A Tailor's Son (Valadfar)

by Damien Tiller

  “Thank you for saving me.” Harold offered by way of changing the subject. He paused before asking. “What is your name?” Right there and then she was the only person who either did not think Harold was a murderer or want to kill him and, as one of the many gods as his witness, Harold needed someone to consol himself with and whoever this girl was she had a strength that drew Harold in like a moth to a flame.

  “Muriel Smith, if you must know. But to most people I will be whoever they pay me to be. That is, if they even bother to want a name some men prefer not to even think of us working girls as people, like stray dogs don’t give us names. You are an odd one. What do I call you then odd one? What’s your name and why were you arrested?” She asked with a smile.

  “My name is Harold Spinks. The reason I was arrested is they blame me for the fire at the Queens last night. No, it may have even been the night before.” Harold said realising he had no idea how long he had actually been in the hospital.

  “Try three nights back and you might be closer. So, you do it?” She asked so bluntly it forced Harold to smile.

  “No.” That was all that Harold could answer, not wanting to go into the details again. She was one person who did not want him locked up and Harold wanted to keep it that way.

  “Didn’t think so, you don’t seem the type. It was that other guy right, the one that attacked you? Makes sense that no one goes after the specials like that without reason. I saw it all. There was something not right about him. The cart hit him square on, should have damn near killed him but he just got up and attacked those city guards. You were lucky, you know that?” The dry huskiness had fallen from her voice without the drink in her belly. Harold knew he was lucky all right. He was getting used to nearly dying and longed for his boring life back where the worst he faced was a pricked thumb, bad back or the odd headache.

  “Yeah, lucky I guess.” Harold replied.

  “Let’s get you cleaned up a bit shall we? Make yourself at home while I get a brew on. Nip of tea and then you can wash some of that blood off before you ruin my rug.” Muriel said before slipping off into the kitchen. Harold actually shook his head in disbelief. This girl had just watched three men killed and it did not seem to have traumatised her in the slightest, maybe it would sink in later but for now she seemed unaffected by it all. Harold slowly pulled himself up from in front of the door. If William was coming this way then he would have been there by now. It was a strange feeling to be in her home, modest as it was. There was nothing but a few scattered and worn rugs on the otherwise bare floor. A table in its middle with a bed sheet rested over its top serving, Harold suspected, more than one purpose. A small set of shoddily crafted wooden stairs led up from beside the kitchen door and Harold wondered if her bedroom up there was a place of comfort and security, or if she worked from there too. His mind lingered on the thought of her bedroom longer than was proper, confusing even himself. His feelings towards unfortunates had always been the same; one of pity and disgust, but now Harold started to wonder if his opinions were wrong. After all, this girl had saved his life.

  Chapter 9: A Late Order Thankful as Harold was that William did not follow him, he was still too scared to leave Muriel’s and she seemed more than content to let him stay. They spent most of the day talking about what had happened. Harold felt he may have been too open with Muriel but even then, in the first few moments of being with her, Harold knew there was something about her that just made him feel at ease. He told her almost everything he knew about what was going on. It was almost like he was unable to hold anything back. Harold wasn’t sure if it was just because he was so tired that his mouth was running away with him or if it was because Muriel was pleasing to the eye. Her red hair, washed since the first time Harold saw her, now flowed loosely down over her shoulders. She was petite and slender and for a woman of her trade moved very elegantly. It hinted that Harold’s suspicions of a hidden past were more plausible than he had given to first believe.

  Maybe it was the escape from custody or William and the horrors Harold had seen, but Harold felt close to Muriel. He wasn’t the type who normally made swift bonds of friendship, there are some who meet someone for the first time and swear to be friends forever. Harold couldn’t think of anyone he really called a friend but for some reason he could see potential in Muriel that should have taken weeks or even months to develop. A shiver flew through his spine every time she spoke, each time he caught her gaze he turned away worried she would see his intentions hidden behind his eyes. Even after the many long hours that passed and with all the tea Harold had drunk he still had not told Muriel that a dead man was responsible for the fire. He’d been so open with everything even telling her about his job at the tailor’s and the Queen’s’, but couldn’t find a way to tell her it was the deceased William who had attacked the carriage. It seemed like madness to him but any doubt Harold had when he first saw him at the Queens had faded during the attack on the guard cart. The man at the scene of his escape was without any doubt the banker Harold had seen in the paper. His wounds had been all but gone, leaving no question in Harold’s mind that he must have used magic. He must have some tie to the Tower. Necromancy or some other spell to bring him back from the dead, whatever it was he was dangerous and a stone cold killer.

  Once Muriel had changed Harold’s bandages with some rags from her own sheets - with an expertise that Harold found surprising he said his goodbyes. He was scared of William or the guard finding him but he needed to check on his father, to warn him before O'Brien’s thugs got to him. There was an uncomfortable moment as Harold left with Muriel standing just inches apart. Harold guessed that because of the way she earned her living, she had no fear of closeness, but the feel of her warmth emanating from her stirred something in Harold he wasn’t sure how to deal with. Harold looked down to say goodbye and felt his lip trembling for the touch of hers. He did not give in as he was not sure if she felt the same. He didn’t know how she could, they had only met a few hours before, and he felt stupid for feeling the way he did. Maybe her kindness was just a ploy to score more money from him. Harold hoped not, but it would still have been improper to kiss her, they had only just met and Harold was suffering from shock. As Harold left Muriel’s home the fresh air outside, bitterly cold as it was, faded the image of her soft lips from his mind and helped him make sense of everything that had happened and allowed him to prioritise.

  The walk to his father’s was a hard one, his nerves on edge as Harold watched every shadow on the way, worried that it would be either a constable ready to arrest him or William again come to kill him. Harold didn’t know why, maybe it was some kind of intuition but he was sure after seemingly escaping William’s path of destruction for a second time he would see him again. If Harold avoided either of those fates there was still the chance that the O’Brien’s would come to kill him. The odds of him making it home safely were not in his favour as Harold ducked into an alley between Homefield Avenue and East Street. Harold watched, hidden, as two officers chased down an orphan who had pick-pocketed some well dressed man who was still shouting loudly from the other end of the Avenue. It was a welcome distraction from his own mind, for someone who had always loved day dreaming Harold wanted to keep his mind occupied on anything but his thoughts at that moment. Other than watching the orphan give the guard the slip it was an uneventful journey as Harold passed the many shades of white and brown that made up the north end of Neeskmouth’s buildings.

  It was not until Harold stood outside his father’s house, with his hand quaking above the knocker, that he could relax even slightly. Harold knew his parents would either be worried sick about his disappearance, or maddened by the unattended shop. In a twisted way Harold presumed he was trying to find some light heartedness in all the darkness, but it now seemed amusing to him that a few nights ago getting that order ready had seemed so important. Now Harold could not care less about making clothes. He dropped the fish shaped knocker with a gentle clap and waited for an answer. When
none came, Harold felt the panic rise inside him. What if the O’Brien’s had arrived before him? His parents may lay dead inside his father’s home. Thinking of his parent’s death sent a sudden image of the guard inspector at the roadside flashing across his mind. It was followed by a cold numbness that stole his breath, it left him feeling faint. It was the first time Harold had seen someone die. In only a few days, Harold had been present while everyone in the Queens had burnt to death and then he had seen the chunk ripped out of an inspector’s neck while two, already dead, specials slumped against the reins. Harold froze outside the door with his stomach churning over as his mind raced. With everything happening so fast Harold had barely had time to think on it, even while talking to Muriel it seemed like a dream. It seemed like it was a nightmare and Harold was going to wake up and find himself slumped in the chair with a reel of thread in his lap and a sore thumb from the long hours of darning that had sent him to sleep. It had taken the cold and returning home to make it real and Harold froze.

  Once Harold was able to think clearly, he realised it was unlikely that the O’Brien’s had paid a visit. The door was locked shut and it was late, very late. In fact, it was well after two in the morning and his father was probably asleep. His mother would have gone up to bed leaving him sitting by the fire in his slippers. His pipe would have smoked itself out on the arm of the chair and whatever book he had been reading would have fallen to the floor stalling time in that fantasy world. Harold knocked again, a little louder this time, and heard movement from inside. His father came to the door the sleep still evident in his eyes confirmed Harold’s suspicions. His father was wearing his red smoking jacket and his thinning hair on his wrinkled head fluffed at one side showing that he had been asleep for at least a few hours. The dents in his face matched the embroidery of the chair his father always sat in perfectly. He looked sicker than when Harold had last seen him, the flu was obviously taking a lot out of him.

  “Harry, where have you been?” His father asked his voice weak and laboured. His breathing worried Harold terribly. It was so harsh, like air escaping from one of those new fangled Dwarfen steam engines. Before Harold had time to answer his father looked around the darkened Greenway around them and stepped aside. “Come in, come in, you’ll catch your death of cold out there.” He said as he turned and scuffled along down the hallway and Harold noticed how much older he looked. It seemed like old age had caught up with him in only a few days. Harold followed close behind his father and he could hear the rattle in his father’s chest even over the sound of their footsteps. As Harold followed his father he noted that nothing in his father’s home had changed from his last visit. It had, after all, been only a few nights since Harold was last there but to him it felt so much longer. The thin golden and red aged carpet with its decorative ivy still ran the length of the hallway it was handmade in one of the cottage industries that now faltered in the wake of the toxin spewing machines that could produce rugs in their hundreds in a third of the time. The wallpaper, a pattern of little flowers in baskets, shone in blues and pinks across the walls, stained yellow from tobacco smoke. Some of the sheets had begun to peel from their top-most corners but his father was too old and Harold too busy to replace them. Entering the sitting room his father headed straight for his own chair. Similar in design to the wallpaper, it was now yellowed and threadbare. The arms and legs were a dark mahogany and matched the rest of the furniture in the room; two large bookcases filled to the brim and a table between made from wood that had been cut from sacred oak and stained, before the Dragons had been vanquished for the first time, 128 years prior. It showed that their family had been prosperous.

  Harold did not know to which side of the battle his linage belonged. He suspected purely by their stature and strength that they had been the invading Iron Giant army that had settled in the city, but his family never spoke of it and Harold was born after the war had ended. It had been common place for some of the Poles to take a second name to try and integrate with the Neeskmouthains. It was then Harold noticed it. The vase on the reading table was empty. To most people that would not have been something of note but his father had kept it filled with fresh flowers every day since his mother and he had married. If it was allowed to sit empty then his father was in much worse health than Harold thought. Harold walked across the sitting room to his chair, a lesser-used copy of his father’s, which sat opposite his by the fireplace, itself echoing of the riches that once filled this home.

  Although the house was close to the memorial of Execution Fields, the place the late barbarian king Ingaild first displayed his might in executing many of Neeskmouths heroes. It was within the poor parts of the city and thus was built of wood and clay. It was not a shabby house and rather stood as a marking of a new class of men, not nobles and not poor but a working man, men of industry, a class between the two. A middle class and such it showed both sides of life, luxury and necessity, without the aid of servants.

  “So, where have you been, Harry? Your mother’s been worried sick.” His father asked while he fumbled, trying to load his pipe with fresh tobacco. The doctors said the stuff was good for you, but Harold was sure they were wrong. Harold could not see how breathing in a weed was good for the body but his father smoked it regardless of his protests.

  “ Dad, please believe me-” Harold said, before explaining anything. Harold really needed someone to believe him and, although he had told Muriel about the fire, the visit from O'Brien’s hit men and the guard, Harold had left out the fact that it was a dead man who was responsible. Harold needed someone to know, someone who would believe him.

  “Believe what?” His father replied, his voice muffled by the long shaft of the ivory head that hung from his lips. It was shaped to resemble a lion and had been in the family for years. Harold had no idea where it came from and only knew what a lion was by its carvings. A trade ship or explorer must have brought it back to Neeskmouth at some time in the past.

  “ Nymon night when I left the shop, I went to the Queens as normal. It was burnt down.” Harold said starting with just the basics.

  “I know. It was in the papers. Your mother has already got you burnt to a crisp and buried in an unmarked grave. You know what she’s like. You should have got word to us.” His father always had a habit of interrupting Harold and it drove him mad at the best of times let alone now, but Harold hid his frustration as he continued trying to tell him what had happened.

  “I was taken to hospital.” Harold continued before he was interrupted again but didn’t get far before a plume of smoke was sent his way as his father carried on talking.

  “I guessed that, boy. The bandages give it away. Such terrible stitch-craft on them though. I wonder if we could offer to do them better.” He said and it made Harold smile a little inside. Even as sick as his father was he was still looking at ways to increase trade to their family shop.

  “Father, if you let me finish without butting in, then you wouldn’t need to ask so many questions. Please just let me finish.” Harold said, a little out of turn. His father nodded but Harold could see the scowl even through his reddened cheeks. He did not like the fact Harold had become a man and his equal, not just the boy he could take his belt to if Harold spoke out. He had not been an abusive parent, far from it. It is just that he held discipline and respect at the head of all he did and had brought Harold up to do the same.

  “The guard came to the hospital. They blame me for the fire.” Harold Said.

  “Preposterous!” His father exclaimed. “Harry, I won’t have it.” He

  yelled and Harold knew he was serious as he put the pipe down. “It’s not just the city guard, father. The Drow of the docks, the O’Brien’s,

  they threatened to come here, father.” Harold explained, ignoring his outburst.

  Harold wanted him to believe it wasn’t him but he also hoped his father

  would take his mother and leave the city. Neeskmouth suddenly started

  to feel very small and
unsafe, but Harold should have known how

  stubborn the old fool would be and it took less than a second for him

  to show it.

  “Let them come, there is still life in this old dog yet.” Harold’s father

  said before choking heavily and ramming his sleeve against his mouth.

  His body convulsed with the effort and when he came back up to look

  at Harold, his eyes were glazed and watery.

  “The guard arrested me, father. I was being taken to the station but,

  before we got there, the horse and cart was attacked by the same person that set fire to

  the Queens. He killed the three guard officers escorting me and would have killed me,

  too, if I had stayed, so I ran.” Harold said, hoping he sounded innocent

  because, despite being in his twenties, Harold still feared his father’s

  wrath, even though he could barely lift his own weight now. His bushy

  grey and white eyebrows wrinkled, Harold was not sure if it was from

  confusion, frustration, or maybe just plain surprise. What stunned him

  more was that he didn’t reply, he just sat there looking at Harold.

  “Muriel helped me escape.” Harold explained.

  “Who’s Muriel?” His father said, his breath still short from the

  coughing fit.

  “She’s a working girl from the harbour area, father. She saw the fire at the

  dock and was there when William attacked the guard officers. She grabbed me and

  helped me escape.”

  “Sounds like she has something to do with it all, you can’t trust those

  pinch pricks. I take it she was the one to bandage your head again? That explains the

  cheap work. We best get them off soon, lad. God only knows what diseases she has.

  You checked your purse since you left there?” He said innocently. The question