CHAPTER SIX: The Figure

A full year had passed since the figure stepped foot inside the proper. During the months leading to her niece’s Ascension, most of Alora’s assignments had required he trek the outskirts of the realm, segregated from the heart of civilization. Prowling the heights of the crown city, the vapors from inhabitant waste and depravity reminded the figure he preferred it that way. As he advanced alongside the rooftops, he covered his sensitive nostrils with the hem of his cloak.

Being a woman of divine influence, Alora had planted her watchers throughout Bastiion’s inner and outer propers, her band of eyes growing to an impressive network within the last decade. The occupants of nearly every hovel had a price, most unwilling to pass on a reliable copper crupas or two. Information procured from the low was often of the highest value to the one who knew to ask for it. And when separated from his mistress, this private transmission of intel was vital to her operation, their correspondence only made possible with the help of a mutual friend.

Tonight’s assignment was no different.

After seeing her niece safely deposited at the western gate, the figure was instructed to keep away from the palace, that shining beacon of Orynthia, and undertake the next affair. Alora had received word that a young boy had been found within Marketown’s backstreet, which meant he was obliged to return to the soiled pit of a city he’d rather have forgotten.

The figure tightened his ragged gloves, noting where the leather split. He’d have to nick a pair off a merchant cart later, before retreating to his makeshift hideaway on a docked vessel in the bay. It was just another fleeting sanctuary in a world of isolation; an isolation of his own wretched making.

Abruptly, the figure knelt within the basin of the wide eavestrough, fixed to the side of the building to catch the runoff. Spreading his cloak, he mingled with the darkness, watching the dark men moving in formation farther down the street. The Darakaian prydes must have taken over the policing of the city during his stint away—an unsurprising development, given their haidren’s dangerous rise to power.

The Darakaian patrol encircled something of interest—a pile of trash, or something significantly graver, by the smell of it. The nimblest of the group, a young man with lengthy braids, suddenly sprang upright and stepped away from their circle. He bit his fist, as if to keep from retching off to the side of the alley. A larger man, a head taller than the first, broke off as well, though his attempt to not vomit was less successful.

Through the opening, the figure peered into the center of their huddle. Wedged in a pile of garbage, the profile of a pale little boy shone in the moonlight. The dusk of his fine hair indicated mixed lineage, confirming Alora’s suspicions. The boy was a Boreali cross-caste.

“Shtàka,” a member of their militia swore, rubbing his forehead. “Same markings as that girl we found. Did anyone else know there were so many y’siti mutts in the city? Depths, I’d never have realized it until they started turning up…this way.”

“Ano zà.” The Southern giant wiped his mouth and pushed away from the wall. “But would you crawl out of hiding in Bastiion if you were them? Probably know they aren’t wanted. Uni, they be tempting jwona, coming to this place.”

The one with the tied braids turned and bent closer to the body, stooping to his knees. “Tempting fate, indeed,” the young man muttered, braids swishing as he shook his head fervently. “Why do this to a child? Even cross-caste. He’s just a cub.”

“This is messed-up kakk, Alpha Zà.” The big Darakaian crossed his meaty arms. “Makes a pattern now, yeah?”

“Uni, cousin. We need to have the corpse examined. Look at that.” The braided leader pointed to the boy’s wrists. Sleek, precise slits could be seen, even from above. They explained the exaggerated pallor of his skin—the boy had been drained.

The figure chewed the peeling flesh off his blistered lip, caught up in troublesome consideration. Squinting, he scanned the rest of the body, his lids itching from the strain as he cataloged the series of lacerations to report to his mistress. It would be impossible to analyze the boy’s remains once the Darakaians took the body into custody.

The leader carefully slipped his arms around the boy’s form and lifted it out of the garbage. A tuft of mussed, chestnut hair peeked over his shoulder, where the child’s neck hung to the side, utterly limp. Then, in an unusual display of tenderness, the Darakaian alpha cradled the boy’s skull against his chest, tucking it tightly under his chin. Defensively, even.

The figure blinked twice. In both his lifetimes—one lived in the warmth of day, the other damned to chill of night—he’d never witnessed the prydes show an ounce of concern for the lower classes. Especially a Northern cross-caste. Even the House of Boreal disregarded their own blended offspring. The figure leaned forward, captivated by the alpha’s surprising care for the boy. As one who excelled at navigating the realm’s degeneracy, fluent in her sins and secrets, he was not often surprised by her players.

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“We’ll regroup in the guard house. Takoda, call for one of the doctors from the catacombs,” the alpha instructed. “I don’t want this becoming tomorrow’s gossip at court.”

The warrior in question pounded his chest and set off with another Darakaian, leaving the alpha and his giant to escort the corpse from the alley.

“Doru. Let me bear it, Ahoté.” Alone, the bigger Darakaian stopped walking and shifted his tone to something more informal, implying a long acquaintance between the two. “They’ll expect your beta to carry it into the guard house. Have to look impartial, yeah? You know trouble comes to those who care.” Then he inclined his head toward his alpha, as if asking permission. “Shamàli, Ahoté. If you see fit.”

“Uni. Take him, cousin.”

At the alpha’s solemn nod, the larger man gently scooped the dead child from his embrace and continued down the alley.

Stalking the Darakaians, the figure crept along the gutter, keeping the duo in range. Nearing an intersection in the backstreet, he swung down onto a crooked veranda, hugging the exterior of the building while they rounded the corner.

“By the Fates, you Southern street sweeper!” Glass clunked against the cobblestone as the figure arced over the railing to see a pair of fine-dressed Unitarians, lost in their cups, cutting off the Darakaians’ advance. “That bottle cost more crupas than the militia makes in a month!”

“Take your drunken coin back to your country estates, gentleman,” the alpha warned, sidestepping in front of his beta, partially shielding the cross-caste. “Marketown has catered to enough yancies tonight.”

“Who the Depths do you think you are?” the first nobleman sputtered, spitting on the alpha’s shoe. “You can’t talk to the nobility like that—”

“Eh, well, what do you got there?” his companion slurred, rapping his ornate cane. “I spy a diamond in the drainpipe! Yannis, you could fetch…” the stumpy nobleman burped, “…fetch a few aurus for that thing.”

“The cub’s not for sale.” The alpha balled his fists, shifting to further block the boy from their sight.

“Now, now, not so hasty, friend…” Yannis splayed out his palms. “Last y’siti cross-caste I sold went out of Port Niall for three aurus and then some. Splitting the gains, you could be a mighty rich Southerner by the morning.”

The figure squinted, only then recognizing the distinct bulge in the nobleman’s hooked nose. It wasn’t long ago that Alora had the figure chasing a wealthy Unitarian slaver out of Port Niall. Ire shot through him, scathing his parched throat. The number of nobles managing their own slave exchange was limited, specifically out of that port, and the figure had lost faith in coincidence. His eyes fixated on Yannis, studying him. The slaver trader, sweaty and red in the face from his earlier entertainment, licked his hand and smoothed the thin hair he had left backwards, then offered the same hand to the alpha.

“Ano zà,” the alpha snarled, his no final and absolute. “I said, he’s not for sale!”

“Uh, Yannis…” The partnering nobleman peeked around to the Darakaian beta. “Forget the deal. I think it might be dead, anyhow.”

The slaver gripped his belt heartily and grinned, revealing a golden tooth. Rocking back on his heels, he sniggered, “Well, there’s another market entirely after they’ve expired, it’ll triple—”

The alpha grabbed Yannis’s lapel and punched him square in the jaw. Whirling around, he snatched the partner’s cane and, with one end, smashed the slaver in the gut, pitching him across the street. The huge beta lurched back when the alpha spun again, swinging the cane, and caught the other man’s fine boots as he tried to run, hooking him to the ground. The Darakaian’s braids whipped through the air as he threw the cane aside and seized the silk of the man’s collar, then proceeded to beat him senseless.

“Ahoté, doru.” The beta marched forward, adjusting the corpse in his care. “Doru, stop. Zaeth, he’s out cold.”

Shoulders sagging, the alpha backed away from the groaning slaver. “Uni. We need to go,” he agreed, panting slightly. “Don’t need this to be tomorrow’s gossip, either.”

A few yards off, Yannis spat blood and lurched to his feet, putting some distance between himself and the retreating Darakaians. Without regard to his unconscious partner, the slaver departed the alley before he awoke, hobbling toward the safety and raucous noise of merchant row.

The body now lost to the Darakaians, the figure leapt to the next balcony, in pursuit of this older target. Dangling off a corroded pipeline, the figure dropped another story lower. Anticipation charged through his aching limbs, greasing his joints into action.

The figure sprung from the ledge as Yannis passed under the unstable balcony. The stench of liquor wafted off the plush suit when he landed on the other man’s back. Grappling over the stonework, they rammed into a cart of stale grain. The figure drove Yannis’s face into the feed, earning a warbled groan from the slaver. Straddling his abdomen, he wrapped both gloves around the base of Yannis’s fat neck. Calculations consumed his mind, as he counted the ships of people one man could have arranged since the figure had failed to put an end to the slaver’s enterprise. An inhuman strength jolted through his fingertips as they twisted ruthlessly, suffocating his prey.

A hawk’s screech shot through the darkness. She screamed again, her heralding cry shrill and commanding, disrupting the figure’s senses. Gradually, the ringing faded from his ears, and he let go. Quietening his lungs, he listened closely. The slaver still wheezed against the grain, his breathing shallow and weak.

Slinking off the cart, the figure left him there, falling into the shadows and looking to the skies. The hawk’s wings flapped ferociously as she crossed the moon, steering him northward toward the light. Toward the only home he’d ever truly known in Bastiion.

Alora.

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