INTERLUDE 6C: DREAM IT TOO
“This New Church must think more of Illodin! The light is not instantaneous; this the diviners and wizards have proven – and by comparison the word is slow, so slow to take wing on the air. What we think of as the present is the past. To experience is to recollect. Memory is all that can be said to exist. They think little of us, those of us who deign to tend the pools of history, and ever fail to understand: all of Being lies fragile, fluid in our hands!”
– from ‘The Collected Speeches of Saint Rothmar the Unknighted’
8th Orovost, 998 NE
Aramas was just one of dozens that waited by the pier as the ferry-barge docked, but he was one of the best at his job, and he got it done however he had to. With his handful of shiny shells from the beach at Shinglemoss, the youngster fought his way through the others – he was short but he was burly, and could wrestle with the best of them. Once he got to the front, his hands were just two of what must’ve looked to their prey like thousands. One of each pair was stretching out with stupid trinkets held in the balled fist, while the other, unencumbered, was grasping, groping for payment from the tourists…
Today he was working distraction – Cullimo was working action.
He shoved his shells in some unsuspecting rich guy’s face and kept up with him, the crowd pushing and pulling all around them.
“Hey sir! Hey sir! You want this! You want this, don’t you? Go on, take it. Take it! Only three silver! Hey sir! It’s in your pocket now! It’s in your pocket, I said – do you want me to tell the watch? Yeah, I’ll tell the watch! You know about Mund’s prisons? Or better, I’ll go tell my uncle, I’ll tell my uncle right now! You haven’t paid, don’t you speak Mundic? Dropping tourists! Three! Silver! Okay okay, one silver – one… Fine… never mind…”
Getting them to expose their wallets was the trick. They wouldn’t actually open their purse-strings, of course, unless they were complete oafs, and some were clever-enough to not even reach for them – but those were few and far between. Most marks wouldn’t be able to help themselves, securing the contents of a specific pocket or belt-pouch, to clutch it tighter or just to check it was still there.
That was their real mistake. The tiniest tell was all Aramas and his breed were waiting for. These dropping highborn, rich-as-drop types were so stupid…
Once the target had been revealed he’d deftly enter their wallet, unburden them of their coins, and even replace the copper if he was feeling particularly charitable, before refastening any cords or buckles and leaving the mark none the wiser.
He noticed when Cullimo finished in the man’s pocket, then, acting dejected by his ‘failure’, slunk off to find another mark in the crowd. Once the tourists had successfully traversed this dangerous stretch the two of them would count up their earnings and work out how much they owed the guild.
They never lied to the guild – at fourteen years old, they were far too terrified by the prospect of meeting thieves’ justice in a back-alley to risk crossing their boss. But they’d worked on their maths over the last year, so that they could know if they were being crossed. So far, everything had been above board – something Aramas had been surprised at, but not altogether shocked. It seemed Enidd Eight-Fingers was as fair as her frailty implied.
Enidd’s thieves guild had jurisdiction all the way past the Southguard Bridge to Shinglemoss upriver, and downriver to Sigrand’s Twist, incorporating Brinklenir Dock and the Morninglord Bay. A seventy-odd-year-old woman didn’t keep control of such a lucrative empire without being worthy of her reputation, and she was a revered figure in their shadowy community, a nexus for the elusive ‘honour among thieves’ which was so necessary in order for them to deal successfully with one another.
Under her rule, the area had flourished. The protection-rackets actually worked, keeping shopkeepers and dock-masters safe from unlicensed operations, and the memory of the Lowtown gangs had faded over the last twelve months, now they’d been pushed back across the water. Both the boys’ mums appreciated their efforts – neither of them had a dad, and bringing home even a few silver a week made the difference between life and death for their siblings and half-siblings.
But, best of all, they had their freedom. They could do what they wanted. They were cogs in a machine, but they knew the machine, liked the machine. The fact they had a place in the world, it made every day glorious, gave them a reason to get up in the morning and go to work.
It was a golden age, and, pockets full of coins, he and Cullimo made their way back through the alleys to the guild-hall. Minus Enidd’s cut they would still have enough extra left for beer, and those girls who hung around on the corner after tea might be persuaded to go for some.
“I like that blonde one,” Cullimo said as they entered Sicklemore Street and made their way over the horse-drop-covered cobbles towards the market.
“Why?” he asked blandly. As far as Aramas was concerned, the blonde one was a pig in pigtails, but he wasn’t about to say it outright – he let his tone convey his mockery.
The truth was, she was probably the only one of the three girls that was in his league.
“I dutto, man,” Cullimo replied wistfully. “She’s just got a certain sommat, y’ know.”
“Wha’s she got, Cull? Some mud to roller round in? Apples, to go wi’ all that sausage-meat?”
The two boys tussled briefly, spilling some of their silver into the muck; once Cullimo had successfully saved face by throwing a few punches they swiftly recovered their lost coins and continued on their way. Cullimo was faster, nimbler than Aramas, and had got two blows in for every one of his.
“You’re good at the game, Ari, but when it comes to the women, you ain’t got squat.” Cull rolled his shoulders confidently as he strode ahead, and Aramas had to admit he was right. His friend always seemed to get lucky where he got left behind.
“It’s cos I’m fat,” he rumbled.
“A fat short-ass,” Cull corrected him.
Cull couldn’t dodge what he couldn’t see coming – Aramas struck him a solid blow between the shoulder-blades, sending him sprawling face-down in the mud. (Only a few of the nearby Rivertowners even spared them a glance.)
“Gettin’ ready for blondie?” he snapped at his mate. “Oink oink!”
A random dog came over, padding merrily through the mud, and, having given Cull’s head a once-over with its nose, started to cock a leg –
“He’s about to whiz on you!” Aramas laughed.
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The agile boy rolled over away from the dog and got to his feet. Muttering, he followed Aramas this time, hanging his head as he brushed the worst of the mud from his skin and clothing.
Not ten seconds later, Aramas saw the figures of a pair of watchmen heading their way, the ‘S’-shape of a winding river on their badges. Cull swiftly shut his mouth and they withdrew into the shadows behind some crates until the skull-thumpers passed by.
They weren’t three streets from the guild-hall, still bickering between themselves, when they passed the opening to what they called Alley Six and a girl stepped into their path.
Girl, or young woman – the distinction was impossible to make. She was tall and narrow-waisted, red-brown hair pulled back into a spiky pony tail. Her bodice was low-cut and her stockings disappeared beneath a skirt whose hem was considerably north of her knees. The eye-catching size of her chest alone suggested she wasn’t their age.
“Please – please, gentlemen!” she said breathily. “Can I borrow you, for just two minutes? I have a job for you – can you help me? I…” she blinked, sultry eyelashes closing, reopening as her pink-painted lips parted in a smile, “… can pay you for your time?”
Aramas wanted to look at Cull, judge his friend’s reaction, but found it hard to remove his eyes from the nice lady.
“Definitely!” he blurted.
“Whaddya want us to do?” Cull asked in a dreamlike voice.
“Oh, a couple of strong lads like you…” The girl pursed her lips thoughtfully, and they glistened, drawing all of Aramas’s attention. “It won’t take long.”
On nerveless feet, they followed her into the mouth of the alley; she moved quickly, even stepping carefully between the puddles. It was only a thirty second walk. Far too short a time for them to start heeding the voices of warning they both carried in their skulls. They were too used to ignoring such inner warbling on a whim, coming out the other side unharmed. She took the second right turn, behind the butchers’ row, and then left again into the open door of a building, stepping straight into its shadowy interior.
They were in such a rush to hurry after her that they smacked into each other, both trying to cram themselves through the doorway at the same time.
Aramas got ahead, stepped within, followed her around the wall –
Before he’d had chance to properly take in his darkened surroundings, Cull had come through behind him and the door had closed with a very final-sounding metal clang.
The windowless, unpainted wooden walls barely reflected the light of the firepit, the stone-enclosed flames that were licking about in the centre of the dirt floor. Sealed crates and ladders to the upper level were being used for seats, a number of people leaning on the edges of boxes, perching on the lower rungs of the ladders, lounging in relaxed postures, arms folded or hands in their laps.
People? Mages. Their cloth was poor but there was no disputing the long sleeves, the deep hoods hiding their faces… And despite the fire there was no smoke in the air – in fact, the fire seemed to have no fuel; there was no wood or oil beneath the orange flickering shapes, no crackling sound –
Aramas looked back – two tall mages were there, blocking the door, and in their hands long knives gleamed.
The girl who’d lured them into the trap gave a lazy pirouette, then curtseyed deeply to the others as her beautiful lips parted and let forth a delighted laugh.
“What did I tell you?” Her voice was North Lowtown all of a sudden. “Easy.”
“She used no spell?” one of the darkmages, male and old, asked sceptically.
“Not one bit of glamour,” another mage, female and younger, responded. Her voice was cold, level… strong. It screamed danger.
“Oh, but I feel glamorous, darling,” the beautiful girl said, running her hands over her bodice. She looked back at the two boys. “I am sorry, gentlemen. This is the end of the road for you. Let us discuss payment.”
They had unconsciously moved closer to one another until they stood back to back. Thoughts whirled through Aramas’s mind. He had his own knife – shorter and less evil-looking than the ones the mages were carrying, true – but, still, it was a weapon…
He moved his hand to his belt, showing nothing on his face, making it look as though he felt ill, wanted to hold his stomach –
He could hear the confidence in the mages’ motions as they stepped forwards, boots thudding softly on the dry dirt ground behind him –
Cold steel on his neck. Dozens of tiny serrations bit into Aramas’s windpipe.
The mage at his back stunk of wane and sweat, hot breath of beetles pouring across the boy’s face as his captor snarled, “Move your hand from your blade, child.”
They were both brought to their knees before the firepit. The two tall mages didn’t even bother to take the knife from his belt or search them, but preferred to simply stand at their sides, daggers poised to open their throats at the slightest sign of resistance.
“What – what d-did we do?” Cull managed to ask in a trembling voice. “Pl-please, we can put it right…”
“We didn’t do anything, Cull,” Aramas said in a voice that was already dead. “They just want to kill us.”
“That’s half right, lad,” said the mage leaning against the nearest crate in a gruff voice. “Only half.”
“Which one is it, anyway?” the beautiful girl asked.
The dangerous-sounding female mage who’d spoken earlier raised her arm and pointed at Cull. “Kill that one.”
Aramas’s eyes widened –
Please – Joran –
Cull screamed as the mage next to him drew back his hand, raising the knife: “Help! Help me! Please, someone help –“
Aramas clenched his fists – there was nothing he could do but watch in horror as –
As nothing he’d ever expected came to pass before his eyes.
This time the metallic clang of the door wasn’t just loud, didn’t just sound final – it was final, for Cull’s would-be-killer at least. The door itself burst into the room, ripping through the frame and the partition-wall, tumbling end over end – and the heavy iron object smacked right into the executioner, sending him flying into the firepit.
Everyone looked behind Aramas, and he did the same, staring wide-eyed over his shoulder.
The corner of the building was gone – a hooded, feminine shape was there, silhouetted against the daylight in the dimness of the darkened room. He could see her brown rags illuminated in the orange glare as the flames danced.
“Nay, Vardae.” She spoke in a rich, contemptuous tone, words carefully enunciated, despite her lowborn accent. “This is beneath us.”
She produced her hand from the long sleeve, extended it towards the other knife-armed mage standing beside Aramas, and flicked her finger as one might flick away a gnat.
The hollow rushing boom was awful. It was like the man right next to him was punched by a fist of air that weighed a hundred pounds, though the boy felt barely a whisper of wind through his hair.
The target was sent crashing into the opposite wall, his body a crumpled mess.
“Ithilya, what are you doing?” the dangerous female mage demanded angrily; she didn’t sound threatened. “The season is upon him, and the crop must be reaped before it wilts. You and I have an accord. You go your way; we,” she looked about at her colleagues, “go mine.”
“No longer,” the newcomer, Ithilya, answered in a clear voice. “One might not play with fate as a child with stones, Vardae, nor mould destiny as the potter shapes clay. This you most of all ought know. This you taught me.”
“Don’t tempt me to kill you.” Vardae’s voice had lost none of its anger but it was a whisper now. That overpowering sense of peril was back in the air.
“You know you cannot be rid of me, not yet. You need me. You know no vision is ever complete.”
Aramas didn’t usually pray, but right now his thoughts were a string of jumbled-up supplications: Please – Yune – Joran – save us from this – please – Yune –
The tension in the air was worse than the smoke that rose from the fire, from the slowly-roasting darkmage lying unconscious inside the pit –
“Very well, Ithilya. I shall let you have him. And you shall owe me a favour.”
“Vardae!” The gruff-sounding man leaning against the nearby box sounded like he was choking suddenly. “You cannot think –“
“Both of them,” Ithilya pressed.
“Both of them?” Vardae sounded surprised.
“Until the time is upon them.”
Vardae shrugged. “Two favours, then. To be repaid as I decree. And you, Enthwar, shall hold your tongue.”
Ithilya must’ve nodded, because Vardae turned her face aside, waving a hand at the other darkmages who scurried from their perches to tend their injured comrades. The attractive girl, a sullen look in her eyes and her painted lips pouting disconsolately, helped lift the man who’d crashed into the magical flames.
Fingers of air pushed Aramas and Cullimo to their feet, and proceeded to prod them along behind their ragged saviour as she led them through the shattered entryway, back into Alley Six and the morning sunlight.
I prayed, Aramas thought, I prayed, and we lived! Glory to the gods! Sweet, merciful dropping gods…
Yet a time would soon come when Aramas would curse them for such mercies, calling out the names of dark gods instead within the silent vault of his soul, praying only for the bitter medicine that burns as it heals.
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