21 – 2
It was fortune that brought Connall and I together – good for myself, poor indeed for him – but fortune is fickle. It could deliver the rangy Windrunner to the edge of my knife with as much ease as it could me to the point of his crossbow bolt. I won't rely on fortune to bring me any further than it already has. When I take his life, it will be because I know him: his patterns, his proclivities. I'll know when he's with someone. I'll know when he's alone. He won't be able to put me under the point of his crossbow. I won't give him the chance.
I start by finding him. I seek him out, over and over again, and follow him through the streets of Amberdusk town. I watch. I learn.
He's often in the company of both of his fellow Windrunners. When he's not, he's usually with the large, loud one, trailing along as the latter snaps and spits at passers-by, protecting him from reprisal with the ever-present threat of a loaded crossbow. He's been alone with the sullen-eyed woman, whose thick arms beat Alban the smith to a bloody pulp, just once. They spent a handful of hours in each other's company and filled that time with either barbed insults or an angry silence. Clearly, they don't get along.
Connall's disappearance put them all on edge – their tantrum in the center square was proof of that – but their reactions are where they differ. The large, loud, and angry one gets louder and angrier as time passes and Connall doesn't reappear. The sullen-eyed woman continues as she began, laying about her with that knotted, leather-wrapped club and demanded answers until everyone around her is either groaning on the ground or fled. I have yet to find my target anywhere alone.
I don't mean to say that he is never alone. There are times I can't find him.
There are others when I can't follow him.
Those are the times when the mere sight of him, his crossbow, and the gleaming point of its bolt fill me with so great a fear that I flee. I run blindly and without breath until I can run no more, until my heart climbs into my throat, my head spins, and I collapse where I stand. Those are the times where I curl into the tightest ball I can make of myself and lay on the cold, wet ground, gasping and weeping. It feels like dying, but I never do. It always ends with me covered in sweat, exhausted and ashamed, and the taste of dirt on my lips.
Maybe I should leave him for last. If he's so difficult to find alone, then shouldn't I turn my efforts to the others? The large and loud one is always large and loud, easy to find and easier still to follow. He spends hours upon end in 'Morrow's' dusty, empty taproom, sniffing out still-full bottles and drinking them, one after another, until he is flushed red and swaying. Shouldn't he be next?
I could sneak into the taproom, well before he arrived, and hide underneath the bar. He's already searched it three times over and found every last drop of liquor there. He won't look again. Then, all I'd need do is wait until the drink takes its toll and he passes out. His fellows will abandon him in disgust and I can make my move; sneak up and stab the point of my knife deep into his neck. Wouldn't that be better than what I'm doing now?
It's been seven days since I killed Connall, six since the tantrum in the center square. I haven't slept through the night since the Valdenwood fire; now, I'm lucky to sleep at all. I eat only when my stomach screams for food. It comes right back up if I don't.
I don't know if it's better. There's just not much it could do to be worse.
Jeremiah grunts when I stand, uncurling from the armchair I'd occupied since dawn. It's near midday now, I think. The sunlight through the shutter-gaps is a bright, warm gold. It adds some color of life to Jeremiah's pallid skin and deepens the shadows beneath his sad, sunken eyes. Tear tracks glitter on his face and roughen a voice already made hoarse by drink. “Goin' somewhere?”
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Disinterest covers the question, hiding well the care and concern beneath. One would have to listen for them to find them, to know before that they were there to be found. I don't know why he doesn't blame me for Juliana's death. If there's any left after the Windrunners are given their due, it surely falls to me.
I nod. “There's something I need to do.”
He considers. Understands. Drunk he may now be, but a fool? A fool, he has never been. “Want help?”
“Later, I think,” I adjust my belt, ensuring that my knife sits properly. “after the moon rises.”
He nods. “Where?”
“Your – ” I hesitate. “The bar.”
A moment's silence, punctuated by a grunt. “Alright. Good huntin'.”
I swallow the knot in my throat. Nod. Leave.
- - -
Broken window glass has been ground into a crystalline powder by days of treading boot-heels, dragged away from their sills to form shorelines for lakes of dust. My passing by blows gusts of wind across them, spinning up waterspouts and waves. Bottles in varying states of emptiness are strewn across a handful of tables, a constellation of stale-smelling drink with a lantern-set star at its heart. I touch the smoke-stained glass; it's cold. I look at the trails the legs of the three chairs set around it have dragged in the dust; clear, mostly. I take these things to mean that I've succeeded and gotten here before they did.
I follow their tracks to the bar, hiding my steps inside the broader, longer footprints. These are his, I should think: the one I've come to kill. Lift the gate and step through, setting it down slowly, gently behind me. I breathe the scents of dust, sweat, and stale liquor as I look for the best place to hide.
Underneath the bar? That's what I'd planned to do, but there are shelves keeping me out. I try to pull them out, they don't shift an inch; screws and brackets hold them tight.
Inside a cabinet, then? The ones on the floor have the same issue as the shelves, and the ones mounted on the wall would surely fall if I tried to climb inside them.
I'm left with one recourse, it would seem: to put myself in darkest corner behind the bar, the one furthest from their table, and become as still as stone. With any luck, they won't see me.
So much for avoiding the fickleness of fortune. I draw my knife from its sheath, hide its blade inside my sleeve, and settle onto my knees.
Now to wait, and while waiting, wonder: how will the other two react when yet another of their wretched brotherhood disappears into thin air? What will they do? The woman, sullen-eyed and thick-armed, will surely become even more violent. With her strength and that knotted club, it would be easy for her beatings to turn fatal.
But then, could the same not be said of the other? After all; a club might be a killing instrument, but with a crossbow there is no doubt. Its entire purpose is to end life. That's what it's for. I've seen it.
He hasn't done that, though, has he? He's wielded the threat of it, certainly; as freely as his sister swings her club, but he's yet to loose a single bolt. In part, I wonder why. The rest of me is glad for it. It means he's capable of restraint. It means I can leave him for last.
Boot-heels on stone streets.
A single, braying laugh.
A muffled complaint.
The door slams open.
Boot-heels on wooden floors.
“You whine too much!” It's him. The one I'm here for. “You'd think with all this – ha, all this – wine –, you'd be less bitchy!”He laughs a single, braying laugh. No one else does. His steps thud towards the bar while the others step lighter towards their table.
His broad, flat face comes into view. He's flushed and sweating, his matted beard even filthier than it was when I saw him last. He drums thick, short fingers on the counter as he searches with gluttonous, deep-set eyes for a fresh bottle.
A chair scrapes back. Gets settled into with a groan. “Remind me why I put up with him again?” It's the woman. Her voice is smooth and deep, filled with sullen irritation.
There's a clatter as something is set down, a mix of wood and metal. The crossbow. I lock my jaw and hold my breath. Wait for the panic and dread to come over me. They don't. “Vance told you to.” the rangy one says. His voice is accented, brushed by one of the city-kingdom's brogue's.
It takes a moment for his sister's complaint and his brother's answer to pierce the fugue that's come over the man I'm here to kill. Once they do, his face twists in a familiar anger. “You 'put up with me',” he turns, stomps over, “because – I'm – in charge! You got that?! I'm the one who's gonna make us rich, not you, and sure as shit not you! If you don't like how I'm running things around here, feel free to fuck off back to the Port empty-handed, I'm sure Vance'll – love – that. Otherwise, shut your stinking holes!”
“Fine!” the woman surrenders. “Fuck me, I guess.”
I can hear the leer in his reply. “Only if you're offering.”
That sets them off again. I'm going to be here a while.