Chapter 6

Day Three – Sunrise

One of the strangest things Torm had never learned to understand was how Zaber was able to be ready after dawn. Sometimes, when meeting with the Red Mob, or at Marghe’s place, to cause trouble in the streets. Like when he ambushed the Morell brothers four years ago. Suddenly, he was spot on. Also, Asher never had to wait for him on his escapades, no matter what time of the day. But if it was just about wasting precious daylight or visiting any kind of shop before they closed, Zaber was unable to get his arse up. Even if his life depended on it. And that made Torm furious.

“I’m about to head out. Kell should be on duty now and Isar is an early bird,” said Torm and buckled his belt. Zaber was also getting ready and the apprentice observed him with unease. His mentor was palpating the wound above his eye one last time. The bleeding stopped soon enough, but it still looked nasty. Standing straight, at least, had not been an issue anymore. “Are you sure you don’t need me as backup?” Torm waited at the entrance.

“Greet Kell and don’t be thrifty,” said Zaber and tossed a heavy leather pouch at the boy. It landed in the right in Torm’s hands, with a cluttered tingle. “We’ll meet up here and discuss later.”

Torm jingled the pouch and opened to take a peek. His eyes widened in disbelief. He put it away under his worn out jerkin, as swift as possible. “That’s–”, he stumbled over his own words. “A lot.”

“It’s for later too. Horses ain’t cheap.”

“Got it,” sighed Torm and saluted Zaber with two fingers. He expected the former mercenary to roll his eyes at it. Fighting the urge to correct or even forbid Torm. But to Torm’s surprise, Zaber did not and just continued to gear up. “Later,” said Torm, concerned.

The young man entered the street with a skip over the step where the entrance portal to the temple used to be. It was a futile attempt to relieve the tension built over night. It took ages to get to sleep, and he heard Zaber talk to himself, even though the words were meaningless noise.

Per usual, the time before noon belonged to Torm, as his bum of a mentor wasn’t awake. On a lazy day, Torm got his reading done in the morning. The days where he had candles at night were long over and they only afforded themselves a shared fire in the altar room. For cold nights, both of them had plenty covers and the driest rooms for themselves.

But Torm was an early riser and proud of it. A perfect time to walk and explore the city, talk to the busyfolk in the streets or at work. Most of everything got done before noon and the afternoons and evenings were for less urgent matters. After a long and deserving rest for the commoners, be it naps or full second sleeps. Artisans worked their commissions or fulfilled their guild quotas before that. Torm did not have any schedule, so he learned the ins and outs of Westwatch. Talked plenty and spent his allowance on folks, not goods. When he was without Zaber, many more greeted him. The young ones. Those that were too afraid or told by their elders to stay away from the defiler.

The boy was able to get through the neighborhood unimpeded for a good while, but scampered into the next alley when he saw a morning patrol. He hid under the jetty of a half-timbered house that led into a backyard. From behind a barrel, Torm watched them do their duty. They were sweeping up the filth of Westwatch. The one-legged beggar and his friend with no fingers were approached by the guards. Their dented cup to collected coins in got scattered by a kick. Zaber once told Torm that the fella fought in Dașken, far east from here, when the principality was reconquered from Krasnia. His mentor was there too, as a child, less than two decades ago. And the beggar’s friend had been caught too many times and stole himself empty-handed.

“Tch!” A pebble hit the floor and bounced against Torm’s boot. “Tch!” hissed something from behind him, over and over.

“Are the Baronet’s dogs still around?” A boy half Torm’s age waved his hands around to come closer. He and two more children were peeking around the corner from a backyard the alleyway led to. The one talking had his eye bandaged. Fresh blood was soaking the cloth and when Torm closed in on the trio, the other boy was covered in stink. The oldest of them was a rabid looking girl a couple of years ahead of the boys. She had the most serious look of any child Torm had ever met and carried a shortened wooden pole. It had a nail driven through, hanging from a rope that was also her belt.

“They’re rounding up Pag and All-Palms,” said Torm after reaching them. “Doesn’t look too good for them.”

“Starforsaken, shit…” The kid spat on the ground. “They owe us coin and now their bums are snatched up. It will take a whole day or till morrow before we can work ‘em.” He spat again, this time on Torm’s boots. “By the Kraken, day ruined.”

“Where is Timmens?” Torm looked around the row of houses, with its shared backyard. A couple of shacks, some garden patches and a bunch of barrels, connected with chains and tied to the ground. The smell of early morrow gutter was in the air. “And if you spit on my boots again, Glan, I’ll drive it right back into your mouth.” Torm smiled and raised his leg in a way that could also have been a dance step.

“He climbed the ladder,” said Glan and rubbed his neck, right above where his tunic was torn. “Morells gave him an axe.” He fiddled with his dirty bandage and bobbed back and forth, trying to look around the corner.

“Are you fellas alright?” Torm looked at each of them. It was obvious the two boys weren’t. “Is Timm–”

“You know what? You owe us the coin now,” said Glan and nodded at his stinky companion. “Dogs are sniffing after the murkers because of you, they are damned everywhere. Your boss, or whatever he is, ruined everyone’s business for days. Again.”

“He is not my boss and you damned know that.” Torm left no time to answer, his face and voice lacked sympathy. “And we owe you shit nothing. Guards go after the Yesilians all the time, what do you even know?”

“That you fuck with them all the time. Why even do that, they’re dirty and steal–“, Glan said repulsed.

“By the Stars, you are dirty and steal. That’s you fellas whole deal,” interjected Torm and raised his hand for a slap. “Shut your mouth.”

All three kids flinched. The boys ducked away, but the girl was different. Her hand went to her stick, not budging.

“When w–we steal, w–we do it for bread. Th–they have cozy employ,” said the other boy as they straightened up again.

“Who’s the new one?” Torm mustered the girl from head to toe. The way she stared at him, the way she postured without a word. She was tall for her age, lean and tense. And reminded Torm of someone in the most painful of ways.

“She’s Memmy’s friend,” replied Glan before the other boy could say something. “We needed a new big kid to swing the stick. We gotta pay the Morells til next Lecture and everything is swarmed because of the blackheads and that bum.”

The Lecture calendar was the linchpin of most folks’ lives. On what day and time of day an Auror or Aurora read from the Scriptures. They also held Fate Readings or preached to the congregation of a temple. In rural villages, Brethren and Sistren of the Stars substituted for the noble clergymen that sang to the masses by only reciting the texts. On every first of a Minor Constellation, at full moon, new moon and when the Red and White Sisters both stood half. And, naturally, on the days of the five Major Constellations. There were never more than a dozen days between two Lectures. The shortest were back-to-back at the end of a year. The next Lecture, to Torm’s knowledge, was in five days.

“I said shut it.” Torm flicked his backhand against Glan’s forehead, cautious to not hit his eye.

The girl grabbed her stick and pulled it from the rope that held her shirt together, but Memmy threw himself in front of her. “N-no, no. You can’t do that,” he said and put his hands on her trembling arms. “H–, his o–, old man is gonna smack us up, h–, hard.”

“But he’s a bitcharse,” said Glan and pointed at Torm with a smirk. “Now please, come on. Don’t make us do this.”

“I warn you, Glan,” said Torm. “The Morells can’t protect you from Zaber and me. I like Timmens and I don’t want to hurt his buddies.” He looked long and good at all of them. The girl refused to break, while Memmy and Glan became more and more nervous by the breather. Her pupils were fixed and she did not blink. Whatever went on behind them, the way her jaw pressed out the muscles, was too much, too familiar. “What’s your name, girl?”

“Her name’s Brinna,” responded Memmy, and let go of her hand. “She ain’t talking.”

Torm tried to match her stare, as Zaber would. But he didn’t have it in him. He smiled at her, closed his eyes and shook his head at himself. “This isn’t fear,” he said as his hand slipped beneath his worn-out leather jerkin. Showing them it’s content, how big and plentiful it was, wasn’t an option. He fiddled out the first coin his fingers reached. “It’s pity.” A full silver coin.

“Are you fucking with us? A gulden?” Glan’s voice rose up and he held his mouth shut in shock. Memmy had tears in his eyes, while nothing changed for Brinna.

“Take it and keep good care. If you ever try to mug me again, I’ll kick you in the balls,” said Torm, and sighed. He looked at Brinna one last time. “Or… whatever for a girl.” He flipped the coin at her, but Memmy snatched it up.

When he turned around, the guards, Pag and All-Palms, were gone. All that remained was the dented cup, with some quartered groschen splattered around the pavement. Another man, too quick and crouched to be recognized, snuck out of another alley. He rushed to collect as much coin as possible before running away.

“Yo, wait.” Glan had caught up to Torm and grabbed his benefactor’s arm from behind. “Thanks man. Really, thanks”, he said and looked back at Memmy and Brinna in the backyard. “You have no idea what you’ve done for us.”

Torm sighed again, annoyed. “It’s fine. We can make more like this, you can’t,” lied the young man. Zaber had told him to always pretend that their coin came from shady business. Nobody should ever assume it was just lying around. And it helped make sense of his actions and relations all over Westwatch.

Even if it delayed him, Torm felt good about what happened. He’d needed that. Needed a win like this. The last day had been a lot. Too much maybe, but he couldn’t let his mentor notice that. Torm was involved in some kerfuffles in the past, but was never allowed to help in a meaningful way. At best, he was there to observe and learn. Saving Sagir was serious and he could not allow himself to mess up. For his friends, his mentor and his own sake. Going into this with something positive for starters, yes, made it better for Torm.

The street was free now and the young man was able to continue towards the quarter’s namesake. Of the two main roads through Westwatch, the northern – Magpie Lane – was the safer one. The southern road was called Shean’s Burn, after a man named Moonshine Shean. The way they were patrolled by the guards was different, as there were shops to protect in Magpie’s. Shean’s, on the other hand, led into Yesilian Street and Red Cat Alley, which housed Marghe’s place, The Red Carpet. More commercially minded folk shunned it… at daylight.

Thus, Torm made his way through the more rigorously policed one. The folk he had to circumvent here were easier to cast off and more civilized. Men, women and children of all ages were doing their chores and running errands. Doing earnest work. They were also less armed, a tool of their trade or knife at best. But all paths in Westwatch had someone waiting to make a quick coin.

“Torm!” A sweet voice rang from behind. “Hey, Torm! How are you doing?”

The boy recognized who was approaching him, at a smart pace. The good mood from before clouded his mind and a smile formed on his face. An instinct took over where he turned around on one heel. “Hello,” said Torm with a certain melody. A girl, only a smidge younger than him. With proper braids under a bonnet and a trim, but cheap, dress and shears in her apron. She was bright and wide-eyed. “Don’t you have to work, Elta?”

“Oh don’t tease me,” giggled the girl. “I’m on my way there.” When Torm came to a halt, she went straight for his frayed sleeves and held herself tight at them. Elta made sure not to come too close, in public… because of the needles in her apron. “I asked the Mistress, I can take some of the leftover fabrics from the colonies. It is time to make you something nice to wear. I can do that after work.”

“Wait.” Torm stepped back. “That’s expensive, you shouldn’t–”

“No, it is just a groschen and a half.” Elta pursued him.

“Don’t spend coin on me, I’m covered,” said Torm. This was more than what he expected. “I would love to chat with you, but both of us need to–” He felt himself drawn to her. A young body acting on it’s own behalf.

“Want to keep me company while I make it?” Her fingers fiddled along his sleeves, down to his hands. “Vils isn’t at home. His master needs him.”

Torm closed his eyes and sighed in defeat. “I would love to,” he said and pushed her away gently. “But I am running errands for Zaber. We have business outside the walls and I will not be in town fo–”

“Oh, damned he be,” she replied and threw her hands up. “He punched my brother in the teeth on the last Full White. I say; ditch the bastard.”

The defeated sigh transformed into an annoyed one. Torm’s smile disappeared and a gentle push became a barrier of hands so she could not close in again. “Another good reason. Vils will not be happy with me hanging around your place. Save the coin and wait until I am back.”

“You can read and count, why not get work with the guilds?”

“Let’s not. I promise, you are the first I’ll visit after our return.”

She grabbed his outstretched hands and looked deep into his eyes. “What are you even doing with him? Are you going to rob a fella? Or murder?” She was close to crying. “I heard he murdered–”

Torm took away his hands and shoved them into his jerkin to get to the pouch of coins. He presented two groschen to her. “Here, take that. If you really want to buy the fabrics, don’t do it with your pay.”

“Please,” said Elta and took the copper. “You are wasting your youth with him. You are so much better, you–” She looked at the ground, saddened. “I didn’t mean to say that. But he just hit my brother, for nothing. In the middle of the street.”

Torm turned around, shaking his head, and felt her hands soon enough again. He tried not to be too harsh, but made sure that she felt that her embrace was not welcome.

“No day goes by without that bum causing trouble,” she whispered. “Is that what you want to become?”

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There were so many things Torm wanted to say. If her damned brother got punched in the teeth by Zaber, he damned well deserved it. Vils treated others like shit. He may take good care of his sister, after their parent’s departure, but that was no excuse to be a starforsaken arsehole. Torm was filled with anger, but had no intention to take it out on Elta. She was a stupid girl and he should leave her behind. And if he runs into her brother again, he may as well punch him in the teeth.

“I am leaving. Let’s talk when I’m back.” Which might be never, he realized. He had to think about what to do, not concern himself with folk like her. Torm’s steps became stomps when he left Elta behind.

Each watch used to be part of the city’s walls before the expansions. They now stood as singular keeps with a garrison of fifty to a total of three hundred men for all of Teblen. They were supposed to form an infantry heap if push came to shove and the city had to be defended. But they rarely reached their full manpower. For a city that bordered the Kingdom of Galázion, on the other side of the Reuwh River and Lake Teblen, the guards were not up to the task. Nobody trained them to fight in formation and they lacked the skills required of a proper footman. The burden of defense would fall to The Margrave’s personal regiment. A mixed unit of cavalry and infantry that numbered twelve hundred men. Too many times had Torm listened to Zaber and Asher complain about them, wasted and in a mood.

Checking on his bauernwehr and hunting knife, Torm lay in wait around the corner to Westwatch. His friend Kell was a stable hand at the mews next to the fortification. He had to be up and working already, but Torm couldn’t see him anywhere. Folk were moving, but running into anybody that wasn’t his friends was too great a danger. Did they even consider Torm as part of this and would arrest him, or could he walk in as the freeman he was? The boy realized that he had no idea what they were going to do. What was their plan and what were Zaber and Hanifa doing at Yesilian Street?

He's gotta be in the stables," whispered Torm, trying to build up courage. “Or the workshop… or smithy.” He looked around over and over, up at the keep and into its windows. “Hmhmmm, they are open…” He considered climbing up into Isar’s chamber, as she was the granddaughter of the sergeant. But doing so in broad daylight was stupid. And today was not the day to be stupid. So, he skulked from alley to alley to get closer to the auxiliary buildings.

The quarter of Westwatch used to be a shanty town outside the walls for those considered undesirable. Whores and other impure professions had settled there until new walls were built around them. One street was designated for them to do their sinful business in. Not for their own good, but because a need arose to settle the prisoners of war from Yesilia here. After Albion, Galázion and Krasnia had banded together and pushed back their advances.

After frustration and impatience had built up long enough in Torm, he decided to risk it all. Walk into the workshop, the place he heard the least voices from and…

“Torm? What are you doing here?”

Torm grabbed his hunting knife and turned around, just before he stepped inside the building. Exhaling in relief, he saw his friend. “By the Stars–”

“Yo, you going to kill me too?” Kell raised his arms jokingly, as if he was yielding. He had a gruesome scar on his lips and chin and through his right hand. Short red-brown hair was on full display; the hood of his gugel hung down his back. A laughable excuse of a mustache grew under his nose and a robust knife, more tool than weapon, was sheathed at his hip. The watch paid well enough that most of it was in good condition.

“Are you alone?” Torm’s eyes swept around the area.

“For now,” said Kell and mimicked Torm’s behavior even more exaggeratedly. “But seriously, what are you doing here? They will bust your arse if you get caught.”

“Wanna walk?” Torm smiled mischievously. “We need to talk. We fucked up.”

“Damned you did. You murdered a fucker.”

The young men came closer and closer with each word they said, until they grabbed each other’s hand and hugged it out for a moment. Kell’s hands were dirty and he and Torm wiped it off on each other’s legs and sleeves while walking away. There was no doubt nor sign of hesitance in Kell. He followed his friend into the closest dark corner, behind another barrel of rainwater.

“So, the guards know it wasn’t Sagir?” whispered Torm. He leaned against the wall and ran a hand through his hair. The gears in his head were visibly shifting through his eyes.

“If that’s the murker they got, yes,” said Kell and positioned himself so that he blocked sight on his friend. “Do you think them stupid? Damned they know it was Zaber. But they’re not poking the hornet’s nest.”

“Why go after Sagir? He’s just some–” Hands formed into fists, and Torm bumped against the wall behind him.

“Murker, yes. Nobody gives a damn.” Kell’s voice was casual, but the word itself triggered a response in Torm. “Losse was a dumbarse, but since when is Zaber killing guards? Has his nut cracked?”

“He–” Torm struggled to find the right words. “I don’t know. We wanted Sagir to have a treat. His brother was friends with Zaber and Asher and–”

“Listen, they have long waited for something like this. This is what the Cap and Sarge wanted all along.”

The apprentice pushed himself off the wall and paced a couple of steps up and down the passageway. Kell tried to cover him as good as possible. “We know we’re in trouble. A Captain of the Margrave showed up on the yester and messed Zaber up good.”

Kell’s eyes widened. “For real, Zaber got beat?” He gasped. “Did they use magic?”

“Your boner is showing, get your pants up.” Torm waved at his friend’s legs and laughed. “I have never seen something like this. I know what folk say about Zaber, even though he pretends to not. But there was nothing he could have done.”

“So Zaber didn’t…” Kell looked insistently at his friend and wiggled his eyebrows in demand of an answer. “You know?”

“Shut it, I need your help,” replied Torm. “Why would they send a Captain and Lieutenant of the Margrave to deal with this, and not one of your officers?”

The stable boy scratched his miserable excuse of a mustache and looked at the ground. “Because they suck? If it’s true what they say about Zaber, there is no reason to send a guardsman lesser than the Colonel.”

“But why not end him? That knight was able to do so.”

“Man, I don’t know.” Kell shrugged. “I shovel horse dung, carry hay, and oil weapons and armor they don’t even let me use. How the fuck should I know?” He leaned against the barrel and washed his hands in it. “All I know is; he’s off limits and nobody really knows why. And I am not stupid enough to talk to the officers. He killed Losse and on the morrow they marched out to bag that blackhead, Sigar.”

“Stop calling him that… or murker. His name is Sagir,” said Torm. His pitch changed from threat to plead in a breath. “Can you get me in… so I can talk to him?”

“Fuck no”, quick fired Kell. “I am not stupid and he isn’t even here.”

“What, why?”

Kell shook his head and squatted behind the barrel. An underhanded wave invited Torm to take cover too. “Already said it. I bet the Margrave or Baronet or Colonel or whoever doesn’t trust their baffoonish arses. He was brought to Old Guard.”

“Great.” Torm padded his friend’s shoulder. “This already helps a lot. Now–” The boy paused and rested his hand on Kell’s shoulder. “If you can’t get me down to the cells, can you get me to Isar?”

“Oh boy,” sighed Kell and put Torm’s hand off him. “No. Stop this. What is your plan? Get your dick wet before the Sarge eats you neck and crop?”

“She needs to find out all the details of what is going to happen to Sagir. Her gramps can’t say no to her,” Torm insisted. “Please.”

Kell rolled his eyes. “Sure.” He stood up again. “How about I get back in, finish my tasks and head up to her chamber. Tell her you want to meet her.”

Torm rose as well, about to speak and cheer.

“But she won’t be happy to see you,” Kell cut Torm short. “She was friends with Losse.”

“Oh come on. How–” Torm stopped himself before going on. “Forget it, it doesn’t matter.”

Kell positioned himself to block the alley once more, with his hands on his hips and elbows spread wide. “You sound like a man that’s going to do something stupid. And Zaber is a man made of stupid. Give me something, I want to be part of this.”

“Fuck you. Don’t be like this, we are dead serious,” said Torm. “You know us. You know me. We are knee deep in trouble and going deeper by the breather.”

“Man, I know you two aren’t scum. But you and Zaber are scum.” Kell did not budge. He reached for his friend and looked him in the eyes, as if his life depended on it. “I don’t shed a tear for Losse, he was a horse’s arse. I want an out, they will never make me a real recruit.” He sighed and sounded desperate. “I want to be trained like you. Tell Zaber he needs to take me in and I swear I will stay out of your way. Just…” He halted his breath. “Give me something.”

“I’ll pay you.” Torm’s hand slipped inside his jerkin. “I have–”

“No. Keep Zaber’s dirty murder coins.” The stable boy grabbed Torm’s arm to stop him. “I want to learn neat tricks, like you.”

Torm looked like he was in pain. His gaze wandered through the alley to avoid eye contact. “We’ve been over this. Zaber likes you, but he thinks you’re weak,” said Torm and bit his lips. “Because you are.” He looked at his friend. “I love you man, but you are not cut out for this. He barely lets me do anything, he will never bring you in.”

“Neat, great…” Kell looked up and down his friend and himself. “Perfect. You know what? You pay me in a trick. If he isn’t, you are.”

Another sigh before Torm replied, once more, defeated. “Fine.”

“Now,” said Kell. “Before you two get yourself killed.” He smiled again, victorious.

“Fine, I said.” Torm sounded annoyed and reached behind himself. “Now pull out your–”

“Woah!” yelled Kell, raising his hands. “Not that kind of trick!” He laughed.

It was impossible for Torm to stay serious or even mad at his friend’s exceptional talent for thinking fast and talking even faster. He laughed and unsheathed the thick blade of his hunting knife, which had a hilt made from antler. It was the last present from his grandfather, back at his birthplace Hohendam.

“I’ll give you the first instructions I got from Zaber,” said Torm and held the knife in front of him, with his other hand placed at his hip. “Short blades aren’t great, but…” He smiled. “It’s not your fault that you’re not packing big.”

Kell chuckled and imitated Torm’s posture with his own knife. It wasn’t very sharp, but thick and slightly bent. Sometimes it had to be used as a lever. “Don’t make me stab you, accidentally.”

“That’s why they’re not good, is what Zaber says. You have to be very good or very lucky to not hurt yourself with these, as there is no safe range.” Torm wiggled the blade around to show how easy it was to slice a foe’s wrist and also your own. “So, first thing the dick did to me was smack me in the face without a warning,” he said, and the hand from his hip moved fast to do just that to Kell. “But I’m nicer, I gave you a warning.”

The stable boy stumbled back and held his cheek. With his eyes wide open, he exhaled in terror. “Fff–” He needed a moment to regain composure. “You starforsaken son of a–”

“Oh, come one. This is what you wanted, and it’s one of the two main lessons the man’s all about,” said Torm with contempt. “I hated it too, at first. But until recently, Zaber kept winning. Strike first and if you hit the ground, you are dead. There is no honor in losing and to live another day is another day you can keep fighting. Never shall you leave a battle defeated without expending all of your possible options, to–”

“Fuck you.” Kell stepped up and got back into his stance. “I know this is a speech from The Ventures North. I got this book from you and read it three times.”

“Uhh–” Torm stumbled over the rest of the speech. “The first part is from Zaber,” he said. “Or something like that. He’s good at explaining this, I just don’t remember it well. And he doesn’t want me to remember it, he just…”

“Beats it into you?” Kell looked miserable when he imagined it.

“Yes?” The apprentice wasn’t bothered. “I know he really enjoys fighting, but he always pulls the fastest bullshit. It’s all about thinking ahead or not thinking at all. And getting downed, he says, is a death sentence.”

“Great, got it,” Kell pressed on. “Now teach me a real trick. Something that makes the girls want me and the boys afraid.”

“Maybe clean your fingernails and neck more often?” Torm got back into position and waited patiently for Kell’s response. It was a middle finger and a motion where to stick it. “Yes, because you do that all the time. Now back on track, the whole thing was about expecting the unexp–”

Without even finishing these words, Kell tried to pull the same trick as Torm. But before his hand came even close to a slap, Kell’s wrist was grabbed and his entire body got pulled. Torm directed his friend past the intended target. Another slap to the side of his head made Kell stumble and fall over. It had not much force, but enough to bring Kell to his inexperienced knees.

“Ooph–” Torm was surprised as well. “So, the real lesson was…” He thought long and good. “Yes, the thing about always pressing your advantage. If you are ahead, keep going until it’s finished, I guess. Zaber never said it like that, but that is what he does, I think.”

“G–, great,” Kell held the side of his head. “So is every lesson… be brutal?”

“Yes?” Torm never really took the time to give it a deeper thought. “But that was your real trick. As he says–”

“I swear, you were quoting The Flags of White and Black and if you keep doing this, I will snitch on you.”

“No, this time I was remembering a real lesson. See a wrist or elbow? Push or pull it.” Torm grabbed Kell’s hand and tried to get him on his feet.

A creaking voice sounded through the alley from the opposite side to where Westwatch was. “Are you getting mugged, son?” An old man in a straw hat and with a broom stretched his neck in. Trying to get a better look at them, but also to keep his distance.

“Mind your own damned business!” shouted Kell back. “We’re just playing.”

“We do not stand for buggery here in Teblen, you starless swine!” yelled the street sweeper. “I will report you to the Watch!”

The boys looked at each other and retracted their hands, caught. Nervous looks went left and right, with both their hands held where they were easy to see.

“What an arse,” said Torm.

“Yesyes, what a vile old man,” followed Kell quickly. “So–” His steps were timid. “Uh, I’ll go now. The geezer has to walk all around the block first. Where should I send Isar?”

“Uhm,” Torm thought hard. “Better not in Westwatch. Let’s meet down at the entrance to The Margrave’s Road. Tell her I’ll walk her by the river.”

“Damned, maybe I should learn one of your tricks,” said Kell and bumped his fist into Torm’s shoulder. “You teaching her tricks too?”

“I do, actually.” Torm nodded. “Nothing like what you just got. But I think–” He smiled mischievous and returned the bump. “Your sarge deserves an unruly granddaughter. You are not missing any of what she gets from me. Nothing Zaber has to offer would sit well with a girl like–”

“Stop explaining, you are so bad at it,” scoffed Kell and stepped back. “I can take a beating, she can’t. You know where I come from.” He laughed and turned around in a swirl. “Later.”

“Wait.” Torm interrupted his friend, but stood still. A thought had intruded his mind and filled him with gloom. “Next time we meet, I will take you with. No matter what Zaber says. We fine?”

Kell turned around, again, with far less enthusiasm. He looked grim and serious. “What are you fools planning?” The boys looked at each other until the air was pregnant with discomfort. “You know what? Don’t say a word. Talk to that maniac again and then tell me.” He forced a smile and left, this time for good.