“There he is!”
Cal’s exclamation drew him from his thoughts. He pointed ahead and started running down the street. By squinting, Arathiel managed to make out a blurry humanoid form on the bridge. He thanked the moonlight for what little his destroyed sight perceived and approached. No wonder Cal hadn’t been able to move him: despite his young age, the teenager was taller than even Arathiel. Something about his position seemed off, but when Arathiel noticed the weird angle in his leg, he understood. He touched Cal’s shoulder to draw his attention on it.
“We’ll have to see to the leg, too. It looks broken.”
Arathiel knelt next to the young man and reached for his neck. He stopped himself before he could check his heartbeat, however. Even if there was one, it wouldn’t bypass Arathiel’s numbed sense of touch. He’d once tried finding his own with no success. Arathiel had never asked anyone to verify he indeed had one. He assumed he did, since he still bled when cut.
“You should check,” he said. “You’ll be able to compare with earlier.”
Cal stared at him with a mix of worry and curiosity, lips pinched. He must have noticed Arathiel’s withdrawal but decided not to question it. Instead, he applied his fingers on the young man’s throat, and his concerned frown deepened.
“Well, he’s alive, I guess.” Cal brought his hand back and blew on his fingers. “I’m freezing, yet his skin is still colder than mine. If he stays outside any longer, it’ll kill him. We need to bring him back so I can finish healing him somewhere warm. Or try to.”
Arathiel swallowed hard. He’d had no idea the cold was this intense. Apparently, the temperature matched winter solstice’s name, and a strong wind blew across the bridges, worsening the weather. The wounded teenager wore a long coat thrown over heavy robes, but it didn’t protect him enough. Arathiel glanced at his own skin, its dark brown almost grey to his eyes. Not a single goosebump.
“Let’s hurry,” he said.
He slid his arms under the teenager’s unwieldy body, then twisted one around to hold his head stable. Poor kid. How had he ended up falling? Above Arathiel, the bridge lines smeared together, the complex crisscross too obscured for his sight. He’d ask later but doubted he’d receive an answer. If Cal didn’t trust him with tonight’s plans for Hasryan, why would this teenager tell Arathiel his story? Everyone had secrets, and no one wanted to share them with the half-dead stranger who lived a step removed from this world.
Not that Arathiel shared his secret either. He walked in silence, trying his best not to look out of balance despite the heavy load he carried. He’d never practised hauling lanky teenagers! Every stride, he prayed he could continue to predict when his foot touched the bridge and how to best shift his weight to progress without falling. Arathiel hadn’t been forced to be this calculating about walking in a long time, and it darkened his mood. Sometimes, he could almost distinguish the rough fabric of the cloak against his naked forearm, and the fleeting sensation left him wanting more. The return trek to the Shelter promised to be a constant string of reminders about his numbed perceptions. Arathiel gritted his teeth and kept moving. He was saving a life, and that mattered more than his discomfort.
“Aren’t you cold?”
Cal piped up in the middle of the way back. He’d been staring at Arathiel for the past five minutes, perplexed. His teeth clattered despite his hands gripping his cloak tight and fur-lined boots keeping his feet warm. Arathiel wondered how long ago he had noticed Arathiel didn’t have winter clothes on, and how difficult it had been to hold the question back. Cal always tried so hard not to launch into intrusive interrogations during their card games. Hasryan had been right about that much: he might like his gossip, but he valued people even more.
“No,” Arathiel said, “I’m not.”
“How come?”
Arathiel shrugged. There had been no point in lying about the cold, but he didn’t want to explain either. “Who knows? You weren’t supposed to be doing something involving Hasryan, and I’m definitely not walking around like I can’t tell if it’s hot or cold outside. The strange things happening tonight are all lies.”
“That’s not fair! I’d tell you, but this isn’t my secret, and I’m not the one who’ll suffer the most if it becomes known. You’re just hiding!” Cal’s eyes widened as the words crossed his lips. He gasped, then scrambled to explain, his hands flailing around. “I didn’t mean that! Well, yes, but not …” Cal stopped, pausing long enough to get his thoughts in order. Long enough for Arathiel to realize he was holding his breath, unsettled by this direct confrontation. “So many little things about you are different, and I know it’s bothering you, yet you never tell us anything. I just wish you would. I want to help, Ara, but I can’t if you hide.”
Arathiel turned his head away. “I’m not hiding, I’m delaying.”
His soft answer convinced no one, not even himself. Alone at the Shelter, he could silence his family name, conceal his dysfunctional body, and become one homeless man among many. A strange one, but the Lower City had its share of bizarre occupants. Live and let live was the norm, but it seemed Cal had had enough. Arathiel suspected his already difficult night had destroyed his friend’s patience.
“So you don’t feel cold, you can’t taste, and you don’t feel pain,” Cal said. Arathiel’s gaze snapped back to the halfling. How did he know the last one? “Hasryan told me. About how your feet were full of scars and you’d never notice cuts on them. He said, ‘You’re right, Cal, this one’s got a story, but if you harass him for it, I’ll punch you myself.’ So I didn’t.”
“Yet here you are, asking questions.”
A bitter smile twisted Cal’s lips. “Hasryan can’t punch me now, can he?”
Arathiel jumped on his chance to change subject, relieved at the opening. “Do they really want to execute him?”
“On some bullshit reason, too! It’s so ridiculous. When they put him in jail, we thought he’d be back within a day. As usual! But all of a sudden they’re saying he killed the prick’s mother a decade ago? They have his dagger, and they’re all convinced it’s the one that did it, and just because his horrible boss said she’d given the weapon to him before the kill, not after, they’re all ‘oh yes, must be him.’ Like she couldn’t lie to cover her own ass! But Hasryan has everything against him—dark elven ancestors when she doesn’t, and no powerful friends while she owns half the city. So they’re all happy to pin the blame on the scapegoat and call it a day. It’s just … it’s so unfair.”
They reached the Shelter’s door by the end of his rant, and Cal’s voice cracked as he grabbed the handle. He turned it and entered, his tiny shoulders slumped.
“And you’re certain it’s not him,” Arathiel said.
He’d never questioned the city guards’ decisions before, but the time spent in Larryn’s Shelter had changed that. Once you lived in the Lower City, you noticed them harass vagrants and presumed thieves on a daily basis. Would he be that surprised to learn they would execute someone without protection in order to solve a famous case?
“When I imagine Hasryan as a teenager,” Cal said, “I see an insufferable smart-ass. Not a cold-blooded killer.”
Arathiel wanted to point out no one envisioned their friends as murderers, but he couldn’t picture Hasryan doing it either. Perhaps it was because of how vulnerable he had seemed, the first time Arathiel had met him. Like he was waiting for the inevitable insult from Arathiel to bail, and he had this dazed expression when it never arrived. Then he’d shielded Arathiel from questions at their first card games, and gone out of his way to include him in the following days. None of this meant Hasryan couldn’t kill, not from a rational point of view, but Cal’s obvious distress convinced Arathiel not to press the point. Nobody needed irritating logic after indirectly dooming a friend to hanging.
They traversed the common area in silence and entered the section with private rooms. Cal pushed open the door to room number seven, right across from Arathiel’s. They set the
teenager down on the hard bed and stared at him. At least they had accomplished that much tonight. After a moment, Cal examined his head wound and his bent leg, careful not to move him too much. His actions drew a groan from the young man.
“Don’t you dare wake so soon,” Cal scolded him. “You were dying.”
Arathiel set a hand on Cal’s shoulders and squeezed. He could hear the doubts in his friend’s voice, the questions underlying them. What if he could have saved both him and Hasryan? Had he made a mistake? Chosen wrong and wasted Hasryan’s only chance? Arathiel wished he had an answer to reassure Cal. A way to solve his problems, even if just as a thank you for the trio’s warm welcome to the Shelter.
“You said he’d need a better healer. I know where I might find one.”
Cal raised his head. Curiosity buried his doubts for a moment. “You do? How?”
“When I arrived, I thought everything I knew about this city would’ve changed. I was wrong. Some acquaintances are still here, and they’ll help. Keep him alive until we return.” Arathiel could almost hear all the questions on the tip of Cal’s tongue. He turned to face him and smiled. “Listen, I can’t explain now. I don’t have the time, and neither does our new Shelter resident. But you were right earlier. Maybe it’s time I stop hiding.”
Revealing himself and detailing his past filled Arathiel with dread, but a tentative plan was forming in his mind. Camilla wouldn’t hesitate to send a healer to the Shelter, and she might even be able to do more for him. First, however, he needed to ask her questions on Isandor’s current methods of execution, the political weight of Hasryan’s supposed crime, and how much of Cal’s declarations about scapegoating relied on blind faith in Hasryan.
But even if Lady Camilla told him they were deluding themselves and Hasryan must have done it, Arathiel already knew he wouldn’t abort his rescue attempt. He couldn’t stand by and watch them kill Hasryan, no matter how irrational it seemed. Through a few games of cards and several understanding silences, Hasryan had provided him with the first brick to build a life independent from his past—to grieve, accept what he’d lost, and seek what he could have now. In a way, he and the others had gently been teasing him back into this world.
If Arathiel needed to leap fully into it in order to save Hasryan, he wouldn’t hesitate.
Larryn usually directed his murderous urges at slimy nobles—arrogant pricks who flaunted their titles like a free pass to be horrible, or holier-than-thou hypocrites who gave a coin or two away to assuage their guilt but otherwise didn’t give a rat’s ass about the poor sod who carried their shit every day. Especially House Dathirii, who posed as champions for those in need but hadn’t blinked at tossing his mother out in the street. His lord father could throw all the money he wanted Larryn’s way, but they both knew the truth. The elven house fared no better compassion-wise than any noble family out there, and they despised the slums and their inhabitants.
Today, however, Larryn kept a special spot in his hating heart for a certain halfling and his empty promises. They would see how long his luck held once Larryn got his hands on that unreliable wretch. Hasryan needed him to be there, and where was Cal? Nobody knew! Sleeping or gambling, probably, but most definitely not saving his friend’s life. If Cal had a drop of wisdom, he would be running away because Larryn would be coming for his lying ass the moment he exited the headquarters’ prisons.
At first, Larryn had thought he’d never get in without Cal to back their scheme with his magic. Plans could be changed, however. Larryn had his acolyte disguise and no qualms about deceiving guards. He strode straight to the ones at the entrance, clad in the simple outfit, and with a few fake words professing his faith, he was in. They didn’t ask questions. They mocked him for wasting time on the scum in their cells, praised his devotion in a tone coated with derision, then escorted him inside the low-security prisons.
This, of course, wasn’t where Larryn meant to be. Without Cal to distract the guard while Larryn took him down, he had to rely on a cruder and riskier method. He reached into his sleeve, touching his small bag of ground pepper, and hoped it would be enough. It had cost so much time and money to prepare, but Larryn hated lacking a back-up plan. Good thing he hadn’t bet everything on an irresponsible twat. Once he made his move, however, he would have to be fast. Flawless. Larryn reviewed his mental map of the headquarters one last time. He could do this. He had to.
A single guard flanked him on his left, and it unnerved Larryn not to hear her steps, but he didn’t need to. No one else was in sight. With a slight smile, Larryn smashed his elbow into her nose, then unleashed the bag of spice into her mouth. It choked her cry of alarm, turning it into a pained gasp. Larryn wasted no time hitting her temple and knocking her out. Her uniform would never fit on his slender frame, but he snatched her sapphire cloak and keys. The former might fool someone far away, and even without that no-good halfling, he might get lucky, and one of the keys would open Hasryan’s cell.
Larryn stalked down the corridors. He knew his way around these prisons, had already been in these cells in the past. Guards laughed and kicked you, disgusting food came at irregular times, and wounds became infected and festered. Larryn remembered lying on the floor in a feverish daze, wondering how long he’d been there and why he still fought to survive. He must have been thirteen, skin stretched over flimsy bones, and they’d caught him stealing. Broken his fingers. Again. At the time, his days had cycled between starving and freezing outside, or the painful grind of prison. His only respite came in occasional stays at the haphazard collection of mismatched and rotten planks nailed together that Jim called a shelter. It had taken years for Larryn to recognize Jim’s love and understand how the gentle welcome had helped keep him alive. Most of the time, he’d been determined to live through the day as an insult to his father.
Hasryan had survived the same way—out of spite. They’d talked about it one night, a discussion that had solidified their friendship. They’d passed a bottle of throat-ripping alcohol between them, sitting on the railing of House Lorn’s biggest balcony. Neither of them were allowed there. They’d climbed Isandor’s most prestigious family’s tower, laughing at how convenient the vines covering it were for thieves, then sneaked inside and acquired a few pricey items. Their success warranted a little celebration. That night must have been the first time Hasryan revealed anything about his past. Every day I live, I stick out my tongue at the shit-licking bigots who punched or spat on me for my black skin. A sentiment Larryn had shared. Nobles kicked the street kids around for fun, and every time he survived their beatings had been a small victory. Hasryan had also muttered something about his mother in a soft voice, but Larryn hadn’t dared to ask. They hadn’t known each other long enough. After that night, however, they’d become fast friends. Two young men with shitty lives, surviving out of spite for the rest of the world.
Larryn had the Shelter now—people to feed and protect—and as far as he was concerned, Hasryan was one of them. If Cal didn’t care enough to show up and break him out of prison, he could go drown in the Reonne. Larryn had no intention of letting this vile city execute his friend.
Larryn hurried back through the headquarters to the room where they kept evidence, dodging out of sight whenever he needed. The single guard inside never had a chance. By the time he noticed something wrong, Larryn had smashed the lights out of him. The trail of unconscious bodies made him uncomfortable. Larryn wished he could follow their original plan. It had been simple and less violent. Full of risks, yes, but with a priest of Ren by his side, he had felt confident in their luck.
In the end, sacrificing a single night to rescue a friend from an undeserved execution was too much to ask of Cal. Larryn couldn’t quite believe it. How often had Cal been there for him? He had saved his life when Larryn had first provoked Drake, stayed by his side after Jim’s death, taken care of so many cuts and burns, and kept his temper in check countless times. Larryn’s fingers might be crooked because of how often others had snapped t
hem, but without Cal they’d be unusable. Cooking wouldn’t even be an option for Larryn.
Yet he wasn’t there for Hasryan. His absence burned the bottom of Larryn’s stomach, eating away at his patience and trust. He would never be able to rely on Cal after tonight. With a frustrated growl, Larryn searched through the boxes and bags for Hasryan’s dagger. What would have taken five minutes if Cal had come to read the labels instead lasted half an hour. By the time Larryn left the room to find the high-security cells, his fists had balled up, and his mind reviewed the few choice words he’d throw at Cal once Hasryan was safe.
✵
Hasryan had no idea how long he had left before his execution. He’d lost count of the days since the trial. Not that he had tried hard to keep track. Less practical matters occupied his mind. He played with a small rock found on the dirty ground of his cell and flung it at regular intervals against the wall. Every throw punctuated an angry interrogation. He tossed the stone—how could Brune sell him out like this?—and it bounced back, rattling on the floor. Hasryan picked it up. He spun it between his fingers, wondering if another condemned soul had played with it. Then he threw again—had she ever wanted anything but a scapegoat from him?—and the rock returned. It never answered him. Hasryan sighed.
City of Strife Page 23
