Alix didn’t spare a glance behind him as he scrambled blindly into the Burns. His vision blurring, breath hitched and fast-paced, he simply ran with reckless abandon, trying to put as much distance between him and the grand Lanyura estate behind him.
Nothing followed. Not that Alix could detect. Is that someone? Do I hear—
No. It was just his own footsteps, echoing off the narrowing streets he passed through. He kept running anyway, feeling rain beat down on his back and wincing as it washed over the burnt patches of skin by his neck. Breathing became harder. His legs roared with pain after so much abuse and still no rest. The weight of a table slamming into him still lingered fresh in his mind.
“She tried to kill me,” he murmured, voice slurring into unintelligibility. Had he bitten his tongue? Maybe it’s just the shock making my jaw numb. The thoughts washed over him like water over rock. He ignored the look of strangers as they peered at him with hooded eyes. Nowhere was safe, nowhere. Because she—
My mother is the leader of the Crowspawn. And she wants me dead.
Alix near-collapsed to the ground—not hyperventilating, just out of breath. Even slumped against the wet stones of a cobbled storefront, he frantically glanced left and right, never letting his acuity wane for even a second. I’m completely vulnerable. He tried to rationalise the situation. I have no assets, no weapons, barely any fighting capability and probably some broken bones.
He wrapped his arms around his torso, gripping wildly and sliding his back into the wall. He was alive, that was definitely better than the alternative. And I have Jericho’s clothes, he realised. It was something at least. And I think they might have saved me at least once tonight. When the burning wood fell around him, a massive amount had simply brushed off the seemingly mundane fabric of the coat. Alix sent a silent thanks to Jericho, wherever they may be.
I don’t even know where I am, let alone the White Hand. Alix realised they would be expecting him quite soon, all the way in Wormwood. Sorry, Reyla. I might have to disappoint you tonight. He laughed bitterly, noticing for the first time the lacerations across his hands from broken glass—from the window Isha had thrown him from. With magic, nonetheless.
I have minutes, at most, Alix reasoned, my mother—he spat, erasing his own words—Isha Lanyura, I mean, would never leave such a glaring loose end just out in the open. Whether it would be her or Crowspawn lackeys, Isha would have Alix’s scent. The rain would help, but there was only so far you could run as bleeding, injured prey deep within enemy territory.
The only question in Alix’s mind was whether these hired arms would be mages or not. If they are then I die, no question about it. The thought stilled him for a moment, searching his surroundings for telltale giveaways of anyone trying to sneak up on him in the pouring rain. But it didn’t make him lock up or stop thinking straight. Alix knew his functioning mind was the only thing keeping him alive right now. Isha wouldn’t come herself, he decided, she isn’t confident enough with magic. And if I survived the first time, she would know not to come after me personally.
Though how did I survive? The fall had been disastrous. A compound event that should have killed him many times over. The glass could have sliced him, or the metal grating could have crushed him. Even surviving all that, Alix didn’t dare believe he had simply walked off a fall from ten metres. I think I did something, he thought unhelpfully, glancing down at his hand—with nothing in it, of course. Magic wasn’t an item you held. And even if it were, I’m not holding any of it. Whatever happened before is gone again. It wouldn’t protect him again if Isha caught up.
But no, Isha would be speaking with thugs—or more sophisticated assassins. How many, Alix couldn’t guess. But it would be enough to catch him. The woman was nothing if not thorough. They would comb through the burns, systematically cutting down the space he could run to until he was eventually caught and killed. She must already have someone watching the outer gate, too, Alix realised. It was a simple chokepoint; anyone nearby could catch him approaching and Alix would be skewered like a fish in a barrel. There was no chance of him escaping back to Cityside. Not without some other plan in the meantime.
But he remembered, in a stroke of luck, the strange words Theo had said to him briefly, before ushering him into his mother’s study. Sticking a hand into his back pocket, Alix fished out the piece of paper, taking care to shield it from the rain. He stared at it blankly for a moment before fully taking in what it was.
Embossed in thick black ink stood out ‘On the promise of our Lady Crow’ at the top, followed by a long spiel which Alix neglected to read, though he caught some key words. It was part demand, part cheque, but it essentially meant that a member of the Crowspawn could trade in the letter to establishments in the Burns. The letter could then be exchanged for more widespread tender at a place called the Crow’s Perch.
And Theo had given it to him. Though surely he hadn’t expected Isha to attack me? Alix himself definitely hadn’t. He gave it to me on the belief that I wouldn’t receive any money. And he was right. Alix would have to use it at a later date, however. Going to a Crowspawn merchant for trade seems like suicide. I just need to find the Wormwood estate. And then I’ll be safe.
Clutching the paper in one hand—though none too tightly, so not to damage it—Alix rose to his feet again. He slipped it back into a pocket before sweeping his gaze up and down the road and venturing into the full rain once again. It wasn’t dark yet, but the time was slowly approaching. A gentle chill settled over Alix as he half ran, half shambled deeper into the West of the Burns. He needed more distance between him and the Lanyura manor. And it was also vaguely in the direction of the Wormwood site.
One foot after another, Alix. Keep in the shadows, for whatever good it will do.
Alix was losing his mind after half an hour with no changes. Still roaming blindly through identical, impoverished city blocks, there hadn’t been a single peep from men with knives or scouts on rooftops. A part of him was starting to suspect—or simply hope—that nobody was coming for him. Maybe they’re just so professional that I won’t see them before I’m bleeding out from a crossbow wound, he mused grimly. Rain matted his hair and washed over his face, and the houseshoes he was still wearing absorbed water into their lining while he walked.
When Alix entered into a slightly more prosperous part of town, he thought it was a brilliant idea to hide out in a tavern awhile. There was one just down the road, with two neat oil lamps hanging out the front. Cloudy glass windows served to let in the day’s dying light, but the interior of the small restaurant was completely indistinct. It’s only heraldry at all was a hanging sign reading ‘The Dawn’s Diner’. Alix waited as someone left the establishment in front of him before pushing open the swinging door and entering for himself.
He was given a strange look by the proprietor—a balding man polishing a glass behind the counter—but it only lasted a moment before the man just shrugged at him to take any table he wanted. The interior wasn’t massive, but Alix was able to find his own secluded table near a back door. Just in case. I’ll exit out the back if anyone comes in and tries any funny business. Only problem was that he couldn’t directly see out of the windows either, only the barman and the gently-swinging door.
There were a few other patrons in the room who Alix tried to drown out while waiting anxiously in his seat. But his thoughts were only a continual bombardment of anxious thoughts. There were too many uncertainties trying to look into his immediate future. The proprietor gave Alix a few annoyed looks for not ordering anything, but ultimately gave up. There were plenty more empty tables, anyway. It wasn’t like Alix was taking up space.
A woman was loudly telling a story to a few of her friends at a nearby table. Not quite drunkenly—it wasn’t the time of night for that yet—but as if she didn’t particularly care for the opinions of those she was talking to. Alix didn’t really understand the specifics, but he found it easier to listen to. It certainly beat useless paranoia about the potential Crowspawn on his tail. When the table burst into laughter and guffaws, it helped to slow down his pounding heart rate. His new state of calm lasted right up until a newcomer pushed into the establishment, which caused it to shatter entirely.
Mother save me, he repeated in outright prayer. The figure was menacing; a large frame sidling up to the bar with a loaded crossbow held across one shoulder. Alix went dead still. His sole advantage was that his table wasn’t easily visible from the entrance. He couldn’t hear any words spoken, but the mercenary was having a quiet discussion with the barman. Please don’t recognise me, please don’t recognise me. There was a reasonable possibility that the older man wouldn’t draw a connection based on a description alone, or that he wouldn’t give Alix away. Because it’s not like it’s any business of the worker—
The mercenary held up some sort of adorned fabric badge which glinted in the light. Alix could only guess what it meant. He was proven right as the bartender raised a hand in his direction. The intruder’s gaze turned, eyes falling upon Alix.
Shit.
Alix bounced out of the rickety chair, knocking it into the wall behind him. Frantically, scrambling to the back door, he heard rather than saw the commotion behind him as the hitman pushed across the establishment’s floor. Ha! Alix thought, flinging open the door. But instead of a back alley he could escape through there was only a dimly-lit stairwell leading somewhere above.
In less than a moment he was through, slamming the door behind him. It was fortunate, too, because he felt a rippling thud come from the other side as a crossbow quarrel buried itself in the thick wood.
What can I do now? Alix thought desperately. Examining the door in the dim light, he noticed a metal latch bolted to the doorframe. He flicked it shut, taking only a moment for a deep breath before deciding to follow the stairs to where they led. It’s the only way I have, with the mercenaries downstairs.
He winced when the flimsy wooden frames creaked under his feet. But the sound was soon drowned out by a rattling of the door below, followed by a relentless crashing of a foot into the wood. Based on the sound, Alix wouldn’t have too long before the flimsy lock caved in and the hunter cornered him upstairs. He reached the second floor in a run.
Only there was nowhere for him to go. Rain poured in through long-shattered windows and wind whipped at his face. The place was completely abandoned. Alix rushed to the windowsill overlooking the street he’d come from, ignoring the weather. Because it was as he’d suspected: two others loitered across the road, warily watching the tavern below from within their raincoats. Alix had stuck his head out too far. One spotted him.
As Alix watched, they pulled out a short-barreled musket and pointed it directly at him. He crouched down beneath the window, petrified. There was no following shot.
I’m penned in on all sides, Alix thought, becoming increasingly agitated as the rhythmic thudding from the locked door below didn’t let up. Rain still came in through the window. And he didn’t dare peek out again to check. The walls are thin I think. Could I maybe—
The banging stopped. Glorious silence reigned and Alix could actually hear himself think, though he wasn’t naive enough to assume it would last. The grace period lasted all of twelve seconds before it was shattered with a piercing explosion of a musket. The projectile pierced through the roof of the tavern—the floor Alix was now above—and whistled through the room before embedding itself into a ceiling beam. The place it had passed through was only around a foot from where he’d been crouching.
He tried to silently change position. Like a fish in a barrel, Alix lamented. And then another bullet followed, only a quarter-minute after the last. This one was seemingly at random, but passed within inches of his leg. Gasping and drawing back, he misstepped and the floorboards creaked. He only had time to quickly move before another shot split the wood there too.
Think, Alix! The only way out other than the door below was the window, which was known about by the assassins. Then his time to think was all used up, as a grand ‘crash’ came from below—the door caving in. The footsteps were his only warning before a face appeared at the other side of the room, levelling a rod. Alix was thankful for their brief inattention. It let him do a running dive out of the window, barely grabbing the top of the chained sign which hung there. Gripping with the tips of his fingers, it swung him to the side like a crane’s arm, putting him out of view from the window.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
As well as out of harm’s way when a rolling wave of concussive force ejected out from the building’s side right after him. Debris and splintered wood all spat onto the street below, pushed by the force of the blasting rod. If I hadn’t seen the weapon… Alix let the thought end, breathing hard. He looked wildly around him, trying to find the next path of action.
The street below him seemed incredibly far away, stone pavers shining with the slick water atop them. Alix barely noticed the rain against his back anymore. But he felt his grip already slipping. Where do I go? There was no way down—and death waiting at the bottom even if he could somehow reach it. No, he had to keep climbing, further up the streetfront. The wind caused his hair to lash against his face but Alix was still able to get a firm enough grip on the windowsill of the floor above. He pulled himself up by his arms, planted his feet on the sign’s base and reached up to grip the gutter of the roof above.
He saw a head leaning out the window. The once-tied hair had come undone, flailing wildly as the figure searched the street below for Alix’s fleeing figure. They didn’t hear him in the rain. So when there was a loud creak of Alix pulling his weight up by the gutter, nobody heard it. The hireling—the rod mercenary—continued with their gaze focused down and outwards. Alix gingerly stood up at the edge of the slanted roof.
One foot after another, Alix, It wouldn’t do to fall off now. He had to manually calm his breathing a few times, but he’d done it! His heart still raced from the experience. They wouldn’t be able to see him from the building. Now it was only a matter of travelling far enough along the connected roofs of the Burns and getting down. Gently this time. Trying to slow his racing heart because great Mother he’d survived, his attention was drawn by a shouted exclamation from the street below.
Alix fell back against the slanted roof, pressing himself against the tiles as closely as possible. A crack rang out, only an instant after the shout, but it had been enough. The musketball blurred past Alix’s face—where his head had been a minute ago. Against his better instincts, he leaned out to get a better view. The musket mercenary stood on the cobbles with gun raised, barrel smoking.
Ameteur, was Alix’s first thought after narrowly avoiding death for the umpteenth time that day. The man had shouted for his comrades before aiming and firing at their quarry. Alix knew he wouldn’t get the same courtesy twice—the musketeer was already reloading from a small pouch.
Alix broke into a sprint across the slick rooftops, cursing at the echoing footsteps of two more running out into the street. The musket fired in the rain, he lamented, which I should have expected from Isha’s hirelings, but it’s unlucky that she has mages on a retainer—or a smuggled supply of artificed goods. Flintlock muskets capable of firing in the rain required a small magical mechanism to ward off water getting in. Non-magical guns were common for citizens. But only the Civil Guard was supposed to have artifact versions.
Alix once again questioned how far-reaching Isha’s organisation was while pushing over a dormer window. Two mercenaries on street-level were catching up, the third one not so much, as they had to reload. Alix almost slipped when a crossbow was pointed up in his direction, but a combination of movement and wind meant he didn’t have to dodge at all. The quarrel cracked against a slate tile behind him.
The crossbow fired twice more before the musket had reloaded—a timeframe seeming like eternity, but in reality less than twenty seconds. The blasting rod user was unable to fire the close-range stunning bolt up at Alix, and their increasingly-hostile yells of frustration turned them against hapless pedestrians more than once. Alix held the advantage of height. As well as having a clear path. His disadvantage was that since his feet had no traction in the rain, he could only walk along an incredibly thin line between the sloping roof and the edge of the gutter. It left him out in the open when the musketeer shot for the second time.
He watched as if in slow-motion the smooth ball clip the edge of his left arm. A flicker of hope remained inside him as he saw it: Maybe the mage-armour will protect me, as it did once before. But no, that was too naive a hope. The bullet moved through fabric and flesh unimpeded, blasting off a small chunk of his arm and spraying blood over the roof behind him. Alix somehow didn’t stop, but his steps wobbled disastrously.
He didn’t scream, either. Though it was a close thing.
The pain was impossible. Like a burning finger dragging a gouge through his skin. It hadn’t even gone properly into his arm, making a glancing wound which still reduced his limb to near-uselessness. Alix didn’t have any time to contemplate the damage; he was still running for his life. Another crossbow bolt clattered beneath him. Gripping his bicep with his other hand, he carried on. I can’t give the musketeer time to reload again, he thought with gritted teeth.
An opportunity presented itself and Alix took it without hesitation. There was a short gap between the roof he was running on and the next. Alix had simply stepped over a few of them previously, because the mercenaries would still be able to follow him through the alleys beneath. But this one was barred by a sturdy wooden gate. Alix followed the gutter left, having to crouch down in case his receding figure provided a clear shot for the crossbow.
The blast rod user will try to knock it down, but it should hold them off for a lot longer than the weak interior door. Alix hoped it would let him get enough of a lead to blend into obscurity in the Burns. He followed the roofs of the inner block awhile before deciding he was safe enough to take a pause. Looking around from his vantage point, he was now thoroughly within the depths of the Burns. Lacurna’s outer wall was invisible in the thick, wet haze lingering in the city. Alix was completely devoid of reference points.
First thing first. He gripped his bicep tighter, blood leaking through his fingers. It’s getting worse, I think. Or at least not getting better. And I can’t climb down anywhere like this. The rain mixed with the blood on his upper arm as Alix peered below him. The barred alleyway seemed to have led him above a large establishment, built with one roof sporting multiple different slanting sections and rainwater gutters. Alix eyed a boarded-over window. The wood looks pretty old…
Using his one good hand and both of his legs, he managed to break open the attic window. Inside was a small loft of splintering wooden beams and rodent droppings. But Alix crawled through regardless, trying not to put weight on his damaged arm. There was a thin ladder hatch which he used to get to the floor below, coming out in a maybe slightly better-off but altogether average interior hallway. The muffled sounds of people could be heard all throughout the building—presumably through the doors around him. But it all just sounded like a dull murmur to Alix, who’d had his ears rattled by the musket being fired so many times right next to him.
And where is all the light? Alix grumbled at the inconsiderate lack of illumination as he stumbled down the corridor to the nearest staircase. When he found a grand set at the end of the hall—complete with balustrade and all—he followed it two floors downward, using tasteful candles to see by. He was surprised to come out into a large lobby on the ground floor, and so he was caught off-guard by the young employee who rushed over to him.
Shit. Will I be condemned for breaking and entering? He didn’t have any time to build an excuse, as the young man was already rounding on him.
“Sir!” he breathed, aghast, “Are you alright? You’re bleeding terribly. What happened upstairs? I promise, we can reimburse you—”
“Just a long cloak,” was all Alix responded with. There was something going on here, he knew it. Something related to the business. But I don’t know what it is, so I can’t let him realise that I just came from the roof. He figured the best way was just to keep the conversation as short as possible and leave quickly. Though if he was offering him compensation, well, he did need the cloak if he was going back to the streets.
“What?” He seemed totally taken aback by his simple requisition. “Is there nothing else we could offer—”
“Fetch the gentleman a cloak, Jacob. That is all he requested,” a new voice butted in, sending the younger worker away. This was an older, female employee. The boss—or just someone who saw where they could spend less money. Alix gave the woman a nod as if he deserved the service. Jacob returned with a garment a moment later. Higher-quality than Alix had expected, too. What kind of place is this, anyway? he wondered.
“Though we will not be held responsible for your wound if you turn down our care,” said the older woman, eyeing him with a stern look, “So don’t come back like that halfwit from last week claiming we owe you half a thousand Marks.”
“Of course,” Alix responded with as much grace as he could muster while awkwardly trying to don the cloak using one hand. Thank the Mother they aren’t asking any questions. I couldn’t lie to save my life. Because that’s what it might come to, in somewhere like the Burns.
Thanking the two, Alix cautiously scanned the outside street before stepping out. He wouldn’t necessarily spot the Crowspawn assassins at all, so he hid himself as best he could within the cloak. It seems to be the fashion around here, anyway, Alix noticed, Nobody should find one more anonymous vagrant strange. He checked the place he was leaving. ‘The Knight’s Path’ it read, using an archaic term for a soldier of rank. Alix would have to ask about it later.
They didn’t. Alix let his other arm go slack beneath the overcloak as he pushed out of the strange establishment with his good hand. A massive bazaar stretched out before him, traders selling their wares from beneath permanent-looking tarp shelters as far as he could see. The buildings were more sparse in a large ‘city square’-looking area, with the hawkers and larger market stalls shoved between them. People of all sorts filtered between the booths, obscured more often. Some even had gilt masks hiding their faces.
These are the Bower Markets that Jayden told me about, where he said I could get a Beacon. The bright, colourful light of the bazaar didn’t seem to be dampened by the rain. Who knows when I’ll be able to come to the Burns next, with Isha and the Crowspawn being on the watch. This might be the closest he ever got. I’ll never pass Unknowing if I run away now. And where would I go? Probably the Wormwood estate. I’ll make my way there after finding a proper Beacon.
He could still walk. And he wasn’t bleeding out quite yet. There were few things more important than his safety, but magic was one of them.
Entering the Bower Markets was like stepping through the gate of a maze. Lines of stalls formed perplexing corridors where towering figures in rich garments mingled with street-urchins all alike. There was haggling over prices, shouting matches about Mother-knows-what, and a general air of blithe anarchy fermented by a lack of Crown control. The area Alix was in seemed to be more commonplace goods. So he moved deeper into the human labyrinth.
There was a very obvious shift in atmosphere when Alix reached the part of the market which sold illicit magical items and materials. Buyers and sellers here both spoke in hushed tones, often with much more expansive, permanent shops with a sharp-eyed bouncer at the front. The layout became more chaotic, too, with some merchants perched on wooden scaffolding hanging off buildings. They’re designed to exclude certain people, Alix mused, but became annoyed when he realised that those certain people were him.
Despite Alix’s worries, a seller willing to trade a Beacon wasn’t hard to find. They offered him a selection of identical bone-white wands for him to choose from. Alix selected at random, hoping it wouldn’t matter.
“Hmm, yes yes. “The seller nodded at his choice. “That lovely piece will take you down around four hundred Marks. It’s quite a competitive price all things considered. Now if you’ll just—”
Alix internally baulked at the price, but held up a hand to silence the trader. “You’ll accept this instead.” He tried to sound as authoritative as possible while taking out the letter Theo had given him at the Lanyura’s manor. The merchant’s eyes glittered.
“Quite right sir, I will!” They snatched the embossed paper out of his hand when offered, then cheekily threw the Beacon at him. Alix barely caught it in his one-handed grip. The ivory exterior was smooth in his fingers.
“As you were then,” Alix huffed with practised nonchalance, brimming with glee inside. It was no small victory to finally be holding the item that would let him properly practise magic. Despite how weak Uwe might say it makes me, it will let me finally practice. And for that, it’s worth the price. Both monetary and in dignity.
Strutting down the streets, almost able to ignore his headache, Alix turned a corner and came face-to-face with a single, large building sitting squarely in the middle of the Bower Markets. The area around its dark wooden doors was completely clear of any market stalls—a fate unavoided by other buildings Alix had passed earlier. His eyes trailed upwards from the entryway, along its fully-stone exterior until they landed on a sign.
The Crow’s Perch.
Alix gripped his newly-acquired Beacon tightly in his right hand. It makes sense, in retrospect, that the Crowspawn control the Burns’ massive centre for illicit trade. They would levy a tax, maybe, to rake in the profit for themselves and fund Isha’s mini-empire. Alix didn’t understand exactly how the economics of it worked, but he understood what it meant when he saw what looked like a central base of operations in the middle of a hub for illegal trade.
How do I get to Wormwood from here? He only knew a few of its surrounding streets that he’d used as reference when visiting before. He’d never been so deep into the Burns. Where could he—
“Nobody can hear us talking. But they can see us. Don’t react to me responding,” came a voice in his ear. But by the time the end of the message came, Alix had already jumped in the air, looking for whoever had spoken so closely in his ear. A man stood behind Alix’s shoulder, blond hair sticking out slightly from beneath a dark navy hood. Hold on, do I recognise this person…
“Nevermind, then,” he said, meeting Alix’s eyes. His were a pure blue. “I’ve met you before. In the Crownside warehouse. Reyla sent me to find you. Illian, at your service. Come out of the way.”
The cloaked swordsman, Alix realised, following. He spotted the unique rapier handle by his hip once he knew to look. “Thank the Mother,” he whispered in response, “I’ve been injured, I’m afraid.” He shifted the cloak a little to let Illian see the blood trickling down his arm. The swordsman’s eyes widened.
“A musket wound?” Alix nodded. “That’s less than ideal. We can’t escape from the…” Illian trailed off, eyes clouding over. Then he gave a sudden curse. “Shit! I’m blocked off. Alix, listen to me, you must do exactly as I say. At all times. Understood?”
Alix swallowed. That question can’t possibly mean anything good. But he still assented. “What’s going on?” he asked.
Illian eyed him grimly. “Things might get rough,” was all he explained, drawing his rapier. It glinted in the torchlight. “Hold on to that Beacon, you’ll need it.”