Shadowcloaks

by Benjamin Hewett

  Lucinda puts a hand on Santé’s shoulder. “Thank you for digging us out, Santé. Thanks for the bread.”

  “Aye,” he whispers. “There’s a little more there than just bread. Just don’t expect me to do it again.”

  #

  “I hate tunnels,” Lucinda says as she stumbles after me. “This one feels even worse than the sewer.”

  She’s right. There’s something wrong with this place. I can feel it in my bones. It’s cold in the way of stale magic.

  Lucinda sees me shudder.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Pale Tom. The place reeks of him. It’s like he wiped his sweaty face on every inch of the stone, like he’s been doing that for centuries. Only it’s not a smell. It’s something else.”

  “What?”

  I can’t stop my teeth from chattering. “I can smell him on the walls and ceiling.” I take a few more steps. “Feel the dried-up soul-beat, feel it? Carcass, Ragus, hateful thoughts. Memories bad and . . .”

  “You sound like Yessy.”

  “Sorry.”

  I trace the wall with my hand. It’s smooth as melted stone, smooth as the cave wall leading down to Yessy and No-No’s room in the back of Three-Caves Hold. Only once does the tunnel surface deviate, as my finger passes over a shallow, penny-shaped hole in the wall.

  When we reach the end of the tunnel, Lucinda stops me. “Hang on, Teacup.”

  She unties the packet that Santé brought for us. There is a loaf of bread, but it’s nestled between two sweat-crusted bracers and wrapped in a leather shirt and a thin, black cloak with a hood.

  Lucinda hands me the hooded cloak. “This is for you.”

  I put it on and test it, wondering at Santé’s gesture. The hood is big, but not by too much. Why would he do this for me? Why would he do this for Lucinda? We don’t have the same goals.

  “Do you understand him?” I ask Lucinda as she settles the leather shirt in place over her tattered rags.

  “No,” she says, strapping on the bracers. “The Grey Mules only serve the King.”

  I take a bite of the bread. It’s old, but my stomach doesn’t care. “Makes me wonder what I’m missing.”

  “Mayfe ‘ee wikes us,” Lucinda says through a mouthful of bread.

  “Maybe.”

  We finish our bread in silent thoughts and quiet companionship. I’m the first one to scramble up through the collapsed sewer line and into the chaos above.

  “Pan’s Beard,” Lucinda swears.

  Under the eaves of the facing building, plastered to the stone in clear gesso paint, is an enormous parchment sketch of yours truly. The giant sketch has embellished, unrealistic scars on it and a rakish leather eye-patch that makes me look especially dangerous. But it’s clearly me. Drawn by someone who knows my face better than my own mother. But they can’t spell my name worth rusted nut-bunches.

  S.T.I.I.P.S.

  “Pan’s Beard,” I echo. “It’s not that hard. It’s ‘Steeps.’”

  I look around to get my bearings. There are a dozen different fires burning throughout Lower Ector. Bucket brigades flood avenues and alleys as people try desperately to keep their homes and businesses from going up in flames. For the most part they’re ignoring the corpses laid out in twos and threes: Greys from the rowing ships, lesser taxmen, and here and there a body in night-black, non-descript clothing.

  Even as we move from one alley to the next another fire springs up, and the mass of milling, desperate people subdivides again to cover this next flame. The fabric of the town is being slowly ripped apart, and the strain of it is creating both holes and hotspots. There are great gashes in the land where the cobblestones have opened and been swallowed by the sewer beneath, only to be swallowed in turn by Santé’s mysterious sub-sewer tunnels.

  Every few blocks we have to duck into a doorway to avoid being gang-pressed into putting out another fire.

  “Teacup, we should help,” Lucinda says. “There could be people trapped inside.”

  “Do I look like I’m in any position to help?”

  To punctuate this point, we round another corner on a Nightshade slaughtering Jibsen, one of Santé’s men. It’s too late to do anything. Lucinda pulls me back into the smoky shadows, but I peek around the corner again, this time discreetly. There are three other taxmen lying dead in the street. The ‘Shade with the bloody sword whistles and another man slides to the ground from the roof. This one has a squat, ugly, hand-bow strapped to his back, over a black cloak that ripples noiselessly in the wind.

  “Bastards won’t give up,” he says, shaking his head. “Who the hell are these guys?”

  The first ‘Shade shakes his head. “You think I know, Renfroe? Next time, give ‘em their coin and send them on, I say. Better than fighting them out of the very woodwork. Had to cut my way free from The Golden Apple, and then they collapsed the entire building on Caddow, Trim, and Birgitte. Three ‘Shades dead.”

  “Rings?” Mr. Shortbow asks. His cloak flutters again, soft and silent as a wolf’s mane, as black and soft as the gloves from Yessy and No-No.

  Bloody-Sword shakes his head. “Buried in the rubble. Might be able to recover them at night, but I wouldn’t bet on it. They’ve got something nasty planned for salvagers, I’d wager. I’ve seen lookouts in the adjacent buildings.”

  There are footfalls on the roof just above us and then a voice. “They’re tax collectors. I asked the locals. Jimmy was a fool to not buy them off. They’ve already killed half a stable.”

  Lucinda and I back away carefully. Back to the third bucket brigade we’ve had to circumvent. “They’ve taken rooftops from me, too,” I grumble.

  Lucinda sees where this is going. “Not the sewers again, Teacup. Please. We just need a plan. We go somewhere to rest and regroup. The widow next to my place might have some food to share.”

  “The only safe way to get there is the sewers,” I say. Secretly I doubt Lucinda’s neighbors will be any help, but if it gets her underground again it’s worth saying. “We can’t risk being spotted.”

  “I’ll stuff you into a shipping crate and get a carter to deliver us.”

  “Do you see any carters making deliveries today, Lucinda?” I head back toward the last sewer grate I saw, one that wasn’t caved in. The alley funnels to it, sloping down. The grate itself is huge, designed to catch the large alley’s runoff before it pushes into the main square. There’s a smaller down-shaft there, with a more manageable hatch-grate, but the square is packed with all kinds of people, and exposed. “Lucinda, help me with this grate. Don’t usually use these.”

  “Teacup, I can’t.”

  “We’re out of time, Lucinda. Do you even smell this city? It’s going to burn. And the ‘Shades aren’t going to bother to untie Carmen if their building goes up in flames.”

  I can feel Lucinda’s attention turn from me and I look up. “Teacup, look at this,” she says.

  “I am.”

  The alley slopes downward to another square dominated by an old oak tree and granite fountain. The crowd there has abandoned its fire, which has been reduced to a trickle of smoke but will begin to grow again if they aren’t careful. Instead, they grip their buckets with white-knuckled hands, and I smell riot-weather on the late-winter wind. They’re throwing dark looks at another squad of ‘Shades perched on the fountain rim as they examine another enormous charcoal sketch of me on the side of a white-plaster house. It’s got my non-existent eyepatch and plenty of imaginary scars. Somebody has scrawled some words at the bottom of it, wobbly, ill-formed, and misspelled. The awkward print is out of sorts with the sweeping lines of the charcoal art, but the message is plenty clear. “He. Is. Coming.”

  It takes Lucinda a little longer to decode the crooked, black-charcoal words. Reading is a new skill for her.

  “Who drew this?” shouts one of the ‘Shades. “Which one of you dirt-smeared rut-mutchins is drawing these pictures?”

  Another man in black shakes his head. He’s got sandy hair and
a crossbow on his back. “That’s not going to work, Gavin. It isn’t one of them drawing the pictures.”

  The angry ‘Shade shrugs off the comment. He has a long gash from the crown of his head to his neck and the blood has not yet crusted. He isn’t interested in truth. He’s interested in venting his own impotence.

  “Who wrote this message?” He doesn’t notice the flecks of spit that fly from his mouth.

  The townsfolk stare mutely at him, lips moving but no sound coming out.

  “Who?” he shouts. “Who did this?”

  A whisper on the wind pierces the square, just audible above the dying flames. “He is us. He is coming!” It whispers.

  It is impossible to tell where the voice is coming from, but the crowd takes up the quiet cry. “He is coming. He is coming,” they whisper, facing the Nightshades, promising a return to law and order. “He is us.”

  “You hypocrites,” shouts the squad leader. “I’ve heard about this place. Whores and pimps. Thugs and cheats. Rigged wagers and shaved dice. Your hero’s nothing more than a common thief!”

  The whisper becomes a murmur. “He is coming. He is us.”

  The Nightshades pretend it doesn’t bother them, pretend not to hear, pretend not to see.

  “They’re talking about you,” Lucinda says in awe.

  “Yeah. Doesn’t help Carmen.” I pull the black hood over my head.

  “He is coming!” the crowd says, more loudly now.

  One of the ‘Shades slashes the poster.

  “Shut up, dammit!”

  He grabs a young girl from the bucket line by the hair and pulls her backward before the man next to her can react. She falls, catches herself, crabwalks till the ‘Shade stops pulling on her. Sprawled in the muddy street, she tries to sit up, but the ‘Shade pulls down on her hair, stopping her, exposing her neck to the rain. He keeps his hand wrapped in her hair.

  “What’d you say, girl?”

  “Nothing, m’lord.”

  She’s afraid, and she should be. He’s going to kill her, no matter what she says. She closes her eyes tight. She can’t be much older than Val.

  “Please don’t,” her father says.

  He’s my age, or perhaps a little older, with grey wingtips in his hair, nothing special about him except his love for his daughter. He tries to go to her but two of the ‘Shades throw him to the ground.

  “They’re going to kill her,” Lucinda says with horror.

  “Where is the thief?” the angry man shouts. “Where is this pitiful ‘Nightshade Slayer?’ Is he here now? Is he slaying any Nightshades right now?”

  I reach for Lucinda, hand closing on her belt. Drunk with righteous anger, she thinks she can fix the whole damn, broken world. She tows me for a few steps before swatting me aside with her free hand, the one not drawing her sword.

  As Lucinda sprints toward the crowd I can see their anger and desperation. They grip their buckets, tensing. They might not have the guts to stop this violence, but their impotence at watching it will be the spark that starts a riot. Guilt and self-loathing will sometimes drive cowards to great things.

  The sandy-haired Nightshade sees it too, can read the crowd and knows the teetering precipice we’re all on. He knows what a hundred men with buckets can do. What a thousand can do. His fate rests on the blade of a knife, and the other ‘Shades can’t see it yet.

  He doesn’t see Lucinda charging forward, drowned out by the chanting. All he sees is his comrade’s temple, and his knife strikes true.

  The ranting ‘Shade crumples suddenly. His blood splashes across the girl and she screams, too petrified to push the corpse away.

  Sandy wipes his knife on his murdered comrade’s shirt and eyes the girl. “He is not coming,” he says to the crowd. “We’re the only protection around here. Remember that. Remember me.”

  He motions north. “Let’s go, boys. It’s time to check in.”

  The crowd parts to let him pass just as Lucinda arrives.

  Lucinda sees the murdered Nightshade and the unharmed girl and tries to backpedal, but stumbles on her bad leg. The crowd draws away from her when they see Sandy grinning. They don’t recognize this woman with her matted, uneven hair and ragged clothing.

  His smile widens as the space between her and the crowd grows. Too late I realize he’s looking past Lucinda. My hood has fallen sideways, exposing half my face. And they know this face from the posters, probably better than they know their own mothers’.

  There’s a new whisper in the crowd that grows into defiant shouts.

  “He is here? He is here? HE. IS. HERE!”

  TWELVE

  There are some moments I’m proud of in my life. Some moments that give me a nice, warm feeling way down in my belly, if I bother to think of them later.

  This is not one of them.

  Lucinda might be just fine out in the open, but there’s only so much beating my frame can take. It’s a lot less than those four Nightshades and their buddies and can deliver.

  I spring the lock with a flick of my wrist, reach down with both hands, and yank hard on the grate. It slides, biting through my gloves. I yank again. The grate barely moves. I jerk again desperately, scanning the rooftops to make sure no one is taking aim. The grate moves again as I pull, but only an inch or so. Even desperate, I can’t move it.

  Two of the Nightshades are already on Lucinda, who is trying to back away toward the alley. She doesn’t dare turn her back. Sandy, just a step behind, shouts at them to slow down and flank her but they don’t listen.

  When Lucinda stumbles they see the blood, and both go for the kill at the same time, shoulder to shoulder. But it’s a feint, a deception. She’s already pivoting, falling off her bad leg and onto her good in a graceful spin that exposes her side but increases the force of her swing. There is no way for them to dodge or duck. Her blade decapitates the shorter of the two and rips through the taller man’s chin.

  Sandy curses, trying to take advantage of her rotation, but even with his ring on he is too slow and too far away. She catches his long dagger on her bracer and twists, swinging her own blade directly through his shortsword, which shatters. Time slows as he slides forward, twisting impossibly under the flying metal shards, his hand already in his jacket.

  Lucinda!

  I don’t even have time to shout, only to think. Then her boot is there, kicking him back, keeping her space free, her weight on her stronger leg.

  Sandy stumbles backward, yanking a second long knife from his jacket, looking frantic for a moment, but Lucinda doesn’t follow him. He swears, knowing he almost had her, unwilling to step into her long reach again without a solid opening. He tries to circle to the left but she matches him, always backing away, always staying between him and me.

  The other remaining man puts a fist-size wooden box to his mouth and blows hard into it. At first the box whines like a horsehair bow on taut wire, but the sound builds quickly into a chorus of wounded ducks. The sound penetrates the air, dominates it like a bad smell. It’s more grating than trumpets, bounding over rooftops and squeezing easily between crowded buildings.

  Lucinda’s not stupid. She knows she can’t stand against an army. Suddenly she’s there next to me, lending her strength. The heavy, iron barrier practically flies away from the down-shaft to the sewer.

  We dive into the hole at the same time, tangling together as we fall. I catch a climbing ring as I fall, but Lucinda’s weight tears me away from it and we end up in a heap at the bottom.

  “Thanks for breaking my fall.”

  “Get off, Teacup.”

  “I thought paladins don’t run from evil.”

  “I’m not worried,” Lucinda says, breathing heavily in my face as she rips off my jacket buttons, which are lodged in her shoulder strap. “I’m pretty sure this evil’s gonna follow us.”

  We roll away from the down-shaft as cobblestone and rock crash down after us, hoping for a lucky shot.

  “They’re using the sewers,” Sandy shouts. “
Tell Ragus.”

  Light from the square above filters down and splashes on the slick sewer stone. I can’t see the vaulted ceiling or the sloping of the channels, but I know a hub room when I’m in one. “Follow me,” I mutter to Lucinda. We run.

  There is shouting in the hub behind us as ‘Shades drop into the hunt, called by the wooden box-thing. I try not to imagine them dropping into parallel shafts as well. There isn’t time, not even for caution. I’m counting steps, heading deeper into Lower Ector and territory I’m more familiar with, whispering the numbers aloud so Lucinda knows not to bother me. I think I know this tunnel. Eighty-six more steps. Then the tunnel on the right. Twenty-seven steps. Left and . . .

  My hand finds the dead end.

  No!

  “What?” Lucinda presses when I stop counting. “Why did you stop counting? Did you lose count? You were on twenty-seven.”

  I can hear her breathing rate increase even though we’ve stopped moving.

  “Teacup?”

  Where did I slip up? We started in the big-oak square and took the lateral line to Butcher’s Alley. Then the eighty-six steps and then the twenty-seven. We should be at the up-spout near my place. Or did we start at big oak and take the lateral to Tavern Street? Maybe I got turned around in the hub after the fall.

  I’ve been gone from Ector for a few months, and I’m already losing my touch.

  “What is it Teacup?”

  “I’m . . . I’m . . .” I don’t want to say “I’m lost.” I try to soften it. “I . . . I made a bad turn. We have to go back.”

  “They’re getting closer!”

  “I know. I know.”

  I can hear the whistles and clucks of the Nightshades as they pursue us, communicating in some signal code I haven’t learned.

  “Back to the last turn. Maybe we can find an up-shaft.”

  There has to be another way. There is more going on here, something I’m missing. Something I’ve been missing for twenty years. The sinkhole Lucinda fell into and lost her armor. The tunnel-shaped hole beneath the Grey Mules headquarters. The sound of running water here and there. The penny-shaped holes in the walls near the up-shafts. A penny-shaped hole.