Losian walked out onto the street and looked both ways. The houses were crowded together, four and five story dwellings leaning together like old friends after a night of drunken revelry helping each other home, many looking like they had engaged in a bout or two of fisticuffs. The upper stories still had shutters, most repaired with castoff wood. The lower floors, easily accessible from the ground, had no shutters, glass, or even oiled cloth to stop the weather from dancing in the rooms. Below the street were what appeared to be dark holes, broken steps leading into murky cellar entries. The inhabitants of the upper floors were carefully never to go near these entry ways.
Losian wondered if Scrivener knew how to defend herself. If the drawings had been tossed, it was in those chinks to horror that he’d find them. He should wait for Gruthwin. They weren’t places you went without adequate backup. He turned to look at Scrivener who was walking up and down the alley examining it, mimicking him.
“How do you know what to look for? And if you find something, if it’s what you want?” she asked coming to join him on the street.
“I’m a sprigner,” he answered shortly.
He set off walking along the street, peering into the cellars. It was virtually impossible to see what was down there, too much detritus.
“What are we looking for?” Scrivener asked.
“I’m looking for anything which doesn’t belong here.”
Scrivener laughed. “Do you like being inscrutable?” She toed a pile of what looked like the dessicated body of a rodent, probably a rat. “There is not much food here. See, scrivener the rats are starving,” she said in a poor imitation of his voice. “Look closely scrivener and you to will be able to discern what is not visible.” Now she was laughing hard enough that she barely got that last out. “I’m sure it’s not that complicated. Tell me what you’re looking for. I’m not just a sketch artist,” she said once the laughter had passed.
Losian flushed, but quickened his pace so he stayed ahead of her. He didn’t want her to see that her laughter had affected him. Was he that pompous?
“I’ll get it out of Gruthwin you know so you might as well let me help. Two eyes are better than one.”
“Sets,” he snapped, “two sets of eyes are better than one.”
“That’s presuming that both your eyes are open,” Scrivener said idly as she started down one of the cellar steps. “There’s quite a pile of stuff down here.”
“Don’t,” Losian started to say as she descended the steps. The Scrivener gave a squeak and stumbled backwards up the few stairs she had descended. She landed on her rump, kicking her feet.
Losian had his knife out and it flashed down, severing the tentacle of the creature that had her in it’s grasp, dragging her up the remaining step. “Don’t you know anything? You don’t go into alleys, cellars, or wander the streets at night, without protection,” he snarled at her.
“What was that?”
“Who knows. This had been a mage quarter a long time ago. There was an accident and a spell got loose,” he knelt down and started to pry the tentacles still attached to her ankle away. “These are the remains. They are dying out, slowly. That’s why people live several floors up.” He waved his knife towards the buildings.
“Why hasn’t someone cleared them out?” Scrivener demanded, standing up and gingerly placing her foot on the ground.
Losian shrugged. “Who would pay for it?”
“The king? Right, sorry I forgot. These are poor people. Can’t spend money on them. Their barely citizens.”
“Patrollers patrol and our mages get rid of the worst of them. Most of the time they feed on strays.”
“Stray children?” she asked sarcastically.
Losian shrugged. She was right. The poor didn’t have many rights in Agen. Some of the older ferwardens talked about things being different before the king started to get sick. He wouldn’t know. It had been this way since he had joined.
“I’m looking for drawings,” he told her.
“The ones the other scrivener had done?”
Losiana nodded as he looked around finally locating a long piece of wood that had not yet been scavenged for repairs or firewood and then for some stones. After gathering quite a few, he threw them down the stairs listening closely after four or five. There was a rustling sound, so he threw a few more and then there was silence. He drew his knife and carefully eased down the stairs holding the stick in his other hand. Once there he pulled the refuse piled in the far corner towards him so he could examine it in the diffused light of the setting sun. He could see nothing that looked like the drawings so he retreated up the steps.
He repeated the process down most of the street with the scrivener gathering the stones and Losian checking the trash. They finally stopped when it got too dark to see with no sign of the drawings to show for his efforts.
“Why are they so important?” the scrivener asked.
“They are the pictures of the dead girls I’m investigating.” He threw the stick at a building. “It’s like starting over. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.” Losian turned on his heel and walked away, frustration quickening his strides. He needed a drink or a fight or both.
Losian walked into the building which contained the room he slept in. It was late, very late. He had eaten and then sat drinking bad wine for several hours brooding over the alley and the drawings. His building was at the edge of the Second Radial quarter, a butcher shop on once side and a green grocer on the other. It hadn’t been sucked into the general decay of that quarter, not quite. He entered the building, nodding towards the landlady’s door, slightly ajar. She was always there watching who was coming and going. On occasion, if someone was asking for him she’d tell him. He climbed the stairs, feeling slightly wobbly. That last glass was probably one glass too many. He fumbled with his key but manged to get it in and the door opened. He shut the door behind him, trying to decide whether to just fall onto his bed or whether it was worth disrobing. A breeze ruffled his hair. He froze, his senses fully alert. His window was open. He never left his window open. You don’t know what might come in from the night.
Losian pulled his knife and sidled to the right trying to locate the intruder. He strained to hear some sound, any sound, a quiet breath, the sliding sound of clothes as someone moved, the rustle of leaves from his plants. Nothing. He stood there for a long time, and then a while more. Still nothing. He finally moved softly deeper into his room. On the right was a candle. He lit it and looked around. His window was slightly ajar, the night air making the leaves of the plants on the sill tremble gently. He made a circuit of his room. Nothing had been taken or disturbed as far as he could see. He never kept anything of importance here; a few changes of clothes, two plates and mugs, some food, rapidly going stale since it had been several days since he had been home, his books and his plants. He lit two more candles, the only luxury he allowed himself and went over to the stack of books. Several of them had been moved. He looked at them and carefully moved them aside with his knife. Underneath were drawings. He picked them up; his drawings, or rather Notir’s drawings. He riffled through them. He thought they were all there. He’d have to get his notes and double check. He put them down, moving one of the books to anchor a corner of the pile.
This investigation was getting stranger and stranger. The alley, the missing bag, and now the drawings. The bag was still missing. He extended a finger to touch the top sketch, drawing on his power to see if he could see who had taken them. Nothing, absolutely nothing, a void. That he had never seen. Whoever had handled them had a knowledge of magic that was different, more subtle than anyone he had ever met. The mage from the alley? Why would she return the drawings? How did the person returning them know where he lived? Gruthwin didn’t know and he was the closest to a friend Losian had in the ferwardens. Was it the same person who took them? Too many questions and he was tired. He decided against taking off his clothes. He’d change in the morning.