Storms Over Open Fields (Life of Riley Book 2)

by G. Howell

  Overhead, the gray overcast had thickened and the mist turned to a thin but steady drizzle. What light there was gleamed off streets and roofs turned slick and wet. I climbed the wall, hesitating on the crest to make sure there wasn’t anyone around before dropping down to the muddy street and hurrying off on my way.

  There was only an hour or so till dawn and then the streets would get very busy, very quickly so I had to be out of sight before then. Well, that was arranged. I fingered the key in my pocket. I had a place I could stay, I just had to get across to the western side of the city.

  There were still Rris out and about, even at that hour and in that weather. I stuck to the shadows, kept away from lamps and the open streets. The rain cloak may have covered a lot, but not even the dark and the hood would help if a Rris got a close look. And of course it didn’t hide my gait or unusual size. At least as I headed further west away from the center of the city there was less foot traffic, so fewer folk who might get a close look.

  It wasn’t entirely deserted though. Even at that hour there were Rris with business to attend to. There were carts and couriers with early deliveries, workers from industries that never shut down, and others. Which I found as I ducked away from a rattling cart practically filling a narrow street. Yet another of those reeking little alleyways...

  A scuffling in the dimness and an impression of a scraggly shape scuttling toward me, but the sharp line of reflected light that glinted in one hand was galvanizing enough. I was still reaching for my own gun when the figure abruptly drew up short. I slowly grinned and there was a mewling noise and a sudden flurry of motion and the alley was empty again.

  Hmmm, after a shock like that he wouldn’t be accosting strange figures in dark alleyways again any time soon. I slowly lowered the gun. None of that ‘stand and deliver’ shit. The ones here would just slit your throat and then help themselves. Sometimes it was easy to forget that despite everything that’d happened to me since my arrival, I’d ended up on the better side of the poverty line and some of the individuals on the other side were nasty and desperate.

  And there was still a chance he might come back and bring friends. I hurried on my way.

  That encounter made me a little jumpier; a little more paranoid. I was warier about those twisted little back ways where anything and anyone could be lurking in the shadows or around a corner. I kept glancing back over my shoulder for anything that looked out of place. That was probably the only reason I found I was being followed.

  It wasn’t an obvious shadow I’d picked up. In fact, I didn’t notice at first and only after I’d done it a few times did I notice a figure moving in the gloom behind me. At first I thought it was chance, but it happened again and again. I took a few random twists and turns through winding streets and thought I’d lost whoever it was, but then as I turned into the High Road caught another glimpse of the furtive shape nipping back into the shadows.

  The High Road ran arrow-straight through the center of the Highland district, named not because of its topology, but because of its occupants in days gone. Back in wilder times when most of the populace had huddled within the city walls - back before the city began to demand the land - the district had been in the countryside outside the walls. Prestigious, isolated out-of-town houses for the lords and ladies and merchant leaders away from the crowding and reek inside the fortifications. Then the city had grown, exploded beyond the walls and enveloped these properties and they’d become town houses: places where the wealthy could stay when they were in the city. Now their respectable country homes were way out in the hills and while these places weren’t as big as those countryside holdings, it was still expensive land.

  Tall hedgerows and ancient, huge and twisted oaks marched in twin rows down either side of the High Road. Mist condensed on leaves high overhead and dripped in streams of moisture from foliage and boughs, pattering down through leaves and darkness, spattering from the hood of my rain cloak. The long grass of the verge was just as damp, soaking through my moccasins and leggings as I brushed through it, weaving in and out of the huge old oaks. To either side of the road lay the estates, insulated from the road by hedges, brick and high wrought iron, all ensuring that privacy that Rris architecture revolved around. I passed by gates, all closed and locked. Far beyond them, through mist and trees, in big houses up long drives, the warm glimmer of lights burned in the darkness. Otherwise, it was deserted.

  Time to do something about that tail.

  One of my weaves between the trees put the two meter-wide bole of a gnarled old oak between me and whoever was back there. Lower branches had been kept pruned back, but they provided handholds enough for me to haul myself up into the crotch and work my way a little higher. A couple of meters above head height I settled among black, mossy bark and pulled my rain cloak a little closer and rested my hand on the butt of my pistol.

  Rain hissed and pattered through leaves for minutes.

  A scrawny little figure came into view down below, moving cautiously along the route I’d taken. It rounded the trunk and hesitated looking confused. I blinked, surprised myself: That panhandling adolescent. What the hell was he doing sneaking around after me?

  Nothing that boded well, I feared.

  I landed behind him, close enough to grab a wiry arm, and then the other as he spun with claws slashing.

  “Looking for someone?” I asked.

  Like holding a damn pneumatic hose. The youngling squirmed and twisted and tried to bring toe claws into play. He might’ve been a kid, but I didn’t have any illusions about the risk those claws posed: each one was like a miniature knife. Legs kicked out with claws extruded and teeth snapped. I managed to twist an arm behind his back and grab his scruff and pin him up against the tree while he snarled and spat. He had claws and the frantic wiry energy of a cornered cat, but I was more than twice his size.

  “Finished?” I asked when he finally wound down.

  “Let me go!” he snarled. His chest was heaving as he panted fast, furiously, like a wounded animal.

  “Why were you following me?”

  “I wasn’t!”

  “Just out here for a walk, a? Just as you were walking behind me through town. Now, once again I’ll be pleasant: why were you following me?”

  A sullen hiss.

  “Don’t make me angry,” I said quietly and then grinned quite slowly and deliberately. “You wouldn’t like me when I’m angry.”

  Ears went flat.

  I leaned down and hissed into one: “Tell me.”

  A strangled mewling sound worked out of chattering jaws. “To see...”

  “See what?”

  “Where you were going.”

  Which made sense. Dammit. “You had a reason for this?”

  “Because you... you killed them!” he spat out and then recoiled.

  I also flinched back, more in surprise than anything else. “What? Who? Killed whom? What are you talking about?”

  “At the theatre,” he hissed, shaking like a leaf. It was the same one as before, with that same peculiar infliction in his speech. “You killed them.”

  I wasn’t sure if that was an accusation or a question, but I was getting sick of everyone I met assuming I was a psycho. And now a kid, a goddamned kid just assumed... I pushed him away, up against the tree and he twisted as I took a couple of steps back. In that one movement there was a sliver of sharp metal in his hand: a bit of sharpened scrap metal tied to a makeshift handle. He snarled at me and I looked him up and down. Wiry, scrawny, bedraggled and scarred; dark lines were scored through the grubby fur across his features and one ear was already notched. This kid lived a life I’d never be able to experience or probably comprehend; that probably even kids back home who considered themselves streetkids had never dreamt of.

  “Kid,” I sighed. “I didn’t kill anyone.”

 
“You...”

  “Look, you don’t believe me, why don’t you just go back there and ask that Res’hat what happened, a?” I snapped and he just stared at me. Dammit, he was just a kid. He might’ve grown up in the rancid underbelly of a world where there was so much less material wealth to trickle down through the layers of society; an ugly place where there were no social workers, where guns and shivs were almost a part of everyday attire and violence was a ready solution. But I’d still probably given him the fright of his life.

  “I haven’t killed anyone.” I repeated and cocked my head and regarded the scared youth. “What made you think that anyway?”

  “You stole in there. Later you sneak out again. I thought you didn’t like those stories of you.”

  Those stories. I almost laughed and choked it back before I scared him even more. “Those stories. You’ve already seen those, a?” I said and he twitched, his tail lashing. I’d be willing to lay money that he hadn’t paid money to see those plays.

  “They said you could get angry,” he said and I wondered what else they said. Shyia knew more about those plays than I did and perhaps his little propaganda scheme would’ve caused more problems than I’d first thought.

  “You shouldn’t believe everything you see, you know. And there are some things you shouldn’t poke your nose into. You know how much trouble you could be getting yourself into?”

  “I can bite back,” he hissed, his hand weaving the shiv in tight circles.

  “I’m sure you can,” I said, eyeing him thoughtfully. He’d noticed me, so had that mugger. For what I needed to do I’d have to be able to get around the city. Inconspicuously. Obviously, I’d have problems doing that, but perhaps someone who was more familiar with the city might do better.

  “Tell me: are you interested in earning some more coin?” I asked. “Golds?”

  At that his tail froze, and then just the tip twitched back and forth. A single gold coin would be more than he’d probably see in years; several in one night would be more than he’d have dreamt possible. Very cautiously he waved an affirmative.

  “Then I might have some work for you,” I said.

  “Huhn. What would I have to do?”

  “Just some errands,” I said. “Nothing difficult. I give you some coin to buy some food. You bring it back and I’ll pay you two golds.”

  Those cash registers went off again. “Two gold?”

  “A.”

  The pupils contracted in sudden suspicion. “Why so much?”

  “To ensure promptness and discretion,” I said.

  “You’re hiding,” he decided. “From whom?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “That’s what I want to find out. I require someone who knows the city. A guide who knows his way around? I would suppose you are somewhat of an expert in that regard?”

  “I know the trails,” he growled.

  “Then would you be interested? Or should I look elsewhere?”

  “Hai, I’ll do it,” he snapped.

  “Then it’s a deal,” I said.

  The pewter fingers I gave him were worth a fraction of the gold pieces, but they were far less likely to raise eyebrows when traded in. Although, they were still a sight more than he’d probably see in months. I told him what to get and then gave a second’s thought as to where and when to deliver them. He took the coins and counted them, all five, painstakingly, with his tongue poking from his mouth as he did so, then made them vanish into a belt pouch.

  “Two golds on delivery. And do a good job and there’ll be more.” Then I hesitated. “You’ve got a name?”

  “A,” he hesitated before saying, “T’chier.”

  “I’m Michael.”

  “Mika... Mikal,” he repeated and cocked his head. “Weird name,” was all he said, then turned and pelted off down the road.

  I watched after him until he was gone in the gloom and drizzle. It was only then that I frowned. “Wait a second. Did he...?” I wasn’t sure if I’d heard correctly. For a second I stared off down the avenue after him, but he’d vanished into the mist. I shook my head and waited another short time to be sure he’d actually gone before I resumed my journey.

  Trust him? No way. Her Ladyship had called me naive, and by the standards of their political players I was, but it didn’t mean I had to go out of my way to be stupid. He could get it into his head that he could simply go to the Mediators and charge them some handsome sum in exchange for leading them to me.

  That was assuming he knew they were after me. He hadn’t said anything about it, but it would only be a matter of time before he found out

  I kept going along between the rows of old, expensive estates and their old, expensive houses. Until the one gate that was flanked by a pair of statues: Rris holding bowls out before them. Not in the fashion of beggars, but standing larger than life and holding the vessels as though demanding the world see what they had. At one time those ceramic bowls would’ve been filled with oil and lit as lamps. Now, they were filling with pooling water and rimmed with moss. Beyond them the gates were black iron bars twisted into forms that depicted curled branches. They were chained shut. There was a gatehouse arching over them; a porter’s lodge entangled in a burst of climbing ivy, the main gate nestled in an arched passage beneath it. There was no way the thing would ever have been an effective defense: the whole construction was mostly form over function, with plastered walls and ornately carved eaves. Small glazed windows watched down from the transverse over the gate. There were no lights, no sign of life.

  That looked like the place she’d described.

  I climbed the gate carefully. The spikes on top were decorative, but still sharp and I gingerly balanced myself on the top crosspiece of the rattling gate as I ducked between them and the roof of the tunnel, then dropped down onto damp flagstones. Damn. I winced at the pain that caused my moccasin-clad feet.

  Limping awkwardly, I headed up the damp drive toward the dark house.

  It was a big place. Compared with all the other properties around it was big. Comparing it with something I was familiar with, I’d have had to liken it to a classical Georgian style, with some gothic touches in the gables and turrets. The timbers weren’t painted, but were doubtless treated with something. Condensing mist beaded in droplets across the unruly lawn in front of the building and made the black slate roof glisten. Windows on the lower floors were shuttered; those few that weren’t stared back with diamond lattice panes. The place had that certain Adams Family air to it.

  The front door was dark oak, with ornately cast brass crosspieces that were probably more ornamentation than reinforcement. Touches of tarnish fogged and pitted the metal. It was also locked. The key fitted neatly into the lock and turned. Stiffly, but it turned.

  This house was property of Ladyship’s family. Her mother’s side, I think she’d said. I wasn’t sure. She’d told me it went back a long way, but wasn’t used so often now that they’d moved to estates further out in the country. There were periodic groundskeepers and guards, but she’d said their orders would be subtly amended. I’d have the place to myself.

  Hinges squealed as the front door swung closed behind me and I stood in the dusty gloom of the main hall. It was high, a dark and dim place, paneled in dark wood, paved with grey and green checkered tiles. A musty smell hung in the air, stale: the smell of a place that hadn’t been disturbed for some time. Opposite, a grand staircase climbed to a landing, a pair of smaller staircases branching up to the first floor. Above the landing a circular window: cut and shaped panes forming an intricate geometric pattern filtered anemic moonlight through a coating of grime. Not enough to light the place, but just enough to emphasize the shadows. And the cobwebs, and the dust. There was a lot of dust.

  Cautiously, I prowled from room to room. With the shutters drawn everything was pitch black. The pale ne
edles of nightglow seeping in through chinks in the shutters provided scarcely enough light to make out empty spaces strewn with ghostly white shapes; furniture under dustcloths. Understairs was the same. The places where staff and servants had lived and worked were bare, dark and empty.

  The stairs creaked as I went up, to more of the same. More moonlight got in through the unshuttered windows on that floor, so I could see enough not to walk into things. Not that there was anything spectacular waiting, just more rooms of white-covered furniture. Still, I went through them one at a time, assuring myself that the place was deserted. Even though it felt empty.

  In some ways it was like any large house you might’ve found back home. Form did follow function, after all. But there were differences in the Rris psyche that translated into the architecture. Bedrooms and bathrooms and water closets were clustered into private areas widely separated by halls and discreet doors, giving the occupants their personal space. The bedrooms were bare, with huddles of cloth-covered furniture. Some of the bathrooms still had tubs: huge things of brick and old tiles with small fireplaces built in, but no pipes or fixtures. They predated those modern innovations.

  The house was deserted. Undoubtedly and uncomfortably so. I stopped at the doorway of one room and looked around. It’d been a bedroom once, perhaps even a room her Ladyship had called her own. Now there was just the empty box of a bed frame and few pieces of anonymous furniture stacked away in a corner, covered with dust cloths. A couple of slivers of moonlight peeked through slots in the window shutters, an eddy of dust swirled in a moonbeam. I shivered. I’d dreamt about rooms in dark houses like this before.

  Just a quiet, empty building. Nothing more. A Rris would find my emotional associations peculiar and wonder why an empty house would produce feelings like that. I wouldn’t be able to offer any answers. Shaking my head I retreated to one of the larger bedrooms. There’d been more furniture stored there, including a recliner-couch thing that still had some stuffing and would be more comfortable than the bare floorboards.