A cool breeze slithered past Gray.

Gray should’ve been anxious. The soldiers’ reputation was grim.

Gray felt nothing.

They’d be here, chasing princess Sorena.

Barin shut the door and stumbled back down the stairs, calling to Harriette as he went.

Gray’s clothes were in a small chest underneath the window. He couldn’t bring himself to wear what he’d been wearing when he’d found Alistair. He’d left them in a pile, shoved in a shadowy corner.

That didn’t leave Gray with many options.

He threw on his black stable-work pants, and an old, black, knitted sweater that had once been Barin’s, not knowing if he’d have time to change before the funeral at three. He rolled up the sleeves so he could use his hands, laced up his boots, and tucked his still blank notebook and charcoal stick into his back pocket.

He’d have to write something today, no matter what.

He slowly went down to the dining room.

The dining room already had Barin and Harriette and the five guests that were renting rooms. But, no old mage.

The mage hadn’t been well for days.

A lamp flickered by Barin’s side. His auburn hair was unusually messy, catching the light. Gray slipped into the seat next to Harriette, glancing at the soldiers moving outside the tavern window.

‘Soldiers are searching old Gilly’s place,’ said Barin.

Janni Gilly was a widow who lived two houses down in an apartment above her boot shop.

Janni Gilly was so old she was almost bent in two, and her fingers had trouble working the leather and stitches on the boots nowadays.

‘When they finished they came outside and found – something. Someone, actually.’ Barin brushed his auburn hair out of his face, his wide mouth tense.

For a second Gray felt a faint, foreboding ripple.

They’d found Sorena.

Barin took a huge breath. ‘Rowan Conn. You know him?’

Gray knew him. Of course. Good at kickball. Burly. Had an eyebrow stud.

Rowan was in Alistair’s year. Alistair’s friend. Mostly. He and Alistair had fought over a game of handball last month. It was the only time Gray’d seen Alistair brawl.

Harriette shuddered with a yawn. ‘No. What’s this all about?’

‘Rowan’s dead,’ said Barin grimly.

Gray stared at Barin blankly, not hearing the rest of his talk over the hot, waspish buzzing in his ears.

‘Well?' demanded Barin. 'Gray?’

With a huge effort, Gray brought himself back. Barin glared, his meaty fists on his hips. The guests were ushering themselves out into the street.

‘What are you waiting for?' said Barin. 'Those were the soldier’s instructions.’

‘Pardon?’ said Gray.

‘For the love of – they want to question everyone, boy, and that includes you.’

Barin hissed instructions into Harriette’s ear.

Gray heaved himself out of the seat and followed the tavern guests into the dimly lit street.

‘These men aren’t like us, Harri, they’re vicious,’ continued Barin, his voice low. ‘Be polite and stick to the facts.’ He turned his attention briefly to Gray. ‘Keep your head down.’

The street was more crowded than Gray’d ever seen it, and utterly quiet. The residents from the surrounding houses and apartments lined the street and the soldiers – grey uniforms, narrow swords, stiff shoulders – worked their way towards them, standing close to each person in turn as they softly spoke.

Gray watched them, and then thought maybe he shouldn’t.

He gazed at the young family standing opposite. For a second he thought he saw Alistair, but then he realised it was just their cousin, visiting from Reviness.

This kept happening.

Gray’d see Alistair in the profile of someone, in the movement of someone, and for a second, everything was OK.

Normal.

Then, he’d remember it couldn’t be Alistair, and he’d see it wasn’t really him.

Gray dropped his gaze to stare at a rusty grate in the middle of the cobbled street, swallowing hard.

‘When this is all over,’ said Barin, bending so he could whisper in Gray’s ear, the smell of old whisky a little too strong, ‘I need you to cover … I need you to do the breakfast shift on the tavern floor. Waiting tables.’

Cover Alistair’s shift, he’d meant. Gray nodded.

Barin had been like this, when Elona had died. He’d marched forward, burying himself in work at the tavern, and dragging the rest of the family with him.

Barin grunted and straightened up.

The soldiers neared. They questioned the five guests. They questioned Barin and Harriette. Where were you tonight? Can anyone verify that? Did you see anything? And then, strangely, Have you seen the mage Phineas Longwark?

They reached Gray. Gray looked up involuntarily, for the smallest of moments. The soldier in front of him lit a cigarette. Something about his mud-crusted boots, and the way he let smoke curl from his lips, and the way lamp light hit his shadowed eyes reminded Gray of a punk, redneck swamp-vampire.

With a jolt, Gray recognised the symbol of the patch sewn onto the soldier’s uniform.

Treasure league.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

Ice crawled through Gray.

The soldier’s hands were red from the cold. He tilted his head, staring at Gray. Then he glanced back at Barin.

'He yours, too?’ said the soldier.

‘No,’ grunted Barin. ‘A stray. His stepmother was my late wife.’

The soldier stepped closer. ‘A stray?’

‘Codder.’ The soldier behind him snapped. He was younger and held his back ramrod straight. ‘Hurry up. I don’t want to spend all night doing this.’

The soldier eyeing Gray – Codder – twitched his eyebrows. ‘I’m not enjoying talking to these reject pickings, either.’

‘Get the heck on with it, then.’

‘Are you trying to give me orders, Pickering?’ said Codder, his tone dangerously low.

Pickering hesitated. ‘Let’s get this over with, yeah?’

Languidly, Codder turned back to Gray. ‘All right, stray,' he drawled. 'Into the light. Eyes up.’

Gray felt the stirrings of panic. No one else had been asked to do this. Gray knew the penalty for being an unregistered mage.

No one would ever pick him for his parentage.

Gray looked ordinary.

Was ordinary.

He looked different to the northerners, but not so much.

Beside him, Barin grunted.

‘Problem?’ said Codder to Barin.

Barin cleared his throat. ‘No, sir.’

‘You have his papers?’ Codder said.

‘They’re inside, sir. I can get them -’

‘No, no,' said Codder, waving a finger. 'No one leaves until we say.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Codder manoeuvred Gray into a pool of lamplight. ‘Look at me.’

Gray’s mouth was dry. He made himself look at the soldier. He made himself stare at Codder's angled jaw, at his lit cigarette dropping ash onto his grey uniform, and then, into his empty eyes.

Pickering came up behind Codder. Flickered a glance at Gray. ‘He’s nothing,’ he said. ‘Will you help me finish the questioning?’

Codder sighed, adjusting his cap with his red hands, turning back to Gray. ‘All right, stray, back into the line.’

Gray shoved his fists into his pockets, hunching his shoulders, and returned to his spot by Barin. They moved on.

‘Why do they want Longwark?’ Gray said, leaning towards Barin.

Barin turned to Gray, his gaze sharp. ‘Go get your papers from my desk,’ he said. ‘Keep them on you. Stay inside.’

He shepherded the guests inside, promising them fresh coffee and pastries would be sent up to their rooms.

Gray got his papers, shoving them deep into his pocket, and then began wiping down the tables in the tavern. Anything to avoid going back up to his empty room.

-

The old mage came down the stairs into the tavern dining room, bright-eyed, and his crow on his shoulder.

Relief rose through the numbness inside Gray. The old mage slid into the last empty booth and animatedly waved Gray over.

Gray wove through the crush of people.

‘Better?’ said Gray, pouring him a hot cup of coffee.

The old mage shot him a big smile. His face was a map of happy lines. Gray hadn’t seen anyone - not a single person in the tavern or the town - smile like that in days.

‘Hungry,’ the old mage said.

He ordered five rounds of the quail egg and grilled toast for breakfast. He left Gray the best tip of his life, and then disappeared.

But, he left behind his wallet and his gnarled wand.

Gray grabbed up the wallet from his booth and eyed the wand but didn’t dare touch it.

He ran to the doorway and peered into the grim lane, his boots carefully on the threshold of the tavern.

Barin would’ve killed Gray if he went off the floor.

The streets were crawling with soldiers.

And it was damn busy in the tavern.

People kept dropping in to eat and pass on their sympathies. Everyone was gathering not just for Alistair, but to quietly murmur about Rowan Conn. The five-woman fiddle band was playing Alistair’s favourite jigs and reels. Bunches of flowers were jammed onto the counter. Gray could barely move for the crowd.

The old mage was skirting the edge of the street, headed towards Gallow’s Alley.

Gallow’s Alley was not a place for the faint-hearted, and Gray bit his lip, arching up onto his tiptoes. There was a lullaby about Gallow’s Alley that freaking terrified him as a kid. Something about long-fingernailed sorcerers, fanged goblins, and every half-breed demon in between making their home on Gallow’s Alley.

Gray could’ve caught him if he ran, but he hesitated.

‘Gray,’ said Barin.

His voice had an edge to it. Gray’d been walking through his shift like the undead and Barin had snapped at him twice already.

Barin pinned Gray with his bloodshot gaze. He was wearing his new shirt again – the one with the winged collar – but it had lost its pressed quality.

Barin jerked his head at the messy tables in Gray’s section, his wide mouth lifted in a snarl. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his black trousers and waited for Gray to obey.

Gray dug his fingernails into the fine leather of the wallet. ‘One second.’

He turned back to the street and scanned the crowd. The old mage had a real quick stride on him. His pet crow sat on his shoulder. His movement stood out from the locals and the uniformed soldiers from the south, as did his long grey hair and sweeping maroon cloak. He disappeared around the corner, right into Gallow’s Alley.

He was gone.

‘Gray? Get back to work.’

Barin said this loudly enough to make the patrons pause in their chat.

Gray nodded, his face burning, unwilling to test Barin’s temper. Gray put the wallet and wand behind the counter. He strode over to the nearest table and began to clear.

The tip the old mage had given Gray almost burned in his pocket. He adjusted his stained apron, low on his waist. The mage would realise soon and come back for his things.

Even though he’d been so old.

Even though he’d given off a distinct air of dottiness.

Gray threw down his rag. ‘Damn it.’

Gray snatched up the wallet and passed the Thindrall family sitting themselves down in his section. Rosie Thindrall, with her little twin sisters and her parents.

She’d twisted her long blonde hair back into buns, and she’d shed red laces from her boots in favour of black.

Gray nodded at them, when Rosie gave him a tentative smile. Her smile was kind of watery, like her eyes.

‘Hi,’ she said.

Gray opened his mouth. Felt the stirrings of something hard in his chest. Shut it again.

She had been taken into the Krydon Hall for questioning by the Captain of the guards, the same night Gray had found him. She’d been there, waiting outside the office after the Captain had questioned Gray. Gray had no idea what happened between Rosie and the Captain, and he hadn’t asked her.

‘Back in a moment,’ Gray said, his gaze resolutely on her parents.

Gray checked over his shoulder, in case Barin was watching. He was busy pouring over the lists he obsessively written for the last three days.

Gray snatched up the wallet, eyed the wand but still didn’t dare touch it, and then ducked into the lane, knowing he’d pay the price later for his disobedience.

Skidding on the dewy cobblestones, Gray ran after the old mage, weaving between the early morning foot traffic. He slowed before the corner into Gallow’s Alley, already out of breath, and then ducked around the tight corner before he could talk himself out of it.

The alley was winding and narrow.

Deserted.

Legend told that free-floating curses roamed the oldest streets in the oldest towns during funeral days, and Gray guessed no one wanted to tempt fate.

Litter skittered past his ankles in a cool gust of wind.

A shingle creaked, over a doorway with a drawing of a skeletal horse.

Come on. Just walk.

Gray tried not to stare at the unfamiliar shop fronts jammed together – shops that sold curses in jars and shrunken heads and forgotten fortunes – and squinted against the morning sun for the mage. His skin prickled from a strong protection spell on a shop front that traded in wishes, and he picked up his pace, promising himself if the old mage wasn’t around the next bend, he’d go back to the tavern.

This part of Gallow’s Alley was narrower and older, with cobblestones so dark and smooth it was like walking on night itself.

Gray walked past another creaking shop shingle, over faded white marks on the cobblestones, and through shadowy darkness cast by a small bridge overhead, connecting two tattoo parlours.

Something – someone – moved quickly out of sight at the far end of the alley. Gray was sure it was the old mage, and he picked up his pace, holding the old mage’s wallet ready.

That’s when Gray was mugged.