Hurricane

by Michael Wisehart

  “Get back here!” I was only a few steps away from Reevie when the shout echoed off the corridor behind us. I turned to see three of the four men in blue capes working their way through the piled garbage.

  “Stop, or you’ll regret it!”

  “I think we’ll regret it even more if we do.” I grabbed Reevie’s arm and pushed him forward. Reevie grunted, half-running, half-hobbling between another pair of buildings as we rushed for the next street.

  We spilled out of the alley and onto a smaller street where the traffic wasn’t quite bursting at the seams. We skirted the edge of the crowd, often only a hand’s width from the shops themselves. Scents assaulted us as we passed, teasing us of the shop’s contents: tanned leather, rich chocolate, fermentation, wood shavings, strong herbs. Each new aroma sparked my curiosity a little more. By the time I noticed my mind had wandered, and turned to ask where we were going, I realized my guide was nowhere to be found.

  I froze.

  I’d learned at an early age that the worst thing to do when lost was to wander about trying to get un-lost. Living in an underground labyrinth of tunnels as I had, getting lost had become something of a hobby. The best thing to do was to stop and wait for someone to find me, preferably while making as much noise as possible. Unfortunately, that particular approach would only get me captured.

  I glanced left and then right, finally spinning in a circle as I scanned every face frantically searched for Reevie. He wasn’t there.

  Behind me, the patrollers burst from the alleyway. The fourth man had apparently managed to catch up with the others. He was the first to spot me as he pointed and charged. I was about six or seven pavilions away, with a host of shoppers between, but that didn’t stop them in the least. People were thrown aside, those too preoccupied with shopping, or too stupid to move on their own, soon learned the value of paying attention as the patrollers barreled through.

  I didn’t understand what I had done to deserve such hostility. I had saved a child from a horrible death. Sure, some fancy lord had been tossed around his carriage, but he’d landed on a pillow. I shook my head. Aramoor might have been spectacular to look at, but it was as dangerous as an Upakan blade, and growing more cutthroat by the moment.

  I sighed. Still no sign of Reevie. I guessed it was every kid for himself. I turned to leave when someone grabbed my shoulder. I spun, fists up.

  “It’s me!” Reevie hissed and pulled me toward one of the shops. “This way!” He dove through the open door, taking me with him.

  This was a mistake. At least outside we had the ability to keep running, but now Reevie had trapped us in a confined space with only one exit. The inside of the shop was crowded with rows of tall shelves crammed with books.

  “Quick, in here!” An older man with a slightly hunched back and short grey beard flipped back a bland green and gold tasseled rug near the front desk, revealing a trapdoor underneath.

  I desperately tugged at the metal ring. It creaked open. I half-expected to see a set of stairs leading down to a cellar, but it was nothing more than a pocket beneath the floor boards. I tossed Reevie inside and practically jumped on top of him. The old man closed the door and I could hear the rug thump back into place.

  What little light there had been between the cracks in the floorboards disappeared as a cloud of dust rained down on our heads. I grabbed my mouth and pinched my nose, willing myself not to sneeze. I could hear my heart pounding as we lay on our backs and listened to heavy footfalls fill the shop above us.

  “How well do you trust this old man?” I whispered.

  “With my life.”

  I nodded, not like I had much choice either way. I closed my eyes and prayed Reevie’s faith in the man hadn’t been misplaced.

  I could hear raised voices, but the rug dampened the sound so I had to strain to hear.

  “Two boys. One about yea high . . . the other about so.”

  “Boys? I don’t have any boys,” the old shopkeeper said. “My boys are all grown up.”

  “Not you, you old fool. Two ragamuffins that just came through here. Did you see them?”

  “Muffins? My wife makes the best blueberry muffins in Aramoor.”

  There was an impatient groan. “The taller one had dark hair to his shoulder. The shorter one had light brown, maybe half as long. Walked with a limp.”

  “Of course I have a limp,” the old man said. “That’s why I have this cane, you brainless sack of potatoes. Now if you are quite through, I’ve got orders to fill.”

  “Search the place. They’ve got to be in here somewhere.”

  I could hear heavy things dropping onto the floor above us, sending down wave after wave of dust onto my face. I covered my face as best I could.

  “Hey! What do you think you’re doing?” the older man hollered. I could hear him strike something with his cane, probably his desk. “Get out of my shop! You’ve got no right to come in here and mess with my books!”

  “Shut your mouth before they mess with you.”

  The book merchant didn’t respond. I held my breath as they continued their search. After what seemed a small eternity, all the boots reconvened right over us.

  “Anything?”

  No one spoke.

  “If we find out you’ve been hiding street rats in here, we’ll close your shop and arrest you and your wife for harboring felons. That means the dungeons.” Heavy boots clomped their way to the door and the bell signaled their departure.

  The dungeons? That seemed a pretty harsh sentence for someone wanting to help hungry children. However, if most of the street rats were anything like Red and her gang, I could see why the patrollers were anxious to round them up. They were a deranged group of thugs.

  Finally, the rug rolled back and the trapdoor opened. I squinted at the light. I hopped out of the cramped hidey-hole and helped Reevie up before dropping the door back into place and flipping the green and gold tasseled rug back over. Once again, a puff of white dust lifted off the floor. The shop was in clear need of attention.

  “I’m sorry, Master Fentin,” Reevie said. “I never meant for this to happen.”

  The book merchant locked the door, then pulled the shades before turning around with a heavy sigh. The shop was in shambles. Books covered the floor five or six volumes deep. It looked like the men had just walked down the aisles and swiped them from their places in a single volley.

  “It’s nothing for you to worry about,” he said as he hobbled over to the first shelf for a better look. “Been meaning to re-alphabetize these things for years. Just hadn’t had a good reason to until now.” He looked at Reevie and chuckled. “So, what were they after you for this time?”

  “It wasn’t me,” Reevie said with a nod in my direction. “It was Ayrion. He saved some kid from being run over by Lord Gerrick.” Reevie spat the name out like a sour grape. “The horses got spooked and threw the lord and his lady from one side of the carriage to the other.”

  Master Fentin reared back and bellowed out a fit of high-pitched laughter hard enough that I thought he was going to end up on the floor. Surprisingly, he managed to keep his balance with the help of his cane. “That’s the best news I’ve heard in weeks, my boy.” He smacked the end of his stick across his desk. “What I would have given to see that.” He thrust a wrinkled hand in my direction. “I’d like to shake hands with you, young sir. Any time you have need of a place to hide, I’m here.”

  I took Master Fentin’s hand. He had a firm grip. I wanted to say I had done what anyone would, but after what we’d just been through, that hardly seemed true. “Thank you, sir. I’m new to the city. Reevie helped me out after I was mugged by a gang of cutthroats—”

  “It was Wildfire,” Reevie interjected. Master Fentin must have known who he meant because he puckered his lips and nodded. Just the thought of Red was enough to get my blood boiling.

  Master Fentin placed a hand on Reevie’s shoulder. “Aye, you can’t find better than Reevie for rounding up lost strays, that�
�s for sure. Now let me get a look at you.” He grabbed a pair of spectacles suspended by a thin chain attached from his jacket pocket and perched them on the edge of his nose. “Hmm, thought so. Upakan, am I right?”

  I nodded.

  “I’ve only come across one of your people before, and that was many years ago. But it was an experience I’d never forget. Killed five men he did, with his bare hands. Most amazing thing I’ve ever seen. Are all your people taught to fight like that?”

  “Yes, sir, from birth. Upaka means warrior in the old tongue.”

  “Actually, Upaka is often mistranslated. Here.” He left us standing there and made his way to a shelf at the back of the shop that had somehow remained untouched by the patrollers. He pulled a large volume and started thumbing through the pages. “Ah, here we go.” He walked back to the front and laid it on the desk. He traced a finger down the page, stopping on a passage written in a tight cramped hand. “The word Upaka is a derivative of the ancient word Upakora. Its closest direct translation isn’t warrior. It’s . . . protector.”

  “Protector?” Reevie huffed. “That fits. It was your—” Reevie cleared his throat, “—protecting that got us into this mess in the first place.”

  Master Fentin closed the book and plopped on the stool next to his desk. He stared at me for an uncomfortable amount of time before speaking. “So, what is one of the Upaka doing so far from home?”

  Reevie edged closer, trying—and failing—to not look eager to hear my answer. He’d never asked me about my past, and up until this point, I hadn’t seen a need to share it, at least not much of it.

  I thought about lying, spinning a tale so wild and exciting that whether you believed it or not, it was just plain fun to hear. My father was a master storyteller. He could make you believe, or at least want to believe, whatever he desired just from the way he talked about it. I didn’t have the gift. My stories tended to be too rigid, too detailed and structured. By the time I got around to the make-believe part, no one would.

  This probably wasn’t the best time to try anyway. Straight and to the point would be best, peel off the bandage nice and quick and hope the pain isn’t too excruciating. I took a deep breath. “I’m here because . . . because I killed someone.”

  Neither Reevie nor Master Fentin said a word. I think Reevie’s eye twitched. His mouth sagged open but recovered quickly. I pretended not to see it. I’d been dreading this moment. Nothing like telling the person who saved your life and offered you a place to stay that they were in fact sheltering a murderer—great way to quickly lose your sleeping arrangements.

  “Well, go on, son,” Master Fentin said as he rested his elbow on the table and propped his chin on his hand. “I hope that’s not the end of the story.”

  “No. It’s just the most important part,” I said.

  “Well, I’ll have to disagree with you there, my boy. For example, what if you were to tell us that the reason you killed this person was because you had some sort of malediction; that whenever you heard the name Reevie, you felt compelled to kill the owner of that name. That would tend to be the most important part, I think.” He chuckled and poked Reevie in the arm, but Reevie didn’t look amused. “The motive behind the action is most often just as important as the action itself.”

  “I guess you have a point,” I said with a shrug. “Where should I start?”

  “Ah . . .” the old man gestured toward the open room. “Just like a book, every story has a beginning, a middle, and eventually an end. How about we start at the beginning.”

  I took another deep breath and released the tension from my shoulders. I climbed up on a stool at the edge of the table and let my legs dangle over the end. “How much do you know about my people?” Master Fentin and Reevie shared a blank look. “Well, to be a member of the clans, we each have to swear on our sixth birth year to obey the Shal’Noran. It’s a set of rules handed down to us by our ancestors as a way to keep good order and stability.

  I hadn’t thought about it before, but I guess it was a stern system compared to the way everyone out here seemed to live. But I liked the orderliness of it, the strict routine of our classes and training, even the competitions for advancement. It was why I was finding it difficult to adjust to a world where it seemed like chaos was the glue that held everything together.

  “Above all else, there is one principle we all live by. No matter what happens, we are never to kill another Upaka.”

  “What if they tried to kill you first?” Reevie asked.

  “What if it was by accident?” Master Fentin chimed in.

  “First of all, no Upaka would intentionally try to kill another because they know what would happen to them if they did. In the case of an accident, the leaders convene and make a ruling.”

  “What if you killed someone’s pet?” Reevie asked, obviously thinking he’d thought of a way to trip me up. “Like maybe their dog wouldn’t stop barking and you fed it some milkweed or something.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Unless the dog took the oath, then it isn’t considered an Upaka.”

  “Then what if you killed a baby?”

  “Why would I kill a baby?”

  Reevie shrugged. “I don’t know. What if you did? They clearly haven’t taken the oath—”

  “Okay, okay.” Master Fentin raised his hands to calm us down. “I think we get the picture. So what led up to the death of the unfortunate individual?”

  “His name was Flon–”

  “Flon?” Reevie’s mouth started to curl as he tried to hold in the chuckle.

  I ignored him and kept going. “Flon was the oldest in my group and he let us know it. It didn’t help that his father was the head of our clan. Near the end of his testing for promotion into the next phase of training, I was picked to be the one for him to prove his skill against in combat.” I grimaced. “Obviously, a poor choice on their part.”

  Reevie nodded with a snort. “You think.”

  “Flon already didn’t like me because of my—” I caught myself, realizing I had almost told them about my magic. “My ability to fight. His father secretly threatened my family that if I didn’t allow his son to win, he’d make sure we never received another contract.”

  “What’s a contract?” Reevie asked.

  “You probably don’t want to know. Anyway,” I said, moving on from that particular subject, “I figured if I had to let Flon win, I wasn’t going to make it easy on him, not when the entire clan was there to watch, so I made sure to give them a good fight.”

  “I bet you did,” Reevie said with a smile.

  “Unfortunately, it was too good of a fight. By the end, I’d embarrassed him way beyond what I should have. When it came time for me to fake my defeat, Flon threatened to have his father banish my family and give my sister to him for bonding. Something in me snapped. When he came at me, I used his momentum to throw him off balance. Instead of landing a knockout blow to my head, he dropped on his own and snapped his neck.”

  Reevie released a soft whistle.

  “When the head of the clan has a front row seat to his own son’s death, he tends to hold a particularly nasty grudge. No matter what my father and mother said, he wasn’t about to listen. Because of the accidental nature of the death and it being so widely witnessed, the Primary couldn’t have me executed, but he did force the council to have me banished instead. And it seems I’ve been running for my life ever since.”

  Even though I knew the sentence to be harshly unjust, I also knew it was the clan’s way of dealing with someone who didn’t quite fit in, someone like me whose abilities tended to get them into trouble more often than not. I glanced at the old rug covering the trapdoor and chuckled. “Must be the Creator’s way of punishing me.”

  Master Fentin smacked his cane on the floor. “I hardly think the Creator’s in the business of castigating little boys for defending themselves against bullies. It was clearly not your fault. Although, I’m sure that doesn’t ease the loss of your family.” The merc
hant studied my face. “How long has it been, son?”

  “Been for what?”

  “Since you’ve seen them?”

  I tried to picture my family in front of me: my father with his strong arms and stern demeanor; my mother with her warm embrace and kind eyes; my sister, Rianna, with her constant curiosity; and my brother, Jorn, with his constant attempts at stepping out of my shadow. My eyes began to burn. “Since Sòl. So about six months, I guess.”

  Master Fentin pursed his lips. “Six months is a long time to go without seeing one’s family.”

  Reevie grunted. The three of us sat there for an uncomfortable amount of time before Master Fentin finally broke the silence. “Well, I do believe my stomach is telling me it’s time for lunch. What say I have Orilla whip us up some sandwiches before we start on this mess?

  “I’d say your stomach knows what it’s talking about,” Reevie piped up. “Mistress Orilla makes the best sandwiches in Aramoor. I just wish she’d tell me her secret.”

  “Ah, but the mystery is half the enjoyment,” Master Fentin said with a cheeky smile.

  I scanned the disarray the shop was in and wondered why trouble seemed to follow me everywhere I went. I sighed and hopped down from the stool. “Lunch sounds good to me.”

  We spent the better part of the following week working in Master Fentin’s shop. I actually found the routine of sorting through the mountains of books and arranging them by title and content to be therapeutic. There was also the added benefit of using my slowly healing muscles in gentle, repetitious work.

  Reevie had pledged our help in exchange for food and some supplies we needed around the granary: fresh candles, another broom, and cushions to make a second bed. We offered to do it for nothing—we owed Master Fentin our freedom—but neither he nor his wife would hear of it. I think they were looking for any excuse to help us out.

  On Fifthday, Mistress Orilla took us shopping for some new clothes. It was Reevie’s idea. He figured if he dressed me nicer than his too-small hand-me-downs, I would stand a better chance of being accepted by his tribe. I wasn’t sure how wearing a new set of clothes would persuade a gang of street kids to do anything more than try to take them from me. I hoped Reevie knew what he was doing.