“Do you think they mean us harm?” asked Topper, but his face said he knew the answer already.
“I think they mean harm to anyone they get their hands on,” said Fox honestly.
“We could just leave,” said Topper urgently, visibly shaken by the men below. And though Fox knew that Topper could not feel them in quite the same way, he was sure that his friend knew something wasn’t right about them. “We can get back on the road, right now! We can hide out somewhere ...” And then, in a small and terrified voice, “They make me feel naked. I don’t like them, Fox.”
“That’s why we have to stop them,” said Fox, squeezing his friend’s shoulder. “Do you remember when I told you about the Desolata? The bandits I had to face back home?” The hint of a nod in the dark. “I have never been more frightened in my life. But I saved my village. This might not be our village, but as merchants every market is our home.”
He could feel Topper quivering beneath his hand, but finally, the younger boy whispered, “I will bring them.” And he backed slowly away from the roof’s edge and began to scramble, in a hurried crawl, across the roofing tiles and out of sight.
Fox was left alone, with the sound and smell of the darkest corners of the Nightmarket pressing in around him. He lay on his back, flush against the crumbling shingles, and listened to the alley. The men-things below seemed to be arguing. Fox did not have to understand their language to recognize the universal sounds of fighting. He listened to the shuffling half-steps of someone restraining themselves from attacking somebody else, and the low hisses punctuated by the occasional raised voice. Until finally, one speaker seemed to win. The others fell silent, and a single voice spoke up. It seemed to be ordering the rest of them, demanding something.
There was the dull shriek of a blade being sharpened, and the hum of a bow being strung. And then, footsteps out of the alley. Fox scurried to the edge of the roof and gazed down at the dimly-lit back street, and his heart sank. Three of the men were leaving, creeping out of the alley like feral dogs on the prowl. That left four men behind, speaking amongst themselves once more in low, hurried voices. Fox could feel his heart thudding wildly against the shingles, beating a tattoo Fox was sure the men below could hear as he struggled to make a quick decision: to stay and wait for Topper to return with help, or to follow those three and catch them in whatever mischief they were planning.
The rotting span of roofing beneath Fox’s belly creaked, and shifted under his weight. There was sudden silence from below as all the men looked up, and Fox scrambled back from the edge, his decision made for him. With graceless panic, Fox slid down the slope of the roof, away from the alley. Given his odds, he would much rather take his chances with the three who hadn’t seen him than with the four who had.
He more-or-less fell to the cobblestone street, then picked himself up just in time to see the three hunters rounding a corner not far away. He ran, as eager to catch up to his quarry as he was to put distance between himself and the four men-things behind him. Fox could hear them in the alley, scrambling to sharpen their own weapons now and throwing stones at the piece of roof he’d been stationed on. It wouldn’t be long until they discovered he wasn’t there.
He kept the three man-things within his sight, following closely behind them as they ventured out of the abandoned corners and into the heart of the Nightmarket. A ripple of fear began to pass through the shoppers as they caught sight of these men, and people began to back away or hurry to the cover of workshops and dining houses. But the hunters paid them no mind, and Fox realized that they must not be the target. They had to be hunting someone though, he thought, slipping behind a meat stall to watch. And then, a roar echoed through the Nightmarket, and Fox turned to find the remaining four men from the alley standing at the end of the street.
And the biggest, nastiest brute of the lot was pointing his wicked blade right at Fox.
Screams echoed through the streets as a true panic began, and everyone scrambled to clear the area. In the dancing lights of the Nightmarket, it was clearer than ever that these were not men. They were monsters.
The three hunters picked up their pace, running now through the market, seeming to have realized they were being followed. But Fox could not trail them anymore; he was pressed with his back against a rough wooden stall, with no way of escape from the four creatures advancing on him.
Their leader — he was sure that the big one had to be in charge — growled something in that strange language. “I – I don’t understand!” said Fox desperately. “Please, this was a mistake. I didn’t mean to get in your way.”
The big one laughed. A horrible, grating sound that made Fox’s stomach churn. “He does not understand?” he said in harsh, broken Trader’s Tongue. “Little rat spy, couldn’t keep your nose to yourself! I will remove it, along with your head!” And with a roar, he and his men charged, and Fox darted to the side without thinking, running wildly through the Nightmarket. A knife whizzed past his ear, narrowly missing him as he dodged into a bakery. He wound through it, apologizing over and over as he knocked breads aside and spilled flour across the floor. He escaped through the back of the shop, into a now-deserted street that had earlier been filled with eager shoppers. He ran, making for the Pocket Frog, all the way at the other end of the marketplace.
The inn was quiet and dark when he arrived, panting, at the back door. He could hear the whispers of frightened patrons, hiding in the common room. Their silhouettes were just visible, tucked up against the walls or beneath tables outside. They spoke in hushed, terrified voices, saying there were bandits in the market. They could hear them drawing nearer, roaring angrily through the streets and trashing stalls and booths as they went.
Fox knew he didn’t have much time. They would be looking for him. Quickly, he darted through the common room, looking for the innkeeper. Or a member of the staff. Anyone who might know where Farran and Wick had gone. He asked no fewer than seven different people before, finally, he had the slightest bit of success. A terrified young kitchen maid, crouched in the shadows of the empty fireplace, said she’d heard them talking about going to see the Shavid players. “They said they fancied some entertainment,” she squeaked. Fox thanked her, but as he started to go, the girl grabbed his sleeve urgently. “Do you know,” she whispered, then cleared her throat. “They say the bandits have started killing people. Have you seen — ”
“I’m sorry,” said Fox, “I don’t know how many. I didn’t witness any of them.”
She let him go with shaking hands, and said quietly, “My brothers are out there, tending to the shop.” She twisted her apron between her fingers, worrying at the lace edging. “They run the smithy.” After that, she seemed to be done talking. And Fox, not knowing quite what to say, stood awkwardly and left.
He took to the rooftops again, peering cautiously down at the streets below. All was clear, though he could hear distant screams that indicated the bandits were still about. Fox kept still for a moment, perched on the roof’s edge like a gargoyle. He breathed deep, taking in the smell of panic, the sticky and sour scent of fear. He could almost taste the bite of the oils the bandits used to sharpen their blades. And still, beneath it all he could just sense the smell of fine Doffian wax that was the Flintstock men, and the ever-present hint of saltwater that was Farran.
Fox began to race, across the rooftops and down onto lower balconies. He made his way closer to the street level without ever touching it, ready to spring back to the safety of the shingles at a moment’s notice. But when he reached the abandoned wreckage of the square where he’d seen the Shavid perform, he finally let himself drop to the cobblestones, and ran panting to Farran’s side.
“Thank the gods,” said Wick, grabbing Fox in a rough hug. “Topper found us and told us what was happening. We were on our way, but that’s when the rioting began.”
“What are they?” asked Fox, rubbing at his arm. It was bleeding — he hadn’t realized he’d cut it during his mad dash. Or perhaps one
of the man-creature’s weapons had grazed him after all. He couldn’t remember.
“Ryegout assassins,” answered Farran gravely. “The term you might use is ‘goblin.’ Trying to masquerade as men.”
“We killed one!” said Topper cheerfully. But even through the bravado in his voice, Fox could hear an underlying tremor. He clapped his friend on the shoulder with an approving nod before turning back to Farran.
“But what did they want?” asked Fox.
“Lord Camerontine,” said Farran. “Ryegout politics are complex and dirty. Should I have had to guess, I would say they were looking for a ruling house to call their own.”
“And did they — ”
Farran shook his head. “He was here when they attacked, and we were able to help buy the guards time to spirit him away. He might be a spoiled little dandy, but better him than a Ryegout, I promise you.” Now, he looked Fox up and down with fatherly concern. “Can you keep moving? Much of the Nightmarket is still under attack, we shouldn’t linger.”
Fox nodded and wiped sweat from his brow with his arm.
“We’ll get you two safely to the outskirts of town,” said Wick. “And then, Donovan and I are going to help clean up. These people aren’t equipped to fight, and there have been far too many deaths already tonight.”
“The outskirts?” argued Fox even as he let himself be led out of the square. “I can help! Besides, you’ll waste too much time! All the way out of the Nightmarket and back, half of Florint could be dead!”
For a moment, Farran looked as though he wanted to argue. But one look at Fox’s face, and he heaved a sigh riddled with frustration. “Keep up, and don’t get yourself hurt. You’re under no obligation to these people.”
“And neither are you,” said Fox stubbornly. And then, because he knew the dangers of battle were nothing to a god, he turned to Wick and added, “Not either of you.”
But the men were not given the opportunity to respond. There was a crash of wood behind them, and the whole group wheeled about. A nasty, scowling Ryegout burst straight through a shop door and ran at them, his weapon out before him like a twisted pike.
“RUN!” shouted Wick, and the boys didn’t waste a moment. They took off, putting the fight at their backs and darting through back alleys. They could hear the clash of blade-on-blade, and the angry screeching of an injured beast. It was only when they heard a triumphant crowing from Farran, echoing through the empty streets, that they began to slow down.
It was in a twisting side street that they finally stopped, collapsing against the wall of the sweet shop where not so long ago they’d been purchasing candies like eager children. They sat, chests heaving as they gasped for air. And then, inexplicably, Topper began to laugh. It began as a chuckle at first, and then began to swell. At first, Fox stared wildly at him. And then he, too, began to laugh, until they were both no more than giggling puddles on the alley floor.
“Some fighters we are!” said Topper through tears of mirth.
“Spirit’s Fire, could we run though!” said Fox, coughing as he laughed a bit too much. They laughed until their breath ran short, and then finally began to calm again. As they did, they could hear footsteps running their way.
“Here!” shouted Fox. “We’re over here!” And then, beginning to laugh again, he said, “Don’t you worry, when you say run we run!”
Topper had another fit of the giggles as he added, “Take your time, men! We’ve only gotten about a week ahead of you!” He snorted at the cleverness of his own joke, and then made to start pulling himself to his feet. But as he stood, the color drained from his face. Even his freckles seemed to disappear, until he was pale as the moon.
“What’s wrong?” jibed Fox, struggling to his own feet and dusting off his rear. “Stand up too quickly, you know, and you’ll make yourself faint like a pretty little woman!” And then, when Topper did not answer, he turned to find what his friend was looking at.
He only caught a glimpse of red skin and blue-black hair before Topper shoved him out of the way. Fox went crashing into the wall of the shop. There was a cry of pain, and a blur of straw-colored hair as Topper fell, a crude blade buried hilt-deep in his chest.
At the other end of the alley, the Ryegout who had thrown it suddenly dropped like a stone, a black-hilted knife straight through his throat. Fox didn’t bother going to see if he was still alive, instead scrambling to Topper’s side. The younger boy stared fixedly up at the fabricstrewn skies above him, eyes wide. His breath came in shaky, painful gasps, and Fox reached out to clasp his friend’s hand.
“Just hold on,” Fox said reassuringly. “Your uncle will be here soon. And Donovan – he’ll know what to do.”
Topper smiled and squeezed Fox’s hand. “Oh, how we ran, though,” he whispered, each word sounding labored and tiresome. “We ran too far — they won’t find us. We ran across the whole world.”
“Hush,” said Fox, wiping teardrops from Topper’s forehead. It took a moment for him to realize they were his own. “Any moment, they’ll be here. Just you wait —” And then, though he knew he was no longer speaking to anyone, “Your mother will be waiting for you. You’ve got a whole, wonderful life ahead in Doff.”
He kept speaking, nonsense words and impossible stories, until Farran and Wick came hurrying into view. And then, he said nothing. He watched as Wick ran to his dead nephew, and cradled his head on his lap. He met eyes with Farran, and mouthed silently for him to do something, but the god shook his head, true pain and regret in his eyes.
After a few minutes, Wick stood, sword in hand, and turned away. With no explanation, he disappeared into the night. Still, Fox knelt at Topper’s side, clutching his hand. Farran stood on the other side of his body, looking down on them like a watchful shadow.
“Bring him back,” demanded Fox.
“I can’t,” answered Farran simply.
“You’re a god!” said Fox desperately.
“I’ve told you before,” said Farran quietly. “The ways of the gods are beyond your understanding. And had he lived, you most certainly would be dead.”
“Is that supposed to comfort me?” asked Fox, anger creeping into his voice now. “Knowing that he died, for me?”
“Topper’s time to die was long ago,” replied Farran. “The day he crossed Meat Man Mallard, he should have been murdered. You changed that. You saved him.”
“So I bought him a couple of months,” said Fox bitterly.
“You did so much more than that,” said Farran. “You took what might have been a brutal, meaningless death, and made it so much more. Topper was always going to die, but now his death means someone else’s life. That is a deep and powerful thing, and it should not be taken lightly.”
Fox couldn’t decide on his next words. His tongue was so full of angry accusations and frustrated curses, he couldn’t settle on just one. He began dabbing at the blood pooling around Topper’s wound, anything to stop himself shaking and throwing things.
Except, it wasn’t blood. “Is that ... ink?” asked Fox.
“Yes,” said Farran quietly.
“How?” said Fox, a note of disbelief creeping into his voice. “Why is he bleeding ink?”
For a moment, Farran didn’t look as though he was going to answer. Then, slowly, he said, “You are a man of maps. And he owed you his soul.”
He said it like it was a matter of fact. He said it as though it were the simplest thing in the world to understand. And a creeping realization began to come over Fox. He dropped Topper’s hand. “You knew,” he whispered. “You knew that he owed me his ... soul?”
Farran nodded, one slow downward tilt of the head.
And then, Fox snapped. “Fix it!” he shouted. “Bring him back! Go back and save him! Something! Anything!”
“I tell you, I can’t!” said Farran, beginning to sound as angry as Fox. “I wish that I could, trust me! But I —”
“All those stories of the gods I read in my book,” spat Fox. “They tell of great
and miraculous things, of powers no mortal can have! They can bring back the dead, or save them before they die! What kind of god are you?”
“I am one of the great gods, little one,” growled Farran, “and I would advise you not to try my patience!”
“If you’re so great,” said Fox, standing and glaring at the god, “then why are you so useless when it matters? Why couldn’t you save him?”
“Because that was the price of loving her!” shouted Farran, and Fox fell silent. Farran was visibly shaking as he continued. “Those powers were taken away from me. It’s why ... why I need you.” He ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. “I cannot restore them myself. Who I was — and who Adella was — are hidden from me. And you can find things!” He looked at Fox with pleading eyes, and his desperation was so overwhelming Fox took a step back.
“Enough,” he snapped, his voice low and harsh. “Enough of your stories and your riddles and your useless powers!” He took another step back until he could feel the wall just inches behind him. “You can find another pawn, we have no more deal.” And then, when Farran did not move, he shouted, “Go on! Get out of here! Leave me alone!”
“But, you are my captain,” said Farran beseechingly. “I follow you.”
“Then jump overboard,” said Fox. “I am done with you.” He knelt by Topper’s side once more, and when he looked up, Farran was gone.
✽ ✽ ✽
Dawn was just beginning to warm the Nightmarket when Wick returned. The man offered no explanation as to where he’d been, but Fox could see in the colored light that filtered through the Symbol that Wick was covered in blood. And when Fox asked if there was any more word of the Ryegout, Wick answered simply that they’d been taken care of.
They sat in the rising dawn, listening to the marketplace as it started to come back to life. But it wasn’t the joyful, thriving sound of shop doors opening and customers beginning to trickle through the streets. Instead, it was the sound of hard labor as merchants and traders began to pick up the pieces of their ruined stalls. Funeral arrangements were made for those who had fallen, and a great bonfire was set to burn the bodies of the Ryegout. The stench of rotting flesh washed through the streets, but still people carried on. The Nightmarket would live again. Perhaps not tonight, but soon. And there was work to be done.
Windswept (The Mapweaver Chronicles Book 1) Page 38