by J. M. Martin
Casseyo and Lodrigo were through the doorway first, Otalo right behind them after grabbing up his scabbard from where it had scattered. The lantern light illuminated a pale Danian man on the floor, bleeding from a glancing head wound that had opened up his scalp. He was halfway across the room and moving slowly, feebly, his eyes having trouble focusing. Lodrigo half-stumbled to stand over him. The man sensed the danger looming above him and his struggles became more urgent. Lodrigo grunted heavily as the iron-shod club rose once, twice, each time resulting in a loud, sickening crunch.
But Otalo was already moving past them to the window. Carefully he peered out through the open shutters; there was no easy way down except a thirty-foot-plus drop to the stone cobbles of the courtyard, but he could see easy handholds to pull a body up onto the roof. He could smell something…a hint of jasmine, maybe? An exotic spice of some kind. She was just here. I know it. He turned to Lodrigo as he sheathed his sword and tucked the scabbard into his belt. “With your leg hurt you’re too much at risk up on the roof. You two hit the street, head east along the Street of Furs, this building connects to the next one but she doesn’t know we’ve got crew in there!”
“Right,” grunted Lodrigo, and Casseyo nodded grimly.
“And if you see that fucking kid, cut its throat,” Otalo hissed, and then he was pulling himself out the window and into open space.
#
Fear was not something that Conrad liked to admit to; no man ever did, even the smartest and most honest, but there was no question a palpable sense of dread, of something waiting and watching in the dark, permeated the city streets. Where normally the University Quarter would have been bright and bustling, all was instead dark and quiet, the watch lamps extinguished and the cobblestones deserted; and in the narrow alleys and tight corners where it would normally have been dark and quiet, well, there instead the echo of rustles and whispers seemed to play in the ear, as though a great black serpent were slithering from shadow to shadow just out of sight, murmuring to itself while seeking its prey.
Breathing was actually becoming difficult; the walls and alleys seemed to be closing in, and the intense desire to leave the streets soon became overwhelming as he wandered on his self-appointed rounds. He began to wonder if some enchantment lay over the city, and he briefly wished he had an amulet or talisman to ward off black magic. Faith is your best protection, he chided himself. Faith, and a high vantage. Though a lantern would be useful as well.
He turned the corner off of Mud Street and headed to a wooden gate inset in a stone wall; he knew that in the small alley behind it there was a stone staircase sometimes used by the Watch (as well as the Guild, he suspected) to get up to the roof of the buildings on that block, some of the oldest in the Quarter. The gate was never locked, and in a few short heartbeats he was bounding up the twisting stone steps until he reached a stone walkway that encompassed the peak of the slate-tiled roof. He leaned against the crenellated parapet, sucking in the crisp night air as though he’d been drowning.
When his head finally cleared of panic, he looked up and out over the rooftops of the city. He spotted the Sign of the Serpent, ruling in the First House of the Celestial Path; like many city dwellers he’d only rarely paid attention to the passage of the great signs in the sky above. He’d been born under the sign of the Dragon, he had, and he knew it had entered into the Third House, on the wane but still a reasonably propitious place for him on his endeavors. But he hadn’t been to an astrologer in ages, considering their use to be a sign of poor moral character.
His eyes, accustomed now to the starlight, swept over the rooftops. The great bulk of the University building rose up to the south, its bell tower the highest point in the city except for the High King’s Hall and the topmost spire of the Great Temple of the Divine King, both of which he could see in all their glory rising up out of High Quarter to the east. Another source of pride, that, to be part of the City Watch for the University Quarter, even if he himself had never attended the University; for it was one of the oldest in the world, a place of storied history, and of great power in the politics of the High King’s Court and the Middle Kingdoms. I am the Guardian of a High Order, he liked to think.
He began to wander from rooftop to rooftop, following the stone walkways at some moments, and clambering up the peaked roofs to scan the nearby streets and building blocks from his perch. Even in the dead of night there should have been noises, lights—students and Magisters working late, or carousing loudly in the streets—but instead it was pitch black and silent. For a moment he could imagine that he was alone in an abandoned city, the world ended and him forgotten. Fear clenched his spine, and then he laughed and shrugged, drawing himself upright and throwing his head back. And would that really be so terrible? This city is filled with deviants and criminals, the sick and the insane, and once-noble folk who have forgotten their proper place and now consort with the unclean and the impure. Let the Divine King send his Curse upon this place! Good riddance to bad rubbish, all.
#
If nothing else, Otalo had a gift for mayhem. Hearing of the growing Amoran community in Therapoli, his father and mother had braved the ship journey over the Mera Argenta. They’d opened up a small storefront serving street food from back home—the traditional stew-filled pastry called tajina malsüka, fried fish and vegetables, m’gharetine flatbreads, and a new creation, flaked pastry triangles filled with potatoes and spinach, which they had never eaten before—with him as the baker and her as the cook, singing Amoran folks songs as she bustled in the kitchen. And they’d certainly been well received by the Amorans who’d found a home in the Foreign Quarter.
The native Danians and Aurians had been a different matter. His father had weathered their japes and jokes, their cruelty and occasionally their beatings over the years. But his spirit had seemed unbroken. “You have to be patient with them, son,” his father used to say when Otalo was very young. “This is a great city, a fine city, a place of marvels and opportunity. There’s money to be made here, and a life to build.” Even though he never seemed to make as much money as he hoped.
That optimism dimmed a bit after their shop caught fire mysteriously, and then their landlord, a Danian man, had accused them of being responsible for the fire. They had been forced by the merchant courts to work for their landlord to pay off the damages of the fire. After years of hardship the city had slowly broken his father down, at least physically; his spirit was now fortified by a love for the bottom of a bottle. Even when his mother had finally given up the ghost, and went to find her ancestors; even then, his father’s optimism did not disappear entirely. “You have to be patient with them, son,” his father would still whisper in between drinks. “Trust the King of Heaven to open their hearts.”
Growing up watching the struggles of his father and mother, the straight and narrow had never appealed to Otalo. He’d grown up fighting on the streets, indeed he hadn’t had much choice. He wasn’t the biggest or strongest brawler; but he was certainly one that got the job done. He’d spent a fair portion of his misspent youth in and out of the city’s jails. And when the great crew of a Guild Prince had beckoned (and one led by an Amoran no less), he had leapt at the chance, and found himself a tentative place in the city where his father, playing by the rules, had not. It wasn’t a safe place, exactly; but it was a place where he could on occasion vent the anger and rage he felt inside him, and for that he was exceedingly grateful. Occasions like this night.
His heart beating fast, Otalo moved quickly over the peaked roofs of the tenement, his boots soft on the terracotta tiles. It was the night of the New Moon, the dark gate between the worlds open and tended by the goddess Djara Luna, a moon worthy of a night filled with murder. By starlight he followed the roof around to the eastern side of the building, and there the upper floors jutted out over Haggle Street and connected to the larger sprawling tenement next door, forming in effect a great arch or gateway into the dark heart of Bad Mowbray’s territory with a fancy cupola
built above the street. Otalo felt a grudging respect; it had taken some serious balls for their quarry to hide here by herself, under a Prince’s nose as it were, though admittedly hiding more or less in plain sight was an old trick. He worked his way over the street—briefly wondering who lived in the chambers of the arching extension—and then stepped out onto the roofs of the next building. He scrambled to the top of the nearest peak, and studied the terrain. Up ahead of him the building shaped itself around a set of alleys, and beyond he could see the upper level of the Aqueduct and the looming rise of the University Quarter.
That’s where she’s going next. She’s going to ground in the maze of the Quarter. He groaned at the thought.
He clambered forward and down until he was at the edge of the roof, peering off into the back alley that ran through the center of the building complex. He could see dormer windows on the roof where the building fronted on the High Promenade, and some appeared to be open; but he also knew that Bad Mowbray’s men and others from Guizo’s crew slid through its hallways, searching for their own quarry. He could hear the occasional muffled shout or scream from within the dark shape of the tenement. Far better to be predator than prey—or worse yet still, bystander—on a night like this. If she went in there, she’ll soon be caught.
He glanced to his left, looking for ways to get off the roof, and spotted a drain pipe that led from the gutters down towards the alley. As his gaze followed the pipe to the ground, he spotted a furtive movement at its base—someone ducking around the corner and up the part of the alley that led to the Street of Furs. He was hit by that same scent from before. Otalo cursed quietly, and he scampered to that corner of the building complex, sheathing his sword as he went. “King of Heaven, help me,” he whispered as he dropped onto his chest, feeling for the pipe, and then once he had his hand on it he swung his body over the edge of the roof into the air. His heart in his throat, he started working his way down.
He hit the alleyway with relief and set off in a crouched run, sword in one hand and scabbard in the other, wary of too much speed in the dark. He was on the Street of Furs in a few moments. The cobblestoned way was surprisingly quiet; even on a slow night the taverns and whores would have been indulging a lively trade there, but this night every door and window was shuttered, the street utterly silent except for his own heavy breathing. He paused, and then spied a shuttered light moving towards him from his left.
“Sorry,” came Casseyo’s whisper. “Lodrigo’s moving slow.” And sure enough Lodrigo lumbered up a breath or two later in a limping gait, ginger on his cut right leg.
Otalo scowled. His wound’s worse than I thought; perhaps poison? “You didn’t see anyone?” They shook their heads. He looked around; an alley opened north, and that was surely tempting, but the Street of Furs continued to the east where it met the Aqueduct and rose into the University Quarter. His every instinct said that was the direction she was headed. Is that jasmine again? Is this a trick of some sort? “This way,” he grunted.
So that Lodrigo wouldn’t fall too far behind, Otalo led the trio up the Street of Furs slower than he would have liked, and soon they were passing directly under the massive Aqueduct that brought water from faraway hills into the cisterns of the city. Artifacts from the Düréan Great Palace Period in the dawn of history, the great stone arches of the Aqueduct marched directly into the heart of the city, a stark reminder to its people of their debt to a long-lost culture that ruled the region long before the Divine King had risen to divinity. Not the story you like to tell yourselves, he grunted. Once past the Aqueduct, they officially entered into the University Quarter, and the street narrowed and became stepped as they bounded past staggered oaken doors recessed into the stone walls.
Otalo was a bit winded by the time he reached the top of the steps. The narrow street split left and right at the top, and he stopped and waited, catching his breath while Casseyo and Lodrigo caught up; Lodrigo was having trouble with the steps, and Casseyo had slowed to give him light and aid. The University Quarter was silent, unexpectedly so even at this hour; students did not behave like normal folks, by his observations. But he could hear nothing, and there were no lanterns lit and dangling above the street as would have been normal. The scent was gone, no longer lingering in the air.
Figures materialized on his left out of the dark. “Who goes there? Friend or foe?” came a voice.
“Depends on who’s asking,” Otalo replied calmly. Figures were also materializing on his right. He pulled the stock down from his face and rubbed his fingers through his sweat-dampened goatee.
“Otalo, is that you?” came the voice again. The figure came closer, became clearer. Otalo recognized the man as a Danian named Jonas the Grey, an independent operator who ran the closest thing the University Quarter had to a crew, now that the Lords of Book and Street (to whom Jonas had once belonged) were no longer counted amongst the rolls of the city’s underworld. Several of his men—the brothers Cole and Ruvos Till, and “Little” Lucius, who was of course anything but—were behind him. Otalo glanced to his right, and saw the rest of their crew appearing: a dour but efficient man named Horne, and the inseparable pair Tall Myles and Little Myles (the Little in his case being, in fact, quite accurate). Dark leathers and doublets of fine cut were the standard here.
Otalo nodded and grinned. “Aye, it’s me. Good to see you, Jonas.”
“Hard to see you at all, Otalo, if you ain’t flashing those pearly whites in the dark,” said Jonas with a casual laugh as they shook hands. Otalo bristled a bit—he might have been Amoran, but he was a Marked Man and Jonas wasn’t. He knew Jonas did not mean anything mean by it, at least not exactly. Lodrigo and Casseyo finally reached the top of the steps and the two groups mingled, shaking hands and grunting quick greetings.
“Has anyone come through this way?” Otalo asked when they were done with the preliminaries.
Jonas shook his head and shrugged. “Hard to tell. We’ve been chasing shadows up here all night. There ain’t enough of us to seal it all up tight, we’re all spread a little thin, and everyone’s seeing shit moving in the corner of their eyes or hearing something from the next alley over.”
Horne piped up. “We were just chasing what we thought was someone in the alley behind Drewson’s College, but all we did was run into some of Red Rob’s crew on the High Promenade. They’re anchoring the southwest corner of the Quarter for us, and they’re saying the same thing, they’re jumpy as shit.”
“The ghosts of the Quarter are acting up tonight,” said Cole Till glumly, and to a man they all spat to the side and made warding signs in the air.
When he was done making his sign, Otalo’s face was tight. “Red Rob Asprin has been blacklisted by the Guild.”
Jonas shrugged. “I ain’t in the Guild. And this is all-hands-on-deck, this is, has been since the night of Lord Arduin’s Midnight Ride.”
“Fine, no time to argue, and too much talk already.” Otalo’s face took on an even grimmer cast. “I swear on my bones our quarry fled this way.” He turned to Horne. “You thought you saw someone in back of Drewson’s; if you missed them, what other way could they have gone?”
Horne thought for a moment, but it was Little Myles that piped up first. “There’s a stairwell, it’s a shortcut through the wall up onto the University hill. They couldn’t likely go towards the front of the University, the gate guards are there, so they’d have to cut around to the north side of the quads…”
They were all at a run even before Little Myles finished speaking, Horne leading Otalo south then east through the narrow streets while Jonas split some of his men off and took them the north way around. They came up quickly on the back of the College of the Globe, its massive cupola silhouetted against the night sky above them, and Horne led them left and around it to come up on the rear side of the main University building while the two Myleses went down towards Drewson’s College and up through the stairwell in case someone was hiding in them.
Otalo never failed t
o be impressed by the exterior of the University. It was the second-largest single building in the entire city, second only to the Forum, and the Forum was just one ground level while the University loomed several stories high. He’d never been inside it; only a handful of Amorans from the city had ever been sponsored for study within its halls. He’d learned his letters—Guizo had made sure of that, easier now that the arrival of printing presses had meant the growing availability of books and broadsheets throughout the city—but he wasn’t fool enough to compare his meager book learning to that of the men educated at the University. Great walls of smooth stone formed the base of the University quad, unbroken at ground level on most exterior sides except for small inset iron doors that were almost always barred from the inside, with great glass windows only on the upper levels of the building. The main entrance was on the southern side, stairs up into the interior quads through massive gates flanked by statues of some of the University’s patron founders, but as Little Myles had noted, they were constantly guarded by reasonably vigilant constables and, if rumor was true, by spirits and magic as well.
The two Myleses rejoined them and they all jogged along the street alongside the wall, strung out a bit with limping Lodrigo still bringing up the rear, their eyes mostly on the buildings opposite the University: shuttered shops and storefronts on the ground level and what Otalo guessed would be apartments for students on the upper levels. Horne held up a hand; a great set of bronze-bound doors yawned open in the most imposing edifice on the block.
They slowed and approached it warily. “What is this building?” Otalo whispered.
Horne stopped by the open doors, and pressed himself into the stone lintel. “Quarters for many of the Magisters, owned by the University,” he whispered back. He was frowning. “Doors should be barred for the night at this hour.”