Jon Sprunk - Shadows son

Ral extended a hand from the throne. "Come, my dear. Stand beside me so we can address our subjects together."

As Markus took her arm in a painful grip, Josey moved her feet to keep from being dragged across the tiles. With every step the turmoil of dread grew within her bosom. She cast her gaze about the hall, hands bunched into the folds of her skirt.

Caim, where are you?

Nightfall greeted Caim on his return to Othir. He didn't need to use the Ereptos tomb tunnel; the soldiers had abandoned the gates, and for good reason. The city was destroying itself in a tumult of blood and fire.

He slipped in through the Black Gate and stalked down streets scarred by fighting and mayhem. A smoky miasma hung over the city. The Processional was in shambles, with sodden furniture, broken streetlamps, and heaps of trash, some draped with dead bodies. A team of slaughtered draft horses lay in Dawnbringer Square, still in their traces. Makeshift barriers showed where the city's forces had tried to contain the violence and failed. Above the carnage, Celestial Hill loomed over the rooftops, its pristine walls gleaming like ivory in the moonlight.

"This place is a mess," Kit said as she floated over his head. "Are you sure you're going to be able to find him?"

Caim turned down a narrow lane. "I'm going to try."

A light rain filled the cracks in the street and collected in shallow pools. With knives drawn, Caim watched the dark nooks and doorways on either side of his path. His father's sword hung between his shoulder blades with strange familiarity. He wasn't sure why he had taken it. His knives had served him well enough these many years, but he was running on instinct now, and taking it had felt like the right thing to do. From time to time he found himself reaching up to touch the shagreen-wrapped hilt, and a shiver would run through his arm. After this night was over, he'd be happy to bury the thing again.

As he entered the Gutters, Caim almost ran into the backs of a gang of citizens. They marched down the center of the street, truncheons in hand. With soot and bloodstains on their clothing, they looked like they had already seen some fighting. He waited until they passed. As he crossed the street, his gaze was drawn to the hulking specter of the work house, resolute against the city skyline, walls glistening in the rain, affecting everything in its vicinity like a bloated spider in the center of a tattered web. Calm's fingers tightened around his knives as he went on his way.

He dipped into a crooked side street. It was so dark he had to navigate mostly by feel, following its meandering length for two blocks to the mouth of a constricted intersection. Water dripped down onto him from the eaves above as he stood in the safety of the alley's shadows. By its looks, Ale Street had escaped the worst of the rioting so far. A man's body in the uniform of the night watch was sprawled in the gutter outside the Blue Vine beside an overturned cart. Blood clotted in the reddish hair where half his head had been caved in.

"I'll check around back." Kit darted away.

Caim stared across the street. Slivers of light leaked from gaps around the wineshop's shuttered windows. A soft clack on cobblestones drifted through the rain. A horse, its chestnut coat rain-soaked and soiled with grime, nosed through piles of garbage. The ends of leather reins trailed in the puddles.

Caim opened and closed his fists. What was he waiting for? Josey needed him, and yet he hesitated. He had fought for her, killed for her, sacrificed everything. Was he prepared to die for her, too? He could run. Start over. Kit would be ecstatic. All he had to do was leave Josey to her fate. Just walk away.

Caim caressed the ice-cold amulet that hung from his wrist. He couldn't do it. He couldn't leave her to Ral's tender mercies. And though he was loath to admit it, he had become fond of this tired old tramp of a city. If he ever left, it would be on his terms.

Having decided, he crossed the swampy street and nudged open the door. Faces looked up as he stepped into the common room. Half a dozen men and one woman sat around the hearth. Several hands stole inside clothing to reach for hidden surprises, but one look from him was enough to stop them cold. Mother stood behind the bar. A heavy mallet rested on the counter beside her, the kind used for breaking open cask bungs. Or caving in the skulls of young soldiers.

Caim scanned the room for a specific face, but didn't find it. "I'm looking for Hubert."

"He ain't here," Mistress Henninger replied in a terser tone than her usual. "Haven't seen him."

"Since when?"

She shrugged, one sleeve of her heavy blouse slipping off the shoulder. She reached up to put it back. "Earlier. Before sunset."

"Any idea where he is now?"

A bearded man stood up clutching a stick of firewood in his fist. "You'll get out of here if you know what's good, young buck."

Caim stared at the speaker. After half a dozen heartbeats, the bearded man settled back in his seat.

Mother came around the bar. "Don't mind him, Caim. You're a welcome sight. Hubert came by a few hours ago when the fighting took a turn for bad, and he grabbed up all the men to go with him." She shot a scornful look at the group huddled around the hearth. "At least, all the real men. Anyways, no telling when he'll be back."

"I'll wait." His voice, though hardly above a whisper, carried across the room. No one objected.

"Drink?" Mother asked.

With a nod, Caim took a seat. He tucked his knives away, but kept them loose in their sheaths. Kit floated down from the ceiling and alighted beside him.

"Nothing out there," she reported. "There's some skirmishing over in the next block, but it seems to be moving away from this part of town. The worst is down by the docks. I think someone set fire to the city granaries."

"That should keep the tinmen busy," he murmured under his breath.

"I don't know. The harbor is out of control. I didn't see any soldiers. Not any live ones, at least."

Mother brought over his drink and set it on the table. "Don't know if you'll want to be finding Hubert just now, Caim. He wasn't in his right mind when he left, if you take my meaning."

"No, I don't. What happened?"

She rubbed a hand over her prominent bosom. "Well, 'tisn't for me to say, but you got a right to know what you're walking into."

The front door banged open. All conversation ceased as three men entered. Caim almost didn't recognize the young man in their midst. Bloodstains marred Hubert's once-fine clothes, and his hat was missing. By the gore slimed on its hilt, the rapier strapped to his hip had seen some use this night. The young nobleman's gaze had a strange cast as it swept through the taproom. When it settled on Caim, a vicious smile twisted Hubert's bruised lips.

"Mother," he said, "we have a hero among us. Set this man up with another drink on me."

Hubert's words were slurred, but there was an unmistakable air of menace behind them as he came over to Calm's table, followed by a pair of thick-shouldered goons.

"I'm not here to drink, Hubert. I came looking for your help."

Hubert plopped down in a chair. His bodyguards, or whatever they were, watched the room.

"My help? I'm a little busy right now, Caim. Tonight is the moment of our grand coup. We've got the Reds on the run, but you already know that, don't you? You paved the way, so to speak."

"What are you talking about, Hubert?"

Hubert laughed, a dry sound devoid of humor. "Playing the innocent, Caim? There's no need, I assure you. You can take full credit for my father. He was, after all, a tyrant at heart."

Caim had a sinking suspicion he knew the answer, but asked anyway. "What about him?"

"He's dead, Caim. Someone entered his rooms at the palace last night and killed him. Then they took his head. A bit macabre of you, but it was a nice touch."