by Jim Galford
As he neared the staircase, Estin glanced through a pile of tribal-looking jewelry. One particular piece—a leather choker made with dye-stained bones and dangling feathers—caught his eye and he fastened it around his neck, before examining several delicate rings near it that he was fairly sure were engraved ivory. Those went into his pouch without a second thought.
Faint rapping from the direction of the steps told him that someone—hopefully Varra—had arrived and he hurried over. A few stairs down, he found a heavy door that blocked the stairs, locked with three different types of lock, all of which he could open easily from the side he was on without any need for skill. He popped all three and swung the door open.
“Ah, is you,” Varra exclaimed as the door opened, jumping slightly as she looked at him, moving her hand away from a dagger he had not noticed she possessed earlier. She unshuttered a small lantern she was carrying, lighting the staircase brightly. “I was worried you had fallen and smashed your furry head, my friend. Is good to see you are here!”
“I wasn’t sure you’d make it this far, either,” he admitted, waving her inside. In the lantern light, he now realized just how much gold and silver was glittering in the room. It took his breath away and made him want to do another pass to collect more trinkets.
Turning around in place to survey the wealth, Estin let out a very soft whistle. Varra nodded, her eyes wide as she too scanned the room. She appeared to be mesmerized, as though she were trying to decide where to start.
“What does the item the duke stole look like?” he asked Varra, taking mental note of many priceless objects that could have been the gypsy girl’s lost belonging. Some, he decided would not be what she sought and he quickly stuffed into his pouches.
“This, I do not know,” admitted Varra, unfastening her veil and pulling back the silk hood she wore. A deep frown marred her face. “I did not think the badly-dressed man had quite so much hidden from sight. Will take more time than I had thought.”
Estin turned on her, annoyed.
“You don’t know what it looks like?”
“No,” she conceded, smiling at him and flicking the necklace he had taken with her fingertip. “This suits you. Is a little odd for wearing around town, yes? Perhaps you should move to the wilds. This style is in fashion among the tribes there. Some barbarians might think you belong.”
“Stop changing the topic,” Estin cut in, getting genuinely flustered as he stuffed the necklace under his shirt. “We climbed all this way and don’t even know what for?”
“Oh, this is not so. I know what we are here for, just not what it looks like.” She seemed to finally notice his anger and waved it off dismissively. “Do not worry. The ancestors will guide us, in time.”
“In time?”
Varra laughed, shrugging away his annoyance.
“You do not think that a bunch of dead gypsy elders would be able to focus on timeliness with all this wealth to stare at? They will let me know when they are ready and sober enough to help.”
“Are all human gods so…distracted?”
Varra’s smile vanished instantly and she turned to him with a stark anger in her eyes that shocked him, even as he saw her hands reach for hidden folds in her garments, likely where she hid her weapons.
“The ancestors are not gods, Estin. They are our fallen, who have moved on and still guide us. They advise, teach, direct us, but they are not to be worshiped. Please keep your mythology off my people. We will not be mocked.”
“I didn’t know, Varra,” he admitted, backing away. “I’m sorry.”
“This is good!” exclaimed Varra, happy once more, her hands reappearing without any weapons. “The ancestors do not like being laughed at and I would hate to have had to be their vessel for slapping sense into you.”
“That makes two of us.”
Varra turned and walked away from him, wandering the room. Though Estin rarely saw her hands move, jewelry and small objects vanished in her passing. By the time she had reached the window he had entered through, her pouches were looking rather stuffed.
“The item…,” she began, her eyes distant for a moment. She pointed towards the south end of the room. “…is over there. My great-grandmother just told me she had seen it once and believes she knows what it looks like.”
Estin scratched his ear, watching Varra, but not really sure how he could help. He was not even sure she was sane, but he had nothing to lose by letting her talk to her deceased relatives.
Wandering towards the area she had indicated, Varra’s hands passed over many objects, as though testing each for familiarity. She set the lantern down and kept walking, closing her eyes as she moved through the aisles.
“Here,” she observed, picking something up. She went back to the lantern and brought the object over to Estin. “This is what we are here for.”
Clutched firmly in her left hand, Varra held a copper goblet, with intricate engravings along the entire surface of the bowl portion. Though beautiful, Estin had doubts as to its value.
“This is worth breaking into the duke’s keep?” he inquired, cocking his head. “Nearly everything in here could fetch a better price.”
Varra rolled her eyes and tucked the goblet into her belt.
“Not all value is in the materials, Estin. This, my people owned at one time. Now, is ours again. We do not worry about losing little things, but that which belongs to family, must stay with the family…even if it means climbing a human’s tall house.”
“As you wish,” Estin answered dryly. He honestly could care less what she wanted out of the place. The gems and trinkets in his pouch would pay off any debts he had left with Nyess and still be enough to get him out of town.
He had always wanted to travel south, where he had heard that the rulers opposed slavery, no matter the race. Maybe the west would be better, far beyond the mountains, where there were deserts that had never seen occupation by the various races of man. Either way, he had choices now, for the first time in his life. He just needed to get out of the keep.
“We will stay the night, somewhere hidden, yes?” Varra asked, leading towards the stairs. “I have found a good place. It will be a short way out of the keep from there and there are no guards at this time.”
“How far away is it?”
Varra shrugged and answered, “Is down in the main section of the keep, near the ground floors. Is late enough now, the halls are mostly empty. We just need to avoid guards on the way down. Most others should be sleeping. It was remarkably easy to get this far up without being seen. If we could leave by the front door, this hidey place would be near there. Sadly, we will rest there, then come back up a floor or two to climb down the outside.”
“Are you sure we can’t get out yet tonight, rather than waiting here until tomorrow night?”
“You have lost your track of time, my friend,” she chided, pointing towards the window.
The sky beyond was turning a violet as it began to lighten. Estin blinking hard, not realizing it had taken so long to climb the wall, or that they had been in the room for so long. He likely had another hour, maybe more, before the sun rose, but the climb down would take nearly twice as long as the climb up. There was a chance they could make it, but it would likely be quite light by the time they reached the bottom.
“Lead the way. I’ll hide wherever you say as long as it keeps me from being beheaded.”
Motioning for him to follow, Varra hurried down the stairs to the floor below. They moved very quickly, down one floor after another, pausing only briefly at the junction into each floor to listen for guards. In a little less than an hour, they were nearing the bottom of the tower, having only needed to dart off the main halls once for a passing patrol.
At this point, Varra turned down another hall, taking them farther from the outer walls. They moved through living quarters swiftly, sometimes running right past servants, who paid no mind to the intruders. Most of the servants seemed to be barely awake and just beginning their d
aily routines, giving vague greetings to anyone who passed them.
“This way!” Varra hissed as they ran down a long paneled hallway, lined with paintings and sculptures. “Quickly!”
Varra dove through an ajar door on their right, just as a pair of guards began to come around the corner at the end of the hall.
Racing after her, Estin threw himself into the opening as well, collapsing onto a narrow staircase. He rolled as he landed, pushing the door mostly closed, without slamming it. Laying there, he waited until he heard the clomping of the humans’ boots as they passed the door, continuing down the hallway, somehow managing to have missed Estin.
“These may be the worst guards ever,” he whispered to Varra, who was sitting several steps above him. “It’s like they’re not even trying.”
“This is the thing about city-dwellers,” Varra answered him, sounding as though she was repeating a story she had heard over drinks. “City-dwellers spend their time worrying about people coming into their large stone and wood boxes…afraid that those people will take their things, which they may have taken from other people. They are so concerned about anyone getting in, that they hardly know what is inside their big homes. The very things they are protecting could sprout legs and walk away and they would never notice. They might not even notice a big fuzzy wildling and a jingling gypsy, yes?”
“Sounds like a good theory,” he admitted, looking up the staircase as he eased the door the rest of the way shut. “Where do those of us from the city who don’t own a house fit in?”
“This makes you more wise. You only use what you need and do not collect useless baubles like the humans so love to. Maybe you should come roam with the gypsies? We do not turn away those who would help our family and who will enjoy a good drink with us. You can drink?”
Estin snorted, saying, “I try not to. Just makes my stomach tingle. Never understood why the other races obsess about wine and such. Good flavor, but it makes humans and elves act foolish.”
He padded up the stairs, exploring, while Varra just turned on her step and watched him.
“You never act foolish?”
“Not if I can help it. Mistakes around here would get me dead in a hurry.”
Estin reached the top of the stairs, finding a dark hallway with even darker arched openings along the left side. There was not a sound or hint of movement ahead of him, or through the archways.
“Maybe you would make a bad gypsy, then,” Varra offered sadly. “If you are unwilling to make mistakes, you will never learn what life is about and how to enjoy it. You will spend every day wondering what could go wrong and waiting for it to happen. This is not the gypsy way.”
“Is this another bit of wisdom from the ancestors?”
Varra laughed and shook her head, jingling a bit.
“This is Varra talking, not a long dead relative. Their advice tends to be more practical and less helpful. If it sounds more dry, such as ‘the black crow leads the way to a lost path’…this would be ancestors. When I say you are being foolish and missing out on life, that is Varra.”
Estin chuckled in spite of himself and checked the upper hallway again, but the place was dead silent. Varra apparently had chosen their hiding place well.
“Estin, if you do not mind me asking,” Varra began, climbing the stairs and passing him. She leaned on the windowsill of the hallway, her eyes wide in the dark—Estin could tell she was all but blind in the hallway. “I have wondered something.”
“Ask away,” he told her, coming up the last step and into the hallway. “We have all day to kill.”
Estin glanced out the arched windows and realized that he was on a balcony, looking down into the duke’s throne room. If he had to guess, archers might stand up here to ensure the safety of those in the room below. Given how infrequently the duke held audience, they might actually be able to stay where they were for days without being found.
“You act boring and dull,” Varra began, seemingly oblivious that anyone might take her words as insults, “yet you do not seem as old as the rat-man. I do not know how to guess the age of your kind, so I must ask how old you are.”
“Six.”
Varra turned quickly, not quite looking directly at him.
“Six?! I have brought a child to this kind of danger?”
Estin grinned, but doubted she could tell in the dark hall.
“I’ve been an adult for some time, Varra. My kind reach maturity much faster than yours. By the time you’re cursing your old bones, I’ll have been dead and gone for a decade or two. Not that you should be questioning my age…you’re young for a human. You couldn’t have been away from your clan long. You’re what…thirteen? Maybe fourteen?”
“Bah!” she snapped, making a rude gesture in his direction. “The city-folks say I am young, but my people know to make every year count. I have been running on my own to help the clan since I was ten and have been betrothed since eight. When I return with the cup, I will be honored as an adult and may be given a party in my honor. I might even let my betrothed get a kiss—or more—in celebration. This is a good life, yes?”
“Maybe for your people.” Estin leaned over the balcony edge and studied the banners of the duke briefly. “Mine would be happy to be able to have a full belly and not be slapped in chains and sent to a warehouse to make things for the other races’ homes. A meal, a warm place to sleep, and a mate are about all we’d probably hope for.”
“A mate? So formal sounding. One can find someone to bed without so much formality.”
“Not interested, Varra,” he snapped. “We have our ways, you have yours. I’m not looking for a betrothed, either.”
Varra giggled and stalked to a corner, where she curled up as though to sleep.
“We could feed your kind and there is always shelter in the wagons,” she told him. “Is hard to recruit these days, no? Did not think even the wildlings were too good to help the gypsies.”
“Not too good,” Estin replied, sitting down with his back against the balcony wall, “just too different. I don’t know about other breeds of wildlings, but I’d never fit in with gypsies. Too boring and dull, remember?”
Varra giggled yet again. “This is what I have said, yes. I am sorry for pushing you on this…my clan is very short on hands these days and one of the tasks for the young ones is to find others who might at least be willing to help the family. This was expected to be an easier task than finding this cup. Perhaps the elders misjudged the difficulty of their requests, no?”
Minutes passed in silence, other than the occasional jingle from Varra’s clothing as she adjusted her position in the corner.
Finally, Estin asked her, “Why did you bring me?”
“The rat would have sold you to the slavers,” she admitted. “He had already made the deal and was signing off on it when I arrived. My intent was to recruit a human—or some such—to blend in and let me into the keep. When I learned he was willing to sell out his own people, I could not allow it. Lucky for me, I found a way that you could help me.”
She was quiet for another minute, then added, “I am sorry you were not my first plan. You did better than I could have hoped with my original plan.”
“Honestly, I’m happy I was an option…I don’t care if I was the last choice. Around the city, most people try not to acknowledge us, let alone include us in plans.”
“Right now my plans are to sleep,” she said dreamily. “I would hope you will also be part of these plans to not be awake…I do not wish to be kept up by your talking.”
Estin sat quietly, closing his eyes and listening to faint sounds of the keep. He knew he would not sleep easily so far into morning, especially in such a dangerous place. He chose to rest and listen for danger until dawn, when Varra would be able to watch as he slept.
Wrapping his tail around into his lap to cover part of his body and keep him warm on the cold stone floor, he slowed his breathing and just waited. If he could stay awake, the dreams might not come.
Chapter Two
“What is Wild”
After the screams of our neighbors, the dream would become more personal, though I can never remember hearing any more screams from outside the home after this point. I believe I ignored them, being far more worried with what was happening in front of me.
I would always wake within the dream, but fear paralyzed me, keeping me in the little nest of blankets mother had tucked me into. Over and over, I would try to call to my mother, but my voice would just not come, out of fear. Perhaps this is for the best.
Despite knowing I was still asleep and dreaming, I can feel my chest tightening and it becomes hard to breathe as the dream continues.
The cries would melt into the sound of scuffles outside my room and the faint roar of flames somewhere beyond our home. It was then that, in the dream, I finally found the courage to venture from my bed and creep on all fours to the small opening that led to our family’s main room. We only had three rooms—mine, which had once been my older sister Yalla’s, my parents’, and the entry room. It was looking into the entry room that would progress the dream. I had managed to resist looking in there for a short time in some of the dreams, but eventually I had to, as the worry over what I would see inevitably overcame my wish to avoid it.
My mother, unconscious I still believe to this day, had a long chain around her throat. She lay at the feet of a human who was rummaging through the room for anything of value. He was older than my parents and balding. The man wore makeshift armor of leather, with pieces of metal riveted on for extra protection in spots. He had not noticed me sitting in the hallway, I’m sure with eyes wide and tearful, though I honestly cannot remember how I had felt at that time, only what I saw.
The chain—the leash—has become a focus over the years for me. My own mother’s face being twisted in pain is dwarfed by the terror I feel seeing that degrading collar around her neck. I would never allow myself to be treated like she was. I hoped dearly that I could find the strength to never allow another to be treated that way.