There were more people gathered at the central docks today than Temple had ever seen before. All the commercial ship traffic was being rerouted to the eastern docks. Glob and Crusher, Sonderport’s two boulder-giants, had raised the Chain blocking the inner harbour entrance so that no ship could leave or enter. People milled about everywhere, hoping for a good view of the cage crane at the end of Burned Bridge Pier. It seemed everyone in Sonderport wanted to see Tann Barlik die, Temple included. He often went up here to watch the executions – to remind himself of what was at stake.

From his perch on the cliffs high above the eastern dock, hidden behind a half-burned wall – although nobody was likely to spot him from this distance – Temple could follow the action of several groups of pickpockets working the crowd in teams. One thief distracted the mark, another picked their valuables, and others handed the loot down the line away from the throng, so nobody got caught with incriminating goods on them. It was smooth, quick, elegant, and almost never provoked suspicion. Coin was always best, because you didn’t have to run it by a fence, and a crowd like this would have plenty of beer money on hand. Plenty, at least for petty pickpockets.

Temple had never worked with a group, and he had no illusions that it made things easier. Having others around meant there was someone to tell on you to save their own hide when they got caught. Safety in numbers was a myth. Betrayal in numbers was probably closer to the truth.

Although he remembered having lifted coin purses as a child, he had graduated to lockpicking his way into private flats shortly after Miss Kaia give him his first lockpicks. That was just after… no. He wasn’t sure. He was just a street urchin. There was nothing before that. Something lurked at the edge of his thoughts, and he pushed it away, watching the cage hanging on a chain from the crane. It was covered by a black cloth now, and the criminal was in there, stewing in the knowledge of his quickly-approaching death.

As soon as Temple found himself looking for Gilbert in the crowd, he forcefully stopped himself. Gilbert was busy being a part of the system that put people in drowning cages. The fact that Temple had told him about the darkness observing him was insane. Having kissed him was insane. Reckless. Stupid. And wanting him closer still was equally suicidal.

Temple gasped, suddenly horrified at himself. Wanting the Watcher for a quick fuck was completely permissible. The problem was that he wanted more than that. He didn’t know what that more was, because there was no space for anyone in his life. It was too risky. It was impossible. The Watcher wouldn’t want that either. But the impulse was there – to reach for something more – and it shook him to his core.

Down at the pier, the black cover was drawn, and the murderer had a chance to speak before the cage was lowered and the man was drowned. But Temple didn’t pay attention to either.

*

“Captain…”

Gilbert looked up from the papers he was close to drowning in.

Sargent Sheridan made a little grimace. “Sorry, Captain. We’ve got another one. East Urod Circle, near Grove Door gate.”

Gilbert sighed. “…Alright, what is the great message this time?”

Sheridan smartly found his wax tablet. “It said, ‘A place in the darkness to those who prepare’, Captain,” he reported, clearly satisfied with his effort. “Oh, and that eye with a handprint in it. But the blood was all dried on this one, so I guess it’s at least a day old.”

“Put it on the board.” Gilbert gestured to the rough map of the city districts, drawn on a wooden board and propped against the wall of his office at the Kaala palisade. He looked at the little slips of paper of all the texts they had found all over the city. It held inspirational quotes like, ‘Darkness travels the bridge’, ‘The temple of darkness awakens’ and, ‘Honour the bridge to the darkness’. Gilbert tiredly rubbed his eyes.

The texts were scribbled on the walls across the districts, from the slums of Wallsen in the north to merchant aristocrat houses in the heart of Old Town. All of them were written in blood, all of them were perpetrated with no witnesses, and they had begun cropping up the day after Tann Barlik was executed.

…And just like Barlik, the perpetrators of the murders that gave them their paint to write with came to the Kaala palisade to turn themselves over. This time, however, to Gilbert specifically. They all knew his name.

It had been almost three weeks now, and six lunatics had shown up. He had tried everything from asking nicely, starving them, threatening them and even a beating he was definitely not proud of when he had lost his temper because he had barely slept for days. But they only rambled happily on about the darkness and didn’t come close to explaining what the hells that had to do with him.

The closest thing Gilbert got was one man who screamed, “You! You will build the bridge that will bring the darkness home,” and then proceeded to thank him profusely, almost like a religious chant.

It was downright unnerving, and the people under his command, not to mention his superiors, were not necessarily far from blaming him. For having done …something he shouldn’t have, if not the murders themselves.

He had called in extra personnel, and every other palisade in the city had taken on patrol duties to try to catch someone in the act. …Of killing someone, of draining them of blood to write with, or of actually writing – at this point, Gilbert didn’t care. Any kind of breakthrough would help.

The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

So far, they knew that the murderers had nothing in common. They lived all over the place, held different jobs, didn’t know each other, and had varying levels of income. None were reported to be unstable in any way prior to committing a murder for no apparent reason. The same was true of the victims they knew of, who were attacks of opportunity, as if the perpetrator just went for a walk, found someone to kill, and then did. Some were bled clumsily in back alleys, some murderers had done it at home, and all of them then set out with a bucket full of blood to paint their message on a wall with brushes, old socks, their hands… whatever they had access to.

Then they walked off to the Kaala palisade to ask for Gilbert Armstrong...

Gilbert sighed. Sunrise was two hours away and he had been working all day and night – and the night before – coordinating several Watcher teams investigating the murders and writing-sites in the city, hoping to spot some sort of connection. He’d had a brief nap around noon, but other than that… he couldn’t even remember the last time he had a real meal.

“I’m going home, Sargent. I need sleep,” Gilbert stated and got up.

“Good call, Captain.” Sheridan put his helmet on and tucked his tablet away. “You shouldn’t go alone.”

“Wrong. I absolutely should. I can get lucky and get killed by a lunatic on the way. Maybe my blood will be used for writing ‘Blah blah darkness bridge darkness blah’, and all my troubles will be over.” He buckled on his weapon, threw his uniform tabard on his chair, and lit a lantern to bring.

He intended to go as direct a route as possible, and that meant ink-dark alleyways.

“See you tomorrow, Sheridan,” he said, gave the young sergeant a warning look when he seemed prepared to argue, and then left the palisade.

The city was still quiet, with only a few pedestrians going to work early. A gentle, cool breeze blew in from the ocean and made breathing easier.

It was a few days since he had been home and he looked forward to lying in his own bed. Purposefully, he took every shortcut he knew through alleys and courtyards between houses where no braziers shone, holding his lantern up.

“Watcher?”

It was a soft whisper, just on the cusp of hearing, but close to him in the narrow, dark alley. He spun around and reached for his weapon.

“Gods!” he exclaimed, heart beating furiously when he saw Temple, hands held up in a placating gesture.

He was dressed as he had been the first time they locked eyes. Black, matte leather clinging to his wiry frame. Nothing he wore was loose or shiny. The tight hood was drawn low over his forehead, the mask drawn over his nose and mouth. The long fingers and the area of his eyes were painted black, so only his pale eyes separated him from the darkness. …From the darkness that Gilbert could have sworn he had just lit up with his lantern as he passed.

“You are in trouble, right?” Temple asked hesitantly.

Gilbert barked out a laugh that sounded obscenely loud in the deserted alley. “That’s a word for it.”

“Because of those people with the …blood in the buckets. From the house?”

“Yes,” Gilbert confirmed solemnly. “Those are the ones. Whatever darkness observed you…” He stopped himself and watched the thief’s eyes open wide. It looked like fear. Well, it was fear. The Magpie King couldn’t hide his feelings. “You told me the darkness was alive…” Gilbert said softly. He had forgotten that detail in the madness of Barlik and those who continued the man’s work, and he very slowly reached out to put a hand on the thief’s arm, hoping it would seem calming.

But Temple nimbly stepped away. He shook his head almost imperceptibly. “There isn’t time. Do you know Bartok’s Lane?” he asked, searching Gilbert’s gaze intently.

“Bartok’s Lane?” he frowned, confused, and then gestured in a northern direction. “A side street of Docket Way …three streets over?”

He thought for a moment that the thief must have almost smiled under the mask, but then Temple just nodded. “Run there, now. As fast as you can. I will meet you there.”

“Wait, why?” This time, Gilbert’s hand shot out on reflex to stop the thief, and he was surprised when he just stood still and didn’t fight the hand on his arm.

Then he quickly twisted in the grip, so Gilbert had to let go, and stepped closer so their faces were almost close enough for a kiss. “I just saw one. With a bucket. With blood on his jacket. He was going up the street. I don’t know where he is now.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Your turn to trust me, Gilbert,” the thief said sharply and withdrew a few paces.

The calculation was short and precise and lasted less than a second in Gilbert’s mind. Then he turned and sprinted in the direction of Bartok’s Lane. Several times now, he had asked a thief with an absolute fortune on his head to disregard the danger and get closer, always closer; to a Watcher no less. Asked him for his trust. Been angry at his refusal to believe that someone wasn’t going to act on their greed.

He might be running straight into an ambush right now, yes. But the thief could also just have walked right up to him a minute ago and slit his throat from behind, and he wouldn’t have known what hit him. Gilbert quickened his pace.

*

It took Temple’s mind a few seconds to snap to and make his body move since the fast, strong, surefooted pace of the Watcher running down the alley was rather pleasant to observe. There was a kind of underplayed strength to his movements, and this was …satisfying.

Temple clenched his teeth, annoyed with himself, and let the darkness embrace him again, so he could reach the mental anchors he had set to help himself scale the wall in the darkworld. It would spit him out again in a few moments, so he had to be on the other side of the building before he found himself back in conventional reality, holding on to a handhold that only existed in the darkworld and plummeting to his death. He reached the other side of the building and sprinted for the next street, keeping to the shadows as far as possible.

He didn’t need the darkness for the next exit between streets, and he shimmied into Bartok’s Lane and stood in the shadows of the quiet lane. Nobody was near, and from the other end of the lane, he thought he heard running feet. He had been going in a direct line, but Gilbert was fast and would gain on him soon.

Cursing in his mind, he sprinted the length of the dark street, looking down all the connecting side alleys. Finally, he heard the scrape of a bucket on the ground and saw a faint, flickering glow from a lantern or candle down one narrow lane.

Gilbert was approaching fast, so Temple exhaled, forcing his breath to still and silently approached to look down the alley. The light moved, and he caught a glimpse of someone holding a lantern up to the wall to see better. Something was written there, but Temple didn’t stay. He silently ran out on Bartok’s Lane and gestured for Gilbert in the dark.

He was hit with a beam of light from the lantern that would give the Watcher away, and he sent Gilbert an annoyed look that he hoped the man understood. Then he signalled to be quiet and pointed down the alley where the painter was.

Quickly, Temple let himself fall into the darkworld again, feeling the familiar cold and hearing the familiar faint whispers, intending to run ahead of the painter to direct his attention if needed. He hadn’t even thought of it, but Gilbert sucked in his breath in shock. Silently, Temple got to higher ground ahead of the Watcher, and heard him mutter behind him:

“No fucking wonder we never caught you.”