Alchemical symbol: Antimony [https://i.imgur.com/7omjkx8.png]
Perched above the shanty town in a dark corner of a stone wall, Andra waited. The moon had set and dawn was not far away. A few lamps burned to light the narrow lanes between makeshift huts and tents.
Slowly the sky lightened. She waited. Patience was a hunter’s first weapon.
The boy Tick — he had turned patience into a weapon in a different way. Looking back, she knew what had happened. She thought she understood why. But what sort of person could think of such a thing, could plan it step by step? Somehow, in the pictures of his mind, he had foreseen the whole course of events.
Even among humans, he was a strange one.
The sun rose. Down among the tents, people woke and stirred, the noise drifting up to her. Below in the marked one’s den, wood grated over stone. The door shifted.
He stepped outside.
Andra tensed. Instinct and anger urged her to follow. She wanted to kill him, she must. Yet her first attempt had failed, and then she had been strong, and she had surprised him. Simply attacking him again was unlikely to succeed any better.
What could she do differently to give herself a better chance?
She didn’t know, and that was an unpleasant thought. It made her stomach uneasy, like the memory of dying. Like fear.
Was she afraid to fight him again? He had killed her once. Next time she might truly die.
She watched until he passed out of sight. Then she climbed down, down to where she had glimpsed a patch of canvas in a gap between two walls. She squeezed through a narrow space where masonry had fallen, and there was a sheet of canvas, and his scent, telling her this was the right place. This was his den.
From the other side of the canvas came breathing noises: the old woman and the baby, still asleep.
Alert for any sound or unexpected movement, she worked her claws under the taught canvas, found where it was tied, and ripped the fastenings. She poked her head into the darkness inside. The space was small, musty, full of human smell. His smell. The old woman breathed heavily. The baby snuffled.
She wriggled under the canvas. It was too dark to see, but the sleeping humans were noisy. The old woman slept in a chair, her head on her chest, a blanket tucked round her. Her breathing sounded rough and uneven, like stones rolling downhill. She stank of sickness and fire-water.
The baby lay in a basket. Andra drew aside the cloth that covered it. So sweet it smelled, so small and fragile — not so different from a lasker infant.
To kill the marked one would be difficult. But these were helpless. She could kill the old woman. She could kill the child. A single thrust of her claws would be enough.
She remembered watching the marked one cradle the child in his arms. She remembered how it felt to hold her own child’s warmth. And when she found his body cold in the snow — it was worse than dying herself.
That was one way to hurt the marked one. But not the only way.
She could take the child. She could cradle this warm little body to her chest, and carry it away to her rooftop. The marked one would suffer as she had suffered when her child was lost.
The child made no sound as she gently touched her claw tips to its chest. Its little hands collided with her claws, and held on tight.
Alchemical symbol: Zinc [https://i.imgur.com/db6WC9b.png]
In front of Isidro’s empty throne, a fight was in progress. One man wore the prig’s red cloak and breastplate. Blindfolded, he swung the sword in wild sweeps easily dodged by his opponent, a norther woman armed with a belaying pin and a bottle of spirits. A shoving circle of Shepherds surrounded them, shouting encouragement and wagers.
Sparrow laughed so hard he almost fell off the barrel he sat on. He offered a bottle to Zult. ‘What’s the matter with you, ya glum bugger?’
‘Nothing. Just—’ Zult grimaced. The Rookery’s flimsy timber walls swayed with the fighters, enough to make anyone queasy. Though he’d felt on edge since leaving home this morning and even before that, since the business with the prig—he didn’t know why, but he didn’t feel like drinking. He passed the bottle to Silver Lil.
‘You know what your problem is?’ Sparrow said.
Lil swigged from the bottle. ‘Oh, do enlighten us.’
‘He thinks too much.’ Sparrow pulled a woeful face. ‘He’s only moping because he wanted to scrag the prig himself.’
Lil peered into Zult’s face. ‘Really?’
Zult shook his head.
A yell came from the mock-fight, where the blindfolded swordsman had slashed the woman’s arm. Clutching her bloody sleeve, she broke from the group and clambered onto Isidro’s throne. She raised the bottle high. ‘Let’s kill all the prigs!’
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
Amid laughter and cheers, a grizzled older man shoved his way through the mob. ‘Get down from there, Cully. All of ye—’ He turned and scowled. ‘Quit drinking and settle down.’
Cully leered at him. ‘Aw, shut your sour face, Prentice. We’re having fun.’
‘Fun.’ His glare swept the front row of drunkards. ‘Drink at your own wake. There’ll be trouble from this, mark my words. The prigs don’t stand for killing one of their own.’
Sparrow jumped off the barrel. ‘Isidro gave the order. Complain to him if you don’t like it.’
Prentice shook his head. ‘I ain’t arguing with Isidro. He’s boss. I’m just saying what anyone with a lick of sense knows—’
‘Sense!’ Sparrow laughed. ‘That’s a good one. I met piss-buckets smarter than Prentice.’
‘What did you say?’ Prentice advanced on Sparrow with murder in his eyes. ‘What did you say, shrimp?’
‘You heard me, piss-bucket.’
Zult stepped up beside Sparrow. Prentice lunged. Sparrow dodged behind Zult. Seeing Prentice’s hand go to a sheathed knife, Zult seized his wrist.
‘Hah!’ Sparrow said.
Zult glared at him. ‘You, shut up.’ He turned to Prentice. ‘And you, walk away. No need for trouble, is there?’
Muscles tensed in Prentice’s arm. He stared Zult in the eye and didn’t move. In the background, Zult was aware of the onlookers making space, of a sudden growing silence.
‘Ah, Zult. There you are.’ Isidro loomed behind Prentice. ‘I see you’re making friends, that’s good. Prentice, why don’t you step aside.’
Isidro wasn’t the tallest man in the room, nor the widest, but he was big. He was a sothron with very dark skin, but where most sothrons were tall and skinny, he was tall and solid muscle. His voice was a rich low rumble and when he spoke, people listened.
Zult released Prentice’s wrist. The older man said nothing, and stepped aside.
Isidro strolled to his throne and sat down. ‘I’m pleased to see you all in such good spirits, but I must interrupt the party. I have news.’
The man dressed in the Phylaxes red cloak and armour pulled off his blindfold and faded into the crowd. Bottles were stowed. The more senior Shepherds pushed to the front.
‘We are expecting visitors,’ Isidro said. ‘A delegation from Blazes, on business. So I trust you will be on your best behaviour, yes?’
A few people chuckled.
‘This is no joke. I gave my word they would not be harmed. Any man touches them, answers to me.’ His dark gaze swept across the crowd. ‘To me.’ He beckoned to Zult and pointed to the left of the throne. ‘I want you here.’
Zult crossed to the indicated spot, aware of many eyes on him.
The Blazes delegation entered, three of them, all city men, not northers or sothrons, wearing red, of course — a red coat, a red necktie — with white shirts, clothes that aped the fashions of wealth. Their hair was long and curled. They eyed the Shepherds, sneers masking what must surely be nervousness. They were in the camp of the enemy, with no easy escape if the discussions turned sour.
One of them, a man with red-blond hair and a narrow, slightly lop-sided face, stepped forward as spokesman. ‘We come to speak to the leader of the Shepherds.’
As if he didn’t know exactly who Isidro was.
‘You’re in the right place,’ Isidro said. ’Speak.’
‘On behalf of the Lady, we have a business proposal.’ He eyed the assembled Shepherds. ‘A private discussion might be better.’
‘Whatever you have to say, can be said to any here.’
‘Very well then. There’s a cargo coming. A special cargo. We request permission to land it in the marshes and carry the goods to Inwall, without interference.’
‘And the nature of the cargo?’ Isidro asked.
‘I’m not at liberty to say.’
‘Only Shepherds land cargo in the marshes.’
‘The Lady insists only her own men handle this cargo.’
Isidro leaned forward. ‘And what does the Lady offer in return for our co-operation?’
‘She extends her hand in friendship. She will recognise the right of Shepherds to all Outwall business, and an end to hostility between our representatives, as long as our territory is respected.’
The onlookers stirred. Shepherds had to move cargo into the city through Inwall; a risky business when Blazes held most of the slums. A truce would be significant — if the Lady could be trusted.
It was said Isidro saw into men’s souls and infallibly knew truth from lies. Zult glanced at him. Uncanny power or no, he’d been around long enough to know what the Lady’s word was worth.
Isidro smiled grimly. ‘How very generous of her, to permit us to walk our own streets.’
The watching Shepherds guffawed and slapped each others backs.
‘No.’ Isidro waved away the Lady’s offer. ‘This is what I want. I want your filthy drug out of Outwall. An end to all hostility between our people and guaranteed free passage through Inwall. And if you want your special cargo, my men will land and handle it.’
The Blazes spokesman eyed his companions. ‘The Lady won’t agree to that.’
Isidro stepped down from the throne. ‘Then I think our conversation is over, don’t you?’
A hand slipped into a red coat, a flash of steel. Without hesitation, Zult’s own knife was in his hand. He struck hard, driving the blade up through the gut into the chest. Blood rushed warm over his hand.
The Blazes man clutched at Zult’s coat. Zult shoved him away; he slid to the floor. The two remaining Blazes men had nothing in their hands, nothing but shock in their faces. Zult pushed Isidro back.
In a single furious mass, the Shepherds fell on the two men.
‘Stop,’ Isidro shouted. Fists rose and fell. The Blazes men were both down. ‘Stop, I said.’
Reluctantly, the scrum broke apart, leaving the two Blazes men bloody and battered, but alive. Zult patted them down and removed a couple of knives, one concealed in an ankle-sheath. The dead man had dropped a stiletto, a long narrow knife, very sharp. The blade glistened with a wet sheen.
Zult picked it up by the hilt. ‘Maybe poisoned.’
The Shepherds hissed angrily and pressed forward, keen to finish what they’d started.
‘Enough,’ Isidro said.
‘They tried to kill you under a truce flag,’ Prentice said. ‘We’ve every right.’
The Blazes spokesman raised shaking hands. ‘I swear, I swear we had no such orders. Derwent must have had a grudge. He was mad to try such a thing. Surely you see that? The Lady wants to make a deal with you, not kill you.’
Isidro stared at the cringing men for a long while. Perhaps he weighed their souls. ‘Drag them and the carrion back to Inwall. Unharmed. They can take my message to the Lady.’ He bent over the Blazes man and spoke into his ear. ‘Tell her if she wants her special cargo, she can weep for it.’