by A Van Wyck
Turning the possibilities over in his head, he set off with renewed vigour.
Squint watched from the deck as the Purli urchin disappeared into the crowd, his thoughts trekking unseen paths.
The polished boots of the captain clunked to a stop at his shoulder.
“D’ye think we’ll see ‘m again, Mater Squint?”
He was a long time answering.
“It’s an even bet, Cap’n.”
“Ye still have no tol’ me why ye did nae simply bind ‘m tae the ship. We could ha’ used a decent burglar.”
“One like tha’,” he jerked his square chin at the roiling crowd that hid the boy, “’m not sure even I could ha’ held him if’n he’d wanted orf. It has tae be his ern choice.”
The captain raised groomed brows at this news.
“And besides,” he mused, “sum’n dark follows ‘im. Sum’n possibly even I can’t outrun.”
Bare feet thumping on the boards, he returned to his galley.
Genla City. He spent a couple of turns just idly exploring, keeping his eyes and ears open. Drinking in the feel of the place. It was said to be one of the great trading cities of the age and Common was the language of commerce. He could hear it being murdered all around by dozens of indifferent accents. Imperial Heli was very much in evidence, of course, its harsh tones a pervasive aggression in the streets.
His eyes invariably sought out the uniformed shapes of city guards, moving infrequently, in ones and twos, through the crowd. He was quite amazed to note people did not shy imperceptibly away from the authority they represented. If Genla truly was a conquered city, then its conquerors had been very good to it. In fact, he was having some trouble picking the Imperials from among the conquered.
He’d thought the stocky, tan-skinned people were the Heli. Then he’d passed some lanky, straw-haired guardsmen patrolling together. It had only become more confused from there. Some, like the vendor he’d just passed, with the coal hued skin and the long limbs of the Tamori, were easy to identify. But there was a lot of variation on the theme of short-and-dark. He saw skin as tanned as his own but with faint undertones of yellow or red. He saw dark hair so straight it was completely beyond the help of a curling iron. Then the very next person would sport hair curled so tightly it resembled a skullcap. Eyes as light as a noon sky competed with ones so dark they occluded their own pupils. These peered from tilted sockets as often as round ones.
The dockside market was humble enough. It churned with a hodgepodge of dissimilar peoples, crying simple wares and going about their day’s business. When you went deeper, you came to the merchant sector. Here, the cobbles fit snugly and the streets were lined with shops instead of stands. After that, the city deteriorated with each step taken away from the main thoroughfares. First into tenements and then into ghettos. Beyond the thick city walls, glimpsed through the open gate, slums and hovels took over. The guards at the gate questioned entrants and pedestrians to the city sporadically and he reversed course before he could be remarked on by any of them.
Climbing the foothills of the mountains, the wealthy sector peeked from the low slopes, visible from almost every intersection. Even from this distance he could pick out official-looking buildings in what he was coming to recognize as the severe, imperial style. Chief among them was a massive edifice he would have picked to be the governor’s mansion, or some such. Except that he’d seen the same shape and style mimicked by at least a dozen smaller, poorer buildings he’d passed already. If the tolling of bells he’d heard coming from them were anything to go by, these were the temples from whence the Heli goddess oversaw her empire. He was content to examine the affluent quarter from afar. His hip-jacket went passably well with his new, canvas knee-breeks. (Squint’s unwieldy hands threaded a mean needle.) But they marked him irrevocably as a seafarer. Dressed as a sailor, he’d attract all the wrong kinds of attention if he was found wandering there. He toyed idly with the idea of taking a circumspect stroll there after sundown for the sake of professionalism.
But first things first. He wandered until he found himself in crowded streets where the people wore wool and linen instead of velvet and silk. Where the cobbles were rutted and stained and the shops did a brisk trade. It looked slightly too rich for a sailor’s pocket but that suited him fine. He settled himself at a small table outside a food house that opened partially unto the street. The serving girl who came flouncing toward him, weaving around the round tables, looked like she meant to chase him away. But she was brought up short by his frank regard. Frowning, she took his order for half a chicken and a pitcher of beer and, after another quick once-over, demanded payment up front. He gave her the coins and his best smile, to no avail. His meal arrived before he’d had time to warm his seat. The chicken was honey basted and shared the tin plate with some kind of colorless mush and a hunk of dark bread. The girl clunked it down on the table roughly and flounced off again without a word. He shook his head, wondering if he might be inadvertently trespassing on some local custom or social taboo. Or maybe she was just in a mood.
He shrugged and dug into his meal, ignoring the bread and mush for now and concentrating on the chicken, savoring the taste. After weeks and weeks of gruel, pickles and jerked meat aboard ship, it was a feast. The beer was watered and weak but he didn’t mind, he needed to keep a clear head anyway. He ate quickly at first, missing the sharp spices of home. Especially once he’d tasted the bland mush. He didn’t eat much of that. With his stomach filled and his craving for fresh meat sated, he sat back with his beer. Idly picking his teeth with a chicken bone, he studied the street with sharp eyes.
‘City’ was just another word for ‘a gathering of people’. And while cities and cultures and customs might vary, you could always rely on people to be people. When you gathered enough of them in one place, they fell into a predictable pattern. That was his theory and he was about to put it to the test. Common might by the tongue of choice but nothing told a tale more eloquently than body language. He continued his study through half-lidded eyes.
There were merchants and hawkers, rough working men and a plethora of bustling people with errands of their own. Drovers and carters rattled by occasionally and, once, a lone carriage trundled past with its drapes drawn. It took a moment longer to spot the thieves and pickpockets in the crowd but he had a practiced eye and an unfair advantage. He studied them most carefully. Some weren’t bad, he had to grudgingly admit. Most would have been handless or headless before the day was out in Oaragh.
Finishing his beer, he belched contentedly and stood. He ran his fingers absently under the edges of his hip jacket, outwardly straightening. The comforting weight of his knives, back where they belonged, was a keen relief. He surprised himself by briefly missing the clean ocean breeze. The city air that wafted to him stank of smoke and people and rotting filth. Smiling, he breathed deeply the scents of home.
The serving girl had been hovering out of sight while he lounged. Now she swooped to collect his plate and pitcher, as if afraid he might steal them. She gathered them up in disapproving silence.
“Do you live in Helia’s light?” she demanded abruptly, eyes narrowed on him in suspicion.
“At least until sunset,” he winked an invitation at her.
She huffed indignantly and marched off.
Laughing to himself, he slipped into the crowd.
He moved with the flow of bodies, keeping to a leisurely pace and making a show of gawking at the shops and buildings. He even halted a few times to stare (in unfeigned fascination) at the alien wares on the merchants’ tables. Occasionally he bumped into people. When he did, he apologized profusely – in Purli – which clearly none of them understood. In short, he was the perfect bumpkin, a know-nothing sailor boy. It didn’t take very long. A pickpocket had already marked him and was moving to pass close by him in the press of bodies. Blind lifters they were called, back home.
Sorry, sir, didn’t see you there… while quick fingers lifted your purse.
> But this pickpocket wasn’t what he was looking for. Careful to keep up his pretense, he dropped one hand to hover casually near the hilt of the work knife at his belt and looked directly in the approaching man’s eyes. Panic flashed briefly across the would-be thief’s face. The man staggered in his haste to change trajectory, cutting across the direction of the foot traffic. His efforts earned him a shove or two.
He scoffed. A lifter worth the name would have gotten at least one purse out of such a convincing tangle. He wandered on, giving no outward sign when a boy in rags abandoned his beggar’s corner and started following him at a discreet distance. He slowed his pace even further to help things along. The beggar boy crept gradually closer until finally a grubby hand darted under Jiminy’s hip jacket.
The boy squealed as his skinny arm was twisted up behind his back, forcing him to his tip-toes.
A deluge of what must have been curses spilled from the boy as he marched the urchin quickly towards a waiting alley mouth. He couldn’t help smiling. The words might be unintelligible but he understood the tone well enough. He’d had to cultivate the same fearless bluster as a child and could hear the seething fear beneath it.
They were making a spectacle. People pointed. Some laughed. Most paid them no mind. Who would miss another beggar?
His good humor fled, he steered the loudly protesting boy into the gloom of the alley. The noise of the street receded after just a dozen steps and he untwisted the arm he held without easing his grip of the thin wrist.
Trying to make a run for it the boy threw himself into a couple of frantic, abortive tugs. When that didn’t work, the little captive turned on him. Reading the intention in the malicious eyes, he stepped on the boy’s foot before it could fly for his crotch. The boy was fast. He had to grab a firm handful of hair to keep from getting his wrist bitten off.
“Hey!” he shook the little beggar by the roots to gain his attention. “You speak Common?”
The frantic struggles ceased, though the stringy limbs didn’t relax their resistance.
“Yeah,” the boy grunted, heavy accent complicated further by the awkward angle he held the boy’s head, “so what?”
“I need directions.”
“So go ask somebody!” the boy hissed, giving another halfhearted tug. “What do I look like?”
“You look like somebody.”
Warning the boy to stillness with a loaded gaze, he let go his grip on the greasy hair. His withdrawal showed he was ready in case of another attempted mauling. Still moving slowly, he fished a coin from his pocket.
Speculative eyes above dirt smeared cheeks locked on it. But the boy was smart enough to be distrustful of good fortune. Not many good things happened to children in dark alleys.
“Why?” suspicion thickened the urchin’s tone. “You could get directions from almost anyone on the street for free.”
“Not to the places I want to go,” he returned. “I don’t want someone who really knows the city, I want someone who knows the real city, you understand? I don’t want the dives where you get fleeced on your way in and rolled on your way out and left in the gutter if you’re lucky. I want my money’s worth.”
The suspicion cleared somewhat. This was something that made sense. Reading the hesitation in his captive’s face, he gingerly took his foot from the boy’s toes, raising an expectant eyebrow.
His little captive seemed to consider, regarding him sidelong.
“What’ you looking for, master?”
The honorific sounded soiled, coming from the boy’s mouth.
He told him.
The boy leered, a truly horrific expression on such a young face.
“Sure, I can tell you,” the boy affirmed, casting another glance at the silver glinting between his fingers. “For another coin, I can take you.”
He made the coin between his fingers multiply with a gesture. “Deal,” he concluded, finally releasing the wrist he held.
His prospective guide held out a grime encrusted hand.
With a flick, he spun one coin into the waiting palm. The bright silver looked out of place amongst the dirty smears. “Half now,” he cautioned. “You get the rest,” he held up the second coin, making it disappear with a shrug, “when you make good on our bargain.”
Grinning hugely, the boy made his own sliver of silver disappear among the tatty rags with much less flair but with impressive speed.
“This way,” the urchin announced, darting from the alley. He followed, keeping a wary eye out as his newfound guide chattered on.
“That was a neat trick with those coins. Are you a streamer? Can you teach me that? Where are you from? You’ve got a funny way of talking. What’s that small coat you’re wearing? It doesn’t look like much against the cold. So you’re a sailor, huh? What’s that like? Have you ever been to Quincaan? Or Tellar? How about the Jade Islands? You don’t look like a sailor. Have you fought any pirates? Do you have a cutlass? I want a longsword. One with those frilly bits near the handle. Have you ever killed anyone? You look like you’ve killed people.”
The boy seemed to miss his warning glance, leading them through street after busy street. One looked much the same as the other and there was nothing to set the street that was their destination apart from the others except for a sudden drop in traffic. After a quick glance around, he concluded the boy had brought him to the right place. The handful of people in evidence moved furtively, their heads hooded despite the clear blue sky. A few went boisterously, with swagger and much noise. The quiet street boasted little in the way of shops to explain the presence of the little foot traffic there was. That, in itself, was a clue.
The three storied building they stopped at looked in no way different from the ones flanking it, appearing grey and ordinary. He climbed the shallow steps up to the front door.
“This is as far as I go,” his guide announced. He looked back. The boy held out an expectant hand.
“I’m not allowed inside,” the urchin explained, seeing his questioning eyebrow. “Madam Thorpe has views.” There was just a trace of bitterness to this pronouncement.
He nodded and flicked his wrist at the boy, who caught the second coin. It disappeared just as the first one had.
“For two more,” the urchin added, “I’ll wait here for you ‘til you’re done.”
“I’m sure I’ll find my way.” He tossed the boy another coin anyway.
“Tell ’em Gav sent you,” the boy offered, adding an impish grin, “and ask for Merly. You won’t be sorry,” the boy promised.
“Bye, Gav.”
The boy gave a negligent wave and sprinted off up the street.
He watched until Gav rounded the corner and then rapped on the indicated door. It opened smoothly to admit him to a darkened antechamber. The wood paneling was much too rich for the professed mediocrity of the neighborhood. The man who closed it softly behind him was enormous. Without a word, the behemoth wandered back to the stool in the corner. The girl behind the counter was the peace-keeper’s exact opposite, light and petite and pretty. From the bead-curtained door to her right floated the sounds of pleasant conversation and the dulcet tones of some kind of string instrument.
“Welcome to Madam Thorpe’s Misty Meadows,” the girl greeted with sugary energy. Her warm glance seemed to plumb his pockets. “Please leave all weapons here,” she added, proving she was not just a pretty face. “You may collect them when you depart.”
Heeding the practiced speech, he slid his work knife, in its scabbard, from his sash and placed it on the countertop. After a moment’s hesitation, he shrugged out of his knife brace and added that as well. He felt uncomfortable without his weapons but if there was one place where they might strip-search you for hidden blades, it was here. The girl slid them off the counter and placed them somewhere under it and out of sight.
“This way please,” she trilled, smiling her cheery, impersonal smile. Her blonde curls bouncing with her motion, she drew the bead curtain aside for him. The sharp,
cloying smell of incense intensified as he entered. Hooded lanterns struggled against the gloom of the next room and vapors of sweet smelling fumes drifted near the ceiling. If there were any windows, they were artfully hidden behind draperies of colorful cloth and perhaps a coat of paint. The predominant decoration seemed to be billowy gauze.
Out of place among the frilly accoutrements, another large man lounged behind a bar that ran the length of one wall. But the well stocked shelves could not hold his attention.
On silken pillows and assorted scattered divans lounged a dozen or more alluring women. In groups of two or three, they laughed quietly together over cards, drinks and water pipes, their languid motions and smoldering gazes betraying their profession. Of course, the way they were dressed – or perhaps it would be more accurate to say undressed – was also a clue. After a brief glance he concluded they must be a fair representation of all the peoples that made up the Heli Empire. It was quite a collection of varied skin tones, hair colors and racial features. It certainly looked like Gav had steered him right.
“What’s this?” a sharp voice cut through the relaxed atmosphere. He turned to see an older woman step from the gloom behind the bar. Hard eyes fixed on him. Unnaturally red hair haloed a disapproving face. She was bony, her ribs an unwelcome sight beneath the tight silk dress. Sharp shoulders and elbows were left bared. Her mouth corners looked to be permanently downturned after centuries of scowling.
Here was the madam.
“Who let this boy into my house?”
Her dry voice spelled trouble for someone.
He bit down on his annoyance, recalling Gav’s words. The room’s attention had turned from their regular entertainment to regard him expectantly. From somewhere in the gloom, the string instrument continued its leisurely plucking.
Oh, well.
Respect was a skill he’d never really mastered but he gave it a go anyway.
“Boy?” he questioned in his own voice and not some deeper affectation this harpy would see through anyway. “I assure you, madam, I’m old enough to know to wipe my feet when entering your house.” It always paid to let the proprietor of a pleasure house know you could be discreet. And, of course, that you could pay. He patted his purse, letting the coins jangle softly. “And I’ve brought friends,” he added.