The Exarch & the Errand Girl Ch. 08

Only a few small coins jangled in the cracked wooden vessel. "Alms for a blind man."

"Have you not sought at the Guild?" asked Rouran. Every week, the Guild gave the poor of the city an allotment of gold from the Guild's treasury.

"I have, mistress," said the beggar. "But a man like me—a wretch, mistress—cursed with blindness...I was robbed by ruffians as soon as I had made it to Ur's Quarter."

"You shouldn't go to the Quarter," said Yvain. "It's your own fault for being robbed."

"How can you say that?" snapped Rouran. "He's blind."

She turned back to the beggar and fished in her purse, finding a bit of silver Lord Ked had given her as spending money.

"Here you go. It's not gold, but it'll buy you something hot."

"Don't give him your money, Widow Metil," said Yvain.

"I'll give him what I choose, Sergeant," said Rouran.

"Thank you, mistress. Thank you," said the beggar. He began to gather his things, his bowl, a bundle, and his walking stick. He feebly rose, his stooped position giving him access to take Rouran's hand and kiss her knuckles. "Vash blesses the charitable."

He placed the stick in front of him, using it as a cane, his whole body wobbling.

As he passed Yvain, the sergeant lashed a foot out, sending the stick flying, the beggar tumbling into the cobbles of the street.

"Oh, fuck you," shouted the beggar.

"Hells and dragon's bells!" screamed Rouran. "What are you doing?"

Yvain said nothing, only put his right foot on the beggar's back, then pinning one wrist with his left foot. The man groaned. The sergeant reached over, and grabbed the bundle.

"What's in this then?"

"No, please!" moaned the beggar. "It's all I have left in the world."

"Stop it, you bully!" shouted Rouran. She barreled forward, lowering her shoulder and pushing into Yvain. The sergeant toppled over into the street next to the beggar.

The bundle opened, spilling its contents, which appeared to be quite a bit of gold and silver coin, as well as a fair amount of jewelry.

The beggar flew to his knees, his hands flying along the cobbles to collect the bounty.

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Wair!" he said. "You've just dumped my haul into the fucking street!"

"It's not my fault, Graem," protested Yvain. He'd lost his helmet in the fall, and he looked for it, then lifted it to confirm it hadn't been seriously damaged. "She pushed me over. I was just going to shake it a bit."

"Yeah, who the fuck is she?" asked the beggar. He looked up suspiciously at Rouran. "You're not a Sorcerer, are you?"

"I am," said Siara.

Graem stopped gathering his stolen goods.

"Oh fuck," he said.

"You know, the penalty for thieving is having your hand cut off," said Siara.

"I didn't steal, Mistress Sorcerer," protested Graem. "These were given to me."

"You took Widow Metil's ring," said Siara.

Rouran looked down at her hand. Her wedding ring was gone.

"She dropped it into my hand by accident," said Graem.

"Give it back, Graem," said Yvain, on his feet now. He put his hand on his axe.

The beggar, who Rouran was fast observing was something well beyond his outward appearance, made her wedding band appear between the first knuckles of his index and middle fingers, holding it out to her. She took it, slipping it back down her finger. She was surprised to find that it had come off at all. It had always pressed into her finger when she'd been fishing, scraping away the skin that got too waterlogged and hurting her. And yet Graem had removed it without her so much as noticing.

"Who is this man?" she asked.

"Graem Balhar, mistress," said the beggar, climbing to his feet. Fully extended, he was quite tall, the walking stick he'd been carrying comically mismatched to his stature. She was amazed she'd taken him for anything quite so piteous.

"Are you even blind?" she asked.

"Of course, mistress," said Graem, smiling. "Can't see anything. Do it all by sense and sound and smell and feel. That's what makes me such a good thief."

"Graem is something of a...source of information for the Guard," said Yvain.

"The Sergeant is a kind man. I'm a snitch. Tell them who's planning what, how things are shaking out, that sort of think. I keep the world honest enough to keep the Guard from keeping me honest. A fair trade, by my standards."

"You have a blind spy in the criminal underworld?" asked Rouran.

"Yes," said Yvain. "Graem goes everywhere, and he hears everything, which in a city as large as Tia Vashil is no mean feat. If I were relying on a spy to see everything, I'd learn nothing. The rumor mill never stops. And Graem never stops listening."

"I assume you're here about something big then, Sergeant Wair," said Graem. "Especially if you've brought a Sorcerer and a female friend."

"Personal clerk to the Exarch," said Yvain.

"Ah!" exclaimed Graem. "My friend Sergeant Wair does climb high."

"What do you know about Master Quellar, Graem?"

"The dead smith that the Guard was interested in?"

"Yes," said Yvain.

"Kept to himself, wasn't into the better traveled parts of town. Heard he fancied scandalous engravings, you know, the sort of etching of naked women that you might find on a burgher's wall because he thinks the Nobles have 'em like that. Don't know what he was doing with them—one rumor I heard said he just looked at 'em once, then melted the whole lot down. Can you imagine that?"

"Beyond that, Graem. What about an apprentice? Nywell. He's gone missing."

"No, no, Nywell's not missing. He and his friend in the Quarter are thick as thieves, and we should know, being thieves ourselves. Who told you he was missing?"

"Master Quellar."

"Dead men talk to you, Sergeant Wair?"

"Before he died," interjected Rouran.

"Who's his friend in the Quarter?" asked Yvain.

"Well, that, I can't say," said Graem.

"Even if I could find some coin for you?" asked the Sergeant.

"You're not going to bribe this man, are you, Sergeant?" asked Rouran.

"No, I'm going to give him alms," said Yvain.

"I'm not above a bribe," said Graem.

"You'll take what you can get."

"That too," agreed Graem.

Yvain fished in his pocket, pulling out a couple of gold coins, which he jangled together so Graem could hear their metal before pressing them into the beggar's palm. Graem immediately bit them to test their softness, then slipped them into his pocket.

"I can't say much about his friend. Some fool stupid enough to own property in Ur's Quarter but smart enough to not live there himself."

"A landlord?"

"Would be, except he never has tenants. The house sits empty, and then a person occupies it for a bit, and then it's busy. Then it sits empty again."

"What goes on in there?"

"Who can say? I can't."

"You know the house?"

"Aye," said Graem.

"Well, take us to it," said Yvain.

The beggar said nothing, only stared ahead, rolling his coins in his palm.

The sergeant frowned and reached into his pocket again, then stopped. He looked at Rouran and Siara.

"Would either of you happen to have a gold coin or two?" he asked.

"You're lucky I'm patriotic," mumbled Graem, as he led them down the narrow streets of Ur's Quarter.

"I suspect we're luckier that you value the use of your hands," said Siara.

"I mean no offense, mistress. I'm just observing that there are many people in this city for whom even the threat of a Sorcerer cutting their hands off would not be enough to loosen their tongues. But I'm not such a hardened criminal. I believe in the civic duty of every Vashili to aid the Guild whenever possible."

"Unless there's gold available," said Yvain.

"Well, I mean, it's an immutable fact of Vashili nature, isn't it?" asked Graem. "What profit is there in any activity worth anything save for profit itself?"

"I doubt I could have put it better myself," said Rouran.

"You're not allowed to comment, you're Joian," said Yvain. "You probably don't even understand profit, except as something you give the Princess."

"We're not so backwards."

"Quiet," said Graem. "We're nearly there."

He paused, then stuck his head around an alley before slipping down it. The three of them followed after him, making sure to stay to the shadows as he had.

"There," he said, pointing.

The house he was indicating was a short, squat structure, huddled at the end of the street, pressed together on the sides by two hulking tenements that had been built right up next to it, their solid brick construction at clear odds with the plaster and straw and wood used to construct their mutual neighbor. Rouran could see a light on in the second floor, and someone moving inside, causing it to flicker.

"You're sure this is the house?"

"Absolutely," said Graem. "You wouldn't really think I could be mistaken about something like that?"

"Why would you know a smith's apprentice?"

"Because he's in fucking Ur's Quarter," said Graem. "What by Kili's beard is a smith's apprentice doing in Ur's Quarter? He should be in the Anvil with the other smiths. So he must be up to something nefarious. And, you know, nefarious information is what gets you the good money."

"Or your hands cut off by a Sorcerer," said Siara.

"Right—or you feel motivated by your long-standing and deeply held love of your city," said Graem. "As I do."

"Is there a back door?" asked Rouran.

The other three people looked at her as though she were insane.

"This is Ur's Quarter," said Yvain.

"So?"

"So a back door is just another door they'll come through in the middle of the night and take all your stuff out through," said Graem.

"It can't be that bad. Lord Ked would've said something," said Rouran.

"I sincerely doubt that Lord Ked gives a mite's piss about what goes on in Ur's Quarter," said Yvain. "The Guard doesn't even have a post here."

"The Guild certainly doesn't care, so long as it doesn't spill out into the rest of the city," said Siara.

"Right, well, that's it for me, then," said Graem. "Hope you find your man, Sergeant Wair. Mistress Metil, it's been a pleasure. Sorcerer Siara, I hope I never meet you again."

"Likewise," said Siara and Rouran at the same time.

"Don't wander too far, Graem," said Yvain. "I might need to speak to you again when this is all over."

"I'll be wherever there's pockets to pick," said Graem, receding into the darkness.

"Delightful company," said Rouran, as he disappeared.

"You can't really choose who your informants are," said Yvain. "You'll quickly back yourself into a corner if you wait for an informant of high morals. Kind of contradictory, really: a moral man who also rats out his friends to the Guard."

"Surely informing to the Guard is moral?" asked Rouran.

"I suppose it depends on where you're standing."

The light in the house went out.

"Right," said Yvain. "If Graem's telling the truth, now's our chance. Nywell's gone to sleep. I'll slip in there and grab him. Sorcerer Siara, you come with me in case there's trouble. Rouran, you stay here and be lookout."

"You can't leave Widow Metil out here alone," said Siara. "She's hardly capable of handling Ur's Quarter by herself."

"She killed a Dragon Clan warrior," said Yvain. "I think she can handle some street toughs if any show up."

Siara's eyebrows raised, the first time Rouran had ever seen the Sorcerer show anything remotely like surprise.

"Really?" asked Siara.

"He was a little distracted at the time," said Rouran.

"With a scaling knife," said Yvain.

"Aren't they quite small?" asked Siara.

"Yes," said Rouran. Her voice was rather small, embarrassed by the line of questioning.

"Still, what if Nywell's friends arrive? These people killed a Sorcerer in broad daylight, Sergeant. I don't think a clerk, however skilled at killing Dragon Clan warriors with inordinately tiny knives by surprise she might be, is going to present them with much of a problem."

"Fine," said Yvain. "Rouran, you'll come with us, but watch the doors and keep out of harm's way. If Nywell's friends arrive, I don't want to be taken by surprise myself."

"Fine," said Rouran.

They slipped across the street. To Rouran's quiet amazement, Siara snuffed out each of the lamps as they went. Since coming to Tia Vashil, Rouran had seen more magic in a month than she'd encountered in all the rest of her life put together, but it still had not lost its wonder. Yvain seemed unenthused by it, merely accepting it for what it was, a bit of cover as they pushed their way through the street to the small hovel at its end where their quarry waited.

Yvain pressed himself up against the door frame, then turned the knob on the front door. He felt it stop.

"Can you open this?" he asked Siara, his voice barely louder than a whisper.

"Well, in that I can knock it open, but I suspect you'll want something quieter," hissed the Sorcerer.

"Damn. Well, bear with me, this'll take a moment. Keep an eye out."

"For Nywell's co-conspirators?" asked Rouran.

"Or the Guard, not that I expect them to show up, but it could be bad if they catch me at this," said Yvain. He reached under his lamellar cuirass and fished out a small leather roll, which revealed itself to be a lockpicking set.

"You can take the boy out of the street..." murmured Siara.

Yvain only waved her into silence, then turned his attention to the lock in front of him.

Rouran's heart felt like it was beating louder than a war drum as she waited for the Sergeant to unlock the door. Each click, each scrape of his picks over the mechanism that seemed just a hair too loud set her pulse to fluttering, and she glanced nervously up and down the street.

"Shouldn't we have summoned more Guards?" she asked.

"If we wanted Nywell to know we were coming. This is Ur's Quarter. The walls talk with too many people. Besides, we've got a Sorcerer with us," said Yvain.

"And they have dragon jade."

"And that's why I have an axe," said Yvain. The lock turned, and Rouran heard the bolt slide back, sounding like a cart scraping across the cobbles to her. Yvain tried the knob, and the door slipped open a hair.

"There," said the Sergeant, gathering up his things and sliding them back under his armor. "We're through."

With a very careful push, he sent the door floating open, standing clear of the doorway, then glancing in. Rouran glanced in with him.

Nothing moved. It was, as Rouran's eyes adjusted to the darkness, a simple cottage arrangement—a single room for cooking and dining and living, the only luxury it possessed was the flight of stairs that led up to what must have been the bedrooms above.

They scanned the bottom floor, but saw nothing.

"He must be upstair—" began Yvain, placing a foot on the first step, the creaking echoing through the house.

There was a roar, and a beast of a man erupted out of a dark corner behind the stairs that had evaded their notice. He grabbed Yvain around the shoulders and flung him against the wall, the Guard grunting as his head rocketed back and his helmet put a small dent in the plaster. Yvain slumped to the ground.

Siara's hands flew up, fire erupting from her fingertips, but the flames did little except illuminate the man's face, a mess of unkempt red beard hair, a broken nose, and a head that had been haphazardly shaved to the skin in places, so that it looked a bit like he had the mange.

"He's got a jade knife!" shouted Rouran, pointing at the weapon he had in his hand.

The man turned, surprised to see Rouran at all, apparently, but steady enough in his resolve that he simply reached out a hand and struck her with the back of his hand, hard enough that Rouran wasn't able to anticipate it, the force sending her tumbling to her feet, her ears ringing.

"Yvain," she gasped, staring at the Guard. His eyes were blinking, his gaze unfocused. He tried to rise, stumbling, and then turned and lost his last meal on the floor.

There was a shout and a metallic clang, and the cook pot went tumbling across the floor, apparently thrown by Siara in an attempt to disarm the giant of a man. He bellowed indignantly, advancing around the table. Siara backed into a chair by accident, the folds of her gauzy dress catching on the back. He seized her by the neck, lifting her off her feet and slamming her down onto the table top. She kicked and tried to scream, the man's great paw preventing her from getting a breath out even as her legs lashed out, striking him hard in the stomach. He lifted her up by her neck again, then slammed her back down into the table, repeating the motion twice more in quick succession until Siara was stunned enough not to move.

"You were warned, Sorcerer," he said, raising his knife. "You were warned what would happen. I didn't get to strike the first blow for freedom, but I will get the second."

He tried to drive the knife forward, but his hand became stuck.

Rouran wrapped herself around his forearm, trying to pry his fingers loose of the hilt of the jade dagger. If she'd been able to think at all, she would have seen the exquisite gold work of it, and known that they'd been right about Nywell, but as it was, it was all she could do to get the man's index finger lifting off.

He seemed surprised in turn, trying to shake her loose while maintaining his grip on Siara's neck, who was in turn trying to pry his fingers from around her throat.

Rouran quickly realized she was fighting a losing battle, attempting to match the man strength for strength.

She acted mostly on instinct, rather than any semblance of fighting training, the only thing she could think to do in a fight she was losing, where losing meant a great deal more than just surrendering her pride.

She bit down into his hand.

The man screamed and the iron taste of blood filled Rouran's mouth. His grip popped open and she ripped the knife from his hand. He let go of Siara, push Rouran's head away, succeeding in tearing the wound open wider until Rouran's teeth hurt and she released him, dropping to the floor at his feet.

He bellowed, reaching for her, and again, Rouran acted without thinking, lashing out at the closest thing to her with the only thing she had at hand—his knife.

To her surprise, the knife passed through boot and bone alike as though it were butter, pushing through the man's foot. It was only when it struck the wood of the floor that the blade made some concessions to the rigidity of the material it was attempting to pass through, and Rouran could never really be sure if it had actually been stopped by the planks, or if it had been held up by the hilt catching on the leather of the man's boot, and the blade itself would have simply continued cutting until it had slipped from Rouran's grasp.

The brute screamed, reaching for Rouran, and she rolled out of the way. Siara had already tumbled off the other side of the table, gasping for breath on the floor. Rouran scrabbled across the floor to Yvain, pulling at the axe on his belt, trying to get it through the loop even as the Sergeant sat slumped against the wall.

Behind her, the fiery haired man gave a pained bellow, and when she looked back, she watched him pull his boot from the floor, the knife lifting along with his foot. With a slow, sickening suck, he ripped the blade from his own foot.

Rouran hurried with Yvain's axe.

"Alive..." muttered Yvain. He grabbed at Rouran's arm, his eyes wide. "Alive."

"We'll see!" she shouted back at him. Then she pushed him over, making room for the axe to slip out of his belt loop.

She spun onto her feet, the axe at the ready in her hand. She realized it was designed and weighted for a man, probably Yvain specifically. The giant advanced on her.

The small voice in the back of Rouran's mind screamed at her, clawing frantically along her spine, trying to force her into flight. She wasn't trained to fight people. The only axe she'd ever used was for cutting firewood, not chopping down men. She certainly wasn't better equipped to fight this man than Yvain, or Siara, even wounded as he was.