Chapter Seventy-Four

Performers

Carter tied up the exhausted and irritated horse by the communal stable outside of the Main Gate and helped Oliver quickly to the ground as the sun leaned toward dusk.

“How you doin’, boss?” Carter asked as he made sure the Oliver didn’t slump to the ground.

Oliver hooked his arm around the young man’s neck and mumbled, “Fantastic. We can arm-wrestle if you like.”

The great iron gate, leading directly to Mid-Side and Dim-Side was held high in the air by thick chains, under which was a small guard post operated by two drowsy Iron Suits.

As they leant about the small, open-aired shack, the first of the two saw Carter and shot to his feet. “Master Cox? Surely someone of your stature would be better suited entering by the High Gate...”

Carter shrugged, which was difficult with the injured swordsman weighing him down. “My friend isn’t from that side of town and you know how those Bright-Side bastards are about that stuff, Preston. Would you let me in?”

The man touched his chest-plate as though the question offended him and nodded Carter and Oliver through.

As they said they thanks, the guard glimpsed Oliver’s sword on his hip. “Master Cox! You might want to wear your friend’s iron, otherwise the other guards will give him some grief.”

Carter looked at Oliver to find him alert for the first time in hours. He gave an apologetic frown as passed under the great iron and said, “He’s right. I’m sorry, I know how important that sword is to you.”

Oliver placed his hand stiffly on the sheath-buckle and loosened it. “You have no idea,” he said quietly, handing it over, leathers and all. “Just be careful with it, please.”

They stepped out onto one of the main roads, separating Mid-Side and Dim-Side with a single wide pathway stretching all the way to the central citadel at the heart of Istol. Traders moved in cluttered herds all along the cobblestone, carting minerals, fabric, fruit, and meat all out in the open air on their way out of the city.

Carter towed Oliver into the noticeably nicer district of Mid-Side, knowing it was the only way through to his surgeon.

Mid-Side was an ambiguous blend of Dim-Side and Bright-Side. Hence its unofficial name. It was populated by anyone who didn’t have to worry about their mortgage but also didn’t have a title to speak of. Naturally, that meant almost anyone from the district wasn’t land-wealthy enough to be labelled a lord, but were far too proud to admit it, or they were wealthy enough to be an aristocrat but were too wise to make such a declaration so close to Dim-Side, notorious for its robbers.

As they moved down the streets, kept relatively tidy by uptight residents and neighbourhood policies, Oliver managed to conjure up the last of his strength when a particularly disgruntled looking guard caught his eye. “I think I should walk on my own,” he mumbled. “I think I’m drawing too much attention to us.”

Carter noticed another Iron Suit turn pointedly their way. “Come, we’ll take a less obvious route.”

Oliver followed Carter down an alley and watched as he hopped through an open window at the lane's end. The opening wafted with smoke that smelt of fresh bread and sugar, and inside he could see a brick-oven jutting up into the ceiling, stretching into what he assumed was a chimney.

Carter ducked behind the chimney and held a hand by his thigh, spread-fingered in a stop gesture, as he inched his gaze around the threshold of the oven.

A very large man with a sweaty brow, dirty apron, and burly hands came to the other side of the oven where he pulled out a tray of meat pies.

Oliver smiled at the boy, despite his weariness, wondering how on Draendica Carter was nobility as the Ahuran boy swiped a stray pastry while the baker’s back was turned.

The large man walked away again and the Carter took the chance to leap through the next window, into another alley. He ducked behind the outside wall, turned and waved to Oliver, jerking his head toward the small alley leading into the other half of Mid-Side.

Oliver shook his head incredulously as he crept up to the window. The baker’s back was turned as he carved a loaf of bread and Oliver silently climbed through, careful of his bandaged shoulder as he slunk in behind the oven. He scanned the room as he waited for an opening and saw the opposite wall was piled high with small sacks of salt, potatoes, onions and other cooking ingredients and foods. Oliver could hear the man opening the oven door and the hiss of steam as water dripped onto hot trays.

Carter peaked around the second window and gave Oliver a wide-eyed look and mouthed, Not yet.

The baker huffed and he stomped over to a door which Oliver couldn’t see and a short creak was followed by, “Marie! Where’s the bloody flour? The open bag, not the new stuff!”

Marie replied in a shrill voice, “In the back corner!”

Oliver subconsciously glanced at the back corner where a massive sack of flour lay, nearly right in front of him. “Bugger,” he whispered under his breath, rapidly looking for somewhere else he could duck to.

The big man trod right passed Oliver and hoisted the child-sized bag of flour. He turned around with the flour in hand, only to find Oliver behind him, frozen like a deer caught in a wire fence.

The burly baker blinked and seemed too confused to be angry. “Who in Rii’s name are you?”

Oliver stuttered, “Would you believe me if I said I was a chimney inspector? No? Okay.” He grabbed a carton of eggs and hurled them at the man, startling the bag of flour out of his hands and sending him stumbling backwards as an explosion of white powder filled the room and the baker went crashing into a pile of pots and pans.

Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

Oliver threw himself out the next window and rolled up onto his feet, sprinting out of the neighbouring alley with Carter, both cackling like maniacs as they heard the baker yelling every Common Tongue curse under the sun.

Oliver slowed to a stop in the open street, panting and chuckling until he felt a warm trickle down his arm. He turned his wrist to see blood leaking down from his shoulder. In all the excitement, he’d torn the stitches and his adrenaline was fading as quickly as it’d come.

Bypassing pedestrians saw him and gasped or pointed, though hesitated to come any closer. Within moments, a small crowd had collected on the edges of the streets as Oliver went quiet with shock.

Carter took the moment of attention and used it to his advantage. He straightened his back and looked down his nose at some nearby pedestrians with an added flourish of his cloak and barked, “Why are the local guard not already here? Is this how Mid-Side law operates? Fetch an officer from Top-Side now!”

The civilians seemed to juggle his demand between all of them, and it was only when he sharpened his Upper-Class glare at them all, that the crowd tore off in different directions.

He turned back to his companion as Oliver whispered in pain, “Why would you call more guards?”

“Because Bright-Side Iron Suits are real bastards but they have to listen to me.” Carter noticed several on-lookers still lurking around so he stood upright once more and said, “Stare any longer and I’ll charge you for trespassing.”

The young noble in question blinked and gestured nervously to the house behind them. “I- I live here.”

Carter placed his hands on his hips and widened his eyes angrily. “Do you live upon my face? Hm? My body?”

The citizen stammered with confusion.

“Are you claiming ownership over my personage?” Carter barked.

They scrambled away apologizing and Oliver resisted the urge to smile. After a minute, however, his shoulder was so blood-soaked that he’d had to sit down in the gutter.

It took less time than Oliver had thought for two tall horses, mounted with polished Iron Suits to arrive at the scene. One dismounted immediately and fell victim to Carter’s supreme aura of dignity while the other watched over the crowd from horseback.

Oliver hadn’t been to Istol before, but he knew a god-complex when he was looking at one, and simply by the visible reflection of himself in the steel of their plating, he knew these guards were no idle sentries.

The guard who’d dismounted took off his helmet and asked, “What happened, sir?” He was a rugged man with steely eyes and hard-set jawline. His face was shaven and his hair was oiled.

Carter recognised him. He was one of the slightly more agreeable Iron Suits in Top-Side, but still, he didn’t lower his degree of performance. “My partner and I were savagely attacked on the docks. He sacrificed himself to fend off the attacker and requires a surgeon, this instant.”

The man, nearly a half foot taller than Carter seemed to shrink with confusion. In his deep voice he replied, “Young master, I was assigned to the docks today and I was not aware of any altercation…”

Carter stepped daringly close to the officer and placed a sharp finger on his breastplate. “You are being made aware of the altercation, now.”

The officer nodded shakily and swallowed. “Yes, sir.”

Carter scoffed at him and helped Oliver to his feet. “Escort us to Sir Beaumont’s surgery, immediately.”

The guard nearly fumbled his helmet and hesitantly asked, “That’s all the way across town, are you sure, young master?”

Carter stopped walking, much to Oliver’s grief as his shoulder now flared with a numbing pain, and turned coldly to the guard. “You’re not suggesting I place my friend’s care in the hands of some Mid-Side doctor, are you?”

The guardsman stammered something that could’ve been anything from an apology to a pledge of fealty and urgently donned his helm. He helped Carter up onto his own horse and Oliver onto his partner’s, and as soon as he had his hands on the reins, they took off along one of the side-roads toward Bright-Side.

As soon as they neared the rich quarter, Oliver’s lulling eyes lit up. He’d spent his life in Leverest, a rather hot, humid set of lowlands intermixed with extremely wet and impassable areas of swamp. The cities were all low-lying and sultry, which meant nothing made of wood lasted longer than the next flood or thunderstorm. Homes were built stocky and thick, not that Oliver had ever stayed long in one place, but still, he knew their faces and bones.

Bright-Side made those moderate, storm-wearing streets of his homeland look bleaker than most graveyards.

The buildings were all so well-kempt that they could’ve been brand-new. They were pillared with white marble and accented in blue, silver, and white after the colours of the empire. No house was smaller than three stories and no street couldn’t fit three carriages abreast. The people were dressed in magenta, dusk reds, sunflower yellows, spring greens, and sky blues. Jewellery of flawless gemstones decorated their necks and shoes of polished leather wrapped their feet. Their fingernails glittered with colour, their hair was oiled and flowing or beautifully styled. Oliver’s nose was caressed with so many delightful scents that he became dizzy for a much more pleasant reason. Perfumes of both the people and the luscious grass filling the spaces outside their homes dispersed the smell of the sea and the odour of the city which persisted all the way through Mid-Side.

Oliver was scarcely paying attention to the house they arrived at when the horses slowed to a stop.

They dismounted before an estate no less dramatic than an imperial palace. It was a four-story, pillared building with more intricate detailing on its face, and more stained glass on its windows than any cathedral Oliver had seen in his life.

As the two guards and two Legacies wandered up the steps to the door, Oliver’s awe quietly dissipated to a sickly feeling as he wondered how many people on the other side of the city were sleeping in gutters.

Carter glanced at the young man and saw the look on his face. He didn’t have to ask to know exactly what he was thinking. He often thought the same thing when he stepped foot in his own family’s mansion.

The guard raised his fist to knock on the rich oak door when Carter cleared his throat sternly, stepping in front of him. “That will be all, officers.”

The leading guard frowned behind his visor and said, “Surely, we should announce you, Master Cox?”

Carter turned and a much more sincere darkness lingered in his eye. “Thank you, for all your assistance.”

The guards bowed and returned to their horses as Carter sharply knocked, catching a nervous glance from Oliver. “What?”

Oliver shrugged unwisely, and breathed out, “He was alright you know. Might pay to save your hatred for the actual pricks.”

Carter nodded, chewing on a thought. “I once saw those two exact men throw a homeless woman into the sea because she couldn’t get up quick enough when they woke her, sleeping on the dock. And frankly- respectfully -Oliver, if I wasn’t here on this step with you, you’d be shot. Not arrested. Not beaten. Murdered.” He stood and stared at the door, listening to the echoing footsteps behind it. “They don’t see you as a person. They’re paid not to. Just ask James and Michael. I don’t think it does us any good to hold the moral high ground with them.”

Oliver laughed stiffly and Carter cast a confused frown as he murmured, “Maybe not. But if we took the clubs, the swords, the armour off of those guards, and then gave ‘em to someone else... be honest, who would you rather have wearing it, the ones on the moral high ground, or the ones who don’t care?”

Carter looked at him and shook his head. "I'd rather not give it to anyone else."

Oliver wondered on that for a moment and the door swung open.