“Lord against Lord it was!” cried the lad with relish, plainly warming to his new role. “Lady against Lady! Clann Dúmnon have set fire in the timbers of the Caevàl halls…and put the fey-folk there to the…,” the lad glanced at his feet, then up at the soot-stained ceiling, “ah…to the spear!”
The crowd nodded approvingly and the lad’s nervous frown broke into a wide grin.
“He’s making it up,” stated Ximo, trying to divert Néit’s growing rage.
Néit was staring at the Teller with a gaze that would make a Sabretooth flinch, or felled it dead if Néit had the Wyrds. As it was, he gripped his father’s spear with a white-knuckled grasp, his jaws grinding furiously.
“Clann Caevàl is no more; their bones are ashes on the boots of Dúmnon Bloodbeard!”
“That’s a lie!” spat Néit.
“Sit fucking down!” hissed Ximo. He turned to look over his shoulder.
Most of the folk were still engaged with the Telling, but a few faces near the back of the crowd had turned to look where Néit now stood, teeth bared. Two in particular were taking in the sight of a Doriànni lord stood bolt upright at the back of the tavern, face a near apoplectic purple, yellow eyes blazing.
“Shit, that’s torn it,” moaned Ximo, as with a quick nod to each other and a last dark glance cast in their direction, the two made for the still open door. “See those two leaving?” he said, turning back to Néit. “They’re Dark-Maw Rats by their Colours. If we don’t leave now there’ll be a swarm of the bastards coming through that door before the lad’s near half done, and all of them hoping for a bounty on us.”
Néit sat back down. “Where do we go? The Hag and Cat?” he asked.
Ximo shook his head, “It’s not safe.”
“Why not?”
“It’s not there anymore.”
“What do you mean, not there?”
“It’s gone — look, can we talk and walk?” asked Ximo. “I can explain on the way.”
“The way where?”
“I don’t know, maybe dockside. Should be plenty of folk still about. We can get lost in the crowds for a while?”
“We might hear more on the Halvening,” said Néit.
Ximo shrugged and shot a glance over his shoulder. The tavern seemed fuller somehow, as though the lad’s Telling had added numbers. Certainly the relaxed atmosphere of the evening meal had been sundered by his arrival, and now serving staff were moving through the hall, taking late orders from folk that only moments ago might have been considering retuning home, their day over.
“Now’s a good moment to go, I reckon,” he said.
“Agreed,’ replied Néit, standing to his full height, coming close to scraping the ceiling of the alcove.
Ximo looked up. The Doriànni were the rightful Lords and Ladies of Adelanti. They had overthrown the Foe, so the Way Tellers said, freed his own folk from their torment, and long honoured as saviours ever since. Looking at Néit now Ximo saw some of those Ways standing before him, the broad shoulders and strong neck, the hunter’s eyes, the warrior stance. He looked again and smiled wryly despite the circumstance, for there was also the unsteady, half-drunk sway, the stained leather armour, and the dirt beneath the nails; all those things never mentioned in the Ways.
Doriànni lord you might be, but sober you ain’t, he thought ruefully as Néit stepped around the table, one hand steadying across the surface.
Ximo stood to follow, his chair scraping floorboards, the hollow boardwalk sound catching the attention of the nearest table. Five faces turned from the Telling, and Ximo’s hand slipped beneath the old coat, finding the grip of the dagger he kept always close to hand.
“What’s the matter,” demanded Néit loudly, leaning over the table of five men, spear in hand, all now eying him warily, “never seen me drunk before, eh?”
The men turned back to their drinks and together the pair slipped through the crowd, up the steps, and out of the Sea Witch into the night-darkened lane beyond.
“We’re clear…,” advised Ximo, with a glance back over his shoulder.
“Good,” said Néit, straightening up, his full height a full head and shoulders taller than Ximo. “We need to lie low somewhere until the Halvening is over.”
“I might know a place or two, but it means crossing the Maw, seeing if we can’t get lost on the Tongue.”
“I don’t have much in the way of coin.” said Néit, adjusting the street sword at his hip
Ximo nodded. “Lord Uscias gave me this,” he said, digging into a deep pocket and pulling out a well-stuffed purse. He handed it to Néit. “Don’t open it here. On a good day there’s plenty an eye with nothing better to do than ogle around here; last thing we want is a couple of Nippers trying their luck.”
“A couple of what?”
“Nippers, err…cut purses, thieves, you know?”
“Old friends of yours then?” said Néit dryly, slipping the purse beneath his armour.
“Now, that would be poor luck,” replied Ximo darkly.
“Hmm,” murmured Néit, apparently losing interest in the conversation, his attention turned to a spot above the moon shadowed roofs and timber walls of the streets and alleys that constituted the dockside hinterland. “You were telling me how you escaped,” he said absently.
“You’re not actually drunk are you?” asked Ximo.
Néit shook his head, “Not anymore,” he replied.
Ximo shrugged, eyes tracking left and right. “The night blinds he who stares,” he stated quietly, eyes never resting on the same space. “That’s all I could think of as I passed down the Lanes, along alleys long known for trouble. They’re far too many folk willing to risk all for a fine shirt, even if it is blood stained, let alone a Doriànni Bear-Spear. And I still had that itch; all ears, you know, straining to hear over the rush of blood.”
He paused to check yet again over his shoulder, noting Néit still with one eye to the sky as they walked down the gently sloping street. Ahead he could see the way growing crowded with harbour folk about harbour business, the Shingles and Dark-Maw busy as always, even this late in the day. He flicked the collar of his coat up past his ears and dug his hands deep into his pockets, the right palm reassuringly finding the hardness of the dagger hilt.
“There was folk over on Loser’s Lane; harsh voices drifting across the rooftops away to the left, but by then I was out by the Edge. I know most folk don’t give much time to the sea, not up on the Heights at least, eyes inwards, but out there, at the Edge, where the streets fail at the cliff tops, and the sea starts far below, you’re one misplaced foot from death if you ain’t eyes out…though usually it ain’t the waves that get you, leastways not first anyhow.” He made a show of looking into the black mouth of an alley on his left, just to be sure, “A long dagger, a long drop and a little splash is the usual way of it.”
“That looks like the glow of flames,” said Néit quietly.
Ximo looked up, saw nothing but the dark eaves of the houses and workshops that lined the way, and carried on with the telling, eyes flitting from one dark opening to another.
“Hmm…anyway, I made it to the Hag’n’Cat without a scratch.”
“I thought you said it had gone,” stated Néit.
Ximo shook his head and cast Néit a questioning look, “I wouldn’t cross the entire city for a place that wasn’t there, would I?”
“You’re not making any sense,” said Néit, picking up the pace a little, his gaze turned to the rooftops.
“No, well, it don’t make much sense to me, neither.”
Néit looked at down at his companion. “What are you talking about?”
“I’ve been trying to Tell, haven’t I?” said Ximo.
“No, you’ve been talking shit,” replied Néit dismissively, his gaze turning back to the Heights, across the bay.
“Now that ain’t fair,” said Ximo crossly, “I’ve been trying — hold up!” he cautioned as they briskly rounded the bend on the dark street.
The tang of salt air, old nets, and a fresh catch, assailed their nostrils as their view opened out onto the harbour, the Solstice moon high overhead, casting a cold light down the full length of the broad street, chasing those shadows that kept to the edges deeper into the recesses, the silhouettes of folk reaching long, up the battered boardwalk towards them.
“What’s this now?” said Ximo quietly, his focus on the loose crowds at the harbour’s end of the street. “Are they waiting for us?”
“No, look, up there,” said Néit in reply, his voice low.
Ximo looked away from the waters of the Maw, up over the rooftops to his right, up past the dark terraces to the Weeping Cliff, the red granite face of Adelanti made a murky bulk by the night, the presence brought into dim relief from below by the myriad lights of the Tongue, that great slump of land slipped from the cliffs so long ago, a teeming tumble of tenements and taverns crowding its surface like warts on a Ghost-Mire Toad. The Tongue was his own birthplace, alive with folk, food, dice and drink, women, wine, mead and much more. The moist sea breeze kissed his lips, his mouth flooding with saliva, the old hunger of his caste nagging at his frayed nerves, seeking satiation.
“My home burns,” murmured Néit gravely.
Ximo looked up. “Fire?” he asked doubtfully, though it was plain to all.
Even as he looked up he saw the eaves of Ker-Caevàl catch at the edge, shingles curling back as they shrank away from the heat, glowing embers sucked up to follow the smoke spiralling into the night sky; the Watching Gallery shimmered in the heat, the timber rail cracked, and flames poured up around the eaves like steam under the lid of an unwatched pot.
He turned to Néit. “No prisoners, they were shouting,” he muttered. “No mercy.”
“Not a Halvening…” breathed Néit.
“A Reckoning?” said Ximo.
Néit nodded, “Ker-Caevàl reckoned.”
“We need to leave Adelanti,” advised Ximo. “There’s nothing here for you now except death.”
Néit sighed so heavily Ximo thought he might simply perish of the melancholic effort, right there and then.
“Am I brought so low?” Néit breathed.
“You got me,” replied Ximo cheerfully, “though I doubt I make much –” Néit turned, and Ximo saw the tears in his eyes, “ — I’ll shut up then,” he said. “Sorry,” he added, lamely.
Néit shook his head, a slight smile turning away the sadness in his eyes. “You never know when to stop talking, do you, Ximo?” choked the Doriànni.
Ximo shrugged, “My mother always said my big gob would get me killed in the end.”
“She might be right,” said Néit, placing a hand on Ximo’s shoulder, “but not tonight, my friend, and not by my hand either.” He looked back to the Maw, and the crowd looking at the conflagration up on the Heights. “You’re right about leaving though; there is nothing left here for me, not for either of us.”
“Let’s see if we can’t find someone fool enough to take us out on the Wash after dark.”
“Leave by sail?” asked Néit warily.
“Well I ain’t swimming!” replied Ximo, noting Néit pale even further.
“We could take the Lamnebh Way,” said Néit, with a glance over his shoulder to the high cliffs behind them, “up the Stepped Dock and over to the top, make for the farmlands.”
Ximo shook his head. “You’re not thinking straight. What do you think will be goin’ on in Caevàl Ward right now with a Reckoning goin’ on?”
“Tooth and claw….” replied Néit softly.
“Knife and spear,” agreed Ximo.
“Then we take a ferry round the headland and make for the river, push hard through the night, put some distance between us and Adelanti. I doubt they’ll realise the Caevàl line isn’t ended entirely for a while yet.’
Ximo shook his head, ‘You know better than me how far we’d get, and I don’t reckon we’d get far at all. More than likely we’d be dead by Duskwatch tomorrow, if we’re lucky!’
Néit looked back to the tower burning atop the Weeping Cliffs, then to his left, out to the night-black sea beyond the harbour, his face gaunt, eyes haggard. ‘We can make for Kaernant, keep to the coastal path, head inland, if needed.’
‘Are you alright?’ asked Ximo, his eyebrows raised.
‘I’m fine!’ snapped Néit.
‘Well, you’re not making any sense…and you look like shit.’
‘I’m….’ Néit looked back up to Ker-Caevàl, flames clawing at the walls, tearing into the timber roof, hurling the cinders of his Clann home into the night. ‘I don’t know….’
‘We can’t go into the Wilds, Néit,’ said Ximo gently. ‘We’re not prepared, you know that; the Winter Watch will be on us before we reach Kaernant, and then it won’t just be the Dúmnon hunting us, but wolves and…other things, too.’ Ximo took a breath and shuddered in his coat. ‘I’m a lad from the Tongue, not a Doriànni Stalker — you might make it out there, for a while at least, but I won’t.’
Néit dragged his gaze from the Heights. ‘What do you propose?’ he asked.
‘I know some of the captains on this side of the Maw. If they’re about we should be able to leave quickly and quietly, maybe head Dawnwards, to Pendabhon. The tide might be against us, but that coin you’ve got will make up minds better than anything else I know.’
Néit cocked an eyebrow, ‘How much is this going to cost?’
‘I don’t know, but it’s not something we can barter for; it’s going to take hard coin and nothing else.’
Néit swallowed. ‘I won’t be much help out there, on the water.’
‘Me neither,’ smirked Ximo, ‘but if we find the right boat with the right crew we can just sit back and relax the whole way, put in a little fishing, you know, take your mind off that.’ He gestured to the pillar of ember spotted black smoke rising above the city.
‘I don’t want my mind taking off that,’ growled Néit.
‘No…I don’t suppose you would,’ said Ximo, chancing a glance over his shoulder. ‘Let’s go,’ he said, ‘before we have to fight our way out.’
‘What are we looking for?’
‘Just stay close,’ advised Ximo quietly as they slipped into the crowd, shifting easily between the folk gathered dockside, all talking amongst themselves.
‘Look’s bad,’ said on old, greybeard deckhand to the dowdy woman standing next to him, as Ximo sidled past.
‘I hope them flames don’t travel,’ replied the woman, ‘I’ve business up there tomorrow.’
‘I heard it was Lords fighting,’ voiced a young girl her clothes ragged and misshapen in the darkness.
‘So long as it don’t reach down here,’ said another voice from the crowd as the pair stepped onto the wharf proper.
‘There,’ pointed Ximo with his bearded chin to the various vessels moored along the timber front, rocking gently on the low swell, ‘the one with the tall mast, see it? The Blue Maru; she’s fast by all accounts, should do us nicely.’ He looked back to the Shingles. ‘I’m sure we’re being followed,’ he said as he peered through the throng.
The Maru was a single mast, lateen rigged sloop, narrow beamed with a low open deck, rocking gently, almost level with the dockside, the sail rolled up for the night and a large awning slung over the spar, the light from a burning brazier illuminating three men sat just inside the makeshift cover.
“Ahoy the Maru!” called Néit.
All three of the crew looked up.
“Ahoy the shore,” replied one, standing. “What are ‘ya after?” he asked warily.