“Spit on the ground?”
He rubbed his forehead but didn’t answer.
“Send the list to the Earl when you get it.” I walked back to the bridge and ripped Wren off the rail. “Let’s go.”
We were halfway over when the boy displayed another example of his recent loquaciousness. “Who was that?”
“My old partner.”
“Why was he yelling at you?”
“Because he’s kind of an asshole.”
Wren had to double-time it but his legs kept pace with mine. “Why were you yelling at him?”
“Because I’m kind of an asshole too.”
“Is he going to help us?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“You were better company when you didn’t talk as much,” I said.
I took a last look at Crispin, now bent over the body, puzzling out some detail. I figured I had said some things I regretted. I figured I’d have the opportunity to apologize, out of practice at it though I was. I was wrong about that. I’ve been wrong about a lot of things, but that’s one that hurts.
I’d been on the streets about four years the night I found Celia. I would have been ten or so, maybe a little older—birthdays tend to fall by the wayside without a family to celebrate them. This was after the Crane enacted his wards, so the bodies of the fever victims weren’t piled like cordwood in the streets, but no one could rightly place Low Town too many steps above unadulterated anarchy. At night the guard retreated to the boundaries and didn’t return except in force. Even the syndicates didn’t much trouble with us, likely because there wasn’t much worth taking.
Back then the borough had a haunted, lonely quality to it. It took almost a decade for the population to recover to what it had been before the Fever, and for years after there were still parts of the neighborhood where you could walk for half an hour and never see a living soul. It made finding a place to sleep easy—just stumble down an empty block, throw a stone through a window, and crawl inside. If you were lucky, the owners had run off or died somewhere outside their residence. If you weren’t, you had to share a room with a corpse. Either possibility beat a night in the cold.
I would never again live my life with such mad abandon as I did during those early years on the streets. I needed nothing—Low Town provided. Food I stole, my other small needs I satisfied by force or cunning. I grew hard as a kettle and dog wild. At night I ranged the streets, watching the city’s detritus scuttle about in the dark. That was how I found her—heard her first, really—her frightened cries drawing me from my back alley wanderings.
There were two of them, wyrm addicts, thick with it. The first was ancient, a stutter step from the abyss, rotting gums attesting to the frequency of his habit, worn rags thick with urban fauna. His protégé was a few years older than I but preternaturally thin, sparse red hair spurting out over uncomfortably wide eyes. Both were fixated on the small child between them, her shallow weeping quieter now, fear stealing her voice.
Years sharing territory had initiated me in the secrets of the cockroach and the rat, and I moved in a fashion more closely resembling their scurry than the saunter of most children my age. Between that and the darkness I was practically invisible, though the pair ahead of me were so focused on the girl that nothing short of a marching band could have drawn their attention. I hugged tight against the alley wall and slunk toward them, more out of curiosity than anything else, careful to stay outside the arc of the moonlight.
“Three or four stems at least we’ll get for her, three or four stems at least!” the old one said, running his gnarled fingers through the child’s hair. “Just give her straight to the chief heretic and tell him to send on over a pipe of his rawest choke.” The target of his glee stood mute, his sallow, idiot features betraying little evidence of comprehension.
“I’ll buy her from you.” It was out before I could take it back. I did things like that a lot in those days—no sooner did a stray thought flicker across my mind than its consequences echoed at me from the firmament.
The younger one turned, his awkward frame and clouded senses robbing his movement of grace or much speed. The older one was quicker, snatching the girl across the shoulder, his grip almost protective. For a moment her whimpering was the only thing to be heard. Then the elder laughed, the sound rolling over a thick veneer of rheum.
“Have we intruded upon your hunting grounds, gentle sir? Worry not, we won’t be here long.” He was one of those junkies who had been something of substance before the wyrm had hollowed him out, a professor or a lawyer, and though his mind had long been reduced to its basest urges, still he retained a certain incongruous ability for fine speech.
I reached down to my boot and pulled out my stash, three argents I’d found or thieved and an ochre Rob One-Eye had given me for serving as lookout when he’d knocked off the old Light Street bank. “There’s yellow in here. It’s a fair trade.” I didn’t know what the price of a child was exactly, but there were too damn many wandering the streets of the city for it to be worth much more than that.
The two stared at each other numbly, their slow reptile minds trying to process this new development. Given enough time, one of them was going to realize that it was easier to kill me and take what I had than meet my demands—better not to allow them the opportunity.
I held the small packet of coins in my off hand, and with the other opened the straight razor I had pulled out with it. “I’m taking the girl,” I said. “You have your choice of payment—gold or steel.”
The younger one moved forward threateningly. But I caught his eyes and he stopped short. The purse jangled.
“Gold or steel. Take your pick.”
Another sharp laugh from the one holding the child. That sound was grating on me, and I had the urge to throw in the towel on this negotiation business and see what the insides of this lice-ridden degenerate looked like.
“We’ll take it,” he said. “Saves us the trouble of bringing her to the docks.”
The other seemed less certain, so I threw the pouch on the ground in front of him. He reached down to grab it and I thought about going for his face with my blade, a few quick swipes then on to his senior partner—but the old one still held the girl firmly, and I had no doubt he’d do her without blinking an eye. Better to play it straight and hope they’d do the same. The loss of my coin stung, though. I wouldn’t see another ochre for a long time, not with poor Rob doing twenty in Old Farrow for cutting up a priest in a bar fight.
“Walk out the other end of the alley,” I said as the youth stood up straight, my hard-won loot in his hands. “And don’t think yourself any sharp ideas.”
The one holding the girl stared at me. Then he smiled, checkerboard patterns of black and green. “You make sure to keep your preserve well tended now, young warden.”
“If I see you again, I’ll sever your balls from their stalk and leave you to bleed out in the street.”
He laughed his ugly laugh and backed away, the boy following close after him. I watched them off until I was certain they weren’t planning on rushing me, then closed my razor and walked over to the child.
Her almond eyes and dusky hue showed Kiren blood, and her tattered clothes and bruised skin spoke to at least a few nights on the streets. Around her neck was a wooden necklace, the kind you could buy two for a copper in Kirentown, back before the plague shut down their market. I wondered where she’d gotten it. A gift, probably, from her mother or father or a score of other relatives now in the ground.
The retreat of her abductors had done little to calm her nerves, and she still sobbed uncontrollably. I knelt down on one knee and slapped her across the face.
“Stop crying—no one is listening.”
She blinked twice, then wiped at her nose. The tears stopped, but I waited for her breathing to return to normal before I continued.
“What’s your name?”
The thin stretch of her throat expanded as if to answer, but sh
e couldn’t force her lips to form the words.
“Your name, child,” I said again, trying to put some tenderness into my voice, for all that it was an emotion with which I had only passing relations.
“Celia.”
“Celia,” I repeated. “That’s the last time I’ll ever hurt you, do you understand? You don’t need to worry about me. I’m looking out for you, okay? I’m on your side.”
She looked at me, unsure how to answer. The time she’d spent on the street hadn’t left her overflowing with trust for her fellow man.
I stood and took her hand in mine. “Come on. Let’s find you somewhere warm.”
It started to drizzle, then it started to rain. My thin coat soon soaked to my body, so the girl had to make do in her ragged dress. For some time we walked in silence—though the storm pounded her tiny frame, Celia didn’t weep.
The Aerie had been completed, its edifice jutting out into the ether, but the maze surrounding it was still being constructed. We had to struggle through a hundred yards of overturned mud, no easy task for the tiny legs of a small child, though she barely noticed. As soon as we had come within view, her eyes had locked on the tower in awe and excitement.
Five weeks prior the entire population of Low Town, swelled by crowds of outsiders and shepherded by a flock of guardsmen, had celebrated the installment of the Blue Crane in his new surroundings. I’d watched from the back as the High Chancellor honored a lofty figure in extravagant robes. No one from the area had since shown courage enough to introduce themselves. Now seemed as good a time as ever to welcome the wizard to our neighborhood.
The little one by my side, I strode up to the tower with what arrogance I could muster.
A dozen feet above the ground a monstrous statue sat on a small ridge, jutting out from the building proper and marring the smooth perfection of the exterior. Beneath it I could see the outline of a door. I banged on its center and yelled into the night.
“Open up! Open up now!”
The movement of the gargoyle was no small shock, and Celia let out a shriek. I bit my lip trying not to do the same. The thing above the door twisted its heavy features with an ease that was unnatural, and its voice was inhuman if not directly threatening.
“Who is this that disturbs the repose of the evening? The Master is sleeping, young friends.”
I hadn’t lost the savings of a childhood ill-spent to retreat at this gentle remonstration, and there seemed to be no reason to show this construction any more deference than I would his fleshly equivalent. “Then you’ll need to wake him.”
“Sadly, child, I do not arrest the Master’s slumber at the will of a pair of ragamuffins. Come back tomorrow and he might be willing to see you.”
A flash of lightning illuminated the landscape, the spire standing out uncannily against the barren ground surrounding it.
“Will the Blue Crane sleep warm in his bed and awake to the corpses of two children on his doorstep?”
Concrete eyebrows curled inward and the strange creature grew less friendly. “Do not speak such of the Master—my patience is not infinite.”
Things had gone too far to back away, and even then I understood that advance is often the only alternative to retreat. I shouted louder, my voice cracking with the strain. “Does the First Wizard care nothing for the people of his city? Will he rest in his castle while the children of Low Town drown in this storm? Call him down! Call him down, I say!”
The gargoyle’s face glowed in the moonlight, and I was conscious of the danger I was courting. The thing hadn’t shown itself capable of movement beyond its perch, but there was no knowing what forces it might martial in defense of the tower. “Your abuse grows tiring. Leave, else the consequences …” It quieted mid-sentence, its visage frozen, all signs of intelligence absent.
Just as unexpectedly sentience returned. “Wait here—the Master approaches.” It was not lost on me that this offered no guarantee of our safety. The wind screamed its hatred through the night. Celia squeezed my hand.
The stone shifted to reveal a tall, thin man with a long beard and eyes that glimmered even as they shook off the haze of slumber. I had only seen the Crane that once, from a distance, and he had looked more imposing in the midst of a vast crowd of people. I watched an inclination toward geniality combat the appropriate response to being woken late in the evening by a pair of vagrants. Somehow I wasn’t shocked to discover the first winning out.
“I am not used to company after midnight, particularly company I’ve yet to meet. Still, the Daevas bid us show kindness to all our visitors, and I shall do no less. What is it you wish of me?”
“You’re the Blue Crane?” I asked.
“I am.”
“The one they call the savior of Low Town?”
“If that’s what they call me.”
I pushed Celia toward him. “Then save her—she needs help, she’s got nowhere to go.”
The Crane looked down at her, then back at me. “And you? What do you need?”
Water ran down my sneer. “Not a damn thing.”
He nodded and dropped to one knee, lowering himself with an extraordinary lack of pretension for one of the most powerful men in the Empire. “Hello, child. People call me the Blue Crane. It’s a funny name, I know. Do you have a name you’d like to share with me?”
The girl cocked her head up at me, as if asking for permission. I patted her lightly on the back. “Celia,” she barked out finally.
The Crane’s eyes lit up in mock wonder. “That’s my favorite name in the world! My whole life I’ve been hoping to meet someone with that name, and now you show up on my doorstep in the dead of night!” Celia looked like she wanted to giggle but didn’t remember quite how. The Crane held out his hand. “Let’s get a cup of tea and you can tell me all about what it’s like being born a Celia. I’m sure it’s very exciting.”
This elicited a slight smile, the first I had seen from her all night. She took the Crane’s palm, and he stood carefully, leading her into the tower. He turned as he headed into the doorway, his eyes offering entry.
“I’ll be back to check on her soon,” I said.
Celia twisted herself around to face me, realizing now that I wasn’t coming. She didn’t speak but her eyes were trembling. My chest was full of fire and I felt a lightness untie itself from my bowels and rise up through my stomach. I sprinted off in the night, leaving the two of them standing there, together, illuminated by the soft light drifting out from the entrance.
I was thinking about the last time I had brought an orphan to the Crane’s while I tried to catch the guardian’s attention. It wasn’t working. I punctuated a string of epithets by tossing a pebble against the gargoyle, but it bounced off without garnering a reaction.
“Why are you doing that?” Wren asked, perched on the innermost wall of the maze.
“Normally he responds.”
“Who?”
“The magic talking monster perched above the doorway, of course.”
Wren had the good sense not to antagonize me further. I sat down beside him, then pulled my tobacco pouch out of my satchel and started rolling a smoke. “Fucking magic. We’d all be better off without it.”
“That’s bullshit,” Wren said, oddly passionate.
“Is it now? Name one good thing that ever came from the Art.”
“The Crane’s ward.”
I lit my cigarette beneath a shielded hand. “Now name another.”
“I’ve heard Frater Hallowell has the touch, and heals people at the church of Prachetas the Matriarch.”
“Frater Hallowell ever heal you?” I asked, breathing low-grade poison into my lungs.
“No.”
“He ever heal anyone you know?”
Wren shook his head.
“Doesn’t really count then, does it?”
“No,” he responded, as usual quick to grasp the point. “Not really.”
“Don’t twist it up in your mind—the two in the Aerie are anomal
ies, exceptions that prove the rule. Start thinking otherwise and you’ll get yourself into trouble.”
The boy considered that while I finished off my smoke. “How long have you known the Blue Crane?”
“For twenty-five years.”
“Then why won’t he let you into the tower?”
Why indeed? Even on those rare occasions when the Crane hadn’t granted me an audience, his doorman had always animated to reject my plea. If the Aerie’s defenses had fallen into disrepair, it meant the Crane’s health was worse than I thought. I picked up another stone, larger this time, and flung it at the guardian. It had no more effect than the first, and I sat back down.
I poured ice water on my temper. There was still work that needed doing. Wren flipped his legs over the white stone. I did the same and we looked out toward the city.
“I like this labyrinth,” Wren said.
“It’s a maze.”
“What’s the difference?”
“A labyrinth only has one path and ends in the center. A maze has many different paths and ends where you find a way out.”
I rose to greet Celia. Her dress looked soft in the afternoon light and she was smiling. “I’m sorry that you had to wait. I’ve taken over running the Aerie, but I haven’t quite figured out how to operate the guardian yet.” She took my hand gently.
“Who is this here?” she asked. I looked down to see Wren had pulled a snarl across his face. I chalked it up to the perverse instinct common among adolescents when presented with a member of the preferred sex, the root impulse that drives young men to rub mud in the hair of their future betrothed. There were few women walking the streets of Low Town to compare with Celia.
“Wren, this is Celia. Celia, this is Wren. Don’t mind the face—he stepped on a bit of rusty metal yesterday. I think he’s coming down with lockjaw.”
“I’m glad he brought you over, then. We’ll have the Master take a look at it.” Celia’s attempt to win over the boy from his opening offering of irrational dislike proved unsuccessful—if anything his grimace deepened. With a graceful lift of her shoulders Celia turned her attention back toward me. “Still picking up wastrels, I see.”
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