by A Clarkson
Ira didn’t believe him at first. It wasn't until she saw him, dressed in the finest clothing, and with the newest gadget in his hand, eating with one of his older brothers in the highest ring that she finally believed his story, and the depth of her foolishness sunk in.
She hadn't spoken to him for over a year, telling herself it was due to her anger at him for this great deception. She knew now that although she was angry at him, she had mostly been embarrassed and betrayed. Had he ever truly been her friend? Or was he simply using her? Taking advantage of her foolishness and loneliness for his own means and laughing at her behind her back at just how easily he manipulated her.
She never had the courage to confront him about it. And when, after twelve months of silence, he found her sitting by herself at the docks, and offered to share his lunch, she simply nodded, and started to tell him about her day.
They were never able to get back the friendship they once shared, she was never able to really trust him again, but they found a certain peace between them.
Nowadays she saw him less. Pete didn't need to work the streets anymore thanks to the network of street urchins spying on his behalf. Instead he tended to spend his time at what he jokingly called Spy HQ, a run down office building in the outer rings near the docks where he set up a hub of sorts, away from prying eyes, and not directly connected to any of his family's properties. Whenever she did see him, he would try to recruit her into O'Bride Industries.
She knew he was right and Donnie O'Bride would likely give her a job, but she wasn't sure she wanted the kind of work he had on offer for a young woman trained to hunt. Did he want a hitman? A hired sword? A spy?
Maybe she was jumping to premature assumptions about the O’Bride’s businesses, but she doubted he had much on offer for her skillset that lay firmly on the right side of the law. And that was where she intended to stay, no matter that her late night hobbies may indicate otherwise.
"I would've made it on time if it wasn't for this lot." She grumbled, once again ignoring his suggestion that she re-evaluate her career path. "What's the deal here anyway? Nobody passes by here this early."
Pete's eyes slid her way. "You would know. Your morning commute seems to come this way often these days."
Everyone's a critic, Ira thought, but said nothing.
From this position Ira could see the unfamiliar design on the side of the boat and deep red sails that had been lowered for its journey through the city. The crew wore black trousers and deep Burgundy tunics that fell just above the knee and were cinched at the waist by a thick golden belt that supported a large curved blade. They had dark bronze skin and wore their dark brown hair longer than what was considered fashionable in Valverna, tied with a cord at the base of their neck.
"They're from the south." Pete said in a quiet voice that wouldn't be heard by the crowd loitering nearby. "It appears our fair King has developed an interest in foreign goods."
"Are they traders?" Ira asked, looking closer at the men. They certainly didn't hold themselves like any traders she had ever seen. It wasn't the detailed grooming or the expensive cloth the men all wore - Ira may not be of high society herself, but any Valvernan worth their salt knew the value of good cloth - but rather there was something in the way they held themselves, as though coiled tight like a spring ready to snap at a moment’s notice. They reminded Ira of adders pretending to rest while waiting for their prey to wander closer, unaware of the danger.
There were three crew on shore speaking with the city guards. The first appeared to be going through standard paperwork while the second made boisterous conversation with the other guards, laughing and joking as though they were the best of friends.
The third man stood silently, observing the city around them. He was slighter than his two companions, though that meant little given they all appeared unreasonably large. He was tall and lithe, and held himself with the grace of a dancer while still emitting an undeniable lethality - like a jaguar surrounded by lions, he appeared poised and lethal yet gracefully refined.
He wore the same black and Burgundy uniform as his companions, however his gold belt held additional embellishments and seemed of a finer quality, the hilt of the blade by his side adorned in gems.
As if sensing her gaze, he turned, his hazel eyes flashing bronze in the morning light as they met hers. His face was classically handsome with a strong jaw and aquiline nose befitting a member of a Roman legion. His lips were lifted in a slight smirk, and his eyes held both curiosity and humor.
Flushing with embarrassment at being caught staring, Ira turned away. She could still feel the weight of his gaze on her, but refused to look back, instead pretending to be suddenly very interested in the crowd surrounding the lock.
"Of a sort." Pete stated absently as he pushed himself from the wall and moved away.
It took Ira a moment to remember her question, having become so distracted by the southerners. These men were traders of a sort? What did that mean? Surely you either were or weren't a trader?
Halting a foot from the corner Pete turned back to look at her as if suddenly remembering she was there. "Watch yourself Ira."
Pete always was a serious kid, and had turned into a serious man, but this felt different. He seemed distracted and concerned, as if something that worried him was taking up all of the space in his brain. Ira couldn't remember having ever seen him like this.
" I mean it. Keep away from those guys, they're bad news."
Feeling uncomfortable in the wake of Pete’s warning, Ira tried to lighten the mood, “What’s that bit of wisdom going to cost me?”
He allowed a small smile to cross his lips, knowing well that his secrets always came at a price, “Consider it a freebie.”
Seeming satisfied that his message was received, Pete disappeared around the corner..
Glancing back to the barge, Ira noted with some disappointment that the hazel-eyed man had disappeared. She needed to get moving anyway.
Turning on her heel Ira began the arduous trip back up the hill as fast as her hungover brain would allow. By the time she made it to work the sun was well and truly up, and Ira surrendered to her fate of being sent to an outer field. It was going to be another messy day.
Chapter 2
The Lemmings
She smelled like shit.
Well, technically she smelled like slug, but slugs smelled like shit, so that was just semantics.
Ira spent the day in the outer fields tracking and killing five adult slugs, and she had the slime to prove it. She wanted a bath and a beer and not necessarily in that order.
Once a respected profession, being a field guard became the lowest job in Valvernan society about five years ago when a giant slug infestation started plaguing the fields. Over five-feet in length and the height of a large dog, the slugs were almost impossible to kill, and could consume several of the plants within a few hours, or whole fields within a day. When injured, the slugs bled a kind of green slime that smelled of rotten bog.
At twenty years old Ira accepted that even as much as she despised her work, it was work that kept a roof over her head, kept her fed and sometimes even allowed her to buy a few hours of electricity from the grid.
With the global energy shortage that was the only way to access power if you didn’t live in the upper circle. In the outer rings you had to buy power upfront by heading into the Guild and adding gold onto your account. When your gold ran out, the power went out. Most people would turn it on for special occasions or to provide heating in the coldest of winter nights.
If you lived in the second or third ring you were considered wealthy enough to be trusted to pay your bills and rather than paying upfront, would be billed for every hour of power you used. This had been Ira’s main motivator for moving into the third ring. The pure bliss of turning on the power for a few hours to have a hot shower, was worth every penny she spent on that place.
The first ring residents, and those in the Citadel had constant power. They n
ever needed to turn it on and off, or ration their gold for that especially cold winter night, it was just on.
It disgusted Ira to see lights flooding the streets from some of the huge properties on the first ring. They may as well have been melting gold into a worthless pile for all to see. It was garish and vile, and one of the many reasons Ira detested this city.
The last slug had led her on a merry chase around the fields as she slowly hacked it to death. If the whole activity of chopping up giant slugs for a living wasn't ridiculous and demeaning enough, being trapped under one as it ran over your leg and bled rancid mucus all over you during its slow motion getaway, definitely made you re-evaluate your life choices. When after you finally got free from said slug you realized some of its blood-mucus was in your mouth, causing you to promptly throw up all over yourself, you just had to wonder what you did in a past life to deserve this.
Now she had the trek back to the office to look forward to with a crushed leg and a bent spear that would make a pretty worthless walking stick, covered in both slug blood and vomit that still smelled mildly of last night's drinking binge.
Oh joy.
And people wondered why she drank.
She gagged again.
Definitely the bath first.
She took a few steps testing out the bad leg. It wouldn't make the walk.
Looking around Ira saw the slug had led her to the edge of the eastern fields. The outer border of the current crops, and the desolate land that lay beyond.
There had been plans underway a few years ago to further expand the fields and increase production of the rybrum. Huge tracts of land had been purchased and cleared by a citizens cooperative with the intention to plant more crops.
The project had been spearheaded by Chelsea Brooks, a community advocate who lobbied for greater equity of ownership of the fields. She argued that all of the city’s residents worked toward the production of the plants, and the profits should therefore be more equitably distributed amongst its citizens. At first the Merchant Guild made up of the families who owned the rights to the existing fields were opposed to the idea, claiming it would spread the workers too thin. The Crown stepped in offering to support any additional staff and ultimately helped persuade the merchants. As owners of over a third of the total rybrum fields the Crown’s opinion held substantial weight, and eventually everyone agreed. In a surprising show of support the Guild ended up contributing to the cost of the conversion of the additional fields, and the city’s residents had been thrilled at the prospect of the potential wealth to come.
Everything ground to a halt when the slugs appeared. Everyone agreed that it didn’t make sense to expand the fields until this plague was contained. The more plants, the more slugs, and nobody wanted more slugs.
The field guards were brought on to combat the creatures, replacing the more traditional security, and the Guild and Crown came together to fund research into a more permanent solution to the slugs.
This happened five years ago, and so far they hadn’t succeeded in finding anything to keep the slugs at bay. In the mean-time the cleared fields sat abandoned as a desolate reminder of what could have been.
Ira knew there would be a storage shed not too far from here where the workmen who tended the eastern fields stored their equipment. Only the guards stored their weapons back at the main office, nobody liked the idea of a stash of weapons lying about for bandits to snatch.
More's the pity, Ira thought, she could use a coffer of spare spears right about now. Or better yet, she would appreciate something with a bit more firing power like one of the new weapons the Citadel guards were carrying around these days. Nasty things that shot flames and explosive rounds filled with rybrum oil. They would make short work of the slugs.
Ira could almost hear Flor’s voice in her head, “It’s all a conspiracy. They don’t really want the slugs killed.”
Flor had become a passionate advocate for the expansion of the rybrum fields, and always believed that the appearance of the slugs had been a little too convenient. Ira liked to remind her that the slugs worked very hard at devouring huge tracts of the rybrum daily, costing the Guild thousands in wasted energy every hour. They hardly seemed to be doing the merchants any favours.
Ira believed the lack of high powered weapons was more likely due to the risk they would pose to the plants. Flamethrowers and exploding rounds tended to cause a fair amount of collateral damage to the surrounding area, something the Merchant Guild certainly did not want in the fields.
Leaning on what was left of her bent spear as a cane wasn't ideal. The slug managed to leave only the bottom two feet straight, so Ira was left bent double at the waist like an old crone, hopping on her good leg and dragging the other behind her. Progress was excruciatingly slow.
Hop
Drag
Hop
Drag
Hop
"What are you doing?"
Ira blinked up at the sky from her new position laying sprawled on her back in the mud. Why her?
This hopping and dragging wasn't the most stable of gaits she acknowledged. Maybe she shouldn't hop quite so far. She had been getting a bit over ambitious, and that just left her back leg outstretched, and, as she discovered, made her vulnerable to tipping over when startled. It was her own fault really. The universe never liked it when she was over ambitious.
A young face with green eyes and ebony hair appeared above her.
"Why are you in the mud?"
Grunting, Ira used her useless walking stick to roll back up to her feet -- well, foot, as the other remained, well, useless. Her vocabulary had apparently also taken a hit. Once up she glared at the young boy, whose eyes widened at her look and promptly took a few steps further back, ensuring he was well out of grabbing range. Smart kid.
He looked about ten, with shockingly white skin that caused his green eyes to shine. He had a pretty face that would no doubt turn him into a handsome man one day. His clothes looked fine but simple, black trousers and tunic with leather boots that looked barely worn.
"I wasn't in the mud before I fell over." She gritted through clenched teeth. God her leg hurt.
He seemed to consider this very seriously for a moment, a small frown wrinkling his brow before he nodded as if coming to some conclusion.
"You should try not falling over." He said as if blessing Ira with sage advice. Another small nod. Job well done.
Ira snorted and started her slow trek once more. The plants towered over the pair as they walked, their large leaves cast deep shadows and left the air filled with the sickly sweet and sour smell of wet earth and slightly rotten vegetation. As well as the ever present acerbic smell that heralded the presence of slugs.
Hop
Drag
Hop
"Why are you walking like that?"
Drag
"I was chasing a slug and got injured.”
"Chasing? Why did you need to chase a slug? I thought they barely moved."
Which is why being run over by one is a very tedious and painful experience.
"It doesn't sound like you are very good at your job." He tilted his head as if pondering her, "you do look kind of small for a slugger."
That was true. Since the slug invasion, the field guards had changed. The slighter hunters like Ira were mostly replaced by large brutes who were able to dispatch the slugs easily due to their sheer size and strength. In spite of the change, the slug numbers never dwindled, and the guards were constantly battling the creatures in an effort to keep them at bay.
"I'll have you know that I am excellent at all the parts of my job that don't involve slugs."
He looked genuinely puzzled. "Don't all parts of your job involve slugs?"
She decided not to dignify that question with a response. What did he know anyway?
"How much do you know about slugs?” she asked instead.
"Not much I suppose. They’re like lemmings, large, and eat a lot of leaves."
“Ho
w are they like lemmings?” She wasn’t sure she’d ever heard that comparison.
He thought about it a moment, as if he wasn’t sure whether he had repeated the information wrong. With a shrug as if it didn’t really matter either way, he explained. “That’s what my instructor said. He said the slugs were like lemmings.”
She waited.
He didn’t continue.
“Did he say why slugs are like lemmings?”
“Probably.” He shrugged. “But I don’t really remember it all. He said that when lemming families get too big they sometimes jump off cliffs. Do slugs jump off cliffs?”
“Can’t say I’ve seen it happen.”
She wasn’t really sure what he meant, or what the instructor would have been trying to explain, and he didn’t seem to know much more. She wasn’t surprised, he clearly hadn’t found the lesson all that exciting.
Hop
Drag
Ira spotted a small wooden roof up ahead and a wave of relief swept through her.
A quick raid of the shed yielded wood and rope, as well as a decently long stick she could use as a cane. She was also pleased to find buckets of fresh water and a small first aid kit.
After washing her hands and face she tended to her leg. Her knee was dislocated and she was bleeding from half a dozen wounds. The kit was simple, but it held enough supplies for her to disinfect the cuts, which she was certain would become infected if they were exposed to slug mucus for much longer. She was also able to use the wall of the shed to help put her knee back in place, an activity that prompted enough cursing to cause the boy to take another few steps away from her.
Finally she was thrilled to find some pain relief buried in the bottom of the first aid kit. At least the Guild provided their guards that small luxury.
The smell on her clothes was still atrocious, but at least the slime was no longer in her mouth, and her leg wasn't bent at a funny angle. Small victories.