"You should have told me.“
"I’m tellin’ you now.“
Griffin was so busy trying to keep up with Gwen’s steps, he forgot to avoid the hand that connected with the back of his head. The smack was well-placed and stung, but before he could complain, his sister spoke again in the tone that made his words falter and die on their way up.
"What did grandmother always say?“
Respect.
Her voice command respect, something that had been happening a lot more of late, while he, Griffin, seemed to stand still on his way to adulthood, voice- and otherwise. The way his legs had to work to keep up with his sister’s forceful strides was extra proof, adding insult to injury.
"…don’t tell others where we really from,“ he grumbled, knowing that if he dithered any longer, the next smack would follow.
His sister give a satisfied nod.
"And why not?“
Griffin suppressed a sigh.
"Cause we from the village that shouldn’t exist.“
"Doesn’t,“ his sister corrected, shooting him a sharp look from the right.
She seemed to have grown, not just older but taller, too, something Griffin had been waiting for in vain. Every morning, he left marks in the latrine with a piece of chalk he had stolen from the butcher’s, but for the past two fortnights, his height had stayed the same, and he wasn’t sure who he was madder with: himself or Master Bezrodny, who had taught him his numbers last summer.
"It does though.“
One thing neither Gwen nor the Master had been able to drill out of him had been his temper, usually accompanied by his loose tongue. Wriggling out of Gwen’s grasp, he stopped in the middle of the way now, forcing his sister to do the same if she didn’t want to lose hold of him altogether.
"Griff ―“
"No. I’m tired of lyin’.“
A couple of passers-by threw the pair glances that ranged from curious to disgruntled, but Griffin crossed his arms in front of his scrawny chest all the same. He had a point to prove.
"Don’t make a fool of yourself.“
His sister’s voice had lowered to a warning hiss, meant to remind him of one of the dozen rules she had for him.
Don’t draw attention.
Don’t be visible.
She might as well say: don’t exist. Why couldn’t he just be for a change?
"But it does. You know it! How can you not even care anymore?“
After, in the dark of his favourite hiding spot, Griffin would remember what he saw on her face in that moment: that his sister hadn’t just grown older, she had grown tired. The lines on her face were starting to leave the girl behind and take the shapes of the women that walked this realm, serious, drawn, worried.
Hurt.
His words had meant to do just that, of course, but he regretted them the moment that their poison struck, and he wondered, once again, why he couldn’t just sometimes be kinder.
He didn’t have long to reminisce, however, because in the next moment, a figure clad in black burst out of the alley to their right on a full run and nearly knocked his sister to the ground.
"Pardon me!“
The voice lingered longer than the figure: already little more than a memory, the youth had rounded the next corner. At the same time, two gendarmes in the emerald green liveries of the Khan came running through the alley, brusquely pushing aside Gwen without bothering to apologise.
"Thief! Catch the thief!“
Griffin noticed the way his sister’s face hardened, though whether it was in response to their touch or the fact that they were the Khan’s men was hard to tell. Before he could ponder on it, she grabbed him by the arm and started pulling him down the opposite lane.
"That’s not the way to Master Perrin’s.“
The reply she bit out told him not to ask any more questions for the time being.
"Detour.“
Griffin loved Keveli.
Of all the cities they had settled in over the last few years, it was the most chaotic, logic-defying, defiantly alive dwelling place he had come across, and the easiest one to get lost in, too. It was old, older than both Lekate and Wilderet combined, and it showed its age in the maze of twisted alleyways, the ochre-coloured dead-ends waiting at every turn, the labyrinthine rooftop paths winding throughout quarters decorated with sun-screens that flapped noiselessly in the wind. One turn of the body and you were at risk of losing your bearings, but for Griffin, blessed with a picture-perfect memory from birth, it was a playground like no other - full of smells, colours, faces, names. Stories. It was here that his imagination finally found some peace, in this place filled with outside mayhem that left no space for his inner voices.
"Where are we goin’?“
"Shush.“
Gwen stopped, and when she wrinkled her nose, Griffin knew she was focussing hard on something. After another moment, she led him back a few steps the way they had just come and turned into yet another alley, narrower and darker than the one before.
"Are you -“
"I said shush.“
This time, Griffin did.
While he lacked his sister’s talent, he did possess the street smarts of a luckless urchin, and whenever the skin on his nape prickled, he heeded its warning. He was also going blind: his solo tours of the city had never led him to stray this far, meaning his mind was left with blanks after what his senses told him. Were they even still in the merchant’s quarter?
His sister abruptly stopped, then resolutely turned the dark, heavy curtain that was covering a low entrance on their left and stepped inside. Griffin’s mouth opened to ask the obvious, but he wasn’t left to dawdle on the street and was pulled along a moment later.
His eyes took a moment to adjust to the dim interior of the low-ceilinged room, but once the first objects started taking shape, it appeared to be just that: an empty room. Daylight struggled to make its way through a grimy windowpane in a corner, and overall, the building gave off a deserted air. The cobwebs covering various trunks, chairs, and other pieces of furniture suggested desolation.
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Gwen thought otherwise.
"I can hear you from here.“
Griffin heard nothing, but his eyes had fixed on a spot on the floor where he could just about make out two footprints in the dust.
Whoever his sister had followed, they were right here.
"Impossible.“
Right where Griffin’s eyes had been a moment before, another curtain flapped open and a figure stepped out: black clothes, lithe step, lean build. Smug look. Griffin didn’t take long to recognise the guy who had barged into his sister not half an hour earlier.
"Give it back.“
Huh?
"How did you do it?“
Ah.
Griffin wasn’t sure what his sister was talking about, but he had heard the stranger’s question plenty of times before. It was hard to grasp the nature of Gwen’s talent without being told what she could do, and even when she did disclose her secret to people, most struggled to believe her. ‚Impossible‘ was a popular verdict in lieu of‚inconvenient‘, and so was ‚crazy‘. Griff’s favourite had been the old spinster - in the literal, not the derogatory sense - who had harboured them for a month and who, upon hearing the truth about their orphan state, had shrieked out „But you’re all dead!“ before casting them out of the house, pronto.
Gwen stretched out her hand, palm up, in a wordless command.
The stranger’s lips twitched in amusement, but instead of doing as she asked, he leaned his body against the doorframe and mutely crossed his arms in front of his chest.
Even to Griffin’s less schooled eye, it was a rather deliberate show of non-compliance.
"I have no idea what you’re talking about.“
"You breathe as loud as my oxen.“
A chuckle broke from the young man’s lips.
"That is a lie, but an amusing one.“
He studied them a moment longer.
"You weren’t hired by the Khan. He doesn’t dabble with... village folk.“
Before Gwen or Griffin had time to reply, he pushed away from the doorjamb and was walking up to them, curious eyes never leaving Gwen. That left Griffin time to observe him, and despite the semi-dark, he noticed that the stranger’s eyes were a shade he had never seen before - something like amber, reminding him of the honeycomb candy he lost no opportunity of palming at market stalls across the realm.
Gwen drew her hand back when the stranger closed in, but her chin hiked up in a wordless challenge as she stood her ground. Griffin had always liked that about his sister: she was strict, yes, and half too serious most of the time, but she also had guts. Guts and an unerring moral compass.
"Sorry. No offence. I’m a village lad myself.“
The smirk that these words were accompanied by clearly labelled them a lie. So did the good, strong cloth Griffin was now almost face to face with: far sturdier than linen, and of the finest black dye, too. Its cut was simple, but this was an outfit tailored to its wearer.
No peasant dressed like this.
"Or used to be,“ the stranger confided into the ongoing silence. „Guess you know a thing or two about that.“
"Just give me what is mine and we will go.“
So he had stolen something from Gwen.
Griffin’s face briefly betrayed his surprise - he had been there when the theft had happened, had to have been, but despite being no stranger to obtaining what wasn’t his, he had not even noticed the act. The fact that it couldn’t have been a planned move and had arisen from mere opportunity made it all the more... impressive.
Damn.
Griffin didn’t think he was supposed to like the guy.
Gwen’s hand reinforced this notion as it came around his shoulder, pulling him closer to her legs when the stranger’s gaze suddenly shifted to him. Griffin was no longer young enough to crave the protectiveness of the act, but he wasn’t old enough to shrug it off, either.
"No hint of an accent. What about you, young one?“
Griffin bit his cheek, realising for the first time the value of his sister’s constant reprimands about his language. Don’t swallow that ending, don’t butcher that vowel, he had heard it all over the years, but he had never truly tried to do as he was told. The broad, easy sounds of his home were just that, a keepsake he didn’t want to let go of, a softness and familiarity he would miss.
"You’re a long way from Eastmeet.“
With those words, his attention snapped back to his sister, and so did the stranger’s. The challenge in those words was unmistakable, as was the very clear command that rode on them: Griffin was off limits.
Instead of burrowing into this weakness, the stranger kept staring at Gwen, a hint of unfeigned and untempered curiosity in his eyes.
"Seriously. How do you do that?“
"I have no idea what you’re talking about.“
"I do not have an accent.“
"You’re awfully sure of yourself.“
"Trick of the trade.“
"Thieving?“
A little grin played around the young man’s lips.
"I prefer ‚redistributing‘.“
Griffin’s head spun a little from the sudden volley of exchanges, but after that last riposte, his sister fell silent again, wrapping her dismissal of the joke in muteness.
The guy was less demure.
"And why would you just believe the Khan’s men?“
"I believe my empty belt.“
"Ah, right. Your little treasure. Disappointing, to say the least.“
As the stranger dug into the folds of his tunic and drew out a little pouch, one that Griffin immediately recognised as his sister’s, he cast Gwen a questioning look himself.
They had learned the hard way not to keep the little money they could get their hands on in the obvious places, but he had never stopped to ask what she had put into the leather pouch instead.
The stranger now hefted it in his hand, visibly amused by the way its weight mimicked that of coins.
"Whatever your secret is, I think I have use of it.“
"No.“
"You could name a price.“
"I don’t consort with criminals.“
"Your brother being the exception.“
Gwen’s eyes flashed at the same moment the stranger flashed her a toothy grin.
Touché.
He tossed her the pouch without warning, turning around before it had safely landed in Gwen’s hands. Immediately, she clutched Griffin’s arm and pushed him back, closer towards the exit.
"One week. Even-song at the Maslenitsa.“
"Go to hell.“
A chuckle followed them as Gwen pushed Griffin through the curtain and back out onto the shadowy alley, one angry step propelling the next. As the curtain flapped shut behind them, the stranger’s smug voice rang out one more time.
"Find me.“