Scions of Sacrifice

by Eric Kent Edstrom

  The lordling was still humming. If he’d heard her landing, he didn’t turn to look.

  The drop did not sap her mercus vision. Elated, Kila dashed to the opposite wall and crept into the tunnel. She stepped over the glow of a bent, rusty nail.

  The zing was really humming now. The individual droplets of mist were distinct and seemed to whisper in the air.

  A dog barked, far, far away.

  The Harridan Gate had no doors. It was a passageway from the Terriside into Dunne Medow Plaza. It had once been called Duri’s Way, after the great queen. But after her disgrace—and following the subsequent revolt that had seen a barricade thrown up here—this passage had been renamed the Harridan Gate.

  The short tunnel resounded with the lordling’s singing. Still possessed of the zing, Kila could hear the scuff of the ball of her foot kissing the stone as she stalked her mark.

  The lordling continued forward, oblivious to her approach.

  She quickened her pace, careful to pause mid-step when the drunken man staggered and stopped to regain his balance.

  When he continued, so did she.

  Her eyes were locked on the glow of coins in his purse, though the purse itself was tucked under his cloak. She could almost count the skillets.

  The Harridan Gate opened ahead into Dunne Medow Plaza, one of the largest open spaces in all of Starside. She did not want to make the grab there. Too much light. Too many patrols.

  She had to do it here. Now.

  Silence no longer mattered. She sprinted at the man. He didn’t turn. She thrust her foot into the crook of his right knee and shoved. His knee buckled and he fell backward.

  She slowed his fall by catching him under his arms. Didn’t have to, but there was style to consider in this kind of thing. One did not want a lordling injured. The man seemed drunk enough that he might let his skull crack on the paving stones.

  He wasn’t too heavy. Though she was only sixteen—and lean from her life of roofway runs—Kila was strong for her size.

  Even so, the man’s weight surprised her. His arms were lean, but strong. His shoulders, broad. The spicy sting of trezz—a powerful liquor that gave a drinker nasty visions—hit Kila’s nose. His hood fell back, revealing a pale face and a shock of blond hair. His eyes were so pale that, even in the near blackness of the Gate, they flashed like porcelain buttons.

  The man dropped the sack. It struck the stone, and something alive inside it let out a piercing shriek. The man howled, too. “Unhand me!” It came out unhanme, and was punctuated with a vicious jab of his elbow into Kila’s gut.

  She took the pain the way she always did. With gritted teeth and a counter-blow. She smacked her palm on the man’s ear.

  “You Kil-damned thief, you!” Ya-kildamtheef-ya.

  The sack wobbled on the street and continued to howl.

  “What’s in the sack?” Kila growled into the man’s other ear. She pitched her voice as low as it would go.

  The man strained to look at her. She wound her arms through his and pressed her palms against the back of his neck. This gave her leverage to turn him and press his face to the paving stones. Even so, he struggled like a two-ton toothpike on a hook.

  He shrieked. It cut off as she jammed a knee into his back. “What’s in the sack?”

  “A cat! A cat!”

  Kila eyed the bag. She’d never seen a cat before. The Donse Masters at the cathedral of Til had a standing bounty on cats. Two gold skillets a tail. With practiced movements, she released him and lifted his cloak. The purse came free and she tucked it away under her shirt.

  The young man tried to roll over, flinging his hands up to grab her. She batted them away then struck his nose. Blood bloomed from his nostrils. He let out another cry and pressed his hands to his face. She studied his pale skin as he pinched his nose to stop the bleeding.

  “Where did ya get yon cat?”

  “Men in Cheapsgate.”

  “Who?”

  “Didn’t get names. They were big. Ink all up and down their arms.”

  Sailors, it sounded like. Probably on shore-leave and didn’t want to carry the beastie all the way to the cathedral for the bounty.

  “Trezz-wilds and misty nights don’t mix, lovey,” Kila said as she stood. “You should thank me.”

  “Thank you for robbing me?” He opened one eye far enough to glare at her. “When my granny leaps from the grave and dances the Seaman’s Lop, then will I thank you for taking what’s mine.”

  “Ya nearly parted with more’n your purse. There’s unsavory types creepin’ about in Starside. I saved ya from two o’ them.” She drew the dagger and flourished it. “One of ’em bore this, and he meant it for yer heart.”

  She returned the blade to her belt, made a mocking bow, then sprinted away from the Harridan Gate. The young man yelled “Thief!” with all the power in his lungs.

  The sack wobbled and hissed on her back as she climbed to a rooftop and sprinted toward Cheapsgate.

  Thief of Sparks: He’s Starving

  Wen was waiting for Kila in their Cheapsgate den, deep in the warehouse slum known as the Warren. The walls of their tiny room were made of scrap wood, bits ripped from wrecked ships and the lids of pinewood crates salvaged from the merchants’ docks.

  The den was drafty in the cold months and stuffy in the hot months. But the Warren- Master, Parlo Odok, kept the roof patched and tarred, and his thugs kept order with their cudgels.

  As long as Kila and Wen paid their two silver skillets each week, they were allowed to call their four pace by four pace room home. Though cramped, their den was in a good location at the end of a shoulder-width hallway on the second floor. The spot cut down on the foot traffic, something thieves did not like.

  They’d made one modification that Odok didn’t know about: a secret entry formed by two loose wall planks. Kila had used it to bring the sack back, since the occupant of said sack refused to stifle its constant mewling. The last thing she wanted was to try wending her way to the den with a thousand questioning eyes following her movements.

  A single fish-oil lantern spewed its yellow, hazy light over rough-hewn floorboards. Two sleeping pallets were wadded in the corners. They were little more than burlap sacks heaped with bits of rags too moldy or hole-ridden to make for clothing.

  In the center of this space now sat an irritated cat. Though its filthy fur was bunched around its body in thick mats, it appeared to be a creamy white in the few places it had managed to lick clean. Namely, its feet.

  “He must have come in on a ship,” Wen said, eyeing the animal warily.

  “I already said sailors sold him.”

  “It probably was sailors. But you can’t know for sure. Your mark might have lied.” Wen sucked on the back of his hand, where he’d received a scratch courtesy of the beastly cat.

  Kila thought he deserved as much for trying to stroke the thing’s head. What a stupid idea. Cats had a bounty on their tails for a reason. Which was also why she’d never seen one before. The creature didn’t look all that dangerous, really. Donse Masters of the Way of Til said they were possessed by evil spirits called demayne. They said that cats gave the demayne access to the world of humankind. All cats were to be delivered to the nearest Donse Master, alive. And two gold skillets for the effort.

  Kila didn’t believe in demayne, or spirits, or even Til himself. But she did believe in receiving bounties. “He’ll fetch us two gold skillets, plain ’n easy,” she said. “That’ll buy ya a month’s powder from Finta.”

  Wen’s cough wasn’t so bad just now. He must have taken a dose while waiting for her return. Since starting on the tincture they bought from old Finta Sahng, Wen hadn’t bloodied a rag with his coughs for two weeks. A gold skillet a bag. The tincture was minced up weeds and whatnot. He took it in hot water like tea.

  Kila couldn’t help but smile. They’d had some lean months of late. The problem with robbing people was it was dangerous, so they relied on the occasional lone drunk in the merc
hant quarter. But she’d gone to that well a few too many times, and the Watch patrols had increased.

  If she were to keep Wen hardy and hale, she needed to do better. That meant breaking into places. Homes, mostly. Except Wen forbade it because he didn’t think Kila’s skills were good enough. The thought pulled the smile from Kila’s lips.

  She forced it back. She would not let little worries ruin her success. Not this night.

  Wen knelt well out of range of the cat’s claws. He wore an intense look that made his gentle brows crunch over his eyes. People said Kila resembled him. She didn’t know about that. He was taller by two hands. Maybe they had the same nose, same narrow face, as people said. Kila didn’t think so.

  They didn’t have time to be looking in a glass to compare. Kila didn’t like seeing herself, anyway. If she needed grooming, Wen cut the tangles from her hair with Cayne. He wasn’t skilled, and the results always made her look boyish.

  “If I knew ya were gonna sport with him, I wouldn’ta let him outta the sack,” she said.

  The animal’s constant mewling and struggling had gotten on her spine once she’d gotten back to the den. Without thinking, she’d set the wild animal loose. That had been a pure, Kil-damned moment of weakness, she supposed. Condemned though all cats were, she had no personal grudge against this particular one. She saw no sense making the beastie suffer. But now she regretted being so nice.

  “I dunno how we’ll get him back in,” she said.

  Wen didn’t seem to think it a problem. He was too intent on playing with the animal.

  She’d considered taking it straight to the cathedral, but she’d wanted Wen to see it first. A tingle of instinct had made her wonder, too. If the Way of Til would pay two skillets, then maybe there was more to cats than they said. Maybe someone else would pay three. Or four.

  But now that this one was in front of her, she doubted it. The cat was licking its flank. At the rate it was going, it would be at it for a month. The mats in its fur were woven with bits of straw and filth.

  “If I could get hold of him, I could cut loose some of that mess,” Wen said.

  He was resting his hand on Cayne’s hilt. He kept the blade strapped to his thigh, as Father had done. The sheathe was a supple blacked leather. The blade was as long as Kila’s forearm.

  Kila had nearly sold the blade once when Wen had been fevered and coughing up blood. Only a lucky grab of a merchant’s purse had made pawning the blade unnecessary. Thinking about it now, Kila realized that had been the first time the mercus vision had come over her. She’d seen that purse just glowing like a little star in the dark.

  Wen edged closer to the cat. The cat backed an equal distance away.

  Kila plucked up the empty sack. It smelled of the cat’s urine, and something else. Rotten. “If ya get hold of him, stick him back in.”

  On his way home, Wen had lifted a bit of fish from a rooftop smoker shack. He pinched off a morsel and tossed it at the cat’s feet.

  The beastie gobbled the tidbit down and turned back to its grooming.

  “He’s starving,” Wen said. Kila heard the pity in his voice. It set off a thief’s-trap jangle in her head.

  “He’s got less than half a day left to live. No sense wastin’ our supper filling his belly.”

  Wen nodded absently and broke off another bite for the cat. He held it out on the palm of his hand.

  The cat stopped its licking and looked at the outstretched morsel. Its filthy nose quivered and a curious chirp came from its mouth.

  “Come on, then,” Wen said, encouraging it. “I won’t hurt you.”

  Kila took her portion of fish and leaned against the outer wall of their den. It overlooked Sourwater Bay. At least, it would if it had a proper window. A hole covered by a nailed-up plank let them peek out if they wanted. Mostly it was to let out the lantern smoke.

  The old man in the neighboring den snored in his irregular way. Kila figured he’d choke in his sleep soon. He was a hundred years old if he was a day. More noises carried through the floor. Screams of children, clatters of pots, a man and woman having a row about some other woman.

  Tempted by Wen’s morsel, the cat abandoned all pretense of grooming itself. It now stood on all fours and did his own little thieves’-step toward Wen’s hand. The ragged tail swung low, in line with his backbone.

  Kila watched for a quarter of an hour as the hungry animal nosed timidly forward, drawn by the irresistible smell of fish.

  After wobbling its hindquarters for several minutes, it worked up the nerve to leap. It blurred in, snatched the tidbit, and retreated to the opposite corner. With a few chomps and jerks of its head, it swallowed the fish. Kila admitted it was an impressive display of speed.

  Its tongue peeked out as it licked its chops. When Wen failed to offer more, it went back to grooming.

  Kila felt a pang of pity for the animal then. Stupid thing was doomed to die beneath a Donse Master’s cudgel, but it didn’t even know. So here it was, engaged in a futile battle against its own fur.

  “Maybe you can sack him up after he falls asleep,” she said.

  Wen didn’t reply. He just watched the animal with a deep fascination that made him look particularly boyish. He was two years older than Kila. A brother, and in some ways a second father. But mostly a brother.

  Kila swallowed the last of her dinner and immediately felt the weight of too many wake-time hours pulling on her eyelids. Mind droopy with weariness, she bundled herself into her pallet of rags.

  She woke—many hours later—to discover Wen and the cat gone. She figured he had decided to take the cat for the coin. Not a bad idea, since Kila’s face was known to the Watch. Still, she felt a bit disappointed not to get to see the pleasure of a fat Donse Master eyeing up the animal. And very disappointed not to feel the weight of her hard-earned coin bouncing in her palm.

  Knuckling the sleep from her eyes, she sat up. She’d always had a sense of the sun. It was midday, she decided. Rays of yellow light beamed through the cracks of the den’s outer wall, making swirls of dust scintillate.

  Kila’s stomach rumbled. With fresh-stolen coin in her pocket, she knew just the corner street frier to visit. Josef made the best chowder in Cheapsgate.

  She stood and considered whether to go out through the secret entrance or hotfoot it out past Parlo Odok’s office. But something drew her attention, making the decision for her.

  The cat’s sack was still puddled in the middle of the floor.

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  Also by Eric Kent Edstrom

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  Copyright © 2016 by Eric Kent Edstrom

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