She took a huge breath and coughed, the dust dancing a belligerent jig in her lungs. Shopkeepers stood outside their doors beneath pitched black canopies, wares held at the ready for potential buyers. “Mutton! Mutton and mushrooms!” cried a well-endowed, older woman, her brown hair threaded with silver. To her left, an open-vested man held aloft a sword, “Imported from the Maldaran Empire! This beauty has seen seven wars and never once failed its wielder!”
“Oh yeah?” called a voice in the crowd, “then how’d you come to have it?”
The people around the voice, mainly mercenaries on their day off, laughed. Crymson continued her walk to the Count’s manor, passing open shops with their gorgeous goods placed on wooden shelves, their cheaper, replicated cousins ready to be grabbed from beneath the counters and avowed as originals.
She caught sight of a golden necklace, thicker than was the current fashion and pieced together in a way that looked almost pleated. It lay on a blue-draped table outside of a shop: The Wandering Jeweler. She picked it up and said to the man behind the table, “Not doing much wandering if you’re set up here.”
“It’s just a name, my lady,” said the jeweler, hand to his scraggly goatee. “Interested in that piece? It comes from Tabernack, created under the watchful eyes of the great Jaci herself. And just today, I can offer you a good deal. But hurry, her pieces sell quickly.”
Crymson made a show of patting her dress’s empty pockets. “Many thanks, but I seem to have forgotten my coin purse. Perhaps next time?”
“Perhaps,” said the jeweler, eyes already picking apart the crowd for his next potential customer. Crymson moved on, forcing herself not to look back at the golden necklace.
The locals, for the most part, avoided these shops, but as a city in a constant state of flux, Dradenhurst’s merchants prospered. Mercenaries, accustomed to living hard and fast, slung money across shopkeepers’ counters with bravado, turning their noses up at commonsense bartering in favor of impressing the crafty lady or three attached to their arms.
A kid in brown tatters, his frame that of a six or seven year old, ran past her, skinny arms pumping. Ahead, an older youth walked out of a shop whose sign read Beatty’s Choice. In his hands, the older youth held a bowlful of sloshing purple liquid. Crymson stopped and then moved deeper into the shadow of a kabob vendor’s canopy, watching.
Too intent upon his course to notice anything amiss, the tattered whirlwind plowed into the bowl carrier, bounced off the ground, and continued his headlong dash into the crowd. Meanwhile, the bowl carrier, knocked off balance, fell, and the bowlful of liquid spewed like a purple volcano – all over a nearby mercenary.
“What the fu- you little bastard! Come here!” The mercenary, pushed to the ground in the chaos, groped the air around him with a dirt-covered hand. His fist reared back.
“I’m sorry, sir! Honest! I really and truly am!” The former bowl-carrier put his hands over his head and crouched, bowl lying forgotten and overturned at his feet.
“Up ya’ go then. C’mon boy, help the man.” This from another voice, gruff and quick. “My apologies, sir. The young one is mine. Sometimes they get a bit skittish, what with the crowd n’ their hurry ta finish their chores.” The new arrival cuffed the youth on the back of his head and the youth’s chin jerked down, hiding a slight smile that revealed a gap where his two front teeth would one day rest.
“Now, run along – we got some words ta have tonight.” He turned to the mercenary, still standing there, red-faced under the purple liquid dripping from his bristly beard. “Allow me n’ the wife ta wash your clothing for ya’, maybe give ya’ some dinner. It’s the least I can do.”
The mercenary’s mouth twisted, but then he shrugged. “Better beat that lil’ bastard good though.”
“Oh I will, don’t ya’ worry. I’ve let him slide for too long now.” The man’s eyes twinkled and he winked at Crymson, still watching from her post beneath the canopy. “I’ve got a few more things ta do ‘fore I go home. What say you get a headstart n’ I’ll meet ya there ina few?” He put a hand on the mercenary’s broad shoulder. “Now, here’s how ya’ get to my place . . .” They turned away from Crymson and the rest of his words were lost in the sea of people. When the crowd parted, the mercenary was gone, the youth’s rescuer before her.
“I see some things never change,” said Crymson with a smile.
Beatty grinned and said, “Ya’ wound me, lassie. There was a day when ya’ would’ve been the one getting cuffed.”
“Too bad I always outsmarted you,” Crymson shot back. “Besides, you need to tell that boy he’s moving out of sync. No repentant kid is going to have a smile on his face when he’s getting into trouble.” She looked at the rising sun. “Walk with me.”
They fell in side-by-side, twisting and squeezing their way through the crowd, thicker now than it had been earlier that morning. Priestess of the Cao Fen she might be, but the mob cared little for ranks unless they were backed by a wall of iron.
“So what brings the much sought after Crymson Mendora ta the Commons?”
“Things change. You of all people should know that. But what are you going to do with that purple fellow? He didn’t look too happy about his impromptu bath.”
Beatty shrugged, the simple white shirt he wore showing sweat stains. “Nothing too outta the ordinary. He’ll wake up tomorrow with clean clothes n’ a full belly, jus’ like I promised. Not my fault if he loses his purse n’ memory along the way.”
Crymson nodded, remembering Beatty’s wife, an herb woman with a ready smile and an even readier switch, one that she’d make the children pick out for themselves from a small tree in Beatty’s small backyard, like a man awaiting his execution being forced to choose the axe that would remove his head.
“Anyway, I need ta be gettin’ on back. Marla will be expectin’ me home soon. Come over for dinner sometime, ya’ know you’re welcome.” A pat on the back and Beatty was gone, lost in the mid-morning crowd.
Her steps purposeful, Crymson passed increasingly larger houses, room enough between each of them to fit a street corner’s worth of shops - rich people did like their privacy. The people’s clothes grew brighter, and the pastels and earth colors of the Commons faded in number. Her world transformed from one of dusty grey steel to a rainbow, resplendent reds primarily, though she saw a snatch or two of purple and once even a man dressed from head to toe in light green. She would take Beatty up on his offer. It wasn’t too many years past that a starving orphan had found a piece of warm bread and a bowl of onion soup at Beatty’s doorstep. But for now, she needed to concentrate on the task at hand. Her fists clenched as her thoughts turned to Tolver, the Count’s manservant, whose sole purpose in life seemed to be finding new ways to burrow beneath her skin.
Crymson turned right, through an iron gate that opened into an expansive courtyard, flowers the color of freshly squeezed orange juice lining the walkway that led to the manor’s gilded door. She tightened the knots on the front of her dress and resisted the temptation to hide her face in the unused hood. Shoulders back and chest forward, she took a deep breath and knocked on the leftmost door.
Slate and Teacher
At almost seven feet tall, with hands big enough to cradle the world and shoulders fit to wear an ox’s harness, Teacher was intimidation made flesh, and those unable to look at his face were quick to scurry from his path. But those who met Teacher’s eyes sometimes read a different story, for the cruel have the sight of an eagle and could see that the only light behind his eyes came from a fireplace’s banked coals.
Still, Slate envied his giant friend. He lacked Teacher’s ability to check out of the world, to ignore his environment and the daily pains of living. Perhaps Teacher occupied his mind with thoughts of a life before he had lost everything, but Slate knew when untruths were being told, even when he himself did the telling, for in all the years after his change, Teacher had rarely voiced a thought of even minor complexity.
They walked side-b
y-side, Teacher’s gait forcing Slate to keep pace. He rubbed his jaw, the blonde stubble of the last few days rough against his hand. The feeling made him smile, something about the texture against his palm – it’s all about the little pleasures. The people on the streets were dressed in their finest evening wear, anticipating the first run of Starlen Theater’s new play, The Mad Nichegian, and they stared at the duo.
Black boots with a four-buckle design climbed Slate’s calves, the tops folded down and the heels digging divots into the damp earth. A white ruffled shirt with a high collar framed Slate’s face, and his belt was held closed by a gold-worked buckle. A grey cape, trimmed with silver fox fur on its edges, hung behind Slate, aflutter in the evening wind, and he wore a sword across his back, its unostentatious, worn handle completing the ensemble.
A stare lingered on his face before it dragged itself down the length of his shirt, settling on his waistline and then moving back up his body. A young woman, pudgy but attractive, put a hand to her chest as Slate returned the stare, throwing in an elaborately slow wink as her mouth opened. Face red, the woman stalked down the street, her husband glaring at Slate and putting an arm around her shoulders to pull her close.
Laughter spilled from Slate’s lips. He stopped Teacher, and they stood in front of an open shop for a few minutes, indulging in the stares until a group of men gathered and started pointing toward Teacher, whispering to one another from nearly closed lips. Slate’s hand on Teacher’s arm, they turned down an alley, a rare commodity in the merchant run city of Dradenhurst. Why he chose this way, he didn’t know, but his arbitrariness suited him just fine. He’d listened to more than one person who’d tried to map his walk in life, but Slate was just ahead of the curve – he knew that nobody truly knows his destination.
They walked the length of the alley and came out the other side without any more of an idea of what to do than when they’d entered it. That’s the problem with not having a job, thought Slate as he grabbed Teacher’s arm and pulled him back in line, life approaches boredom at a rapid rate if something isn’t set in motion.
The canvas bag at Slate’s waist, dyed a ripe apple red, jingled with every step, filled to the brim with gold and silver coins from their last job, their faces stamped with a simple crown on either side. On the street before their turn, the bag had been ignored, but here, its jingle drew hungry, lingering gazes. The people had morphed into things with eyes the size of dinner plates, framed by sharp cheekbones. Buildings grew shutters over their windows, and here and there a door hung on its hinges, ripped off its frame. The street, now that Slate looked, was deserted. All of the shop doors were closed, and he could see eyes through cracks in the blinds, like cats in the night.
There. He halted, hand out to restrain Teacher, who attempted to stamp onward.
“Hullo there, my good sirs. Fine day to be out ‘n about Cullens, ain’t that right boys?” The speaker was a young man, boy, really, with a few wisps of red hair on his cheeks and a cluster of small pimples on his jawline. Cullens? So that’s what they call this hellhole. Slate stood his ground and let Red approach. To his right, Teacher tried to pull away, hands splayed toward a cat curling itself around one of the street’s many crooked signs.
“Well now,” Red stopped ten or so yards from Slate and Teacher, his gang of wayward choir boys around him, “looks like you turned down the wrong street. We can point you back the right way, but it’s gonna cost you.” He spit through his teeth, not hard to do when they were so few in number.
“And what are you,” Slate did a quick head count, “eight scholarly young gentlemen going to do if I haven’t the money to spare? I am, after all, a well-known philanthropist in these parts. Perhaps you have a fund to which I may give? I’ve heard this place is lacking a good dentist, for instance.”
The boy cocked his head, but pushed forward. “Guess we’ll have to make do with your pretty clothes. ‘Sides, what’s that bag on your belt?”
“This?” Slate indicated the moneybag. “This is my dear old grandmother’s money, and I’m afraid you can’t have that. She’ll tan my hide if I let it out of my sight. Anyway, it’s chilly out here. Fine young men like you wouldn’t leave an old soul out in the bitter cold, would you?”
Red grinned, skin stretched tightly across his skull. “Guess dear ole’ Granny is going to have to take her switch to you tonight. Boys?” The gang tightened around Slate and Teacher, a crowd of almost-adults but not-quite-teenagers-anymore. In their hands, weapons spun. A shiv, its end rusty and the tip broken, twitched from finger to finger in one young hand, and a piece of board, nails jutting from its end, rotated in another’s.
Slate returned the grin, one somehow more awful for the fact that it came from a perfect set of teeth, the smile of a man on a hilltop looking down on the unknowingly wretched.
The gang closed, weapons drawn, Red lagging behind the rest. Slate whirled, cape flapping behind him. He disregarded the sword at his back and instead drew a set of curved knives, their smooth bone handles like a lover’s touch. No time to check on Teacher; God had seen fit to remove his intelligence but even animals know how to fight when cornered.
Two came at Slate, faster than he’d anticipated. One, with unshod feet and stubby legs, held a broken bottle to the sky, its contents likely drank long ago in an opium-induced haze. The other had a length of rope an inch in diameter entwined about his knuckles, glass embedded in its outside.
Fools. Only two?
Stubby feinted high, and then swept at Slate’s waist with the jagged bottle. At the same time, the rope user swung a roundhouse at Slate’s head. Behind him, he could feel Teacher’s presence, and Slate’s spotless boots sank into the ground – apparently along with poverty, Cullens boasted mud, adding to its already radiant glamour.
His mind drifted from the battle, speculating how to best clean the gunk from his boots without risking a scratch. While his mind wandered, Slate’s body took over, conscious permission unneeded. He leaned back, hips thrust forward, and the roped hand passed over his head. With a snap back to full upright, he twisted to face his shin out, and the bottle glanced off his leg, its jagged edge breaking further, pieces landing in the soft earth. Stubby looked at Slate, and then at Slate’s leg, mouth open. He pulled back what remained of his bottle –
Too late.
Slate spun and put his back against the rope user’s chest, knocking him into one of the other punks who had surrounded Teacher. Left with only one opponent, Slate drew his knife across Stubby’s throat. Blood poured out, hands went to the wound, and the body spilled onto the mud-laden street. One down.
A closed hand lashed out of the inky darkness and swooped over Slate’s shoulder, improperly timed. Slate let the fist continue and sheathed his weapons, his hands in constant motion. Its target missed, the hand drew back, but Slate grasped the forearm, twisted, and brought it down in a ferocious spike to crash against his shoulder. The man’s arm, palm up, snapped at the elbow and splinters of bone poked through the ruin; he fell to the ground, shrieking.
No time to laugh. Something flew past Slate’s face, inches away, neck twisted at a gruesome angle. It smashed into the boy with the piece of nailed board, bowling him over and onto the broken pieces of glass sticking up from the ground, offcuts of Stubby’s broken bottle. The board-user yelped and tried to roll, glass glinting from his backside, but the dead weight of the flier had taken him captive. Slate walked over, a whistle on his lips.
Knives spun and made complicated circles in Slate’s hands. He squatted, the rope user in his peripherals. The knife went to the board-user’s neck, and in one motion, opened it from ear to ear. Slate looked down at his bloody knife, and then at the dead man’s ragged clothes. With a shrug, he wiped his blades on the faded yellow shirt, and then turned to face his last man – the rope user.
The street, for a few minutes at most, had been full of the screams of the dying and wounded. Now, it fell silent. The rope user stared at Slate, weapon loose in his hand. Bodies la
y strewn about the street, and even as he watched, Teacher stepped and put his full weight on the throat of the man with the broken elbow, whose moans faded into gurgles and then into nothingness.
Slate looked back at the rope user. “Get out of here.”
Rope left on the ground, the boy sprinted into the darkness that engulfed the street, back into the sweet arms of cutthroat prostitutes and the filthy ghetto.
Somehow still alive, Red stared at Slate, knees on the ground and Teacher’s mitts on each of his shoulders. “Wait,” said Slate, still twirling his knives end over end.
Teacher glanced over, and removed his hands from the boy’s shoulders. Slate walked to Red, whose knees were an inch deep in the street’s dark brown muck, heels pushed against his buttocks. Pale blue eyes huge, he watched Slate’s knives as they twirled, and Slate fought a desire to smile.
Blood ran from a scalp wound near his ear, and his right cheekbone was puffy, but despite his injuries, Red hawked phlegm onto the ground in front of Slate, the spittle marring his boot’s shine. Slate bent and rubbed the spot where the spittle had gone, and some of the mud disappeared. This time, he did smile.
“A brave lad, are you? Let’s see where that gets you.” Slate squatted on his toes, eyes level with Red’s.
To the side, Teacher made a sudden move and swooped up the cat that had been slinking so sveltely near a battered shop sign. Red watched Teacher, who stroked the cat’s fur the wrong way, much to its useless displeasure. Its hiss was the only sound in the street.
“Hey,” Slate snapped his fingers, “I’m the main attraction, not giant and his fuzzy pal.”
Red’s eyes circled back to Slate, but settled on his knives instead of his face. “Now, pray tell, what should I do with you, young friend? Seriously, speak up. It isn’t often that we get a choice in our fates.”
Fallen Victors Page 2