Storms Over Open Fields (Life of Riley Book 2)

by G. Howell

  “A.” Another pause. “That’s an odd scent.”

  “Another raccoon, probably. Rotted things after the midden heaps again.”

  “Huhn, a.”

  “Come on. Get this watch over with.”

  Voices fading.

  I waited a while, then ran again.

  Out of those woods and away up a hillside I stopped and turned, panting and dripping sweat as I gazed back down a the Palace. There were lights, but not nearly as many as that night I’d first seen it. There was however a column of torches crawling up the Palace drive: a large convoy of riders and carriages bound back to the palace at quite a clip. It didn’t take too much to guess who that was.

  I didn’t hesitate to put more distance between myself and that place.

  ------v------

  In the stuffy heat of the loft I took another swig of lukewarm water from the wineskin and grimaced. The water was body temperature and tasted of leather, but it was still wet. I drank and then returned to the dazzling point of the peephole.

  That loft was a tiny triangular spider-web and bird dropping littered wedge just below the wood-chip shingle roof of a shed abutting a store of some kind. I’d broken in by lifting some tiles and crawling down inside. It was cramped and hot and dusty and littered with the remains of nests and rodent and bird shit, but it overlooked the square. A crack served as a peephole where I could see the square and three sides.

  It wasn’t a busy place. It was small enough that overhanging buildings blocked out the early morning sunlight. Stonework on that shaded side was patched and discolored with moss. In the center stood a fountain: a modestly sized bronze statue of a stunted tree atop a pile of rocks. The metal was green with age and quite a few branches were obviously broken off. Water dribbled down to four spouts on the short plinth, one on each side. The local water supply where periodically Rris would bring pitchers and jugs to fill.

  It wasn’t a prosperous part of town.

  Down by the fountain were stone benches. On one of those benches a lone figure was sitting, right in the middle of the stone slab, tail twitching as he waited. His dark leather Mediator uniform kept others away, leaving him waiting quietly.

  The note had been delivered to the Guild Hall a few hours earlier that morning by T’chier, probably by brick through a window. It’d requested that Shyia meet me at that appointed place at an appointed time. By the time he’d arrived I’d already been there for a couple of hours, time enough to see the two figures settle in at half-open windows, spot another lurking in the greenery beyond a wrought-iron gateway. They were all armed with long guns of some description. I was sure that some of the individuals who occasionally wandered through the square weren’t all they appeared to be.

  I wasn’t surprised. There were probably Guild people all around.

  As minutes ticked by the lashing of Shyia’s tail became more agitated, then eventually it simply froze motionless. That meant he was pissed. Good. I didn’t want him thinking too clearly. Especially when a small figure appeared in front of him and hesitantly approached, then handed over a small piece of paper and hastily scampered off again.

  Shyia opened the note and read it, then looked in the direction the cub had gone. I saw him snarl, then glance at the shadows and get up. On his way out of the square he paused by a nondescript female apparently carrying a load of laundry and muttered a few words to her, then hastened on his way.

  I moved out as well, stretching as I climbed out of my hiding place and dropping down into one of the streets behind the square. He’d be taking the quickest way to where he thought the next meeting would be; where he’d just told his associates he’d be heading. He wasn’t going to make it.

  The back streets were the familiar mix of warrens of muddy, narrow, unpaved streets and fetid, dank little alleyways. But I already had my route through the city planned out. There were short cuts through back alleys, fences and walls to scale. Several times I came face to face with locals. They fled or cowered back with shocked expressions, but they didn’t impede me and I didn’t wait around. Perhaps they’d go to the Mediators or Guards. Perhaps. But I had no intention of being there by they time they returned.

  The ruined barbican was a remaining part of old city walls, standing above the peaked roofs of the tenement districts like a rotting tooth. The crenellations were mostly gone. A jagged bite was missing out of the eastern tower, revealing tumbled floors inside. Narrow windows slits were stained white with bird droppings where they’d been used as a means of ingress. Now the whole structure squatted over a public street, the gateway below forming a dark tunnel through which traffic passed. Not a great deal; it was no longer one of the city’s major thoroughfares.

  It reeked in there. It reeked of animal and Rris wastes, of rotting things and dampness. The shattered side was gutted, the outer walls collapsed down to the first floor, the floors above that just rickety frameworks whitened with bird shit. Any loose stone or good wood had long ago been recycled into local buildings. Still, there were signs that the gutted shell of the gatehouse was being used: charcoal fire pits, scattered remains of food. Whoever that belonged to, there was no sign of them at that time.

  In the gutted remains of one of the innermost broken rooms there was a small arched passageway, a doorway through the thick wall connecting to the tunnel through the barbican. Blocking that door was an ancient gate, a cross-hatch of rusting iron strips forming a grid, the holes little larger than my head offering metal-framed views of the dark stone of the gateway beyond. It was firmly rusted shut by years of neglect. That suited me fine.

  I’d been expecting the ambush. Which was why the second note had told Shyia to go to another location. Fast. He’d have a limited time to get there. So he was hurrying on the most direct route there.

  Pattering claws sounded in the gateway and when the panting figure passed by on the other side of the metal grill I called, “Shyia!”

  The Rris spun, crouching and reaching in one movement. He froze when he saw my gun already leveled. His glacial green eyes narrowed.

  “You’re fast,” I said, “but not that fast. I’ll defend myself if I have to.”

  Shyia hesitated, then dropped his hand and straightened. Standing in cool dignity as he surveyed first the gate separating us, then me. I was meters beyond it, ready to duck away behind a wall. By the time he got around the outside of the tower I could be long gone. And if he drew I could either fire, or just leave.

  “Mikah,” he said, “stop this. Give yourself up. You’re only making this worse.”

  “Worse?” I snorted. “That’s lame. You’ve already tried to kill me, how can it possibly get worse?!”

  “You’re upset,” he said. “We just want to help you.”

  “Like you did at the warehouse?” I said. “Like the shooters and agents in the square back there? Don’t give me that ‘we want to help’ shit.”

  “Then why are you here?” he asked in a horribly calm tone of voice, just loud enough for me to hear.

  “I want to know why you want to kill me. I want to know why I was abducted and now why you’re trying to kill me.”

  He stared, stonefaced. “You can’t imagine?”

  “I upset someone, but what did I do? I don’t know!”

  He didn’t take his eyes off me. Standing motionless, hands clasped behind his back. “You exist. You’re here.”

  I didn’t really understand what I was hearing. Or perhaps I didn’t want to hear it. “What are you talking about?”

  “I believe I warned you,” he replied quietly. “There is equilibrium to the peace. It wouldn’t take much to tip that. His Lordship believes you are more than enough and he has sent his orders.”

  Again, it was one of those times when there were words I could understand, but not the real sentiment behind them. I heard him speak coolly and dis
passionately and didn’t feel anything but a growing anger.

  “His lordship… Your Guild Master? And you just follow the orders?” I growled.

  His face didn’t flicker. “His lordship’s orders will always be obeyed.”

  “I’ve heard this before,” I said. “I don’t have a say? I don’t have chance to defend myself? In Westwater there was at least a trial.”

  “Things have changed since then.”

  “What about those others? The ones who attacked us that night? They were imposters? Impersonating Mediators?”

  “Nobody would be that foolish.”

  “Then they were real Mediators?”

  His expression never flickered. “They were misguided.”

  “Then Mediators are fighting Mediators.”

  “That doesn’t happen.”

  “Ah, of course it doesn’t,” I said sarcastically. “Because Mediators wouldn’t do that, do they? If people found out there was dissention in the Guild that would affect your authority, wouldn’t it? And that would be bad for you, wouldn’t it?”

  “You’ve been studying,” Shyia said slowly. “You’ve been listening to people. And does that education tell you what your presence is doing?”

  “It’s telling me that if an institution can be upset as easily as that, then they shouldn’t be looking outside their own ranks for the problem,” I retorted. “Just what the fuck is going on? Why are you fighting? You want me dead, so what does the other side want?”

  “There is no...”

  “Don’t feed me that line!” I hissed. “You’re trying to kill me. They’re not. From my point of view, whom would you be inclined to trust?”

  An ear twitched slightly, rotating to the side as if he’d heard something and then he said. “This is not the place to be discussing this. Mikah, stop this whole thing now.”

  Alarm bells went off in my head. That line felt... like he was performing for an audience. He had friends, just out of my line of sight. “I’ll be in touch,” I said angrily.

  “Mikah!”

  I ducked away through the ruins of the barbican, grimacing in fury and frustration as broken stones and assorted debris poked through the soft soles of my moccasins.

  “Mikah!”

  The yell was more distant, echoing through the ruins as I clambered out through the tumbled wall. A yowling cry that would doubtless be audible to any other nearby Mediators. I hastened into a nearby alleyway, slammed my fist against a wall and proceeded to try and get as far away from there as quickly as I could.

  ------v------

  I’d been hoping that something would come of that meeting; That there’d be some way to talk to him; that they’d offer terms or give me an explanation; that there’d be some sort of resolution.

  It hadn’t happened. I hadn’t found out what the problem was. In fact, he’d denied there even was a problem.

  In the dim and dusty stillness of her Ladyship’s house, I sat on an obscure piece of furniture that probably had some name I hadn’t learned yet and fumed and glumly ran over and over that short exchange in my head. He’d said he was going to kill me because I’d upset some sort of status quo... No, that wasn’t right. That wasn’t exactly what he’d said. He’d been ordered to kill me... No, that wasn’t right either. He’d said his Lordship had sent those orders.

  That was it. Those were the words he’d used. And it was odd wording. What did that mean?

  Was all this because I knew that there was fighting within the Mediator Guild? It’d all started that night Shyia had picked me up. He’d said I was being taken to see the Guild Lord. If he’d wanted to kill me, then why hadn’t he done it there? Too public? They certainly hadn’t had any reservations with their other attempt. So, something had changed.

  Those other Mediators had kidnapped me; they’d held me against my will, but they hadn’t actually tried to kill me. They’d warned me that I was to be executed. Perhaps they knew something else as well? Perhaps they had some answers.

  I chewed on day-old bread and brooded, watching dust motes swirling in the threads of sunlight sneaking past chinks in the drapes. Despite the stuffy heat in there I shivered. Now the fear was settling in. They were actually trying to kill me. I was an alien in a city where I could never blend in and the law was hunting me. One miss-step and they’d be on me. And options were running thin. I could run. There was always that. It was something I’d considered before, but where to? Back to Shattered Water, which wouldn’t get me away from the Mediator Guild. Or out into the wilderness.

  They’d come after me. They’d hunt me and my life would simply become surviving from one day to the next. Running.

  At least I’d be alive.

  But, I’d been hunted by Rris before.

  So, before it came to that I’d see what I could find out about those Mediators that Shyia so vehemently insisted didn’t exist. And that meant that it looked like I’d have to grease some greedy little palms again.

  ------v------

  Ruddy evening sunlight slanted down through the broken remains of the roof, sifting through the bare and broken ribs of what remained of the rafters. Somewhere up there birds rustled and twittered as they settled in to roost for the night.

  Once the ruin had been a small brick building on the outskirts of town, but at some point in the past a fire had gutted much of it. Half the building was soot-stained, collapsed ruin, the other half still capped by the remains of a clay tile roof. Charred wooden beams and joists were tumbled about gloomy interior while the unwanted rubble of collapsed stone walls were littered among weeds and dirt. Looking up through the gaping holes in the ceiling and roof, past the skeleton of the rafters, the evening sky was glowing red as the set sun set the clouds aglow.

  A couple of rooms survived. One of them was a decent-sized room, in the center of which stood a several-foot wide columnar piece of timber that’d been a post going right up to the ridgeline. The fire had blackened and charred outer layers of wood, but the thing still seemed solid enough. I stayed back behind it, lurking in the shadows. It was a pastime I felt I was getting quite good at.

  God, I was tired. Sleep had been rare over the past few days; nonexistent over the past forty-eight or so hours and I was really starting to feel it. I tried not to yawn, to pay attention while gazing out past piles of debris as the figure of the cub half-scrambled, half tumbled over a creeper-entangled low stone garden wall. As he hurried toward the house his legs were almost lost in the overgrown grass and undergrowth in what’d been a garden, or perhaps a small orchard with a half-dozen orange trees. Beyond were a few other small dwellings, a sliver of street visible. A cart slowly rumbled along that; some washing flapped on a line, but there was no sign of anyone else.

  There was a gaping hole in the wall. It’d either collapsed or was in the process of being cannibalized by neighbors. He stopped at the jagged bite, peering inside. “Mikhal?”

  “Here,” I said and the backlit silhouette of the teen’s ears flickered, twitching toward me. It really was quite remarkable. He could pronounce my name. He could actually say the letter ‘l’, which all other Rris had been utterly unable to articulate. And I wasn’t in any position to investigate the matter further and find out if he was unique or if other Rris just hadn’t been exposed to such sounds before. Like Japanese brought up without exposure to English.

  T’chier clambered in through the broken wall. Debris clattered under his feet as he picked his way through the ruin.

  “Good job today,” I told him.

  He looked up at me and hesitated as if thinking, and then thrust his hand out. I dropped the heavy lumpy coins into it and they promptly vanished in a blur of movement. “It was easy,” he proclaimed.

  “Easy, huh?” I rubbed my chin and the beard that was starting to get out of control. “Then something similar woul
d be no problem?”

  “You’ll pay?”

  “Same as last time,” I said. “And that’s being generous. Since it was so easy I should pay less, a?”

  His tail lashed. “Ai! Not that easy. They could have caught me.”

  “True,” I smiled carefully.

  “And pay first,” he demanded, holding his hand out again. I regarded it and then his eyes in the gloom. They were wide open, glittering in the growing darkness, his ears were still back. I nodded and weighed the coins in my hand; the soft metal cold and so battered that the things were no longer round. Pure gold, not some alloy or amalgam.

  He took the coins in his hand and looked at them for a few seconds, then started moving away. Back toward the hole in the wall.

  “You don’t want to hear the details?” I said softly.

  His ears were still flat.

  “They’re out there, aren’t they,” I looked past him at the tumbled wall, and then back at him and the fright on his face. “They paid you enough?”

  He rallied, raising his head and turning that fear into a defiant look. “A lot.”

  “Uh-huh, I’d hope so.” I nodded. “I wouldn’t want to be sold cheaply.”

  He was staring at where my rain cloak hung open, at where the pistols in my hands would be visible. Those eyes were in shadow, but I could see the tension in his stance, the cant of his head as his gaze twitched up toward my face.

  “You should leave now,” I said and nodded toward the fallen wall.

  “You’re not angry?” he sounded uncertain.

  “Disappointed,” I said dryly. “I’m getting used to surprises like this. Now, get out of here before I change my mind.”

  His ears went absolutely flat and his muzzle fleered back from small, sharp teeth and then he coiled around and was gone in a flurry of movement and a clatter of tottering masonry.