by D. H. Aire
Andre could not clearly remember what had happened. There had been a fight. Her side was bandaged. Her clothes were gone. There was the faint smell of ashes.
"By the Aqwaine, it's good to see you awake!" Juels exclaimed in relief.
"Hmm?"
"Can't stay here long, though, I don't know what woulda happened if, uh, that old codger hadn't come along," Juels muttered.
Coming more awake, Andre murmured, "Someone helped us?"
"Don't you remember? He was a strange one, I grant, shouting about how uncivilized they were acting and all."
It was simply still all too confusing for the older girl, Juels realized, then went on lamely, "You were hurt bad. The old guy helped me get you here and bandage you. He left before I could thank him."
"I don't remember any of this," Andre murmured wanly. "Uh, I found us some clothes. What do you think?" Blinking blearily, she strained to glimpse what Juels had so carefully laid out beside her. "What is it?"
Juels frowned, "You'd warned that it might be possible to trace us through our clothes. I burned ours too... I rummaged around some—I swear I didn't go far, and just kinda thought that these would, uh, disguise us a bit."
Andre's gaze finally focused on the clothing. "Damn it. Where did you find me a dress?" Juels thought it best not to ask what Andre thought of hers.
The dwarves left their quarter in the Sixth Tier by twos and threes. Stieven Led his group to the closest site Terhun told them was one of the Pack's select "ways."
The appearance of the dwarves surprised the unsavory lot leisurely waiting in ambush. Their cries were quickly silenced. Dwarven axes often had that effect on people.
They dragged off the bodies. Hopeful that any urchin now trying to pass this way would come to no further harm.
Leading his patrol on toward the next likely spot, Stievan prayed that his fellow dwarves spreading out to help as best they might, would find the children quickly. And rue the folk they found trying to cache their bounty.
In the meantime, word of the distressed children's plight had been sent up-Tier. Stievan dreaded how the information would be received at the home of the Dwarf-friend, where the urchin's patron, the Cathartan woman Cle'or dwelt.
"It's not your fault, Cle'or."
She whirled. "How can you say that, Sester?" Sister by the same father. "I should never have trained them. Though, they are naturals at serving the task we most need."
Se'and sighed, glanced for support to the oldest bodyguard wife of their small Cathartan Household-By-Bond. Me'oh was pregnant and Cle'or's co-wife to the elfblood Balfour, Je'orj's first friend in the Crescent Lands far to the east. "You are Champion of this House, Sister. In that capacity you saw an opportunity to both help us and those children—or do you think us blind to that particular truth?"
Cle'or fought to keep her composure, "I don't know what you're talking about."
"It's just us, Cle. Admit it," Se'and offered sympathetically.
The thin scar that marred her face were taut as Cle'or struggled internally, then abashed replied, "How could I turn my back on boys? I will never get used to the fact that there can even be so many! Do you realize that each would a prince back home? Here they are treated as worthless! We would never treat any child so!"
Me'oh put her arms around Cle'or, "In many ways, being far from home is as difficult for us as life here is for Lord Je'orj. The champions are mothers to all the children of a House, forever challenging them, tempering their skills. You found that again in your urchins."
Cle'or squirmed, "Se'and, I must go out there! Me'oh, I just can't sit hack while those children are endangered! I'll go mad!"
"No," was Se'and's simple, but strict reply.
Upstairs, Fri'il hurried from the bedroom and shouted, "The coach and escort have returned! Lord Je'orj must be back!”
Cle'or stiffened and took a guarded stance. Moments later, the front door was opened by one of the Imperial Guards stationed outside.
Worriedly, Se'and hurried to the door and Aaprin entered, "Uh, Se'and! I didn't know what else to do! I'm sorry!"
"What happened? Where is Je'orj?" Se'and exclaimed as Fri'il came down the steps worriedly.
"He was right behind me. A recess was called not long after, uh well, what happened."
Se'and took him by the arm and led him to the table. "He was right behind you in the Guild Hall or outside its enchantment?"
Aaprin gasped, "That's got to be it! I knew hours had passed once I stepped to the street, but he must still be on his way out!"
Me'oh went to the door and had the guard outside send back the coach, who knew when Je'orj might return. Cle'or listened only half-heartedly as Se'and slowly made Aaprin explain all that had occurred at the Hall.
Fri'il went to the kitchen, her hand upon her stomach, "Well, little one. At this rate you may be born before even your sire has aged a single day."
It was late afternoon. Imperial soldiers patrolled the streets of the Seventh, imposing a curfew. Shops and taverns all along the main street where shut tight.
But as things in the Seventh often are, the Imperials could not be everywhere. People with purpose moved relatively unrestricted through the maze of narrower streets and alleys that connected the dilapidated and ramshackle Tier.
The Temple of Unity had seen better days in centuries past. One lone priest kept its alter sanctified and helped the local people as best he may.
The elvin mages uneasily returned to the Temple. The place had served as refuge for Aaprin Summerfelt and his family not long ago. Sianhiel knew how great a sanctuary this place truly was-- and had learned respect for the solitary Old priest.
"Well, well!" the priest chuckled, appearing from the stairs close to the altar. "Come to visit us again so soon! Perhaps, the belief in the Unity has finally swayed you, Lord Sianhiel!"
The elf smiled thinly, "Not quite, thank you, oh, so humble priest!"
Coming closer, the priest sighed, "What can I do for you this time?"
"Answer some simple questions, no more," Sianhiel replied.
"Questions only? Or are you hunting in the Seventh."
"Hunting?"
"There's a bounty set for Gallen's urchins."
Sianhiel scowled, "I knew nothing of this. But it may answer some of the questions I meant to pose."
"Then should you happen to discover, who—" the priest raged, "the despicable source of this ill is, you shall see fit to inform me."
Sianhiel bowed, "That I shall. Take good care of those in your charge. I shall see that no one disturbs this place." Gesturing to his elvin associates, Sianhiel left.
The priest gaped, incredulous.
"He couldn't have meant that, could he?" Baxter wondered coming out of concealment from the entryway the priest had first appeared.
Turning, the priest prayed that the elf truly intended to help. Thinking about the nine forlorn and desperately afraid urchins huddled in the Temple's most heavily warded chambers.
Chapter
5
Gallen woke in a strange bed. A familiar face, remembered gawking at him through a window, stared at him in concern.
"You certainly gave me a start appearing out of thin air like that outside my door. You were lucky I was even looking with all the trouble in the streets."
"Master Rolf?"
"Big bounty on your head, lad. You've taken no visible hurt I could find. One thing's sure. I can't do much more for you here. It just isn't safe."
Blinking long and hard, Gallen struggled to sit up, Rolf helping. "Where am I?"
"Lucian's old room… I carried you up the back stair. The room's got a separate entrance. Nobody pays much attention to the alley."
Gallen began to remember and paled. "I don't know what to do."
Rolf frowned, "You've got to get out of the Seventh, is what. Irin's in the Sixth now with Lucian, somewhere. But they might try to track you there, knowing you're friends."
Pale, it was the old fear returned. Galle
n had been running for so very long. Now mages had come after him. He was jeopardizing the Rats. He had to go. But where?
Grimacing, Rolf mused, "Well, there might be a way out of the Seventh that nobody'd pay much attention too." Gallen looked at him curiously. "You'll doubtless earn no friends taking it."
"Anything! What is it?"
Through the window, stars shone full. Ebb opened his eyes, pain flared from his side.
"Lie, back. Don't try to get up," a too soft voice cautioned the figure in shadow in the darkened room.
"Where am I?"
"Some place safe."
Ebb knew that voice. He turned, squinted, and saw Gabriol, the former Prince of Thieves right hand. "I take it that I've been sold to the new Prince, whoever he is."
"As to that," Gabriol rasped, glancing further into shadow, "I can't say that's not true."
"So, am I to be chained here and given as a favor to whomever?"
There was a hasty cough. "Not that. But you are in the old place."
Ebb paled, casually feeling under the sheets, knowing his clothes were gone. His fingers edged to find a weapon at the side table. Anything would do. He could end his life at his leisure.
The woman who had spoken came out of the shadows. "You won't be harmed, Ebb." The urchin frowned, thinking there was something familiar about the voice. Tugging at her hair, her wig came free.
"Everything will really be all right."
"Harl?" Ebb rasped. "Is that you?"
With a wistful smile, the winsome adolescent nodded. "I guess my warning came too late. I'm sorry, Ebb. I tried, but the Rats have changed a bit since I lived with them. We'll do what we can for the others."
"How did I get here?"
Frowning, Harlequin answered, "We purchased you. It seems Melane's reputation has for once proved a noble asset. Those who set the bounty thought not only to turn a profit, but to put you in hell."
Gabriol nodded, "The new Prince of Thieves has a few more morals than the last."
Ebb stared at the effeminately dressed Harl, his closest friend during his earliest days in the Pack. He had last seen Harl the night the Pack had raided this place, the night the former Prince of Thieves and Madame Melane had died.
"How many?" Ebb choked.
"Eleven that are definitely Gallen's. The hunters grabbed kids rather indiscriminately, some are badly hurt like you," Harlequin stated. "It's just luck that brought you to us. How many escaped, neither of us know."
Clawd pointed the way, half carrying the injured Ruke. There were five of them. Only he was in any shape to forage and reconnoiter. They had taken one of the secret ways into the Sixth Tier. The sight of fresh bloodstains on overturned crates motivated them to greater speed.
Clawd led them near the Dwarves Quarter. He remembered a building that had been long empty, had heard a merchant bewailing the fact that the dwarves would rent to no one. It was a place he knew of that could not be linked to the Pack and was the only place he could think that might be safe.
Their trek through the brighter lit Sixth Tier was a far cry from the drabness of the Seventh. It was quite late when the circled around to the back of the building.
Clawd loosed a boarded cellar grate. One by one they slipped inside. He gently laid Ruke down. The urchin lieutenant muttered the safety rhyme, "Burn clothes. Steal new. Fear–" he shivered, "no mage pursue."
The small boy swallowed, looking about the airy and empty chamber. He saw nothing with which to make a fire, make bandages, or keep them warm.
So, it was up to him then, but he was so tired. Yet he couldn't let even magery track them here. He scuttled to the door, opened it slowly, grateful when it did not squeak. In the dark he felt his way to the stair. He only hoped he could find what they needed.
When he ascended into a pantry area, he stared. Food stocked the shelves. Sweat beaded his brow. This place was no longer abandoned, but for now they had nowhere else to go. Well then, he told himself, food, fire, blankets it is. He explored and stole as best he could—taking blankets from the bottom of stacks, foods only far back in the pantry.
Once back in the cellar storeroom he took their rags and burned them, passed out the blankets and food, and finally allowed himself a chance to sleep.
The Imperials had set up a triage to care for the many wounding in the rioting or whatever else might have gone on.
The worst injured were put on wagons and as night fell, the last group was taken up-Tier. Juels had had to cajole to be allowed to accompany her stricken sister. The officer on duty had taken a pitying look at them as Andre began to cry out for the sister they would separate her from.
Juels, however, did not ever feel like celebrating. Andre had fainted as soon as they were settled. It was also a long way to the Healer's Hall—and what dubious safety might be gained there.
Verny stood where once an urchin had spied the dock. Covered cages were being loaded onto a waiting ship. He had attempted to get closer, acting the drunkard, but had been forcibly pushed aside before he could even try to peer beneath the cloth.
Yet, he had heard the faintest of moans before the sailors pummeled him badly enough to show him the error of his ways. There was a sound to Verny's left. When he turned, his eyes widened.
The dwarven bard Spiro was standing, half in shadow just watching him. Verny inclined his head toward the nearest docked ship. The dwarf nodded, then faded back out of sight.
Verny smiled ruefully, drew his dagger, and began to make his way closer to the ship, knowing he was no longer alone. As he got closer, he could see dwarves climbing from the riverbank up the side of the ship.
The dwarf Tett looked back at him just before he flung himself stealthily over the rail. The smile he had given him sent shivers up Verny's spine. There was a single muted cry from the deck, then Verny was running full out for the gangplank with a half dozen very short and unexpected compatriots right on his heels.
Balfour, the only elfblooded healer who served his patients through purely human means, and was accordingly disapproved of by his fellow practitioners in the Healer's Hall, was updating a case history.
He knew he had little enough time for such tasks. His office was a cramped cubic, a demonstration of the Hall's displeasure of his chosen practice. However, particularly on a day with the rioting in the Seventh, which had brought literally hundreds of people to the Hall, displeasure or no – no skilled hands were to be wasted. If anything, he was given more people to serve than any of his peers. It was made his duties quite a challenge, but Balfour had learned to persevere. It proved his human skills merit all the more.
The Hall Warden called out for him at the appearance of the last trundling roll of carts baring the riots injured.
Balfour's young medic woke blearily, yet with good heart as other elfblooded healers began moving to their posts. Balfour's assigned task was to sort out those most in need of treatment from the less serious cases. It was an important duty and one that offended the other healers less than when he actually healed anyone by his methods.
He had no sooner stepped into the courtyard, when he heard the cry, "Master Balfour!" He turned his head as a little girl cried from the middle wagon, "Please, Master! My friend's sore hurt!"
"He'll get to you!" shouted the Warden.
Yet the fact that he had been called for by name drew Balfour. A lounging dwarf, one of Balfour's semi-invisible bodyguards hurried forward in case this proved to be some trick to coax him to harm.
Juels shook the unconscious Andre, "Please, wake up! We're at the Hall!"
Balfour climbed onto the wagon amid the injured and stared at the smallish girl, desperately shaking her listless friend. "Master!
"You've gosta help, Master Balfour! For Cle'or's sake! She promised if ever in need!"
His eyes went wide at the mention Cle'or. He knelt beside Andre, checked her pupils, then closed his eyes and concentrated. He took a full reading of her, then without another word picked her up and called for assistance.
>
Juels hurried after as human medics strode from the Hall to take his burden. Five dwarves now stood poised in the courtyard as Balfour turned to her. "You know Cle'or?"
The girl swallowed nervous and tired, "She promised all a' Gallen's aid should there ever be need."
He nodded to himself, then gaped in startled understanding. But Gallen's name brought unexpected responses from the injured. "Gallen!" cried a boy awkwardly freeing himself from the undercarriage of one of the carts.
A man, his hair caked in blood reached out with burst of energy and a mute shout, "Two Golds a piece. Can't let another one get away!"
The boy dived under his outstretched arms and threw himself to the
ground before Balfour. "Please, sor! Help us!"
"Gallen's!" Yelled another boy from the foremost wagon, coming out of hiding beneath the surprised driver's own perch. "Help me, Master!" cried a small tow-headed child, struggling from the grasp of an injured man who cursed, then cruelly slapped the child to silence him.
"This one's mine own son! Sell 'im I want!"
A dwarf shouted a cry and leapt to the lad's defense and struck the injured man, who cringed back, releasing his prize. The boy hastened into the arms of his savior. As the dwarf bearing his tearful charge jumped down, he muttered in passing to Balfour, "Be grateful I didn't kill him. Whether father or not – he is no father to this one!"
Balfour replied, "I think he'll keep that in mind during his talk with the Imperial Guard." Then Hall's warders and medics brought the place to order, while Balfour saw to the urchin children, promising the children that they were safe.
Assured of that, Juels fainted, exhausted.
Terhun returned to the inn. All he wanted was a decent night's sleep and knew he was unlikely to get one. He had done just about all he could think of.
As soon as he entered the inn, he knew something was wrong. The common room was silent. The owner was looking at him rather pale. Terhun reached for his dagger. "That won't be necessary."