Journeyman in Gray

by Linus de Beville

  Pulling further back into the shadows the Journeyman extended one arm, pressing Silke against the wall of the alley. She waited until the four men were out of earshot then pushed his hand from her breast. He turned to her, an apology on his lips, but the words died in his throat. Silke glared up at the Journeyman, stifling his redress. His expression hardening, he turned away.

  Overhead, smoke drifted by in great columns. The greasy plumes blotted out the last of the daylight, throwing Lyvys into premature night. Here, at street level, the shadows were thick, the narrow passages between buildings choked with the encroaching darkness. The clouds that hugged the western horizon glowed orange and gold, their fire barely visible through the pall of smoke.

  “We have to go,” said the Journeyman.

  Silke raised an eyebrow. In the distance could be heard the sound of fighting. It came tumbling along with the breeze, pulsing randomly from each point of the compass. At times the eastern end of the city resounded with the clangor of a full scale battle. Then the noise would abate and the southern expanse of Lyvys would be alive with screams and the clash of weapons. Smaller confrontations could be heard drifting through the maze of narrow streets and alleyways as groups of armed men beset those attempting to flee. Some of the combatants were mercenaries, others were regulars; Lyvycite, Hegemon, and Vallénci. They burst into houses and shops, looting and killing as they went. The Journeyman furrowed his brow as the sounds of this tumult pulsed in his ears. He kept his eyes straight ahead, his teeth clenched. Silke kept pace with him, seeming not to hear the sounds of killing and depredation. The Journeyman wondered at her ability to shut out such torment.

  Together they had avoided the roving gangs of armed men and the fleeing crowds of stupefied Lyvycites. Refugees and bravos alike avoided those sections of the city that had been set alight or that had caught sparks from the burning gates. It was through this maze of burning buildings that Silke and the Journeyman moved. The fewer people there were, the easier it would be to make their way across the city and to safety.

  Hugging the wall of the alley the Journeyman stepped into the street. He looked both ways twice, then gestured for Silke to follow. She pushed past him and trotted down the narrow boulevard. In each fist she held a handful of her voluminous skirts.

  “Silke,” hissed the Journeyman.

  “What?” asked the paramour over her shoulder.

  “That alley, down there,” he said gesturing to the narrow slit

  between two buildings off to their right.

  “No,” said Silke, “there’s a tailor shop just there, I saw it as we

  crossed the street.”

  “What?” asked the Journeyman, catching her up.

  “Trousers,” said Silke. “My skirts do not allow me to move

  very well. I need something more practical.”

  “Ah,” said the Journeyman.

  “You do not have to follow me,” said Silke. “I’m sure you

  could move much more swiftly on your own.”

  The Journeyman did not respond.

  A few steps later and Silke turned into the tailor shop. It was

  narrow and cramped, its doorframe too low for the Journeyman.

  He had to duck in order to follow her inside.

  The interior of the shop was all shadows and dust. Bolts of

  cloth, broken looms, chests, shelves, and stools cluttered its narrow

  confines. The only light came from the leaded glass window set

  beside the open door. The diamond shaped panes cast an angular

  pattern over the flowing assortment of loose garments and heaped

  textiles. As Silke made her way in and around the clutter the Journeyman prodded bolts of cloth, searching idly for nothing in particular.

  The sound of steel striking steel rang sudden and sharp through the street outside. The Journeyman moved behind a shelf, his

  hand going to the hilt of his dagger. He waited, watching as a cloud

  of smoke rolled along the street. It had been driven to ground,

  forced to mingle with the civilians and the soldiers alike. He waited.

  The sound did not come again.

  From further down the long, thin shop the Journeyman heard

  the sounds of Silke riffling through stacks of clothing. At last she

  came up with a pair of trousers. She held them to the smoky light

  filtering through the window, nodded, then draped them over a

  stool. Without ceremony she began to untie her skirts. The Journeyman turned away. At the sound of her chuckle he again gazed in

  the paramour’s direction.

  She stood facing him, hands on hips. Her cloak and bodice

  were in place, the dark blue fabric almost invisible in the gloom.

  From the waist down she wore nothing at all. Silke’s white thighs

  and fiery pubic mound seemed to glow in the dim light. The Journeyman’s heart leapt into his throat.

  “You can leave,” she said matter-of-factly.

  “I ” began the Journeyman.

  “You can leave,” said Silke again. “I will be fine on my own.

  You no longer need me and I no longer need you.”

  “I don’t think that’s entirely true,” said the Journeyman. He

  swallowed, hard.

  Silke turned away and reached for the trousers. He watched as

  she slid the garment over calf, thighs, and buttocks. When they

  were in place she slipped on her boots.

  “I came here at Drysden’s request,” said the paramour. “I

  came to act as a witness. He wanted you arrested, wanted you punished for having acted on Thane’s behalf. If he had had his way you

  would have been hanged. His superiors convinced him to spare

  your life and hand you over to your Guild instead. This would go a

  long way to preserving the Vallénci’s relations with the Journeyman.”

  Here she paused to adjust the waist of her new trousers.

  When the Journeyman did not respond she went on. “I am not

  your friend, Journeyman. More than that, you are a free man; you

  are no longer chained to the saddle of your Guildmaster. We need

  not share each other’s company any longer.”

  The Journeyman said nothing for a long while. He simply

  stood and stared, arms crossed over his chest. Silke shrugged and

  went back to adjusting the waist of her new trousers. When they

  were nestled low on her hips she raised her head and said with a

  frown, “You deceived me. You allowed me to steal from you a

  document filled with false information. This information changed

  everything. Not just for me. Armies were diverted from where they

  needed to be. Plans that had taken months to develop were rendered useless. The communiqué I took from you led to all the

  fighting and death going on just outside the door to this shop. And

  there is more. So much more. You have no idea what a mess

  you’ve made.”

  The Journeyman set his jaw, his eyes growing cold. With three

  quick strides he pushed his way through the cluttered shop to stand

  before the paramour. He glared down at her, the top of her head

  barely coming to the bridge of his nose.

  “Do not blame me for fomenting war. I have seen firsthand

  how my actions have affected those around me. Blame me for the

  ruin of those lives, but do not think to saddle me with the responsibility for all this. I make no claim on the machinations of empires.”

  “You are to blame, Journeyman,” said Silke, her lip curling up

  to show sharp, white teeth. “You know it as well as I do.” “What concern is it of mine if the Vallén and the Schlachtvalters ally themselves against the Hegemony? I’m not the one who

  planned this war. All I am
responsible for is spoiling your ambitions.”

  Silke balked. She raised a hand to her breast, her eyes going

  wide. Then her air of sanctimonious reproof reasserted itself. “You

  know nothing,” she said.

  “I know you’re from the Schlachtvalt. I knew it even before

  we spent that night together in Ghul. Someone was looking to steal

  military secrets from the Hegemony back in that miserable little

  shithole. Thane knew it. That’s why he sent me. The fact that

  you’re from the Schlachtvalt and that you’re passing information to

  a Vallénci captain, to Drysden…”

  “Be silent!” snapped Silke.

  “It was I that made you for a Schlachtvalter, not Thane,” said

  the Journeyman, changing tact. “Your people and the Lords of the

  Vallén have been at odds with the Hegemony for generations. The

  only part of your parallel hostilities Thane hadn’t worked out was

  your alliance. What he did with the information I gave him is his

  business.”

  “Your actions diverted whole armies,” hissed Silke. “Your actions brought the wrath of a clan of Huuls down upon Ghul.” “Yes,” said the Journeyman leaning in closer still, “Torr, their

  chief, told me as much. I accept what happened there. Everyone

  who died in Ghul is my responsibility.”

  “And so are the deaths here in Lyvys ” Silke began. “No,” said the Journeyman again. “The Lords of the Vallén

  occupied the Erstewald after the floods. That was their decision. They chose to seize territory that belongs to the Hegemony. It was also their choice to make an alliance with the Schlachtvalt against

  the Imperium.”

  “That is an ugly name, Schlachtvalt!” spat Silke. “We are the

  Erstemenschen, the First People! We are of the Erstewald, the First

  Forest. The name of those mountains we were driven into is not

  our own!”

  The Journeyman shook his head. “It doesn’t matter, you ” “The Erstewald belongs to us!” barked Silke, pressing forward. One long-nailed finger hovered just below the Journeyman’s

  nose. “It is ours by right of blood; by right of birth. The First Forest belonged to my people centuries before the Imperium was

  formed!”

  The Journeyman shoved her back against an over-laden rack

  of textiles. His hand went to her mouth, covering her lips. “Keep your god’s damned voice down,” he hissed. Silke raked him across the cheek with her nails. Squinting one

  eye shut the Journeyman took a step back. He raised a hand to his

  cheek and brought it back wet with blood.

  “The Erstewald belongs to us,” repeated Silke between clenched teeth. “It still bears the name we gave it. We won the First

  Forest from the Huuls after generations of fighting. Before your

  people invaded from the south we were the masters of this place.

  The Hegemony took it from us, drove us into the mountains! We

  only want what is ours!”

  In Silke’s words the Journeyman could see plainly the analogous history of the Erstemenschen and the Huuls: The cycle of

  conqueror and conquered. It was absurd in its never ending rotation, a millstone that ground the population of the forest under its

  weight. No matter who claimed the First Forest it was the citizens

  who suffered. He had to keep himself from railing against the absurdity of it all. Instead he asked through clenched teeth, “Then

  what of the Vallén? Why allow them to hold the Erstewald? Is it so

  they’ll take the brunt of the fighting against the Hegemony while

  your people just wait and a watch?”

  “You know far too much about war and politics for a Journeyman,” scoffed Silke. “In the short time that I’ve known you I’ve seen you vacillate between your guild and your desire to be involved in this war. Which is it Journeyman; where do you want to

  be when the fighting starts in earnest?”

  “Oddest lover’s quarrel I’ve ever heard,” said a voice from the

  darkness.

  Both Silke and the Journeyman turned abruptly. Standing in

  the low doorway, his helmet reflecting the light from the torch he

  held, stood a solitary soldier. The flickering of his brand showed a

  well maintained uniform, over which was slung a brigandine set

  with steel plates. The crest on his left shoulder identified him as a

  Hegemon regular.

  With a chuckle and a shake of his head the soldier tossed his

  torch into the tailor shop. It landed atop a pile of cloth that had

  been spilled across the floor. Almost immediately the fabric burst

  into flame. From outside the Journeyman heard the soldier say to

  his fellows, “Shoot them down when they make a run for it. Now,

  who do we have down by the river? Is it Adair? Never mind, it

  doesn’t matter. Go find the company commander for the sixth and

  tell him to get the lead out.”

  Silke and the Journeyman turned to one another, then back to

  the conflagration that had blossomed before them.

  “Bowmen,” said Silke.

  The Journeyman nodded.

  In unison they turned and bolted for the back of the shop.

  They ground to a halt just as quickly. In the light cast by the roaring blaze they could see there was nothing before them save a

  blank wall.

  “Scheisse!” swore Silke.

  The Journeyman lowered his shoulder and charged. He heard

  Silke gasp a split second before he struck the far wall. Beneath his

  weight the weathered boards burst outwards. Accompanied by a

  shower of splinters and jagged bits of wood the Journeyman

  crashed into empty air. He rebounded off the opposite wall of the alley into which he had thrown himself, then tumbled to the cobbles below. He landed in a heap of refuse, the smell of garbage and

  filth striking his nostrils like a blow from a mace.

  Raising his head the Journeyman saw smoke billowing from

  the man-sized hole he had made in the wall above. Then Silke’s

  face hove into view. He tried to rise and with a grimace of pain

  slumped back into the pile of rubbish.

  Deftly, Silke leapt from the jagged break in the wall. She

  landed beside the Journeyman, steadying herself with one outstretched arm. “Foolish,” she said, and extended a hand. The Journeyman took it and, gritting his teeth, pulled himself to his feet. Silke looked past the Journeyman, then back over her shoulder. She raised her eyes, her unspoken question answered by a nod

  from the Journeyman. Together they turned and slipped down the

  alley.

  25. THE WATERFRONT

  The firestorm raged across the warehouse district that bordered the trade city’s wharves and jetties. All along the waterfront flames leapt from roof to roof, dancing over the tinder-dry shingles. The storehouses of the merchant guilds, newly erected in the wake of the floods, burned bright and hot. Sacks of grain and flour exploded as the flames touched them. Smoke and columns of fire reached high into the darkened sky. Sparks danced on the wind, flickering like wayfaring stars. The smell of the river and the forest beyond was supplanted by the acrid reek of the conflagration. Silke and the Journeyman huddled by the edge of the river, the hems of their cloaks pressed to their faces in an attempt to filter the smoke. Neither spoke.

  About the pair were scattered dark shapes, some wallowing in the current, others sprawled upon the riverbank. Blood stained the sand and here and there offal glistened in the firelight. Bundles and chests lay between the bodies, their contents strewn carelessly about. There was no sign of the soldiers that had cut the
ir way through the now silent throng. They had moved on to looting and to lighting the fires that now raged through the dockyards.

  “The gates are closed,” said Silke through a handful of her cloak. The once fine fabric was now muddied and soiled, its hem soaked through with blood.

  The Journeyman nodded his assent. The river gates were shuttered, cutting off the western ingress of the Vyrnon. Below the timbers could be seen a metal grate, its length extending into the depths of the river. It would allow the waters to flow, but would prevent access into or out of the city.

  “Wir sind angeschissen,” said Silke.

  “What?” asked the Journeyman, leaning in closer. The roar of the flames filled the space between the two, dampening their words.

  “We’re fucked,” said Silke.

  Another explosion roared over the waterfront, its shockwave ruffling the sodden clothing of the scattered corpses. It buffeted Silke and the Journeyman knocking them forward. When it was past they pushed themselves upright, wiping sand from their cloaks.

  Turning about the Journeyman watched as the walls of the nearest warehouse collapsed inwards. Boards, alive with glowing coals, tumbled into the firestorm, sending up a wave of sparks. Oily black smoke burst from the interior of the fallen warehouse. It billowed skyward, momentarily obscuring the rising cloud of cinders.

  The Journeyman watched for a time as the last of the warehouses’ heavy timber framing sagged then fell. As ash began to sift down from the clouds of smoke, he returned to staring at the river gate.

  “Over or under,” said Silke, “there is no other way.”

  The Journeyman shook his head. “We can’t go over. We’d be outlined against the wall; someone would see us. Besides, we have no ropes, no grapnels. There’s no way for us to scale the stockade.”

  “Then we go under,” said Silke.

  “Easier said than done. Can you swim in a cloak? We would have to leave most of our clothing here. In the forest we’d freeze.”

  Silke did not respond.

  Together they returned to regarding the water as it lapped gently against the bank. It appeared black, even in the holocaust glow from the burning city. At last Silke said with a shrug, “We can risk drowning and then freezing or we can stay here to be discovered. Which would you prefer?”