The morning sun was beginning to crest the horizon past the tops of the nearby buildings when Gideon exited his cottage. In the sky, a handful of waning white stars shone against a backdrop of dark blue while a widening band of pink and red sunlight expanded below it, steadily subsuming the starscape within its transfiguring light. Loso’s morning sun had always seemed very cold and unfeeling to Gideon, a set of dazzling colors that held little sympathy for the people inhabiting the earth below.
It felt like he’d taken a thousand steps forward only to take a thousand steps back.
It's just going back to the way it’s always been, he told himself. That’s all. The only difference is that Dance isn’t going to be around this time. Everything that happened after he died was just a strange dream.
Loso began to wake up around him as he trekked west through the slums. White smoke billowed from the chimneys of the drab houses lining the street, filling the air with a rich, woody smell. The subdued clatter of pots and pans emanating from within the houses joined a rough, irritating chorus of coughing. The arrival of the cold had brought illness with it, a grim winter tradition that had occurred in the city for the entire length of its existence. Gideon walked quickly, wanting to escape the morning chill, and only slowed down to peer at a long line of silent and cold-looking people who were waiting to draw water from a well in the courtyard of a crumbling manor house. They were being watched over by a pair of chainmail-clad mercenaries standing closeby, staring hard at each person as they shuffled forward.
Least I won’t have to do shit like that.
Before long he entered the merchant’s quarter, which had a much less somber attitude towards the morning. It was already busy—the street was packed with people, and the sound of nearby blacksmiths beating out rhythms on their irons blared out above the murmur of pedestrian conversation. The delicious aromas of breakfast being cooked within the dwellings and taverns girding the street was mixed with the pungent smells of dried sweat and unwashed bodies wafting from the people walking alongside him.
The hiring hall the Singing Blades had always used didn’t have a name, so far as Gideon knew. It was located on a small side street near the south-west gate, not terribly far from where Edea’s villa had been. Dance had always favored it because it was close to several mercenary-friendly bars, which meant he could go out and instantly spend his money just as soon as everyone else had been paid.
That’s probably how I came to be, Gideon thought, shuddering. The old asshole went out after some random job and just picked up the first woman he saw. Then nine months later I got dumped in Deb’s lap.
The thought came with an old, familiar pain, one he’d figured out how to live with long ago. Deb had been far from wealthy, but she’d still managed to give him a life where he could be safe and happy—though he hadn’t realized it at the time—and that’d truly been more than enough. Whoever gave birth to him hadn’t wanted to know her son, and so he didn’t want to know her. It was just that simple. Dance hadn’t wanted to know him either, but he’d been given no choice by the rest of the band.
After following the flow of traffic south for a while he turned off the thoroughfare onto one of the west-end side streets, and soon arrived at the hiring hall. It stood out from the buildings alongside it as one of the merchant quarter’s few run-down looking timber-framed buildings, weathered by the elements and clearly well past its time. The white and brown paint which covered most of the building’s exterior was yellowing in the corners and flaking off everywhere else. White smoke billowed from the chimney, promising imminent relief from the cold.
He opened the front door and was greeted with a welcoming blast of warm air. A fire roared in the pit which served as the hall’s central focus point, being stoked by a young Losoan woman with beautifully cute looks and long, straightened black hair, wearing a heavy winter coat. She looked up at Gideon when he entered, and her attentive gaze lingered on him for a few moments longer than might normally be expected.
Around the firepit sat an assortment of roughshod tables and benches, all empty except for the one closest to the fire, where Julian and an unfamiliar Losoan man sat side by side, hands raised to absorb the fire’s warmth. The stranger had striking reddish pox scars all across the cheeks of his round, boyish face, and the smooth-faced Julian sitting beside him only made the scarring more prominent. He was lean, otherwise, though not nearly as thin as the gangly Julian.
At the back of the building behind a long wood counter stood Ferman, the hall’s aging, mute owner. Gideon had seen him many times before, though never personally talked with him. Long and uncontained gray hair framed his wrinkled face like a monotone sun, giving him an alarmingly crazed impression which contrasted with his ultra-serious nature. He had a fighter’s bulk despite his age—though he’d gone to fat in a few places—and he wore a winter coat that was practically identical to the one the young woman wore. Ferman instantly noticed the look the young woman gave to Gideon and began to openly glare at him, a tight-lipped frown spreading across his face.
“And a good morning to you, Gideon!” Julian called out. “Cold enough for you?”
“Could be worse,” Gideon shrugged. “At least it’s not snowing.”
“True enough,” Julian said, turning to the man beside him. “This smarmy bastard is Cato. He’s going to be your mentor for your apprenticeship period.”
Cato said nothing as Gideon approached, peering at him with silent curiosity. Once in range, Cato extended his hand for a shake. Gideon stared down at him, refusing to accept the offered hand. He’d learned from years of watching Dance negotiate with employers in this very building to never accept a handshake from a man who was sitting down.
For a moment Cato looked as though he were about to take offense, but then a smirk suddenly exploded across his ruddy face. He stood up, offering his hand to Gideon once again, which he finally accepted. Cato was just about as tall as Gideon, and his grip was crushingly firm. Gideon responded in kind.
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“I like him already,” Cato said, still smirking as he released Gideon’s hand. “Jules was telling me you’re one of Dance’s brats. How is it that you and I never met?”
Gideon gave him a confused frown. “Why would we have?”
“Uh, Cato was a lieutenant in the Thousand Swords before becoming a hussar,” Julian explained hastily. “And you never met Gideon because the boy is one of the quiet types. Kept to himself for the most part.”
Cato gave Gideon a look of appraisal. “Not exactly prime leadership material then, is he?”
“Not exactly,” Julian agreed. “Flawless fighter, though. Imagine Dance, but less of an asshole.”
Gideon’s frown deepened, but before he could respond the young woman spoke up.
“I’ve never seen a mercenary who wasn’t an asshole. But for once in your charmless life I think you could be right, Julian. This man is far too pretty for that.”
“Who’re you?” Gideon asked.
She smiled and opened her mouth to respond, only to be interrupted by a startlingly loud bang which erupted from the desk at the back of the hall. Ferman had slammed his hand down onto it, wearing the most intense scowl Gideon had ever seen. He lifted the same hand up and crooked an angry, beckoning finger at Gideon.
“My name is Marissa,” she said quickly. “The man making the racket is my pa, and I’m cursed to be alone forever because the only men in my life are mercenaries who he doesn’t approve of.”
Julian laughed, and leapt to his feet. “That’s because he’s wise. C’mon, let’s go see what the old man wants with you.”
The four of them approached the scowling Ferman as he stood behind the counter, still glowering at Gideon. Once in range, Cato leaned down against the counter, smirking.
“Still missing your tongue, old man?”
Ferman opened his mouth at him, exposing what little remained of his tongue. Most of it had been cut clean off, leaving only a grotesque, fleshy growth at the back of his throat. He waggled what little remained of it at Cato, in what would’ve been a mocking gesture if it hadn't been missing. After a few moments of waggling he shut his mouth again to resume his frown.
“Asking him that constantly won’t help it grow back,” Marissa chided.
“I know, I’m just teasing him. He doesn’t mind. Right, old man?”
The look on Ferman’s face made it clear that he did, in fact, mind. After taking a few moments to cast an angry glare at Cato, Ferman turned to Gideon and lifted his hands up, making a series of strange movements with his fingers.
“Pa says your armor won’t be ready ‘til tomorrow,” said Marissa. “We’ve got too many other orders ahead of you to get something in your size done last minute.”
Gideon raised a surprised eyebrow at her. Ferman’s normal method of communication had been writing on a sheet of paper. Using his daughter as translator for hand signals was a new development.
“Shame that,” said Julian. “But if they’re busy, well, what can you do?”
“You said I’d be wearing new armor by tomorrow,” Gideon said, accusing.
“Well, maybe I fibbed a little, but so what? Had to get you on board somehow. The Manicini are paying for it all anyway.”
“Lucky bastard,” Cato drawled. “Before this uprising we had to buy all our own shit. Their desperation is our benefit, eh? It's too bad the slaves don’t get uppity more often.”
“Whatever,” Gideon said, rolling his eyes. “I wasn’t too keen on having a bunch of armor weighing me down, anyway.”
“You’ll feel differently once you see what it's like out there,” Julian said. “Trust me, you’re going to be grateful for that armor.”
Ferman then made more finger motions. Marissa focused on them, then turned a surprised expression to Gideon.
“Pa says your old man owed us money. Something about a contract fee he kept putting off.”
Suddenly, everyone’s gaze was firmly locked onto Gideon. He frowned a bit, processing the aggravating idea of being saddled with one of Dance’s unpaid debts, before finally responding.
“...How much did he owe?”
“Thirty denars. You can just—”
Marissa stopped mid-sentence as Gideon reached into his pocket. He placed a handful of coins on the counter in front of Ferman, who instantly snatched them up.
“There’s ten. I’ll bring you the rest tomorrow.”
“Looks like I wasn’t the only one fibbing,” Julian scoffed. “You’re supposed to be broke? My fucking ass, you are.”
“We appreciate it,” Marissa said warmly. Ferman’s frown didn’t budge whatsoever as he pocketed the coins.
Cato then made a humming sound, and stood back up out of his lean. “If your armor isn’t ready then I’d say it’s about time we got going. At this point the boys are probably wondering where the hell I’m at.”
“You two go on, then,” Julian said. “I’ve got a couple things to go over with Ferman. Bring him the rest of the money tomorrow morning, Gideon, when you pick up your armor.”
“The hell could you possibly need to go over with him?” Gideon asked, scowling.
An amused grin appeared on Cato’s face before Julian could respond.
“I'm captain now, kiddo. Taking care of you slobs takes up most of my day. Now get the hell out of my face.”
Cato punched Gideon lightly on the shoulder and began to walk off. Gideon followed him, casting a curious look over his shoulder. The frown on Ferman’s face had already disappeared as he listened intently to Julian. Marissa’s attention was on Gideon, and once they’d locked eyes she smiled and waved goodbye to him by wiggling her fingers.
“Julian seems to like you, boy, but he’s not the one out here standing at the checkpoint everyday,” Cato said after they'd stepped outside. “We’ll see if you’re really hussar material.”
More like we’ll see if you’re good enough for me.
“Where are we going?” Gideon asked.
“Towards the north end of the slums, near the Hills. You’re twice lucky that we’ve got the easiest checkpoint. The one down on the south end got cleaned the fuck out by the slaves the other day. Mopped the floor with the mercs there and took a bunch of prisoners. Even killed a hussar.”
Cato fell silent as they followed the foot traffic north towards the main thoroughfare. Gideon soon found himself wondering what he’d do if Len or Celaena showed up for a fight at his checkpoint.
And what if it’s Surelin that shows up? He wondered anxiously. What would I do then?
No satisfactory answer came to him, and he found himself growing more frustrated with his situation than ever before.
I’m not lucky, you red-faced prick, he thought, casting an angry sideways glance at Cato. Cursed, more like.