilded thrones.”
Caim glanced around the taproom. “Gathering quite the little army, aren't you? I thought I saw a few tinmen shaking in their armor tonight.”
Hubert spread his hands as if delivering a benediction. “The people clamor for freedom, Caim. I am but a humble servant of the public welfare.”
Caim tossed the purse onto the table. “And regular infusions of my money don't hurt either, do they?”
Hubert covered the purse with his hat and pulled it into his la
p. “Not at all. The Hawks are very grateful for your generosity. It's donors such as yourself that fuel the engines of our progress.”
Caim couldn't resist. “You've had progress?”
Hubert didn't notice the jibe. “Naturally. Our forces are marshalling. Plans are being laid. One day we will free the people from the Council's tyranny. One day very soon!”
He glanced around as if expecting a chorus to support his claim. A few tired drinkers nodded in his direction, but most simply stared into the depths of their cups.
“Well.” Hubert turned back to Caim. “It will happen. And we'll have you to thank.”
“So why did you feel the need to bring a gang of strong-arms to our meeting?”
“How—?” Hubert gave him a weak smile. “I should have known. They are merely waiting outside for my protection. The streets are dangerous these days. I would never dream of insulting a man of your talents.”
“Good. I wouldn't want any misunderstandings, Hubert. I respect what you do, misguided though it may be at times. However, this will be my last donation for a time.”
“But we need your support now more than ever. Things are heating up. We're staging demonstrations nearly every day.”
“I understand, but I've got my own problems.”
“But—”
“Look, Hubert. I'm taking some time away from the contract game.”
“How long?”
“I'm not sure. A couple months, maybe more.”
Hubert leaned across the table. “Then come join us. We could use a man like you.”
Caim pushed his empty cup away. “No offense, but I'm not interested. Your little enterprise has been interesting, and anything that keeps the bigwigs off balance is good for business, but you don't need my help to burn down storefronts and break into warehouses. You've got plenty of supporters now, right?”
“Sure, I can assemble disgruntled clerks and teamsters by the hundredhead, but I need fighters, Caim. Sooner or later we're going to have to face the Reds head-on. We'll need you.”
Caim sat back deeper in the shadows. He knew what Hubert wanted: another pawn to push around in his game of politics. But Caim wasn't interested. He had his own battles to fight. Giving to the Hawks had seemed like a good idea, a way of giving back some of the blood money he earned to help a worthy cause. Now he could see it had been a mistake.
“No, Hubert. I agree things in Othir are getting worse, but I'm not a revolutionary. I work alone.”
Hubert put his hat back on as he stood up. “The offer's always open if you change your mind.”
“I won't.”
Hubert started to say something when Kit phased through his body. He didn't notice, of course, but the look on Caim's face must have been unexpected, because he stopped talking in midsyllable.
“Caim!” Kit blurted. “You've got comp—”
The front door crashed open. Conversations stopped as a crowd of City Watchmen filed into the common room. Without preamble they pulled patrons out of their chairs and pushed them against the walls. A stout man with an oily beard made a break for it. He got to the threshold of the front door before a soldier cracked open the back of his head with a baton. Everyone jumped to their feet. Even the old codgers stood up and shook their bony fists, but by then the watchmen were circulating through the room, seizing anyone who made a commotion.
“Your men couldn't bother to give us a warning?” Caim hissed.
“Some of them are new.” Hubert inched away from the table. “And others may have outstanding warrants on their heads.”
“Wonderful.”
Caim surveyed the room, measuring distances in his head. “Go for the back room. There's a delivery entrance that leads into the alley.”
“Good idea.”
Hubert headed in that direction, but not fast enough. Most of the soldiers were patting down patrons, but a pair and their commander moved to intercept Hubert. Their mail armor rattled as the tinmen ran to catch the young noble.
Caim rose from his seat and reached behind his back. If he drew his knives, men would die. That would draw unneeded attention to himself and the Vine, but he didn't want to see Hubert apprehended either. True, he was a rabble-rouser and a hypocritical demagogue, but his heart was in the right place. Most of the time.
Caim let his hands fall to his sides and closed his eyes.
He only meant to release a tiny bit of his powers, just enough to conceal Hubert's escape behind a curtain of darkness, but the taproom's shadows swarmed around him like moths to a flame. The Vine was drenched in an impenetrable gloom so thick Caim couldn't see more than a few feet in front of him, which was fine by him, but there was more. As he slid along the wall, a cool sensation prickled at the nape of his neck.
The hairs on his arms stood on end and his mouth went bone dry as something entered the taproom. He couldn't see it. Whatever it was, it blended perfectly into the darkness. But he felt it moving through the room like a monstrous beast.
Shouts and curses filled the wineshop. Glassware shattered. Shutters banged open as someone scrambled out a window, or was tossed out. Throaty mews whimpered from the direction of the bar.
Caim sidled over to the back door and found it ajar. With one hand on the hilt of a knife, he ducked out, and left the taproom cloaked in darkness like a covered grave.
CHAPTER FIVE
Caim leaned into the Vine's dingy whitewashed siding as the sickness washed over him. Black lines wriggled before his vision. His stomach tried to squirm up into his throat, but he fought it back with firm determination.
Twilight's veil was drawing over the city. Angry shouts resounded from inside the wineshop. What had happened inside? His talent had never reacted like that before. It usually took every ounce of concentration he could muster to conjure a few flimsy shadows, but this time they had flocked to him like flies to a corpse, and whatever else had emerged from the dark…
He took a deep breath.
Stars filled the darkening sky. No light shone from the new moon, hidden as it crossed the heavens. A Shadow's moon, a night when the shades from the Other Side could cross over to walk in the mortal world. He shivered. The sweat under his shirt had turned cool. Gods-damned legends. Stories to spook little children. Then why are you shaking?
Caim pushed off from the wall and started walking. The alley was empty. Kit, as usual, was nowhere to be found. Neither was Hubert, which was a good thing. Maybe he's learning.
Kit appeared over his head. Her violet eyes shone in the twilight gloom. “Fun night, huh?”
“Sure. A little more fun like that and I could be enjoying the comforts of a pinewood box.”
Caim glanced over his shoulder. An uneasy sensation had settled in the pit of his stomach, the feeling he was being watched. He tried to pass it off as his imagination, but it refused to leave. There was something in the air tonight. The city, never a safe haven for fools, seethed with barely restrained frustrations. Like a boiling kettle, the steam needed to vent before it exploded.
“Oh, Caim. I'd never let that happen to you.”
“I'm serious. Something happened in there.”
“Yeah. You finally let loose. Felt good, didn't it?”
He shook his head. It had been terrifying to feel that much power flowing through him, out of his control. “That's never happened before, Kit. Why this time?”
Her dainty shoulders lifted in a shrug. “How should I know?”
“You're supposed to know about this kind of stuff, but you never tell me anything useful.”
“Well then, since I'm not useful…” With a mighty huff, she disappeared in a shower of silver and green sparkles.
Caim sighed and continued on his trek.
Three streets later, he turned a corner and stopped before a monolithic structure. The dark mass of the city workhouse eclipsed the skyline like a colossal black glacier. The building had been closed years ago, but the specter of its presence hung over Low Town like a bad dream. Among the Church's first
creations in the chaotic years following its rise to power, the workhouse had been heralded as an opportunity for the unlawful to repay their crimes against society. Thousands of convicts had entered its iron doors. Most of them died before their sentences were complete, killed by either sadistic guards or the miserable conditions. A mournful wail rose from behind the weather-stripped walls. It was the wind, no doubt, blowing through a broken window, but it was unnerving nonetheless.
Caim picked up his pace to put the unpleasant edifice behind him. He wished now he'd been smart enough to turn down Mathias's offer. With the city in such a state of turmoil, the last thing he wanted was to risk his neck doing Ral's secondhand work. This job had better be the easiest he'd ever done or someone was going to regret it. Hell, he regretted it already.
A pair of painted slatterns called out to Caim with promises of earthly delight from the mouth of a cramped alley and flicked their chins at him as he walked past. The street branched ahead of him, both lanes crowded with street-level shops and sprawling tenement houses above. Murmurs of life filtered through their faded, whitewashed walls, sounds of laughter and tears, talking voices and wordless moans. The city was a living creature, hungry and untamed beneath its thin veneer of civilization.
In the kaleidoscopic days and weeks after the attack on his family's home, he and Kit had trekked across the countryside like hunted animals, moving at night, holing up during the daylight hours under whatever cover they could find. He ate whatever came his way—wild berries and nuts, the few animals he was able to catch or knock down with well-aimed stones, stolen goods from the occasional farmstead. Chicken coops were his favorite. He became adept at pilfering eggs without disturbing the sleeping hens.
The towering gray walls of Liovard, the first real city they encountered on their flight south, amazed him. They stretched up to the sky several times the height of a grown man. Beyond those mighty stone ramparts protruded the peaks and turrets of more buildings than he had ever seen in one place. His father's estate, including the fields and bordering woods, would have been lost inside the walls, and Liovard, as he would learn later, was petite compared to the great cities of the south: Mecantia, Navarre, and Othir were all larger and more diverse. Yet, walking through the iron-shod gates was like passing into another world, a realm of noise and commotion where everyone hustled on vital business. Business was a new word he'd learned in Liovard. Just the sound of it quickened his pulse. That's what he wanted to be reckoned: a man of business.
