by A Van Wyck
“Flint,” he greeted the aged fisherman.
“Surprise,” Flint returned, using his street name. The crusty enforcer didn’t take his one good eye from the snarl of decrepit string.
“Crawly inside?” he enquired, falling into the fisherman’s reticence and eyeing the enormous brass bound cudgel, resting within easy reach of those salt split fingers. Flint indicated the entrance with a stubbled chin.
He continued into the gloom. Crawly had set up his usual office. A few more alley mouths spilled into the open space but were either choked with crates and garbage or boarded up. In the middle of it all, sitting on a packing crate with an upturned barrel serving as a desk, was the man himself. Stick thin and hunched inside his leathery cloak, Crawly looked like a hungry bat. Dry scales of skin flaked from his thin face and hooked nose as he smiled broadly in welcome, displaying small, neat teeth.
“Ah, now this is a true Surprise,” the albino said.
“Ha, ha, Crawly.”
He hated jokes about his street name and Crawly always made the same one.
“I heard you’d moved on to bigger game. What would you be wanting with your old gutter acquaintances, then? Spot of tea? Polite conversation?”
“Good to see you too, Crawly,” he lied. “How’s business?”
“Oh, fine, fine. You know how it is. Lots to do. Little time. People to see. Debts to collect. Busy, busy, busy.”
“Right,” he drawled, discomfited as always in Crawly’s presence. It paid to remember that the flaking stick-figure was dangerous in his own way. And mad as a sun-addled adder besides.
“You’re holding my backup stash for me,” he reminded the man.
“Yes, yes, yes. Of course. Seventy two suns, fifteen sickles and a double fist of stars. Let’s see now...” Crawly’s forehead wrinkled, dislodging more dry skin. The albino need not have put up the pretense. Everyone knew there wasn’t a number yet invented Crawly couldn’t make dance to his tune. “With interest over fourteen moons that comes to exactly sixty three suns, fourteen sickles and a brace.”
“That’s less than I gave you,” he pointed out.
“Well, you know the economy isn’t what it used to be. Inflation and climbing taxes, rising immigration and increasing crime. It all adds up. Then there’s the holding fee, of course and a small administration fee. And the drawing fee, naturally, which I’ve factored in on the assumption that you’ll be wanting it back. Am I wrong in that?”
“In a way,” he said, thinking that Crawly was in no small way responsible for the cited increase in crime. But he didn’t have time to haggle with the maddening goblin. “I need you to book me passage with one of your smuggler friends. One that sets sail within the next day or so.”
“Ah, of course. A short sabbatical, is it? A little change of scenery? Off to sow our wild oats and what not.” A knowing leer cracked Crawly’s face like a dry riverbed. “Or has the desert climate become bad for your health?”
Suddenly wary, he leaned away for the hungry pink eyes.
“The Merry Maid,” Crawly continued, “sets sail for the Jade Isles in two days time. The Fortuner is making a run north up the coast to Yutan at the end of the week and the Green Kelp sets sail with the tide tomorrow for Quincaan. Fine vessels all, bar a leak or two and the odd murderer. And the captains are personal friends, it goes without saying. Possibly not the most luxurious trip you’ll ever enjoy but then I dare say that hardly matters at this point, yes?”
The intimations of prescience were getting on his nerves.
“Can you get me on the Kelp?” he asked, picking the soonest departure.
“Oh, well now, certainly. Certainly. It will take some doing you understand. Have to wake up the captain in the middle of the night, that’ll cost you a little extra, no doubt. Probably have to move some cargo about, I wouldn’t be surprised. Dreadful inconvenience but possible I expect. Not to worry, not to worry… in the very best of hands you are.”
The hands in question coiled about his chest. Arms pinned, he found himself hoisted off the ground. Flint was very stealthy for such a big man, he reflected, glaring at Crawly. The albino’s leer broadened, cracking the stratus of skin around the wide mouth.
“What are you doing?!” he demanded.
“My dear boy, don’t struggle so!” Crawly chuckled. “I mean you no harm! Of course,” the snake shook his head ruefully, “I cannot speak for the ones who are paying cushy coin for your delivery. Their pockets are surprisingly deep. I took their money, no questions asked.” A shrill giggle escaped from the cracked lips. “I tell a lie. I am by nature curious. But they’re a secretive lot, to be sure.” The man brightened, dislodging a light rain of flakes. “Oh, well. I guess I’ll just have to live with the mystery. Very disappointing. But business is business, I’m sure you understand. We’ll miss you, I think. Have a good journey!”
Tensing, he brought his leg up as far as he could and swung it down with all the momentum he could muster. His heel cracked against what he hoped was Flint’s knee. The big man hitched to one side and he whipped his head back. He’d hoped to break Flint’s mashed nose but judging from the moist crack and the biting pain in the back of his head, the big fisherman would be fishing for his front teeth. The pinning arms vanished with a pained grunt and he tumbled to crouch on the ground. He longed to put a knife in Flint’s knee but a speedy getaway was more important.
He ran at Crawly. The unaccustomed expression of shock cracked the albino’s face like a dropped urn. Thin arms flailing, Crawley toppled off the crate.
He landed on the barrel desk. Jumping again, he only just managed to grab onto the window ledge of the nearest warehouse. Wooden splinters bit into his fingers. Pulling himself up so he could get his legs under him, he propelled himself straight up, grabbing onto the jutting eave. Then he was up and over and racing away across the rooftops.
This was worse than he’d thought. He’d halfway assumed that his pursuers were the blackeyes of some prince or other, divested of face paint for their city sojourn. Prince Fatash perhaps or even Pitarl. No lesser patron would have been able to keep such a hunt quiet and, certainly, no whispered warnings had reached his ears. There were unwritten rules, after all, and selling your fellows to the shiny topside of society was a sin you didn’t dare commit unless you had a knife to your throat. And even then, you knew you were simply trading one knife for another. The thieves and murderers of Oaragh took care of their own.
Though Crawly was a snake, the albino knew this better than most. It would have taken an obscene amount of gold to still the man’s nerves. And if they’d gotten to Crawly, there probably wasn’t anybody in this city they couldn’t buy.
That cut down his options considerably. How many of his friends wouldn’t turn him in for a fat purse of gold?
Ex-friends, he realized
If there’d been any doubt before, he was now certain he needed to leave, not only Oaragh but Purlia altogether. All the reasons for favoring a sea voyage still applied. Only now, his unknown pursuers would know what he planned. Crawly would see to that. He felt a brief moment of regret for not sticking a knife in the class traitor.
He could only hope that they’d assume he would now change his plans. If he were lucky, that would mean fewer eyes watching the docks. He’d have to avoid the ships Crawly had mentioned. And he’d have to sneak aboard instead of buying passage. It was the best way of keeping his direction of flight a secret. That held its own risks. He’d heard that sailors threw stowaways overboard. And there was the question of coin. He couldn’t risk going to any of the lenders or bookies that held money for him, not if whoever was looking for him had gotten to Crawly. He’d have to clean out his various hidden caches around the city. So be it.
But before any of that, he also needed to know more about who was hunting him. There was possibly only one person he could trust left in the city and he realized his feet were already carrying him in that direction. Good old feet.
CHAPTER 8 – HAWKS AND GEES
E
He hadn’t seen the princess in the three weeks following their meeting in the ballroom. She and her sister and their little brother rarely made appearances at the evening meals, though the king made a point of attending whenever two or more of the Empire delegation took their meal in the great hall. The monarch was a considerate host.
His days were filled with the diplomatic meetings and his evenings with the keeper’s lessons. Those precious few days that were his to do with as he pleased, he spent exploring and generally getting under the feet of the horde of servants that kept the palace running. Beyond the handful of quick visits to the compound outside the palace gates that had been assigned to the masha’na and sundry Empire escorts, he had no desire to step outside the palace walls. Crowds and markets might be fun for others but they made him nervous and with good reason. It wasn’t that he was afraid. It was just that he didn’t see the point of forcing himself out there if he knew he wasn’t going to enjoy it.
He was sitting on the thick rug in the keeper’s quarters, reading a scroll the priest had set him. Justin had brought a wealth of them from the Empire. This one was a history, detailing a power shift among the noble houses of the Chirrin Dynasty, which had turned out to be somehow important and, when he was finished with it, he was going to have to say why it had been important. It required all his concentration to keep from getting the Houses mixed up – some of them did not even exist anymore. He wasn’t expecting the knock at the door.
He looked over at the keeper, dwarfed behind the enormous desk that had been provided and evidently enjoying the sunlight that fell from the window. The priest didn’t look up from the report he was composing.
He rose.
Obviously expecting the keeper, the waiting page’s mouth snapped closed, foregoing the usual introduction and pleasantries.
There were apparently two schools of thought among the palace staff concerning his status. Some treated him like he was the priest’s body servant and took no care to be courteous or even civil. The rest seemed to consider him the keeper’s adopted son and opted for a more diplomatic approach. None were enamored of Imperials.
The page was obviously one of the former. The brightly dressed young man handed him the sealed scroll and turned to leave wordlessly. He found it rude but he supposed that if he were forced to wear such peacock bright livery, with the puffed shoulders and skin tight hose, he’d be taciturn as well. He closed the door and crossed the thick carpet to the desk.
“Father.”
The keeper absently took the scroll from him and he went back to his own work.
“There seems to be some mistake.”
He was lowering himself back to the carpet when the priest’s words halted him.
“This isn’t addressed to me,” the keeper declared, turning the thin scroll over to inspect the seal and pursing his lips. “It’s for you,” the priest explained, holding it out in invitation.
Confused, he went and took it from the keeper’s outstretched hand, examining it curiously. It bore his full name – that he never used – in flowing, elegant script.
“Ambitious,” the keeper muttered, the pursed lips struggling against a slight smile.
Huh?
He turned the scroll over for a look at the sender’s seal. It took a moment of effort to puzzle out – Renali crests were so much more condensed than Empire sigils. He finally recognized the variation of the royal crest that belonged to Princess Dailill – the shield, the swan, the lilies – clearly embossed on the thick golden wax. It took another few hurried heartbeats for the priest’s comment to make sense.
Ambitious?
He felt his ears catch fire. He turned from the keeper, hiding his face and broke the seal. The missive was written on rich parchment and a floral scent unrolled along with it. The message was short and succinctly worded in the same elegant hand. Certain phrases jumped out at him before he’d completely read the entire thing. “…desire your company…” and “…provide escort to ourselves…” among them. The language was overtly formal, following a structure he’d become well versed in during the past months. Even so, he had to read the few short paragraphs several times before its meaning became clear. When it did, he was so surprised he blurted it out.
“She’s invited me to go hawking!”
He whirled to the keeper in a panic, his voice strangled and thin. The rich parchment creased in his suddenly white knuckled grip.
“What do I do?” he choked.
To his credit, Justin didn’t laugh but sat back in the padded chair and shrugged.
“What else can you do? You must accept.”
The keeper seemed inexplicably unperturbed by the idea.
“But…” he sputtered, “I can’t! She… I… not my place… she’s a… and I’m… it’s…” He was having trouble forming a coherent thought. He petered off into silence, feeling overwhelmed.
“What do I do?” he finally implored.
“You go.”
Keeper Justin seemed to think that the answer was simple. It most definitely was not! He stared at the missive as though it was his writ of execution. He had no idea what he’d say to the princess if they met again. He was sure to make a fool of himself several times over. He might say the wrong thing and ruin the diplomatic talks! This was a nightmare! A disaster!
So why did he feel like he would very much enjoy seeing her again? Silver spots started to crawl across the bright parchment.
“Breathe, Marco,” the keeper reminded.
He sat down heavily on the shaggy carpet, heart hammering in his ears.
“When is the proposed outing?”
For a change, the keeper’s calm demeanor didn’t seem to rub off on him. The words of the message were flash burned into the backs of his eyelids but he glanced at the parchment again anyway.
“Tomorrow morning,” he confirmed.
“Well then,” Justin pulled a scrap of paper toward him and scribbled a brief note. He rose from his desk and gathered up the tiny silver bell from the table beside the door, ringing the bell out in the hall.
“What are you doing?” He demanded, shooting to his feet, suspicions momentarily overriding his shock.
“Do you feel you need to go through the royal etiquette lessons again?” the priest enquired rather than answer his question.
“No,” he said hesitantly. A different page appeared outside the door and the keeper turned away to deliver some whispered instructions. Nodding, scribbled note in hand, the liveried boy disappeared down the corridor.
“Let’s see,” the priest went on, closing the door, “if we can find you something suitable to wear. Your dress robes won’t do for horse riding but you can still wear the undershirt. Your formal over robe will do, I suppose. You’re a temple initiate, after all, not an aristocrat. Still. We can’t have you offending the princess by showing up in your customary rough-spuns. Go fetch those padded hose I bought you and give your riding boots a good polish.”
He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He stood opening and closing his mouth mutely as the priest swept by him. He was too stunned to flinch as the keeper flicked his fringe from his eyes.
“Hmm. We’d best get a barber up here as well.” The keeper disappeared through the door to Marco’s adjoining room. Sounds of the priest digging through the wardrobe sounded promptly.
“What?!” he finally managed, voice shrill. “I can’t go!”
The very idea both excited and horrified him and the excitement was quickly losing the battle.
“I wouldn’t know what to say!”
He cast around franticly for any excuse that would save him from the impending embarrassment.
“We… we’ll say I’m sick!”
“But you’re not,” came the muffled reply from next door where the rummaging continued.
His eyes fell on a heavy footstool. Thick wood. Sturdy construction. That could hurt a person – if you kicked it hard enough. He started towards it.
“We can say
I hurt my foot! I’ll wear bandages and everything!”
That might work.
“Take one more step and you won’t need to kick that!” came the severe warning.
Helia‘s mercy! He eyed the stool longingly.
“Marco.”
The priest had come to stand in the door, boots dangling from one hand and hose draped over an arm. He met the keeper’s gaze reluctantly.
“You have to go.”
“But why?” he whined.
Nonplussed, the priest looked at him, at the main door and back at him again. “Because you’ve already accepted.”
Justin disappeared back into his room, leaving him staring.
The scribbled note...
The sudden silence was deafening.
“Oh,” he managed weakly.
He’d taken the odd seirin to the stomach. This was much worse. His legs folded and he sat down heavily. A thousand horrific things that could go wrong paraded through his thoughts.
“Father?”
The priest popped his head back around the corner, eyebrows raised in inquiry.
“What is ‘hawking’?”
Despite his reservations – and fervent protests – the next morning found him astride an unfamiliar horse, riding with the princess and her entourage.
He didn’t know what he’d expected. Certainly, he hadn’t expected the two ladies-in-waiting who accompanied the princess. Or their servants – two apiece. Or the three falconers, who were handling the ladies’ birds. Or the six guards, spaced at unobtrusive intervals. Possibly he’d expected the hunt master, leading their little mounted party far out onto the moor, but that was it. The palace grounds were far larger than he’d imagined, enclosing two lakes and its own small forest. The moist loam of the kingdom nurtured vibrantly green grass and it hugged the morning mist to it, their horses trekking a darker swathe through the dew.
The princess had greeted him formally, with no hint of the young woman he’d met on the stairs showing around the royal edges. Slightly confused – after all she’d been after normalcy when she’d approached him last – he’d matched her formality, adding the proper bow. He thought she’d seemed happy enough to see him but so far she’d made no special effort to speak with him. She rode with her ladies, bantering and laughing gaily. At a discreet distance from him. Technically, he was close enough to still be reckoned part of the conversation, provided they’d been speaking in normal tones, which they weren’t. They leaned toward each other across their saddles, whispering and giggling. He very much feared the topic of conversation was him. But after a moment’s consideration he dismissed that thought as vain. However exotic the Renali might find a Heli Temple novice it was certainly far beyond him – he told himself – to inspire such animate conversation, even inadvertently. However, the synchronized conspiratorial glances he received, each time presaging renewed giggles, had him doubting his own logic.