Day, Quarter Past the 6th Hour

Eirian District, Faravahar Courtyard

Impossible. This was impossible.

The Faravahar compound was on fire.

Kershi had run all the way to the bone-sawer’s, but the man hadn’t been in; he’d been called somewhere else. So then he’d run another block to the next one, and that one Kershi had found in bed, grumbling. Still, the fistful of obols shining in Kershi’s hand had been too tempting to pass up; the man had roused himself then, eyeing the boy with suspicion the whole while.

Kershi could hardly believe the man had been sleeping. It was nearly noon.

How could he have been in bed?

Oh well. At least the man’s assistant looked awake. That was good, right?

The surgeon’s name was Master Ahmur, and he was grey and fat, and not at all jolly. In fact, he seemed the opposite of jolly, but Kershi figured that didn’t really matter much, because the most important thing about a surgeon was having steady hands.

…He hoped.

They were forced to move slowly, largely because the surgeon seemed…he seemed a bit tippy, actually, and Kershi wasn’t sure that was a good sign. He was a real surgeon, though—he had the sign over his door and everything—so surely everything would work out?

He thought about Sama and shuddered, suddenly remembering his own mother’s dead, bloated face. No. Sama was still alive, though she needed a surgeon right away. Right away.

“You have to hurry,” he said, shifting from foot to foot. “She’s hurt really bad.”

“Stop whining,” the surgeon grumbled. “I’m walking as fast as I can. You try running when you’re my age. It’s not fun anymore.”

The sight of the Faravahar compound drew them up short, nearly three full buildings away. Kershi hadn’t stopped to think they’d recognize the place, especially not from the back—he hadn’t known it’d matter.

“You never said Faravahar, you lying shit.” Master Ahmur seemed to have something against the compound itself. Kershi stuck his chin out, refusing to back down.

“You never asked!” And what did it matter, anyway? A patient was a patient, and money was money.

The old surgeon’s expression began to grow thunderous, and the man’s assistant hastily cut in. “What Master Ahmur is saying is that this is highly irregular. Your people have your own man, don’t you? Why can’t he see this patient?”

Kershi tried not to squirm as he made up a lie. That would give it away. “He’s not here. He’s out. But she’s sick now.”

Neither of them were buying it. Kershi could see it right away. Oh no. Oh no.

He licked his lips, trying to think up something else, something better.

“He’s—”

“What’s that smell? Is something burning?” The surgeon was looking around, sniffing the air. “It reeks.”

Someone screamed, and they all jumped. “What in Poseidôn's teeth was that?”

Now that they were paying attention, they could hear it—yelling and screaming—and see it too: smoke.

There was a thick plume of smoke wafting up and away from the compound, visible even in the sun if they squinted.

“Fire!” Ahmur sounded alarmed. “That’s a fire! That’s a—that’s a big fire!” He slapped his assistant’s arm. “The fire brigade! We need the fire brigade, before that thing spreads!”

Hastily, the two men backed away, then turned and ran, straight toward the local watchhouse.

Oh no.

“Wait! Wait! You agreed! You said you’d see her!” He paused, suddenly horrified. “The money! You can’t take the money if you’re not coming!”

They didn’t respond. They were already little dots in the distance, moving fast—so much for age.

Kershi wiped his nose, torn between running after them and into the building. If it was on fire, then—

Sama was stuck there, unless someone came and moved her. Would they?

He ran to the back door and yanked it open—or tried to. It went thunk with the unmistakable sound of a bar hitting the doorframe.

Oh no.

“Hey! Let me in! Hey! It’s me, Bibos! Let me in!” He pounded on the door.

No answer.

Oh, this was bad. What was going on? Why were they all locked in when there was a fire?

Suddenly, Kershi thought of the man with amber eyes.

Surely not. He wouldn’t have locked them all in to die, would he? That was crazy, and he seemed like…

…Actually, he did seem crazy. Really crazy. Nice, but really, really, crazy.

…Wait. Nice?

Kershi licked his lips, suddenly anxious. He’d killed Jaadi like that, just for saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. Kershi hadn’t liked Jaadi, but…

Surely he had not deserved to die? Not like that. Not for saying the wrong thing. Jaadi always said mean things, but that had been it: he said those things, but he wasn’t like Vaha. Vaha said mean things as he beat you. Jaadi just said them as he stomped around like a small, angry dog, just barking and barking and barking—but only that.

Okay, so maybe the man was just crazy, not nice and crazy.

And maybe he did light the fire.

Kershi took a deep breath and wiped his eyes, then backed away, eyeing the protrusions along the wall. The windowsills were not that wide, but Kershi was small, and they were spaced close enough that he could probably jump from one to another.

Kershi blew on his hands, then rubbed them together. He swung his arms up and down, trying to get enough momentum to make that first jump, then leaped upwards to grab the first stone sill. Grunting, the boy began climbing. If he couldn’t get in through the door, well—

He’d have to use a window.

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Day, Half Past the 5th Hour

Eirian District, Faravahar Courtyard

Pitie had not meant to start a fire. He had not. It had been an accident.

"Pitie." They backed away from the flames, from the poor fuckers who'd been covered in oil and lit up like lamps on Dionysia.

There was so much screaming.

"Put it out! Put it out!"

"Bucket! Where's a bucket!"

"Guuuaaaaaaahh!" A man on fire dashed across the courtyard screaming, smashing into the frame of the building. He rolled, and the fire spread to the outhouse.

This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

"Oh fuck. Oh fuck. 'Kles. 'Kles. What do we do? What do we do?" Horrified, Pitie made to drop the torch; 'Kles reached out and stopped him.

"Don't put the fuckin' torch on the ground, Pitie!" Glancing around, 'Kles grabbed it from Pitie's hand and smashed the end into the stone wall of the lower-level shop until it guttered and went out. Then he tossed it over the wall.

The whole damn courtyard was on fire. The flames were licking up the wooden gates, the doors of the compound, all the way up the windows; they were going up and up, right up the trail of oil that Pite and 'Kles had left down the walls.

"We—"

"The fire brigade!" It was Neva. Coughing and gasping, he was yelling orders. "Payam! Send someone to rouse the fire brigade! Have everyone else knock on doors—we need water! Buckets! A line from the fountain!"

The fire licked up the roof of the lower west wall.

"Pitie," said 'Kles, "cover your mouth. Then we grab a bucket."

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Day, 5th Hour

Eirian District, Faravahar Courtyard

The whole thing started like this:

At first, things had gone good. Neva and his guys had all gone to the little shops at the front of the compound, giving him and 'Kles cover fire. It'd been almost funny— 'cept for the smell and screaming, of course—to see the Fafa-whatevers run away, spirits totally broke like old, beaten, stallions.

But then things changed. After the whistle, the only guys throwing rocks were Neva's; the guys on the roof had gone all silent, and Pitie had a feelin' someone had clued in. No one had been tossed from the roof yet, so they were holding their own fine, but that meant cover from one side only. That was a lil' inconvenient-like.

Then the other guys—the ones that had scattered to the little protruding overhang to the west of the courtyard—had come out, 'cept they'd done it by pressing up against the walls of the shops, the shops Neva and his guys were in.

"'Kles," Pitie had said, watching it all, "I reckon they're in trouble."

"Yup." 'Kles seemed to be thinking. "Damn, should've brought Lucky out here."

Pitie shrugged. "Well he ain't here. What do we do?"

"Guess we gotta go over."

"But then we ain't in cover." That little outcropping held a whole lotta Fafawhatsits. The smart ones had gone scuttling like rats, hiding. The guy they'd nailed with the body had gone too, swearing from the shadows. Coward. Stone-sucking fuckhead didn't even have it in him to die with his men all proper.

Below, one of the men who had been doused in oil twitched and moaned. There was some steady sobbing going on, too, between the gaspin’ and the groanin’.

"Can't be 'elped. 'Sides, ain't right to leave 'em like that." 'Kles thrust his chin toward the guys piled by the door. Most were alive, which was why they were so noisy. "Gotta put 'em outta their misery."

That was true.

Pitie turned to go down the stairs so they could take the front door, but 'Kles stopped him.

"No. If we unbar that door, any of 'em can sneak in and surprise Lucky. We'll hafta climb down."

Oh. Right.

They did, one at a time. Pitie went first, then 'Kles, but only after he dropped their weapons—swords, spears, and shields—to Pitie.

Sling bullets struck the ground and a man cried out. Pitie waved to Neva.

It wasn’t to last, though.

There was a commotion across the courtyard.

"Epitus. Askles." Neva leaned out the window to bellow at them as calmly as possible. "They are breaking down the door."

Which explained all the pounding.

Pitie squinted and peered beneath the archway of the gate. Yes, there were men there, and they were really trying to break through the doors and windows of the lower-level shops. It looked like they’d flattened themselves against the wall and shimmied past under the windows, so Neva and his guys hadn’t even seen ‘em ‘til they were at the door. Huh. Not that stupid, then.

"Well," Pitie said, "Guess we better—fuck!"

A sling bullet narrowly missed his skull, cracking into the wooden door behind him. Luckily, it stuck; Pitie ducked, as did 'Kles. They scrambled, picking up the old, battered shields they’d pilfered from the various rooms in the compound as they scuttled toward the gate. The courtyard was totally exposed.

There was an explosion of furious, stones-sucker yelling. It was that limpdick fucker they'd pegged with the dead guy. There was a little whistle when he yelled now, courtesy of his missing teeth. From the shadow of the little overhang that shaded the entrance to—Pitie suspected—the shitter rang some solid-soundin’ smacks as the man went on a frustrated, angry rampage against his own men; Pitie nearly laughed.

He didn’t need to understand any stone-sucker to get it: these boys sucked, and that guy was pissed about it. Lucky could hit a swallow flying through an open sky when he wanted, and these fuckers couldn’t even hit Pitie and ‘Kles in an open courtyard.

Ha!

"Ahhh, gods-damned stone-suckers." 'Kles spat. "Why do they always have slings?"

"'Cause they're stone-suckers, 'Kles."

The look Askles cut him sure weren't friendly.

"What?" Really, wasn’t it clear as day? They were called stone-suckers for good reason.

'Kles only sighed.

“Well, at least they ain’t like Lucky. That’s…lucky.” Pitie tried his best to sound cheerful, which wasn’t hard. It was true. Lukios would’ve taken their heads off already.

Pitie had seen him take a guy right through the eye-hole in his helmet, once. Just…damn, he was good.

“Well, we might get unlucky.” ‘Kles sounded glum. Pitie eyed the battered table that was laying on its side. It was pitted and pocked, not to mention riddled with sling bullets, but it’d make a better shield than the ones they had now, wouldn’t it?

Pitie hefted his, grimacing. Damn, when had they gotten these? Sometime during the Age of Magic? They were old and they stunk like rotting leather.

“‘Kles,” he said. “The table, ‘Kles.”

"Yes, Pitie, I see it. But the table's over there. We're over ‘ere, gettin’ shot at by gods-damned stone-suckin’ sheep-fuckers."

As if to emphasize his point, sling bullets pinged off the ground in front of them as they hunched lower behind their shields.

“We gotta run fer it, ‘Kles. Get the table, then get Neva an’ his boys.” He chanced a glance toward the shop. There was a steady pounding now, and he could see some of them Fafa-whatsits putting their shoulders to the doors. Their Eirians were all down at ground level, busy keeping the sneaky Fafafucks out of the shops. They'd done the smart thing and barred the windows, and Pitie could hear the yelling and scraping of furniture inside. Barricades—that was smart.

“They ain’t lastin’ much longer, ‘Kles.” And they weren’t so good with their fists, Pitie was pretty sure. Stone-suckers weren’t so good with swords, either. Mostly, they liked to hit things with rocks.

'Kles only grunted, and Pitie knew he was trying to think. A man moaned, and Pitie saw him shift and whimper. Damn. Maybe he oughta go and put the poor fucker out of his misery?

Pitie poked his nose out from behind his shield, trying to get a better look at the groaning, twitching pile of half-cooked man-meat.

Someone shouted. Stones went tak against the ground, and Pitie ducked; one well-aimed rock thudded against his shield hard enough to make his arms judder.

Fuckers. Didn't care 'bout their guys at all, did they? Couldn't they hear th' sobbin'?

"Table, 'Kles," Pitie repeated, and 'Kles grunted again, and this time Pitie knew it was agreement.

"Fine," 'Kles said. "Table. We're gonna haul in three…"

"Two…"

"One!" They made a dash for it. There were startled shouts, and bullets released into the air, but by the time they hit 'Kles and Pitie were already ducking behind the table, hefting it together with the ease of long camaraderie.

"Better. See? It's wider."

"Yes, Pitie." 'Kles peered around the table then recoiled. A bullet thudded into the tabletop, and the wood creaked. Huh.

"This ain't gonna last, either, Pitie." 'Kles licked his lips. "We gotta get to the entrance and under that overhang. Not even a stone-sucker can toss a rock that curves sideways. No such thing."

"But sometimes they do," Pitie argued. "They make it hit a wall or sumthin' and it just bounces out and–"

"Well, it's either that or nothin'," Askles snapped, and Pitie sighed.

"'Kay, 'Kles. Wanna run for it?"

"Yeah. See how narrow that gate is? We're gonna get in and jam this table with the top out. That way, them Fafafucks from the overhang'll have to come on out and pull the damn thing away to get us. By then we'll be done with those–" he nodded his chin to the gangsters who were fastidiously chipping away at the doors, "–fuckers, and Neva and his guys'll maybe do somethin' more than scream like lil' girls."

Pitie snickered. Well, it was true. They sure liked yellin' and carryin' on.

Pitie glanced at ‘Kles, and ‘Kles glanced at Pitie. By now Pitie knew what ‘Kles meant even when he didn’t say it; they fell into step, moving together in an awkward dash across the yard beneath the steady plunk plunk plunk of sling-fire as ‘Kles grumbled under his breath. The table made the run awkward, but they needed somethin' between them and the stupid rocks.

Someone yelled in Eirian; Pitie had a feeling he knew what they were sayin’, but it wouldn’t do them no good at all. The two friends dashed toward the open gate, grinning gleefully as the Fafucks there suddenly realized: they couldn’t get their sling out in the narrow entryway without smacking into each other or walls. There was a sudden panic as they tried to spill out onto the streets.

“Neva!” ‘Kles hollered, “They’re runnin’! Grab ‘em!”

“How?” Neva sounded crankier than usual. “We have barricaded the doors and windows, Askles.”

“Well, shoot ‘em, then!”

“We are on the ground floor, Askles.”

Pitie tried not to laugh. He knew ‘Kles weren’t stupid, but…

Ha. Neva sure made him sound like it. He could tell by ‘Kles’ outraged sputtering that he didn’t like that at all.

Now you know what that feels like, Pitie thought, gleefully, but didn’t say out loud. That’d be jus’ mean.

His shoulder twinged and he grimaced.

Well, maybe Pitie could be a bit meaner to ‘Kles. Just ‘til his shoulder healed up, ‘cause damn. It was still sore, and all this runnin’ and killin’ Fafafucks weren’t helping it none.

Someone from beneath the over hang barked out what sounded like an order; a hail of stones came down, even as rocks came whistling across the ground, straight at their legs and torsos. They'd changed their tactics, and Pitie and 'Kles were forced to skid to a stop, hunkering beneath their table, shields lowered to cover the gap beneath the wood.

"Damn," muttered 'Kles. "Did they find some wits in the shitter? That wasn't too bad."

It was like one of them stupid comedies from the ampi-ampi-ampthrtur? Whatever they were called. Pitie never went, anyway, 'cept that one time he did 'cause he an' 'Kles had been real bored, and there'd been this play 'bout the 500, 'cept they all moved like turtles while some guy with a bad beard talked on an' on 'bout the battle 'cause they couldn't show it. It was the dumbest waste o' time. Pitie had taken a nap.

Anyway, it was like that dumb play, 'cause the losers had figured out they could keep a volley goin'. Pitie couldn't figure out where they were getting their rocks—out their butts?—but they sure had a lot of them all of a sudden, until—

It stopped.

"Ha!" Pitie said, and made to lift the table to keep dashing—

'Kles stopped him. "Pick up your shield and spear," he snapped, and suddenly, Pitie realized, actually, the Fafafucks weren't so dumb after all, 'cause now...

Now they had 'Kles and Pitie surrounded, 'cause the guys at the gate had regrouped, and so had the guys at the overhang, and boy, did they look pissed off.

"Aw, fuck."