Hurricane (Street Rats of Aramoor: Book 2)

by Michael Wisehart

  I tried to wrap my mind around the politics of it all. I had a lot to learn if I was going to make it in Aramoor. It looked like I had a pretty good teacher in Reevie. The time he’d spent learning the physicker trade from his father had given him a much older and wiser view on life. He often acted like an adult rather than a ten or eleven-year-old.

  Of everything Reevie had tried explaining, one question still ate at me. “Which tribe is Red’s?”

  “Wildfire.” He stuck his finger in my face, eyes narrowed. “But don’t you get any ideas. You listening to me? Whatever you’re thinking . . . stop.”

  I raised my hands. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” Reevie lowered his gaze, but I knew he’d be keeping a close eye on me from now on.

  No matter what I decided to do about Red, the rest of my options seemed a hopeless mess. In order to eat, you had to work. In order to work, you had to be a member of a tribe, but in a tribe, you had no say in anything that was done; no vote as to the work you were to do, or how to do it. Your job was simple—obey or die.

  I had the feeling I wasn’t going to fit in too well.

  After a week and a half of sitting on my hands, I was eager to leave our candle-lit hovel and take Reevie up on his offer to see the sights.

  We started up the rickety staircase. Reaching the first landing, we rounded the corner to head up to the next. “Watch it. Don’t step on that one,” Reevie said, pointing at the rung where I was about to place my foot. “It’s for unwelcome guests.”

  My foot hovered as I studied the wooden plank. It looked safe enough, but the twisted amusement on Reevie’s face said otherwise, so I followed his example and stepped over it to the next.

  Reevie chuckled. “The bottom is scored. If anyone was to step on it, they’d go right through and I’d hear them.” The little boy chuckled. “Once their leg is caught in the hole, they’re mine.” He raised his hands in the air as if holding a bludgeon, and whacked an imaginary trespasser over the head.

  I wondered how I had managed to miss that step when I first arrived. The night Reevie had rescued me was somewhat of a mystery. From the time Reevie had carried me home until the time I first woke on his bed, I had no memory of anything.

  Reevie was still chuckling at the sadistic humor of his trap when we stepped out of his dark underground hideaway and into the building above. Damp air and iron-grey light greeted us. The new day had not yet fully dawned. I stretched with a yawn. Something about the morning sun always did that to me.

  The space above our sleeping chambers was much bigger than I had expected. It had been a warehouse or factory, but clearly hadn’t seen service in years. The soft light flooding in through the windows filtered through a heavy layer of dust. Apart from the natural creaking of the building’s timbers and the skittering of hungry rats looking for their next meal, the place was quiet.

  “Where are we?”

  “One of the old granaries back when this used to be the main shipping district.”

  “Who owns it?”

  Reevie shrugged. “Don’t know. Ever since they opened the northern port and moved all the warehouses over there, most of these older buildings have been left vacant.”

  “I’m surprised there aren’t other people living here. There’s plenty of space.” I stomped my foot on the floor. “And it seems sturdy enough.”

  “It’s not the building that keeps people away. It’s the location. We’re just south of Cheapside, which puts us on the outer edge of the old city. Most people refer to it as the Warrens.”

  This piqued my interests. “You’ve mentioned that name before. What is it?”

  Reevie headed for the doors at the front. “I’ll show you.”

  The colors in the sky were breathtaking as we stepped outside the granary and into a small loading yard at the front. Gold laced with pink and burgundy melted into a rich blue and lavender as the clouds stretched further east.

  “The next street up is Mora,” Reevie said, pointing off to the right. “Once you cross, you’ll be in the Warrens.”

  I studied the area. The buildings down the street were packed together, crammed even more tightly than what I had seen of Cheapside. There was an air of great age to them. Most of the buildings I’d seen on this part of the city were built of lath and plaster. The Warrens looked to have been constructed of old stone.

  “It’s said to be the oldest part of Aramoor. They cut the stone from the bay when the first High King decided to build his city here.”

  “Doesn’t look all that scary,” I said as my eyes hopped from one building to the next. “There’s no one there.”

  Reevie snorted. “They don’t live up here. They’re down there.” He stamped his foot on the hard-packed clay.

  I scratched my head and glanced at the print his boot had made in the dirt. “Down where?”

  “Underground tunnels. The Warrens is a network that runs under the old city. Some say it extends all the way into the new. No one knows for sure. Not even the lancers will go down there. Nobody wants to mess with the clans.”

  “Sounds like the perfect place to hide.”

  “Yeah, if you want to wind up without your hands and feet. No one goes down there without invitation, and even having one doesn’t mean you’ll come back up.” Reevie shivered. “Best to stay on this side of Mora, if you know what’s good for you.”

  “Well, from what little I’ve seen of Aramoor so far, it does seem to be an impressive city.”

  Reevie burst into a fit of laughter that ended in a rather embarrassing round of snorting.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “That’s like looking at a girl’s big toe and describing how pretty she is.” Reevie shook his head and limped his way up the short drive toward the main road. “Come on. If you want to see Aramoor, I’ll show you Aramoor.”

  I’d never seen so many people in all my life.

  The streets were full of them: tall people, short people, fat people, skinny people, some with big eyes, some with round chins. There were narrow cheeks, protruding noses, wide foreheads, and bulbous ears; a few had hair down to their waist while others had no hair at all. Not at all like Upakan society where everyone wore very similar garb, the people in Aramoor seemed to pride themselves on their individuality.

  Living in the underground tunnels of the Lost City tended to breed out claustrophobia, but here in Aramoor, the mere act of walking down the street was enough to send my heart racing and make breathing difficult. I clenched my fists to keep them from noticeably shaking.

  Unlike the streets outside the granary, where half the cobbles were missing and the potholes were large enough to bathe in, the streets and walkways within the newer districts were well-maintained. Most of the stones looked to have been replaced within the last few years, judging by their lack of wear.

  The city itself seemed to transform as we moved from one section to another. Not only did the styles and shapes of the buildings change, but the people as well. Clothing went from simple trousers and tunics of rough cloth and bland colors to costumes with so many shapes and layers that it was hard to spot the individual underneath. How they managed to suffer through the summer heat wearing sweltering amounts of opulent clothing was a mystery. One I wasn’t in any hurry to solve. I quickly realized our job was to keep out of their way as they strolled by, noses stuck in the air.

  Another aspect that separated the sections of Aramoor from each other was the variance in speech. In Cheapside, the dialogue was loud, abrasive, with a touch of get-out-of-my-way thrown in for good measure. It was a dialect for people who didn’t want to communicate: half-spoken words, arm and head gestures, grunts and whistles. Instead of politely asking someone to step aside, a whistle and a jerk of the thumb was all you got.

  West of Cheapside, we crossed through the outer edge of what Reevie said was the new shipping district. Most of the residents were men who spent their lives on the open waters, and women and children who waited patiently for them to come home. Of course, there w
ere also plenty of the other kind of women, those with heavily-painted faces and scantily-covered bodies, also waiting for the ships to return. I tried not to look in their direction when we passed, but it was difficult with all the winks and calls they sent our way. It didn’t take long to realize which houses were off limits.

  Most of the sailors went about their daily chores topless, their skin dark from exposure. Their trousers were baggy and tied off just above the calf. The old pair of trousers Reevie had lent me was short enough on my legs that I appeared to fit right in.

  Reevie was right. The sailor’s speech had a strong flavor of the sea. To me, it sounded redundant at times. For example, their use of the word ‘be.’ “Would ye be likin’ a tour of our ship, young sirs? She be the finest vessel this side of the Blue Isles. And that be no lyin’.” But it was a fun way to talk, and I found myself smiling as I followed along.

  Just north of the shipyards was Bayside with all its grand estates overlooking the blue waters of the Bay of Torrin. We hadn’t wandered too far inside before one of the patrollers chased us back out. I considered how we must have looked in our worn shoes and tattered clothing. It was obvious people like us were not welcome in the realm of the upper class. I doubted I’d have liked it much anyway. Trying to keep my nose in the air the way they did left a kink in my neck.

  The closer we got to the Merchant District the grander the buildings grew and more packed the streets became: shoppers coming and going, street vendors calling out their wares—those unlucky enough to not possess the gold necessary to open their own shops. Dirty street kids with nimble fingers darted in and around the patrons while patrollers in their notable royal blue capes stood ready to give chase. It was a living, breathing chaos that moved in an order of its own. There was a natural sort of rhythm to it; like waves crashing against the shore, it ebbed and flowed.

  The noise alone was enough to drown my thoughts. I fought the urge to cover my ears: horses’ whinnies, riders’ whips, merchants’ calls, heavy-heeled shoes on stone, wagon wheels, children’s excited shouts as they hurried their parents towards the next shop, thousands of people, each unaware of anything outside their own small sphere.

  “This way!” Reevie shouted above the crowd. “Don’t stop in the middle of the road.”

  I followed his example and kept to his heels as we crossed. “Why’s that?”

  “It’s the carriages. The drivers are ordered to—”

  As if on cue, a large white and gold barouche flew around the corner, its top down in the summer heat. A fat man layered in blue and gold silks with a bored expression on his painted face sat in the back on blue velvet cushions, his wife next to him. The driver spurred the two horses with a crack of the whip. People all along the center of the avenue rushed to get out of the way, some practically diving to keep from getting hit.

  A woman in the crowd screamed. “My son!” I turned to see what was going on. People around me were pushing and shoving to get a better view.

  There in the middle of the street was a small child making his way across the now empty cobbles. He was trying to catch a large frog as it hopped from one stone to the next.

  My breath caught. I looked at the driver; his eyes were wide, but he showed no sign of slowing. I looked back at the crowd. No one moved. I was dumbfounded. What was wrong with these people? Were they all just going to sit there and watch this child get trampled to death?

  Men shouted their disgust while women clutched their children and covered their eyes. All around, people murmured words of pity for the young mother about to lose her little boy, but still not a single man, woman, or child stepped forward to do anything about it. The young mother wailed, trapped too far back in the crowd to reach her son.

  I pushed my way between two men who watched as if it were little more than a paid performance from a theatrical troupe. I could see the horses from the corner of my eye. I could feel the tremor of their hooves as they beat the ground, closing the distance.

  Without hesitation, I released the barrier holding back my magic. Like the breaking of a dam, its warmth flooded through me and filled me with life. I never liked being parted from it, but since my injuries, I had been sparing in its use. The magic fed on my own strength, and if used during a weakened state it could kill me.

  As soon as the magic was released, I was struck with my first vision. I saw the horses’ deadly charge, the carriage as it rolled over me. I flinched, but it was something I’d grown used to. My grandfather had been given the same gift. It ran in the family. It only seemed to rear its head when there was a direct threat to the wielder, and even then, it only gave me a quick glimpse with a few seconds warning.

  I took a deep breath and rushed forward, leaving Reevie to shout at me from the side of the street. My timing had to be exact or I was going to end up trampled along with the boy. The horses were closing quickly. I didn’t need to turn to know they were just behind me. I could hear their snorts, practically smell the sweat from their hides. My mouth was dry, but I tried swallowing anyway.

  Three. Two. One. I dove. My arms wrapped around the boy as his hands wrapped around the slimy croaker. We tumbled to the side and rolled clear of the deadly hooves, but not before the team spooked and reared. Their sudden halt threw the overly painted man and his wife across the carriage to face-plant in the seats on the other side.

  The crowd gasped. With a proud look on my face, I helped the little boy back to his feet and walked him over to his mother. By the people’s reaction, you’d think they’d never seen a selfless act before. It took me a moment to realize that no one was even looking at me. They didn’t seem to care whether the child had been crushed or not. They were too busy helping the fat fop and his ugly wife back to their cushions.

  “Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you,” the child’s mother sobbed. She grabbed the two of us and pulled us close. I think she kissed me just as much as she kissed her son. Truth be told, I didn’t mind. “Laris, what were you thinking running out there like that!” she scolded the boy. “What have I told you about leaving my side?”

  “Momma, look.” Laris raised his hands for his mother to see his slimy new pet. After everything I had just done to save its life, the wretched thing actually had the audacity to belch at me. I shook my head.

  The woman reached into her bag and pressed a gold coin into my hands. “I can’t thank you enough.” She glanced at my sad state and patted me on the head. “Buy yourself some new clothes.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” I offered what I thought was an appropriate bow. I was about to say something more when a commotion broke out behind us.

  “There!” The obese man in the white suit stood from his carriage and pointed at us. “That boy right there! He’s the one! Get him!” I turned around to warn Laris, but neither the boy nor his mother were anywhere to be seen. Then it dawned on me who the overly dressed pincushion was referring to.

  Reevie rushed over, out of breath and terrified. “Black Pox, Ayrion! We’ve got to get out of here. Now!”

  For the first time since we left the granary this morning, I was thankful for all the people. Four blue-caped patrollers responded to the fat man’s cries. They drew their cudgels and charged, shouting as they came. Reevie grabbed my arm and we dove into the crowd on the far side of the street.

  “What’s going on?” I asked as I darted through the sea of bodies to match Reevie’s steps.

  “We’re being chased is what’s going on!” Reevie limped as fast as he could.

  “I know that much. But why?”

  “Maybe because you just tossed Lord Gerrick and his wife around like a couple of button dolls in the middle of the square. I’m sure he wants to decorate his study with your head.”

  I was already winded. My body was on the mend, but it was far from being ready for an all-out street chase. I was having trouble keeping up with Reevie and his gimp leg. “Who’s Lord Gerrick?”

  “He’s only the biggest supporter for cleaning up the unwanted from Ar
amoor’s streets.” He glanced to his side. “Mainly us.”

  I didn’t say more. I couldn’t. I had to put all my focus into breathing. What was it about this city that had me running for my life every time I stepped outside? We fought our way through the surge of bodies, skirting legs and dodging arms, praying we could duck into an alley.

  We had one thing in our favor. We were the perfect size for disappearing. Reevie’s head barely rose above the taller men’s waistlines while mine reached their chests. I was shocked at how well my crippled friend was able to move through the crowd. Even with his gimp leg, he never missed a step.

  I, on the other hand, was nothing short of a clumsy dolt. I’m pretty sure I hit more people than I missed. I was a little preoccupied with trying to keep my bare feet from being squashed by heavy boots or stabbed by stray heels.

  I knocked one lady carrying a small mountain of parcels off her feet. I wanted to stop and help her up but I could hear the patrollers gaining ground behind us. It sounded like they were having a difficult time parting the crowds.

  I tossed a quick apology over my shoulder and ran. She was too busy hurling accusations, and shrieking for the patrollers, to hear me. But, at least she was kind enough to slow the patrollers down for us. She latched on to one of their legs, demanding he not only catch the dirty street rat who had tried to kill her, but that he help her up and recover her packages while he did it.

  I smiled at our luck and kept running.

  I had no idea where we were going, but Reevie never once hesitated in his direction. We broke out of the flowing current of bodies and ducked between two towering stone buildings. I suddenly knew what it felt like to be ant in a forest of elder pine.

  Tripping over some discarded debris, I stumbled forward and went down. An alley cat leaped out of a bucket and hissed its outrage at my disturbance of its meal. I apologized and pulled my sore foot out of the crate I’d just stuck it through. Thankfully, it hadn’t found a rusty nail.