Pacze Moj, page 6
“Oh, closed, sir. They’re very much closed.”
The gates were the obvious exit points. But there were bound to be other, smaller, unknown passages out into the wilderness. Smugglers’ tunnels, unrepaired breaches, even some rodent holes were big enough for a woman to squeeze through. Then there was the possibility of going over the walls. Or under. Gremius studied the grid of streets and roads, avenues and alleys, churches and neighbourhoods. There was no way to guard against all the possibilities. The city could not be locked down.
He pushed himself up from the table and limped over to try another point of view.
He might estimate how far she’d gone but he didn’t know in what direction. Nevertheless—he grabbed a charcoal bit—she must be going as quickly as she can in some direction. It wouldn’t make sense to dally. He wouldn’t dally, put in the circumstance. He drew a rough circle round the middle of the city. “Call off the patrols from here,” he said, pointing to it, “And shift that manpower to the perimeter.”
No net was impenetrable, but he would do all he could to tighten the holes. If she wanted out of the city, she would have to attempt a breakthrough.
Chapter XIV
“Do you know this area?”
The moonlight seemed to magnify the question.
“I won’t tell you a thing,” the priest huffed. He was out of shape and out of breath, but still acidic; and still dutifully moving his feet.
Esmerelda dug in a heel, stopped and turned to face her would-be executioner. She smiled a snake’s smile. “Then you’re no longer useful to me.”
She extended her arms just enough to remind the priest about his bare, exposed throat.
He swallowed hard.
“I may have been here once or twice,” he corrected himself.
“Would the people recognize you?”
The priest puffed out his chest. She had inadvertently hit upon a point of pride. “Of course. I’m one of the seven Prime Vicars of the Imperial City. Handpicked by the High Council. Any loyal, King-fearing commoner in the city would…”
“Good,” Esmerelda said, “I want you to knock on a door.”
The priest merely opened his mouth for a second, then closed it. He made a clucking sound.
“You’ll have us invited in and get us fed. You’ll get me a skin of water and a pair of boots. A cloak if you can manage it. If anyone asks why you’re coming so late at night, tell them the truth—to a point: the burning,” she said the word with distaste, “was a failure, there was too much smoke, you couldn’t breathe. I’m one of your parishioners and found you choking in the dark. I saved your life. You don’t think you can make it to your vicarage without rest. You’re afraid.”
She cherished that last word, whipping the priest into submission with it. He started to protest, but all that came out was air.
“And if you so much as hint at who I am, I will kill all of you.”
“Which door?” was all he asked.
She pointed down the street. “Whichever answers. Start with the nearest. Be discrete.”
He tried to tug his hand loose from hers but her grip was firm. She’d learned that from the oafs. The priest had never been held by fingers fat as those. She could have let him go; if he ran, she would be faster. But with doors one never knew. Slipping in was easy.
He led the way now, from backdoor to backdoor. Knock, knock: no answer. She studied his back. It was thin, there was barely any muscle underneath his robe. He was one of those lean but flabby humans, soft. Born in the city to a rich family, he’d proceeded through life well enough for his parents’ connections to secure promotion after promotion. He had done no manual labour. Knock, knock: no answer. But his back was also hooked, adorned with a slight hump that pressed, visible, against the cloth as he walked. The result of hours spent bent over books. In libraries, in a personal study. He wasn’t lazy, he’d been an eager pupil. His arrogance was earned. Knock, knock.
A door opened—but only a crack. A solitary eye peered out. “Speak. Who goes there?”
The priest moved his eye close to the other. “Blessed be the King, let him live forever and eternity.”
The solitary eye blinked: “Prime Vicar Ustinov?”
“It is I, my child.”
The door opened a crack more, revealing a woman’s face. She was in her fifties or early sixties, dressed in a nightgown. The aftertaste of sleep was on her lips.
“May we come in?” Ustinov asked.
The woman’s expanding smile froze at the sound of we. She peered over Ustinov’s shoulder at Esmerelda, standing colourless in the shadows of the street. The door wavered.
“A faithful parishioner,” Ustinov assured, “You have perhaps already heard about tonight’s misfortune?”
The woman nodded.
“I took part. When the celebration went asunder, this blessed soul saved me from the smoke. I owe her my life. We have been travelling together from the square ever since, but have lost our way in the night. Please, may we come in to rest? The streets are unsafe until dawn.”
Esmerelda felt the pulse in the priest’s wrist slow and his tendons slacken. He was a good, experienced liar. Lying was relaxing; truth was stressful. He felt relief whenever he hooked someone with a falsity. He was relieved now. He knew the woman would let them in before she even parted her lips to say, “Of course, Prime Vicar Ustinov. It would be an honour.”
Inside, the home was meager but well-kempt and clean. Possessions were few, but each had its place. She led them to the kitchen and motioned for them to sit at a small round table. There were four chairs, but only one shined from everyday use; the woman lived alone. They obliged their hostess—Esmerelda keeping hold of the priest’s wrist underneath the beige tablecloth—as the woman shuffled about the room, peering into cupboards and opening drawers until she’d taken out three plates, a loaf of bread, a fowl-smelling cheese and three porcelain cups. Into the latter, she poured water from a glass jug. Esmerelda squeezed the priest’s hand. “If it is not too much trouble,” he said, “Perhaps you could also spare some, a skin’s worth, no more, for the morning’s journey?”
The woman nodded and disappeared into another room.
Esmerelda let go of the priest’s hand. She broke off a crumble of bread and brought it hungrily to her mouth. She was famished. The priest watched with disgust. The bread was stale but edible. She had eaten far worse. Before she finished chewing, she said, “Remember, if you try anything, she dies.”
The priest sighed. Not only was their hostess alone, meaning he could count on no male help in staging a possible attack against the witch, but she was also utterly, almost painfully, pleasant and—the word stuck in his throat despite his only thinking it—good. Loyalty and goodness were evident. Who else would take two strangers into her home at the devil’s hour of the night? It surprised him how much that goodness meant. Minutes ago, he felt ashamed at caring only for his own skin. He could have raised a fuss, attracted attention. He would be dead, the witch would have spared no time, but maybe he would have caused a commotion; maybe enough of one for her to be caught? Now, his heart pained at the thought of harm coming to such a good woman as their nameless hostess. He wasn’t thinking only of himself. He felt a true priest.
Then the woman returned with a water-filled skin and the priest’s noble feelings faded. “Thank you, child,” he said.
“Isn’t the Prime Vicar going to eat?”
Esmerelda was chewing just long enough to swallow moist chunks of bread. Ustinov’s plate stood free of crumbs. He wasn’t hungry. His hands were free and the witch’s attention was partially occupied, but what could he do? The woman implored him to have a bite of cheese—“Goat’s. Not from the markets. My second is a farm labourer…”
Her attempts at small talk were genuine and lovely, but Ustinov hadn’t the mood. Boots and a cloak, if possible; that was what he was obliged to talk out of this woman. Then he would devise some way of leaving, of letting her live in peace and out of danger. He felt he owed this to her, but he couldn’t pin down why: as a human or as a priest? As the woman talked, his eyes drifted from her yellowing teeth to the yellows of Esmerelda’s eyes. The witch knew exactly how to get what she wanted, she knew how his emotions worked; but no more deeply than he understood the pull of light on a wayward moth. He knew the light pulled, he could predict the moth’s behavior. That was all.
A moth hit against an open flame and singed.
It was shallow knowledge.
“Your husband,” Ustinov interrupted.
“Dead,” the woman said, “Six years now, King rest his soul. He was a kind man, a hard worker. Loyal to the Church.” She took a long drink out of her own porcelain cup. After swallowing, she added, “Still hurts sometimes, the loneliness.”
Esmerelda stopped chewing and put down her bread. She hadn’t eaten any cheese. The smell was more than enough. But her cup was empty, so she poured herself another from the glass jug without asking. The water gurgled in the brief silence. It was uncomfortable to be in such intimate quarters with a human.
The woman turned her attention to Esmerelda: “What about you, dear? You are a quiet one. Hungry, but with such tired eyes. My Bertolt was like that for days before he left this world. With you it must have been the smoke—you did mention smoke. Isn’t it awful about that witch? Now everybody has to worry and be wary of strangers. As if this city needs more distrust. My Bertolt always said that there was no shame in being open, even if you got taken advantage of. I abide by that. I don’t have much to live for these days. My children, but they’re grown. My second has a wife looks just like you, dear. Except she talks more.”
Ustinov wondered how long it had been since this poor woman had had a visitor—any visitor. Esmerelda said, “Boots.”
“—she means for the vicarage,” Ustinov cut in sheepishly, “Active in the social causes, you see, but cuts straight to the point. I admit I wouldn’t have asked myself, but now, since the subject has been breached, it is true that we are conducting a collection of sorts. Old clothes, boots, cloaks, shirts. For the homeless and needy. It’s almost shameful for me to ask, but if you have some articles of your late husband’s to spare, we could put them to use. The King would be grateful. He believes highly in charity. And they would make a body warm.”
The woman shrugged her shoulders. “Not much left at all, I’m afraid. Bertolt never had much cloth. But what the moths haven’t eaten you can take if you like.”
“If you would take a look, the vicarage would be forever in your debt.”
“Boots,” Esmerelda repeated.
“Yes, we are especially in need of solid leather boots,” Ustinov clarified, “Wet feet are the ruin of far too many.”
Esmerelda’s own bare feet were warming in the coziness of the home. She took one from the top of the other and planted both on the wooden floor. It bothered her how safe she felt here—how removed from the danger lurking outside, just beyond the walls, a step through a single door. There was no doubt that the streets were crawling with soldiers by now. The police were probably involved, too. Maybe vigilante mobs. She was in the thick of it. Hidden, but the longest she could stay hidden was till morning, and then the sun would come up and escape would be near impossible. She shuddered at the thought of emerging from this little home onto a sunlight street.
The clang of dishes interrupted her thoughts. The woman collected them, placed them in a basin and disappeared, this time up a flight of creaky stairs. Ustinov sighed. Esmerelda picked up the water skin and placed it inside her coat. If the woman returned with a pair of boots it would be time to leave, she decided. False security was treacherous. Where to: that could be decided later. She leaned over and told Ustinov to devise an excuse. He couldn’t hide his relief; he truly wanted this ordinary, useless human to live. They both could hear the woman digging through chests and boxes upstairs. What difference would her death make, why should a high priest worry about what was part of the natural cycle of life: another dead old woman—
“The closest church?” Esmerelda demanded.
Chapter XV
“If I was a witch, a bloody ugly one, where would I be, what would I be thinking, would I be sneaking and hiding or hoofing it?” Cudgel Thecker thought as, grinning a “jolly good, mate”, he slipped between a cluster of yawning soldiers dutifully guarding the intersection of Peppercorn and Oakfield by leaning on their spears and discussing the finer points of afterhours swordplay.
“Ain’t clear that way yet, brother. You go, it’s on your own copper,” a bearded soldier called out after he’d passed. When Cudgel paid no mind, the soldier shrugged his shoulders and forgot about it.
The wind howled. The street stood empty. Cudgel pulled his hat tighter over his ears. There was no poem to help him this time. It was just the night, the city, the witch and his oldest and most faithful friend: intuition, which is to say: luck. He forced the swirling If I was a witch questions from his consciousness and concentrated on the darkness ahead. Not-thinking had served him well thus far in his life. Just let it try and fail him now!
But it was failing him.
He’d been wandering for hours. He’d managed to avoid Gremius, all well and good; but his closest call at spotting a witch had been an excited shout at what turned out to be a foraging raccoon. The city was crawling with them these days. They came out at night and pawed through the garbage.
A rock lay on the street and Cudgel kicked at it.
It hit against a cobble stone, flew up, hit a window that didn’t shatter, ricocheted into a side street and, judging by the awful screech that assaulted Cudgel’s ears, smashed against an alley cat. Cats, too: the city had more of those than it did raccoons. Dirty, ungrateful feline beasts that still somehow carried themselves with an unshakable pride. Cudgel liked that. Cudgel liked cats.
He followed the receding sound into the side street. With no better leads—why not this way?
The street curved. The victimized cat sat on an overturned box. Its eyes flashed surprise, then sunk into the distance. The pitter-patter of its paws gave way to the cawing of a crow. Cudgel stuck to the inner side. A light shone intermittently ahead.
Passing under its flickering shadows, he slipped a fist into his pant pocket and fingered a glass vial. Instinct. Safety was five-sevenths preparation. Where other men carried knives or brass knuckles, Cudgel Thecker carried alchemical sleepers. One vial contained enough juice to put a man down from midday to midnight. Application: by forceful smash to face or stealthy drip into orifice, as required. Never leave home without one. He was almost sure it worked on witches, too.
The street widened.
He walked on. Tall buildings loomed on either side. Apartments. The area was vaguely familiar. The cat screeched—Cudgel froze and tightened his grip on the vial of alchemical sleeper—and scurried between buildings. A sign dangled, but there wasn’t enough light; the painted words were faded. It was tomato-shaped. The cat screeched again. Cudgel spun, he felt the unpleasant sensation of a man watched. The stars shone in circles. He lowered his gaze. In the distance: something moved—the cat? “You lousy, no good bastard…” raspy-voiced from behind. Another thing moved. Not the cat: humanoid, green. “…is that you,” the voice finished. Two figures, he saw them clearly. One green, the other in a robe. “…is you think you just run out on me like that? I ain’t that kind’a girlie, I ain’t.”
Screech.
The first blow sent him struggling for balance, the second disappeared the ground. The green and robed figures vanished, his fingertips felt glass, grass broke his fall, a streak of red hair snapped against his face. He whipped out the alchemical but, knees spread, her thighs were already pinning him to the ground. His teeth cut into his tongue as the sweet young face of M-something said, “Lover ain’t ya heard, them’s dangerous streets tonight.”
Cudgel tasted his own blood. “You idiot shrew,” he tried to say, “You didn’t wake me up in time!” But all that came out was a muffled thuthruthuthinthekmehupenthem. The blood tasted like sucking on a rusted iron broadsword.
“Cat got your tongue?” she purred, forcing two fingers past his lips.
He swung at her with his free hand, but she dodged. So he spat a fountain of saliva-and-blood at her face instead.
“Nah poor bouy,” she pulled her fingers out, “I gots it.”
She dangled half his severed tongue in front of his face. Then chucked it fifteen yards yonder. It landed with a plop. The alley cat pounced on it, grabbed it and scampered off, its new-found tongue wagging.
“Don’t gots it anymore.”
She leaned in and kissed him. He tried to push her out but his mouth felt like a swollen pillow. When she pulled away, the vial caught her attention. He tried to hide it in his fist. “And what’s this? What’s lover gots? Has lover been holding out on us?”
The loss of blood was making him woozy.
The gates were the obvious exit points. But there were bound to be other, smaller, unknown passages out into the wilderness. Smugglers’ tunnels, unrepaired breaches, even some rodent holes were big enough for a woman to squeeze through. Then there was the possibility of going over the walls. Or under. Gremius studied the grid of streets and roads, avenues and alleys, churches and neighbourhoods. There was no way to guard against all the possibilities. The city could not be locked down.
He pushed himself up from the table and limped over to try another point of view.
He might estimate how far she’d gone but he didn’t know in what direction. Nevertheless—he grabbed a charcoal bit—she must be going as quickly as she can in some direction. It wouldn’t make sense to dally. He wouldn’t dally, put in the circumstance. He drew a rough circle round the middle of the city. “Call off the patrols from here,” he said, pointing to it, “And shift that manpower to the perimeter.”
No net was impenetrable, but he would do all he could to tighten the holes. If she wanted out of the city, she would have to attempt a breakthrough.
Chapter XIV
“Do you know this area?”
The moonlight seemed to magnify the question.
“I won’t tell you a thing,” the priest huffed. He was out of shape and out of breath, but still acidic; and still dutifully moving his feet.
Esmerelda dug in a heel, stopped and turned to face her would-be executioner. She smiled a snake’s smile. “Then you’re no longer useful to me.”
She extended her arms just enough to remind the priest about his bare, exposed throat.
He swallowed hard.
“I may have been here once or twice,” he corrected himself.
“Would the people recognize you?”
The priest puffed out his chest. She had inadvertently hit upon a point of pride. “Of course. I’m one of the seven Prime Vicars of the Imperial City. Handpicked by the High Council. Any loyal, King-fearing commoner in the city would…”
“Good,” Esmerelda said, “I want you to knock on a door.”
The priest merely opened his mouth for a second, then closed it. He made a clucking sound.
“You’ll have us invited in and get us fed. You’ll get me a skin of water and a pair of boots. A cloak if you can manage it. If anyone asks why you’re coming so late at night, tell them the truth—to a point: the burning,” she said the word with distaste, “was a failure, there was too much smoke, you couldn’t breathe. I’m one of your parishioners and found you choking in the dark. I saved your life. You don’t think you can make it to your vicarage without rest. You’re afraid.”
She cherished that last word, whipping the priest into submission with it. He started to protest, but all that came out was air.
“And if you so much as hint at who I am, I will kill all of you.”
“Which door?” was all he asked.
She pointed down the street. “Whichever answers. Start with the nearest. Be discrete.”
He tried to tug his hand loose from hers but her grip was firm. She’d learned that from the oafs. The priest had never been held by fingers fat as those. She could have let him go; if he ran, she would be faster. But with doors one never knew. Slipping in was easy.
He led the way now, from backdoor to backdoor. Knock, knock: no answer. She studied his back. It was thin, there was barely any muscle underneath his robe. He was one of those lean but flabby humans, soft. Born in the city to a rich family, he’d proceeded through life well enough for his parents’ connections to secure promotion after promotion. He had done no manual labour. Knock, knock: no answer. But his back was also hooked, adorned with a slight hump that pressed, visible, against the cloth as he walked. The result of hours spent bent over books. In libraries, in a personal study. He wasn’t lazy, he’d been an eager pupil. His arrogance was earned. Knock, knock.
A door opened—but only a crack. A solitary eye peered out. “Speak. Who goes there?”
The priest moved his eye close to the other. “Blessed be the King, let him live forever and eternity.”
The solitary eye blinked: “Prime Vicar Ustinov?”
“It is I, my child.”
The door opened a crack more, revealing a woman’s face. She was in her fifties or early sixties, dressed in a nightgown. The aftertaste of sleep was on her lips.
“May we come in?” Ustinov asked.
The woman’s expanding smile froze at the sound of we. She peered over Ustinov’s shoulder at Esmerelda, standing colourless in the shadows of the street. The door wavered.
“A faithful parishioner,” Ustinov assured, “You have perhaps already heard about tonight’s misfortune?”
The woman nodded.
“I took part. When the celebration went asunder, this blessed soul saved me from the smoke. I owe her my life. We have been travelling together from the square ever since, but have lost our way in the night. Please, may we come in to rest? The streets are unsafe until dawn.”
Esmerelda felt the pulse in the priest’s wrist slow and his tendons slacken. He was a good, experienced liar. Lying was relaxing; truth was stressful. He felt relief whenever he hooked someone with a falsity. He was relieved now. He knew the woman would let them in before she even parted her lips to say, “Of course, Prime Vicar Ustinov. It would be an honour.”
Inside, the home was meager but well-kempt and clean. Possessions were few, but each had its place. She led them to the kitchen and motioned for them to sit at a small round table. There were four chairs, but only one shined from everyday use; the woman lived alone. They obliged their hostess—Esmerelda keeping hold of the priest’s wrist underneath the beige tablecloth—as the woman shuffled about the room, peering into cupboards and opening drawers until she’d taken out three plates, a loaf of bread, a fowl-smelling cheese and three porcelain cups. Into the latter, she poured water from a glass jug. Esmerelda squeezed the priest’s hand. “If it is not too much trouble,” he said, “Perhaps you could also spare some, a skin’s worth, no more, for the morning’s journey?”
The woman nodded and disappeared into another room.
Esmerelda let go of the priest’s hand. She broke off a crumble of bread and brought it hungrily to her mouth. She was famished. The priest watched with disgust. The bread was stale but edible. She had eaten far worse. Before she finished chewing, she said, “Remember, if you try anything, she dies.”
The priest sighed. Not only was their hostess alone, meaning he could count on no male help in staging a possible attack against the witch, but she was also utterly, almost painfully, pleasant and—the word stuck in his throat despite his only thinking it—good. Loyalty and goodness were evident. Who else would take two strangers into her home at the devil’s hour of the night? It surprised him how much that goodness meant. Minutes ago, he felt ashamed at caring only for his own skin. He could have raised a fuss, attracted attention. He would be dead, the witch would have spared no time, but maybe he would have caused a commotion; maybe enough of one for her to be caught? Now, his heart pained at the thought of harm coming to such a good woman as their nameless hostess. He wasn’t thinking only of himself. He felt a true priest.
Then the woman returned with a water-filled skin and the priest’s noble feelings faded. “Thank you, child,” he said.
“Isn’t the Prime Vicar going to eat?”
Esmerelda was chewing just long enough to swallow moist chunks of bread. Ustinov’s plate stood free of crumbs. He wasn’t hungry. His hands were free and the witch’s attention was partially occupied, but what could he do? The woman implored him to have a bite of cheese—“Goat’s. Not from the markets. My second is a farm labourer…”
Her attempts at small talk were genuine and lovely, but Ustinov hadn’t the mood. Boots and a cloak, if possible; that was what he was obliged to talk out of this woman. Then he would devise some way of leaving, of letting her live in peace and out of danger. He felt he owed this to her, but he couldn’t pin down why: as a human or as a priest? As the woman talked, his eyes drifted from her yellowing teeth to the yellows of Esmerelda’s eyes. The witch knew exactly how to get what she wanted, she knew how his emotions worked; but no more deeply than he understood the pull of light on a wayward moth. He knew the light pulled, he could predict the moth’s behavior. That was all.
A moth hit against an open flame and singed.
It was shallow knowledge.
“Your husband,” Ustinov interrupted.
“Dead,” the woman said, “Six years now, King rest his soul. He was a kind man, a hard worker. Loyal to the Church.” She took a long drink out of her own porcelain cup. After swallowing, she added, “Still hurts sometimes, the loneliness.”
Esmerelda stopped chewing and put down her bread. She hadn’t eaten any cheese. The smell was more than enough. But her cup was empty, so she poured herself another from the glass jug without asking. The water gurgled in the brief silence. It was uncomfortable to be in such intimate quarters with a human.
The woman turned her attention to Esmerelda: “What about you, dear? You are a quiet one. Hungry, but with such tired eyes. My Bertolt was like that for days before he left this world. With you it must have been the smoke—you did mention smoke. Isn’t it awful about that witch? Now everybody has to worry and be wary of strangers. As if this city needs more distrust. My Bertolt always said that there was no shame in being open, even if you got taken advantage of. I abide by that. I don’t have much to live for these days. My children, but they’re grown. My second has a wife looks just like you, dear. Except she talks more.”
Ustinov wondered how long it had been since this poor woman had had a visitor—any visitor. Esmerelda said, “Boots.”
“—she means for the vicarage,” Ustinov cut in sheepishly, “Active in the social causes, you see, but cuts straight to the point. I admit I wouldn’t have asked myself, but now, since the subject has been breached, it is true that we are conducting a collection of sorts. Old clothes, boots, cloaks, shirts. For the homeless and needy. It’s almost shameful for me to ask, but if you have some articles of your late husband’s to spare, we could put them to use. The King would be grateful. He believes highly in charity. And they would make a body warm.”
The woman shrugged her shoulders. “Not much left at all, I’m afraid. Bertolt never had much cloth. But what the moths haven’t eaten you can take if you like.”
“If you would take a look, the vicarage would be forever in your debt.”
“Boots,” Esmerelda repeated.
“Yes, we are especially in need of solid leather boots,” Ustinov clarified, “Wet feet are the ruin of far too many.”
Esmerelda’s own bare feet were warming in the coziness of the home. She took one from the top of the other and planted both on the wooden floor. It bothered her how safe she felt here—how removed from the danger lurking outside, just beyond the walls, a step through a single door. There was no doubt that the streets were crawling with soldiers by now. The police were probably involved, too. Maybe vigilante mobs. She was in the thick of it. Hidden, but the longest she could stay hidden was till morning, and then the sun would come up and escape would be near impossible. She shuddered at the thought of emerging from this little home onto a sunlight street.
The clang of dishes interrupted her thoughts. The woman collected them, placed them in a basin and disappeared, this time up a flight of creaky stairs. Ustinov sighed. Esmerelda picked up the water skin and placed it inside her coat. If the woman returned with a pair of boots it would be time to leave, she decided. False security was treacherous. Where to: that could be decided later. She leaned over and told Ustinov to devise an excuse. He couldn’t hide his relief; he truly wanted this ordinary, useless human to live. They both could hear the woman digging through chests and boxes upstairs. What difference would her death make, why should a high priest worry about what was part of the natural cycle of life: another dead old woman—
“The closest church?” Esmerelda demanded.
Chapter XV
“If I was a witch, a bloody ugly one, where would I be, what would I be thinking, would I be sneaking and hiding or hoofing it?” Cudgel Thecker thought as, grinning a “jolly good, mate”, he slipped between a cluster of yawning soldiers dutifully guarding the intersection of Peppercorn and Oakfield by leaning on their spears and discussing the finer points of afterhours swordplay.
“Ain’t clear that way yet, brother. You go, it’s on your own copper,” a bearded soldier called out after he’d passed. When Cudgel paid no mind, the soldier shrugged his shoulders and forgot about it.
The wind howled. The street stood empty. Cudgel pulled his hat tighter over his ears. There was no poem to help him this time. It was just the night, the city, the witch and his oldest and most faithful friend: intuition, which is to say: luck. He forced the swirling If I was a witch questions from his consciousness and concentrated on the darkness ahead. Not-thinking had served him well thus far in his life. Just let it try and fail him now!
But it was failing him.
He’d been wandering for hours. He’d managed to avoid Gremius, all well and good; but his closest call at spotting a witch had been an excited shout at what turned out to be a foraging raccoon. The city was crawling with them these days. They came out at night and pawed through the garbage.
A rock lay on the street and Cudgel kicked at it.
It hit against a cobble stone, flew up, hit a window that didn’t shatter, ricocheted into a side street and, judging by the awful screech that assaulted Cudgel’s ears, smashed against an alley cat. Cats, too: the city had more of those than it did raccoons. Dirty, ungrateful feline beasts that still somehow carried themselves with an unshakable pride. Cudgel liked that. Cudgel liked cats.
He followed the receding sound into the side street. With no better leads—why not this way?
The street curved. The victimized cat sat on an overturned box. Its eyes flashed surprise, then sunk into the distance. The pitter-patter of its paws gave way to the cawing of a crow. Cudgel stuck to the inner side. A light shone intermittently ahead.
Passing under its flickering shadows, he slipped a fist into his pant pocket and fingered a glass vial. Instinct. Safety was five-sevenths preparation. Where other men carried knives or brass knuckles, Cudgel Thecker carried alchemical sleepers. One vial contained enough juice to put a man down from midday to midnight. Application: by forceful smash to face or stealthy drip into orifice, as required. Never leave home without one. He was almost sure it worked on witches, too.
The street widened.
He walked on. Tall buildings loomed on either side. Apartments. The area was vaguely familiar. The cat screeched—Cudgel froze and tightened his grip on the vial of alchemical sleeper—and scurried between buildings. A sign dangled, but there wasn’t enough light; the painted words were faded. It was tomato-shaped. The cat screeched again. Cudgel spun, he felt the unpleasant sensation of a man watched. The stars shone in circles. He lowered his gaze. In the distance: something moved—the cat? “You lousy, no good bastard…” raspy-voiced from behind. Another thing moved. Not the cat: humanoid, green. “…is that you,” the voice finished. Two figures, he saw them clearly. One green, the other in a robe. “…is you think you just run out on me like that? I ain’t that kind’a girlie, I ain’t.”
Screech.
The first blow sent him struggling for balance, the second disappeared the ground. The green and robed figures vanished, his fingertips felt glass, grass broke his fall, a streak of red hair snapped against his face. He whipped out the alchemical but, knees spread, her thighs were already pinning him to the ground. His teeth cut into his tongue as the sweet young face of M-something said, “Lover ain’t ya heard, them’s dangerous streets tonight.”
Cudgel tasted his own blood. “You idiot shrew,” he tried to say, “You didn’t wake me up in time!” But all that came out was a muffled thuthruthuthinthekmehupenthem. The blood tasted like sucking on a rusted iron broadsword.
“Cat got your tongue?” she purred, forcing two fingers past his lips.
He swung at her with his free hand, but she dodged. So he spat a fountain of saliva-and-blood at her face instead.
“Nah poor bouy,” she pulled her fingers out, “I gots it.”
She dangled half his severed tongue in front of his face. Then chucked it fifteen yards yonder. It landed with a plop. The alley cat pounced on it, grabbed it and scampered off, its new-found tongue wagging.
“Don’t gots it anymore.”
She leaned in and kissed him. He tried to push her out but his mouth felt like a swollen pillow. When she pulled away, the vial caught her attention. He tried to hide it in his fist. “And what’s this? What’s lover gots? Has lover been holding out on us?”
The loss of blood was making him woozy.
