“Of course. But I want to surprise her, so I’d prefer you didn’t say anything at all.”
“Suit yourself.”
“I will. Thanks.”
Rawk looked up at the second floor window. He looked down the street. He looked up the street. The old man was still there, watching him. Rawk gave a nod and walked slowly away. At the corner he turned and went down beside the house. There was a narrow lane at the back. He stood in the shadows and the stench for a while, remembering the bakery fondly, as he watched the back door. If Mistletowe wasn’t home when he’d knocked earlier, he wondered if she would come home while he was waiting around the back. He sighed, checked the lane, and made his way quickly to the door.
The door was locked, of course, but it wasn’t all that solid. One kick near the middle hinge and it collapsed inwards with a crash. It fell across a table and Rawk stepped over it into a small kitchen. After a moment he picked the door back up and set it back in place as best he could. There was a serious, solid lock of dwarvish design but it wasn’t much use when the other side of the door was held to the frame by a couple of screws in the hinges. The dwarves would think of a solution to that problem soon enough, too, if they hadn’t already. He righted a chair that had been knocked over, picked up a couple of run-away apples and put them back in the bowl on the table.
The kitchen was spotless. There was a neat pile of dishes on the bench and a vase with yellow flowers under the window. The pot-bellied stove in the corner was flanked by a row of precise, shining tools— a poker, shovel, scraper and broom. It hardly looked like anyone even lived in the house.
The next room was a sitting room with a couch near the fire and a shelf half-full of books. The books were all innocent things— tales of romance and some historical volumes. The interesting ones were probably hidden somewhere. The front door had another of the impressive locks. Mistletowe obviously didn’t trust her friends that much.
Upstairs was as nondescript as down. A neatly made bed with plain brown covers. There was a chest of drawers and some clothes, mostly darker shades, hanging from a rod in the corner, lined up like a queue of women waiting at a cistern. There were two boxes under the bed. There was nothing interesting in the first but the second held the stash of magic books. There were a couple of amulets as well that were probably magic in some way or other but he had no way of knowing for sure. He was just sliding the box back into position when he heard the door opening downstairs.
Rawk swore under his breath. He was stuck upstairs when he should be down there hiding behind the door or something.
There were voices. Two people. A woman and a man. He assumed the woman was Mistletowe. It was a long time since he’d heard her talk, and even that had been in less than optimal circumstances, but this woman definitely had the right accent. The man? He had no idea, but he sounded young.
“I’m going to get changed,” Mistletowe said. “I’ll be back in a moment.”
Yes, hiding. Rawk looked around, though he knew perfectly well where every hiding place was. There weren’t any. He couldn’t fit under the bed. He could wiggle in behind the hanging clothes but then it would just look like he was standing there wearing a dress. They weren’t his color.
Footsteps on the stairs.
“Path.” Rawk went to stand in the corner that would be behind the door, if there actually was a door. It wasn’t much, but better than nothing.
Thankfully, when Mistletowe came into the room she was still talking to the man below, looking back over her shoulder and not really paying attention. She was halfway across the room when Rawk grabbed her. He had his dagger to her throat and a hand over her mouth. She smelled of too much cheap perfume.
“If you even twitch you hands,” Rawk said in her ear, “I’ll cut your throat. If you say anything— just one single word under your breath— I’ll cut your throat.”
The sorceress froze. It seemed to be a long time before she even breathed.
Rawk kept the blade poised, the razor sharp edge touching the flesh, and slowly moved his hand away from her mouth.
“I have no money,” she said quietly, barely a whisper. “Does it look like I have money?”
“I don’t want your money, Mistletowe.”
The woman finally moved, half turning to look over her shoulder before thinking better of it. “Rawk? Is that you?” She made it sound as if he was a long lost friend, not someone who’d tried to kill her several times over the last ten years, not someone who was holding a dagger to her throat.
He didn’t answer. “Who’s your friend?”
There was a hesitation, just a moment that may have been nothing. “His name is Harris. You don’t need to worry about him; he’s barely more than a boy.”
“A play thing?” Rawk wondered if he was the type of man who should be judging someone for something like that. “Tell him he’ll have to go.”
“He’ll want to know why.”
“Then give him a reason.”
“He won’t believe me.”
“Make him believe.” Rawk pressed the cold edge of the dagger against her neck and she swallowed noisily.
“Is everything all right up there?”
Rawk looked over his shoulder. It sounded like Harris was at the bottom of the stairs.
“Make him believe, Mistletowe.”
“Harris, I...” Mistletowe cleared her throat. “Something’s come up.”
“Between the bottom of the stairs and when you reached the top?” He sounded confused, and rightly so.
“I know. I’m sorry. It sounds crazy but...” She rubbed at her pointed nose as she thought.
“Are you sure you’re all right?”
“I’m fine, but I think you should go. It’s... It’s a woman thing. You know how we are.”
“Well...”
In other circumstances, Rawk might have smiled. Poor Harris obviously had no idea what Mistletowe was alluding to. Rawk wasn’t sure that he did.
“I know where to find you, Harris. I’ll come and see you tomorrow.”
“Did I do something wrong?”
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Very well, but...”
Apparently he didn’t know what else to say. A moment later, Rawk heard the sound of the door closing. He pushed Mistletowe onto the bed and drew Dabaneera. He stayed close enough to reach her quickly if needed. “What are you doing?” he asked.
“What am I doing?” She pushed her long red hair away from her face.
Rawk realized the question was a bit vague. “You and Frixen and Valo? What are you all doing?”
“Nothing,” she said, examining her fingers. “I don’t know who you are talking about.”
“You know very well. Why would you come here, of all places? If Weaver finds out what’s going on— if he finds out that anything is going on— he’ll string you up.”
Mistletowe looked up. “You aren’t going to?”
Rawk sighed. “I just want to stop all these damn exots. I want to get through an entire day without having to kill some wild animal roaming the streets of Katamood.”
“Even if I could tell you, Rawk, I would not. Magic is a part of me; would you walk around blindfolded just because Weaver decided he didn’t like people with blue eyes?”
“What?” Rawk shook his head. “Look, why in Path’s name are you even in Katamood? Travel a week in any direction and you can do all the magic you like.”
Mistletowe looked around, as if the answer was written on the wall somewhere, then shrugged. “Katamood is the center of the world, Rawk. I am drawn to this place, just as you are. It is just that before now, it was too dangerous for me to come.”
“It’s still too dangerous.”
Mistletowe laughed. “Magic is dying everywhere, Rawk. All the lines of power point to Katamood, but they are not what they once were. They are... blocked from lack of use.”
“Magic is dangerous thing, in the wrong hands.”
“So are swords. I don’t se
e Weaver trying to ban them.”
“Yes, well...”
“You have no idea what you are getting yourself into. The Cabal is only just getting started. None of us is very powerful on our own, but together...”
“What is the Cabal getting started at? What are you doing?”
“We are bringing magic back to the world. We are returning the world to the way it should be.”
Rawk was watching the sorceress closely and saw when her eyes darted over his shoulder. He tried to roll away but the man behind him still struck him a glancing blow across the side of the head. It wasn’t a particularly solid blow, but still left Rawk reeling. His attacker was a young man with heavy brows and a terrified look in his eyes. His weapon of choice was a poker from the kitchen. Rawk tried to get his sword up but another blow got through and he collapsed, head ringing.
Rawk was pretty sure that Harris had used up his yearly supply of courage and wouldn’t be a threat against an armed man, even one who was stunned. Mistletowe, on the other hand...
The sorceress was on her feet in an instant. She strode to Rawk, standing over him as much as her short stature would allow, and started to chant softly.
Harris stood close by. He was still holding the poker but looked as stunned as Rawk felt. But as Mistletowe continued with her spell, the lad seemed to gather himself.
“Quickly, Missy,” he said. He grabbed her by the hand and drew her towards the stairs. Mistletowe struggled, but Harris was stronger. He didn’t seem to realize what was going on.
As she was going out the door, the sorceress finished her spell and threw it back over her shoulder. Rawk tensed as he felt the ripple of magic wash over him. But it was weak, soft at the edges like a fraying carpet.
Was that the best she could do?
Rawk got his feet on the floor and pushed himself upright. He set off in pursuit but he could hardly keep his feet under him. His vision was blurred. He reached up and decided that the blood running from the gash on his forehead probably had as much to do with that as his rattled head. He was halfway down the stairs when the front door slammed behind his quarry.
“Path, damn it.”
He caught his heel on the edge of the last step. The floor rose up to greet him. It was the kind of greeting you expected in an alley down by the docks. He slammed into the tiles and Dabaneera clattered away across the room. He tried to stand though he knew it was useless. His shoulder hurt as he pushed himself up, but he ignored it. He wished he hadn’t because as soon as he put some weight on his leg, his knee sent a flare of pain all the way up to his back. He bit back a scream of pain and consoled himself with the fact that it had only been a little scream.
-O-
Sylvia wasn’t home. Of course she wasn’t. Why would she be home when he needed her most? Rawk considered going to find Janas but chances are it would be a wasted walk. Even if the old woman was home, she was unlikely to help when he had told her recently that he had found a new healer.
He sat on Sylvia’s doorstep for a while, hoping she might return, but he’d been hit on the head a lot during his life, often by jealous men, more often by jealous women, so he knew quite a bit about the recovery process. The pain in his head was receding, so he figured it wasn’t too serious but he still didn’t want to fall asleep, just in case.
With a sigh, Rawk pushed himself to his feet and started the long, painful walk down the hill. It wouldn’t have been quite so painful without all the stairs, but he definitely didn’t want to go around the long way.
It was barely past sunset, so there were still plenty of people around. A dwarf on stilts was moving up the street lighting lamps with a glowing taper. The hiss of the lamps sang counterpoint to the dwarf’s soft song. An old woman was carrying an over-full washing basket, possibly taking the clothes home to get them ready to return to customers in the morning. She was walking slower than Rawk. A pack of feral kids stampeded past, shouting and poking each other with sticks. A morose looking horse, rider half asleep, clopped across in front of him.
Nobody seemed to notice Rawk, which was a good thing. Maybe they didn’t recognize the beaten old man limping down the street. Maybe they just didn’t believe it was him, south of the river at this time of the day. Whatever the reason, it was a good thing. Only a crow, perched on a window sill overhead, paused in its preening to watch him pass.
By the time he made it to the river his knee was just a dull ache and his head not much more, though there was a lump the size of half a peach on his crown.
“Stupid idiot, Harris.” But he had to respect the lad. He had obviously been scared out of his wits, but came back to help anyway. He either really like Mistletowe or really wanted to get laid with anyone at all. Probably the latter.
Rawk’s knee started to hurt again as he started to trudged over Dragon Bridge and up the spine of Two Watch Hill. Then his knee almost collapsed under him for no apparent reason and he stopped in the middle of the street, hoping the feeling would pass. He wondered if he should take Dabaneera from its sheath and use the sword as a walking stick. But there were still people around and the ones in this area were more likely to realize who he was. And his arm was hurting a bit too, now that he thought about it. Or it was going numb. More numb. So numb he wasn’t sure if he could feel it at all. Or something. He gritted his teeth and kept walking. The next time his knee went funny he had to stay where he was for several minutes, carefully massaging the offending joint so he didn’t hurt his arm too. People swirled past on either side.
“Are you all right, Rawk?”
He looked around. He didn’t know the woman who had spoken to him. She was young and attractive, with a floral apron and pristine white bonnet.
“Yes, thank you. Just got a knock on the knee earlier. It’s a bit sore.”
“It looks like you got a knock on the head, too.”
He felt at the bump. There was a line of dry blood as well. “I’m sure a pretty girl like you knows how jealous paramours can be.”
She smoothed her apron. “Oh, I don’t have a paramour.”
“You don’t?”
“Do you need some help getting home?” She took a step closer and Rawk could smell a hint of jasmine. “It is still quite a way up the hill.”
Rawk looked around, taking a moment to work out exactly where he was. Then he looked her up and down. “No, I don’t think so.” The Veteran’s Club was just a block away; Maris might still be working.
“Oh.”
“The knee really isn’t that bad. I’m sure there are lots of injured men who would love for you to help them home.”
The woman nodded, though it looked as if she doubted there were any injured men anywhere in the world.
“Thank you,” Rawk said, as she walked away.
When he decided he could move again, Rawk made his way towards the Club. He scaled the lofty height of the stairs, hand on the rail the whole way, and limped into the foyer. The door that led from there to the offices was closed, which meant Maris probably wasn’t there. The Armory would be open though. Rawk dreaded the thought of all those stairs down to the basement room, but headed that direction anyway. The battle-mural in the hallway made his head ache even more. The life sized pictures crowded close. The mess hall and the taproom were full and the noise flowed out the door and washed over him like the clamor and hubbub of war. A man walking towards him seemed almost to be warrior charging at him through the slop of mud and blood. Rawk felt his hand hovering near the hilt of his sword and noticed that the stranger was reacting the same way. If he was here then he was probably a veteran and would know how it felt to be in battle.
Rawk flexed his hand and moved it away from Dabaneera. He nodded to the other man but felt his back twitching as he continued on.
The Armory was quieter than usual, but Rawk’s usual front row table was taken. He started to turn away but noticed who was sitting there. Travis was wearing his best shirt and had made an attempt to comb his hair. There was a vacant seat beside him but
before Rawk could think to take it someone set two tankards of ale down on the table and sat down. Natan was wearing his customary black though he too seemed to be dressed up for the occasion. As the big man took up his drink he reached out and laid his other hand on Travis’ arm. The two of them leaned in close and said something, laughed, touched hands for a moment.
Rawk turned away and headed slowly in the other direction. He lowered himself into a seat near the back of the room with a grateful sigh and waved to the woman behind the bar. A mug was thumped onto the table a minute later and Rawk didn’t care that it was ale. He downed it in one go and waved for another. When the waiter came he also ordered a meal. He would pay twice as much down here as he would in the mess hall above, but he really didn’t care about that either.
Over the next hour, the music soothed his aching head and sore muscles as much as any of Sylvia’s potions would have. Rawk grunted at the thought. He knew it wasn’t true, but he was soothed, none-the-less.
He watched Travis and Natan through the crowd. They held hands, touched legs under the table. Travis had said he was seeing someone but hadn’t mentioned a name. Natan seemed like the most unlikely choice in the world. He was... Rawk shook his head. He lived a few yards from the man but didn’t really know anything at all about him. He stayed quite and listened to the music.
A couple of hours later, the music wound down and Rawk was still nursing his second mug of ale. He was feeling much better. The crowd started to disperse, leaving swirls in the tobacco smoke, and Rawk watched Travis leave hand in hand with Natan, moving along with the flow. It still didn’t seem right to Rawk, but if Travis was happy it was none of his business.
When everyone else had gone Rawk started to push himself to his feet. It should have been a simple enough task, he’d done it countless times before, but he discovered that he wasn’t quite as soothed as he thought. His knee and head started to throb in unison while the rest of his body felt like a sack full of wet sand.
On the stage, Celeste and Grint were packing away their instruments. It seemed the dwarf was muttering under his breath. He was certainly looking at the barkeeper as if he wanted to go over and give her a piece of his mind. It appeared he was about to do just that, but his sister laid a gentle hand on his arm and he turned to look at her. Neither said anything but, after a moment, Grint sighed. His shoulders slumped and he picked up his drum case. He seemed to notice Rawk for the first time and nodded a silent greeting. Rawk raised his chin in reply. It was about the only movement he was capable of.
A History of Magic Page 11