Chapter 6

Miles sat silently in the swift moving carriage, all vision snuffed by the black bag that enveloped his head. He wriggled his hands behind his back, but the rope was snug around his wrists.

After perhaps five minutes of wheel cackling and horse clops, Miles cleared his throat. “So, where are we going?” His voice was hot and muffled.

A fist in the form of a stone caught him in the stomach. He bent and wheezed with his guts separating and waited, bent, until they globbed back together and his breath returned. He coughed, then gasped, enduring the stinging pain in his insides as he righted and sat with his back against the carriage once again.

He didn’t ask anymore questions, but from the length of the ride he suspected they were headed west. This was confirmed by the pungent scent of old mollusks and seaweed trapped on piers and ship hulls. Gulls squawked over the sound of the hooves. The horses slowed. From the series of turns they were taking, Miles inferred they were in the shipping block, traveling the tight roads and alleys.

A man outside was shouting, “Get those boxes inside, you stinking sacks of glaybe guts!”

That was Gorran’s voice and insult. Miles was being taken to the criminal underground.

Speckles of light coming through the black cover were blotted, signifying they had entered a building, probably a nearby warehouse owned by the Docksmen: smugglers and black-market traders.

The carriage abruptly stopped, it shook with the weight of men hopping off and out, and Miles was pulled by the shoulders from his seat and shoved down a long hallway where the breeze of passing men ruffled his dress-shirt and there seemed to be rooms where criminals were talking loudly, and some were laughing. It brought fond memories to Miles’ mind.

Finally, a door creaked open, he was roughly guided and jostled into a hard chair with his arms twisting behind the back. The room smelled of sweat and blood. The hood was snatched from his head, along with a dozen hairs, and the single lantern hanging from the short ceiling made everything dull and fuzzy except the cheaply made table a few paces in front of him and the figure seated on the opposite side with his hands folded atop it.

Miles blew a black string off his lips and squinted until the figure cleared. Just as he thought. “Good morning, Jamison,” Miles said, casually.

“Hit’em.”

The tall beefy guard standing by the door came around, thrusting his fist once more into Miles’ guts. Miles tried not to vomit.

Jamison, always the professional, was wearing his weekend green jacket over his black vest and his signature black bowler’s hat. “Where’s my money, gull-stain!”

“What money?”

“Hit’em.”

This time, the big man gave a solid right-cross into Miles’ cheek, which punctured on his canine. Miles spat blood on the brown, crusted floor.

“For goddess’ sake!” Miles cried out, “It was, what? Two dinare?” Now he remembered, that was the money he gave to old Kilmoy yesterday.

Jamison stood, fists planted on the table and raised his voice. “Two and a third dinare, Miles! You were supposed to pay me back a month ago! That money could have gone into investment, the Poor Rain came back into dock three days ago with two crates of black truffle. Do you have any idea how much money I could have made with an extra two dinare of that stuff? The High Court would pay ten times that. Where’s my money?”

Miles was the one who told Jamison about that shipment, and personally knew the rich men who would pay such a price. “I don’t have it.”

“Hit’em!” Jamison said, pointing his stubby finger as though the big guy needed an indication.

The guard’s left-hook was quick, but not as strong. A copper smell and something wet flowed over his lips, pittering on his shirt. He blew blood out of his nose, enduring the sharp and persisting pain in his face and head.

Jamison banged his fists on the table, “Damn you to the void, Miles! You better get that money, and get it fast. I swear to the Architect that I won’t hesitate to have you hung by your wrists and your belly slit open; I will turn Ana’s mythology into reality, you will beg for death, and I will dry your guts into rope!”

He only ever brought up Ana’s mythology to people he liked. If he didn’t value your friendship, Jamison wouldn’t mention the fairy-elf tale; if he did, you wouldn’t hear the end of it. Miles would have smiled at the compliment if his lip wasn’t split from the inside. “I can’t get the money, Jamison.”

Jamison grunted, flipping the table against the wall. The echo and crash made Miles’ eardrums go taut in the little room. “Why in the void not?” Jamison shouted.

“Because I’m going to be an Adventurer. I’ll be leaving in a day or two, so I won’t have time.”

Jamison’s shoulders dropped, and his enraged and growling face relaxed. “Adventuring?” he said, softly. “But you will be coming back to the city every few days, won’t you?”

If Miles was going to the Pool of the Dead, which now more than ever he felt backed into a corner, he may be absent for weeks. Or eternally. “I don’t think so,” Miles responded, with a gentle tone.

Jamison stared, as though he didn’t believe it. Miles hardly believed it himself. “Ah, void!” Jamison said, nearly in tears. “How’re we gonna get on with things without you?”

The same bulky hands that had turned Miles’ face into a sack of potatoes now carefully untied his hands and gingerly assisted him to his feet. Miles’ left eye was swollen and squint, even so he straightened his shirt and dusted his knees. He righted his hair with his fingers.

Again, the wind was knocked from his lungs, not from the guard’s fist but from Jamison’s forceful hug. “Miles!” he said. “Who’s gonna get the sly from sea captains and the nobles from now on? Aw, god, look at what Francis did to you.” Taking a silk kerchief from his jacket pocket, Jamison tidied up Miles’ lips and nose. “Nothin’ personal, buddy, you just owed me money ‘sall. Had to ruff you up a bit. Ya shoulda said somethin’ sooner, Miles. Don’t you worry ‘bout the coins, your debts are forgiven.”

Miles took the bloodied rag and held it below his nose. “Sure, Jami. But I’m late for coffee now.”

“With Celsest? Oh, god! Wait you’re really goin’ to be an Adventerure; you’re not pulling my leg jes’ to get out of a little beating, are ya?”

“No lie, Jami. I’m going to round up a few more desperate kids to use as monster fodder and then I’m heading out for a long time.”

Gripping Miles’ arms and looking up at him with respect, Jamison said, “I want to give you somethin’, like a parting gift, what do you need for your Adventure?”

Miles checked the kerchief to see if his bleeding stopped. “I need a hasty ride to Baron Realta’s house, and a Healing scroll.”

“Francis!” Jamison said, turning to the guard. “See what we have in the supply box.”

After Jamison’s lamentations and good-wishes, the guard returned with a single scroll. “All we have are a few of these.”

Taking the scroll, Miles unrolled it hoping to find a minor Healing spell he could use to clean himself up with. The soft but firm texture of the paper, almost like cotton, emanated a gentle warmth in his hands, not strong but telling of the power held within. Runes, which were so ancient no one could read, ran across the first three lines of the unwrapped page, then in another unknown language there ran several more lines. After that the letters became more familiar, except with slants, dots and accent marks, which a few monks had learned how to pronounce. Finally, after reading the legible paragraph, Miles sighed. It said, “Protection.”

“Sorry Miles, we gotta get to restock on scrolls. Was waitn’ for you to come up with some info, honestly.”

Rolling the page with a painful grin of irony, Miles shook his head. “Don’t worry about it. I should always carry a spare one of these anyway.”

Up in a carriage, and with Frances at the reigns, Miles sped away from his minor detour, an hour late for coffee. Hopping off at the Realta family gate, cold iron rods that swirled with bronze tips, Miles waved a friendly goodbye to the man who had just assaulted him, pushed open the gate, strolled across the sweet and humid garden and, not very gentlemanly, banged on the door. His haste and throbbing cheek shallowed his patience.

Expecting the butler, Miles stood aside with his hand in his pocket. The door opened, and there stood Baron Realta himself, his balding head neatly greased and short at the crown, his face: thin yet wrinkled. Obviously unamused, his long frown drooped down his cheeks and he stared, beady-eyed, at Miles from the threshold.

Miles took his hand out of his pocket, ran his fingers through his now stringy hair, and buttoned his cuffs. “Good morning, Baron. I have an appointment with Miss Realta.”

Long and dry, Baron Realta responded, “An appointment that you are late for.” His small brown eyes slowly went down and up in inspection, and Miles wished there was a way to hide the blood on his chest and the sweat on his collar. “Late for… typical reasons, I am sure.”

“Quite so.” Miles bowed to break the tension and drop the subject.

The baron receded from the gap and the door creaked open. Miles stepped inside. His soiled boots stuck with each step on the polished maroon and white marble squares, noticeable with clicks that echoed between the mahogany walls and up the white stairs. Celest wasn’t waiting on the couch or leaning over the railing, which hurt his feelings: it would have been nice to know she was earnestly waiting for his arrival. The door clunked behind him, and Miles turned to find the old Baron nose-to-nose with him. His breath splashed over Miles’ cheeks like coffee and raspberry pastries, and there was green crust in his right eye.

“Mister Albion,” he said, dry and quiet. Miles’ heart seized in terror.

“Yes Baron?” he replied, casually, as if this were a perfectly normal distance to hold a conversation in.

“My daughter is in love with you, and I don’t know why.”

“That makes two of us.”

“Mister Albion.”

Miles gulped, and a tickling bead of sweat accumulated on his forehead. “Yes, Baron?”

“It is best that you remain silent for the next few moments.”

Miles remained silent.

“She was eligible to marry nearly ten years ago, and yet every suiter, no matter his wealth, no matter his privilege, nor name, she has refused. At first, I considered that she had the preference for the feminine, but no, reality is far crueler. She refused because of you. I have attempted, in my paternal responsibilities, to teach her through deprivation of her finances, however she somehow seems to accumulate money, and food, and clothing, even as I supply her none.”

Perhaps now was not the time to reveal Celest’s and his “redistribution” schemes during her times of hardship.

“When she was small, I beat her because she was often at your side, and you were only slum riff raff. You were then, as you are now.”

Miles’ fear was slowly rolling into anger, like pushing a boulder up a hill.

“Do you know who came to see her last week? Lord Eckins’ son asked for her hand, and do you know what she said? Nothing, she only laughed and strolled back up the stairs.”

Oh, goddess. That would have put her in the fourth most powerful family in the city. The baron was going to kill him.

“I’m going into my study, Mister Albion, and I am going to fetch my sharpest rapier, and if I come back and you are still here, I will thrust it through your heart.”

Dry throated, Miles rasped, “I am opposed to violence.”

The baron swiftly eyed the crimson on his shirt. “Apparently.” Baron Realta took five steps past him before Miles came to his senses.

“Wait!” The baron turned angrily on his heel. The hatred in his eyes made Miles’ jaw tremble. “Baron, I am going to be leaving the city. For good, and only in one or two days.” The baron’s brows raised. “I have decided to pick up Adventuring. And I only need some supplies and one or two more bold and heroic volunteers before I leave. With utmost honesty, Baron, I came here today in order to tell Miss Realta goodbye.”

Baron Realta’s shoulders relaxed. “Is that so? This is not a repeat of many years ago, is it?”

With every passing hour, Miles became more entrenched in his compact with Elle. “No, Baron, I already have a Team.”

Hands behind his back, the baron, once again, came close. “Good. I will allow the elements and monsters attend to your fate.”

Instinctively, Miles returned, “I do not believe in fate.”

At that, the old baron squinted, pressed his lips together, then turned away. “You have one hour to say your farewells, Mister Albion.” And with that he disappeared into his study. No doubt he would be counting every second on the grandfather clock, and greedily shining his rapier.