Melbourn's Storm

This is the first short story I've ever written regarding the Heroes. The time setting doesn't matter, except that it is definitely before the work-in-progress novel.

It's about 4,800 words - about 17 pages on Word. As usual, let me know what you think of this. Be kind; it's only a first go-round.

Thanks!

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This first version of "Melbourn's Storm" has been removed and replaced with this current version.

Heroes... Chapter Seven - "Harbordown by Night"

Howdy! This is the newest chapter of "Heroes..." and features almost everyone you've met so far, and introduces two more - you'll know them when you see them.

Please remember, I am actively seeking feedback on this. Please let me know what you think. My plan is this: if it sees publication, those folks who have given me regular feedback - or plenty of it - will find their names listed in the dedication. I am not kidding about this. It's very important to me.

This is a long chapter - nearly 4000 words. I thank you for reading!

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Chapter Seven
Harbordown By Night



“Good evening, Dunbar.”

“Mr. Jerrold.”

“You’ve come for the bounty, I assume.”

“I have,” Dunbar said.

“Just a moment; it’s in the back. Watch the front, will you?” Titus Jerrold, Harbordown’s exchequer, left him alone in the front office. Dunbar drifted to the only wall that interested him. A dozen hand-copied posters hung there, the gallery of felons whom the city most wished to have in custody. A dozen hard faces drawn in ink glared down as Dunbar perused their crimes. Two-Dagger Hamish’s poster was gone, along with his list of crimes. The face of a church-thief was nailed in its place. Dunbar memorized the face, name, and list of crimes. Before Mr. Jerrold returned, he was waiting at the exchequer’s desk.

“I’ll need you to sign,” Mr. Jerrold said.

“Of course.” Dunbar signed his name in florid script on the receipt offered him and pushed it back across the desk.

“Ten silver sails,” Jerrold told him, placing a fist-sized sack in his hand. “I’ve broken it into shields and pennies, as you prefer.” As usual, Dunbar weighed it in his hand and slipped it inside his shirt.

“Is there still no word on Jaan Craymore or Den Tuller?” Dunbar pointed to the oldest posters.

“No,” the exchequer told him, folding the receipt neatly. “We’ve heard nothing from Tuller; he’s simply vanished. We believe Craymore took ship and left months ago. He has family in Northport, we’re told.”

“Another one gone to sea.”

“It’s the simplest way to avoid capture.”

“It’s cowardly,” Dunbar stated.

“Yes,” Mr. Jerrold said, “but not too many wish to remain here and be nabbed by the Watch or be caught up by the city’s finest bounty hunter.”

“I’m not yet the finest. Burrell the Bold still holds that honor.”

“He has retired, Dunbar.”

“Until I – or someone else – surpasses his number of retrievals, he’s the best.”

“Have it your way. Will you be attending the hanging?”

“The trial hasn’t been held yet.”

“What’s your point?”

* * *

“Are ye ready?” asked the man dressed in red and black.

The woman dressed as he was looked up and nodded. She pulled on her boots and stood up, flipping hair out of her eyes.

“I’m ready.” She spoke a language not often heard in Harbordown.

“Speak Talberan,” the man said. “Ye know I can’t understand ye.”

“Ready,” she said.

“Good. I’ve got our place picked out. It’ll do.” He turned and saw her blades lying on the bed, near where they had just been.

“Don’t faerget yer swaerds.”

“Knives,” she said in perfect Talberan, sliding the blades into their sheaths.

“Knives then,” Jaan Craymore said. “Let’s get moving. That lamplighter’s not going to kill himself.”

* * *

Malcolm sighed. He leaned back in the huge copper bath, arms behind his head, and closed his eyes. Steam clouded around him and embedded sea salt started to loosen from his skin. The only thing he missed about land while he was at sea was being able to get properly clean. The two pints of water he was allotted per day for ablutions simply didn’t cut it.

With his eyes still closed, he reached out toward a small table holding a tray, a glass, and a bottle. He fumbled a moment, found the glass, and slid it away. He wrapped his hand around the neck of the bottle and drank deeply. He sighed again and set the bottle back on the tray. Fine, he thought, two things. There were two things he missed when he was at sea.

He inhaled the aroma of the bath oils, the scents of jasmine and lavender. With the scalding water seeping into his muscles, he relaxed further. Content, he slipped into sleep. When he jerked awake, a sharp blade rested against his throat. He looked into the eyes of the woman holding it.

“Hello, Raeline.”

“Good evening, Mr. McMarsen,” she said.

Malcolm pulled away from the razor and turned to look at her. She was young, with blond hair and bright green eyes. He knew she’d never be called beautiful, but he suspected she’d often been called pretty. She was nude but for the comb in her hair and the razor in her hand.

Three things – three things he missed about land when he was at sea.

“How many times do I have to tell you to call me Malcolm?”

“As many times as I’ve had to tell you that we run a respectable place, Mr. McMarsen,” she said. “Now are you going to let me shave you?”

Malcolm made himself comfortable as Raeline lathered his face and used the bright blade to scrape it smooth. He sat still until she finished. When she grabbed soap and sponge and started washing his back and shoulders, he sighed in her direction.

“That’s my favorite part,” he said.

“Mmm?”

“Whenever you touch me…that’s my favorite part.”

“You’re incorrigible.”

“No, no. You can encourage me all you want,” Malcolm said.

She laughed until a rap at the door spoiled the moment.

“Enter!” Malcolm roared.

A short, balding man entered the room. He was dressed conservatively, yet squarely within fashion.

“Mr. Trowbridge. It’s good to know your bathhouse’s service hasn’t suffered while I was at sea.”

The proprietor bowed. “Thank you, Mr. McMarsen. The man from Lamaster’s has arrived with some samples.”

“Excellent. Send him in, please.”

Trowbridge bowed again and left, shutting the door behind him.

“Want to help me pick out some new clothes, Raeline?”

“Don’t I always, Malcolm?”

“Yes, you do.” He paused. “Did you call me Malcolm?”

“Perhaps.”

“Do it again.”

“Not now. Maybe later tonight I will.”

Malcolm raised an eyebrow and smiled.

* * *

The sign over the shop read “Danerel’s Keys & Locks.” Melbourn threw open the door and let the hinges squeak, as he knew they would do. The man behind the high desk didn’t glance in his direction; he continued chatting with the customer in front of him. Melbourn crossed his arms and leaned against the doorjamb. It was useless to attempt to be stealthy here; one simply couldn’t sneak up on Danerel.

Danerel Snowmantle had been one of the city’s most successful thieves. He’d never been caught, never even been seriously considered a criminal. He retired at age thirty and went into business as a fence. Now he bought items from other thieves, rarely asking questions, but often taking notes. Melbourn knew that he remained retired, but only from thieving. He still dabbled occasionally in piracy, kidnapping, and smuggling. The man had rooms all over Harbordown and on Castigan Island. He had a home in Port Wehry that Melbourn knew of and owned a portion of Tattenrall Station, a cattle ranch on the north end of the big island. Melbourn was certain that Danerel had more even more homes, more businesses, and more secrets. Only a terrible fence would let anyone know all the dirt – even if they claimed to be friends.

Melbourn unfolded his arms and stepped away from the door – business at the desk was done. He nodded to the customer as she passed, and waited for her to leave. As the door closed, he crossed to the desk and dropped the scroll case on it.

“You’re late,” Danerel said.

“I’ve been busy – and so were you.”

“Bah. Selling Goodwife Horrocks a new set of keys isn’t busy. Would you like her house number and a spare key?”

“No. You’d probably send me to the home of a watch commander.”

“For anyone who’d steal from a goodwife? You’re right. I’d also send you there for making me work past dusk. There’s a lot of bad folk out there. What do you have?”

“This.” Melbourn uncapped the case and let the contents slide free.

“Artwork?”

“If this deiscape isn’t a Pevello, I’m a dwarf.”

Melbourn let Danerel pull the multi-colored canvas toward him. The fence removed the protective cloth and spread it out. He glanced over the painting and began to scan its borders. He turned the painting ninety degrees, then another ninety degrees.

Melbourn watched Danerel’s face as the fence looked over the painting. Danerel wasn’t a handsome man, not by any definition of the word. His skin was pale and pasty; his hair three different shades of orange. None of the sharp features appeared to be exactly where they were supposed to be. He often smiled broadly. When he wished it, it was a pleasant smile, but too often his smile shifted into a corpse-like rictus grin. For just a moment, the rictus grin appeared. He looked up at Melbourn; it shifted back to a smile.

“You’re right. He’s hidden his mark up here in the red.”

“What do you think?” Melbourn asked.

“It’s possible I have someone who might want to add this to their collection.”

“Possible? Might?”

“Possible, might, and maybe are the most powerful words.” Danerel favored Melbourn with his smile again. “What’s this?” he asked, pointing to the charcoal drawing.

“Just a little something I picked up.”

“Hm. Noble features. Is that the Barrendon chin I see?”

Melbourn shrugged. “Maybe.”

“I can’t move charcoal drawings.”

“Maybe not, but you could return it for a tidy reward.”

“I might at that. But I’d have to use a middleman. That cuts into the reward money, you know.”

“Your pain…it touches me,” Melbourn said. “How much for both?”

Numbers clicked, shifted, and aligned themselves behind Danerel’s eyes. Melbourn waited a few seconds for the fence to answer.

Danerel named a sum.

“What? I thought you were my friend!” Melbourn yelped. “But you treat me like a mark.” He named a second, much higher sum.

“You’d break me?” Danerel responded happily. “I have children to feed.”

“You have no children,” Melboun said, shaking his head.

“Not fair. It’s likely there are quite a few ugly little red-hair bastards in the city.” He named a third sum.

Melbourn grabbed at his heart, named a fourth sum, and the game went on.

* * *

“Good evening,” Sloan said, as he sat.

“Who are you?” Lord Cleitus Barrendon asked from across the table.

“Why ask? You know I won’t answer,” Sloan told him, waving to a waiter. “You’ll be paying for dinner, of course.”

They sat opposite each other in the center of the Blue Knight, Harbordown’s most exclusive restaurant. A single white candle flickered between them. Around them, members of the city’s Quality ate their dinners, unaware of the conversation that might possibly affect their futures. Sloan smiled. Rarely had he taken such a risk.

“Bring me the most expensive dinner on the menu,” Sloan told the attentive waiter. “Bring us two, unless it’s snails or worms or any of that. In which case, give us the most expensive dinner that ever grazed, flew, or swam. I’d also like a bottle of expensive wine. Select the color to go with dinner. Don’t forget the amenities: bread, butter, soup, salad, dessert, all that. Oh, and a nice vegetable – preferably something leafy. Lord Barrendon will be paying.”

“Of course.” The waiter turned to face the lord, who nodded and waved him away.

“I want the books. I want all the books,” Barrendon said. “I also want my pipe and the drawing of my great-great-grandmother.” He glared.

“I don’t know anything about the drawing, but you may have the pipe. As for the books…I’m going to keep three. You will get one returned.”

“I want all of them.”

“The priests say it’s a good thing for the soul to want.”

“I need those books to do my business.”

“Oh no, my lord, you need one to do business. You have chosen to use four. No one needs four ledgers. This is my proposal.”

“Proposal?”

“Don’t mistake the soft wording for the soft option. If you prefer, I’ll use the firm, and accurate wording. This is what will happen. I will return the one ledger, the one that gives a complete and accurate total of all Barrendon properties, assets, and holdings. I will keep the other three books.”

“For how long?”

“Forever.”

“You have no idea what you’re playing at,” Barrendon snarled.

“Don’t I? The city selects its Nine next month.”

Barrendon’s eyes widened. “You wouldn’t.”

“I have. I seem to recall that you may be patriarch of one of the nine most powerful families, but you are far from the most powerful. The Barrendons fall seventh, I believe.”

“Keep your voice down,” Barrendon hissed. “And it’s sixth.”

“Ah, well. Congratulations. Of course, without the one true ledger, the total value of the family’s holdings will appear to be much, much less – enough to ensure that you will fall to fifteenth or sixteenth at best, and therefore you will no longer be in power. It seems to me that the Beltaynes or the Slandos are both in position to claim your spot. How long between selections?”

“Ten years,” Barrendon answered darkly.

“If you do what I ask, I will return that one ledger, and you get to continue to prove to the selection agents why you should remain one of the city’s rulers. It shouldn’t be too difficult; it looks like you’ve done very well this year. I will keep the other books. Judging by them, I’d guess that you’re not a major contributor to the city at tax time.”

He paused as the waiter set a basket of trifles in front of them. Sipping from his water glass, he watched Barrendon struggling to remain calm. Only when the waiter was away, did he continue.

“It seems you pay taxes on only about twenty percent of your holdings. The sun has risen over House Barrendon, and it’s time you paid your dues.”

“What do you want of me?”

“Besides multiplying your taxes by five, I have only one demand, and it’s a simple one. Your son, Donol, has gotten a common girl with child. He marries her. Your problem ends.”

“You jest,” Barrendon said after a moment.

“I do not,” Sloan responded, somewhat taken aback.

“That’s the fifth commoner he’s done this to. I’ve simply paid them off every other time.”

“That won’t be good enough,” Sloan said. “He marries her.”

“And then I get back my ledger?”

“You have it correct.”

“When do I get it?”

“After I’ve enjoyed your generosity at the wedding, which you will pay for.”

“I want proof that I’ll get it back.”

Sloan shook his head. “No. You may choose to believe me, or not. But if it’s convincing you need, let me say this: I dislike all of you. I could care less which families rule Harbordown. What I get from this is seeing that the right thing is done for a young woman.”

“What about the drawing?”

“I know nothing about it,” Sloan said, irked by the change of direction. “I wasn’t in your home.”

“Clearly you hired that man that was.”

“Clearly.”

Barrendon glared at him without speaking as the waiter opened a bottle of red wine and poured a glass. The lord lifted to his lips and drank the contents in one swallow.

“Pour a third glass,” Sloan told the waiter.

“Sir?”

“Pour a third glass. My wife will soon be joining us.”

“Yes, sir,” the waiter said. “Shall I change the menu?”

“No. Lord Barrendon will soon be leaving.”

The waiter filled Sloan’s glass, refilled Barrendon’s, and hurried off to fetch a third.

“You’ll not survive this, you know.”

“Oh, I will,” Sloan said. “By the time you get your one ledger back, I’ll have it so covered in spells and rituals that every time you even think of doing something vicious to me, a page will disintegrate. You have my word on that.”

“Ridiculous. You’ll not be able to find a sorcerer to do that.”

“You would be right, were I not the sorcerer. Her name is Ananda Aristei. Learn it, my lord. She is to be your daughter-in-law.”

Barrendon stood. “Ananda. Yes, I believe I remember that name. Donol called her Nanda. As in, ‘that whore, Nanda.’”

Sloan was quiet for a moment.

“I’ve changed my mind,” he said, “I’m keeping your pipe.”

“Piss on the pipe. I have others.”

“Pay the bill, my lord. I’ll not have you upset my meal further.”

“This is not over.”

“I don’t expect it is – not until the wedding.”

When Barrendon had left the room, Sloan reached into his pocket and drew out the stolen pipe. He held it in his hand as the waiter cleared away Barrendon’s glass and poured a new one. After he left, Sloan raised the pipe to admire the craftsmanship. Satisfied that it had been worth stealing, he turned it in his fingers and held it by the stem.

It shattered when he slammed it into the edge of the table.

* * *

Dunbar tossed the bag Mr. Jerrold had given him onto his desk and unbuckled his sword belt. Only when his belt and blade were hung on the correct pegs on the wall and his boots drying on their rack did he take the seat behind the desk. He pulled an inkwell toward him. Dabbing a quill pen into it, he wrote directly on the bag: “Two-Dagger Hamish,” then “10S.” He replaced the pen and walked over to a small chest. Unlocking it, he lifted the lid out of the way and placed the bag inside, on top of a pile that nearly filled the chest. He smiled and closed the lid.

* * *

Tzal staggered and stumbled, falling down the last two stairs. He smashed his knees on the hard-packed dirt and fell forward. Unable to get his hands up in time, his chest and face slammed into the ground. Desperate to get his breath back, his heart throbbing, Tzal lay unmoving for several minutes. His joints burned, his fingers had cramped, and bands of pain had wrapped around his head. He breathed raggedly, doing his best to ignore the pain, trying to focus on something far more troubling.

For the first time since he had become a full priest, he was empty; he had drained his soul of every iota of magic; nothing connected him to Semessa’s divine presence. Other priests used to say that they felt naked without their ability to channel Her power, but he felt more violated than anything else. It was as if he had been raped by his own desire to help others. He had gone too far and lost touch with Her.

He tried to move, but his muscles hurt so much he made no progress. He stayed where he was, lying flat on the ground, his feet elevated only by their accidental placement on the bottom stair. Only because it had fallen next to his face did he know that the people of Torval’s Alley had left his bag alone. The people had been more frightened of him than he was of them. He had come into their homes and healed man after woman after child. One couple was sick for reasons other than bad water, and one young man with a knife wound in his side wasn’t bothered by anything as piddling as a fever. Tzal chuckled to himself, and then went into spasms of pain. He smiled, accepted the pain, and laughed out loud.

* * *

Craymore stood in a pool of shadow, watching her come back to him. Only the silhouette of her lean warrior form was visible in the light behind her. She’d kept this one a bit more subtle – only extinguishing half a dozen lamps along Black Cat Cut. The boy would be here soon enough to relight them.

She sauntered to him, hands on her knife hilts.

"Finished.”

He didn’t ask her to translate; he was fairly certain he knew what she had said. He moved into a doorway, to conceal himself further. She joined him, pressing herself against him.

“It won’t be long,” he said.

He felt, rather than saw her nod.

“Same as last time,” Craymore said. “I’ll grab the boy. You do the work.” He glanced over into her pale, scarred face. “Unless yer going to need the help.”

She parted her lips and smiled, shaking her head.

He glanced at her teeth a moment – teeth that had been filed to sharp points – and smiled back.

* * *

Tzal staggered out of Torval’s Alley and back onto Anchorage Street. For about the tenth time in ten minutes, he wished Gitto or Ruben were still around. Gitto left not long after Tzal had begun helping the others; Ruben vanished a few hours later. With no one to assist him, the exhausted priest stopped on the street and looked quite literally up and down Anchorage.

To his left, the street gently declined; to his right, it climbed a steep hill. He glanced back to the left, preferring the idea of not climbing, but he didn’t like the narrow street or the shadows that permeated it, lit only as it was by the flickering oil lamps. To the right, the way seemed a bit safer, a bit brighter. Up near the top of the hill he glimpsed a warm pool of light.

“It’s uphill all the way,” he told himself.

Ten minutes climbing brought him to a roadway plateau. A block or so away, a bright line shone higher and brighter than anything else on the street. He cinched up his bag and followed the cobblestone street toward the light. As he approached, he cocked his head. He appeared to be walking toward a lighthouse. A moment later, his sense of scale twisted when he realized the lighthouse was merely the stone façade of a wooden building sitting at an intersection. He smiled.

The lighthouse façade was white, painted with three red diagonal stripes, rising left to right. Atop the façade was the light – a glass lamp the size of a chest. Warm beams of reflected lamplight lit Anchorage and the intersecting road, Candle Street. He found the door in the base of the lighthouse, painted to match the rest of the façade. A signboard hung out over the door, but from this angle, he couldn’t read it.

A trio of old men sat on a long bench next to the door, sharing a long pipe and a bottle. As Tzal approached, the one holding the rippled glass bottle raised it toward him.

“Ye look like ye need a bit o’ this!” The man spoke and chortled.

“I could use a drink,” Tzal admitted.

“Ye come to the right place, ye did,” the one with the pipe said.

“Do they have rooms for rent?”

“Aye,” said the third, who was angling for either pipe or bottle. “Plenty of ‘em. Fact is, they’s always one or two for let. Ask him for the back room.”

Tzal nodded, thanked the men, and looked up at the signboard. He smiled his approval and entered the Shining Way.


Coming Soon - Chapter Eight - "The Shining Way"

Heroes... Chapter Six - "Tzal"

Greetings! This is the introductory chapter of the last of our five main characters, even though you got a glimpse of him last time. Tzal is a short chapter, barely 7 printed pages - less than 2000 words.

For those who need to know, Tzal is pronounced like the second half of "pizza" with an "L" on the end.

Remember, I am actually rewriting an already-written novel. Since I am seeking publication for this, feedback is the most important thing I need. If you can do it, please let me know what you think. It can be as short or as long, as gentle or as harsh as you'd like. To me, receiving it is the point.

You can leave your comments here, or contact me via email, Twitter, or Facebook. I thank you!

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Chapter Six - "Tzal"



The bald man led Tzal to a building fronting an alley off Anchorage Street. It was old, and a decade ago it had badly needed paint. It hadn’t gotten it. Tzal tried to remember which turns he had taken while keeping up his end of a mostly one-sided conversation. The bald man, he had learned, was Ruben Verner. Ruben used to be a member of the Seaman’s Brotherhood with this other man, Gitto. Gitto’s wife, Zenna, had taken sick a few days ago and had not left the bed. Tzal glanced around the shabby neighborhood, not wondering what could have caused it, but now many different illnesses she may have picked up.

They stopped at the door of the building and Ruben beat on it. After a moment, a short man with the build of a dumpling and a face like an old foot answered the door.

“Gitto,” Ruben said.

“Wait here,” the short man said, slamming the door on them.

“Doorman?” Tzal asked.

“They pay extra for that,” Ruben answered.

A few minutes later, a different man opened the door. He was short, thin, and hunched over. A patina of grime lived in the pores of his skin and Tzal doubted that anything as simple as a bath would remove it. Gitto had an aroma of his own, not a pleasant one. When he grinned, a missing tooth high in his smile broke it. Tzal felt a pang of shame. Had this wretched little man, and not Ruben asked for help, he would likely have dismissed him as a beggar.

The little man shoved his hand toward Ruben, who shook it. Ruben introduced Tzal to Gitto and said that he was a priest.

“O happy day!” the little man said, shoving his hand at Tzal. He grasped it and vowed not to wipe his hand on his tunic until both their backs were turned.

Muttering ‘thank you’s’ the entire way, Gitto led them up a dusty ramshackle staircase. The stairs sank and groaned with every step. Tzal hugged the wall as he ascended to the third floor. He was not surprised to see Ruben do the same; friend or not, the bald man had common sense on his side. They reached a door – one of four on the third floor – and Gitto opened it for them.

“These be my lodgings, and this be my wife.”

The room was small and cramped: a small table and chairs, a rope bed, a trunk, and a hearth barely large enough to cook in. Tzal walked to the bed and set down his bag. Next to the bed, he noticed a tiny side table, decorated with a cracked pitcher and washbowl. In the bed, a softly moaning woman was covered high with blankets. Tzal leaned down. The sickness had aged her; Ruben had told him that she was in her thirties – ten years younger than her husband, but she looked twenty years older now. She shivered and sweated both. Tzal confirmed fever by touching her forehead.

“What happened to her?”

“I don’t know, m’lord, she was sick a few mornin’s ago.”

“I’m not a lord, Gitto. What did she eat the night before?”

“I don’t remember…a bit of meat, I think, and a potato. Aye, definitely meat.”

Tzal didn’t ask what kind of meat. He continued to look her over.

“Will you heal her?” Ruben asked. “Are you a healer?”

“I am. But my old teacher used to say that healing only solves the immediate problem. I want to make sure she won’t get sick again.” He looked at the pitcher then sniffed it. Dipping his finger into the water, he tasted it and spat. He glanced at Gitto. Under the grime on his face, he could plainly see bottle blossoms on his cheeks and nose.

“You don’t drink much water, do you?”

“No, sir. Don’t like the taste too much.”

“It shouldn’t taste like that. Your wife?”

“Aye. She can’t stand the ale and milk’s too hard to come by.”

Tzal nodded. “Does she drink a lot of it?”

“Aye. Particularly lately – she’s been like a fish.”

“Is it the water?” Ruben asked.

“I think so. I’ll know in a minute. Gitto, do you and your wife worship Mannanan Mac Lir perhaps?”

“No, sir. I’ve dropped a coin in the waves time and again, but all sailors do that.”

“Is there any god you worship regularly?”

“No, sir.”

“Since I won’t offend the household god, I can do this.”

“Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but I don’t have much in the way of coin to pay.”

Tzal turned and faced the little man: “Pardon?”

“Forgive me, sir, but I can’t pay you much.”

“This doesn’t cost you anything, Gitto. My gifts are mine to share, not to sell. They’re given to me, for me to pass on to those who need it.” Tzal turned and began to chant. It took only a moment. He rested his hand on her belly. His fingers cooled until they felt icy then warmed suddenly, as if submerged in hot water. Purple sparks danced across the tips of his fingers and the back of his hand. Finally, golden light rose like a mist and drifted across the woman’s body. After a moment, he removed his hand and took a deep breath.

“She’ll be fine. Let her sleep. She’ll wake up exhausted in the morning, but she’ll wake up healthy.” He handed the pitcher to Gitto. “Dump that out and show me where you get your water.”

“Thank you, sir! Did you mean what you said?”

“About what?”

“About not makin’ us pay for this?”

“Of course. Religion is not a business.”

“It is in Harbordown.”

“I didn’t know that,” Tzal said, looking away.

“Everything’s a business here. Everything’s for sale.”

Tzal looked back at Gitto and shook his head.

“I’m not.”

* * *

Gitto led Tzal and Ruben out of the building and to an alley with a small well, little more than a hole in the ground. Tzal glanced around before examining the well. The alley was almost wide enough to be a street, but its atmosphere declared it as a place to be wary. Discarded wood scraps, masonry, and garbage littered the ground. Splashes of rotten grease, dried blood, and other fluids were scattered around. A squad of rats feasted on the putrefying body of a tailless cat. In one corner, two people were asleep under feather-thin blankets.

Tzal knelt by the well and picked up the bucket. It was heavy, waterlogged from years of use. It exuded a slight foul odor.

“It’s here,” he said.

“What are you going to do?” Ruben asked.

“I’m going to purify the well.”

“You can do that?” Gitto asked.

Tzal nodded and began to chant. As he did, the stone on his ring began to glow. The men listened, as the simple words of the chant became Words, the verbal facets of magic. Around him, the air grew denser, cooler. Keen eyes might even have noticed mists of condensation rising from the ring. Anyone focusing on the chant would have heard nonsensical words becoming non-words, increasingly harder and harder to hear. By the time he was ready to unleash the purification spell, the Words had evolved beyond the point where they were merely heard and had moved to a place where they affected all six senses; they carried an undertone of white noise, but they could now be felt, smelt, seen, tasted, and captured in a thought. Ruben, Gitto, the sleeping beggars, and a few approaching people all suddenly felt a light pleasant tickling between the shoulder blades; the tiniest hints of apples blossoms crossed their noses and tongues; their vision came to a slightly crisper focus; and, for only a second, each of them thought of their mothers.

Pure white light danced along Tzal’s fingers. He smiled, understanding what had caused the corruption. White light sprang from his fingers and entered the well as he released the incantation. He stood, feeling clean, and told Gitto that the body of a diseased cat had gotten in the well and was poisoning the water. He told him how far down it was. It would need to be recovered soon, to keep the rot from returning.

A worried-looking bystander, a man whose sense of style and cleanliness split the difference between Ruben and Gitto, asked what he was doing.

“He’s cleaned the well, bless him, he did!” Gitto said.

“Cleaned the well?”

“It was poison. He cleaned it up and saved my wife, too!” Gitto crowed, pointing to Tzal. “He’s a priest, this genne’man is!”

Tzal smiled and began to say it was his pleasure to help, but before he could, the bystander rushed at him, grabbing his sleeve and begging for assistance. Tzal asked what he needed. His son was sick, and his son drank from the well. Tzal started to speak, but someone else grabbed him. He spun. A young woman had a sick baby – would he help? He nodded and heard Gitto’s voice rise above the rest:

“He said he wasn’t for sale!”

Tzal stood straight and looked over the young woman’s head at Gitto, who was speaking to a group of shocked Harbordowners. The man with the sick son grabbed his left hand; the woman with the sick baby clutched his right. Both needed him then. He told them both he’d help them. As he spoke, he heard a shrill whistle and looked up. Two stories above, a woman said her husband was sick. Next to that window, a little boy yelled out that his mamma wasn’t moving. The man pulled at his left arm and the young mother entreated him to come with her. A crowd gathered, some needing him, some just watching. Ruben stood aside, watching and smiling.

“Did you plan this?” Tzal yelled to the bald man.

“On my word, I did not.”

From above came another cry of help. Tzal looked up and smiled. As a priest, he’d always done his best to serve. Yet he’d never once been asked to serve so many. He’d only arrived, but he had found something good to do.

He glanced at the young mother. “Follow me,” he said.

He turned and faced the first man who had asked him to help. Tzal nodded to him.

“Take me to your son,” he said. “I’ll help him. I’ll help everyone I can.”


Continue with Chapter Seven - "Harbordown by Night"

Heroes... Chapter Five - "Harbordown by Day"

This chapter is a work-in-progress. Please leave feedback if you feel like it. I appreciate any and all feedback from readers. Be as harsh as you feel you need be. You won't offend me. Thank you!


Sitting on the edge of his bed, Sloan looked up as someone banged on the door. He stood to make certain his trousers were buttoned. Grabbing a shirt from the bedpost, he shimmied into it as he shuffled out of the bedroom, through the kitchen, and down the front hall.

"I’m coming!” he yelled, as the pounding began again. He stopped at the front door. The noise continued a moment and stopped.

“Mister Sloan, you have a message.” He knew the heavy Murnochi accent – the authoritarian voice of his landlady, Dorna Grabzhinko, whom he lovingly thought of as the Avatar of the Beast God. He unbarred, unlatched, unlocked, and opened the door. He cast a glance downward. Four and a half feet of Beast God stared up at him.

“This just came,” she said. “Very important, the boy said.”

Sloan glanced at the slip of paper she clutched. Doubtless the boy had brought it with him. Like most Downers, Mrs. Grabzhinko could neither read nor write.

“I seem to recall you told me you would have money for me last week.”

“Yes, I believe I did.”

“You do have money for me, Mister Sloan?”

“Not as such; not in the sense of coin that is, no.”

“But why? You work so hard.”

“Yes, I do, but unfortunately, profits have been a bit low this quarter.”

“Mr. Sloan, I remember when you moved in. You wanted the rooms with the big kitchen and the pantry.” She looked at him through rheumy eyes. “You told me then you would pay me every month. You were never late, you said.”

“I don’t recall saying that. It’s possible that I lied.”

“I don’t want to make you leave, Mr. Sloan.”

“I don’t think I’d like that either.”

“You’ll have my money next week?”

“Certainly.”

“Good.” She handed the smudged, crumpled message to him. He peeled it open and read it. He looked back down at her.

“Is the boy wearing a blue scarf?”

“Yes.”

“Is he waiting outside?”

“Yes.”

“Send him in.”

Mrs. Grabzhinko left and Sloan stepped back out of his doorway. As he did, a long, soft feminine hand brushed against his neck.

“Something interesting?” A throaty voice asked him.

"It looks like I’ll be going out tonight,” Sloan told his wife.

* * *

Melbourn rolled over and groaned. His jaw hurt, his feet hurt, his back hurt, and his knees hurt. He threw the thin blanket away from him and rolled out of bed. His knees popped as he stood. His knees almost always hurt; it was one of the perks of the profession. He rubbed his jaw and scratched, looking down briefly at his nude form. He inhaled a bucketful of air and felt the power in his chest. He was in excellent health and always had been – other than the knees, of course.

He crossed to the window and threw open the shutters. The windows were glassless, as were most windows in his part of the city. Sunlight poured through the opening, following closely by a cool breeze. He looked first at the sun burning in the glossy blue sky, then at the street below, with its bustle of morning business.

“That must be a glorious show for the neighbors,” a woman’s voice purred to him from the bed. Melbourn turned to look at her.

“My neighbors have had the opportunity to gaze upon this every morning as long as I’ve lived here.” He smiled and walked back to the bed.

The woman rolled onto her back, and pushed herself up on her elbows. She was Astaran, and as such, her skin was the color of chocolate and her hair the color of night. When he had shoved the blanket away, he had unwittingly pushed it off her as well. Her hips, revealed by his casual movement, were her best feature, he though; wide and womanly. He sat next to her and ran his hand across her belly. After a moment, he moved it to play across one of her breasts.

“How long have you lived here?” she asked, through half-lidded eyes.

“In this room or in Harbordown?”

“How long have you been in town?”

“Twenty years.”

“You don’t look that old.”

“I’m older than I look. How old are you?”

“Shouldn’t you have asked me that before you brought me up here?”

“Piffle. ‘Twas you that seduced me.”

She smiled. “I could only hold out so long.”

“It was five days, woman. I’m not that strong a man.”

“You’re stronger than you look – particularly for such an old man.”

“For that you shan’t have thirds.”

“Fourths,” she corrected. “At least it was for me.”

“Ah, youth.”

“I’m nineteen.” She smiled at him. “Is that too old?”

“No. I would venture to say that it’s too young.”

“I’m not too young.”

“I daresay I agree with you. But I was living in town a year before you were born.” He pulled away his hand. “I’m nearly two hundred years old.”

She rolled to her side and rested her hand on his chest.

“Where did you live before this?”

“I lived in Tassen for many years.”

“Did you? Did you come to Astar when you were there?”

“Yes. I sailed to your lovely island and spent several months there, fifty-some years ago. That’s when I discovered the joys of women with brown skin.”

“Who did you meet?” She asked him, coyly.

“I’d rather not say. I’d prefer not to know if you’re my granddaughter.”

She pulled her hand away from his chest for a moment and then touched it again.

“You have scars.”

“Many.”

“What are these?” She pointed to one of several cross-shaped scars, all about an inch from point to point.

“Crossbow bolts.”

“Oh. They must hurt.”

“Yes.”

“What about this long one?” She traced a line along his belly.

“Slash from a sword. I got that in Tassen.”

“Why did you leave there?”

“I had to.”

“Oh. What about this one?”

“I don’t remember. It’s been there as long as I can recall. I think it’s a knife wound.”

“You don’t remember?”

“No. What you never hear about sidhe is that we begin to lose memories after one hundred years or so. The unimportant ones, that is. The more important they are to us, the more likely we remember them. But after some time, they will all fade.”

“Have you forgotten things?”

“Yes. I can’t remember what my home looked like.”

“Do you remember your parents?”

“My father was tall and handsome. My mother was beautiful, like all mothers.”

“Do you have any other family?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Were you born in Tassen?”

He thought a moment. “I can’t remember.”

* * *

Dunbar Stormglow held his blade at arm’s length. He stared down the length of the steel, focused on a lush green elm twenty yards away. Above him, seagulls circled and cried out. Six hundred feet below him, surf pounded into a rocky granite cliff. He was in the Garden, one of the highest districts of the city. Here, structures were restricted; none had been built in decades. Thick green grass covered the Garden and bushes grew in clumps and lines. Trees grew in orderly fashion in some places, wild and free in others. In the wilder area of the Garden, near the cliff, Dunbar felt the most comfortable.

He stood on the grass alone, away from the white gravel paths. Below him, the grassy slope fell away about twenty feet to the bluff, and then dropped to the cold harbor waters. He focused on the point of the blade. He stood still as the sun moved through the sky. With no warning, he exploded into a flurry of movement.

He spun his battered broadsword, tossing it from hand to hand, spinning it up and around his back. He threw it up into the air, caught it with his left hand, and tossed it back up. Dancing in circles as he moved, his long body whipped around with every turn. He thrust at invisible foes, dodged invisible enemies, and parried invisible blows. Broadsword whirring through the air, he took the head from an invisible demon and hurled the blade into the air. Without watching, he snatched it as it fell, dropped to his knees, and plunged it into the ground.

His bare chest rose and fell as he stood to catch his breath. His arms, torso, and shoulders shone with sweat, and his hair was wet and dripping. He pulled a long dagger – one to replace the one last at the Dark Wife – and began to spin it around his hand. He turned as he spun the blade to watch a messenger approach; he had heard him several moments previously. When the messenger arrived, Dunbar tossed the blade up and over his head.

“Good morning, Tully,” he said as the boy staggered to a stop.

“Oi, Dunbar, got a message.”

The dagger plunged into the ground behind him with a shunk.

“Go ahead.”

“Malcolm’s ship was spotted coming into the harbor this morning. It was held up, but he’ll be docking sometime today.”

“Thank you. Who sent the message?”

“Giorg. He thought you guys might want to be there tonight. How long has he been gone?”

“Months. What about the others?”

“They’re both coming.”

“Excellent. Thank you, Tully.” Dunbar reached into his belt and tossed him a copper penny. Tully snatched the coin from the air with the same amount of skill that Dunbar had caught his sword, and turned away. He was running before he completed the circle, and had vanished within seconds.

Dunbar turned around. The dagger had landed less than a handspan away from the sword. He smiled and retrieved his weapons.

* * *

Tzal Rynn climbed up the ship’s gangway and onto the main deck. Overhead, seagulls circled, cawing at each other and at the forest of masts, spars, sails, and shrouds that jutted up from Harbordown’s waterfront. He hitched up a large bag onto his shoulder and strolled across the deck to the port gunwale, where the officers waited. The captain and first mate nodded to him. The others did not.

Tzal returned the nods and leaned against the thick wooden bulwark. He inhaled the salt smell of the harbor and gazed up at the gulls. Leaning back and resting his hips against the starboard rail, he set his bag on the deck next to him. It was bulky, heavy, and misshapen. It had been torn, repaired, sun-bleached, and stained by rain and mud, yet it was his favorite possession, because it was the only one he had that could carry everything else he owned.

He stretched and let the sun wash over him. Broad in the chest and shoulders, and a few inches over six feet, he considered himself well-constructed. As he usually did, he wore blue trousers and a white shirt, stained gray in streaks. He owned a long purple cloak, but preferred not to wear it shipboard, leaving it safe in his bag.

He ran his fingers through his black curly hair and blinked. His bright blue eyes narrowed as he realized that Waverider’s sails were furled. He turned to face the officers.

“Why have we stopped?” he asked.

“We’re waiting for a pilot boat,” the first mate answered. Tzal expected that. So far he was the only one of the officers to have been friendly with him. He suspected it was because he was a non-paying passenger.

“What’s that?”

“That’s the only way we get into dock,” the first mate said. He joined Tzal at the rail and pointed at the water, some hundreds of yards away. “Look there, to that tower.”

“I see it.”

“On the port side, where the sea meets the stone, what do you see?”

“I don’t know. What am I looking for?”

“The first link of one of the harbor chains. Each link is about three feet long and as thick as a man’s arm.” He put his hand on his bicep.

“I can’t see it,” Tzal said, squinting.

“If the tide’s high, you won’t. That chain reaches from the tower to the shore.” He pointed to the nearest shore, nearly two miles away. “They use it to keep invading ships out.”

“But it’s underwater.”

“Aye, it is. But it’s not more than a few feet down. A ship that tries to cross it gets scuttled. The harbor is crisscrossed with chains; you have to sail around them.”

“So the pilot boat guides us in?”

“That’s it.”

“I see. How long until the pilot boat arrives?”

“Not long. There’re two ships going in now. One’s a trader, Dragonfish. The other’s been crippled; it looks like a pirate vessel. It’s in tow to the other, so they must have captured it.”

“A trader captured a pirate?”

The first mate grinned. “Appears so. It’s probably McMarsen. He’s the only battle captain I know who hunts pirates from fat-bottomed brigs.”

“How long do you figure before we’ve docked?”

“A few hours. Why are you in such a hurry?”

“I’ve wanted to come here for a long time. Now I have to.”

* * *

Melbourn ran up three short steps and stopped at a door. Hearing soft fiddle music from inside, he listened until the piece was complete before knocking. When he heard footsteps, he stepped back. The door was unbarred, unlatched, and unlocked. Sloan opened the door. Melbourn tapped the leather bag slung over his shoulder.

“You have the book?” Sloan asked.

Melbourn smiled.

“Come in, then.” Sloan waved him inside. “How did it go?”

“No trouble at all.”

“Good.” Sloan led him through the kitchen without slowing. Melbourn helped himself to a link of hard sausage, a pot of spicy mustard, and a wedge of smoked cheese. He followed Sloan down a short hallway, pretending not to notice how some floorboards squeaked as he trod on them. At the end of the hall, they passed through a short doorway and into Sloan’s laboratory.

The room, which was once a large bedroom, was littered with desks, tables, bookshelves, stools, rolls of parchments, scrolls of magic, books open and closed, inkwells, candles, lamps, maps, lists, drawings, pots, jars, cups, and one pitcher of cold water. In one corner, the floor was kept clear and clean; a pentacle was carved into the stone floor. On the far wall, Sloan had hung his favorite instrument, his lute. In the nearest corner, Elenaya Sloan leaned against a stool, fiddle and bow in hand. She was tall, light-haired, and stunning. Melbourn had never understood how dull, plain Elias Sloan had ever got her to consent to marriage, but he suspected sorcery was involved.

“Good afternoon, Melbourn. Make yourself at home.” She didn’t have to motion at the kitchen loot to make her point. She put her fiddle under her arm and kissed Sloan on the cheek. Melbourn looked away. Too much of her presence was intoxicating. She smiled at him as she left the room.

Sloan took his seat. Melbourn perched on a stool and pulled the leather bag from his shoulder. He opened it.

“What’s in the scroll case?”

“Just a little something I picked up,” Melbourn answered.

“How many little somethings did you pick up?”

“A few,” he said, handing over the book. “I got you a pipe.”

“Lovely.” Sloan opened the book and began to scan the pages. Melbourn took the black cloth-wrapped pipe from his vest, unwrapped it, and set in on a teetering pile of books. He pulled out his own briar, packed it, and reached for a lit red candle.

“I really wouldn’t, if I were you,” Sloan said without looking up.

“Oh?”

“That one is keeping the demon Ghoros from finding us.” He still didn’t look up.

Melbourn glared at him. You could never tell whether to believe him or not. Deciding not to risk it, he reached for a different candle, paused to see if it was being used for any diabolic protection spell, and then lit his match with it. He lit it and took a long draw.

“Very nice,” Sloan finally said, looking up. “We now have Lord Barrendon where we want him.”

“By the short and curlies?”

“Yes. He’ll do whatever I ask.”

“What’s that?”

“I want an invitation to a wedding. And I’ll get it.”

“Because we have a ledger?”

“No, because we have the ledger,” Sloan answered. “Are you certain this is the correct one?”

“It was better hidden than the others. I checked it against them; it seemed to be the most detailed. But in case I was mistaken…” He pulled three other books from the bag. “I brought them all.”

Sloan took them, flipping through them, and dismissed them.

“No, you were correct. This is the real ledger. Did he see you?”

“Aye,” Melbourn answered. “I waited long enough. I thought he’d never wander up for a private chat. I had time for some drinks, a good smoke, and a read.”

"And, of course, there were the trinkets.”

“Of course.”

“He’ll know you waited there for him?”

“I left three bowls of ash in the dish and decanted a bottle of sherry. I even took time to build a fire.”

“Sounds cozy.”

“Quite. I’ve decided to become a man of leisure.”

“You’re already that. You’re the essence of leisure, the paragon of laziness.” Sloan looked at Melbourn’s face. “Your jaw is swollen.”

“Quarterstaff.”

“I thought you said it went well.”

“I’ve still got ten fingers, ten toes, and my cock. I call that victory, most days.” Melbourn glanced up at the lute and waved in its direction. “Too bad you weren’t there last night. I could have used you. I could have used your lute, that is.”

“Why’s that?”

“Suffice it to say I amended my escape route through the musicians’ gallery. Now everyone at Barrendon’s Ball knows that someone broke into his home.”

“Everyone?”

“Everyone in the ballroom. I must say it’s remarkable how effective a simple masque can be.”

“I see. You did well. No, you did very well. I’ll consider the extra ledgers your gift to me.” Sloan went back to reading.

“You do that. Are we now even?”

“Yes, we are.”

“I’ll be on my way.”

“Do that. Leave the mustard and try to refrain from ogling my wife.” Sloan looked down into the ledger again.

Without speaking, Melbourn stood, snatched the mustard and one other item from the desk. Before Sloan even noticed, he slipped down the hall, avoiding the squeaky floorboards as he went. Hand on the doorknob, he looked down at the red candle in his hand. Chuckling, he blew it out and slipped out of the apartment.

* * *

Malcolm McMarsen stood on the deck of Dragonfish and listened to the sounds of the harbor chaos: shouted commands, workers’ grunts and curses, the creaking of wooden booms as they strained under their heavy loads, and the cries of boredom and dismay from the oxen and horses tethered to the wagons that littered the wharf below them. He watched idly for any coming trouble, though he knew he’d find none. He’d posted his marines near the pile of goods waiting to be transferred to Rinnicker’s warehouse. In this case, overkill was the name of the game, and he had about twice the number of men posted to keep away any wharf rats that might amble off with any precious cargo.

He looked toward the bow. The second mate and an assistant were hoisting the ship’s information flags – nation of origin, cargo, and so on. The three square yellow flags along the bottom announced that they wouldn’t be departing any time soon. He glanced over and saw the ship’s master approaching, a combination of worry and happiness on his face.

“My men will see the cargo safely to your warehouse before I release them, captain,” Malcolm said.

“Very good, Mr. McMarsen, thank you.” Rinnicker sighed and smiled. “You should make a good bit of coin from this.” He waved a hand toward the battered Red Wind, which was berthed alongside them. Malcolm knew that was true. Besides his ten percent of the cargo, he would earn fifty percent of the prize – Red Wind’s value.

“This is true, sir, but I have my men to pay.”

“Even so, you should be well set.”

“I hope so. Being shot at generally pays well.”

Rinnicker smiled. “I’ll meet with the prize and salvage boards as soon as I can. She should fetch a nice price. Are you certain you don’t wish to purchase her back?”

“Quite certain.”

“I suppose the gold will be more helpful over the winter than a banged-up ship lying in a frozen harbor.”

“That was fairly well my thought,” Malcolm answered. “If you’ll excuse me, captain, I have places to be, people to see, and a bath to take. A run ashore is exactly what I need.”

“I’ll call upon your agent once arrangements are made. It’s Mr. Sloan on Net Street, is it not?”

“It is.”

Rinnicker extended a hand to Malcolm. They shook.

“I hope you’ll be available when I said next,” Rinnicker said.

“I’ll try to be, captain.” He pointed to the yellow signal flags. “Are you planning another voyage before winter?”

“I doubt it. I prefer the idea of staying put until spring.”

“Frankly, captain, so do I. I could use the quiet,” Malcolm said. He tipped his floppy hat, turned, and left the poop deck. Collecting his gear from one of the ship’s boys on the gangway, he strode off Dragonfish and onto the dock. He passed Luka Jurem, slapped him on the shoulder, and made his way through the crowd of bustling dockworkers until he reached his lieutenant.

“This was a good one, Silas. The men did very well.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“You and the men have your advances?”

“Aye, sir, we do.”

“Good. Stay with the goods until Captain Rinnicker releases you at the warehouse.”

“Aye, sir.”

“When we hear from the boards, I’ll send word and we’ll divide the shares.”

“That’ll be fine, sir.” He also shook Malcolm’s hand.

“You know where to reach me,” Malcolm said. “But tonight at least, I’ll be at the Shining Way.”

* * *

Tzal Rynn shrugged his bag higher up onto his shoulder as he hurried along the flagstones of Dock Street. The crowd on the thoroughfare pushed him from both sides and behind. He kept one hand on his bag and one hand on his belt. He’d made it from Geshuan to Harbordown with his wallet hidden inside the thick leather belt, and he planned to make sure it finished the trip with him.

It appeared that he’d arrived at the cusp of the day when half the city rushed through the streets to finish their tasks and the other half moved into the streets to begin theirs. Along the left side of the road, dockworkers and teamsters hurried to get as much work done as they could before full dark set in. To his right, watchmen, lamplighters, beggars, barmaids, and nightingales slipped into the bustle of the busy avenue.

He drifted toward the warehouse side of the street. The press of bodies eased and Tzal spied a broad road leading away from the harbor. Crossing the current of travelers, he was expelled into the side road and found its name on the side of a looming warehouse – Abelard Street. He looked down at the once-white stones he trod upon and took a deep, relaxing breath. Cinching up his bag again, he wandered deeper into town.

His ears were grateful for the decrease in noise, but his nose received no such respite. The fetid odors of the docks began to mingle with a greater variety of odors. He smelled sewage, various types of cooking food, and a mélange of perfumes and scents. Still, it was better than being aboard ship. At least here he didn’t have to smell stale human sweat, mildew, and salt pork farts while below deck.

Soon the fortress-like warehouses, many three and four stories tall, gave way to smaller businesses and rowhouses. Constructed of wood, or sometimes wood and stone, they were narrower and more flimsily built. Small shops appeared. Many were open to the air, with jutting counters and canopies that could be closed and locked. He spied a swaybacked roofline here, a crumbling chimney there, and in one small alley, two buildings that had sagged in enough that their eaves supported each other. He stayed toward the middle of the street, not wishing to find out if Harbordowners gave the courtesy of the “Dunny down!” shout before tossing the contents of the pisspot out the window.

Nearly as many people were hurrying toward Dock Street as were moving away from it. Tzal followed those leaving the docks until he reached an eddy in traffic and realized that Abelard had ended at the back of a warehouse. A pair of women leaned against the building’s stone loading platform, looking at him. He nodded to them; they didn’t respond. He returned to the flow of traffic, which led him around the front of the warehouse. He glanced down at the flat gray stones and realized that Abelard hadn’t ended; it just lurched around the building and went on. Unwilling to be marked as a rube by the locals, he adopted a look of purpose and continued. Only a minute of walking brought him into a neighborhood with no businesses and only rowhouses stacked alongside each other. He eased to a halt. There was no way he was going to be able to find the church without some help.

After a few moments, a door opened and an older man stepped into the street. Wearing clothes that were a bit ratty and frayed at the edges, he bore an open expression on his face. With his speckled brown-and-white beard and his bald head, he would’ve seemed at home in Geshuan. Tzal waved to him. The man nodded then approached.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” Tzal said, “but I’m looking for the temple of Semessa. Can you point me to it?”

The older man stopped and scratched at a balding patch in his beard.

“Aye, that’s the Purple Lady, right?” He pointed to a trio of colored scarves that dangled from Tzal’s belt.

“That she is.”

“A moment, please.” The man looked down the street and called to a boy. The boy, carrying a four-foot pole tipped with a glowing flame, came toward them.

“Dorren, can you help this man?”

“Maybe I can,” the lamplighter said, turning to face Tzal.

“I need directions. Can you help me, please?” Tzal asked.

The lamplighter chuckled. “I’m sure ya do. Ya come by boat?”

Tzal nodded slowly, which furthered Dorren’s chuckling.

“Ya’ve got yar bindle there, and yar talking all polite-like,” he said. “It just marks as bein’ new. What ya lookin’ for?”

“The temple of Semessa.”

“Crops? No, magic! Are ya a magician, then?”

“A priest.” Tzal shifted his pack to his left hand and raised his right to show the men a ring. He tapped it with the thumb of the same hand. A large purple stone flashed in its setting.

“Nice,” Dorren said. “It’s a haul, gettin’ to the temple. Go to High Town. Ask for directions there.”

“Is that it?”

“Ya’ve got a few miles to go still. High Town’s at the farthest end of town.” He pointed in the direction of the harbor. “Ya’ve got to circle ‘round-like,” he said, making circles in the air with his free hand.

Tzal laughed. “Thank you.”

The bald man coughed gently and motioned to the boy with his head. Tzal cocked an eyebrow. Suddenly realizing what was expected, he reached under his belt, where he kept a few loose coins, and handed the boy a copper penny. The boy bowed a ‘thank you’ and ran back to his lamps.

“You’ve made a friend,” the bald man said. “Most people would only have given him a bit or two.”

“So I’ve further marked myself as one new to town, then?”

The bald man nodded. “Are you truly a priest?”

“I am.”

"I’m going to presume on you.”

“Go ahead.”

“I have an old friend. His wife is sick. Would you look to her?”

Tzal nodded.

“Then, please, follow me.”

Continue to Chapter Six - "Tzal"

Heroes... Chapter Four - "Melbourn"

In a huge, well-appointed room in High Town, one man sat in a high-backed calf-leather-and-teak chair to enjoy the finer things life had to offer. His boots rested on a low stool in front of him, and a heavy book rested in his lap. On a small table next to him sat a nearly-empty decanter of sherry, a nearly-full glass, a tall white Willem candle in a silver candlestick, and a glass ashtray. Over the back of the chair he had casually tossed a long black cloak. As he listened to the cedar wood crackling and popping in the fireplace, he reached out and upended an ivory pipe over the ashtray. He discharged burnt tobacco into the receptacle and propped the pipe against the rim. He reached for the sherry and tossed it back, as if it was whiskey. Sighing, he set the empty glass on the table.

He refilled the pipe with tobacco from a pouch in his own vest, using a long match to transfer fire from the candle. He took a long draw and began reading again. Idly listening to the deeply seasoned wood in the fire, he read each page, line by line, his finger tracing his progress. After some time, he stood and stretched. Something in his back cracked. A slight groan escaped.

He eyed the crystal decanter. He took it and poured out the last remaining drops of sherry. Ivory pipe dangling from his lips, he crossed the room to a huge teakwood desk and slipped the book into an open leather bag sitting atop it. He closed the bag, and wrapped the pipe in a dark cloth. The pipe went into a vest pocket; the bag he slung over his shoulder. Returning to the chair, he donned his cloak and fastened it with a burnished silver clasp.

Dressed all in black, except for a long-sleeved royal blue shirt under his leather vest, he was short and wiry. His almond-shaped eyes were blue flecked with silver. Long, copper-brown hair was tied back with black and blue ribbons, revealing a face of sharp angles. His ears were elongated, but not so pointed as Dunbar Stormglow’s.

He was mal sidhe, a lesser elf.

Picking up the last glass of sherry, he began to wander the room. Four oil paintings hung on one dark hardwood wall. Two were worth more money than most merchants could make in a year. The other two were worth a bit more than that. On the next wall, an inset bookshelf displayed nearly one hundred bound volumes, along with dozens of rolled parchment scrolls. Next to the shelf, a mounted bear’s head growled defiantly. The silver of the fur matched the silver of the bearskin rug in front of the fireplace in the third wall.

The last wall held only the doorway and a charcoal drawing of a stunning young woman. Judging by the age of the work, she had likely passed on many years ago. Melbourn smiled at her. The door next to her was closed, but not locked.

Wandering back to the paintings, he stopped in front of his favorite. It was oil on canvas in a cherry frame, three feet by four. It was a deiscape, the artist’s rendition of the gods as he saw them. In this particular work, the male gods were portrayed as sharp, angular swaths of color, mostly in blue, purple, and green. The goddesses were shown as swirls of red, yellow, and orange. Even the darker, crueler gods were included, in angry shades of indigo and reddish-orange. Here and there, streaks of black and white intertwined them all, both separating the gods and bringing them together in a divine confluence. The mal sidhe, Melbourn, sighed.

He flicked his hand and a sharp knife appeared in it. With four quick slashes, he separated the painting from its frame. He carried the cut canvas to the desk and laid it out. Using a thin scrap of cloth to protect it, he rolled it up and slipped it into a birch scroll-tube tied to his bag. Leaving the tube uncapped, he crossed the room to the door and the charcoal drawing. Four more slashes, and he had removed it from its frame. He was only beginning to roll it up when the door flew open. An explosion of jaunty dance music preceded two men who had burst in. Melbourn cried out, as if surprised. He jumped back two steps and waved the knife.

The man in the middle of the doorway was handsome and well built, but going to seed, as did many men his age. His hair was still thick and curly, which made him stand apart from most nobility. He was dressed for a night at the ball, which was expected. His face, rimed with thick brown whiskers drifting to white, showed shock, surprise, and anger, all in the space of a few seconds.

“What?” he sputtered before bellowing, “Guards!”

Melbourn leapt toward him, shoving him aside with his free hand. Cleitus Barrendon was thrown back into the second man. Melbourn dashed past them and into the hallway. He spun and waved the rolled-up drawing at Lord Barrendon.

“What a lovely woman! My thanks, m’lord!”

He turned and ran along the main hallway of the second floor of Barrendon House, toward the intersection where the Grand Staircase coming up met the less-grand staircase going up. The way in was the way out, and that was on the third floor. As he approached the stairs, guards below announced their presence with angry shouts. Melbourn shifted the rolled-up drawing to his left hand, reached into his vest, and pulled out a thick bag. He yanked it open and upended it at the top of the Grand Staircase. As a combination of steel balls and iron caltrops chingled and clattered down the marble stairs, he raced to the third floor and turned right, toward the open door which led to the sole bedroom with an open-air porch.

The door was closed.

He slammed into it, bouncing away. He grabbed the handle – locked. He had picks, but they would take too long. Hearing a noise behind him, he spun and tried to duck. A quarterstaff smashed him in the jaw. He fell and tumbled aside. As the guard came for him, he snarled and slammed his fist into the man’s crotch. The guard howled and doubled over. Dropping the drawing, Melbourn leapt up and yanked the staff from his hands. He spun it, smashing the man first in the chin, then in the sternum, then in the side. The first blow brought the guard back up. The second one sent him back, toward the stairs. The third one sent him down the stairs. Melbourn watched him fall before turning and slamming the end of the staff into the door lock. It didn’t open. It wasn’t as if he had expected it to, but it would have been nice. He tried a second time. It appeared that the gods expected him to entertain them tonight.

He grabbed the drawing off the floor and ran down the first few stairs. The two noblemen were halfway up the flight and moving toward him. Barrendon carried a rapier; the other was holding a saber. Melbourn’s eyes widened and he grinned; these two were brave.

He flung the drawing past Barrendon. The lord turned to grab at, lost his balance, and stumbled. Melbourn threw the staff at the other nobleman. It banged into him. He fell aside, grabbing at his head. Melbourn leapt down the stairs, putting a hand on Barrendon’s back, shoving him away. The lord stumbled and fell down the last few stairs. Melbourn snatched the drawing from the stairs and ran to the second-floor landing. The guards that had avoided most of the spiked caltrops and steel marbles were nearly to the top. He grabbed a marble from the top step and flung it at the nearest guard. The steel ball smacked him in the forehead. The guard reached for his head as he collapsed.

Melbourn threw the drawing again, to the bottom of the stairs. He grabbed up two more marbles and threw them at guards coming toward him. He spun as he heard Barrendon coming at him. Without time to grab another weapon, Melbourn launched himself down the stairs, dancing as his feet found the empty spaces between the caltrops and the marbles. He angled his course toward the rail and away from the lurching guards with bleeding feet and banged knees. From the rail he could slide down…

Two of the guards had gotten to the railing, between him and the ground floor. Apparently the gods weren’t yet entertained. He spat his favorite sidhe invective and vaulted over the rail. He bent his knees and fell forward. Hands and knees slapped the stone floor. He jumped up, waved his hands to cool the sting in them, and raced for the front of the stairs. He glanced up and saw one of the guards lean out over the railing, sword in hand. Still running, Melbourn dropped to his knees and leaned back. His soft linen trousers resisted little on the polished stone floor. He slid under the guard’s swung blade and past the front of the Grand Staircase. He snatched up the rolled-up drawing as he passed and regained his feet. There was only one decision to make now. One choice led straight out the front door and past the footmen, men-at-arms, and bodyguards that belonged to the hundreds of noblemen and women who were attending Barrendon’s Ball. The second choice led him right past those hundreds of noblemen and women. Melbourn grinned and informed the gods that the entertainment was moving to a new level. He ran away from the front door and toward the music.

The doors to Barrendon’s Great Hall – at least he assumed it was a Great Hall; the nobles always had one – stood ajar and the music’s volume grew. As he ran toward it, he grabbed the birch scroll-case and slid the picture inside. He capped it and let it go, to bounce against his back next to the bag. He ran through the doors, yanking a masque from a table as he passed. He jogged inside and slipped on the ivory face with gaping smile and long nose.

The music at Barrendon’s Ball was loud and constant, which was his preference. Unlike most places he had been, the nobles of Harbordown eschewed the tightly-controlled, overly mannered dances that most members of Quality around the world preferred. Instead, the local rulers listened to much the same music as their lessers – loud, danceable tunes to please both ears and body. Barrendon’s Ball was no exception.

Melbourn glanced back and saw guards moving into the entryway. He glided away from the door, moving between the wallflowers and those who were at least thinking about dancing. As was custom, the men wore masques and the women went bare-faced. Both sorts glanced toward him as he passed. He ignored them and watched the musicians onstage. In front of a huge bay window, a bassist played a complex, repeating melody that intertwined with the polyrhythmic beats from the two hand drummers and the one kettle player. Two fiddlers stood together playing a melody shared with a flutist on the opposite side of the stage. A trio of female singers sang and chanted in a language that Melbourn couldn’t identify. It was in perfect 4/4 time, and it was ripe for a dance.

He glanced back again and saw the guards moving along the walls, glancing at men as they passed; they were looking for lurkers, not dancers. It was time to let the music work its magic on him. His feet and hips began to move first, then his shoulders and head. He let his feet take him onto the dance floor, out of the eyelines of the guards and into the eyelines of the city’s nobility. Dancing and swaying, he crossed the floor toward the back of the Hall, passing joined couples, temporary pairs, and happy singles. As he left the floor and entered again into the no man’s land of non-dancers, he sped up and aimed himself at the open doors and the courtyard outside. As he moved into the last line of wallflowers, he saw a quartet of hard-looking guards appear from outside. They blocked the door. He swore under the painted smile. Someone had called for reinforcements. Melbourn took a sharp left turn and found himself face to face with a line of young women. His eyebrow rose under the masque as he saw them turn as one and look at him.

They likely thought him one of their own – a young man perhaps, his hair dyed wild behind the masque, dressed common for shock value. He eyed the line of fresh, young scions of power and decided to pluck the lone brunette from the hedge of blondes. He danced and slid directly at her, presenting his hand as he approached. The dark-haired girl blushed, looked away, and glanced back at him from under dark brows. Melbourn waved his fingers toward her in the same way he would call a man to a fight. She took his hand, smiling, as he spun her to him, body to body, and spun her away toward the floor.

They danced together toward the stage, where the younger people had gathered. Their hands were connected, fingers twined, and he let her back toward the others, letting her think she led him. She wore her hair unbound; the black curls flying with each turn and spin. He turned as he danced, glancing around for the guardsmen and another way out, but keeping much of his gaze on her, as he knew would be expected. She was pretty in a young, slim way – a bit too willowy for his tastes. Her hips were still the hips of a girl, not yet a woman. She smiled easily for a noblewoman, a fact of which he did approve. He spied a few people looking toward them through plaster eye holes, but saw no recognition, no looks of anxiety or caution. He had already found his way out, but for a few moments more he enjoyed himself completely.

When he heard the melody change and crescendo, he knew the dance was over. He pulled the girl to him – they were nearly the same height – and spun her away. She turned and came back to him. He spun her up again into his arms and dipped her on the last note. She smiled up at him as applause began, held only by his one arm. She reached up and raised his masque from his chin. He smiled. She gasped before she grinned; there were no sidhe nobles in Harbordown. He leaned down and met her mouth coming up. As chastely as his nature allowed, he kissed the young girl and brought her back to vertical. He pulled free his hands, stepped back, and bowed. As he stood, he lowered the masque and let her see the smile in the corners of his eyes. He turned and ran, leaping onto the stage as the guards ran past the girl.

Melbourn grabbed one of the musicians’ stools, spun, and threw. It hit the first guard to the stage in the chest, knocking him back and away from the edge. Musicians began to move away as he kicked an abandoned hand drum into the face of another angry guard. It broke across his nose, dropping him to his knees. The bassist began to move toward him. Melbourn swiveled and grabbed another stool. He raised it and threw it in the musician’s direction. The bassist dove aside as the heavy wood stool shattered the two-story bay window behind the stage, sending shards of glass raining down into the back of the gallery and the grass below. The musicians scattered, carrying their instruments with them. He started to run, but heard a guard coming at him. Melbourn reached out and plucked a fiddle from the hand of a passing musician. He raised it like a club.

“Don’t!” The musician yelled. “It’s a Najel!”

Melbourn flipped the instrument over and saw the maker’s mark burned into the back of the fiddle body. Tossing the fiddle back to its owner, he dodged a blow from the guard’s cudgel. He dropped to his knees and grabbed the guard’s ankles. He yanked, sending the guard onto his back. Turning, he tucked the scroll case and bag to his side and leapt through the open window-way. He dropped several feet to the ground and slid down a short hill to the manor wall. Ignoring the orders to stop, he scaled the wall and dropped to the road beyond. Laughing to himself, he ran down the street and into the night.

He assumed the gods were now well-entertained.

Continue with Chapter Five - "Harbordown by Day"

Heroes... Chapter Three - "Sloan"

Fifteen feet below the streets, in a damp, malodorous tunnel, one man stood and shivered. His heart still raced, his lungs still burned, and his body still ached. Certain types of magic played havoc with his body, and even though he’d tapped into it over an hour ago, he’d yet to climb up from the depths of the ritual. He glanced down at his right hand; it trembled. He made a fist and tried to will away the shaking.

Elias Merriwether Sloan stood in front of time- and moisture-warped door and tried to collect his breath. Through a gap in the planking, he saw into the room beyond the door. Four men sat in the room, waiting for him. They sat on battered, dark chairs that had splintered and mildewed in the humid air, and had seated more men than they. The oldest sat with his feet flat on the floor, his elbows on his knees, and his chin tucked into his chest. The youngest had tilted his chair back on two legs until it touched the damp wall behind him. Of the two seated between them, one cleaned his fingernails with a short knife and the other sat and stared at the door. They would all wait for him, no matter how late he was. He didn’t want to set a bad example of tardiness or disrespect to the others, but he didn’t want them to see him in this state, either. Only one man would say anything about it, but Sloan needed to speak to him the most.

Sloan stepped toward the door, his breathing less ragged and his heart beginning to slow. The aches remained, but the men wouldn’t see those. He looked at his hand again. The trembling had stopped. It was time. He grabbed the handle of the wood-and-iron door and pulled it open. The hinges were oiled; despite its age, the door didn’t squeak. Stepping into the meeting-room, he glanced toward the men. He nodded.

The second man put away his knife and nudged the oldest awake.

Sloan set his hand on a battered wooden desk. It was from here that he held court. His chair came from the same beaten stock on which the others were sitting. On any other occasion, he’d circle around behind the desk, take his seat, and begin discussions. Today, though…today didn’t feel quite like it should.

From above, he heard the sounds of daytime business. Voices provided a constant murmur and the clip-clop of hooves on cobblestones accented the sound. Occasionally, a raised voice of a merchant calling his wares pierced the susurration of sound. Nearby, rushing water created a constant low roar. The sounds echoed around the cube-shaped room, making it a bit hard to hear but damnably hard to be overheard. He glanced over at the second door into the room. They’d closed and barred it, as they always had.

“Ash,” he said to the second man. “Crack the door.”

“What?”

“Crack the door,” Sloan told him. “I want a little air in here.”

As the man stood to unbar the door, Sloan took a seat on the edge of the desk. Finding it somewhat comfortable, he looked around the room at his men. They were watching him. They were curious; he had no doubt about that. He took a moment to imagine what they saw.

He was best described as nondescript: medium height and medium build, with brown hair of a medium length and with plain brown eyes. He generally dressed in utilitarian brown-and-tan leather, and was neither handsome nor homely. His was the kind of face that vanished into a crowd. He was a man of rituals – not just magic, but everyday ones as well. Today he’d broken two, and he supposed his men wondered why.

It might have been the expanse of magic filling him, or it could have been several years of constant work and regular expectations in this room turning into a form of claustrophobia. He simply didn’t want to be there any longer than necessary.

“I have it on good authority,” Sloan finally said in a level voice, “that Two-Dagger Hamish was brought down last night. He will certainly hang for his crimes.”

“What’ll we do f’r the girls’ families?” The oldest man asked. Sloan called him Scurvy, but that wasn’t his name.

“There are no families. Hamish only went after women with no children and no husbands.” He thought a moment and shifted on the edge of the desk. “I doubt very much if any of the women have living parents either. I hope there is no mother that would allow her child to live so poorly. Ash, check it out. See if there are any parents.”

“How should I find a whore’s mother?”

“These were not nightingales, Ash, these were poor women with no one around to help them.” Ash was surly again. This meant either he’d been drinking heavily the night before or he’d lost some coins in one of the gambling halls he frequented. “Use your own contacts. This is why I pay you. What else?”

“I’ve got one,” said the third, a fishmonger whom Sloan had dubbed Carp. “Lord Winterheart’s passed. I heard it from the cook. She came by all dressed in black. She said it happened two days ago.” His face scrunched in concentration. “I sold her some sea bass.”

Sloan stared at Carp a moment. The fishmonger was far from the brightest of the four, but he had the best connections to the wealthy. Even nobility loved fresh seafood.

“Who inherits the title?” Sloan finally asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Did you ask?”

“Of course! I know what you pay me for! She didn’t know. But she said that she thought the lady would.”

“Would know or would inherit?”

“Would inherit.”

Sloan nodded and made a note to remove Lord Winterheart from his files, and to add the Dowager Lady.

“Anything else?”

The youngest, Bicardo, said, “Another one of the boys got killed last night.”

“Who?”

“Dougie Gelsen.”

“Dockside?”

“No. He got pomoted.”

“Promoted, Bicardo?”

“Yeah. He’s in Old Town now. He was, that is.”

“Where did it happen?”

“The west end of Reed Street. The whole street was dark. Looks like he went back to relight the lamps. They found him in an alley near. He was a mess, they say.”

“Was it like what happened to Tall Wennel?”

“Aye.”

Sloan steepled his index fingers. Tall Wennel was reported to have been found with his throat slit and his eyes open. But the Watch was being cagy about it, and he found that troublesome.

“Did Dougie have any enemies?”

“Just a couple gents of girls he knew.”

“Nothing serious?”

“Nah.”

“Do the boys have anything in common?”

“They was both lamplighters.”

“Yes, Bicardo.” He was more patient with the youngest of his men than with the others.

"Anything besides that?”

After a moment, Bicardo shook his head. “Nothing I know of.”

“Look into it, will you? See if they have anything in common. I’ll look into the murders. Is there anything else?” He asked again. This time there was no response.

“Fine. Thank you all. Carp, Ash, Bicardo, you may leave. Scurvy, stay a moment.” Sloan and Scurvy waited as Ash led the three out of the room. When they had exited, Scurvy shot a glance at Sloan.

“Close it.”

Scurvy closed and barred the door again. He sat back down.

“Tell me about your niece.” Sloan said, focusing his gaze on his man. Scurvy shook his head slightly and glared back at him. Sloan knew he wouldn’t ask how he had found out. It was his business to know things, even if they were about his own people.

“She was seein’ this lad,” Scurvy began. “Noble, he was.”

Sloan sighed.

“I know how ye think,” Scurvy blurted. “Ye know I agree.”

“Why did you let it happen?”

Scurvy laughed. “Yer a good man, Mister Sloan, but ye don’t have a child. Ye can’t stop them doin’ that thing when they’ve got a mind t’ do it. If a boy does it, it’s not so bad. He’ll get caught. Boys are stupid, ye know. Anyways, a boy’s not the one ye got to worry about. No boy gets a nipper.”

“She’s with child?”

“Aye, looks like it. Me wife says so. So does her sister.” Scurvy smiled a toothy grin. “Betwixt ‘em, they got ten of they own.”

“Is she going to be married?”

“Not t’ the lad. He’s told her no.”

“Who is he?”

“Don’t know the family name. She calls him Donol.”

Sloan thought a moment, riffling through nobles names filed away in his head. “That’s Donol Barrendon.”

“Ye sure?”

“Donol Barrendon,” Sloan said. “Youngest son of Cleitus Barrendon. He’s eighteen or nineteen. He’s quite the reputation as a rake. I’d be willing to guess that Ananda isn’t the only common girl he’s left this way.”

Scurvy was quiet a minute.

"Why ye asking me this?” he finally asked.

“Why do you think?”

“Are ye going t’ take him?”

“Aye. I know how to do it, too.” He hopped off the edge of the desk. “Leave this one to me, old friend. I’ll see what I can do for the family, Scurvy.”

“Thank ye.”

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

“Because I know how ye think about the nobility.”

“Was I wrong?”

“Not this time.”

Sloan smiled.

“Tell me,” he said after a moment, “what would you think about meeting somewhere else next time?”

“Somewhere sunnier, p’rhaps? Somewhere what doesn’t smell like shite?”

“That’s fairly well what I was thinking.”

“I’d like it. I may work in the sewers, but it don’t mean I want t’ spend any more time down here than that.”

“What about the others?”

“They’d love t’ get out of here.”

“No one likes it?”

“Nah.”

“Why didn’t you say so?”

“Yer the one payin’ the fiddler, Mister Sloan. That means yer the one callin’ the tune.” Scurvy turned to leave. He unbarred the door and swung it open. He turned and looked at Sloan again.

"I don’t know what ye’ve been doin’, either, but so ye know, ye look like shite. Yer not hidin’ it.” He walked away, leaving the door open.

Alone in the meeting-room he no longer liked, Sloan laughed raggedly.

Continue with Chapter Four - "Melbourn"

Heroes... Chapter Two - "Dunbar"

The peal from the bell in Nender’s Tower was still echoing midnight. A light fog had drifted in from the harbor, limning the roads and buildings with ghostly glow. Unable to see more than a few yards past the lamps that lined the streets, many Harbordowners had locked themselves in for the night, even those that lived along streets that often were a-hurry until dawn.

In Old Town, the Street of Swords zigzagged through seedy neighborhoods, careened around taverns, rowhouses, and faced onto entire blocks of buildings that used to be the weapon smithies that gave the street its name. Now sapped of most of its usual nighttime residents, it was a closed-in world with white borders – a place where sounds traveled further than images.

One figure strode up the street. He was tall, nearly seven feet, and moved with fluid grace. Garbed in gray and green, his shirtsleeves had been cut away to allow his arms freedom of movement. A heavy broadsword hung on his left side, a long dagger on his right. He carried a short bow in his left hand and wore a quiver of arrows across his back. Loose black hair hung wildly to his shoulders.

He was bene sidhe, a great elf. Only infrequently seen outside of Geshuan or Cheldria, his kind was rare in Harbordown. Unlike most of his kin, Dunbar Stormglow found himself more attracted by the wilderness of a big city than to the glades and forests that he thought were laughingly called “the wilds.” Like most of his family, he had taken to the hunt. He had just opted to hunt a different kind of prey.

Ahead of him, Reed Street crossed Swords, wandering away to the west and to the northeast. Chances were good that Two-Dagger Hamish would have veered off here. A block ahead, Swords half-circled around Duithen’s Ale Yard. Even in the fog, there would be at least a dozen serious drinkers in the yard, all of them potential witnesses. Since some of them might be watchmen from the nearby watch house, Dunbar strongly doubted the wounded Hamish would attempt that run.

He drifted to the left and eased to a stop. A left on Reed would take Hamish west to Cargo Street and Dockside, where it would be easier to vanish. A right would take him northeast into New Town, where it would be harder to hide. Dunbar sniffed the air. The smell of blood was thick – thicker than it should be. For a moment, he caught the scent of gore on the air. He stepped off Swords, where the cobblestones broke apart into the rough dirt of Reed Street, and sniffed the air again. The scent of gore had vanished, but the smell of blood remained.

Someone moved behind him. Dunbar raised a hand and brushed his hair away from one pointed ear. The noise continued – the shuffling sounds of rags brushing on cobblestones. He turned to watch a beggar approach.

“I saw something,” the beggar said. “Think you know what.”

“Did you see Two-Dagger Hamish pass this way?”

The beggar raised his hands and slipped off the ancient, rotted gloves that covered them. He folded one glove and tucked it into his fraying rope belt. He laid the other on his palm and showed it to Dunbar.

“I need a new pair.”

“I see that. Will it please me to help pay for that pair?” Dunbar asked, reaching into his belt.

“Oh, aye,” the beggar said, smiling. Dunbar saw only four teeth, unless others were in hiding.

Dunbar set a copper coin on the glove. The beggar folded the glove over it and pointed to a wall about fifteen feet away.

“He stood there a minute.” The beggar didn’t leave.

Dunbar strode to the spot where the beggar had pointed and squatted down. He squinted his half-moon-shaped eyes and found what he was looking for – a splash of blood, a pattern of tiny dots, black on the dirt, splayed out like the stars above. A few of the dots were bigger, large spatters of blood. He spied a dozen tiny drops low on the wall and touched them; they were dry.

Two-Dagger Hamish had passed this way. He carried one of Dunbar’s goose-fletched arrows in his shoulder, a remnant of their earlier clash. Hamish had probably stopped here for a breath and flicked the blood away. Dunbar glared west, into the fog. Hamish had gone toward Cargo Street after all. He’d follow, but only after making quite certain.

“Let me give you another,” he said to the beggar. He fished another coin from his belt and handed it to him. “Is this all that you saw?”

The beggar showed his four teeth before speaking:

“Nah. He stood there and shook blood from his hand. Then he turned and went that way.” The beggar pointed northeast, up the other leg of Reed Street.

Dunbar smiled. Two-Dagger Hamish was a thug, but he was no fool. He’d attempted to lay a false trail. For a moment, he gave the man the slightest bit of credit.

“Did he see you?” he asked the beggar.

“Did you?”

“You ask a fair question. No, I didn’t. But then I wasn’t looking for you.”

“He wasn’t either.”

Dunbar chuckled. “Shall I consider us even, you and I? Or do you think I am still in your debt?”

“No, no, no, sir,” the beggar said. “We’re square. But I suppose if one more coin were to cross my palm, I’d call us friends.”

“No man can have too many friends,” Dunbar said, and crossed his palm. He thanked him and left. Behind him, the beggar began to sing as he wandered away into the fog.

Dunbar almost had Hamish earlier. He’d caught the thug at his home in Hilltop and gotten one good wounding shot off before Hamish surprised him and crashed through his own shutters. Dunbar followed, but Hamish had doubled back through the café he lived above and sowed enough confusion to slow him down. By the time he’d reached the front door, Hamish was gone, leaving only a sporadic blood trail to follow. Tracking him in the city was difficult, not impossible, but it meant that progress was slow. Eventually he’d catch up. Hopefully he’d take him while he was getting his wound tended.

There were no healers in the area that he knew of. There were no temples where he would be welcomed. Hamish had spent ten years earning a reputation as a brutal thug, and most of the churches in the city wouldn’t touch him. No healers, no temples; that left only surgeons.

He growled – a rumble low in his throat. There was a surgeon that would do the work. He knew where he could be found, too – on this stretch of Reed Street.

* * *

The Dark Wife tavern never closed its doors. Its sprawling interior, its hidden rooms, and short, twisting corridors made it a haven for Harbordown’s legally questionable. It served as a meeting-place for some of the city’s mostly-law-abiding, but morally enterprising people, as well. Weaponsmiths and armorers drummed up sales and offered to repair goods, even goods damaged on Watch armor or by Watch weapons. Mercenaries strutted around the taproom, exchanging work opportunities and lies in equal measures. Nightingales sought out customer after customer. Information brokers watched, listened, learned – and often met clients willing to buy what they were selling. And at least one surgeon could often be found there.

Dunbar threw open the doors to the Dark Wife and strolled inside. His eyes took in everyone in the room and dared anyone to leave. No one took up the challenge. Two dozen or so men and women were drinking, a few more were drunk, and a few more than that were drunkenly unconscious. Dunbar glanced around.

“I’m looking for the surgeon, Orfie Koneck,” he told the room at large. No one answered. He glanced down. Sawdust covered the floor, as was the custom, to soak up the spilled ale, vomit, and blood. There was no blood here; the sawdust was clean and light-colored. He strolled deeper into the taproom and paused between two long trestle tables. The sawdust here was dark, damp, and foul.

He turned around and cocked his head as he spied a little man who bore a passing resemblance to a pigeon. As Dunbar strolled toward him, the little man tried to hide his face in his tankard. Dunbar tapped him on the shoulder, effectively culling him from the herd.

“Good morning, Bemmy.” He left the pigeon-man behind and strolled back toward the bar.

The barman, a large muscular man in fine warrior’s shape, watched him.

“Piss off,” he said, spitting on the floor.

“Why have you changed the sawdust?”

“I said piss off.”

Dunbar stared at the man for a moment.

“Do you recognize this?” He pulled a goose-fletched arrow from his quiver and showed it to the barman.

“Never seen it before.”

“It looks just like one I put inside Two-Dagger Hamish. It’s Hamish I want.”

“Don’t know him, don’t know you,” the barman said. “Piss off.”

Dunbar tapped the arrowhead sharply against the bar. “I believe I’d like an ale.” He reached into his belt and produced a bronze coin. He dropped it on the rough wood. “You may keep what’s left.”

Instead of commenting, the barman scooped up the coin. He dipped a heavy wood tankard into an open barrel. He banged it down on the bar in front of the sidhe. Dunbar took a long swallow. Over the rim, he saw the room had gone quiet; the patrons were waiting to see what was going to happen. Only Bemmy had moved a few feet toward the door. Dunbar smiled; he hadn’t even seen the little man move.

“Thank you. This is quite good,” he said, and took another drink.

The barman nodded.

“For dog water.”

“Piss off.”

“I think more likely piss in.”

Bemmy leapt from the bench and ran for the door. Dunbar spun, hurling the arrow as he moved. It slammed into the door, point-first, inches from Bemmy’s nose. The little pigeon-man squeaked, stopped, and spun.

Dunbar reached for his dagger with his left hand. He heard a clatter behind him and punched backward with his right – which still held the tankard. The thick mug smashed the barman in the face. A broken table leg fell from his hand as he scrabbled at his shattered nose.

Dunbar flung the dagger. It struck the door to Bemmy’s right, bracketing him in. Dunbar drew his broadsword and moved toward him. The little man squeaked again, ducked under the dagger, and raced across the room. Dunbar ran after him, following him up a short flight of stairs and into the maze of corridors. Behind him, he heard voices telling Bemmy to run faster and one man offered up a bet at four-to-one.

He found Bemmy around a corner in an S-shaped hallway.

“Hamishwashere,” the informant told him, quickly and quietly, his words running into one.

“Did he go with the surgeon?”

“Yes.”

“Has either one returned?”

“No.”

“How long ago was this?” He put an arm around Bemmy and began walking him back through the maze of halls, toward the taproom.

"Anhouratleast.” Bemmy’s voice sped up again as he let Dunbar lead.

“I’m going to bounce you now,” Dunbar said, as they stopped at the top of the stairs.

“Damndoyouhaveto?”

“You know they’re listening.” Dunbar grabbed Bemmy by the shirt, lifted him, and tossed him down the stairs. The little man crashed into the floor and tumbled into the wall. Bemmy squeaked again and started to run back into the taproom. Dunbar followed.

Those few patrons who hadn’t left when they went upstairs cheered as he caught Bemmy by the arm and spun him to face him. Bemmy drew back his fist. Dunbar casually knocked his head against the nearest table and picked him up again.

“Where are the jakes?” he asked the nearest harlot, who snorted and laughed. She pointed at a door, nearly hidden in a corner. Bemmy cried out as Dunbar carried him toward it. A few of the patrons began a chant:

“Dunk him! Dunk him!”

Dunbar kicked open the door and went inside. Bemmy grabbed at the threshold. Dunbar pried his fingers loose and slammed the door shut with them inside. He didn’t like beating Bemmy around like this, but appearances had to be maintained.

“Iwantthreesilverpieces,” Bemmy hissed.

"I’m willing to give you one.”

“Three!”

“For three, you leave here with shite on you.”

"I’vehadworse. Orfie has a new place over near Willem’s Chandlery.”

“There are a lot of buildings ‘over near Willem’s Chandlery.’”

“Gashlan’s Lane behind the chandlery! Three buildings up on the right. Big gray stone place. He’s on the third floor.”

Dunbar thanked him and spun him into a head-down position.

“You’d better hold your breath,” Dunbar said and shoved him into the hole. Bemmy’s feet were all that remained visible. They kicked as he cried out. Dunbar tucked the coins into the informant’s shoe and left. In the taproom, those patrons still waiting laughed as Dunbar exited. He couldn’t care less. These people would’ve laughed had Bemmy stuck a sword in his belly. Dunbar looked for the broken barman, but he had disappeared. At the door, the arrow was still lodged, but the dagger was gone. He shrugged. In Harbordown, losing a weapon, or one’s dignity, was just the cost of doing business.

* * *

“Good evening, Orfie,” Dunbar said, striding over the broken door and into the darkened room. Only a hint of moonlight from outside illuminated the room. In the faint glow, Dunbar saw the surgeon sitting up in his bed.

“Don’t bother reaching for a weapon. You’ll not reach one in time.” Dunbar kept his hand on the hilt of his sword.

“What do you want?” the surgeon asked.

“I want the man you just patched. I want Two-Dagger Hamish.” He pulled an arrow from his quiver and sat on the edge of Koneck’s bed. He waved the arrow under the surgeon’s nose.

“What is that? I can’t see in the dark, you know.”

“Strange. I can.” Dunbar flexed a muscle behind his eyes. The faint moonlight outside the apartment seemed to flood into the room, shifting from white to green as it did. In a moment, he could see fairly clearly, but everything was tinged in dozens of shades of green.

His eyes glowed a fiery green – and he knew it.

“Dear fucking goddess,” Orfie said. “What are you?”

“I’m the one searching for Two-Dagger Hamish.” He sniffed. “You’re the one who’s just soiled your bed.”

“You can see that?”

“I don’t need my eyes for that. I can also tell you’ve been drinking that dog piss at the Dark Wife. That’s going to leave a stain, I think.”

“What?”

“Orfie, you erode my patience and my wit. This, in my hand, is an arrow. It is my arrow. It is quite similar to the one you pulled from the shoulder of Hamish earlier.”

“I…I don’t know—”

“You are playing a game with me that you don’t wish me to play. I prefer not to threaten you, but I shall: I want Two-Dagger Hamish. You’ve nothing to gain by keeping his location from me, but you’ve much to lose.” Dunbar watched Orfie think. He relaxed the nightsight muscles behind his eyes; green faded to darkness, but he could still saw the surgeon’s outline.

“If anyone asks, I’ll tell them that I beat the truth from you.”

“He went to the Corner,” Orfie blurted. “I think he’s going to hire someone to kill you.”

“Me.”

“You’re Dunbar the hunter, right – the one that shot him?”

“How long ago did he leave?”

“Fifteen minutes ago.”

“Thank you.” Dunbar stood.

“Did he do it? Did he do all of that?”

“Yes,” Dunbar answered, wiping his hand on his leg. “If you’ve pissed on my leg, I’m going to be angry.”

“He has enough money to hire several men,” Orfie said.

Dunbar turned to face the man lying in bed. “I know.”

* * *

Two-Dagger Hamish ran. Stormglow would be behind him somewhere. He’d been following him since they had clashed a few hours back. His shoulder hurt where the damned arrow had bit him, but the surgeon’s work was good, and the vallan weed kept the pain to a minimum. Hamish ran through the fog along the northern end of Cargo Street – the border between Old Town and Dockside. Half a mile ahead was the Corner, where he could buy help. It was a dive, a filthy tavern without even a proper name. The Corner was its description, where the street met Two Dogs Alley.

Hamish’s heart pounded and his chest heaved. A stitch had developed in his side several blocks back, but he wasn’t about to stop. The damned hunter wasn’t known for quitting. The spider’s web of alleys and short streets between Orfie’s and Cargo Street had slowed him down, but it would make it impossible for Stormglow to follow, unless he could fly.

* * *

Dunbar raced along the roof of a block of rowhouses, forty feet above the ground. His feet, clad in soft boots, found easy footing on the tarred, uneven surface. He reached the end of the row and leapt. Wind whipped past his ears as he cleared an alley and landed neatly atop a vast warehouse that had spilled out from its original foundation and filled the empty spaces in a block. He increased his speed along the uneven rooflines – rooflines that had changed and warped as the warehouse had grown over the decades. From corner to corner he raced, aiming himself at Cargo Street. As he approached the end of the roof, a figure appeared in the fog, barely visible as he crossed the street a block away. Dunbar smiled as he launched himself away from the warehouse and hurled himself over the thoroughfare.

* * *

Hamish’s feet pounded the pavement as he crossed Bell Street. Nerves jangling, he would’ve sworn he heard someone running. As he crossed Bell, he looked back over his shoulder, but saw no one in the fog.

He faced ahead again and put on a burst of speed.

* * *

The roofline dropped. Dunbar’s feet hit the hardscrabble roof and slipped. He fell backward, scouring his free hand on the rough surface. Regaining his balance, he raced for the narrow alley that separated the Corner from this low row of buildings. Without stopping, he threw himself off the roof.

* * *

Something crashed into a pile of garbage in the alley next to Hamish. Ignoring the noise, he slowed to a stop, grabbing his sides and trying to catch his breath. He was staggering toward the warped front door of the Corner when someone called his name. Recognizing the voice, Hamish froze and turned.

A tall figure strode out of the fog.

* * *

Dunbar slammed his fist into Hamish’s face. His head jerked back, and he fell to the street. Dunbar moved toward him, feeling a stitch in his own side.

“Godsdammit!” Hamish shouted. “No!”

Dunbar kicked him in the chest. A few ribs cracked under the blow. He would have kicked him in the face; it would have been most satisfying to do so. But he didn’t want him too badly hurt; he wanted him to stand trial. Since the Watch hadn’t been able to bring Hamish down, he did.

He watched the man clutching his own ribs, trying to move. Dunbar drew his sword and rested the point in the hollow of Hamish’s throat.

“Hamish Fleer, Two-Dagger Hamish,” Dunbar said, “In absence of the City Watch, and on my own, I hereby arrest you for the rapes and murders of Caryl Quillvie, Greta Longlegs, Aura Farsinger, Malia Dennets, Genya yip Kurran…”

Continue with Chapter Three - "Sloan"