Ian slunk forward, wrapping the shadows around him like a blanket. His soft soled moccasins produced no sound on the cobblestones. The black clothing of his House was designed to be camouflage in the night, his own darker coloring lending a hand in the subterfuge. He continued to observe the girl. That was his job, after all, to find information. Something important hid behind those dark eyes.
He co-opted a different vantage point as she slid to a stop in front of the courier. Her face was bold with slashing eyebrows, a slim nose and a strong jaw. Her skin was not so pale that she appeared sickly, like many Scholars or Merchants who spent all day indoors. He couldn't grasp the color of her eyes in the darkening night but he did note the determined set of her expression. He reassessed her age. She wasn't breathing hard from her run down the stairwell, but he clearly noted the shape of her large breasts pressed against her simple tunic. The drab breeches did nothing to hide the slope of womanly hips from an indented waist. She was on the shorter side, but certainly old enough to be sorted into a House. It intrigued him that she wore no color or crest from her House. The woman herself intrigued him. Everything about her hinted at mystery and Ian loved mysteries. He built his life upon them.
Ian strained his ears as the eager courier came to a standing position. Their jobs were to stand and run, deliver the message, and return to their station. Theirs was a strange ability - one which required a body to rest in comfortable relaxation and explode into a sprint at a second's notice. Not every lower tier citizen in the Information House had the skill of a courier.
This particular messenger was skinny and tall, a gangly boy a year out of secondary school. The boy waited for the message, examining the woman. The recipient of the message would question him about its source, but the courier had nothing to go on, no House designation unless she told him. She flipped a coin to him. The fee wasn't necessary if the message wasn't personal, but the funds assisted the brethren of his House and it pleased Ian that she honored the courtesy.
"I need to send a message to the King," she said in a voice that didn't carry. Ian had been trained to comprehend words and sounds other men and women couldn't, however. His interest in her grew. Why would she need the King? "Scholar House 4A, Mistress Walton." The address meant either she or a woman she lived with, a mother perhaps, occupied the top floor of the second tier in Scholar House, only one level away from first tier.
The courier repeated the address and name as he was supposed to do. His voice carried farther than the girl's lower timbre. "And the reason, miss?" he asked respectfully.
The unknown woman sighed, a wealth of information existing in the heavy exhalation. She wasn't happy about the message she was delivering. "My brother has had a vision." These words were softer and Ian strained to hear. The courier snapped to attention but didn't repeat the message. Ian would have reported him if he had. Spreading the news of an unfettered Soul Tender in Scholar Housing could be catastrophic. He pitied the girl. She obviously cared for her brother and the knowledge he would soon be sent away weighed deeply upon her. The courier nodded and took off towards the castle, his fleet feet transporting him quickly.
Ian expected her to run back to her family unit once she had delivered the message but she didn't. With a resolute breath, she turned towards the Merchant Quarter and the market within. Ian frowned. If she spread word her brother had received a vision, it would violate the laws of the city. His interest became his duty as he crept along behind her, although he didn't deceive himself into thinking his duty was the only reason he followed.
She passed under a gas lamp and her head shone with every possible hair color - dark red, golden, raven black, lighter brown and shades in between. It was still predominantly dark brown but Ian had a sudden interest to view her in the sunlight and not the dying light of day. He reminded her of the toy a wealthy Merchant in Abilon had once shown him. The old man had named the object a kaleidoscope. One only had to look into a tube and turn the end. The tiny pieces of glass within had formed subtle shining patterns, changing with each turn of the barrel.
She was not running anymore but she was fast and deft. Ian admired her skill as she wove expertly along the outskirts of the market, slinking in and out of shadows like one of his House. Surely she would master the tests and be assigned to his House as soon as she graduated? Or perhaps she was already there? She might be mired in the bottom tiers of his House due to a bad testing day. He'd have to look through the new recruits' identification pages. He hadn't done so in a while. If she were in the bottom tier, she deserved to be promoted.
He almost had difficulty following her once she entered the more crowded spaces of the market. She wove among hawking shop owners, children hurrying home with their purchases, and drunkards stumbling about. Her lack of shoes and the drab clothes of a Commoner didn't draw undue attention to her, though they should have made her stick out like a sore thumb.
Ian followed her to the Soused Cow, one of the less reputable establishments in the Merchant Quarter. The barkeep watered down his ale, demanding less money and thus attracting a less savory crowd. She hesitated outside the door, eying the building as if it were a cobra ready to strike. Ian frowned, lines bracketing his mouth. Surely she didn't intend to enter? There would be spilled ale on the floor and less innocuous substances as well as broken glass. She must have realized the same. She looked down at her feet, scowled, and looked about the square.
The market was winding down, everyone not serving alcohol beginning the process of closing their booths and shops. Ian let the shadows of a towering building swallow him. He should have been invisible but her eyes narrowed as they skipped over him. At that moment, however, a man passed by her on his way towards the door of the Soused Cow.
"Excuse me, sir." She stopped the passerby. She had a beautiful, husky voice. She could be a Performer with that lovely timbre, provided she had the ability to carry a tune. Her words pleasingly caressed him. The passing man appeared similarly affected by her voice and appearance. He stopped in surprise, flashing a smile. He wore brown as well. His clothing might have factored into her choice of who she chose to stop. But, as Ian adopted another view, he noted the man had a green crest attached to his shoulder in plain view. The crest meant he was either off duty or married to another House but chose to display his testing designation anyway. The badge was a small concession to those who gave up their skills to marry into another House. They could work within their own House but their allegiance should ultimately be toward the House they occupied. The city generally preferred they use their skills to assist their partner's House.
"My father is in that tavern and I really shouldn't enter, not as I am," she looked at her feet with a grimace. "I do so hate to bother you, but it's an emergency. Mother has taken ill and I need him to attend her."
Ian admired her further. She had invented a plausible lie that would inspire a random stranger to pity, making him more likely to accommodate her. She also wasn't divulging palace secrets. He hadn't relished the thought of having to turn her in. The man offered his help freely. She told him her father's name and waited. Ian noted signs of her impatience as she did so, one tip of a bare toe rubbing the cobblestones beneath her. Her eyes roved restlessly, her fingers stroking the tuft of her braid.
Cursing rose above the music of the Performers as the door opened. The slim man returned, a much larger man at his side. The friendly passerby stumbled as the girl's father weaved and almost knocked him over. The woman frowned, noting the level of inebriation her father was in. The stocky man, his dark hair in need of a cut and hanging in lanky strings about his face, sneered at the girl.
"What do you want?" the newcomer asked his daughter. The girl glanced back at the pub, probably hoping to ask the nice man for help in getting her father home. However, that astute figure had disappeared as fast as his feet could carry him.
"Father, you need to come home. It's an emergency."
"It had better be." The man snorted and belched loudly. From several fee
t away, Ian could smell the man. He must have been drinking all day to carry such an overwhelming stench of ale on him. Ian considered his yellow tunic. The man's wife was a Scholar and a highly ranked one. He shouldn't be wearing the color of a different House so prominently.
"Come on, Father." The girl grabbed his arm firmly. He went to pull away but stumbled, seconds away from tumbling to the street. She barely wavered, displaying impressive strength.
"I can walk myself, Kiarra," the man slurred.
Ian repeated the name to himself. Kiarra Walton. It rang no bells, affirming she probably wasn't a new recruit of his House. The large man stumbled over a protruding cobblestone, his form weaving. He squinted; an action Ian had seen a million times when drunkards attempted to turn double vision back into single. Ian surveyed the scene with interest, wondering how the petite woman hoped to transport the larger man home before the palace guard arrived to fetch her brother. He didn't have to wait long.
"You there, Shadow Spy," she called out. Ian jumped despite his training. The nickname was either derogatory or the highest compliment of his House. He wasn't sure which she meant. She looked straight at him, her eyes dark and pleading in her strong face. "Come help me. Please."
Ian didn't move. Surely she hadn't seen him? He had been so careful. She huffed in impatience, her eyes still on the inky pocket he hid within. She asked again and he was unable to resist. He wanted to determine the color of her eyes up close, wanted her low voice to caress his ears when she spoke directly to him. He slid from the shadows and offered a shoulder to the drunkard, holding his breath against the sour smell.
"Let the assassin help you home or I shall set him upon you," Kiarra warned her father. Ian restrained a chuckle. There were only one or two assassins in his House, employed by the King or one of the crown’s Advisors. Regardless, their House dealt in secrets and garnered the most suspicion out of all the Houses. Some citizens believed they were all spies and assassins. The drunken man stumbled but something about Ian in his solid black attire must have settled him, or frightened him, because he let himself be led from the market. Interested eyes followed them. Ian steered their small group into the shadows as soon as possible. He preferred to do the observing instead of being the object of another’s observation.
There were no words between them for most of the way. Kiarra supported her father's other side, and the man between them stunk and stumbled as they attempted to lead him towards his home.
"When did you know I was there?" Ian asked finally as the four-story Scholar House came into view. The King's men hadn't arrived yet which surprised Ian. Either the courier had been slow, or the palace guard were taking their time. It was likely the latter.
Kiarra glanced over at him. He noted her eyes were dark blue, practically indigo, his favorite color of twilight. She assessed him as thoroughly as possible across the bulk of her father. The inebriated fellow was muttering about women, money, and prisons for some reason.
"From the moment I stepped out of my House." Ian's brows rose. Had her beauty distracted him that much? "You are well versed in your craft," she acknowledged. "Second tier?"
Ian nodded. He might not have given such information to anyone else but she had rightly earned it. Other Houses showed their tier in the shade of their uniforms. His House wore all black or dark gray because the colors assisted in their work.
Scholar Housing appeared before them. Kiarra scowled. The expression didn't make her any less attractive. In most women, the look of anger sullied their beauty. Her full lips pursed, her brows came together, and her eyes shone darker. He rather enjoyed the fierce look on her face. He wagered the intensity fit her personality.
"I have four flights of stairs to tackle. Please help?" She drew her plump bottom lip into her mouth with her teeth as she looked at him. A surprising pang of longing struck Ian. He commonly only desired women after they had roused him to it either by hands or lips. He wasn't a green boy to walk around lusting after the sight of a beautiful woman. Still dwelling on the betrayal of his body, he only nodded and helped the duo up the stairs and into the fourth hall. They stopped in front of a door with the designation 4A and the name Walton underneath. The plaque was scratched and dulled by time.
"Thank you," Kiarra mumbled, her hand moving to the latch.
Noise sounded out upon the street, the clanking of armor and the snorts of horses. Only the King's men were allowed to have horses in the city. They were messy to clean up after and only a few stable boys could be spared to follow them around and pick up waste. Ian slid from under the man's arm and slunk into the darkness without a word, finding his way down the opposite stairwell which exited into the Quarter between his House and Scholar House. He would circle around and watch the rest of the night's drama from a greater distance. Perhaps he was losing his touch, or perhaps the girl was simply skilled, but his superiors would want all the information about the new Soul Tender. He also intended to learn more about the girl who belonged to their House.
Chapter Three
Kiarra
I managed to finagle my father into our unit by pushing him. I wasn’t gentle. Mum had heard us lumbering up the stairs, although the sound had been primarily made by Father. When I wanted to be, I could be as quiet as a mouse and the spy I had conscripted moved like a shadow. She called out for Delia and they wrestled Father into the bedroom, likely to wash him and change his shirt. Mum must not have been present when he left the unit earlier. She would have never let him wear the yellow. He was getting more careless as the years passed. I was convinced he didn't care anymore at all and I had lost all respect for him. Also, it hurt Mum and I couldn't forgive him for that.
Thoughts of my father flew away, however, at the sight of Rowan sitting on the couch. His beautiful blue eyes were gone. He looked lost despite the determination which set his jaw. Rowan would make the most out of the hand Fate had dealt him, perhaps it was one of the reasons the visions chose him. Regardless, nothing about this situation could placate me.
I sat next to him, clasping his hand in mine. His flesh was clammy, betraying the façade he was portraying. "How are you doing, Rowan?"
He shrugged broad shoulders. "I am slowly coming to terms with my new destiny."
"Can I speak to you?" I asked. Not that I cared, really, but I didn't want to make Rowan uncomfortable. His hand squeezed mine.
"Mum said as long as we don't discuss my vision and we don't tell anyone else, I can speak until the King's men arrive. I'm not certain what happens next which bothers me the most. I will soon be cloistered in the tower, but will I be introduced to the King first?"
"I know what happens. I'll never see you again," I muttered. I couldn't keep the anger or sadness from my voice. The strong emotions hadn’t stopped rising within me. It wasn't fair. My one friend in the world, besides my Mum, was being taken from me. I felt cheated, a selfish emotion because Rowan was facing far more loneliness than I. I choked back the tears constricting my chest. Tonight, they would soak my pillow.
Rowan faced me. The milky white eyes unnerved me for only a second. He was still the brother I loved and trusted. Supposedly, he was now blind but it seemed he could sense the deeper parts of me. It brought to mind the way the unnamed spy had looked at me. His dark eyes had penetrated to the heart of me, ferreting out my secrets. I had spotted him the second I escaped the stairwell, slinking around in the shadows by our housing unit. The Information Exchange House employed spies and assassins as well as couriers, messengers, ambassadors, and archivists. I had never seen one in action, though. He moved like he belonged to the darkness. His presence had awoken a hunger and a deep yearning I didn’t have time to examine at the moment. I shoved the reactions away. I would probably never see him again and I hadn't asked his name. He probably wouldn’t have told me had I asked. Spies loved their secrets.
"I have this feeling, Kee-Kee, that I may be able to communicate with you even after I'm in the tower. We won't lose each other forever." Rowan pitched his voice low. A
thrill of happiness coursed through me, though I had no idea how such a thing would ever be possible. The Soul Tenders were never allowed to communicate with citizens. What happened in their tower was a mystery, but it was widely understood that once a Soul Tender entered the tower, he would exit only when he was a corpse.
Rowan leaned closer to me and enveloped my smaller body in a brotherly hug which threatened to topple the dam holding the onslaught of my tears. "Trust the five," he whispered in my ear. I pulled back to see his face, my brow furrowing but he shook his head fractionally, placing a roughened fingertip on my lips.
A frisson of fear went through me. Was this related to his vision? The semantics of his words didn't escape me. The motto of the church, more a figurehead than any sort of religious following, was 'Trust in the Five', referring to the five Saints who ruled each House. But Rowan hadn't said that. I had no idea which five he was referring to. Mum entered the room, forestalling any questions I might have asked. I could also hear the clink of heavy boots on the stairs and the whinny of a horse filtering through the walls.
"Kiarra, it's better if you aren't so close when they come in. We shouldn't reveal we've had contact with Rowan after his vision." Mum warned with a tight voice. Her pain mirrored ours.
I hugged Rowan one last time, fearing my heart would break. Memories assaulted me, all featuring my brother. When we were kids, we would climb the trees of the orchard, running away laughing when one of the farm workers chased us off. He was always there when I was hurt, bandaging a skinned knee when I tripped over the steps leading down to third and fourth tiers. We would sneak to High Road and make faces at the guards manning the gates around the palace. He punched Billy Dawson in the face when the creep called me names in primary school. I had looked forward to our children growing up together. I shoved the memories and unshared hopes into a box in my mind, setting my shoulders forward at the solid knock on our door.
Pieces of Her Soul Page 3