“Ayrion . . . That’s a pretty name.”
I winced. That was not how I wanted to be remembered.
Sapphire was taller than I was, but not by much. Her sandy blonde hair had been pulled back into a partial braid.
“Where’s Spats?” Reevie asked.
Sapphire glanced at the main building. “He’s meeting with some runners in his study. Doesn’t look good.” She wore a strange, almost eager grin.
Reevie grunted. “When does it ever.”
“Alright, break it up,” bawled a solid boy. “You’ve all seen the new kid, now get back to work before Spats catches you sitting around doing nothing and puts you in the hole.”
The kids scattered. The threat of the hole—whatever that was—put wings to their feet.
“Sounds like Spats will be busy for a while,” Reevie said. “Come on, I’ll show you around.”
Metal screeched and I whirled to see the gate swing shut and the bar clang back into place. Around the wall, scaffolding had been erected at different intervals for the lookouts.
“They’re called watchers,” Reevie said as he caught me studying the haphazard stations scattered around the Temple’s wall. Each station had a brass bell.
“Watchers?”
“They watch from the wall, and sound the alarm if they see a threat. Everyone in Hurricane has a job. For some, it’s based on their skills, or their size.” I caught Reevie rubbing his bad leg. “But typically, it’s wherever they’re most needed at that time. There’s a hierarchy.
“At the top, there’s the chief. Nothing gets done without running it by him first. On our hauls, he gets the first, and largest, share and splits it among the rest, another reason not to get on his bad side.”
Reevie led us along a stone path that ran the perimeter of the Temple. Smaller walkways crisscrossed the yard in front of the Temple buildings. The yard had been a garden at one time, complete with small pools and flowing streams. There was nothing now but dried up holes and empty ditches that followed the walkways.
Statues, fountains, half-fallen arches, and benches dotted the landscape, speaking to the beauty this place had once held. The only surviving plants were a couple of stubborn old white oaks. Their limbs, thick with leaves, stretched out over the walkways and provided shade to those mingling beneath. If I closed my eyes, I could almost imagine what the courtyard had looked like.
Whoever Egla was, she had built a small oasis here in the middle of this hardened section of Aramoor. Of course, for all I knew, before she became animal fodder, this might have been the aristocracy’s side of town. The ornate buildings in the old shopping community supported my theory.
“Those are part of the Guard,” Reevie said, pointing to a small group of older boys lounging beside one of the buildings. Each wore a black vest, like Sapphire’s. Everyone seemed to go out of their way to avoid them, even though the Guard ignored any who passed. “They’re the tribe’s best fighters. They’re Spats’s personal sentries. You can’t see him without first going through them.”
I studied the Guards’ movements, the way their hands never strayed too far from the weapons they carried, the way their eyes were constantly watching, darting about at any small noise or movement. These boys—though few of them could still be considered boys anymore with their size and the sporadic patches of growth on their faces—I doubted were anything on the level of what I had been raised with, but I wasn’t going to dismiss them as a possible threat. Their matching black vests had me wondering if a certain red vest I had recently come in contact with was worn for more than just its aesthetics.
“Next are the beaters. They are our main fighting force when there are skirmishes between tribes, when our picking grounds get invaded, or when chiefs try elevating their tribe by fighting for additional territory.
“Beaters aren’t the brightest lot, but they’re big and follow orders. It’s a pretty easy job, mostly sitting around all day waiting for some action. They don’t have to scrounge for food or supplies.
“They’re like the Elondrian lancers,” Reevie said with a smirk, “but without all the protective armor, or shields . . . or weapons for that matter. Come to think of it, I guess they aren’t like the lancers at all—”
“More like a group of kids running around with clubs, slingshots, and pig stickers,” I said, earning me a raised brow and eventually a shrug and nod from Reevie.
We stopped at one of the empty pools where a fountain had been. The inside of the dry hole was lined with a collage of once brightly painted stones and at its center sat a statue of a beautiful woman with long hair down to her feet, playing what looked like a large harp. I nearly choked when I walked around to the front and realized she didn’t have a stitch of clothing on.
Reevie laughed at my reaction to the naked harp-playing faerie. “That’s Egla for you. There’s hardly a mural or statue of her that doesn’t depict her in all her glory.”
I peeked once more when Reevie wasn’t looking. I’d never seen anything so beautiful in my life and was embarrassed to admit it. I couldn’t understand why Egla wasn’t embarrassed at having everyone see her like that. I certainly would have been.
“Next are the pickers. They are the breadwinners of our little society. Keep the wheels turning.”
“What do you mean by pickers? Do they have something to do with the picking grounds you mentioned earlier?”
Reevie nibbled on a nail. “Remember Lord Gerrik?” I nodded. “Aramoor doesn’t like street rats. Every now and then, you’ll come across someone like Master Fentin and Mistress Orilla who are willing to help us out, but as a rule, we are shunned. It’s next to impossible to find work that doesn’t end with us being shipped off to one of the mining colonies never to be heard from again. And since we have to eat, we acquire food any way we can, which generally means . . .”
“You steal it.”
Reevie hung his head. “We call it picking. We see something we need and we pick it up, usually followed by a lot of running and hiding as you saw with those patrollers who chased us a few weeks back.”
I wasn’t sure how comfortable I was knowing that everything I had been nourishing myself with over the last few weeks had only come because it had been taken from someone else. Upakans didn’t steal. It was beneath us, and the Shal’Noran forbade it. I guess if I really thought about it, this was an odd sense of morality, considering what we did for a living.
But now I had to question the code I had been raised to live by. Could I still keep the Shal’Noran if I had no way to earn food? I shoved the questions aside for another time.
“So basically we steal everything we need?”
“Well, not everything. On occasion, we do actually find legitimate employment by hiring out our fixers. However, because of where we’re located, most people don’t have a lot of extra coin for fixing things. Needless to say, we don’t see much in the way of honest work.
“Fixers are the kids who have had some professional experience, like apprenticing in a smithy, or with a carpenter or tailor, some type of skill that the tribe can use to their benefit. I guess I’d fall under that category. The medical training I received under my father was my entry into the tribe. No one else has the extensive knowledge that I do when it comes to applying herbs and treating illnesses.”
We climbed the steps leading up to one the Temple’s side buildings. “I’m a high commodity around here, which is why I have some leeway when it comes to the rules. Real healers are almost impossible to find. Anyone can claim to be one, but few have the skill.”
We stepped inside the kitchen area, which looked out over a room full of tables and benches. “That’s Cook,” Reevie said, gesturing to a heavyset kid wearing a dirty apron and stirring something in a very large pot. The coals underneath glowed and the steam wafting over the rim filled the room with the scent of pepper and garlic. I smiled at the boy when he looked up from his work to wipe the sweat from his face with his sleeve.
“Finally, you have t
he cleaners.” Reevie pointed to the back of the room where a couple of smaller kids were busy swishing a pair of brooms around the tables. “They are a greatly undervalued bunch, quiet but busy. Their job is to—”
“Wait. Let me guess. Keep the place clean.”
“Good, you’re listening.”
We stepped back out into the sunlight and started down the steps. Before we had reached the bottom, a squirt of a boy dashed over. “Spats said that he can see you now, Healer. Be quick. There’s trouble with Avalanche. Talk is Cutter’s making threats again.”
Reevie grunted and dismissed the boy, and the two of us walked over to the main building. “I don’t know if trouble with Avalanche will be good or bad for you. He could be in a foul mood and deny you entrance out of spite, or he might see this as a way to grow the ranks.” Reevie shrugged. “You never know with Spats.”
I already wasn’t thrilled with the situation and Reevie’s words didn’t help. Once inside the main building, we walked down a couple of rounded passageways, each with its own built-in skylight that bathed the corridors with warm afternoon sunlight. The inside of the Temple was much like the gardens outside: once beautiful, but now rough with age.
We stopped outside the doors to Spats’ office. Each had been masterfully carved with a breathtaking view of the former gardens.
My fists tightened at the sight of the two boys standing on either side of the doors. Their black vests labeled them as members of the Guard, though their stature was proof enough. They looked me over, assessing my potential threat. Their gaze was painfully brief. Still, they kept a close eye on me. One of them actually growled, which made me wonder what was waiting for me on the other side of those doors.
“Come in!”
I looked at Reevie. His face did little to hide the dread he felt. I swallowed and waited for him to open the doors, but his hand seemed to have gotten stuck somewhere between his pocket and the handle.
The guards chuckled.
“Reevie,” I said softly, snapping him out of it. He shook his head, took a small step forward, and turned the knob. The door swung open and we stepped inside.
The room surprised me. From the way Reevie had described Hurricane’s leader, I’d half expected to see walls lined with swords and staves, grizzly paintings of hard-won battles, and the heads of Spats’ enemies mounted on spears. Instead, I found an exquisitely organized chamber with shelves, a desk, and chairs, all in the same rich wood as the doors we had just walked through.
Rays of sunlight fell through stunningly-crafted amber panes, giving the room an ethereal feel. Spats sat at his desk, busy poring over some loose papers. Spats was even further from what I had imagined. By the size of his guards and the way Reevie shook at the thought of being in his presence, I was half expecting a monstrous brute, or some enormous misshapen creature with three arms and five legs. Instead, I found a thin, angular kid with bulging eyes and a mass of explosive red hair. He wasn’t much taller than me. He had to sit on a stack of books just to see over his desk, which had been built for a grown man. Hurricane’s chief spared us a brief glance before returning to his papers. His face reminded me of a weasel: high cheekbones, a nose that came to a point, and slightly offset eyes.
“Ah, Healer. Perfect timing. Come in.” He even sounded like a weasel. His high-pitched voice was rather nasal, as though he’d made it halfway through puberty and instead of dropping, his voice had decided to stay where it was.
I bit my tongue to keep from snickering. I had a feeling the kid in front of me didn’t climb to chieftain thanks to a cheerful disposition.
The guards behind us stepped into the room and shut the doors. I could feel their eyes on the back of my head.
“Chief.” Reevie bowed. He glanced my way and cleared his throat. I got the hint and bowed as well. Reevie waited for Spats to acknowledge him with a slight wave before straightening. “This is Ayrion. He’s new to the city, and I—”
“What’s wrong with his eyes?”
“What?” Reevie turned his head. “His eyes?”
Spats hopped down from his seat and stepped around his desk. He snatched my chin and twisted my head back and forth, studying one eye and then the other. It took everything I had not to punch him in the face.
“Why do his eyes look like that?”
I wanted to ask him why his head was so small and his voice sounded like a girl who’d just had her backside pinched, but thought better of it.
“Is he diseased?” Spats let go of my chin and wiped his hands down the front of his trousers as if in touching me would suddenly change his eye color as well.
“He’s not diseased,” Reevie said. “He’s Upakan.”
Spats leaned back against his desk. “Upakan you say? Hmm.” He scanned me from head to toe. “So, are the stories true? Can you kill me with a single look?” There was a smile on Spats’ face, but his eyes held a spark of wary caution. “Well, do you speak, boy?”
“He’s a bit shy, Chief,” Reevie said, clearly not happy with the direction the conversation was heading. “He’s a healer. I think he’ll make a good asset to our tribe. I can definitely use all the help I can—”
“Quiet.”
Reevie shut his mouth, his hands were shaking.
“Is that true? Are you a healer?”
I nodded. It wasn’t exactly a lie, since I had been trained in the appropriate herbs and tonics used to treat wounds and basic illnesses, things a warrior should know. If I were to be accepted as a healer, that should place me in high standing within the tribe, like Reevie. Hopefully, it would allow me to move about as freely as he did.
“Are you mute, boy?” Spats looked at me with a growing annoyance before turning to Reevie. “Can he speak?”
“Yes, sir,” I finally said, keeping my eyes in what Spats would assume was proper deference. I needed Spats to believe that I was just as fearful of him as Reevie, that they would have no reason to keep an eye on me.
Upaka were trained to fit in, to do whatever it took to meet the goal, which was usually getting close to our next target. To do this we had to learn to let go of our identity and become someone else. It was a talent I hadn’t quite mastered, especially if it required me to cower to bullies.
“So, not mute after all.” Spats studied me for a moment and then walked back around to the other side of his desk and perched on his stack of books. “Normally, we test all applicants to Hurricane. It lets us know where to put them in the tribe–or if we want them at all. I have strict guidelines here,” he said snatching his quill and pointing it at me. “However, as it happens, you’ve come at an opportune time. We just received word that one of our warehouses was raided last night by a rival tribe.” There was an edge to his voice that matched the embers building in his eyes. “I will not allow this to go unanswered. There will be blood in the streets by tonight, or my name isn’t Spats. And where there is blood we will need healers.” He pursed his lips and leaned back in his chair, studying me again. “If our healer vouches for you, that’s good enough for me, provided you can answer one question.”
I tensed, hoping Spats wouldn’t ask me something beyond the basics of my field training.
“If in this battle, I and the Healer were wounded, which would you tend to first?”
I knew who I would tend to, but I also knew that wasn’t the answer Spats wanted. So I lied.
“You, of course, great chief.” I bowed, even more deeply this time.
Spats folded his hands and smiled. “Excellent. You’re in.”
We left Spats’ office and Reevie took me on a quick tour of the rest of the Temple. It consisted of beautifully framed rooms and hallways trimmed with richly colored wood that had been shaped in a rather fluid-like fashion. There was a soft beauty to the design that reminded me of the puzzle pieces I used to work on with my sister, each part blended perfectly together to make the whole. Outside, there were covered walkways connecting one building to the next, each open to the once lush gardens that had surrou
nded the entire complex.
“Oh, I almost forgot.” Reevie motioned for me to follow as he carefully stepped off the walkway and headed across the yard to a small shed near the back wall. The building was nothing more than a basic square frame and roof. The sides had been enclosed with a single layer of meshed wire, allowing me to see straight through. There were rows of shelves on either side, each holding what appeared to be a number of birds. A couple of holes had been cut into the mesh with a small landing for the birds to walk in and out of. “Our pigeons,” Reevie said with a proud grin. “What do you think?”
I looked at Reevie, then at the birds, then back to Reevie. “I think there’s not much meat on them.”
Reevie looked disgusted. “They’re not for eating, you nitwit. They’re for sending messages.”
“Huh?”
“They’re messenger pigeons. We strap a small rolled up piece of parchment to their feet and they carry it between one place and another. It’s how Spats reaches me at the granary.”
“How do they know where to go?”
Reevie shrugged. “I don’t know. They always seem to know where home is.”
“Is this considered their home?”
“For some of them, yes.”
“Then how do they know how to fly to the granary?”
Reevie smiled. “Good question. We learned that if we kept their food separate from their home, they would fly back and forth each day. I have another cage on the roof of the granary. That’s where I keep the food for a couple of them.”
“That’s pretty ingenious.” I was surprised he hadn’t shown me it before.
We left the birds to their cooing and headed back inside, ending the tour in a small, brightly lit room, not that far down from Spats’ office. Reevie had claimed the space for his healing. A brass chandelier hung from the ceiling, its candles providing a warm addition to the light streaming through the octagonal windows at the back. Shelves built into the walls held marked jars of herbs and medicines. There were oddly shaped and colored decanters holding a variety of tonics and tinctures. Some of the labels I recognized but there were many I wasn’t familiar with. There were several cots for patients against the side wall.
Hurricane (Street Rats of Aramoor: Book 2) Page 7
