Wayward Wings, page 9
“When happen this?” Caizhiu asked a woman carrying a heavy bag of foul-smelling linen from the quay to the road. The woman dumped the linen onto a little cart with a patient-looking dog.
“Two days before.” She spoke Trader with a Houtgem accent so thick Caizhiu guessed she originated from the Ede peninsula. “Praise to the Six that nobody be hurt. So much rain. Terrible. Require you river crossing? These skippers, they charge too much… too much… It no be fair on merchants. They be raking in coin, but they no pay me more.”
The woman shook her head and walked back to the quay to get more soiled clothing and bedding. She was busy with her washing service, but it was little wonder that the city was full of aimless people. Barges and other river ships had arrived from Sempeth and Edemont and were either unable to dock or were trapped in the harbour. Merchants continued to arrive by road, expecting to cross or offload their wares onto the ships. Locals stood around and clicked their tongues at the sight of the damage.
{Are you enjoying this?} Heort sang her some disapproval.
{Wexede Crossing has become a perfect trap. My pr… my target’s options of escape have halved.}
{Unless he’s on the other side of the river.} He nodded at the row of bridge stumps.
{There is no harbour at Tolldrift. That’s why they built the bridge. From Thirdburg, Ozcahar Nitt will have to come through Wexede Crossing.}
No doubt the Trade Council had their collective hands full with the travellers that gushed into the city, but it would still be polite to advise the Magistrate she was here. She’d made that misstep with Gostawa and didn’t want to repeat it. Human they may be, but Magistrates were also the representatives of the Six.
In Bladrid, the Law and Trade Guild building was a grand purpose-built affair. Here, the Trade Guild had repurposed one existing building, then another. It now occupied four houses, gutted to form a single dwelling. As they approached it the crowd swelled. Several times she lost sight of Heort. Eventually Caizhiu grabbed his harness and lifted him up as if he were a carpet bag. Once they were in the lew of a backstreet, she set him down.
{I do not appreciate this!} He straightened his jacket and flicked his tail.
Caizhiu tried not to smile at his annoyance. {I’ll make it up to you in a minute. Time for you to be my boss.}
{Don’t suppose there is a way to dismiss you, is there?}
At the far end of the alley, Caizhiu pressed her shoulder against a locked door and forced it open. She preceded Heort into a wide office with a low ceiling and three rows of clerks that turned as one to look at the intruders. Surprise, confusion, and anxiety filled the room and fixed the clerks to their seats. One of them cursed when a drop of ink landed on the paperwork they were transcribing, and the clerk closest to them, a weary woman with tightly wound brown hair, stood up.
“Apologies for this disturbance.” Heort walked from behind Caizhiu.
The woman glanced at her colleagues then genuflected to him. “May we help you?”
“My boss seeks an audience with the Lord Magistrate,” Caizhiu said.
“The reception is that way, sirs.” The woman pointed at the double doors across the room, but then decided to escort them. There was a slight waver to her voice when she said: “I will ring Attendant Tannermere to alert her to your presence.”
She eyed Caizhiu warily to see if that was acceptable.
Caizhiu bowed her head in gratitude. “That would be helpful.”
To her dismay, she found that the inside of the building was as busy as the street outside was. Ushers tried to corral the mass into order, but agitated merchants moved backwards and forwards, trying to tussle past each other to a Guild representative. In the far corner, a little brass bell chimed on its metal coil, but Caizhiu thought it unlikely it would help.
“Shut up!” The voice was so high-pitched it cut through the noise yet powerful enough to arrest people. Sensing her authority, the throng obeyed and as one turned to look at a woman in a purple dress, the bright-coloured garment compensating for her short stature. It narrowed severely at her middle and widened at the hips. She cocked her head and flashed the crowd a smile that was just a little too wide. Her pile of golden hair jiggled with the movement.
“Obliged.” With a simple hand gesture, she quieted any objection and continued in her penetrating sing-song voice. “Now, you people will sit on the floor if you cannot find a seat and you will await your turn without causing further hassle to my staff. Or you may leave.”
Heort wormed past Caizhiu, catching the eye of the woman in purple. She strode towards them through the parting crowd, a cloud of dead roses accompanying her.
“Welcome, Esteemed Guest.” She curtsied to Heort, gracefully bending at the knees, and raised her eyebrows at Caizhiu.
“I—” Caizhiu caught herself and, with a sideways nod at Heort, said: “My boss is here to see Lord Magistrate Veentar.”
The woman waved for them to follow her. In her wake they bypassed the crowd. Caizhiu expelled the flower aroma from her nostrils before it made her sneeze, noticing Heort shake his head too. The maze-like corridor took random turns, led up and down steps, as it followed the structure and unmatched floor levels of the different buildings.
They followed the Attendant until they reached what had once been the grandest building in the street. The walls were decorated with portraits of former Magistrates and Burgomasters, all the same size.
“A moment, please,” the woman said to Heort. “Who may I say is here to see him?”
Her eyes flitted to Caizhiu, who answered with a straight face: “The cervitaur of Bladrid.”
The frown passed over the woman’s face and she studied Caizhiu, even stepping back to get a better angle. Then she disappeared behind the office door.
{You know her.}
Caizhiu allowed her mouth to curl into a half-smile. {Myrta. Yes, she’s a good sort.}
{Yet you don’t mind toying with her. Perhaps you are not… a good sort.}
{Perhaps.}
The door opened, and the woman stepped aside to let Heort enter. The room was expansive and brightly lit. Its carpet was the same purple colour as the woman’s dress and the wall opposite was lined with broad-leaved plants in copper pots. Papers were piled up across the office floor in neat but haphazardly placed stacks. Gigantic, detailed drawings of the late bridge, or possibly a new one, covered the Magistrate’s desk. As Heort stepped forward his hooves sank in the raised shag.
The region’s Magistrate, Lord Yullorik Veentar, straightened up from the drawings and walked towards him. He was a broad man with unrestrained brown curls, and he held his arms wide in greeting. Then he closed his right hand over his left fist and bowed. Heort copied the gesture.
Caizhiu stepped forward, and the Attendant coughed. She gave Caizhiu a pointed stare and arched her eyebrows. Without an explicit invite, as a servant, she’d be expected to retreat and wait outside in the hallway. Caizhiu hadn’t considered that aspect of her ruse.
{Heort!} she urged.
He turned and only then noticed she was not right behind him. Unaccustomed to deceit, he licked his nose and stammered in worse Trader than usual: “Please join-in, Caizhiu.”
From the corner of her eye, Caizhiu saw Myrta’s mouth fall open.
“I knew there was something familiar about you,” the Attendant hissed under her breath. “You cad!”
Yullorik coughed and frowned at his Attendant. “That will do for now, Myrta.”
Her dress restricted the movement of her back, so she gave a little curtsy and retreated backwards, closing the door as she left.
{I see my Attendant has recognised you, Hunter Caizhiu.} His soul song betrayed his irascibility and his exhaustion. {Though you have a new appearance and I freely admit I struggle to see the resemblance to the woman we knew.}
Heort sighed. {She is the same.}
He bowed at Yullorik, even placing one front hoof behind the other. {My name is Heort and we’re grateful you can see us at this no doubt busy and fraught time.}
{And you bring business from Bladrid?} Even when they didn’t use them to speak, humans found it difficult not to let their thoughts reflect on their faces. Caizhiu saw the Magistrate’s lips form a taut line. Rather than dealing with Fabled, he wanted to concentrate on the bridge, the responsibility of the Trade Council. She remembered this about him.
Caizhiu raised her eyebrows, but the Magistrate barely noticed. She didn’t bother with sympathy. {I am here to inform you that we are hunting a man called Ozcahar Nitt.}
The Magistrate squeezed his eyes shut and ran his finger and thumb over his forehead, then shook his head. {The name is not familiar. I’ll have Myrta check our records.}
Yullorik looked at Caizhiu and his forehead creased. He stroked his cheek with his thumbnail as if he wanted to say something but wasn’t sure how to. {This man… Does he bring trouble?}
Yullorik’s head was full of images. Seven years ago, she’d grappled with an incubus called Naayanax at Wexede Crossing and the hunt had caused damage. She remembered it as trivial. However, the owners of the wrecked boats and demolished buildings had disagreed. The Magistrate’s memories agreed with them. Part of him even wondered if the destruction of the bridge was somehow connected to her reappearance.
{We’ll certainly try to keep out of your way, Lord Magistrate,} Caizhiu assured him, barely able to keep indignation from her song.
13
The Surprise in Narastien’s Garden
Ozcahar’s back ached, his legs ached, and his arms ached, but finally they had reached the warehouse. Since the Wexede Wanderer couldn’t enter the harbour, Tijs had resorted to hiring a cart. The crew pushed the cargo up the riverbank, the slow trek towards the city involving pulling and pushing the cart along the road. It had taken all day. Only in the last hour had the road become firm enough for their feet not to slip on the mud and grass. Ozcahar let out a sigh of relief as he sighted the warehouse. It was the sweetest thing he had seen in a long time. With renewed energy, he helped to unload the goods off the cart and stacked them as directed.
“Well done.” Tijs looked at each of his crew with a broad grin. He walked over to Ozcahar, who respectfully got up from the crate he’d slumped on. The skipper counted out the agreed upon payment into Ozcahar’s palm and asked: “You sure you no travel longer with us?”
He spread his arms at the cargo and the warehouse beyond. “The river be difficult, and I require good-crew. You be good-crew.”
His own desire to agree surprised Ozcahar. Would he be able to stay hidden on this little barge, keep his head down and live a wholesome life? No, it was too close to Sempeth, too close to Thirdburg, too close to what he had done.
“I must travel further. Grateful for work.”
Tijs slapped his shoulder. “Good-trek to you, friend.”
Loneliness flooded Ozcahar as he walked towards the doors, and he almost changed his mind. Then the bustle of people that moved up and down the street swallowed him. The sun was setting and bathed the scene in an orange glow. Ozcahar looked in both directions to get his bearings. He ran his fingers over the Trader symbol for Harbour that was carved into the wall and decided he’d follow the flow of people in that direction. Wexede Crossing might only be the size of one district of Thirdburg, but on the street it made little difference to his experience. He missed the ladders and high-level walkways, but the sensation of people engrossed in their business was the same.
He jolted when he felt a tap on his shoulder. Grasping his haversack, he turned around to see Narastien.
“Still a frightened fish, Baby Face. Many-people frighten you?”
He shook his head. If anything, he felt more at home than he had since he’d set foot on Uayathan soil.
“Know you where-to you go?” There was a lightness to Narastien’s step, as if she hadn’t been grafting her guts out. As if she wasn’t carrying her heavy bag over her shoulder. As if she wasn’t twice his age.
Ozcahar looked around and shrugged. “Require place-to-sleep.”
She bit the side of her bottom lip. “City be busy with no bridge. Little space for place-to-sleep. You no be good-crew, no more. I no be boss. I have home-house. You require place-to-sleep.”
The little Trader Talk he knew went for a short wander, and he mumbled incoherently. He hoped his surprise didn’t show. How embarrassing it would be if he misconstrued her meaning. Such a mistake might be considered an insult, or even a crime. He didn’t know. He felt the weight of time passing as he searched for the right words, any words.
“I… I… ehm… no stay in Wexede Crossing. I travel further.”
“You no travel further this dark. You seek place-to-sleep.” She winked at him and indicated that he should go with her. “You wish bed-company?”
He had not misunderstood her, and an errant smile spread across his face. He straightened the haversack over his shoulder, and with a cautious look around, he followed her through the melee to a curious-looking building. It was situated on a broad three-way intersection with the front facing the middle of the junction. Three broad stone steps led up to a set of rounded double doors, on either side of which the walls of the building receded into the buildings next to it. Where it stuck out above the surrounding buildings, it formed a full hexagon.
Narastien walked up the steps to the front door and set down her bag.
“What be this place?” He took a step back and almost knocked into a velocipedist, who cursed, swerved, then continued up the street. Mumbling an apology, he looked up at the building. It wasn’t high enough to describe as a tower, but it had a second floor. The surrounding houses only had one.
“This be home-house.”
Ozcahar whistled to himself as she unlocked the doors. She went ahead of him into a shallow anteroom and disappeared through a set of heavy curtains. He felt a brief sting of hesitation before he followed her, wondering who or what might await him. Floral perfumes permeated the house. He rubbed his nose and glanced around the trapezoid lounge. Two tall windows looked out on the streets leading to the junction, their angular tops mimicking the building’s shape.
Narastien shouted something he didn’t understand, and after a moment of listening for a reply that didn’t come, she shrugged. She pulled shut the wine-red curtains with their gold embroidery and turned on bhodine lamps on the back wall. Between the two lamps hung a large painting that reached to the ceiling. It depicted some sort of winged monster, a theme that was followed in a collection of statuettes on the low cabinet that stretched the length of the back wall. Ozcahar ran his finger over the polished surface and stroked a few of the precious objects. They were made of silver and gold; a few had jewels for eyes. He wondered if he could slip his nail underneath the tiny ruby on a gilded horseman.
Narastien picked up a small piece of paper that was placed between two figurines. He couldn’t read the writing, but the message brought a satisfied grin to her face. She stood so close to him they nearly touched. He noticed that, unlike her, he hadn’t left his muddy boots in the anteroom, and he felt the weight of the filth that covered him. He clamped his arms to his sides. “Apologies.”
His companion seemed to guess his thoughts and chuckled. “I be equal mess.” She stood on her tiptoes, put a hand on his arm and her lips to his ear. “Require wash, you and I.”
She took his hand and led him through a little hall into a courtyard at the back. It was unexpectedly large, with two lights that illumined stone steps leading to flower beds. Their colourful cascade had not yet reached its full glory. The third light lit steps up to a waterless fountain. He watched Narastien climb up to the fountain and empty a layer of rainwater and the odd petal from it. Sitting on her haunches, she looked at him over her shoulder and smiled. She removed her doublet and beckoned him to come closer. While she pulled her tunic over her head, he adjusted his trousers and obeyed. Her short blonde hair stuck out at funny angles. She looked small against the budding blooms and the stone basin. The lights played over her pale shoulders and breasts, and the rest of the courtyard dimmed into shadow.
“You also, Baby Face,” she said, unclasping the belt from her trousers. He hoped it was too dark for her to notice his blushing. Silently he cursed his embarrassment. As if that stupid nickname wasn’t bad enough.
He cleared his throat and walked to her, leaving his coat and, after a struggle, his tunic on the steps. When he’d taken off his boots, he hesitated and looked up. He tried to imagine where he was in relation to the streets beyond, but the oddly angled building and the shadows made this difficult. Narastien stood stark naked by the empty basin of the fountain. If a husband was going to jump out of the shadows, she wouldn’t likely have stripped. He took off his trousers, but remembering the note, he arranged his clothes so that they were easily grabbable should he have to make a hurried departure. She beckoned him to come closer, directing him to get into the basin. He covered his penis, less timid than he, with his hands. Careful not to slip and fall on his ass, he stepped into the basin. It was so deep that, sat on the side, Narastien’s eye level was only slightly higher than his.
“Sit, sit,” she said.
“W-why?”
“Be surprise, Baby Face.”
Ozcahar wanted to point out that as he no longer worked on Wexede Wanderer, she had no business using his nickname. But it was probably better if she remembered him like that.
“I no like surprises,” he grumbled, glancing at his pile of clothes.
She trapped the tip of her tongue in her grin. “You like this one.”
As soon as he sat, Narastien pulled on a rope. He heard a clink, the rush of water. He held his breath to brace himself against iciness that was about to crash down on him. Instead, he was drenched in wonderfully warm water that filled the basin.
