City of Strife

by Claudie Arseneault

  “Did you feel it? The pain, I mean. Did you feel it back then?”

  Arathiel stopped halfway through wrapping his bandage. A long pause followed, both of them holding their breath. Hasryan already had his answer; Arathiel’s hesitation had betrayed him. Would he dare to admit it, however? To trust Hasryan with that information?

  “No.” Arathiel finished his bandage and tightened it. He straightened up, set his foot on the ground, and caught Hasryan’s gaze. A hundred different things seemed to dance in his dark eyes. Thoughts he silenced, kept to himself, too scared to share. Too scarred to share, perhaps. How many secrets did Hasryan have? Reading the guarded, painful hesitation in Arathiel’s expression wasn’t hard. He’d lived the same whenever a stranger came too close. “I’m not a bizarre puzzle for Cal and you to unravel.”

  Hasryan smacked a smile on his face—the kind he used when people were insulting, or when a discussion became too awkward and personal. He’d promised Arathiel he wouldn’t ask questions and refused to pry any further, curious or not. “Of course not. You’re nothing but our future card partner! Ready to go?”

  Their strange guest laughed, which stole all the tension from his shoulders. With a dramatic sigh, he gave in. “You got me. I’ll make sure I have no other injuries, then head for the common room.”

  Arathiel picked up his mirror again and used it to check the back of his leg—a clear sign the conversation was over. Hasryan lingered, captivated by the process and the questions whirling in his mind. What a weird fellow. Hasryan liked that about him, he decided. Cal’s trust hadn’t been misplaced—it never was, even though Cal rarely expressed doubts about anyone’s character. The kind of luck only a priest of Ren would have.

  After wishing Arathiel a fun time with his inspection, Hasryan slipped out, musing on their short interaction. He’d expected the worst, and this peaceful chat left him light-headed.

  Perhaps a third friend wasn’t out of the question after all.

  ✵

  “Come on, Larryn! There’ll always be another patron to serve. Leave the barrel out and sit your ass at our table.”

  Arathiel’s eyebrows shot up at Cal’s assertive tone. He sat across from the halfling, waiting for the card game Hasryan had recruited him for, and clearly one did not mess with Cal’s playing time. Arathiel pinched his lips, slightly intimidated by the energy Cal put into calling Larryn until Hasryan laughed.

  “Yeah, Larryn. Cal just can’t wait to win all your money! You have to come.”

  Larryn had been going around the Shelter, filling mugs and bringing warm meals to everyone, because “he didn’t want anyone to miss out while he was busy.” What should’ve taken a handful of minutes had been going on for half an hour.

  “Is it always like this?” Arathiel asked.

  “Every time we play in the Shelter, yes,” Hasryan answered. “He can’t help himself. Let me fix it.”

  Hasryan pushed his chair back and left their table. He split through the crowd, lined a dozen mugs on the counter, filled them to the brim, then headed for Larryn. “Look at this awesome reserve of alcohol!” He gestured at the mugs with a smirk. “You don’t even charge for them, mate. Now come and meet our new player.”

  Larryn grimacedand rolled his eyes but followed Hasryan to the table. He sat with all the dignity he could muster. “Sorry about that,” he said. “Arathiel, isn’t it? Can I get you anything to eat before we start?”

  “No!” Hasryan and Cal exclaimed at once.

  Arathiel laughed. Their back-and-forth eased his stress, and he leaned into his chair. “I think I’ll be okay. If I order anything, these two will kill me.”

  “Don’t let it stop you.” Larryn’s tone stayed nonchalant, as if dying was nothing to worry about. “I’m great with food, in case you haven’t noticed.”

  Arathiel frowned. Was Larryn fishing for compliments? Should he give one? He glanced at Hasryan and Cal, but their face offered no clue. “I … heard a lot about it, yes.”

  “But you ate here, didn’t you?” Cal’s voice contained actual concern. Enough to make Arathiel squirm. What did they want to hear?

  “Yes?” A heavy silence settled over the group. They stared in horror at his lack of enthusiasm. Arathiel cleared his throat. “Let’s play?”

  “No, no,” Cal said, leaning forward and raising a hand to stop everyone. “What’s wrong? Don’t you love Larryn’s food?”

  This was exactly why he hadn’t wanted to come. He couldn’t taste it, and he’d missed his chance to outright lie and pretend he found it delicious. Arathiel gritted his teeth under their insistent stares, wondering at his options. Would Larryn later give him problems if he walked out now? Would their warm welcome vanish the moment he refused to answer? Maybe they didn’t want to play cards with him, only with the freak. As he struggled to get coherent words past the lump in his throat, Hasryan jumped to the rescue.

  “You’ll have to live with the mystery, Cal,” he said. “Maybe we found the one man who doesn’t, or maybe it’s something else. One thing’s sure, however: Arathiel is here to play, not answer your endless personal questions.”

  At first, Cal pouted. He didn’t protest, but instead fixed clear blue eyes on Arathiel. Studied him. Anxiety swirled at the bottom of Arathiel’s stomach. Would it be enough? Would the otherwise kind halfling let him be, as Hasryan had promised? Could Arathiel ever feel at ease with the group? Then Cal smiled, his expression full of compassion, and relief pushed Arathiel’s stress away.

  “I get it,” Cal said. “S’alright. Everyone has a topic they don’t want discussed. I’m sorry for pushing it.” He grabbed the deck of cards and grinned with a strange ferocity. “Let’s play.”

  And play they did. One game after another, with everyone’s meagre funds on the table. Hasryan had provided Arathiel with some coin, and as card draws went, that pile grew quickly. Arathiel wouldn’t have given it any thoughts, if not for Larryn’s and Hasryan’s continuous exclamation whenever Cal lost.

  “Are you sick, my friend?”

  “Has Ren found a new favourite?”

  “This is how we know the end is coming.”

  They teased, and Cal laughed it off with good grace. “Winning,” he said in the solemn tone of someone older and wiser than he could be, “is not always about the money.” His eyes glinted with pleasure. He glanced at Arathiel, then chuckled. “I’m having fun, am I not?”

  In truth, so was Arathiel. After the initial questions about Larryn’s cooking, they let him be. No one asked why he struggled to pass the cards, or why he held them so tightly he’d folded one. They allowed him to play and observe, saying as little as he desired, and listening in to his heart’s content. The banter never stopped between the three friends. One moment they mocked Larryn’s short temper, the other they poked fun at Hasryan’s smirk—a sure-fire way to know he was bluffing, apparently. Lindi would have loved them. His sister had mixed into groups with amazing ease, adding to the banter as if she’d always been part of it. Arathiel preferred to take it slowly. His pile of coins continued to grow until the others had almost nothing left to play with. He stared at it, ill at ease.

  “I wouldn’t know what to do with all of this,” he said. He didn’t need it, not when the Shelter provided his bed and meals.

  “Keep a fraction, and return the rest to the Shelter’s funds,” Hasryan suggested. “It’s what we all do.”

  “Oh! That’s a great idea.” He grinned, slid a few coins off the table, and pushed the rest of the pile toward Larryn. “Here you go.”

  Larryn retrieved a pouch and stored them inside, one by one. “Isandor’s Lower City inhabitants thank you. No one’s ever interested in donating.”

  Arathiel tilted his head to the side. No one? “How do you even stay afloat, then?”

  Heavy silence blanketed the group, and Larryn’s expression darkened at his question. He finished storing the coins. “Another mystery we won’t solve tonight.”

  No need to tell him twice. They’d
allowed Arathiel to get away without explaining he couldn’t taste Larryn’s meals, and he would return them the favour. He’d never liked prying in others’ business anyway. “If you need more funds, perhaps we ought to play somewhere else. You wouldn’t have to watch over other patrons, and we might draw unsuspecting flies into our trap. Clean their pockets and bring them down here.”

  Larryn laughed, but his voice carried no mirth. “Not sure I want to endure rich assholes, even for the sake of retrieving their ill-earned gold.”

  “Let’s play in the Middle City, then!” Cal suggested. “I like Arathiel’s idea. We should test it out. You know I won’t lose. I never do.”

  “You did tonight.” Larryn huffed and pushed his chair on two legs as he thought. After a moment, his gaze sought Hasryan’s. “You up for it?”

  “Why not?” Hasryan smirked, but after hours of card games with him, Arathiel recognized the bluff right away. Something worried him about this idea—something he’d decided to keep silent. “We might lose an evening, but we’ll know if it’s a viable option or not.”

  “Awesome!” Of everyone around the table, Cal was by far the most excited by the prospect of hitting a Middle City tavern. “See, this is why we need new blood. One evening, and Arathiel’s already opening new doors.”

  Larryn and Hasryan acquiesced within a heartbeat, and their immediate support stunned Arathiel. Twenty-four hours ago, Arathiel had known nothing but their names, yet now the three friends welcomed him. They didn’t gape at him, or sling one intrusive question after another at him, the way so many had before. They just … chatted, listened to his suggestions, and even agreed with them. Such simple acts, when you stopped to think about it, yet Arathiel had forgotten how good they felt. Meeting Camilla had reminded him his old life hadn’t entirely vanished, but this short night with Larryn, Cal, and Hasryan unveiled a completely different possibility: that of building a new life.

  Branwen Dathirii leaned on the counter of a stuffy tavern, fingers wrapped around her now-empty mug. She trailed her cousin Garith with her eyes as he moved through the crowd, hailing a hot brunette who’d been dancing alone. Ever gallant, he had offered Branwen first dibs, but she wasn’t in a mood to flirt with either boys or girls. It had been four days since Uncle Diel had provoked the Myrians. Word had gotten around the city. Tension had built. Her network of informers all brought the same story: everyone waited to see how Master Avenazar would react. They knew Diel was trying to garner support with important families, knew how ruthless the Myrian leader had proven in the past. No one wanted to get involved. Some had even turned Branwen away without another word. The more people she talked to, the more it became obvious that their greatest challenge would be to rally Isandor behind them. It had been rough, and tomorrow’s tour of their allied shopkeepers to discuss protection promised to darken her mood further. Garith’s offer to have a drink before the conflict exploded had seemed the perfect idea. A last night out, partying with her favorite cousin before they no longer had time to play.

  Except even with two mugs of strong ale in her tiny body, Branwen couldn’t lift her spirits. Alcohol made her heady, music filled her ears, and she’d chatted with a fascinating bard from Alloria, but none of it alleviated the weight at the bottom of her stomach. She left her mug on the counter and headed for Garith. He gave her a questioning look, but she ignored it until she was closer. The lady with him was staring, perhaps hoping she’d back off and leave her alone with this charming elf. Branwen touched Garith’s arm to get his attention, then dismissed the brunette’s concern.

  "Cousin, I’m going home," she said. "Enjoy your night. I think I needed silence, not fun."

  Branwen knew exactly what she wanted. She stretched on the tip of her toes, pecked Garith’s cheek, then made a discreet thumbs-up at the other woman, behind her cousin’s back. Her surprised laughter followed Branwen as she exited the tavern.

  A freezing drizzle waited outside, and Branwen pulled her coat tighter around her small shoulders. She’d slipped into one of her favorite winter dresses earlier tonight. The heavy fabric kept her warm despite the increasingly chilly weather, and it came with a flowery hat that warded off the rain. A tight golden lace ran along the sleeves and in front of the corset, its design simple but elegant. As much as Branwen loved extravagant gowns with wide and flowing skirts, they were ill-suited to a night in Isandor’s taverns. The high cut of this skirt was better. It not only made her seem taller, but also allowed her to flaunt her marvelous leggings, with flowers matching her hat. She ran her fingers over the very soft fabric under her coat, and the tightness in her stomach eased a little.

  This was what she needed. Not the loud noise of a tavern, the heavy smoke hanging overhead, or the light-headedness of one drink too many. Branwen wanted to be among her gowns. Perhaps even modify one or two of them.

  She hurried back to the Dathirii Tower, slowing only as she reached her quarters and shed the wet hat. Branwen lit every lamp in her room and held a single candle, protected inside a glass lantern. Her walk-in beckoned her. She pushed the large doors open.

  More than a hundred outfits awaited her inside. The walk-in was her secret place, her little corner of paradise. On one side, Branwen’s dresses—rich and elaborate gowns she could wear at princely balls, to impress nobles and uphold her rank as a Dathirii heir. The further in you walked, however, the simpler the outfits became. Branwen kept clothes better suited for scullery maids than a lady of her rank, as well as dresses of intermediate wealth a passing merchant could wear. Styles varied, reflecting many cultures: a bright orange gown with several layers of skirts from Alloria, a dark grey dress with a high collar from northern Mehr, and even a precious emerald qi’seng with a golden floral pattern after the fashion of the southeastern Phong Peninsula. She’d once pretended to be a traveling merchant obsessed with their culture and wished she had more excuses to wear the delicate one-piece dress.

  The other side of the walk-in was filled with masculine outfits—pants and breeches, rich doublets, and hats of all styles and classes. Branwen had learned long ago to pitch her voice lower and bind her otherwise considerable breasts. She could pass for a young man of small stature with ease, which was always more inconspicuous than a woman. Hiding her elven ears to appear human gave her more trouble, but make-up did wonders to round off her features and mask her more angular traits.

  Branwen often questioned her usefulness to the family. How could she compare to Garith’s head for numbers, Kellian’s swordsmanship, Uncle Diel’s passionate speeches, or Vellien’s mastery of both singing and healing? Even Jaeger, though family through Diel, could organize the entire world inside his head. Everybody knew their role. They knew who they were and how they fit within the Dathirii household while she wasted her life playing dress-up games.

  Branwen pressed her lips together and moved through the rows of gowns and outfits. She let her fingers trail along the fabrics, sometimes smooth and soft, sometimes rough and layered with decorations. Every one of these had a history. The worn brown doublet with silver inlays? She’d tricked a noble into believing she was a merchant down on his luck. He’d let her in his office, and she’d flipped through his account books. With the wide-sleeved violet dress she’d attended a summer picnic down the river and charmed a young man into spilling secrets about his family’s trades. Eventually, Branwen came to the Myrian merchant outfit, with its white cuffs and large pants. Intricate and rich designs covered every inch of the fabric. She traced it with her finger, remembering her brief but dangerous foray into the Myrian Enclave. She had posed as a merchant speculator who’d been in Isandor for over a year and had given them a handful of tips on the economy—nothing they couldn’t have found by themselves. In exchange, she’d spoken with dozens of different people on the enclave’s grounds, flirted a little with Master Jilssan, and wandered in the high temple dedicated to Keroth to offer a quick prayer. Her visit had convinced her these people were dangerous. Unpredictable. Master Avenazar gave her chills ev
en today. Upon her return, she’d told Garith they needed to prepare.

  She wasn’t useless. She was the Dathirii spy, and she couldn’t let her doubts get to her. Uncle Diel would need her at her best, starting tomorrow. Branwen gritted her teeth, pushed the Myrian clothes back among the others, then retrieved two gowns she’d bought last week. Every outfit she owned had been modified to fit a small dagger and lockpicking tools, except these.

  Tomorrow she didn’t need to disguise herself—she’d go as Branwen Dathirii, to warn local merchants and make arrangements—but she wanted to prepare her war outfits. Branwen settled in her work chair, needles in hand, and took a deep breath. Her stomach clenched again. She concentrated on the feel of the fabric under her fingers, the fibres threaded together, woven into a beautiful piece. Soft, with a hint of relief. It helped her stay focused, and she set to work. It was the middle of the night, but Branwen wouldn’t sleep. Not tonight, and perhaps not until the rest of her family was safe again.

  “Burn the place down.”

  Master Avenazar’s instructions echoed in Varden’s mind as he stared at the small tailor shop in front of him. Time for an offensive, according to the wizard. Wasn’t it always with him? He’d selected one of the Dathirii’s local partners, joking about the difficulty of choosing a first target. Like he would do the dirty work, and not Varden. The High Priest hated the thought of reducing an honest business to cinders. As he contemplated the task ahead, however, Varden understood why this task required his keen and intense control of fire.

  The boutique was set on a middle floor of a long tower built entirely of wood. The previous night’s cold rain gave a slick sheen to the black and green planks, but the wood would be dry—just waiting to catch fire. Any flames in the tailor’s shop risked spreading above and below. If he wanted, Varden could create a brazier that would eat the entire tower. He wondered which Avenazar preferred. Burning a single floor would scare the Dathirii’s allies, while destroying several might set the city against them. One was strategic, the other just the right amount of cruel to fit Avenazar’s style.