Aware that Faldrenk would not deem ignorance nor inactivity a crime punishable by death, Taziar abandoned this line of thought. It wasn’t mistaken identity either. Faldrenk called me by name. Something strange is happening, a break in loyalties that touched Faldrenk and Richmund. Taziar felt his taxed sinews cramp. Having already taken long, careful moments to find a posture that did not incite the pain of his injuries, he resisted the impulse to roll. But Shylar knows I still care about the underground. Otherwise, she would never have expected me to answer her summons. Taziar worked tension from his muscles in groups. She knows me too well to suspect I would act against friends. And she’ll have explanations. I have to see her. Until then, I can do nothing.
Mind eased, Taziar surrendered to the urge to reposition his body. Pain flared, then died to a baseline chorus. Gradually, Taziar found sleep.
Dawn light washed, copper-pink, across the battlements of Cullinsberg. Huddled within the overlarge folds of Larson’s spare cloak, Taziar felt a shiver of excitement traverse him. After months in the cold, barbaric lands north of the Kattegat, returning to the city of his childhood seemed like stepping into another world. He tried to map the cobbled streets from memory but found gaps that would require visual cues. The lapses reminded him of an ancient beggar who knew every street and alleyway in the city, but, unable to give verbal directions, would walk an inquirer to his destination.
“What about me?”
Larson’s question startled Taziar. Lost in his past, he had nearly forgotten his companions. “What about you?”
As they neared the gateway and the uniformed guards before it, Larson kept his voice soft. “I hate to bring up the subject. I still find it hard to believe myself, but people tell me I’m an elf. In the North, no one seemed to care much for elves. Am I going to get attacked every time I step into a crowd?”
“Attacked?” Taziar chuckled. “You’re approaching civilization. Draw steel in the streets and you’ll get arrested.” Recalling the report of the Sverigehavn dockhand in Kveldemar’s tavern, Taziar hoped his description was still accurate. “Besides, no one in Cullinsberg will know what an elf is. They’ll just assume you’re human. Ugly, but human all the same.”
“Gee, thanks.” Larson caught Silme’s arm and steered her beyond Taziar’s reach. “You little creep.”
“Cre-ep?” Astryd repeated, her light singsong adding a syllable to the English word. “Is that the same as ‘jerk’?”
“Exactly,” Larson said.
“And its meaning?” Silme showed an expression of genuine interest, but she still fought back a smile.
Larson shot a wicked glance at Taziar. “It’s a term of endearment.”
“Sure.” Taziar worked sarcasm into the word. “Which explains why you’re madly in love with that woman ...” He gestured at Silme. “... but you’ve only used the term to refer to me.” Adopting a wide-eyed, femininely seductive expression, he grasped Larson’s free hand and raised his voice to falsetto. “Sorry, hero, I’m already taken.”
Astryd slapped Taziar’s back playfully, which, because of the scratches, turned out to be more painful than she had intended. Taziar winced, released Larson, and resumed his normal walk toward the gateway with a final whispered warning. “Avoid my name. If the dockhand told the truth, the baron may have dropped my bounty to concentrate on closer, more formidable enemies. But no need to take a chance.”
The four fell silent as they reached the opened, wrought iron gates and a pair of guards dressed in the barony’s red-trimmed black linen. Taziar lowered his head, hiding his features beneath the supple creases of his hood. But the guardsmen seemed more interested in his blond companions and the women’s oddly-crafted staves. They stared without questioning as Taziar and his companions entered the town.
Despite the early hour, men and women whisked through the main street, rushing to open shops, tend to jobs, or run errands. Merchants pulled night tarps from roadside stands, piling fruit in bins or setting merchandise in neat rows. They worked with the mechanical efficiency of routine. Yet, to Taziar, their manner seemed anything but normal. Mumbled conversations blended to indecipherable din, devoid of the shouted greetings between neighboring sellers who had known one another for years. Stands and merchants older than Taziar had disappeared, replaced by either strangers or glaring stretches of empty space. Others remained. But where women once tended their wares alone, now they shared stalls, hoping to find safety in being part of a group, or else they hired men to guard them. Despite laws against it, swords and daggers were boldly displayed. Many of the blades were crusted with dried blood, as if to warn predators that their owners had killed and would do so again if pressed.
Astryd gawked at the bustling crowds and towering buildings. The Dragonrank school required its students to remain on its grounds eleven months of every year, and Astryd had never found time to visit the more civilized lands south of the Kattegat. “So this is Cullinsberg.”
Larson watched Astryd’s rural antics with wry amusement. “This is the great city you keep bragging about?”
“Sort of,” Taziar admitted uncomfortably as he led his companions along the main thoroughfare. Concern leaked into his tone, and his friends went quiet as they followed. Though most of the passersby remained unarmed, they gave one another a wide berth, and Taziar was unable to make eye contact with any of Cullinsberg’s citizens. The buildings, at least, seemed unchanged. Rows of stone dwellings and shops lined the streets behind the merchants. Still, something as yet unrecognized bothered Taziar; a piece of city life seemed awry. And, since it was missing rather than out of place, Taziar wandered three blocks before he realized what disturbed him. Where are the beggars?
Taziar turned a half-circle in the roadway, gazing across the sewage troughs in search of the ancient crones and lunatics who took sustenance from the discarded peels and cores that usually littered the roadside ditches. The maneuver uncovered neither vagrants nor scraps, but he did notice a scrawny boy dressed only in tattered britches who was huddled on the opposite street corner. The child sat with his head drooped into his lap, his hand outstretched as if from long habit.
Taziar’s companions watched him with curiosity. “Shad—” Silme spoke softly, shortening his alias beyond recognition. “What’s the problem? Maybe we can help.”
“Is it the child?” Astryd asked, touching Taziar’s hand. “We have more than enough money to feed him.”
“No!” Taziar answered forcefully. “Something’s not quite right. It’s subtle, and I don’t understand it yet.” He spoke low and in Scandinavian, though his companions understood the barony’s tongue. Astryd and Silme had learned several languages at the Dragonrank school, and Larson spoke it with the same unnatural ease and accent as he did Old Norse. “I was born and raised here. I’ve learned the laws of the barony and its streets. This is my river, and I know how to stay afloat.” Taziar paused, trying to phrase his request without sounding demanding or insulting. “Please. Until I figure out what’s bothering me, let me do the swimming. Just follow my lead.” Taziar studied the boy. “Wait here.” He crossed to the corner, relieved when his friends did not argue or follow.
The boy raised hollow, sunken eyes as Taziar approached. He climbed to skeletal legs and hesitated, as if uncertain whether to run or beg. At length, he stretched scarred ringers toward Taziar. “Please, sir?”
The sight cut pity through Taziar. Impressed by the child’s fear, he fixed an unthreatening expression on his face and leaned forward. Unobtrusively, he reached into his pocket, emerging with a fistful of mixed northern coins. “I’m sorry.” Taziar edged between the child and the next alleyway, surreptitiously pressing money into the beggar’s tiny hand as he shielded the exchange from onlookers. “I have nothing for you today,” he lied, gesturing toward Astryd in a matter-of-fact manner. “But my woman insisted I come over and tell you we feel for you, and we’ll try to save something for you tomorrow.”
The child accepted Taziar’s offering into a sweatin
g palm. A sparkle momentarily graced his dull, yellow eyes. Playing along like a seasoned actor, he spoke in a practiced monotone. “Aga’arin bless you, sir.” Slowly, he wobbled toward the market square. His gaze fluttered along streets and windows, as if he expected someone to seize his new-found wealth before he could buy a decent meal.
Taziar returned to his companions. Incensed by the beggar’s paranoia, he did not take time to properly phrase his question. “Have you ever seen anything like that?”
“No.” Anger tinged Astryd’s reply. “When did you become stingy? You could have at least given him food.”
Taziar laughed, realizing the trick intended to divert thieves had also confused his companions. “I gave him more money than he’s seen in his life.” A pair of uniformed guards walked by, eyeing the armed and huddled group with suspicion. Taziar waited until they’d passed before elaborating. “I meant the fear. Have you ever met a beggar too scared to beg? Worse, a starving beggar afraid to take money? Who in Karana’s darkest hell would rob a beggar?”
“Easy target.” Larson shrugged, his expression suddenly hard. “In New York City, the hoods’ll rob their own mothers for dope money. There’s too many to count how many Vietnamese kids look like that one, and they’ll take anything from anyone.”
Little of Larson’s speech made sense to Taziar. Finding the same perplexed look echoed on Silme’s and Astryd’s faces, Taziar pressed. “Interesting, Allerum. Now, could you repeat it in some known, human language?”
Larson gathered breath, then clamped his mouth shut and dismissed his own explanation. “Yes, I’ve seen it before. Leave it at that.” He addressed Taziar. “Now, swimmer, what river do we take from here?”
“This way.” Taziar chose a familiar alley which he knew would lead nearly to the porch steps of Cullinsberg’s inn. Rain barrels stood at irregular intervals; old bones and rag scraps scattered between them. From habit, Taziar assessed the stonework of the closely-packed shops, dwellings, and warehouses hedging the walls of the lane. Moss covered the granite like a woolly blanket, its surface disturbed in slashes where a climber had torn through for hand and toe holds. Taziar glanced at the rooftop. A cloak-hooded gaze met his own briefly, then disappeared into the shadow of a chimney. A careful inspection revealed another small figure in the eaves. A third crouched on a building across the walkway.
Engrossed in his inspection of the rooftops, Taziar never saw the trip-rope that went suddenly taut at his feet. Hemp hissed against his boots, making him stumble forward. A muscled arm enwrapped his throat and whetted steel pricked the skin behind his left ear. A deep voice grated. “Give me your money.”
Taziar rolled his eyes to see a blemished, teenaged face. He felt the warmth of the thief’s body against his spine, and the realization of a daylight attack against an armed group shocked him beyond speech. It never occurred to Taziar to fear for his life; he knew street orphans and their motivations too well. Instead, he appraised the abilities of his assailant. The youth held Taziar overbalanced backward. The grip was professional. He could strangle Taziar with ease. If threatened, a spinning motion would sprawl Taziar and drag the blade across his throat.
The assessment took Taziar less than a heartbeat. Aware the setup would require one other accomplice to draw the rope straight, Taziar numbered the gang at five. Whatever happened to peaceful begging and petty theft? “Fine. I’ll give you ten gold. Two for you and each of your friends,” he said deliberately, intending to inform his companions as well as appease his assailant.
Taziar felt the bandit’s muscles knot beneath his tunic. “No. I want all your money.”
Apparently taking his cue from Taziar’s calm acceptance of the situation, Larson loosed a loud snort of derision. “Are you swimming now, Shad? Upstream? Downstream? Backstroke?” His taunt echoed between the buildings.
Agitation entered the thief’s tone. “Tell your friend to shut up. Now!” Sharp pain touched Taziar’s skin. Blood beaded at the tip of the blade, and sweat stung the wound.
Larson’s hand fell to his hilt, and he took a menacing step. “Who are you telling to shut up, asshole? I’ll cut off your ears and shove them up your nose.”
“Calm down.” Taziar tried to keep his voice level. He had never seen Larson so hostile, and the thief’s greed alarmed him. Ten gold was more than a common laborer might make in a year, and the northern mintage would make it no less valuable. If Taziar had been alone, he would have felt certain that the thug would not harm him; but, challenged by Larson, the youth might be driven to murder. “You’re not the one with a knife at your throat.” Reminded of what he might have become at the same age, Taziar grew careless of risk. “Friend, you’re doing this dumb.”
The thief’s fingers shivered against the dagger’s hilt. He, too, seemed out of his element, unaccustomed to getting lectured by victims. “I’m doing this dumb? Which of us is jabbering on the blade end of the knife? If one of us is stupid, I’m not guessing it’s me. Now give me your money and I may not kill you. Everyone else can just drop their purses, turn around, and leave.”
Taziar cursed the loose hood that slid over his eyes and made it impossible to meet his assailant’s gaze. “Look, friend, you can’t have all our money. I offered you some. I’d have given the same to you if you’d asked nicely. Anything more than we’re willing to give freely, you’ll have to take. You’ve got four companions. See that man there.” He tensed a hand to indicate Larson.
Immediately, the arm clamped tighter around Taziar’s neck, neatly closing off his airway.
Taziar fought rising panic. Blackness swam down on him, but even vulnerability could not shake resolve. Given slightly different circumstances, he could have been this teen.
Gradually, the thief’s grip relaxed. Taziar gasped gratefully for breath, then forced himself to continue. “If you want to take money from my friend, you’ll need at least six more of you. Then, the one survivor can gather the money into a pile and spend it.” Taziar measured the thief by his actions, sensed uncertainty beneath forced defiance. “Ten gold could feed you all for a month and more. Are you going to take the ten I offered you, or will you get all your friends slaughtered for the chance to get a few more? I can’t compromise. My friends have to eat, too. And you won’t live long on the street acting stupid.”
“Stop. It’s all right.” Silme spoke in the rapid, high-pitched manner of a frightened woman, but Taziar knew the sorceress too well not to recognize a performance. She passed her dragonstaff to Larson who accepted it grudgingly in his off hand. “I’ll give you my purse. I don’t care. Money doesn’t mean anything. Just don’t hurt him.” Reaching into her side pocket, she removed a thin pouch of coins. She approached the thief, flicking her hands in contrived, nervous gestures. “Let him go. You got his ten and mine. That’s more than half of it. It’s better than the deal he gave you. Just let him go.” She pushed her purse at the thief’s free hand. “Here. Take it. Take it.”
Instinctively, the thief glanced at the purse.
Quick as thought, Silme grasped the youngster’s knife hand. Positioning her thumb on his littlest knuckle and her fingers around and over his thumb, she gained the leverage to twist. The blade carved skin from Taziar’s cheek. He dodged aside as Silme used her other hand to wrench the dagger from the youth’s surprised grasp. A sudden punch beneath his elbow finished him. The thief tumbled, flat on his back, in the street.
A rock sailed from the rooftop.
Larson dropped Silme’s staff. His sword met the stone in midair and knocked it aside. He completed his stroke, stopping with the blade against the thief’s neck. “One more rock and the next thing in the street’s your friend’s head.”
The gang went still.
Taziar pressed a palm to his gashed face to stop the bleeding. Silme’s maneuver had jarred his hood aside, and black hair was plastered to the wound. He watched as Astryd whispered to herself, casting a spell. Hunched behind a rain barrel, the thief’s partner suddenly became as immobile as a st
atue. Taziar knew from the strategies of his own childhood gang that the thief beneath Larson’s blade was undoubtedly their leader.
Larson caught the thief by stringy, sand-colored hair and hoisted the youth to his feet. “Bend over.”
The thief hesitated, then complied.
Larson raised his katana and yelled to the accomplices on the roof. “One move and your buddy’s head comes off.” He lowered his voice. “This is how you stop someone in the street, you little jackass.”
Taziar stepped around the thief, met eyes dark with hatred. He winced, fearing Larson had taken things too far. Humiliation might force the thief to kill an innocent or a follower to maintain his position as leader. At the least, the youth would have to defy Larson, perhaps at the cost of his own life.
The leader howled. “Idiots! Don’t let them get away with this. Throw rocks. Attack! Do something.”
“Quiet!” Taziar seized a handful of gold from his pocket, trying to maintain the thief’s self-respect by creating an illusion of partial success. “Here’s your money.” Seeking answers, he dropped the gold at the boy’s feet and continued. “This isn’t how things work here. I don’t care about me. I wasn’t in any trouble. I knew you wouldn’t hurt me. You were in more danger than I was because there was a good chance the man with the sword would kill the whole damn bunch of you. What, in Karana’s hell, is going on here?”
Mickey Zucker Reichert - Shadows Realm Page 6
