Ioth, City of Lights

by D P Woolliscroft

  They all shrugged at each other at the sight of the forlorn noble.

  A high-pitched scream echoed through the corridors.

  Motega shot Neenahwi a glance and set off down the corridor at a cautious trot. Without a word, she and the others followed behind. They turned toward the working part of the governor’s mansion, from where it had seemed that the scream had emanated. The noise came again, which helped them get their bearings; and within moments they were running past staff and into the kitchens. A cook, or a kitchen helper, or some other person with one of those jobs that she didn’t really understand (she was a wizard not a chef) stood shakily at the top of stone stairs.

  “There…there…there’s a dead body down there,” the woman, obviously in shock, announced to the whole room.

  “Where?” demanded Crews. “Take us to it.”

  The woman nodded shakily. Trypp lent her an arm to descend the stairs, a dagger in his other hand. Crews and Motega drew weapons as well. Neenahwi split her mind in readiness, her hand straying to her satchel of steel arrows.

  The steps led down to a store room. Sacks of grain and crates of produce lay stacked around. A thick wood-clad doorway was open to the left, likely to the cold room and the ice hole, but the woman led them to the back of the dimly lit storage space. Neenahwi scanned the dark shadows for any other presence but could see nothing. They rounded a stack of crates and there, unmistakably, was a corpse—slumped against a wooden box. There was no blood. No sign of a struggle. The man wore a uniform, but it was difficult to see his face clearly from where she stood. Motega stepped past the sobbing cook and turned the corpse to face him.

  “It’s Major Chatterwick!” he exclaimed.

  “But we left him with the Lord Marshall! How could that be?” asked Crews.

  Crews was a good sailor. But this was testing his capabilities. What did it matter ‘how’? If something had killed Chatterwick, then her Uncle was in danger.

  They ran back the way they had come, Crews trailing behind as he’d wasted precious seconds thinking. Motega almost barreled into Sergeant Morris, evidently drawn by the commotion to the kitchen with some of his squad.

  Motega shouted, “Uthridge! Now!” and Morris joined the mad dash through the corridors without a moment’s thought.

  Good soldiers. Shout loud enough and they run where they’re told.

  They reached the door to the governor’s meeting room, barging guardsmen aside along the way. Motega didn’t stop, but launched himself into the door shoulder first. It blew off the hinges and her brother flew across the floor and onto his arse with his continued momentum.

  She and Trypp were through the open doorway a moment after and slid to a halt at the sight before them.

  Uthridge was still sitting in the cushioned chair where she had left him only minutes before. But bent over him was Chatterwick, his hands holding the Lord Marshall’s face up to him. It looked like Chatterwick was giving her Uncle a deep and lustful kiss, until he turned at the interruption. It was Chatterwick no more, at least not entirely. His face was shifting, aging to match that of the Lord Marshall, grey whiskers sprouting above his lip. But the hair was still clipped short and brown like the major’s had been. Chatterwick hissed and bared pointed teeth, a green tongue flicking out between them. Its eyes were perfectly blank, but those white orbs glistened as they twitched to scan the room.

  Everything happened in an instant.

  Trypp leapt forward, a knife in each hand; Neenahwi thrust her hand into her bag for her arrows. Motega scrambled up off the floor. Crews stood open mouthed and was pushed aside by Morris and two soldiers who followed him. The not-Chatterwick released Uthridge’s face—her Uncle’s head lolled to one side, eyes unfocused and a groan escaping his lips—and instead of drawing the sword belted at his side, he flung an arm out at the advancing Trypp. Long clawed fingers raked across Trypp’s chest. He staggered, his assault interrupted, and the not-Chatterwick made for the window.

  Neenahwi flung a metallic missile into the air, her fractured mind sending it flying toward the creature but there was empty space and a tinkling of broken glass as the not-Chatterwick made its escape. Motega rushed to the window and glared at the fleeing form.

  “We’ve got to go after it,” exclaimed her brother. Typical. Running toward danger. Though in this case she had to agree. Motega jumped from the window to the gravel below, rolling as he hit the floor with all the practice of an adulterer fleeing a returning husband. Trypp did likewise.

  “Go with them,” commanded Morris to the pair that accompanied him. The first soldier jumped with confidence and landed on her toes into a cushioned squat. The second dropped awkwardly from the sill and twisted his ankle in the process.

  Morris leaned out of the window and shook his head. “How many times have I told you, Crabs? You’ve got to roll with the fall!”

  Neenahwi needed to go too. The not-Chatterwick was quickly disappearing across the open gravel area that was supposed to afford some protection to the governor’s mansion. Well, if this not-Chatterwick thought it was the only shape-shifter around then she would have to show it how wrong it was.

  Indigo fur sprouted all over her body and she bent over to put her hands on the floor as the curvature of her spine and configuration of her hips changed. The muscled chest and forelegs of the great panther form she had chosen ripped at her purple robes, but her clothes stayed generally in place. The cloth flapped in the wind as she leapt past the sergeant, through the window, and down to the ground; running after the fleeing figures without breaking stride.

  Neenahwi bounded across the open space. The running figures ahead of her had created minor disturbances in the groups of people that congregated there, but the sight of a big cat (especially one wearing a dress) caused the people to scream and flee, opening a channel for her to get through. She kept her sharp cat eyes glued to her brother, hoping that he was still able to see the not-Chatterwick, though if not she thought she would be able to follow the scent of spoiled fruit that he left in his wake. Neenahwi passed the woman from Morris’ squad and was up behind Motega a moment later.

  “Shit, sis. You made me almost jump out of my skin!”

  She roared a response.

  Neenahwi could now see the escaping not-Chatterwick. It ran like an over-exuberant seven-year-old, all gangly arms and pumping legs, straight toward a building where the street dead-ended. It leapt at the wall, sticking to the surface some twenty feet up, and clambered up the side.

  Motega climbed after him, Trypp a second behind. “Of course, we have to go on the rooftops…” said her brother.

  “You’re making a bit of a habit of this you know,” said Trypp, his hands and feet moving fast to find purchase.

  “I’d rather be chasing Chalice’s arse than this ugly bastard.”

  “Well, I would much rather be going to visit Sharavin like last time too.”

  Neenahwi watched them climb and rolled her cat eyes at the inanities they spouted. She couldn’t climb something this vertical, and the creature was already reaching the top. Running back the way she had come, she found a series of smaller buildings that she used to climb up to what the thieves in many cities called ‘the sky road’. With a run-up, she bounded across a gap between buildings, soaring over the cobbled street far below, and found herself running alongside the not-Chatterwick. Unfortunately there was a wide street between them. Turning her attention back to the path ahead she put all her effort into running as fast as she could, bounding over chicken coops and pigeon lofts, dodging under washing lines full of drying clothes and vaulting the low walls that separated buildings. The tall towers that Redpool was renowned for spiked up into the dimming sunlight, an ever so obvious demonstration of man’s need to be measured against others.

  She needed to get in front of her prey.

  The street branched into a fork and a tall building stood proudly at the ‘v’ of the split. It was painted white and gold and had the look of ostentatious affluence. This was t
he heart of the mercantile area of Redpool, so it was likely a moneylender’s residence. She leapt from the roof on her side of the street, sailing through the air with paws outstretched to land on the edge of the pointed-wedge building. Two strides and she jumped once more to reach the far side of the street. Neenahwi skidded to a halt and spun, teeth bared at the not-Chatterwick that was running straight at her.

  She let out a roar of victory at cornering her prey.

  The not-Chatterwick hissed. Its green tongue flicked at the air, long enough to reach where its ear should have been, but its face had become featureless. The smooth skin drew her attention to the plain white orbs set in its head and the long mouth full of sharp teeth. Its arms were extended, long clawed fingers tickling at the air. Its feet had grown too, bursting from the front of its boots, wicked long talons visible. The hairs down her feline neck bristled at the sight, imagining the damage that those claws could inflict. Neenahwi braced for a fight.

  But the not-Chatterwick turned tail and ran back the way it had come, straight back toward her brother. The creature turned to the right; Motega, Trypp, and the woman joining Neenahwi in pursuit as the creature leapt from the tall building of red brick down to the lower ramshackle structures. The towers stopped in this direction. There was no wealth, just the struggle of house and owner alike to stay modestly on their feet. The jumps came more often, differing building sizes and alleyways making the pursuit haphazard. She admired her brother and the other two for being able to keep up; the jumps were easy for a cat like her but for them they didn’t have time to think, just a split second to pick their most likely path, crossing their fingers that their landing place would be secure.

  The not-Chatterwick was fast, but she was gaining.

  Until the roof fell out beneath the creature’s feet.

  Neenahwi didn’t have time to stop; she jumped straight after it. The hole was not big enough for her—but it was after she’d finished falling—broken tiles and rotten beams scratching at her hide as she plummeted. She landed in a bare wooden room, a woman screamed and a man swore from the bed they shared, and she spotted the retreating figure of the not-Chatterwick fling open the bedroom door and hurl itself down a staircase. Neenahwi scrambled for purchase and exited the same way; down the stairs and into a smoky room filled wall to wall with people. A couple of troubadours played a song she recognized from a makeshift stage, men and women drank and laughed and kissed and groped.

  And all of it stopped at the sight of the dark blue panther growling on the stairs.

  Most ran for the exit, their beer or squeeze not worth this kind of trouble. Some ran for the sides of the room and cowered behind upturned tables. But one brave, or incredibly drunk and stupid, soul grabbed a chair and faced her.

  What did he think he was? A traveling lion tamer? She poured her derision into a great roar.

  The man fainted and Neenahwi bounded over him, resisting the desire to teach him a real lesson of what happens when the mouse faces down the cat.

  She heard footsteps on the stairs behind her which she hoped was her brother and Trypp. She didn’t stop to look. The crowd was still trying to get out the front door as she pushed her way through, the smell of piss and shit, likely from fear, assaulting her sensitive feline nose. Once she was out into the street, people scattered in every direction. Which way to go? She saw a figure stumbling away, head shining even in the gloom of the early evening, and took off after it.

  They ran down alleys, twisting and turning past buildings where the humanity contained within spilled on to the street. Refuse was piled in tumbling mounds, and more than one sickly body sat on the floor propped against a wall, hardly noticing the foot race in front of it. And then the signs of humanity stopped. She was surrounded by older buildings, also red brick, but dusty with disuse. The not-Chatterwick stopped too, it’s back against the wall of a tall tower.

  “Wh-wh-what do you want?” it screamed.

  “That’s not it, sis,” gasped Motega, bent over with his hands on his thighs as he struggled to regain his breath.

  Shit. She could see that herself. This man had a face for a start. A roar and a flick of her panther head and the man went running away once more.

  Neenahwi took a moment to catch her own breath, in great open-mouthed pants, before she became human again. She hadn’t given any prior thought to the form she had chose, but she now realized how much it closely resembled that of Barrax. She briefly wondered what had happened to that demon queen. Neenahwi took a moment to tidy herself; the robe was ruined of course. The neck hole was ripped and the sleeves were little more than purple streamers hanging on by a thread. But at least she wasn’t naked in the middle of this city and all of its inhabitants…

  She realized then that there were no other people. Redpool was overpopulated; the streets were always a press of people no matter the hour. Yet here, there was silence. No people. No rats or mice or cats in the street either. She looked around the area encircling the tower. No, there was someone. Across the way she saw an old man with a broom in hand, sweeping futilely at the dust. He smiled and waved hello.

  Wait, she thought, a tower?

  Had she got turned around? There hadn’t been any towers ahead of them when they had been chasing the not-Chatterwick.

  “Hey,” she said to Motega, Trypp and the woman from Morris’ squad who had managed to keep up. “Did you notice this tower when we were chasing that monster?”

  Motega and the others looked around with a quizzical look on their faces. Motega exchanged a glance with Trypp, who shrugged, wide eyed.

  “Er, sis. What tower?”

  Chapter 5

  Honey Traps and Trees

  Mareth splashed cold water on his face, and looked up to see his reflection in the mirror. The apparition staring back at him was still like something from a dream. His close-cropped beard and hair were not how he thought of himself, even months after this new look was foisted upon him. Where was the tavern bard with those rakish good looks, long flowing hair, and a hint of wild excitement in his eyes? It was inside him somewhere. But that wasn’t what people wanted now.

  No, life was different. He hadn’t wanted to become Lord Protector, but he’d walked into it willingly. He’d been a selfish little bastard practically all of his life—he had no problem admitting this to himself, though he’d never acknowledge it to his father—and so maybe it was about time that he did something for other people. Behind the person in the mirror, Mareth could see the great marble-clad bathroom in which he stood; the deep stone bathtub to his side, easily big enough for two people (he and Petra had established that). The cold stone floor on his bare feet and the chilly water from the taps fed from the top of Mount Tiston helped lift him out of his sleep-induced fog.

  Sleep. He wasn’t sure if he could call it that. Though he was exhausted every day from the cavalcade of meetings and discussions that he himself demanded, it seemed like sleep was not as restorative as his drunken stupors of the past. The dreams that came were vivid and tiring; and each morning as he awoke, he would try to grasp them with his waking mind only to find them as elusive as smoke. He’d always been able to remember his dreams, but it seemed that small piece of freedom had disappeared too.

  It had been weeks since he’d left the palace grounds. People came to him now. He had tired of the processions of guards and attendants that Commander Grimes required whenever he had paid a visit to friends in the early days. So he had come to accept the gilded cage that was his new home. He had few outlets away from the role. One such was the rare times he visited the Deep People; he didn’t need to leave the palace grounds to enter through the Mountain Gate, and he had come to enjoy his conversations with the Forger and the Keybearer, learning more about Kingshold’s closest neighbor and most valued armament producer. He also liked to see what Mouse, the liberated alchemist, had developed with his similarly half-unhinged dwarven hosts. The small pleasures in seeing the dusts that could emit colorful smoke, or the strings of fire cracke
rs that could explode in time to one of his songs. Small moments of escape.

  Petra was his only other consistent source of joy. Her love, and the unmistakable expression of pride in what they were doing, kept him going. He had to admit that the trappings of being Lord Protector, and in particular the diverse and exceptional collection of distilled liquors available to him now, had at times proven a sore temptation. But he didn’t want to disappoint Petra, or Alana, or any of the others; so he limited his drinking to the end of the day. When he had been a tavern leech, hearing of the King and Queen’s extravagances had been distasteful to him, but—he admitted to himself with a wry grin—that was probably because he didn’t have them. Now, when he could literally do whatever he wanted, it was a constant battle of self-control to rein in those urges.

  Petra was still asleep. The canopied bed, bigger than many of the rooms he had once called home, was where she lay now. It was still dark outside; more like the time when, in the recent past, he would have been thinking about slinking off to whichever bed would have him. Now he always woke early. And though he was sure their relationship wasn’t really a secret; Petra would leave before the palace got to be too busy, and walk through the halls back to the apartment she shared with her sister.

  Mareth knew he didn’t have to sneak around, after all he was the ruler of Edland, but apparently his new status had brought with it a certain burden of appropriateness. Chancellor Tarrantha Grey—or Lady Grey, as he still referred to her—reminded him of this in the right moments. It chafed to follow these unwritten rules of ‘society’, in particular when it was mainly to appease the nobles who had not supported him in the first place, but Petra had been quite understanding. He supposed she had a lifetime of understanding people’s expectations for someone from the Narrows, and it hadn’t come as a surprise to her. But it made his heart ache every time she complied with this unfair practice. Soon, when he felt more secure in his position, he would put a stop to it.