Rafe looked up at the Council Clock Tower, its hands showing eight-thirty, just after dawn, before he hopped on the back of a carriage and stowed his way to the Merchant’s District.
? ? ?
The late-morning light shone through broken window frames as he stepped into Scaggs’ attic, glass shards snapping underfoot. Rafe didn’t remember the windows exploding last night, but he’d been too… afraid, to remember a lot of things, and that wasn’t like him.
What he did remember was this fear leaving him instantly—like magic—once he and the princess—the Bastard’s Versing princess—got a few blocks away in a hired carriage. That got him to wondering if the witch hadn’t magicked him, and he didn’t like that, not one bit.
He was glad this fear hadn’t returned when he went back to her house, because if it had, he’d be shite’ing his trousers right about now.
If Scaggs had a well-earned reputation for being creepy as shite, her attic was the creepiest freaking shite show he’d ever freaking seen. Stone slabs carved with images of strange gods leaned against foul-smelling boxes; a whole row of those dismembered torso looking things tailors use, modeled burnt dresses as if the witch had put her victims on display; and that rocking chair, the one that kept creaking in the wind, was unnerving. But the unnatural fear was gone, he was back in control… more or less, and he saw what he was looking for in the center of the floor.
Rafe breathed a sigh of relief when the hatch door didn’t budge, and another when he saw the strange lock on it, a spark lock. His father had told him to sneak inside ‘if possible,’ and well, it wasn’t, which was fine by him.
So as nonchalantly as possible, he stepped back out through the window and lowered himself to the ground. He scanned the street, looking to see if anyone was watching. No one was, so he stood up straight and, again, as nonchalantly as possible, made his way down the block to the market.
Snowflakes danced in the air as families strolled together, men carrying stacks of green and gold wrapped boxes, gifts for the season, while women led children in singing the Verse of Joy.
There was even a plump vicar ladling hot cider from a copper jug. Rafe tried to ignore the man, brush by him, but the vicar held a scoop out to him, same as to everyone, and it did smell of cinnamon, his favorite.
For an hour or so, he pretended to browse the stalls, always keeping the house in view, but after one too many times around the square, a spice-cake vendor started eyeing him with suspicion, so Rafe found himself a nice piece of scrap wood and a corner to lean on, and began to whittle.
As the hours passed, he felt like an idiot, a cold idiot. Nothing would come of this because the girl he was supposed to be following, Olivia, would have to be a bigger idiot than him to come back here with half the Church’s confessors looking for her.
And apparently, he had a sister, or half-sister, who was apparently Oliver’s twin, and apparently no one had thought to mention this to him. His father, he could understand. The man roiled whenever he had to so much as acknowledge Oliver. And though he never said why, Rafe knew it was because the boy was proof his wife had been boned by some other guy.
Or maybe, he supposed, Messer just hadn’t known about her.
Oliver though, that kind of hurt. As much as Rafe ribbed his younger brother, he was always looking out for him, trying to fix him. And since Oliver had only been living with them for the last seven years, surely, he must have known he had a sister before that, and that she was Rafe’s sister too. So why hide it?
Oliver…
The last he’d seen, his brother’s head was gouged open on a rock while his father sailed away in a drunken stupor, taking Rafe helplessly along. He knew Oliver was okay, but knowing wasn’t the same as seeing, and if he could just see his brother, walking and talking and making his annoying-arse scrunch face… Well, then maybe he could finally get that image out of his head.
The knot in his belly, the one that had been there so long he hardly noticed anymore, tightened.
“Looks just like him,” a friendly female voice said from behind. It was Miranda, the whore from the Dolphin, the one his father had beaten up when he was drunk, the one who had helped Oliver… Maybe ‘whore’ was not the right word.
“Throat Ripper,” she said, stepping beside him. “I miss him too.”
And as Rafe checked in his hands, he was surprised to find he’d whittled a little snow leopard. “I don’t miss nobody. I’m just wasting time.” He groaned. Realizing he’d said too much, and before she had a chance to ask what he was waiting for, he asked, “What are you doing here?”
“Just some Allsongs shopping.” She lifted a bundle of green fabric with gold lace trim. “Clients like it when I dress for the season.”
Rafe snorted. “Gonna wear that to church?”
“Maybe. I do this whole thing where I give the sacraments only they’re—”
“—Joking, I was joking,” he interrupted. “And I’m not looking for any… ‘company.’” He turned away.
“Touchy. Fine, I just wanted to say, Scaggs told me what you did for your brother, getting that book back, you saved him. And I also wanted to say, I don’t blame you, for what Messer did…” she paused, trembling, “…to me. You’re a better man than him.”
Hearing her talk about his father, his captain, like that, insulting him, something rose in his chest. He stared her down. “Get. Lost. Tart.” The words came as though Messer had spoken.
Miranda backed on her heels, raising a hand to protect her face.
“Sorry—I didn’t mean that.” Rafe gasped, his gut twisting. “Just… just, I’m working is all.”
She dropped her hand and leaned into him. “Sometimes you talk like him, like Messer. But just then you looked more like your brother, made his little scrunch face and everything.” She got on her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek.
A warm flush filled him, and he liked it, liked it a lot, but didn’t like showing it. “Are we done now?”
“Sure, happy Allsongs.” She turned to leave.
“Wait…” he called after her, and as she spun around, he gently lobbed the little wooden snow leopard into her hands. “Happy Allsongs.”
She turned, wiggling her rear in a flourish, and walked away.
Rafe made another round of the stalls, found a chunk of wood off a broken crate, and returned to his spot.
After the first cut into whatever it was he was carving next, he glanced up, startled to see Oliver with his back turned, staring up at Scaggs’ house. His clothes were newer and fit better than the hand-me-downs Rafe was used to seeing him in, but Rafe knew his brother from the goofy way he was standing, clutching one arm.
The knot in Rafe’s belly relaxed, and he drew in a deep breath, letting his lungs fill with the cool winter air.
As he approached, his brother stood still, tilting his head up and down, shifting his gaze between the broken windows above and the door below.
And then Oliver took a step forward, and something wasn’t quite right. The width of his hips, the way his arms swung on slim shoulders. Rafe was looking at a girl… the one from last night.
Well, apparently Olivia really was that stupid. Or that desperate.
Slumping her shoulders, the girl walked away.
At first Rafe darted from alleyway to alleyway, exposing himself for only the briefest of moments between each, but the girl was just plodding along, lost in thought. His efforts at stealth seeming overkill, he stayed on the street, kept his head down, and followed at a distance.
Next he knew, Olivia was approaching an intersection at the same time as a horse cart, and she wasn’t stopping—
Rafe’s heart skipped. It all happened so fast: The horse skidding to a stop, its harness groaning; the cart lurching back.
“Verses, boy!” the driver shouted at the girl.
She stepped out of the way, hardly noticing, and as her shoulders returned to their slump, carried on. After that, Rafe followed a little more closely.
Wherever she was going, whatever she was doing, she wasn’t in a hurry. Sometimes she would pause and just stare off into space. Then her pace slowed to a standstill, and after a minute, Rafe figured out she was gazing at a storefront.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
There was a picture on the sign, an outline of a woman. Rafe sounded out the words, “Miss Fleming’s… Fine Dresses… For Fine… Ladies.”
Was she going clothes shopping? Something about that didn’t feel right. She was leaning up against the building opposite the shop, staring at the front window with tired eyes.
A bell jingled and another young woman walked out the door, wearing what looked like a brand-new dress. She waved to someone inside the shop, then turned and departed.
It struck him that this woman’s dress was blue-green, almost the exact same color as the dress he’d caught his brother wearing that day. The way Rafe had gone on laughing, telling the rest of the crew like it was a joke. He hadn’t expected his father to react the way he did… If there’s one thing he would have done differently, it would have been to keep his Bastard’s mouth shut about that. Sure, he’d toughen the boy up, help him be a man, but he would not have told his father.
He let out a sigh. This girl, Olivia, Oliver’s sister who looked so damned much like him, probably wore plenty of dresses and never had to ‘chain the hull’ because of it. Oliver’s life would be so much easier if he would just… just…
She looked up at the sign again, looked down again, drew in a deep breath, and walked away.
Was she wandering aimlessly? She certainly wasn’t paying attention to her surroundings. Most people, especially those on the run, would have noticed a man following them for miles, turning every corner they turned, stopping whenever they stopped, but she hadn’t.
And what if he just walked up and introduced himself, ‘Hi I’m Rafe, your brother. Are you okay… and you wouldn’t happen to know where Oliver is, would you?’
But he had a job to do: Follow her, figure out what she was up to, and go tell Messer.
And then to Rafe’s absolute shock, she started heading for the docks. The Snipe, his father’s ship, was in port, and Messer might very well be aboard.
“Huh,” Rafe muttered when the girl stopped in front of ‘The Spitting Dolphin.’ She sat on a barrel, just staring at the front door. She was on the same pier as the Snipe… He really ought to go alert his father. It wouldn’t be hard to surround her, to box her in.
His gut twisted.
Didn’t she have anywhere else to go?
Maybe she didn’t.
Her master? mistress? that witch, was rotting in a dungeon somewhere, her house was being watched, and he recognized that look on her face. It was the same one he had had, the last time his father sailed to Shivar and left him behind.
He should go get Messer, he knew that, but technically his orders were to watch her, not capture her. And maybe, eventually, she’d lead him to Oliver.
Still, he knew his father wouldn’t pass on the chance, and Rafe had already taken a dragging step through the snow, toward the Snipe, when she got up and began plodding off in yet another direction. She wasn’t going fast; they could still catch her if he went and got Messer right away. But maybe Messer wasn’t there?
That, and every step she took away from the Snipe seemed to relax the knot in his belly.
Rafe followed her into the late afternoon, and with the winter sun edging below the horizon, he found himself on a street lined with bars and restaurants, the lights in their windows flickering to life.
This girl, Olivia, his half-sister, plodded forward, oblivious to the city, to the clinking of glasses and the low chatter of friends enjoying meals.
She stopped in front of a large building, the one at the very end of the street. A blue sign sat above it with some word Rafe couldn’t sound out. It started with ‘Th’ and sat next to a picture of an explosion.
She stood there, looking as dejected as ever, just staring at it.
A light blinked on; a figure appeared at the window. Maybe it was—
—The sky flickered orange, like a slow flash of lightning—
A low rumble came from the west as red light rose on the horizon with twisting tendrils of fire.
The sounds of eating and drinking, friendship and merriment went still and silent.
Doors flung open, pouring people onto the streets. Windows creaked open, letting people onto the roofs. And as that unnatural red light hung in the sky, the air filled with frightened murmurs.
The crowd moved erratically. Most rushed away from the explosion, some stayed put, and a few shuffled toward it.
Then, shoved from behind, Rafe stumbled to the ground as a panicked man pushed by. He lost his footing and tumbled into a snowbank, but no one seemed to notice.
By the time Rafe got up, Olivia was already halfway down the block, charging toward the explosion at full sprint.
Boots scraping against cobblestone, Rafe rushed to catch up. He turned the corner and saw her racing down a sidewalk of stairs, taking three, four steps at a time, heading toward the river.
She got to the bottom and shot across the street, leaning over the railing above the water. Rafe came up behind, and there it was: A pillar of flame where the Council Clock should have been.
A man shoved around him, a longshoreman in a heavy wool sweater, and leaned out beside Olivia, uttering, “Song Mother,” like a frightened child.
More people, working men and prim women, priests and drunks alike, all lined up on the river’s edge, some whispering curses, others prayers.
Olivia staggered back, turning to face Rafe directly, but distracted, her eyes passed over him. Rafe sidestepped, startled, and she brushed by without a word.
Then she raced up the block. If she was trying to get to the fire, she would have to cross the river, and she was headed straight for Eastwalk bridge.
? ? ?
Three blocks farther on, the roar of a crowd echoed off the water as Rafe crossed the threshold of the bridge a dozen paces behind Olivia.
Only a few people were attempting to cross in their same direction. From the other side, a panicked mob spanned the width of the bridge, pushing and shoving their way toward them.
“Well, no Bastard’s sense following a dead girl,” Rafe muttered to himself. Then he shouted, “Olivia!” But his voice was drowned out by the crowd, so he bit his lip and chased after.
Two men moving in their direction hit the mob. One bounced off, fleeing back, the other disappeared into it.
Rafe was closing in, readying to pull her back.
Just ahead, at the edge of the mob, a young boy fell. He shrieked, “Mum!” And disappeared under their feet, the chaos swallowing him whole.
Rafe lunged forward as the mob shoved Olivia to the ground. He wasn’t close enough. He couldn’t get to her in—
—Blue lightning shrieked overhead, echoing off the water—
It had come from Olivia’s hand, and the mob split in two, like a wave, as people pushed against the railing.
Olivia tottered to her feet, ran to the little boy, and pulled him up. His face was bloody, but he managed to stagger after her. A dozen paces on, a woman joined them, taking the boy’s hand, and Olivia led them across, snapping lightning whenever the crowd started to push back.
Squeezing in after them was no easy feat, and Rafe found himself buffeted by panicked bodies. He had to shove and fight to keep up, but he managed, and when he broke through to the other side, Olivia was hunched over, waving to the woman, who ran off with the little boy in tow.
Her chest rising and falling in heaving breaths, Olivia staggered to the entrance of an alley.
Rafe jumped up to the window sill of an adjoining building, then onto the roof, and looked down to see her shivering, slumped against the alley wall.
The first spark Rafe had ever seen had been Oliver’s, which he’d deftly joked was ‘about as strong as rubbing your feet on carpet.’ And he’d made fun of Oliver by doing just that, and then touching his nose, repeatedly, while his brother was trying to read. But Olivia’s was no laughing matter. She’d saved that boy’s life, and Rafe could see why Oliver would want that, why it hurt him that his was so small.
Watching her catch her breath, Rafe wondered why she still hadn’t spotted him, but as… well actually, Oliver once told him, ‘Most people just don’t look up.’
He watched as her breath steadied, and when she crept back onto the street, he dropped down to follow. If she was making her way to the fire, she was doing it roundabout, moving along whatever street was emptiest rather than the most direct route, which he had to admit was a good idea.
The sky now dark, they came to the border between two districts. On one side, the shops and houses looked normal, but on the other, they were garishly painted with curved trusses and odd carvings. Strange hooked letters adorned signs Rafe didn’t have the remotest chance of sounding out. But he knew them instantly: Shivari.
“Burn the Council Clock will ya, ya Shiv bastards!” a shout came from a woman on a balcony, on the ‘normal’ side as she hurled a pot at a group of three men, shattering it at their feet. The men ducked into an alley, and a moment later, Rafe just about swallowed his tongue when he saw Olivia follow them in.
The building next to the alley was single-story with a low roof, and he pulled himself onto it to watch.
Olivia snuck along the alley wall, hiding from the men as they argued in hushed foreign voices. One of them sounded angry, the other two scared.
And then, flashes of blue flooded the alley, coming from Olivia’s sparking fist. The men froze.
“Talk,” she demanded. “What do you know about the fire?”
As his eyes adjusted to the light, Rafe’s view of the men became clear. The once angry one was now cowering beside the others. None of them looked threatening, but they all had one thing in common: the dark olive skin of Shivar.
“We don’t know anything,” an accented voice trembled. “Please… We just want to go home.” Another man dropped to his knees. “Please, don’t kill us!”
“I… I…” Olivia shook her hand out, scattering her spark, “don’t do that sort of thing. Be safe.” She crossed the alley, and Rafe dropped down to follow once more.
As she led him along the southern edge of the district, he heard windows shatter and the cries of young Norian men, “Play with fire, Shivs!” and “Burn with the Bastard!” Dark-skinned women, children, and men scurried past, ducking into buildings as locks bolted behind them.
A block farther on, a lone building came into view: a shop with a sign carved like an elephant and flames flickering through its shattered storefront. Outside, two Norian men were dipping cloth-wrapped rocks into fuel and igniting them.
Olivia charged toward the men. “Are you idiots drunk or something!?” she yelled.
One turned and yelled back, “We’re showing the Shivs what happens when you play with fire!”
“Your houses are probably what, right next door!?”
“Four blocks down. What’s that got to do with it?”
“Fire spreads, you morons! When the wind shifts it’ll burn you too.”
The two men looked at each other, dropped their burning rocks into the snow, and scurried off.
“Oh shite,” Rafe muttered when he saw Olivia charge into the burning building. He circled it, hoping to find her on the other side.
Halfway round, he spotted a third man, striking a flint at a cloth-wrapped rock dripping with fuel. Rafe found a rock on the ground, picked it up and threw it, not too hard, into the back of the man’s head. He shrugged as the man went down.
Reaching the other side, he saw several figures inside flinging burning rocks out while an old woman frantically gathered snow. She was tossing it through the door, trying to use it to put out the fire.
Olivia ran out, her head spinning back to stare at the woman. She raised her hand, and a snowbank drifted, all on its own, up and through the broken window.
? ? ?
Rafe followed her to an industrial zone where the streets were clear. It was mostly dark warehouses, and if Olivia was going to spot him anywhere, it would be here, so he slowed his pace and lagged behind.
He turned a corner, wondering if she had lost him, and there it was: a pillar of fire in the sky where the clock tower once stood.
Teams of men working brass pump carts were lined-up along the river, looking like children’s toys next to a mountain of burning rubble.
A horn blasted from behind. Rafe lunged aside, and a carriage swerved around him, its horses whinnying. The thing was sleek and black with copper wheels and spark lights on all four corners.
As the carriage raced on, it seemed to shrink, dwarfed by the tower of fire until it stopped by the river and four figures stepped out in silhouette.
The pump carts halted, their crews pulling them back frantically, and the four newcomers joined hands, forming a circle.
With a rush of noise like a waterfall, a jet of water arced from the river and crashed into the base of the fire. Steam hissed as orange flames gave way to red embers.
The pump crews returned to their carts and began finishing off the remnants.
Rafe watched Olivia approach the carriage. One of the figures waved at her, and she went to meet him.
Approaching carefully, Rafe circled round so as not to be seen. The figure was a man, not young, but not too old, dressed in a black suit emblazoned with copper stars.
They spoke only a moment before she got onto the carriage with him and sped off.
How would you "fix" Rafe?
