Blyd and Pearce

by Kim Fielding

  He looked at me over his teacup. “Yes, so you said. But why embrace such a strange profession?”

  “What else can I do?”

  “Fight.”

  I’d seriously considered it in the weeks after the guards drummed me out.

  Near the West Gate stood an arena where the rich and the moderately prosperous paid to watch people battle. The contests varied. Some used weapons, some magic, some bare hands. The spectators bet on the competitors, sometimes wagering huge sums.

  “I don’t fight for sport.” When I fight, people end up dead. As Jory contemplated my response, I decided to turn the interrogation his way. “What happened to him?”

  “Who?” he asked, knowing exactly who I meant.

  “The tavern keeper’s son. The man you fell in love with.”

  “I told you. When my money was gone, he was done with me.”

  “Yes, but what happened to him?” I pictured him now, with gray in his hair and fat on his belly, leaning on a tavern counter and reminiscing about his youth, about his brush with wealth.

  Jory was expressionless. “He disappeared.”

  “How?”

  “I couldn’t— After he was through with me, I stayed away from that tavern. I didn’t want him to see what I’d become. But I listened to rumors.” He shook his head. “I still loved him. Now who’s the fool? But a few months after my family disowned me, he was gone. Nobody ever saw him again. I like to think he developed a sudden taste for adventure and headed for the mountains.”

  A nice fantasy, but Jory and I both knew what had become of a man who’d brought shame to a noble family. I wondered if any of the scavengers had fished his body out of the river Tangye.

  I put my teacup on the floor and stood. The morning was old enough. Time to have a talk with a wizard.

  JORY STOOD just inside the doorway with me, both of us ignoring the stares of the boys in the drawing room. “I should come with,” he said for the third or fourth time.

  And again I refused. “No. You’ll only be in the way.” I was worried about his safety, but I also wanted to speak to the wizard without Jory present because he had his own personal spin on the truth.

  “What if Uren’s men find you?”

  It was a reasonable concern. I could evade them through the city easily enough, but they might be waiting near Arthyen’s house, hoping Jory or I would show up. Nothing to do about that, though, and I really wanted to talk to Arthyen. “I have my knives,” I said, briefly placing a hand on a hilt.

  “And if they’re better than yesterday’s duo?”

  “Then you can look for me on the banks of the river. If you pay the scavengers a few coins, they might keep an eye out for my corpse.”

  “This isn’t something to joke about!”

  I stroked his smooth cheek. “I’m not joking. Tell me where he lives.”

  “In the Silver, high on the north side of the hill.” He named a street I’d never heard of, but then I rarely spent time in that particular area. “It’s a pale yellow house like all the others on that street, but it has his name over the door.”

  My jaw worked. “I can’t read.”

  There was no pity in his gaze. “Of course. I’m sorry. It’s been over a decade since I lost my privileges, so you’d think I’d be mindful of reality by now. Hang on.” He disappeared down the hallway. When he returned a moment later, he handed me a scrap of paper.

  I examined the baffling glyphs written in black ink and then looked at him. “Clever. Thank you.” Then I turned on my heel and left.

  The smoke was especially thick that morning, making people cough and lending a gray pall to everyone’s complexion. In the Smiths Quarter, some people had cloths tied over their noses and mouths, but nobody bothered with that in the Low, where the ashy scent was better than the usual reek of sewage.

  I avoided the area near my rooms and the Royal Bridge, crossing over Meryasek Bridge instead. A statue of the king for whom the bridge was named stood guard on the northern side, looking as if he’d rather be somewhere else. I’d heard that the statue was erected while he was still alive, and when he died, they’d placed his funeral pyre right there.

  I felt oddly cheerful for a man who might not survive the day. My clothing helped my mood. Someone had done such a fine job of repairing the rip that I could find it only with careful inspection, and the fabric smelled of lavender and witchbane, like the sheets at Branok’s house. Jory’s ointment had done its job. The heat and redness in my arm were gone, leaving nothing but a slight twinge. I’d slept remarkably soundly with Jory beside me. I’d eaten well for dinner the previous night and for breakfast this morning. And my lips still tasted of the kiss Jory gave me before I left.

  As I walked through the Silver Quarter, I allowed my mind to wander more than usual. I wondered what it would be like to grow up in one of the fine houses I passed; to have parents, siblings, and other relatives; to never worry about where the next meal would come from; to learn reading and maths and… whatever else wealthy children were expected to know. I couldn’t fathom it. And judging by Jory’s situation, such a seemingly auspicious upbringing did not necessarily make for a happy adult. What kind of man would I be if I’d had all that as a boy?

  I was glad I hadn’t gone to Arthyen’s the previous evening, a long trek from the Smiths Quarter and through his neighborhood’s maze of steep, quiet streets that turned and crossed seemingly at random. I wandered, asking the few passersby for directions that invariably sent me the wrong way. But when I finally stopped a tired-looking servant and asked her for the street, she sighed and shifted her burden of parcels slightly in her arms.

  “You’re on it,” she said.

  Jory had been right—nearly all the houses had paint the same shade of pale yellow. I don’t know if the residents simply liked the color or if it was a plan to confuse people. Fortunately for me, few of the houses had signs, and when they did, I could compare them to Jory’s note. I clutched that bit of paper in my hand as if it might save my life.

  At long last I found the door with Arthyen’s name over it. The house was somewhat modest compared to those nearby, only three floors tall and without flower boxes in the windows. A thin tabby cat dozed on the front step.

  I slipped across the street and into the deep shadows between the houses. And then I watched.

  For a long time, nothing interesting happened. A middle-aged man walked up the hill, holding hands with two well-dressed children. A few more servants passed on their way down, probably fetching things from the shops. Two spider-fairies dropped from the roof next door and chattered to each other as they rooted in a small pile of leaves. I watched with mild interest; fairies were a rare thing in the Low. After the fairies scaled the house and disappeared over the roof, the cat woke up, stretched, and wandered off.

  Just as I gave myself the all clear and deemed it safe to approach Arthyen’s house, the door opened and a man walked out. I very nearly shouted in surprise.

  The man was me.

  Tall and thin, with wide shoulders and long limbs. His face the one that looked back at me on the rare occasions I glanced in a looking glass. Narrow, with a square chin and a nose broken more than once. Pale blue eyes as flat as a basilisk’s. A faded scar across one cheek, barely missing the corner of the thin lips. Dark stubble. Equally dark hair—except where a growing number of white strands peeked through.

  And he wore my clothes—the ones I’d left in my apartment. The old cloak with the new chausses and tunic. Black boots, but not quite as tall as mine. I couldn’t tell if they were as well made. The knife-belt at his waist looked familiar, but of course my own was right where it was supposed to be. I could feel its weight, yet I checked to make sure.

  My doppelganger paused in front of the closed door, looking up and down the street. I was well hidden in the shadows, and he never even glanced my way. He stepped down. And then as I watched, unbreathing, he… changed. He grew shorter and heavier, and his hair turned mousy brown. The scar
and stubble disappeared from his face, which became rounder and softer. At least ten years had fallen away from him.

  Still wearing my clothing, he hurried up the hill and out of sight.

  By the time I remembered to breathe again, I knew what I’d seen: an example of rare and powerful magic. I’d heard of enchantments that allowed one person to temporarily take on the guise of another but had never seen it firsthand. I’d certainly never expected the borrowed face to be mine. Now, of course, I had to figure out why someone would make such a mighty effort to look like me.

  I was certain I wouldn’t like the answer.

  I wasted a few moments trying to decide whether to chase after the imposter or confront Arthyen. I eventually opted for the latter, in part because I wasn’t sure I could hold my temper around my false self. He was wearing my clothes, and he or his compatriots had been in my rooms. I felt dirty.

  Moving quickly before I changed my mind, I marched across the street and pounded on the door.

  A young man opened it almost immediately, then raised his eyebrows. “Blyd! Did you forget something? Wizard Arthyen has another appointment in a few minutes.”

  “I need to ask him something.”

  Apparently blissfully unaware that my clothing had changed in a matter of minutes, the man nodded and let me into a wood-paneled foyer that smelled of fish and broiled cabbage. “He’s still in his office.” He gestured negligently toward an ornately carved door at the end of the hall and then disappeared up some stairs.

  I strode past wood paneling decorated with paintings of the sea and knocked once on the door—firmly. Receiving no reply, I cautiously opened it and stepped inside.

  And walked straight into the stench of death.

  Chapter Ten

  THE WIZARD Arthyen had been dead only minutes, yet his corpse stank nonetheless—of piss and shit and blood, of the bowels that had been split by the killer’s blade.

  The murderer had done a messy and thorough job. Arthyen lay on his back near the center of the marble floor, his sightless eyes trained on the ceiling. I remembered my mother and shuddered, but this was not the time for such weakness. The wizard had been sliced from throat to groin, his innards now spilled around him.

  He was younger than I’d expected. Perhaps a few years older than me, although it was hard to tell with the slackness of death on his face. He had thin, straw-colored hair in a long braid, most of which was sopped with blood. His clothing had been very expensive—silks and wools in soft gray, like the breast of a dove. His hands were clenched into fists at his side.

  I didn’t touch the body, and I’d wager that the gutting had not been the first blow. Unless you were using a heavy sword, it would be almost impossible to inflict such a long, straight, deep wound in a single stroke. And according to Jory, Arthyen was a powerful wizard. If he’d seen an attack coming, surely he could have mounted some defense. Yet the man with my face hadn’t looked injured.

  The attacker must have surprised him from behind. A sharp knock to the head, perhaps. Or more likely a single stab somewhere vital. I’d have gone for the base of the neck. My knives were heavy enough to sever a spinal cord, and that was the type of blow that would take an opponent out of the fight immediately.

  Taking a quick look around the large room, I spied no other signs of a struggle. An oversize desk squatted near one end, and piles of books and scrolls appeared undisturbed. Mysterious bits of metal, bone, and stone lay scattered over a long table, and a wardrobe half again taller than me hulked in a corner. If the murderer was a thief, he was a bad one—several gemstones sparkled on a pedestal near the window.

  So the not-me had seemingly come in peace and had given my name to the wizard’s servant. He’d talked with the wizard for a bit, perhaps. And then he’d come up from behind, most likely covering Arthyen’s mouth to muffle any cries. After Arthyen had fallen from the first blow, the killer had gutted him. It was a showy act, done more for visual effect than to dispatch his victim.

  Arthyen’s death was not only too bad for him; it also posed considerable problems for me. For one, I’d lost my opportunity to question him about Jory. And for another, it would certainly look as though I’d killed him.

  Gods and goddesses. Now it wouldn’t be just Lord Uren after me—I’d have to contend with the entire city guard.

  I tried to think of how I could explain the situation and remove the blame from my shoulders, but nothing came to mind. The guards were not disposed to believe me in the first place, and my entire tale sounded farfetched even to me.

  Perhaps given enough time, I could reach a solution. But I had no time. The servant had said Arthyen expected his next appointment momentarily.

  And good god Bolitho, what of Jory? Was he safe? What if the murderer had gone to Jory next? If he was wearing my face, Jory would suspect nothing until the sharp steel entered his body.

  I should not have felt such panic and dismay at that thought.

  Schooling myself to remain calm, I left Arthyen’s office and closed the door carefully behind me. I walked down the hall purposefully but without rushing.

  The servant met me in the foyer. “That was fast.” Now that he’d recovered from his surprise and irritation, he had a friendly smile.

  All I could manage was a quick nod. What would become of this young man? I hoped he wasn’t implicated in the murder. At the very least, he’d be traumatized when he discovered the mutilated body.

  I walked outside, stepping over the cat, which had returned while I was indoors. I descended the hill until I was out of sight of Arthyen’s office. And then I ran.

  “GODS AND goddesses, Daveth! What’s wrong?”

  I’d sprinted all the way down Seli Hill, keeping myself to backstreets and alleys, hoping not to attract too much attention. It was easier to disappear once I entered the Low, where I knew the routes much better. But still I didn’t slow. I raced across Basilisk Bridge, knowing it was the least likely to have guards nearby, and pounded up the Smiths to Branok’s house, where I burst, wheezing, through the door and almost collapsed onto the floor.

  Someone must have run to fetch Jory, but I didn’t notice. I was too busy leaning against a wall and trying not to vomit as I struggled to get air into my burning lungs.

  Jory grabbed my shoulders and asked again, “What’s wrong?”

  I didn’t care if Branok and all the boys were watching. I grabbed him and pulled him so tightly against me that neither of us could breathe.

  “Is it really you?” I gasped into his ear.

  “Yes. Yes, of course.”

  He let me hold him until I’d calmed a bit, although my heart was still trying to escape my chest and I was dripping with sweat. Then I pushed him to arm’s length. “We need to go. Now.”

  Though his face was pale, he didn’t argue or ask more questions but instead gave a shaky nod. “All right. Wait one minute.” He thundered up the stairs.

  Everyone else stared at me. I didn’t care.

  I startled slightly when one of the boys urged something into my hand. A plain clay cup.

  “It’s just water,” he said.

  I hope I thanked him, but I’m not sure I did. The liquid was sweet on my tongue and blissful to my throat.

  Jory returned and pushed through the crowd to me. By then I’d recovered enough strength to stand upright, although my legs felt weak and I was clammy with cooling sweat.

  “I’m ready,” he said as levelly as if we’d planned this for ages and intended nothing but a pleasant stroll.

  Branok frowned at us. “Don’t come back if you’re in trouble. I don’t want trouble here.”

  Jory nodded. “We won’t return. But Branok? Thank you. I know you’re no charity, but you’ve sheltered me twice when I needed it, and I’m grateful for that.”

  Branok appeared shocked at his statement. She and her boys watched us as we left.

  “Where?” Jory asked when we were outside. I kept us close to the edge of the street while I scanned our surrou
ndings. No sign of guards or anyone else, at least not yet. But Jory was insistent. “What happened at Arthyen’s?”

  “Arthyen’s dead. Come on.” I grabbed his wrist and dragged him along quickly. The sooner we were in the Low, the better.

  He came without complaint, though when I glanced at him, his eyes glistened and a single tear traced down his cheek. Artifice perhaps, but I didn’t think so. Nor did my heart believe it, wrenched as it was to see him so distressed.

  We were several minutes away from Branok’s house when I remembered my purse. I’d left it with Jory when I went to the wizard. Foolish, yes, but if I’d failed to return, I didn’t want him stranded without funds.

  “Did you bring the money?” I asked.

  “Of course.”

  Good. Not a solution to our problems by any means, but even the worst difficulties could often be eased a bit with ready cash. I thought briefly of the small fortune stowed under my name at the bank and knew I’d likely never see it again. I’d certainly never see the other half I’d been promised. Ah, but I had Jory Pearce instead, warm and real beside me. A treasure beyond value, albeit a mysterious and confusing one. One who lied.

  Suddenly furious, I pulled him into a reeking alley where the buildings were so close that we barely had room to face each other. “Are you ever going to tell me the whole truth?” I snarled.

  He gazed at me sadly. “I don’t know.”

  “All hells! I’ve been dragged into this fucking thing because of you. If we have any hope of getting out alive, I need to be able to trust you.”

  He pressed his chest to mine, the delicious scent of him registering despite the garbage around us. “Have you ever trusted anyone? Ever?”

  “No.”

  “Nor have I.” He gave the most unhappy laugh I’ve ever heard. “It’s a muscle neither of us has used, so it’s decidedly weak.”

  “We are going to die, Jory. Almost certainly. I’ll do what I can for us, but right now I don’t see any way out. I’ll definitely never solve this if you keep lying to me!” That final statement was a shout, but he didn’t flinch.