by Paul Smith
him unceremoniously in this very spot, where he continued to heave the glutinous mess up all over the pavement and his trousers. His friends had taken off he later discovered, much to the ire of the restaurant owner, who'd been livid at the mess (though their group's obvious League connections meant there would be no repercussions of course).
He remembered resting his forehead against the blissful cool of the stone, trying to ease the pounding in his head when a moment of clarity prompted him to pull his knife out. The stone had been tougher than he'd expected (though that might just have been the state he was in) but he'd managed to achieve the desired result, leaning back to survey his handiwork: a slightly wonky 'S'. He'd known then that this would be an important moment in his life. Something he needed to do. And indeed he'd gone on to use the marker during his evenor training in later years, the memories and his own physical stamp making it a powerful, certain point to aim at during those early years.
Hence his choice of it tonight. Quite aside from its proximity to the address Galairel had described it was a spot with the sort of distinctive feel he'd need to pass on to the nifl.
He closed his eyes, smiling. We're here, thank you.
Stay safe… Desan's voice, fading as she cut the connection.
Rivan turned from the sight Mikael vomiting, realising his own stomach was trying to force its way up his throat. He clamped down firmly on the urge, accepting a swallow from the waterskin Lyse was passing about the group.
Spot the ex-spy, Rivan thought wryly, glancing at Lair. The Wraethi stood a little way off, an odd expression on his face.
“You okay?”
Galairel turned, offering a faint smile and a nod. “Yes. It's just strange to be back after so long.”
Rivan nodded, belatedly realising the import of the moment. “How long has it been?”
Galairel appeared to consider, before finally giving the effort up with a shrug. “More than two centuries, with one brief exception. I have not been welcome here for some time.”
He watched as the Efljos turned away again, lost once more in his own thoughts. Lyse touched his arm, Clarissa and a recovered Mikael at her side. “We should get to our rendezvous. If they find us breaking curfew all hell will break loose.”
Rivan nodded, touching the Wraethi's arm. Lair glanced up, then about, indicating the far end of the alley with one taloned hand. “This way.”
Together they set off, the sea mist closing silently behind them.
A short but tense walk down the main avenue and Lair dove into a side street, this one lined down both sides with doorways. He stopped before one painted a striking red, palms going up to hover inches before the wood for a few seconds. Rivan glanced at Mikael, whose expression was intense as he watched the Wraethi at work. A barely audible snick announced whatever he was doing had worked, as he placed his hand on the latch to push it open. Within, stairs led up and down, allowing access to the cellar and the building's upper floors. They went up, Lyse closing the door quietly behind them. Galairel paused at the second landing, finger to his lips as his hands touched the wood before him, tracing patterns lightly again.
Suddenly the door was flung back, a familiar shadow blocking the candlelight streaming from the room beyond.
“You could have just knocked,” suggested Kelsaro, hip cocked. She glanced about the assembled, eyes going wide as she spotted Rivan. “Rivan! God you're a sight for sore eyes.” She bundled him into an embrace, smiling round at the others. “Come in, come in all of you.” She waved the others into the room beyond, glancing out into the corridor once herself before pulling the door shut behind them.
Two others waited in the room beyond about a table littered with the remains of a meal (“help yourselves, there's plenty left”). One was a slim, serious looking woman with scraped back hair and a nose you could string a clothes line from. The second was a tall man with the sinewy build of someone who laboured for a living. He offered Rivan an easy smile at odds with his companion's scowl, hand extended. “I'm Tomen. Don't mind Rina, she always takes a while to warm to people.”
“Rivan.” He completed the clasp.
“I'd kinda guessed.” Tomen indicated his face apologetically. “It's a bit of a give away.”
“And yet no one ever really commented on it before.”
“It's the hair.” This from Rina, who was now proffering her own wrist. Her clasp was firm, the accompanying smile reserved but genuine. “Kel tells me you used to wear it long. This brings out the shape of your cheeks and jaw.”
Rivan shrugged. “If you say so.”
Tomen waved at the table. “Please, sit. Eat! I'll go put the kettle on.”
Rivan watched him go, glancing at Rina. “You've got him well trained.”
“Oh he's not mine.” She smirked at the thought. Patted one of the chair backs. “He wasn't kidding, sit. The stew should still be warm. And there's fresh bread there, I gather you've been at sea the last few days and I know ship's fare isn't the best.”
Rivan pulled out the proffered chair, lowering himself into it. “Thank you.”
Rina nodded, leaving him to bustle through the rest of the group, shooing them in the same direction. Rivan half stood to pull the lid from the stew pot, and his stomach groaned at the smell that escaped.
“Come on boy, dish up, I'm starving.”
He grinned across at Lyse who'd taken the seat opposite. Began ladling stew round.
“Don't worry boss, we haven't forgotten about you.”
Rivan glanced up to see Kelsaro entering with a steaming mug of liquid. Saw the slightest flaring of Lair's nostrils at his side.
“Thank you.”
Kelsaro smiled, handing the mug over. “Plenty more where that came from, so best drink up whilst it's fresh.”
Galairel glanced about the table. Lyse rolled her eyes, but it was Mikael who spoke up. “Drink man. We'll all need our strength tomorrow night.”
It was odd being in such company, after so long in chains. Particularly given the number of faces round the table Mikael had, until quite recently, counted as enemies or at the very least people to be watched.
Of all the strangeness he had been presented with the presence of Lyse Soltais had been perhaps the greatest revelation for him. Though given the stories of the woman's meddlesome streak it was not, perhaps, all that much of a surprise really. And given her politics it made sense that she had thrown her lot in with the Wraethi. ‘The Ghost of the Vale’ had never liked the League's aristocratic airs. It was something that had endeared her greatly in his eyes. Born a Soone, he had always found his family's assumptions of entitlement difficult to stomach. Yes, they had money. But that did not warrant the airs his mother and elder sister Marielle put on. It was part of the reason he and Clarissa had rebelled the way they did, albeit each in their own individual way.
He stared across the table at his sister, smiling in wonder at the woman she had become. She, more than he, had truly taken her life and made it her own. Next to her achievements his own insurrection – joining the Myson, training in secret to become a Fang – paled in comparison.
And anyway it seemed if what the others said was true his mother had been aware of her brother's bluff all along. Had been well aware of what her son was actually up to when he apparently took to a life at sea.
A brief flash of his mother and Calistair in the sack intruded and he shivered, grimacing at the distasteful image.
“You okay?”
He glanced at his sister. Shook his head at her searching look. “It's nothing.” He took a bite of stew-soaked bread, chewed thoughtfully. “Can I ask you a question?”
She nodded, nascent crows feet at the corners of her eyes crinkling. “Of course.”
“Why the hat?”
Clarissa glanced at the Preacher's hat that hung from the coat stand by the door, with her long coat. Grimaced as she turned back to her brother. “I stole it.”
“You stole a Preacher's hat?!”
“Hush!” Clarissa held
up her hands. “Not off his head.”
“Oh, well, that makes it all better.”
She narrowed her eyes. “I was cold and hungry, and a lot younger than I am now. It was just after I'd run away.” She pulled a face. “It was a little rural chapel. I'd taken refuge for the night. He fed me, lit a fire in the sanctuary. When I woke in the morning they were hanging from the back of the door...” she gestured at the hat and coat “...I kinda assumed I was supposed to take them.”
Mikael nodded thoughtfully. “The faith still lives.”
Clarissa's smile was melancholic. “Just not where you'd expect.” She jerked her head in Rivan's direction. “Talk to him about it, when you get a chance. Boy's got some interesting ideas.”
“I bet he has...”
Clarissa laughed. “I forget you knew him in his former guise.”
“I wouldn't say knew...”
“Are acquainted with then.”
“Now that sounds dodgy.”
Clarissa arched an eyebrow. “Is it?”
“God no!” It was Mikael's turn to laugh. He shook his head, grinning at Clarissa. “Oh I've seen the merchandise. Just never had any desire to play...”
“What's that about merchandise?” Kelsaro piped up from the other end of the table, her uncanny eyes sparkling.
“Mikael was telling me about his visits to the Heart...” Clarissa replied, smirking at her brother “...how he was too chicken to sample everything on offer.”
Rivan was rolling his eyes, grinning at Mikael, who was now doing his best not to
