Have you ever had a perception that you were certain was a normal or even universal experience be proved wrong when you get older. I had something like that.
What does it mean to you to remember something clearly?
For a long, long time if someone told me they remembered clearly then I took them at their word. That's not to say I always believed them, I was, maybe still am, paranoid enough to suspect people lie more often than not, but I didn't doubt the memories themselves. Why would I, when for me a clear memory is perfectly stored as if trapped in amber?
Not every recollection from birth to present day is collected in crystalline clarity. I forget things often, have to double check like anyone. But when my emotions are running high happy, sad, even achingly curious I might collect that moment in time for my collection. Sometimes when my pulse quickens and excitement burns through my veins, or when I see something incredible I'm able to store the exact events as I experienced them into my library.
The recollection is perfect, I could go through the night of my heist and count the breaths I took from the moment I stepped onto the roof to the moment I dived off it and be certain of the number, I'm not going to but I could. Given all of this I hope it is telling to you that I remember much of the next week. The heights of emotion that the betrayal and subsequent panic dragged to the surface boiling me alive, these interspersed with moments of intolerable numbness that I thankfully only have the starts and tails of.
This memory isn't just what I saw or heard but my thoughts and understandings. As best I can tell it is a mapping of my consciousness. The web of thoughts as they flitted around my brain.
The totality of my pattern of consciousness is perhaps a less reliable filter through which to view the world than just seeing what my eyes really saw or my ears really heard but I could still likely draw the woodgrain in front of my chosen spot in perfect detail.
I can see you are getting bored of my explanations. I will continue with my story then.
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I jerk awake in a panic. I try to roll over, wobble, overbalance, tip wildly and smash face first onto gently moving wooden boards with an oof.
What the fuck is going on?
The nausea returns and I scramble to my feet, hands rising to cover my mouth eyes darting around my surroundings.
"Whooa there. Calm yourself."
The voice draws my gaze at the same moment that my mind is finally processing what my eyes have already catalogued. Dim light, hammocks, a small open porthole with blue beyond. A sailor, headwrap and all. A ship, I'm on a ship.
What the…?
My mind is foggy, I feel like the world is tilting under my feet, I realise it is. My rattled brain manages to pull my addled thoughts to order.
What's going on?
My foggy mind can't solidify anything concrete. I delve into my memories try to remember what-. I recoil from the memory as if I'd thrust my hand into hot coals.
Why? They betrayed me, and now I'm on a ship. Shouldn't I be sold out to the bank already? Is this some kind of cruel joke at my expense? Is the plan to drown me to get rid of a witness and the body? No that doesn't make sense, why let me wake up if that was the case. I need more information.
"You alright there fawn?" The same voice as before reminds me about the existence of the sailor.
I consider making a break for it, I'm stranded at sea though so probably not, I think about the question instead then… after seriously considering for a moment I come to a conclusion and realise that I'm about ready to vomit despite just waking up.
"I'm'a be sick." Is what I say. The sailor nods her head in sympathy, nudging a bucket over to me with her foot. I fall to my knees and begin retching.
"Captain said you were sick, said someone had to help you on the ship an' all."
The reply gives me a few pieces of information at once; Firstly we're speaking Glastan, proper Glastan too instead of the strange chimeric pigeon that appears in foreign port cities , that means these guys are probably bound for home. Secondly it means that I'm an expected passenger on board rather than a stowaway. Thirdly it means that I'm the only one of the crew here, I don't know why I would expect otherwise but the realisation still hits me like a punch in the gut. Fourthly…
"Was there any like… luggage?" I struggle to find the right words around a string of bile-drool hanging from my lip, but she gets the idea.
"Yeah," she reaches into a bit of netting and pulls out my old battered courier satchel.
Fourthly I'm headed back home where a ruthless crime lord is waiting impatiently for returns of an impressive investment, an investment he won't see horn nor hair of. I spit into my bucket.
"Come up on deck, yeah? Fresh air'll do y'good. An' bring ya bucket."
The sailor leads me through a small sleeping area, hammocks hang in pairs and tight netting keeps bundles of goods and personal belongings from moving. Almost all the free space is packed with goods, we have to edge past stacked barrels in several spaces. We climb up into the shockingly bright sunlight of a late morning, I squint and shield my eyes. The world above is clear and calm. A gentle breeze cuts across the deck and pulls against the loose fabric of my clothing like ethereal fingers. I take a couple of steadying breaths and look around.
Twin masts with full sails. A pair of large wheel like structures flanking the ship, softly dripping with water as they turn. The main deck has several more stacks of barrels and the like tied down neatly and bundles of rope sit in intentional piles. At the prow is an impressive device that looks half way between a cannon and a ballistae, seems to be made partly out of some unfortunate creature's skeletal corpse, and just screams 'magical siege weapon'. It is bolted to a slightly raised platform that gives it a good angle to shoot down into the water. Behind me a raised quarterdeck with a large cabin nestled underneath. Another sailor minds the tiller but looks relaxed about it.
"Look a'that the captains about. Come on and meet him."
I trail after my guide still holding my bucket in front of me and feeling stupid for it. The captain is a buck with a weather cragged face and an impressive triangular hat perched on his head and resting between the tines of his antlers. He leans back against a railing casually only looking at us as we approach within a couple of steps. I notice only as we come close what I should have seen earlier, the captain's tail is not the stubby, fur covered, almost vestigial pseudo limb that most people have but a gently swaying sea blue appendage, vaguely chitinous and hanging to the calf. It's not the first or the greatest such change I've seen to the Gotrebann form but it still draws the eye. I wonder what it does, what magic is attached to it.
"Isa and tag along. Wha's y'want?" The captain asks in a thick northern drawl.
"Not much Captain." The sailor, who's name I still don't know, responds. "Just getting the little one sorted and I figured we'd say hello."
"Well hello then." The captain remarks curtly. Then he rolls his neck to produce a couple of pops before continuing. "I run a clean operation here, if people are running around then stay out of the way but otherwise you're free to wonder around, ask questions. That clear enough?"
I nod the affirmative and the captain grunts, tipping his head and taking that as a dismissal we move on. Around the side of the raised quarterdeck a plank with divots cut in the rear side of it can only be one thing.
"You can empty your guts pretty much anywhere over the rail but here's probably best, no chance of gettin' any in the portholes that way." I nod and empty my bucket.
"If you're really struggling or the sea gets choppy try go as low down as you can. It lessens the tilting a bit." With that last piece of advice she leaves and I am alone in staring over the ocean. It's a beautiful day, the sun shining and sea air keeping a relative cool, If I could appreciate it right now it would be nice. Cliffs on the horizon tell me we're not so far from shore. Too far for me to swim.
To take my mind off the possibility of salty demise I open my old satchel. Inside a small collection of dried foods, enough to keep me alive without poisoning myself on the ships hard tack. The aroma floods my mouth with saliva.
Oh no.
I throw up over the side of the ship.
The waves roll and roil and the boat bucks the back of that great angry blue goddess like a jump bug caught in hand.
I am tucked as far below decks into the hold as I can manage, any lower and I would be in the bilge. The sailor told me that the lower parts moved less, something about leverage. To her credit the advice is sound, compared to the tilting jumping deck it's better here, I still clutch a bucket between my knees.
I'm trying not to focus on the here and now, on how sick I feel, but letting my mind wander to my situation is an equally nauseating idea. When my thoughts are dragged across the jagged and rocky feelings of betrayal…
Why did they do it? Did I do something wrong? Why send me back alive?
'Why would you ever trust them?' The cruel voice asks me. Not an unreasonable question. 'What will you do if you see them again?'
Instead of pondering these questions I do as I have often done to escape the crushing weight of present and future, I delve into memory of the past.
The present is a flawless lake of cold impenetrable ice under a vast sky which crushes me the unfathomable infinity of the unknown to come, to escape is easy. I relax and the ice shatters, I plunge into frigid water but the weightlessness is so very welcome that I can't bring myself to care about the cold.
Memories flicker through my consciousness, flashers of sounds and smells and sights. I know each of them, I lived them after all, it takes only the intention to descend through the layers. I trace captured moments rising from the depths like a string of bubbles slipping through my fingers. Past the night of the heist. A table stuffed full of papers as I prepare, an argument in the background giving me enough fear to secure the images. A flash of source less panic on a busy street. A moment of excitement as I escape a pursuer their purse in hand. Hot hatred as I curl up to protect myself from a descending kick. The layers peel back events and episodes recognised but not experienced, one month, two, four, six. I stop somewhere around four years ago and let the memory consume me.
***
I vomit again. The awful odour threatening to make me repeat the action. I stagger away from the slop of refunded food and lean against a wall. I'm sweating, curled around my stomach which stabs me with pain in the way that means I'm going to be suffering again later, and that's not even the worst of it.
I can't eat grain. I'm not sure if it's all kinds or just rien grain but I'm not sure it even matters. I can't risk losing any more meals like this. I almost wish I hadn't worked it out. This is… What am I going to eat? Fucking everything has grain in it! Bread, beer, pastry, batter, half the stews I've ever eaten, all the staple foods we have basically. The stuff they use to make the thin porridge at the orphanage is different I think, but I'm pretty sure that made me sick too so that's a non-starter. Actually it probably means I should just avoid all grains. Fuck.
'It's alright. Think, consider you options. Your position hasn't changed only your knowledge. You'll be okay.' A calm, softly accented voice tells me.
Who said that? I look around wildly, there's no one here. Just an empty alley with a pungent pile of un-eaten food. Was it me? Did I speak? No, I don't sound like that. My heart stars picking up in pace. It's alright Pyre, this has happened before. You are... hearing things… probably. Whether I'm losing it or not the advice is sound.
I smack my cheeks, hard, the pain helps me focus.
Fruit, meat, fish, eggs and dairy are fine and that's plenty of options. The fact I now know to avoid bread will only help. I'll keep an eye on the twins too, just in case whatever defect I have will affect them too.
My stomach twists and clenches.
Damn it, my reaction has definitely been getting worse lately. It never used to be this bad!
My innards churn and I decide I need to find the privy.
*
It is a normal day in the capital city of Berian and that means I'm getting a kicking. This is a pretty regular beating and that isn't so bad really. Better me than some other shmuck. I worked out the best tricks to get through it years ago; How you should tuck into a ball to protect your head, when to relax and when to tense, reading the responses to whatever sounds I make, going silent or grunting when I get kicked. The person stomping on my legs today is a bully, so I'm absolutely silent and unresponsive as she tires herself out. I think this girl is dealing with some shit more than she's cruel by nature, she's not very good at this inflicting pain business, it doesn't change much about my action. Bullies thrive on response and staying silent can result in their either leaving or escalating, but it's still morning before work starts and she will probably have to go soon.
She's panting and cursing under her breath when she stops, I wait for her to spit… There it is. A damp spray across my skin, then I uncurl myself and stand unsteadily as the doe, hind really probably mid to late-teens, hands on her thighs as she pants, glares at me venomously. An apron bunched up in one hand the other curled into a fist.
"You're a tough little shit aren't you, like grisle." She grins a little at the insult but her eyes hold only contempt for my existence.
"Whoever's fuckin' with you deserves a kickin' more than I do."
I always try and deflect attention when I can, I don't know if that's some survival instinct or the desire to actually help people I don't know. I don't want to know, the Idea I might not be just a parasite sucking blood from the city's underbelly is a candle in a snowstorm as comforts go, but would be too painful to loose.
The woman spits again, but on the ground this time. "Piss of little mutt, If I see you snooping around here again you'll regret it."
I raise my hands defensively, "I've learn' my lesson, jus' sayin', someone's makin' you feel like crap and it ain't me." I limp forward to slip past her in the narrow space, braced for her to lash out as I pass, but she tilts her shoulders to let me scrape through, brushing past her as I go. Then I'm hurrying away, I turn the corner and limp-run until I'm a street and a half away.
It was stupid to get caught like that, I'm usually better, but the alleyway had a new wall blocking it that I hadn't known about, it's a recent addition. It's a lesson I'll try to internalise, the city is always changing and I can't completely rely on old knowledge. I should probably either scout locations when either lots of people are around or none at all too. I heft the girls wallet in my hand.
It wasn't a total loss I suppose.
*
The Oldtown temple square pulses with life. My seat under the tree that looms over the communal space is comfortable and more importantly gives me a good view over the space. People come and go from the temples in constant movement. The buildings themselves can only contrast this with their overwhelming solidity, they have already survived the wear of years and remain unblemished. The temple of the moons is by far my favourite, it was not built all at once but in pieces and it shows. Towers, wings, arches and decorative cladding all cling to the core hall like spire ghroal to a cliff face, but by some miracle of design and architectural ego management it is cohesive, each section building off and supporting the others. The symbol of the two moons, the smaller half hidden behind the larger, hangs from a belltower in glittering invitation. The domains of trade, civilisation, work and profit are ever popular making certain that the temple is never abandoned, the fact that those tenets extend to the less desirable forms of employment, theft, prostitution, gambling, and murder, means that even people like me are welcome. A pretty young man who I'm reasonably certain is a prostitute leaves even as I watch. I wander what he was there for, to report a predatory brothel owner perhaps, maybe ask for help collecting a debt, it's even possible he was asking for a business loan. All things the temple does. Maybe he's even gone for lessons on the trade tongue, maybe I should try to learn. I mark the thought for later consideration.
The temple next to it is on the other hand my least favourite by a large margin. It is solid and homogonous, at least on the outside, looking like a military barracks as much as a temple. A pair of cannons point outwards like guard hounds, a veteran in a loose shirt, an empty sleeve, and a half open front that show acid scars crawling up his chest and neck, a set scowl on his face, marches towards the edifice. I press my back against the shadow of the tree.
It's midmorning and those who aren't working today are starting to hit the streets about now. I should get up, I have things to do, pockets to pick, homes to check if the occupants have left. I don't want to move though. Instead I watch as the world moves around me, the tree I lean against like a rock in a river flow around which the current swirls and eddies. On one edge of the square an old buck shuffles into a rickety seat and starts laying out a deck of cards on a weather beaten table. He takes a few moments to get comfortable then begins talking to passer byes trying to invite them to play. It doesn't take so long before a matronly doe joins him, they play and talk, expressions changing from easy to focused to laughing, even from across the open space their activity is obvious whether I can hear them or not. Eventually the woman leaves with a smile on her face.
I find myself rising to stand. I walk quickly across the open square with the same trepidation as a rasch with a raptor circling overhead. I arrive at the old man's table and take a breath to steady my racing heart.
"Can I play?"
The man raises his grey, slightly patchy, head with its crooked antlers and frowns in an exaggerated manner. "You know how?" His voice is raspy and sharp.
My gaze pulls to my feet in shame. "No, not really…" I turn to leave in flushed embarrassment. "I-I'll just go." I mutter.
"I'll teach you if you want." I can't help but look back in hope. "Wouldn't have anyone to play if no one ever learned now would I?" His smile is soft and genuine to my eyes.
Moving quickly before he can change his mind I rush to sit.
"First things coming first, the suits." The man says in the lecturing tone that old people use. "Crowns, Blades, Beasts, Navigators or explorers, and Mages."
Shuffling through the deck, thinning gnarled hands produce an example of each. Simple representations of a crown, a sword, a set of monstrous teeth, a compass, and a hand with an orb hovering above it.
"They're all supposed to represent something." He says and I nod obligingly.
I already knew about the suits in a deck of cards but I don't know about this bit, so I decide to ask. "What though?"
The man grumbles quietly as my question throws off his rhythm. "Erm, well in reverse order. Mages are supposed to be people who go after personal power. Navigators are supposed to represent adventurers who go out into the wilds of the world digging up old treasures and discovering new ones. Beasts represent the wilds themselves. Blades are the army and mercenaries. Crowns are like civilisation, people who stay home and work, try and build things."
I frown, I suppose it all makes a kind of sense. The man continues his explanation, speeding up now he's back in stride. "Then there are the numbers. They all represent things too, but because each suit is different it's basically just the power each card has." I nod to show my understanding and the explanation continues. "I'll tell you what the crowns represent, so you have something to compare it too." Withered hands pull cards from the deck in the order they're found, one after the other. "That's three, the trader, four the artist. Don't ask me about the order of those two, the world is backwards I tell you."
I notice that each of the cards has a simple illustration of what they represent plastered in the middle as well as the suit and number in each corner. For the three card that's a hand dropping coins, except the image is double sided so really it looks like coins dropping from one hand into another. For four it's a paintbrush touching a swirl of colour.
"Ah. Here's your card. Number one…" Old fingers lay the card flat before me and I'm treated to a grin that looks suddenly very intense and absolutely predatory. "Number one in the suit of civilisation… The thief of crowns."
I almost bolt. Tensing to run. The old buck laughs though and that makes me pause.
"Don't worry little one, I'm no snitch." I untense just slightly and he faux whispers in the false conspiratorial way that people do when they want to make something seem secretive while still speaking at basically normal volume. "I've lived a long life, and not all of it on the clear path." He cackles to himself.
I don't know what this guy's all about but it doesn't seem like he's about to try and accuse me of something in public. It's probably safe to sit and play his game. Right? I don't exactly gain much by sitting here listening to him though. I shouldn't risk it. I'll just leave.
"This is the eight card, the priest." He continues in his enthusiastic rasp.
Despite all logic nudging me to do the opposite, to escape while I have the chance, I stay to listen.
***
I emerge from the memory into the real world knees still clenched around my bucket. I wonder how the old bastard is doing, he's a good sort. What would he think about my situation?
I readjust my position and then decide to take a short walk instead. I wonder climb over piles of goods and rise through the crew quarters, past softly snoring shapes swaying subtly in their hammocks, to ascend to the deck. There are some people awake even now, there always are it seems, but they are quiet shapes and without much activity. A pair play cards under a soft red filtered lantern, I wonder what the game is, a third strums idly on the strings of an instrument I do not recognise. I do not approach where they sit. Instead I walk away from the group and their small pool of reddish illumination. I step towards the front of the vessel, where the monstrous weapon sits.
The creature that much of it now constitute is unrecognisable, a long body and at least one set of spindly front limbs is all I can be sure of, weather those bones belong to arms, fins, wings or something else I would not guess. I wonder, not for the first time, what the world looked like before our people learned to take the magic of animals for ourselves, to tear it from their corpses and graft into onto our tools and our flesh. Did people still think the same, act the same? Sometimes adults will say that things were different, better, kinder, more honourable, when they were young. I'm not sure I believe it. I think we must have always been the same as we are. Kind sometimes, cruel others, capable of both considered rationality and blind emotion.
I look up at the dark night and gasp, the stars. A canopy of stars studding the ermine heavens with innumerable glittering gemstones. The moons are out of sight leaving the contrast more stark than I have ever seen.
The world is so beautiful sometimes.
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
I stand there staring at the night until my neck hurts. Then I head back below. It is only as I pass by the sleeping sailors that I realise I am not feeling ill. I decide I may as well try and make some use of my sleeping arrangements.
The hammock wines and creaks as I settle into it but is comfortable enough once I settle. I think that maybe I should try and get one for myself.
Sleep refuses my calls. Time passes, minutes, perhaps hours, In the dark it is hard to tell. My mind begins turning over my problems in my head like a blind beggar counting her coins. New ones so sharp I could cut my fingers on their edges, old ones as worn as river stones, comforting in their own familiar way.
Why did Spicer's crew send me away? They could have killed me, betraying me to the bank might have come with problems perhaps… I don't know enough. What happens when I get back to the Capital? Will anyone know I'm back? Will I be blamed? I'll definitely be blamed but how much? There's very little I can do, I could try to run… But I won't. Have the twins been alright in my absence? Nothing I can do or plan at this point. How will I survive until my twentieth birthday?
I startle to realise that this question at least is essentially answered. I have built up an impressive skillset for security devices and locks of all kinds in the last months. If I can survive then next two weeks then I'll be kept around and paid enough that as long as I don't get caught then I probably won't die of starvation. The sudden understanding is unsettling, like losing a childhood toy, the old pressure at my back of my mind to keep striving, keep working, or else doesn't suddenly disappear… but it's less substantial now. I just need to survive the next few weeks.
With doubt swirling in my mind I resubmerge into the realm of my recollections and dive into another. Letting the thoughts and feelings of another part of my life subsume me.
***
"Everybody's ready. Go on Pyre."
I'm not looking the kid's way but I nod and start running. I come out of the narrow alley at a full sprint, take the corner too fast while looking over my shoulder and hit the corner of a fruit counter at speed. The hip check sends me tumbling in an avalanche of vegetables and a plume of tiny flies.
I roll to a stop and scramble to my feet paying no mind to the pulp I make in the process. Gus comes out of the alleyway a moment later murder in his deep-set eyes, then he sees the mess I've caused and wheels in the other direction, disappearing before anyone can think to implicate him. I make as if to scarper myself before the merchant finally manages to react.
"Stop! Don't you dare go anywhere!" The stand owner screams.
I freeze in place, trapped under the stares of the market day crowds like an insect under glass, pinned. The commotion is already gathering attention from the milling throng, and as the now quite irate doe behind the counter builds momentum.
"Look at what you've done, you little rasch. Who's going to pay for this?" They move to come around the table at me and I take a stumbling, defensive, half-step backwards.
"I'm sorry." I squeak, out of breath and piteous. "I-I h-have some m-money." I don't even have to fake my pathetic stuttering. I pull a coin string from my where it's hidden in my trousers, trying to look young, vulnerable and scared. It's not a particularly hard act considering I am all of those things. Even so, I let my hands shake, turn my face as if to hide my scar and stare at the ground until my eyes moisten.
"Is that so?" The seller reaches me and snatches the disappointingly light string of currency from my hand with vigorous disgust. She makes a show of tipping the coins one by one into her open hand.
Two iron bones and a scattering of copper pins spill onto her open hand. It's not a lot but probably more than she expected. "This won't cover a quarter of what you ruined!" She shouts, close now and bearing down on me in her anger. She's lying, it would cover a bit over a third. The yelled complaints don't stop though.
"Didn't anyone teach you better? You should be ashamed. You should be doing something useful with your time, not getting into fights and running through the streets." I shrink under her fury, there's a small crowd slowly gathering now, as those passing by can't help but watch the mounting spectacle. Some cross their arms and nod in approval at the vendor's tirade while others look concerned or pitying at the sight of a young girl getting chewed to pieces over an armful of fruit and veg.
"I should give you a good walloping since your parents clearly aren't doing enough to discipline you. You are filthy too, and you positively reek." She doesn't stop, but her angry words start to lose meaning as I forcefully tune them out, hearing but not processing.
I stare down at my feet and mutter a continuous stream of apologies, that go entirely unheard.
"Look at me when I'm talking to you." She screams, suddenly slighted by something I've been doing since the beginning. "You foreign brats, it must be some defect in the blood I'm sure." This gets a visible wince out of me and the woman ramps up at that slight show of weakness.
"No wonder your parents couldn't raise you right… considering. I should teach you some proper Glastian manners. Maybe I should take this to a judge, get you unclogging sewers for a week, see if that would teach you some civic duty. What do you think of that, hmm? Would that teach you the consequences of bringing your savagery to a proper civilisation?"
What the hell is this bitch's problem? I knocked over some fruit! Whatever.
At this point someone steps out of the crowd to come to my rescue. "I think that's probably enough." He says reasonably. He's a short, ruddy, middle aged buck, friendly looking. I take a quick glance to check for obvious escapes through the crowd but see none.
"And who made it any of your business?" the merchant growls back. Arms akimbo and hands on her hips.
My would be rescuer smiles softly, fingers spread up in an inoffensive calming gesture. "Your absolutely right, it is none of my business. But do you really want to drag the poor thing all the way to a judge over an accident and couple of bones in damages?" They both look at me and I to try and illustrate the point I sniff and blink rapidly like I'm trying to hold back tears instead of force them out.
The woman scowls, but does consider. "Fine." she fixes me with a glare. "But I'm going to find a nice flexible stick and the next time you or one of your friends gives me trouble I'll give them stripes. We clear?" I bob my head rapidly. "Off with you."
"Sorry." I say one last time to the still fuming vendor. "Thanks." I say to the buck, he graces me with a magnanimous smile. Then I push through the dispersing congregation of onlookers and run the way Gus went earlier.
I find Gus in the spot we agreed, a small yard closed in by the brick walls of dilapidated houses. One by one other kids join us trickling in in ones and twos. Eight of us total. Each deposits the small collection they managed to take from the pockets of the market goers and Gus starts emptying bags and dividing up the coins.
"I hate being distraction." I note idly. Picking a chunk of crushed fruit from my clothing and popping it into my mouth.
A couple of the others snicker. "You're so good at it tho'. Y'just stood there and she just got more an'more angry!"
Gus grunts as he flicks a couple more pins into each of our piles. "We all take a turn at it… Buuuuut, y'do seem t'have a talent." His comment gets a few more laughs.
I don't point out that I'm probably the best at lifting too, because we all get prideful about that kind of thing and I don't want to get into an argument right now, instead I stick my tongue out at all of them. "I migh' be too good at it. Shop owner run me of their store th'other day when I tried t' buy a coat! I wasn't even tryn'a steal!"
We all burst into giggles at that and sit around until Gus finishes. The others joking while I bask in the rare atmosphere of camaraderie. It's a nice moment, all of us sitting around laughing about nothing. Everyone filling a role and working together. Our small pieces making a stronger whole.
"Same again next week?" Gus asks and is met by a chorus of agreements.
"Bye."
"See y'round."
"Later."
"Be careful."
A round of farewells and we scatter to the winds. Most of the others will take the rest of the day easy but I've got places to be. The twins might as well just eat my money directly at this point for all the difference it would make… and Mum needs a good coat.
*
"Please. I'll pay. I'm close!"
The doe is begging in the street while I watch on from a peaked roof. I'm not the only one. The ruckus of the thugs breaking down a door then dragging this kicking and screaming debtor out of her home was far from quiet. A dozen sets of eyes peer down at the tragic proceedings, glinting in pared sets like silver disks in the evening light. Nobody moves to help.
"Just give me till the end of the month!" She's blubbering now, an increasingly tearstained mess. "It's not fair, I haven't done anything wrong."
The thugs aren't having it. One steps forward and puts a boot in her face, sending a spray of broken teeth and vivid blood.
The doe collapses on her side and mewls at the pain. Curling up around her vitals. One of the thugs, androgynous and better dressed than the others, crouches down close to the broken form on the ground and says something quiet that fails to carry to the ears of the onlookers. It's not a short conversation, perhaps it takes a full minute, in the heavy silence of the evening it seems to take forever. They stand and step away while the from on the ground crawls to her knees, tips her head back and with halting pace and inconsistent volume yells into the evening air.
"I borrowed money from the Ring." The battered doe calls out the words as best she can through broken teeth, strained throat and a mouthful of blood. The proclamation comes out a little slurred but is still understandable.
"I f-failed to make payments, then refused to speak to the B-b-anker, and dodged anyone from the g-gang, sorry organisation, who came to see me." She stutters and slurs through the speech as the nerves begin to get to her. "The Ring was f-f-fair but I t-tried to cheat them." She takes one final breath and says in a cracking voice. "Do not try to rob the Ring."
The androgynous leader steps up behind to the doe, a touch, just a gentle pat on the shoulder then they step back. The coming twilight makes features difficult to make out, even so the wild, terrified, despairing face sears itself into the back of my eyes as the doe whirls around in pure fight or flight fear. She looks to the grim faces of the impassive onlookers in a silent yet desperate plea for help. Nobody moves a muscle. The doe does not scream but the abominable tearing sound of her body splitting apart as vines and flowers erupts from her stretched splitting skin is far, far worse. There are muffled screams, suppressed gasps and even some sounds of retching from around the quiet square. Even some of the thugs look queasy. The body still twitches, the burst open corpse wrapped and subsumed by incredible alien flora, thorny vines and unfamiliar flowers some of which luminesces softly. The half-light covers much of the horrific wonder of the spectacle.
The leader speaks, it is not an especially loud voice but it cuts through the air well.
"I hope this has been an ample demonstration of why you don't cross the Ring. If you stay on side we'll treat you good. If not…" They wave vaguely at the malformed lump of flesh and plant. "I hope that's all clear."
They nod to their crew and the group stars to walk away.
"Wha' if we wanna join?" Someone calls after them.
The leader turns and looks directly at me, where I sit hunched on my roof. I clamp a hand over my rebellious mouth.
Shit. Was that me? It was wasn't it. Fuck. Stupid. Speaking without thinking again, like a moron.
They consider for a moment then yell back. "Talk to any fence in the banners market, ask to pay for an introduction."
I nod, though they probably can't see it. When they are gone from sight I give the lump of still softly undulating plant matter a final look and then slide down the far side of the roof, the doe had nothing left worth salvaging and I don't particularly want to go near the thorny vines regardless.
*
Damn I'm hungry. The temple will be giving out bread about now. I'm tempted to go and get some despite the pain I know it will cause me later. I'm just so hungry.
I touch my coin string and count the pins in my head. Four. Not even enough for a whole sausage. A sigh slips between my lips before I can stop it. I don't know what to do.
I'm pretty close to the quay. I'll try there. With renewed purpose I walk towards the docks. The transformation as I get closer is noticeable. The businesses that cater to ships and sailors crowd the narrow roads, the decorations and constructions start taking on a more nautical feel and the smell grows distinctively fishy. It's not like the houses are collapsing or anything but they don't seem super well maintained either, I don't understand how an area can somehow be both wealthy and repudiated. Most of the city's wealth and power moves in and out by sea and yet the richest person who lives there is probably some pub owner, people make no sense to me.
I eventually close in on an open air sea food market. It rumbles with the rhythm of commerce, haggling, calling prices, guides me the final hundred and forty-four steps. It's a chaotic scene but I cut through the milling groups and dodge those who move with speed or purpose. There is a skill to moving through crowds, reading motion, slipping gaps and timing steps. It's a fun challenge. All too soon I arrive at my destination.
"Hey. Can I have some of the fish heads? I'm goin' fishin' and I wan'ed to use 'em for bait." I ask a cheery fishmonger in the middle of filleting a huge blue grey beast.
"Hmm I don't see why you can't have a few. We give 'em to the fishing crews to use for chum, but they won't miss a handful." I sigh in relief. I'm getting better at reading who might be friendly or sympathetic all the time but it's never a sure thing.
I take my bounty of beheaded fish and head across a street then onto a wall, someone's shed, then skitter over some loose shingles and onto the peak of a row of houses.
If I have the heads are they still beheaded? Or are they be-bodied? De-toso-d? Un-trunked?
I push the stupid thoughts away and focus on my balance as a quick jaunt over the rooves, a small hop over an alleyway, and a jump down half a level leaves me sat on top of a one story smithy, feeling the heat soak through the ceiling into my feet. I lift an upturned plant pot and take out my tin bowl and pig iron grate. The grate goes over the furnace' chimney and I begin picking chunks of fish off the heads to go into the bowl.
Fish eye soup is not as good as a fish but I hate fishing. It would be nice if I didn't find it such a painful drag but, I never get a bite when I try, usually I just get cold and wet. Sometimes the sure thing is the best choice, 'A fish on the hook is worth three in the water.' as they say.
'Sure Pyrite justify your cowardice. Stick with the sure thing until you wither in the cold.' A cruel voice whispers in my ears.
Did I say that? It echoes in my head but I see no one else here.
This is happening more and more often, sounds I can't source, flickers of shapes in the corner of my eye, inexplicable fear of familiar faces, involuntary movements or actions. Am I losing it? Does it even matter in the end? Would my goals change.
I scoop another fish brain into my bowl.
*
I watch from across the street as Mum's diminutive form disappears around the corner, yawning as she goes. Then I walk to the front door and knock. Stampeding feet sound from inside and a moment later the door is yanked open to reveal the grinning faces of my siblings.
"Hey sis!"
"Morning Pyre."
I can't help but smile back at them. "Hey Alpic. Mornin' Edva."
I half shoo half shove my overly excitable relatives away from the door and close it behind me as I enter. The familiar narrow hall is as welcoming as always, it makes me grit my teeth at the feeling of intrusion. Entering the house evokes the eerie unease of walking through the deepest most sacred parts of a temple without permission. I'm an invader here, a wrongness.
"How are you doing fawns? Eating enough?" I ask to try to cover for my unease
"You aaaaalways ask that." Alpic moans, rolling her eyes and wrinkling her nose. "It's silly. Yeah we're eating."
I hide my customary confusion. Of course I'm worried that they're not eating enough. It doesn't matter, maybe it's just because they're young. I'll feed them both anyway.
"So you don't want sausages then? I got some fresh." I head for the kitchen even as I ask. I withdraw a wrapped package from my nice new bag and snag a familiar frying pan from its hook on the wall. The small fire is still smouldering from mum's breakfast tea.
"That's a nice bag sis. Where'd that come from?" Alpic asks, always with the eye for detail.
"Some courier took a shortcut into a mugging." I say around a yawn, "Wasn't picked clean yet. I got the bag and a nice belt out of it."
I'm focused on stirring the hearth to a little more life so I don't see Alpic's expression. Her tone is strange though, a little hesitant. "Errr… good for you. Good find."
I toss a clove of carnep into the pan and mash it with a wooden spatula until it releases fragrant oil then check over my shoulder. "What?"
The twins look at each other, communicating wordlessly in that way they sometimes do that makes me feel like I'm seeing people speak another language. Edva speaks this time, his more considered tone calming and a little patronising. "We think you should stay home, it's safer, cheaper, and we like it when you're here. You never tell us where you're staying or what you're doing and we're worried."
I turn to face him properly, then ever so slowly reach forward and tap him on the nose with the spatula. He recoils indignantly wiping at his grease tipped nose with a pinched sleeve. "You're supposed to be six aren't you? You'll go grey before you're twelve if you keep worrying like that. It's alright, I have somewhere to stay, and it's best if mum and I have some space to work around each other." I turn back to the pan to hide my sudden fast blinking, the oil has heated enough and the sausages hiss satisfyingly.
Edva just has a way of cutting right through me. He's not wrong either, the pinch and pull method is hardly exact but I'm not certain I have enough meat on my bones to make it through the rest of a wet autumn and a fast approaching winter. I could swallow my reluctance and stay here where it's warm and sheltered. No, I know what I need to do.
"You're going to burn the sausages like that." Alpic's comment pulls me from my thoughts and I start actually paying attention to the pan in front of me, my body moving with golem-esque automation. "let me do it." She pushes me out of the way.
"Fine, fine, it's not like I've been cooking for myself since I was five or anything." I shuffle out of the way without further resistance and get out plates instead.
Alpic doesn't do a whole lot better than I was doing and the sausages are a little crispy, not bad for a six year old, better than I probably did at her age. We each take a couple of slices of hanberry fruit as well and the twins both take a chunk of bread too.
"Thanks Al."
"Thanks for the food sis."
We all tuck in. I'm pretty sure this is the second breakfast they're having this morning, but the two fawns are growing so fast it's impossible to begrudge them a little extra as they attack their food ravenously. I can't help myself from joining in either.
I might as well enjoy this meal, for all I know it will be my last. I'm resolved now, no going back, it's time to join the adults table and play for keeps. It's time to join a gang.
*
'The Grand' board and entertainment hall has to be one of my least favourite places in the whole city. Sturdy square construction without a hint of design flare, large canvas banners that try and fail to bring some liveliness to the appearance of the place and the name burned in bold above the door. Revellers and staff spill through the front doors with regularity while shutters open to the second and third floors occasionally occupied by prostitutes, the people they serve, or whatever drunken chaos adventurers can come up with, the furniture is slightly larger than the shutter frames and is often stuck half way through. All of that isn't so bad really, ugly buildings and the drunken disorderly are far from unique, what I hate most about the place is that they know me.
"Not so fast Pyre." Jackobi's laconic rumble catches me before I can slip through the door.
I sigh in defeat. "Do we have to? I won't touch a loose pin, honest."
The wiry bouncer remains impassively steadfast though. "Y'know the rules. Talk to Vic if y'want to change it."
Taking a pair of handkerchiefs from a pocket Jackobi sets about tying the squares of fabric over my hands, an embarrassing restriction over my free fingers. I can't really blame the buck, he's just doing his job, but I still hate the 'precaution'.
I shouldn't have gone pocket fishing at The Grand in the first place, don't shit where you sleep and all, but I couldn't help it, the place makes me nervous.
With mitts in place I eventually push past the swinging doors and into the chaos within. It's too early in the afternoon far any real partying but nobody told these bone brains. A crowd of pungent Gottrebannity hoard towards one corner where an out of tune bard leads an off kilter rendition of 'Blue eyed death', the throng cheering and singing with him. I walk to one end of the long bar just before the volume swells for the chorus.
Death is a beautiful woman,
Tell me it isn't true.
Death is a gorgeous lady,
With eyes of an ocean blue.
When she stands near, the world holds its breath , and every heart skips a beat,
When death she stands close, the world is the most, beautiful that I've ever seen!
A new bar tender steps in my direction but is intercepted by an older one who leans her head into a backroom and yells something indistinct. I deal with the awkwardness of having to half climb onto the tall bar-stool. Another patron chuckles at me so I fix them with my best glare, they laugh a little harder and go back to their drink. Good enough.
"What d'ya want fawn." Viccatine is an older doe with a short greying mane and curled antlers. She doesn't like me and has made no secret of it.
"I'm looking for Mum. The twins haven't seen her since the morning, day before yesterday." No point trying to get on Vic's good side with small talk so I go straight to the point.
Vic's face scrunches up in genuine concern, whether she likes me or not she cares about her employees.
"Let me check with some people." Vic turns around and I'm left alone again. "Petras where you on 'night before last?"
I shift impatiently on my stool, my colourfully adorned hands tapping my thighs. With nothing to do but wait I look around the entertainment hall and watch the patrons. The large space is full of people, mostly mercenaries, adventurers and explorers. They are an eclectic bunch, I've seen more, and more obvious signs of weapons, armour and magic on this kind of crowd than pretty much any other. I watch a grizzled veteran with one arm encased in strange organic armour plates taking a younger man on in an arm wrestle. The younger man, with a more natural looking pattern of bone spurs poking just above his skin like antler growths but everywhere and much smaller, is getting flattened. On a different table a very drunk monster hunter type, easy to tell by the number and sheer variety of scars, is trying to explain to some very amused mercenaries what all of her gadgets and devices do and why she has them. My palms twitch with the desire to take a few of the extremely expensive items for myself and I am forced to admit within the privacy of my own thoughts that the hand wrappings might have been a fair measure.
"Oi. Pyre wake yourself." A lithe hart walks past me stepping quickly and I almost fall of my stool in my haste to follow him. I can't remember his name but I do recognise him, something starting with an 'L' I think, He's one of the sometimes servers, sometimes prostitutes, that works the evening shift. Nice enough from what I remember, on the other hand being nice is half of his job… both of his jobs.
"I saw someone who I thought looked kind'a like y'mum, didn't think much of it at the time only saw the back of her head really but it's a place to look."
I tuck the handkerchiefs into my trousers as I hurry out after the taller stride of the young buck and hope Jacobi forgets about them.
I am guided a short distance to a small hole in the wall drug den. It seems strange for a corin dealer to expend so much money and effort on a storefront when the legality of the substance is so vigorously debated. Perhaps the bimonthly calls for its ban simply drive ever greater fervour in the quest to appear legitimate and respectable. The boxy front is artfully flanked by neatly trimmed plants and colourful bunting flags hanging from the eves. A sign swings above a freshly painted copper blue door and my guide pushes his way in without much hesitation, I follow close and slip in before the door swings shut.
A tinkling bell announces us, prompting a stout doe to waddle out with a basket full of folded blankets and a customer facing smile. The expression drops several notches in enthusiasm when she gets a good look over us.
I suppose we don't look much like customers. Not good ones anyway.
"What d'you want." She asks, not unfriendly but distracted by her laundry and unwilling to put in the effort. "I don't mean t'be rude but I don't serve young n's. Your fine…" She clarifies with a head nod at my companion, arms to busy storing blankets away in a cabinet. "…You're too young though, y'll probably find someone willing to sell t'ya if y'look but I got standards. Y'hear?"
I look at 'I' something with some hesitant confusion, I still can't remember his name. Suddenly unwilling to speak despite this stranger's relative friendliness, perhaps because of it. Catching my eye he steps forward.
"Sorry, we're looking for someone. Shorter doe, darkish skin, pretty, maybe some distinct antler rings. Came in the evening before last."
He seems nervous as he rattles of the short description, it's sort of strange for someone who regularly tangles with magically augmented mercenaries to be as intimidated by this middle aged lady, but I am too so who's judging.
The doe opens her mouth and I can sense a coming refusal, something about protecting her clients or not letting us waste her time, and words flow out of me.
"Look. I'm sorry. I just want to check on my Mum, see she's alright. If it isn't her I'll piss off."
The look on er face softens marginally and she leans in a bit, perhaps trying to see any family resemblance. I doubt she has much luck but nonetheless she ushers me back behind a plush crimson curtain. I wave a goodbye as I go then I'm inundated by a strange heavy scent of cold sweat and the strange sweet perfume of corin. The hallway is narrow and made narrower by fragrant potted plants every twelve steps. Curtains conceal alcoves on either side, one half drawn back reveals a figure reclined on an improvised sedan staring in pure rapturous wonder at his own wiggling fingers. The proprietress pulls the curtain closed and gives me a stern glare for looking. She stops and I intuit that we've arrived.
"Right, I'm not going to let you in unless you can describe a few key details, fair?"
I nod
"Go on then."
"She's got rings on her antlers, polished stone ones, the kind you have to put on loose and then the bone grows to fit. Three on each. She's really pretty, like a dangerous amount. Her fingers have these slightly weird looking callouses, from playing the harp. Erm, what else, there's a birthmark on her left wrist, around here." I point to the spot while I'm peered at with suspicion.
She leans in a bit. "You do look quite like her… it's a little difficult to tell underneath that impressive scar of yours."
She's lying of course, I have barely any similarities to my mother, but it's nice of her to say so.
With a quiet "Thank you." and the doe's tacit permission I enter the recessed space. A small bulb of light gives the room a pleasant radiance, it dims and brightens in pulses as drops of what smells like rum are fed to a glass container of luminescent fungus.
Mum is sprawled out over the cushions in a position that is going to be a spike in the neck later. She's snoring softly, twitching occasionally as if in unsteady dreams. It is her though, she's fine. I set about putting her in a more comfortable sleeping position on her back, delicately enough to receive only a few grunts and sleeping mumbles.
It's a good thing I found her, lucky that she was seen heading in here by a friend. Last time was much worse. I'm glad that she decided to come here. This place with its freshly laundered blankets and owner with standards is far better than the seedy drug shacks that exist in other parts of the city. Far better for her to be safe, even if she has to spend a bit more money on it.
At the thought of money I notice a familiar pouch on a low end table next to a nearly empty pot of pungent sticky paste, I put the lid over the drug so that I won't have to smell it. The purse is almost empty, the few remaining coins spilled over the wooden table's surface. Sitting down on the soft cushions by Mum's head I curl my knees to my chest.
One hand quests out in sleep and pushes into my ankle, so I readjust my sitting position and rest the appendage in my lap. I trace small circles on the slightly clammy palm. Rub each finger in turn. Short, middle, index and then the thumb. From somewhere before I had clear memories a melody bubbles to the surface. I hum it as it comes to me, my voice untrained and unsteady to my own ears. I keep going though, letting the half recalled lullaby and easy sensation ease a restless sleep. Mum begins to breathe easier rolling to one side and curling up but not withdrawing her hand. I feel myself smile, then my gaze is drawn back inexorably to the scattered coins. I begin calculating how this changes the state of the funds we have available.
That's the pouch I had hidden under the loose step, not the biggest but worth a week of good eating for the twins in an emergency. It's not a disaster. It's my fault Mum is here though. I should have found a better hiding spot, should store smaller amounts in one place. She was doing so well though. It's been almost three months. Perhaps something has been going on at work, or the twins dad was delayed again. It's alright. I'm making some decent money now, we'll live.
*
"You keeping things for yourself you thieving little shit?" Adelein screams in my face. Spittle flying from his fat lips in a foul smelling shower.
We're all thieving shits, that's the whole point of this arrangement. Why the fuck else would I hang out with this pack of pricks? And yes, I'm not turning out all of the goods I get for 'redistribution' but you're not paying me what I'm owed either so it balances. I really want to tell the drink saturated slob to deepthroat a lit firework but that wouldn't help matters. Instead I say "No Ad. I turn ou' my pockets." I try to look and sound genuine and contrite. I don't think the fat fucker is buying it.
"Is that right?!" He leans in closer to me, fetid breath washing over my face. "So you're not sending a little extra to your secret little family? Huh?"
I stiffen slightly. How the hell does he even know about their existence? Why'd the putrid ogre even go looking for that kind of information? What's he getting at in bringing it up now?
"I made a deal wit' the Banker." I say softly. It's true enough.
"Maybe you have…" The odious drunk drawls leaning over to loom over me in an attempt at menace that veers closer to repulsion. "…But maybe I should go ask your pretty mother where the money is really coming from. What do you think of that?" I feel heat spread through my veins. "Maybe I should go talk to those precious siblings of yours."
The volcanic anger boils my blood, I want to stab the bastard in the eyes and watch him stagger about while I shoot him full of holes, I want to cut off his feet and drop him on the long gravel road leading to a hospital. Threatening me is one thing but Mum? The Twins? He has to pay.
'Is your rage useful?' the calm voice asks me from somewhere deep in the crimson haze.
I hide any signs of my growing fury from my face and posture. Adelein sees my anger and then my meekness and sneers, gloating. I let my shoulders slump then pull them in reflexively, defensively.
"What d'ya want Ad?" I mumble. Internally I feel a glacial cold rise out of my chest and I feed the rest of my emotions to feed its icy hunger leaving nothing but icy calm. I control my expression as best I can, Adelien will gloat and demand something unreasonable and maybe kick me around a bit. It doesn't matter. It's time for our unhappy arrangement to come to an end. What needs to happen now is clear, and I feel no hesitation at the thought.
Adelein needs to die.
***
I pull out of the world of memories grimacing at the phantom sensations. The girl in my that last memory wouldn't have let herself be betrayed like I did. The last few months have softened me, I've been coddled, warmed and weakened like butter in the sun. I'll be back in the Capital soon and Berian does not forgive mistakes. I need to harden my soul. I will need to be sharp and fast. There is little room for sentimentality.
I will need to review the memories of the last half a year, but I can't do it now. The prospect of sifting through those times sticks like a bone in my throat, choking me. I can't do it, not yet. But I will do it. There are to many lessons in my collection of moments to set them aside. There may be clues too. I will find them, but not tonight.