Chapter 7
Losian, carrying Notir’s satchel, met Gruthwin early at the dutyhalme. He wasn’t surprised that the scrivener was missing; Wedgrens were known to be unreliable.
“What did you find out from the Landgraf?” Losian asked Gruthwin.
“She’s 13 and was out walking with her maid. The maid stopped to look at a hat in a shop window. The girl was gone when she turned back,” Gruthwin told him. “I’ve got a miniature. Taking little thing, blond, blue eyes.” He hunted through his pockets and pulled out a small picture, offering it to Losian. Losian didn’t take it, just looked at the picture.
“That was it? She was there and then gone? Which day?” Losian asked.
“Tewesdag, around ofernon. They weren’t sure what street,” Gruthwin said.
“Didn’t you talk to the maid?”
Gruthwin grimaced. “She’s dead. The Landgraf apparently was so furious with her that he ordered her executed.”
Losian winced. The landgrafs had the power of summary execution over their people on their land and somehow, this power had been extended to their residences in Agen. The ferwardens didn’t investigate deaths in a Landgraf’s residence unless the Landfurst ordered it. “Foolish,” he muttered. “Did you talk to the other servants? Maybe some of them knew which streets she liked.”
Gruthwin shook his head. “No one would talk to me. Afraid they’d be blamed.
Losian sighed. “I’ll talk to them,” he said as he walked into the sprigner’s duty room. Captain Fiftigsman wasn’t in yet. That was one of the reasons he liked to come the dutyhalme early. He threw the satchel on the desk. There was a commotion from the biddenrum.
Gruthwin peered out of the duty room to see what it was. “Let her through Heafman. She’s our new scrivener,” he called.
Losian ignored the scrivener as she walked into the room, the amulets wrapped around her skirt chiming softly. “So this is where the sprigners sit,” she called cheerfully. “Can’t say I’m impressed with the room.” She strolled around it as Losian did his best to ignore her, unbuckling the satchel, pulling out the contents to examine the pictures in more detail. He should have done it last night but he was tired and when he woke he had been too rushed to get to the dutyhalme to look. He paused as he watched her jump up onto the dais to look at the captain’s desk. “Get away from there,” he growled.
She grinned at him as she hopped down, sauntering over to where he and Gruthwin were standing. “What’s that?” she asked pointing at the satchel.
“The scrivener’s bag. It’s where you put all the drawings and recordings for an investigation. Once the investigation is over, the papers are filed in the back of the dutyhalme,” Gruthwin said.
The scrivener pulled a folded piece of paper out of her skirt and held it out. “From yesterday. Didn’t know what to do with it.”
Losian snatched it from her and carefully unfolded it. The drawing was only slightly smudged. “This is evidence,” he snarled.
Scrivener shrugged as she pulled the pile of papers towards her. Losian reached out to stop her, his hand hovered above the pile and then dropped to his side when she gave him a sharp look. “I presume the last scrivener did these?” she asked, as she leafed through the pile. She laid out the drawings of the three dead women looking at Gruthwin for an explanation.
“Those are the pictures of women whose death’s we’re investigating. They all died from lack of blood.” Gruthwin was using his court voice, a monotone which Losian knew didn’t do justice to what they had seen. They were really girls, although Jaraah had said they were technically women having had their first menses. There had been no marks on them to indicate how they had died. He supposed that losing all your blood meant you died but how the blood was let was not clear; no blood, no marks.
“You think mages are involved,” Scrivener said tapping the picture she had done. “Some sort of ritual?”
Losian nodded then shook his head. “I don’t know. The vision might have nothing to do with this.”
Gruthwin grunted as he examined the sketch. “Could you tell if it was cloth or something else she was lying on?” he asked Losian.
“It was red, like blood, but she didn’t appear to have a mark on her.”
“Like these girls?” Scrivener asked.
“There are a lot of rituals which require bodies and blood. Not all of them result in deaths,” Gruthwin said. “Sometimes a cloth is used which is saturated in animal blood. A woman’s body, um,” he looked distinctly uncomfortable, “is used without harm to the woman. It may have been a healing circle or something along those lines.” By this time his blush had spread down his neck.
“Oh, so they may have been healers?” Scrivener asked pertly.
Losian could tell that she didn’t believe, anymore than he did or Gruthwin for that matter. “We won’t know until we get more information and it might not have anything to do with our case.”
Scrivener gathered up the papers, making sure that their edges all aligned neatly. She peered into the satchel. “Clever, divisions,” she muttered as she slipped them into the satchel. She pulled the strap over her head so that the bag lay against her hip. “Where do I get more paper and a pencil?”
Gruthwin left and returned with what she required. She placed those in the satchel and buckled it. “Where to now?”
Losian ignored her question as he picked up his cloak and led the way out of the dutyhalme, turning towards the area in Agen where the landgrafs lived.
They walked quickly down the street until they found a dray stand. The three large dray horses were just pulling in to the loading area and Losian pushed his way to the front to ensure that he got on. He ignored the grumbling of the people that he shoved out of the way. The Efennes’ wheel of justice pin ensured that it’s bearer received preferential treatment on all public conveyances. The drivers hated them because they didn’t pay, but put up with it since they paid less ferthgeld because of this service.
Losian dropped onto the right hand bench seat with Gruthwin settling on one side and the scrivener just beyond him. The other passengers paid the driver and climbed warily over the ferwardens’ legs to settle further down the bench. Most had gone to the other side so they could avoid sitting near or even looking at the three of them. There were several comments about wedgren’s but he glared at the loudest mutterer which settled the rest down. The dray started with a lurch. Gruthwin who knew better than to talk to Losian, slumped down and shut his eyes. Losian watched the scrivener over Gruthwin’s head as her head swiveled to try and see everything as they traveled out of the factors ring, through the crafters and the shops ring to finally arrive in the ring which housed the landgrafs. He wondered if she had ever seen residences that covered an area that a dozen shops might occupy further in towards the bay, not that she could see the residences which lurked behind the high walls and tightly closed gates.
The dray, which had made frequent stops on it’s way outward clopped down the street which ran behind the residences. A service that many, not all, landgrafs provided for their servants. It was cheaper to provide a source of transportation for servants than provide shelter and food for them when not required. Losian finally stood and walked to the front, holding tight to a bar above his head running lengthwise down the wagon.
“Stop at the next residence,” he ordered the driver. He waited until the horses had been pulled to a stop before he jumped down, Gruthwin and the scrivener following.
“Who are we visiting?” Scrivener asked.
“Landgraf Westmoreland,” Gruthwin said. “His daughter has gone missing.”
“I’ll wait out here,” Scrivener said promptly. “No one wants a Wedgren in their house. Lighted fingered the whole lot you know.”
“You come with us and record everything that people say,” Losian growled. “That’s what scriveners do. You said you could write.”
“I can write. People may not be, um, comfortable, with me there,” Scrivener replied.
“You write and don’t touch anything. And if I clear my throat, I want you to mark what was said just before.”
She nodded slowly but looked confused. “He can tell when someone is lying,” Gruthwin told her in a low voice. “Handy. That’s why Fiftigsman doesn’t like him. Won’t talk to him at all, just yells.”
“Gruthwin.” Losian said warningly.
“She needs to know. And if he scratches his ear, mark that as a problem response,” Gruthwin said, unphased by Losian’s obvious displeasure.
Losian walked to the door in the wall and pounded on it. A small boy with a surprisingly deep voice, jerked it open demanding to know what he wanted. Losian took a closer look and realised it was an older man, a crook backed, dwarf of a man with a surly expression. Inevitably, having to deal with any of the door servants of a landgraf put Losian’s back up. They were, without exception, the most arrogant of any landgraf’s arrogant servants.
“We’re hear to talk to the Landgraf or the Landgraven, about their daughter,” Losian ordered.
The door servant tried to fill the door but Losian picked him up by the scruff of the neck and moved him aside so Gruthwin and the scrivener could enter. “I could have come by the front door, but I chose to be discrete. Don’t make me question that decision,” he growled. He dropped the man and started to walk up the paved path. All of the residences seemed to be designed in the same way. It was something Losian despised about them. They had no imagination. He rapped hard on the door and opened it without waiting for an answer, ignoring the gibbering of the door keeper trying to push through from behind.
They walked into an anteroom which led off in two directions, down stairs to where they could see cooks bustling about preparing food, lunch probably, and the other down a corridor which most likely led to the front of the house. He went down this corridor, interspersed by doors. He opened them as he went, along, only seeing storage rooms until he came to a room inhabited by a grey haired man behind a desk piled high with papers. The window set high on the wall filled the room with sunshine. The door keeper finally darted around them.
“Mansig Hleafweard, I could not stop them. He, they want to see the Landgraf or Landgraven.”
Hleafweard stood up, the sun glancing off his bald head. “You are?”
“Sprigner Losian, Mage Gruthwin and our scrivener,” Losian said briskly.
“I am Hleafweard, the Landgraf of Westmoreland’s steward. How may I help the ferwardens?” His bright black eyes, reminding Losian of a sparrow from his childhood home, darted at each one. They lingered longest on the scrivener’s bare feet, which did not surprise Losian.
“We’re investigating the Landgraf’s daughter’s disappearance. We need to talk to the servants and the Landgraf and Landgraven.”
“If it will bring back the lady Ronja, then I will arrange for that.” He motioned them to seats, which were leaning against the wall.
Gruthwin pulled two over to sit near the desk. Losian went to sit down when Gruthwin coughed and motioned for the scrivener to sit, but the scrivener moved over to the chair against the wall, pulling it slightly away and sat. Losian rolled his eyes and sat down. The scrivener already had her paper out.
“What do you want to know from me?” Hleafweard asked.
“Did the Lady Ronja always go out at the same time and with the same maid?” Losian asked.
“Laronda liked to take her out around ofernon, usually for a glass but sometimes two glasses. The child had instruction during tidsang.”
“Do you know if they always followed the same route?”
“You think that someone planned to steal the child? Who would? She is the youngest child. Her older siblings, particularly the eldest, a boy, would be the most likely target if they wished to strike at the Landgraf. She was not important.” Hleafweard said sadly.
“We must examine every angle,” Losian said, hating the pomposity of the phrase, true as it was.
“Do you know where she walked?” Gruthwin asked.
“The shop district in the first radial.”
“How long did the maid work for the Landgraf,” Losian asked.
“Laronda had been with her since she was a child. She was worried about what would happen when she became a woman. She didn’t have the skills to look after a woman of the Landgraf’s family.”
Losian and Gruthwin asked more questions but didn’t get more information.
“You wished to speak to the Landgraf and the Landgraven but both are out. Do you wish to wait or shall I arrange a time?” Hleafweard asked.
“I will let you know,” Losian said briefly. The other’s followed him out of the residence in silence.
Once they were clear of the residence Gruthwin slowed. “We are going to talk to the parents aren’t we?”
“If it’s necessary. Landgraf’s have very little to do with their children,” Losian said. Gruthwin opened his mouth to argue.
“Where are we going now?” The scrivener asked, diverting Gruthwin’s attention.
“The hat shop,” Losian said and strode away from the other two.
“We need to talk to the parents,” Gruthwin complained to Scrivener.
The first radial shops were not far so the three walked briskly to the start of the street then slowed down.
“What are we looking for?” Scrivener asked.
When Losian didn’t respond Gruthwin explained. “We might be able to see how she was taken.”
“It’s still early,” Scrivener pointed out. “It might have been easier when the street was more crowded.”
Losian winced. She was right but they didn’t have the time to wait around until ofernon. “You can come back and sketch the street,” he snapped.
The scrivener shrugged and slowed her steps even more to look into the shop windows they were passing. The shops were pretty much as expected. This far away from the river, which bisected the city, the shops were well kept, windows sparkling in the sun and the streets swept clean. Losian knew that the closer they got to the river, the meaner the shops would become with the streets becoming dirtier, the goods more tired looking until you ended up, right at the banks of the river with little hidey holes selling well-used clothes, some of which weren’t much better than rags, bruised fruit and spoilt meat, and lots and lots of shops where someone can sell something which they had ‘acquired’ for a fraction of the cost.
They reached the end of the street where the first arc became the second arc. There had been only one hat shop, a few doors away from the busy thoroughfare that demarcated the arcs.
“Go stand at the hat shop,” Losian ordered the scrivener. “Gruthwin, you go with her and then walk towards me.”
The other two positioned themselves and he watched as the scrivener looked in the window and Gruthwin walked slowly towards him. If the maid had really only looked for a brief moment there was no way the child could have been snatched. The shop next to the hat shop was a sweet shop. The child might have stopped to look in that window. He held up his hand and Gruthwin stopped. He beckoned and Gruthwin started again. The next shop was a silversmith, nothing there for the child to see. Gruthwin stopped beside Losian. The two looked up and down the street but the broad boulevard was wide open with no place someone could lurk waiting for a opportune moment.
Losian and Gruthwin walked back slowly to the candy shop. Scrivener joined them as the three stared into the window. The display showed a cornucopia of sweets; hard rocks, soft caramels, peppermint sticks, twisted licorice both red and black, the colours beckoning.
“She may have gone inside,” Scrivener commented. “Maybe someone spoke to her.”
Losian grunted and pushed the door open. Scrivener grinned at Gruthwin as they followed him. The shopkeeper, who had been arranging some candies behind the counter looked up as they came in. The scrivener leaned over the counter to poke at some brightly packaged candies.
“Leave them,” growled Losian.
Scrivener gave him a broad smile as she stood up, pulling out her papers she laid them on the counter, ostentatiously licking her pencil, ready to record.
“Two days ago a child was taken from the street. Did you she come in here?”
“A child, we get many children. You would have to describe her.”
“Lady Ronja, daughter of the Landgraf Westmoreland.”
The shopkeeper wiped his hands on his apron and shook his head, his jowls wobbling slightly. “Can’t say I recall.”
Losian leaned across the counter, his face close to the shopkeeper’s. “You lie. What time did she come in? Did she buy anything? Was she alone?”
The shopkeeper’s face paled. “She might have. I don’t recall.”
Losian tapped his check. “Maybe you should try harder. I hear that the trader sprigners are moving uptown. No one knows which shop they will check next.”
“I’ve paid my ferthgeld,” protested the shopkeeper, swiping at his forehead where beads of sweat had popped out.
“I know that, but do the trader sprigners?” Losian stepped back. “Thank you for your valuable assistance.” Losian turned and headed for the door. Gruthwin followed him. The scrivener took her time packing her papers away.
“No wait. I remember,” the man sputtered before Losian opened the door. “She did come in. There was a man with her.”
“Describe him,” Losian said, beckoning Scrivener closer. “In detail.”
“Tall, thin, black hair.” The shopkeeper was sweating profusely now. “Like her’s,” he said pointing at the scriveners.
“Short? Long?”
“Longish. Held back in a short tail.”
“Eyes?”
“I don’t know!”
“Hands, voice, nose.” Losian barked.
“Big hands, nose sharp, thin mouth. His mouth was thin and he barely moved it when he talked. He bought some licorice, red.” The shopkeeper moped his forehead. “They left through the back of the shop. Said he was in a hurry and he knew the alley behind was a shortcut to the next street over. Oh and he wore a bracelet, sort of like his,” the shopkeeper said pointing at Gruthwin.
“Sort of?”
“Well it didn’t look the same. It was silver though, yes, silver because it glinted when he paid for the licorice. I wouldn’t have seen it at all except for that.”
“Like this?” Scrivener asked, proffering the sketch she had done. The shop keeper nodded his head vigorously up and down, his jowls almost flapping.
Losian asked variations on the questions but got no more.
Chapter 8
Scrivener unwrapped a candy as they walked down the street. “Where did you get that? No don’t tell me,” Losian snarled as he grabbed the candy from her.
Scrivener grinned at him as she pulled another from her pocket. “Do we stop for lunch?” She asked as the middag bells started to ring.
Losian decided to ignore her. Gruthwin glancing at Losian replied. “Not here. Can’t afford the prices here, but there’s a nice little cafe near first radial’s dutyhalme. Not too expensive,” Gruthwin said hopefully.
Losian shrugged. “And the owner is pretty,” he said enjoying Gruthwin’s blush. “Not that it will do you any good,” Losian continued ruthlessly.
Scrivener looked from one to the other. “Mages can’t marry. Poor sods.” Losian said bluntly.
“It’s not that we can’t, it’s that we have to get permission and it has to be another mage and,”
“And there are few female mages. That’s one of the reasons I’m glad I’m not a mage.” Losian waved down a dray.
“We’ll get a bite from the street vendor near our dutyhalme,” he said as three men, junior clerks by their clothes, got up from the seat and moved towards the back of the dray.
The three sat down but did not talk until they reached the stop near the dutyhalme. The two men bought sandwiches, slices of fried meat on slabs of bread. Scrivener fished out a package which contained bread and cheese from one of her pockets. After they were finished Losian frowned down the street towards the station. “We need to find the man. Or at least someone who has seen him.” He turned away from the dutyhalme. “Can you make some copies of the sketch?” he asked the scrivener.
“Now?”
Losian nodded. She looked around for someplace smooth to draw on. Not finding something she squatted down at the edge of the wooden sidewalk, laying a stack down to act as a buffer and then a blank piece of paper on top. She sketched quickly. “Two?” At Losian’s nod she did another and handed one to Gruthwin and the other to Losian. “What now?”
“If he’s a mage, and the bracelet would indicate that, maybe one of the shopkeepers who sell to mages will know him,” Losian said.
“A silver bracelet does not make him a mage,” grumped Gruthwin. “I know. Mages wear them” and he pulled his sleeve back to show a twisted silver band. “But that didn’t sound the same.”
Losian nodded and thought for a bit. “It would explain why the child would go with him. Some sort of compulsion spell. But why would he take the girl? There’s been no ransom request.”
“Not that we know,” Gruthwin pointed out.
Losian shrugged. “Maybe. Check the shops anyways.”
Gruthwin nodded. “And what will you do?”
“I want to see if anyone knows when that last murdered girl was seen.”
“Losian,” Gruthwin said warningly. “The captain said…”
“I know what the captain said. I’ll ask around and then Scrivener can take me to where wedgrens can be found. Maybe someone there has seen him.”
“Wedgrens would not snatch children off the street. Just because that scared rabbit said that doesn’t mean he was a wedgren. Anyone with black curly hair is called wedgren,” Scrivener snapped.
“It’s what we have,” Losian said. She was right, he knew. That hair was uncommon in non-wedgrens but not out of the question. He looked at Scrivener as he thought about hair and eyes. He had his father’s features including his father’s eyes but he wasn’t like him at all. His brother though looked like his step-mother but was like his father through and through. Scrivener had grey eyes, not the usual black of a wedgren. He hadn’t noticed that before. Her hair had caught his attention. The shear amount of it was surprising; long, down passed her hips and curly. He wondered if she every combed it, whether a comb could even get through it. Her eyes were startling, below those dark eyebrows which arched finely above them and the nose. He didn’t know if it was a typical Wedgren nose but it was clean, the lines attractive, nostrils delicately flared. The face looked proud, disconcertingly so below that mass of unruly hair.
“I know the wedgrens in this city, and none of them would steal a child,” Scrivener insisted.
“You may be right, but we have to check everything,” Gruthwin said placatingly.
Losian shrugged. Everyone was capable of anything.”You might as well give me the picture of Ronja,” he asked Gruthwin.
Gruthwin pulled it out of his pocket and handed it over to Losian who shoved it in his pocked before gesturing for the scrivener to precede him. With a huff she started walking in the direction he wanted to go. They traveled in silence, the tap of his boots a background noise, her feet silent. Losian wondered idly how she could stand to walk through the city without shoes. He shuddered thinking of the things she must step in, although now that he was noticing, he realised that she didn’t walk in a straight line, carefully navigating around piles of refuse and skipping lightly over others. They finally reached the neighbourhood the last body had been found.
Losian then slowed down, stopping at shops and stalls along the way having the scrivener show the picture of the dead girl. No one recognised her.
“She may have been left here,” Scrivener suggested.
“I’m aware of that. But since no one has come forward about missing her, she could be from anywhere.”
“What was she wearing?”
“What? I don’t remember. Why?”
“Well, maybe we could identify where the garment came from,” Scrivener suggested.
“What good would that do. The clothes were probably second hand or third or fourth. They would have passed through so many hands that it would be useless.”
“Where are they?” Scrivener persisted. “It can’t hurt for me to look at them.”
Losian shrugged. He recognised an exercise in futility that the questioning of this area had become. He changed directions and took her towards the morgue. Instead of going in the door where the bodies were kept, he walked down a few paces to a worn door off an alley, knocking briskly. “Rog, it’s Losian, open up,” he yelled.
“Hold on, I’m coming,” replied a voice. The door was dragged open and an old man peered out. His hair was a dirty grey, matted mess, that flopped around a filthy face. At least Losian thought it was filthy. It could be that his mottled skin was the result of a sickness or something. It never seemed to get dirtier. Rog grinned, his tongue protruding from his mouth with no teeth to keep it in, like a fat pink maggot. “What you want?”
“The last woman I brought. Her clothes,” Losian said shortly. He hated it here. The room smelt of desperation, all that was left after death. It was filled with a jumble of goods; clothing, shoes, cloaks, hats. “If someone doesn’t claim the body, they’re wrapped in a shroud, buried in the paupers field and their goods are left here. After a bit, if no one claims them, they’re sold,” Losian said to the scrivener as he picked his way around a pile of what looked like rags. “Some of these things can’t find a buyer. Well where are they?” he almost snarled at the wizened man.
“This way Sprigner, your honourship.” The old man motioned them down another aisle towards the back. “Her clothes were better, much better. Barely worn.” He stopped in front of a pile and dug around in it, finally coming up with a dress.
Losian snorted, if he thought this dress was barely worn, he’d hate to see what the old coot thought was worn. The scrivener took the dress from the man and looked it over very carefully. She shot a look at Losian, with an almost imperceptible nod towards the old man. “We’ll let ourselves out,” Losian told him. The old man stood a moment but finally shuffled away.
The scrivener turned the clothes over and he saw that there was a maker’s label on the inside. “This was made for someone. Probably not your woman. But if we knew who it was we could find out where she sold it?”
“And what would that tell us?” Losian asked impatiently.
“What radial she lived in.” The woman moved on to the undergarments, dirty white, the chemise yellow under the arms. She turned them over and then looked at Losian.
“What?” he asked the scrivener impatiently.
“You read the mage’s medallion.” Losian nodded slowly. “Can you read the clothes?”
Losian shook his head. “Not enough emotion.”
“How did you know the medallion was useful? How do you know that these clothes aren’t?”
“They’ve been handled too much. The medallion,” he shrugged. He couldn’t put into words what he felt as soon as he touched the medallion. The clothes didn’t have that feel.
“Have you tried?” Scrivener persisted.
Exasperated Losian picked up the dress. Scrivener took it away from him and put the chemise in his hand. He looked at her.
“It’s the last thing whoever killed her would take off.”
Losian nodded. He held it letting his gift range over it. There was nothing. He balled it up when he got a glimpse. He looked down at a mended rip, a small tear carefully repaired. He looked closer and noticed that most of the needlework was slap-dashed. This, though, was carefully done and recent. The thread was not as grubby. He rubbed his thumb along it. She was standing, shivering in a room in just her chemise, her fingers stroking the repair. He could feel her concern that the man wouldn’t keep his promise. He could hear water somewhere running and the walls had mould. His sight began to dim and he dropped the clothing, grabbing his head. He was lowered gently to the ground and someone was kneading his neck. He sat there until the headache started to recede. He turned his head slowly to see he was sitting against a table with the scrivener beside him rubbing his neck. Her fingers were strong and he could feel the knots in his neck unraveling beneath them.
“Does that always happen when you do that?” Scrivener asked. Losian could only detect a mild interest in her voice.
“Yes. That’s why I don’t like doing it often,” he said pushing her hands away and getting to his feet slowly. The room whirled and then steadied. She scrambled to her feet after him, obviously concerned, the chiming from her clothes, soft as it was, irritating him. “I’m fine,” he snarled at her. He didn’t need her fussing at him. “What did you get down?”
The scrivener showed him what she had drawn. He was amazed at the detail, far more than any other scrivener.
“You were very detailed,” she said defensively, misinterpreting his look.
Losian grunted. He examined the room in the picture. “Must be near the river,” he muttered. He shoved the paper back at her and she tucked it away in the satchel. “Let’s go find out where you wedgren’s meet,” he growled. The scrivener shrugged and followed him out of the building.
Once outside he waited for her to lead the way. She stood there for a moment thinking, then led him down the street towards the trader’s arc. They walked along in silence until they came to a narrow alley which she turned down and then stopped at a small, dingy, tavern. If it had been dark he would never have seen it so grey and miserable did it look.
“Let me do the talking,” the scrivener said. “No one will talk to you.”
“Because I’m with the ferwardens?” he asked sardonically.
“No, because you’re not a Wedgren. Too many of us are accused of things we haven’t done to trust strangers,” Scrivener said as she opened the door.
Losian followed her in. The room was cramped, with a low ceiling and plenty of chairs and tables. It was brighter than he had anticipated with walls which were whitewashed clean, unlike the outside of the building. The lights, scattered around the room, were barely smoking. Scrivener walked to the counter, rapping on it once she was there.
“An ale for me and a glass of white for my friend here,” she called.
“I’m not your friend,” Losian hissed. She smiled at him as she searched through the satchel for the picture of the most recent dead woman and the mage. She then held out her hand to him. “The picture,” she said patiently. He gave it to her leaning against the counter looking around the room.
It was full of dark haired patrons, although he noticed none had scriveners grey eyes. The drinkers all watched him covertly as he waited for the barkeep to bring their drinks.
“Have you seen either one of these women, or this man?” she asked as she fished out some money from one of her pockets.
Losian turned back to take the glass. He had no intention of drinking it. The gods only knew what was in it. He took the smallest sip and was surprised enough to stare into the glass. He could tell that the scrivener was amused but she kept her eyes on the barkeep, sipping her ale.
“Can’t say as I have,” the barkeep said. “That hair now, that’s an old style.” He took the picture and walked around the counter approaching an old man near the hearth.
Losian moved to follow but the scrivener grabbed his arm, holding him still. She shook her head at him so he settled back to wait. The barkeep returned, handing the picture back to scrivener. “There was a tribe that wore their hair like that. No one’s heard much for a while, long while.”
Scrivener frowned at that. “Name?”
“He doesn’t remember. They stopped coming to the assemblies, sudden it was he says.” He looked over the other two pictures and shook his head. “Don’t know either of these.” He pushed the pictures back towards the scrivener.
Scrivener smiled and thanked him. She quickly finished her ale and strode towards the door. Losian gulped the rest of his wine catching her as she left the tavern. “We’re not leaving yet. I can get more out of him,” he said.
She shook her head. “You really think that they’ll tell you more? By the time you’re through the door, the old man will be gone.”
“I should have talked to him before we left,” Losian insisted.
“I’m not having you badgering one of mine,” she snapped.
“So he’s a wedgren,” Losian pointed out.
“Was. Maybe. The tribe is no more,” she replied. She slowed down a bit, thinking. “There might be another place. It’s not somewhere I want to go but I have heard that those wedgren who are banished sometimes go there.”
“Let’s go.”
“It’s dangerous.”
“I’ll send a note to Gruthwin. He’ll meet us there. Someone might warn the mage.”
“No one will warn him.”
Losian took her by the elbow. “We’re going. Where.”
“Near the old docks, Chandlers Way, I think,” she said.
Losian squashed the spurt of excitement. There had been the sound of water in his vision. The two cases were starting to come together or it may be a coincidence. He wouldn’t trap himself into either way. Losian wrote a quick note in his pad, tore it out and looked around for a boy. There were always boys looking to make a copper or two. He found one and promised that Gruthwin would give him two coppers on receipt of the note. Once that was done he started off towards Chandlers Way. It took them a quarter of a glass before they arrived at the top of the street. It smelt of rotting matter, a fuggy scent of old fish, decomposing meat and shit. Losian tried not to breath too deeply as they walked down the street. Scrivener was looking carefully at the buildings as they went, the chiming of her skirts as she double stepped or hopped to avoid the muck the only sound. She stopped before one whose front stoop was set at a crazy angle. The steps tilted alarmingly with two having boards missing. The door was the only intact piece in the whole building. The windows were either boarded up or broken and the lath work of the walls could be seen easily.
“I think we should wait for Gruthwin and maybe a patroller or two,” Scrivener said.
“Nervous? It’s not dark yet,” he said starting up the stairs. “We’ll just take a quick look. It doesn’t appear that anyone lives here.”
Scrivener followed him up the stairs and stood behind him as he pushed the door. There was no handle to turn. He had to lean hard before it began to move.
“I don’t think we’ll find anything here,” she said nervously.
Losian stepped through the door and walked into a large room, empty except for a pallet against one moldy wall like his vision. “She was here,” Losian said, excitement drawing him further into the room.
There was a noise off to his left and he turned to see a man, very similar to the picture step out of another room. Losian dropped his remaining throwing knife into his hand and had it flying towards the mage. The mage flicked his hand and the knife flew harmlessly by him, but Losian pulled his belt knife wishing for his lost throwing knife and launched himself against the mage hitting some sort of obstruction. A charm flew past his ear, hitting the barrier as well but it was closely followed by a knife which pierced it. Losian got to his feet, to see the mage jerk the knife from his shoulder and drop it but his hand was bloody. Losian smiled grimly; the charms weren’t just for aural effect and she didn’t depend on them alone. The mage flicked some of the blood away and laughed, making a gesture which picked Losian up and threw him against a wall. He landed hard, slightly dazed. He saw that Scrivener had also hit a wall and was lying crumpled on the floor. A wash of anger drove him to his feet and he flung himself once more at the mage, his belt knife clutched in his hand. He muttered the only defence spell he knew, a shield. The next attack from the mage slowed, but it still drove Losian to his knees, his shield, surprisingly, protecting him. Losian didn’t have the energy to get to his feet. Holding the shield was taking all his strength. The next attack shivered the shield he had erected. He prayed that Gruthwin would get there soon. The Mage took a step forward, as he attacked again. Losian’s head began to pound and his eyesight narrowed to a thin wedge, like looking through a crack from using his power. Another attack followed quickly and Losian could feel his shield disintegrating. Then the voice was there, the woman’s voice. “Behind him. Can you move your dagger, the one behind him.”
Losian carefully turned his head slightly until he could see his throwing dagger, lying on the ground. He pushed and it moved. He needed to pick it up not just push it. The Mage threw another bolt, this time fire, at Losian and it splashed against his barrier, or hers. He pushed again and then, like the last time, she slid along underneath his power, showing him how to lift it, aim it. The barrier shivered and the fire sheeted around it. The room was beginning to fill with smoke. Sweat was pouring down his face, from heat or effort or both, he had no idea. He could barely breathe. “That’s it, just a little higher. Good. Now, hard, push hard.”
Losian pushed and pushed and there was a scream and his head seemed to split and then he blacked out. He didn’t know how long he was out but he opened his eyes, streaming with water. He coughed and took in a lungful of smoke. He managed to get to his knees. The room was filled with flames. Scrivener, where was she? He looked and saw she was still against the wall. He crawled over. Just as he got there there was a crack and part of the ceiling came down. He threw himself over her and a beam fell hard, the wall keeping it from crushing the two of them. For a moment he thought they were done when he heard someone bellowing his name. Gruthwin!
“In here, we’re in here,” he yelled and then started to cough, wracking cough after cough. He couldn’t get out anything more. Then Gruthwin was there, using a shield to keep the fire away from him. He crouched down and pulled at Losian’s foot. Losian jerked his foot free and wiggled around to push Scrivener towards him, the satchel, protected by her body snagged for a moment but came free. “Take her. I’ll follow,” he rasped and did. Gruthwin put her down on the sidewalk outside and scrambled up the stairs to grab Losian,dragging him down the stairs and out on the street. The house gave a shudder and then caved in.
“Damn you, man. You should have waited!” Gruthwin raged at him. He went back to turn Scrivener over. “She’s still breathing. No thanks to you. What were you thinking? She hasn’t been trained.” Gruthwin was furious. Losian couldn’t remember seeing him that angry before.
Scrivener starting coughing and then struggled to sit up. Gruthwin helped her. She sat there for a moment then looked around, relaxing when she saw the satchel beside her. She pushed Gruthwin away gently so she could stand up. “Thanks Gruthwin. I think,” she coughed some more, “I’ll be fine. Losian?” Gruthwin jerked his head towards Losian. Scrivener walked over to look at him. “You’ve got some bad burns,” she murmured looking him over. “Time to get you home I think.” Her accent was thicker than what he remembered. The voice had no accent, no not quite. It was like his grandmother’s. Just a hint of the north. Not the thick eastern one Scrivener had.
“I’m fine,” he muttered, trying to stand. Swaying he could see her smudged face showed her disbelief. Once he was up, she slid her arms around his waist. “Lean on me. We’ll take you home.”