Warwick sat staring open-mouthed at the bard. She was surrounded by a group of children and adults, all of them listening in wonder to the tale the bard was telling. It was Heyday, which meant a day of celebration and merrymaking, but this year it was a Heyday with a difference. The bard from Escerne was taking his yearly trip around the villages, and he had made it to Elisk for the celebration, but the other difference, the most important one, was that this year, Warwick had turned nine – in fact, she had turned nine just the week before – and was now old enough to hear the bard’s tales.
“Then, just as all thought hope was lost, that the beautiful Diana would die of the poison that had been slowly consuming her, her beloved returned! After his battles against the dragons on the top of Mount Fierce, and against the zombies in the mines, Terrance the Great looked like a shabby old beggar, and as he struggled to make his way through the crowds that had gathered around the beautiful Diana’s one roomed cottage, several of the woman tried to stop him, calling on their brave husbands and sons to push him off, away. As they approached him, Terrance threw back his threadbare, dirty old cloak, and though the tunic he wore underneath was just as tattered, all who watched saw the glittering of emeralds as he pulled free his staff of healing!
“The men who had begun to approach fell back. They still did not recognise him, and now their thoughts were full of fear as they wondered who this beggar was that had managed to steal Terrance’s staff. And so, Terrance walked through the crowd with his staff held aloft, unknown by his friends and family, as prophesy had foretold. Even as he was walking, he was gathering the power he absorbed from the people around him, channelling it into his staff.”
Warwick was transfixed. The bard was an old man, with grey hair and a limp, but as he spoke, he became Terrence the Great, or the beautiful Lady Diana. The bard finished the tale, and bowed flourishingly, the applause of his audience hidden by the deep rumble of thunder. Glancing warily at the sky, Warwick waited until she was sure another story was not coming, and then rushed from the village centre, dashing heedlessly across the dirt track roads, and into the inn where her mother and father were sitting, listening to the music that three musicians were creating, watching the dancers.
“Woah Warwick, slow down!” Her father had come to meet her with a smile and now swept her up into his arms. “How’d you like the bard?”
“He was amazing! All those stories! Plugs and princesses!” Plugs were the name given to the magicians in the stories. Warwick smiled happily at her father.
“My Lord, a juice for your daughter?” The innkeeper, a squat man in a red apron, had approached nervously.
“Yes, Tom, please.” The Lord continued smiling at the wide eyed delight of his daughter. “Did he tell you of Terrance the Great?” Warwick nodded. “Did he tell that that was no mere tale, but a history, of sorts?”
“Is it really?” Warwick watched her father closely. At his nod, her eyes widened further. “Wo-o-ow!” She drew out the word.
“Aren’t you glad you’re all grown up, now?”
She nodded seriously.
The Lord carried Warwick across the inn to where her mother was sitting, avoiding the twirling dancers.
“Yelda, look who I found.” He smiled, putting Warwick down on a stool as Tom brought her a mug of juice.
“A little mouse!” Yelda exclaimed, tickling Warwick. “Oh Harne, why did you bring such a little mouse to the table!”
“I’m not little!” Warwick giggled, squirming. “I’m all grown up! Father said so! I can see the bard now!”
“Oh, really? Well then what’s a big mouse like you doing here?” Yelda smiled.
The beautiful weather that had prevailed for Heyday so far was broken as the promised storm burst forth, torrential rains spilling from the heavens to turn the dirt roads ankle- and knee-deep with mud. The journey from the village back to the manor house five miles out took almost two hours, the driver flogging the horses mercilessly. Warwick sat with her face pressed against the curtained window in the carriage, staring out into the madness of wind and rain. Her parents were silent, both full of unspoken worry and concern, but Warwick was calm, secure in her confidence.
As the carriage finally drove up the pebbled, tree lined drive to the manor house, Yelda sighed with an obvious relief. Harne wrapped an arm around her and pulled Warwick from her perch by the window.
“I did say we ought to have spent the night in the inn, dear,” Yelda said quietly. “Tom was hoping we would.”
“Yes, well.” The clacking of the horses shoes on pavement forestalled any counter-argument Harne had been thinking of. “Come now and hurry to bed.”
The footman that jumped down from his seat beside the driver to open the carriage door was soaking wet, his hair and clothes plastered against his body. With a word of thanks, Harne pressed a silver piece into the man’s hand and stepped from the carriage.
“My Lord, my Lady! I thought you would have stayed in the village tonight – it’s such a wet and horrid night! Come in, come in, and get some hot drinks inside you!” The housekeeper, wrapped in oilskins, urged them into the house.
Warwick followed her parents into the sitting room of the house, where she was supplied with a warm, dry blanket and a mug of chocolate. She sat quietly, concentrating on the warmth of the chocolate and watched the flickering flames of the fire. Her parents – likewise supplied with blankets and mugs of mulled wine – were talking quietly, but Warwick’s mind was fixed on the tales the bard had told. When she was finally convinced to hurry to bed and sleep, her dreams were filled with images of princesses and Plugs.
Marc sat outside the room where his father lay dying, his head resting on folded arms. The wall, cold and damp at his back, connected his grief-clouded mind with reality. A seemingly never-ending flow of servants filed solemnly in and out of the room. Some were carrying jugs of iced or warmed water, as clear as could be found in the city, others flannels and towels, and still others trays bearing cups and plates piled with delicacies.
“Sir, you’ll catch cold sitting on the flagstones. Come sit in the living room.” A matron-like woman watched him with concern.
“I’ll leave when I hear what the doctor can – or cannot – do for my father. Go find if I can enter yet, won’t you, Bess?” Marc lifted his head to speak. His piece said, he dropped his head again, hugging his knees tightly.
Bess, handing the empty wine flask she had been sent to refill to another maid, hurried back through the door she had come from, the door into the room Marc was not allowed to enter. When she returned, her young master failed to look up as she called his name. He had sank into a world of his own grief. Bess gently pressed a hand to his arm, whereupon he shrank back, lifting his head to show the glimmering of tears in his eyes.
“The doctor says you are to attend, Master Marc.”
“Yes, thank you Bess.” He stood up shakily, visibly hardened himself, and stepped to the door, knocking gently before entering.
The room within, his father’s room, was in a disorder the like of which Marc had never seen – his father, a master trader, a merchant who’s word was final on all matters of trade in Cade, had always been obsessively ordered. Marc stepped just inside the door, gulping back the sobs that were threatening to rise at the sight of his father’s weakened, worn out form lying under a mountain of blankets. He stood quietly, almost hoping to not be noticed by the dark haired doctor who was sitting by his father’s bed.
“Ah, Marc.” The doctor’s tone was perfunctory, almost harsh. He beckoned Marc closer, his eyes, the type of brown that would have girls across the city falling in love with him, turning sad.
“Doctor. What can you for him?” Marc averted his eyes from the doctor, looking instead at his father.
“Well, Marc, I’m afraid there’s very little. His condition is a simple one, but unfortunately the herbs and medicines which I would need to heal him are ones which are restricted to the royalty and upper classes only.”
“We can pay,” Marc said quietly, hope fading. There were a number of items like that – ones which, no matter how much one offered to pay, would never be available to anyone under royalty. Even the black markets were unable to get those items, and came up with poor quality fakes that were more likely to kill than heal.
“Marc.” The doctor smiled condescendingly. “I’m afraid it doesn’t work that way. I’m sure you understand.” He stood up, nodding at his manservant standing silently in the corner for his cloak. “Keep him comfortable. That’s about all I can tell you. I’ll send my bill sometime next week.”
As the doctor swept out, resplendent in his furred cloak, Marc perched weakly on the edge of his father’s bed, watching him toss and turn, beads of sweat breaking out on his head, his lips moving silently. The illness that was killing him was one he had picked up from the heavy, smoke-filled air of Chris, a city to far to the north. The trip which had taken him so far from Awane, the capital, had been a trading journey which the King himself had sent him on specially, in order to pick up several crates of wine which the King was partial to.
“Marc,” Marc leant closer as his father, eyes still moving deliriously beneath their closed lids, mumbled his name repeatedly.
“Dad … I’m here, Dad.”
“Don’t upset your mother so, Marc. She’s not well!” Marc froze. His father was speaking from the past; his mother had been dead two years past. Once his father died, Marc would be alone.
The illness which gripped Marc’s father held on for another three days before leaving, taking his father’s life with it. A week after his father’s death, Marc received a summons addressed to his deceased father from the king. Ignoring the warnings of Bess, who had taken him under her wing since his father’s death, Marc had his horse saddled, and dressed in his best, his father’s embroidered cloak thrown over, for though it was but a week past Heyday, the middle of summer, a chill wind and dreary, spitting rain had prevailed over sun.
The ride through the cobbled, twisting streets of Awane wasn’t long, but for Marc, every step was filled with pain and resentment. It was because of this man that his father had died, this man who had the power to call him on a whim. Grinding his teeth, Marc vowed silently that he would have his revenge. The royal palace, an ancient, crumbling structure, was on a height, looking down over the city proper. It was protected on three sides by high walls patrolled day and night by the country’s finest guards and on the fourth by a sheer cliff face dropping hundreds of feet to the bare, thankless moorland below.
Marc waited outside the massive, ornately decorated gates of the palace after presenting his summons to one of the guards. He tried to ignore the curious glances the guards were throwing at him. At last, the one who had been sent to the palace to verify his story returned, the summons flapping in one hand.
“Says here the summons is for Byran Daye, not Marc.” The guard fingered his sword hilt absentmindedly.
“My father.” Marc couldn’t keep the edge from his voice. “He’s dead.”
The guard raised one eyebrow.
“Thought I heard something about that. Sorry, lad.” He stepped aside, motioning for the other guards to allow Marc through.
Once his horse was safely stabled out of the rain, Marc hurried to the castle doors, his boots splashing through the grime filled puddles of rainwater which had gathered over the past few days. The maid who showed Marc the way through the twisting passages within the castle was a girl not much older than his sixteen years, a girl he had grown up with, the daughter of one of the more unfortunate merchants. She kept her eyes averted from him.
“Wait here until the guard calls you,” she said, stopping suddenly outside two large doors decorated in gold and silver. She hesitated, and then threw her arms around Marc, planting a gentle kiss on his cheek. “Marc, I am sorry about your father, but don’t go mad at the king … don’t.” She pulled back, bright spots of pink appearing high on her cheeks. Gathering her skirts, she turned and hurried away from him, ignoring his call.
Marc put a hand to his cheek, the spot where she had kissed slightly warmer than the blush which covered the rest of his face. He smiled – a small upturn of one side of his mouth. Her warning had already gone out of his mind as he stood stiffly outside the double doors, awaiting his beckons.
Though the summons had required Marc – or, rather, his father Byran – to attend immediately, Marc was left standing outside the drawing room for three quarters of an hour. When the guard finally stuck his head out and told him to get inside, Marc was slouched against the wall, idly dreaming of Shakra – the maid. He jumped up, grabbing his cloak and hat from the spot on the ground they had fallen to. Nerves squirmed in his stomach, but he calmed them with a visual memory of his father’s face, in agony as he lived his last moments on earth.
“Ah, Mister … Master Daye.” The king stood by the deep cut window, gazing at the rain. He turned as Marc entered the room. “And where is your father?”
“He’s dead. Sir.” The pause before the honorary was loud and clear. The king frowned.
“Dead, you say? Since when? And how?” He looked to the assorted advisors and servants standing along the walls. “And why wasn’t I informed that Awane’s chief merchant is dead?” He turned back to Marc. “Was it one of the Borrowers?” He spoke of the elite guild of assassins.
“No, my lord. He caught a lung disease in Chris. From his last trip there on your orders.” There was an accusing note to Marc’s tone. The King noticed, raising an eyebrow.
“A lung disease? And could it not be healed away, by a doctor, or one of the healing Plugs?” The King turned back to the window, watching the grey mist curl outside.
“The doctor required herbs which are not available to people of … of our class. And the Plugs would come only on your approval.”
“Hmm. Very well. So am I to assume that you are taking his place as chief merchant?” The king faced Marc with an intensity that was frightening.
“No,” Marc surprised himself by saying. “I will not be following my father’s trade.” Then what will you do, you fool? he asked himself. He knew nothing but what he had learned from his father.
“Very well. In that case, you are dismissed. I wish you luck in life, lad.” The king turned away again, a twitch of irritation pulling at his eyebrow.
Marc glared at the king, his full anger burning in the gaze. That was it. Just ‘Good luck’. No compensation, not even commiseration. Bloody bastard! Grinding his teeth, Marc managed to turn back to the door and march out to the hall without screaming accusations or worse at the king.
Trapper dropped gently from the roof to the windowsill, clinging to the drainpipe with strong, sure fingers. Glancing through the window, he saw no one. Letting go of the drainpipe with one hand, he hung precariously. With the other, he delved into a pocket and came up with a lockpick. Shoving it into the slight crack at the bottom where the window frame hadn’t been set into the wall properly, he wiggled it carefully back and forth, sending little flutters of grout floating into the air.
The window’s lock mechanism was simple – a latch which clicked into place when the key was turned, a latch which slid across the bottom frame of the window. Closing his eyes, Trapper slid the lockpick deeper, casting his senses with it until he found the latch. Then it was a simple matter of exerting just enough pressure so the lockpick wouldn’t snap, but the latch would shift. Within five seconds, he had the window open.
Shoving the sash window up with one hand, he swung himself through the space and into the room beyond, where he was immediately cuffed to the ground.
“Rubbish. Absolute rubbish. You’re dead five times over.” Trapper stared at the figure standing over him, remaining absolutely still and ignoring the stinging pain in his ear where he had been hit.
“I got here without being seen once, and I got the window open in perfect time before the guard came,” he said quietly. It wasn’t a protest – all protests had been erased from him years before – it was a simple fact.
“Get up.” The figure above pulled his hood down, the grey streaked hair shimmering in the room’s dull light. The man was heavily built, looming over Trapper as a giant to a mouse. A scar ran down the left side of his face, the eye it ran over a milky, sightless ball. “I said, get up!” He kicked at Trapper, who hurried to rise, resisting again the urge to rub the stinging spot where his master had kicked him.
“Trapper, what did you do wrong?” The master took a step back, glaring at Trapper with his single eye.
“Master Wilson, I did nothing wrong.”
Wilson closed his eyes, running a hand over his face wearily.
“You didn’t check the room fully before you climbed in. I was standing in the blind spot, and you didn’t see me until you were inside – that would mean death in the real world, Trapper.”
Trapper stayed silent, his cheeks flushed as he studied the floor. Inside his head, he was screaming at Wilson, calling him every bad name he could think of – and after a life spent on the docks and in the less savoury areas of Awane, there were a lot of them.
Wilson opened his eyes and glanced at Trapper, guilt immediately wracking him. The boy was so young, so small and fragile looking. Wilson studied him, wondering, as he had many times before, what it was about the boy that made him so different. He had something which allowed him, when he wished, to blend into the background. He was everyone, and no one. A slight, delicate looking 12-year-old, Trapper’s combination of dark brown eyes and hair were already attracting attention from numerous girls and women he had grown up with. Had he been higher born, he would have been married off already, and never mind his youth.
“Here, lad, its Heyday. You’re done training for today. Go get some cash from the jar and go have fun.” Wilson forced a smile onto his face. He had been training the boy for two years now, and in some ways he felt Trapper was the son he had never had – something he had never felt of the other boys he had trained over the years.
“Thank you, master.” Trapper struggled to keep the formal, polite manner his master had taught him, though excitement and astonishment ran through him. He never got even a half day off. And to be allowed to take money to spend on himself…! He bowed hurriedly to his master and ran out the door of the room, whooping with excitement and startling the guards at the foot of the stairs who hadn’t seen him enter.
Wilson shook his head, his smile growing more natural as he heard Trapper’s excitement. He moved to the window in time to see Trapper running out the door of the building, two of the guards hot on his tail. Trapper would give them a fine chase before giving them the slip.
“Ah, youth, eh, Wilson?” Wilson turned with a welcoming smile for the man who had entered the room.
“Remember when we were that young, Coyor? Remember how important Heydays were? Always sent out to have fun, watching the parades and fireworks, never knowing that the masters would send us out just to get rid of us for a few hours.” Wilson smiled mistily, remembering years passed.
“This is the first Heyday you’ve let the boy out for, isn’t it, Wilson?” Coyor moved to stand beside Wilson, staring out the window at the city below. They were in the higher city, as far from the ports as was possible. Even here, the smell of fish and the low tide were barely hidden by the cloying perfumes the higher classes used.
“Yes. He needed the training …” Wilson trailed off as Coyor looked at him. “Hell, who am I kidding? You know as well as I do that he’s better than a lot of graduates, and has been for the past year. He knows the town as well as you or I do. I guess I feel … protective of him.”
“This isn’t a profession for feeling protective of others, Wilson.”
“Yes, of course.”
“And he’ll need to start making contacts now. Friends. You should let him out more; let him see the city through a child’s eyes, rather than through a Borrower’s.”
“Yes.”
There was silence, the two aging men watching the city below them.
“It …” Wilson broke the quiet, his good eye moving to watch Coyor. “It is strange though, isn’t it, Coyor? That he’s so good? I mean, the lad’s just turned twelve. He ran the Belliers Route today. Did it perfectly. Absolutely perfectly. Wasn’t spotted once.”
“Strange? I suppose so. Kid’s talented, that’s obvious. You don’t think it’s anything more than that, do you?”
“I don’t know. I really don’t. What should I do, Master?”
“You speak to me as Master?” Coyor looked surprised. Wilson was an independent man. They had been friends since childhood, but in the near twenty yeas Coyor had been Master of the guild, Wilson had never asked for his advice as his superior.
“I do, Coyor.” Wilson looked at him seriously. “If you want me to … to drop him, or to have him tested again, or whatever, I will do it. But I will only do it if you ask.”
Coyor paused, tapping his chin thoughtfully. He knew how close Wilson had gotten with the boy. Friendships were not supposed to matter when asked to give advice as Master. He decided.
“Bring him for a couple more runs over the University. If he finds nothing himself, then bring him to the country. Spend a year or two out of the city; teach him how to acquaint himself with the unknown. If it’s going to happen, it will happen in that time, surely.”
“Thank you, Master. I shall do as you say.” The tone was formal as Wilson spoke the prescribed words, but his expression was grateful.
thickerthanwaterttw 