by Kirby Crow
“Looking for company?” the whore smiled, but his eyes—gray, not black—slid sideways to watch a pair of fair-haired Khetian bravos in leather armor stroll by, tapping their clubs and giving Liall the eye in case he meant trouble for them later.
Liall knew the bravos’ type: dumb muscle with no brain behind it to complicate matters. Good for keeping order in a place like Volkovoi, but bad news anywhere else. He ignored them and focused on the boy.
The rain began to come down harder and a peal of thunder spoke from the sky. The boy shivered a little in his shabby cloak and Liall felt a surge of pity for him. Desire, too, if he was being honest. In candlelight, after a meal and a good bath, he might have taken him for Scarlet.
He was on the verge of reaching for his coin pouch when the whore coughed. It was a wet, choking sound, and he saw that the boy was ill. Any blush in his cheeks would be from fever, not emotion, and the whore did not desire him, only his money. Liall saw it in the hard flash of greed in his eyes when his fingers moved toward his purse. It saddened him, and he drew out two silver bits—a week’s pay for a groom in a noble house—and passed it into the boy’s hand without a word.
The boy stared at the silver in his palm, and then pushed it with a finger as if testing it for solidity. Perhaps he thought it was the supernatural Fey gold that would vanish as soon as mortal hands touched it. He looked at Liall again, and this time there was fear in his eyes.
“What,” he licked his lips, “what would you expect for this? I am not strong for the most part, and I do not enjoy pain.”
Liall was further depressed. “Nothing,” he said, shaking his head. “Just get off the street for one night. You will catch your death out here with that cough.”
The whore’s smile was tired and ages older than his flesh. “Would that be so bad?”
“What is your name, boy?”
“Laith,” he answered. It meant laughter in Qaha, and was an odd dialect for a Byzan to speak. “Go home, Laith,” Liall ordered. “Buy yourself a meal. Get warm.”
The slut bowed as elegantly as any courtier, but before he left, he took Liall’s hand in his own and kissed it.
“Kind lord,” he breathed over his skin, causing Liall to shiver with pity. How could he have fancied a resemblance to Scarlet? They were both pretty and dark-haired. That was all.
Liall watched the boy leave with his back to the mortared wall of an alley, his desire as shriveled as the wrinkled skin of his fingertips. He was chilled and soaked clean through and angry with himself. Little use he would be to anyone if he came down with lung-fever. Cursing, he pushed away from the wall to head back to the damned chicken coop, and ran straight into the bravos.
They blocked his way. Liall was tall, but they were only a little less so. They were both blue-eyed and had blond streaks in their coarse brown hair. Half-bloods, he thought. Some Rshani mariner stranded here a generation ago or more. They looked so alike they could have been brothers.
“Where are you going?” the first one inquired gruffly. He had a grizzled white scar streaking his brown beard and a swollen red pustule on his eyelid. He was a few years older than his companion, a barrel-chested brute with a jaw like a lantern. In the fashion of Khetian mercenaries, they were both clad in leather armor capped with studs of metal, and they held hard clubs of oak meant for bludgeoning brawling soldiers and drunks.
Suddenly, the street seemed very empty. Liall did not fear them, but he knew he had been foolish. “Only back to my inn,” he replied, volunteering the simplest information he could. These men were born bullies and he knew firsthand that violence had a nasty habit of gaining momentum. “I’m waiting to take ship. I was only out for a stroll.”
“In this?” The younger bravo indicated the sky. “You must be lying. Where are your papers?”
“Papers?” Liall laughed, abandoning good sense. “Who would need papers to come to this pigsty?”
The scarred bravo tapped Liall’s chest with the butt of his club. “Here now, watch your ruttin’ mouth.”
Liall pushed the club away with the flat of his palm. “There is no need for this,” he said. “I will return to the taberna and not trouble you further.” He made to push past them, his chin high and proud, and thereby made his second mistake of the evening.
A club crashed into the back of his neck, dropping him to his knees. It was the last thing he expected from the bravos. To be fleeced of money, yes: questioned, intimidated, even roughed-up until he produced a few more sellivar for them. All of that was within what one could reasonably expect from harbor patrols, but this felt personal.
A hard kick to his ribs dropped Liall the rest of the way to the watery pavement before the heavy club landed again on his back. Beyond the pain, all he could feel was dismay and amazement and a vast sense of contempt for his own stupidity. Had he really thought he would be allowed to return to Rshan without incident? These men were not after money, but murder.
Blows rained down on him as his shaking hand fumbled at his waist, trying to draw one of his long-knives. He succeeded in getting his fingers around the handle and unsheathing the blade, but he was far too dazed and slow. A well-aimed kick numbed his wrist and sent his knife skittering across the cobblestones with a shining sound, far out of his reach, and he knew he was lost. He wanted to laugh. This was how he was to end? Beaten to a pulp in a stinking alley, his brains bashed in by a pair of hairy, mouth-breathing imbeciles. He had a lunatic moment where he wondered how much they had been paid to murder him, hoping they got a good price, but the next kick sent that out of his head altogether.
The bravos dragged him further into a dank, narrow alleyway flanked by two crumbling walls and began to beat him in earnest. He was on his belly in the gutter, filthy water rushing past his face. It bothered him that he should die like that, so he rolled over in time to see the younger bravo raise his club to bring down the final blow that would open his skull. He only hoped the rats would not find him until after he was dead.
The bravo raised his club for the killing blow and then was suddenly gone. A reddish blur crashed into the bravo and hurled him away. Liall blinked against the rain falling into his eyes, thinking there was some trick of light at work, but no, there was a scuffle happening that did not involve him.
He struggled to roll over and get his knees under him, grasping any chance for life, his body sluggish and unresponsive. He crouched on hands and knees and gaped stupidly around him, trying to focus on the knot of motion in the center of the alley, and was amazed.
The whore-boy in red had returned and was fighting off the bravos. He had a dark Morturii knife in each hand and the edge of one was against the younger bravo’s throat while the scarred one yelled curses at him. The boy spoke in hushed, vicious tones, and the scarred bravo hurled abuse and threats, yet did not move, for the knife did not waver from its target. Liall, rattled as he was, could see the boy would kill the bravo if the elder did not back off. The bearded one heaped a final torrent of abuse on the boy, and then seemed to make a decision. He hefted his club, turned his back and walked away, heedless of the snarled curses of his comrade who had the long-knife at his throat.
Alone now, the boy and the bully conversed in tones too low to hear over the thudding rain, but Liall sensed the boy was promising murder if his terms were not met. Terms of release, he presumed.
“Don’t do it,” Liall croaked. He got to his feet, bleeding hands clawing the mortar of the wall for purchase. “He’ll kill you the moment you let him go.”
“Shut your face, fucker!” the bravo snarled.
The boy did not look at Liall, but shoved the bravo away from him so that the man impacted face-first with the wall and banged his nose. The bravo whirled, cursing, but the boy kicked the fallen club out of his reach and raised one of the Morturii knives in warning. The haft spun easily in his hands, whirling and glittering in the green lamplight, and he laughed when the bravo backed up to avoid the spinning edge. With a last, hate-filled look, the bravo spat a
gobbet of phlegm at Liall’s feet before he fled into the darkness.
Liall was alone with his savior. He began to chuckle, holding his sides against the ache. It was beyond ludicrous.
“Boy,” he tittered, “if I had known I was speaking to a warrior, I would have shown you less silver and more respect.”
The boy threw back the hood of his coat and stepped closer, his features clearly illuminated now. “What in Deva’s shrieking hell are you talking about?”
“It’s you!” Liall gaped, holding his bruised ribs.
“Of course it’s me, you want-wit,” Scarlet retorted mildly as he sheathed his knives. “Did they hit you on the head?” He spat in the direction of the bravo who had fled. “I broke my new walking stick over the first one’s thick skull, damn him. Come on, we have to get off the streets!” He tugged on Liall’s arm and half-dragged him along.
Aching as he was, Liall seized the boy’s shoulders and swung him round as the cold rain poured over them. He was not surprised to feel his hands shaking.
“Scarlet,” he whispered in wonder. “I thought I would never see you again.”
Scarlet’s hands tightened in Liall’s cloak. He shivered and turned his face away. “Let’s get out of this alley,” he said, steering Liall toward the street.
Liall went without protest. Thunder rolled away from the port, vanishing somewhere over the Channel which leads to the sea.
EVEN THE CHICKEN COOP was better than cold rain and the possibility of the bravos returning in force. Scarlet helped Liall navigate the rickety wooden stairs at the rear of the hostelry and into the stinking little den. The room was just a box, scantily furnished with a rump-sprung bed and a padded velvet chair that had seen better days, its worn surface shiny with oil and countless unmentionable uses.
Scarlet held Liall’s arm until he was settled on the bed, then tried to strip him of his clothing to examine him. Liall pushed him away. “I’ll be fine,” he grumbled. Scarlet looked doubtful. “I’ve been hurt enough times to know. A few bruises, a lot of soreness. That’s all.”
“If they’d had the time, they would have done a lot worse,” Scarlet reckoned. There were lines of anger around his mouth.
“Indeed.” Liall felt dizzy and shaken and he was sure he had less than all his wits about him, but he managed to smile. “They were somewhat interrupted. You saved my life, Scarlet.”
Scarlet dismissed that with a wave of his hand. “It’s no more than you did for me.” Always the pragmatist, he encompassed the room in one scornful glance and sighed. “The fire isn’t even lit. A cave would serve you better than this.” He knelt at the hearth and grabbed the poker.
“Don’t bother. The chimney leaks and the wood is wet.”
“We’ll see.” Scarlet ceased poking at the damp, charred wood and stood up. “Is there a kitchen in this sty?”
“Downstairs. The alewife will give you hot water if you ask, and you can buy food. Here.” Liall handed him a silver bit, guessing his intent. “Leave your pedlar’s coat. The bravo’s friends may be looking for you by now.”
Scarlet nodded and slung off the red leather and his pack. “I’ll be right back.”
When he had gone, Liall stripped off his wet cloak and shirt. He lay down on the sagging mattress and closed his eyes until the room stopped spinning. Well, perhaps he had not weathered as fair as he claimed. The club to his head could have concussed his skull, but that would not be evident at once. If he began to vomit or was not able to stay awake, Scarlet was going to have a devil of a time finding a curae in this place to heal him.
He dozed fitfully and awoke to Scarlet gently shaking his shoulder. A tin cup containing steaming liquid was being offered.
“It’s che,” Scarlet said. “Not very good, but it’s hot. I added some powder of birch from my kit. Should take some of the pain away. I also bought waybread and a few apples, but I didn’t trust buying meat in a place like this.”
Liall nodded and accepted the che. “Wise of you. I noticed a distinct lack of alley cats in this port.” To his surprise, he saw that Scarlet had succeeded in kindling the wet wood in the hearth and had a cheery orange fire going. “How did you manage that?”
Scarlet looked frightened for a moment, and Liall wondered why this would be so. “Oh, the fire? There were some coals underneath.”
“There were? All I saw was a puddle.”
Scarlet fidgeted, saying nothing, and Liall decided he was being inquisitive for no good reason. “I suppose you must simply be more skilled than I. You must have to kindle your own fire every night on the road.”
Scarlet brightened. “True.”
Liall drank and ate a little of the dry, chewy bread. The birch powder was acrid and did nothing for the taste of the tea, but it quickly took the sharp edge off his pain and he felt better. Presently, he stood up to test his legs. Solid enough, he decided. Despite the numerous bruises on his back and arms and one egg-sized lump on his skull, he concluded he would live. Scarlet was sipping his che by the door, his shoulder nudged against the grimy wall, watching Liall with worry.
“I suppose it would be rude of me to look a gift horse in the mouth,” Liall said, sinking back down on the bed. He dragged a blanket over his shoulders.
“What?”
He shrugged and winced, rubbing his neck. “I forgot that Byzans do not have that expression. You would look a horse in the mouth in any case, whether it was a gift or not.”
“Of course I would.”
“Why did you follow me?”
Scarlet’s face went carefully blank for a moment. “I didn’t mean to. I’m... it was an accident.”
Liall did not try to hide his skepticism. “No one comes to Volkovoi by accident.”
Scarlet swirled his che in his cup. “I didn’t mean it quite like that. I was bound for Ankar and I’d crossed the Iron River, heading north, when I ran into some Aralyrin soldiers. They asked me about you.”
Liall’s interest grew sharp. “What did they say?”
“Only that they were looking for you and that they’d had word you were trying to find passage north. They mentioned a price on your head in every port. I had to come and warn you.”
Liall paled a little and he was silent for several moments. “It seems that machinations are already in place to prevent me from returning home. I suspected as much, but I’m not pleased to be proven correct.” He sighed deeply and then dismissed worry from his mind. Men had been trying to assassinate him since he was ten years old. Tonight was no different.
He looked up and saw the worry on Scarlet’s features. He smiled a little. “And what am I to do with you now, little pedlar?”
“I thought I’d come with you.”
“Oh.” Scarlet had succeeded in shocking him again. “What about your plans in Ankar?”
“Plans change.”
“And your sister? You would abandon Annaya when you know civil war is coming?” Scarlet winced, causing Liall to gentle his voice. “More than anyone in Lysia, you have known this for some time. It cannot end any other way.”
“Annaya is in Nantua. It’s not perfect, but it’s safer than Byzantur. Besides, she wouldn’t have come with me,” Scarlet added quietly. “I know she wouldn’t. She’s too much like Scaja.”
“I’ve been nothing but trouble to you since we met, brought you nothing but pain. Why do you care what happens to me?”
Scarlet bit his lip. “I don’t really know how to answer that.”
Liall sensed he was being put off. He set the che aside. “You’re not telling me all of the truth here, Scarlet. Why did you really come?” Liall frowned. “This would not have anything to do with that life-debt nonsense you were spouting in my camp, would it?”
Scarlet shifted on his feet. “You can believe that if you like, but whatever you think, my debts are a matter of honor for me. I can’t forget them just because you have a low opinion of Byzans, and I...” he trailed off. “I don’t know why I care about you. I only know that I haven’
t been true to myself for a long time. Maybe when I’m with you, no matter how angry you make me, I feel like I’m getting nearer to who I want to be.”
This was so close to how Liall himself privately felt about Scarlet that he was amazed. Yet, it was now too late to reveal that, and it would be unfair. He was leaving.
Liall’s guilt returned as Scarlet watched him with an expression of mingled hurt and anticipation. Whatever Scarlet’s reasons for coming to Volkovoi, it had been to his benefit, and now at least he had seen Scarlet once more. It was pointless to argue further. He smiled wanly. “You’ve worried over me?”
“With good reason, it seems.”
“My savior,” he agreed.
It was growing late, so he left off questioning and watched Scarlet busy himself about the room. The pedlar piled everything wet in one corner and hung Liall’s clothing and his own wet coat from pegs on the walls, hoping aloud that the damp would leech out by morning. When Liall moved to help him, Scarlet gave him a warning glare.
“I can do it. Don’t need you falling over and breaking your head again. Just drink your che. Put your boots by the fire if you want to be useful.”
Scarlet was unusually quiet after that. When he was done shaking the rain from everything and tidying up, they were left staring at each other in the silence broken only by the constant patter of rain on the window and roof. Liall realized that this was the first time he had really been alone with Scarlet.
He stood up and held out his hand. The blanket dropped from his shoulders. “Come here.”
Scarlet reached out to him tentatively and Liall quickly dragged him into his arms. He fits there perfectly, Liall thought. Snug, if a little small. Scarlet did not respond at first, tensing as if he would pull away, and for a moment Liall believed he had made a huge mistake. Then, surprisingly, Scarlet sighed and his arms went around Liall’s back. Scarlet turned his head to rest his cheek against Liall’s bare chest as they listened to the rain batten on the roof.