[Memory] Scars
Posted: Wed May 29, 2019 11:03 pm
Castle Hill • The Rose
Evening on the 8th of Roalis, 2713
Light and laughter leaked out into the street – the pleasant clamor of a Castle Hill pub, all clinking glasses and paroxysms of chattering and shouts. The chilly breeze carried scraps of music out into the night: a woman’s voice thin and whining, the off-tune sawing of an accordion in mediocre hands. Early Vortas in the Rose and the air smelled of rotted things, earth and rain and fish and salty seawater, refuse and humanity.
The streets were full of beggars and cutpurses, clinging just at the edge of the pretty lights; nobody’d notice one more peeling away from the shadows and slipping along the streets, never too far from an alleyway to duck into. Castle Hill was a decent enough place – damn sight prettier than Sharkswell or Voedale – now humble little neighborhoods, now old merchants’ houses with their terraces and archways, cascades of ivy and moss. Plenty of shady nooks and crannies to hide in, and plenty of passersby. Nobody’d notice one more face.
Well, that’s what he hoped, anyway. If the mark knew what he was doing, he hadn’t let on yet; still, Tom knew this man’s reputation well enough to know he was a tricky stopclocker, and he’d gotten burned enough that his hands were cautious around the flame. Cooke was a giant of a man, and light-footed as he was, he doubted he’d gone entirely unnoticed.
Tense game, this.
He followed the Bastian for several streets – pausing at intervals, taking shortcuts through alleyways, ducking behind ramshackle stands where peddlers were packing up. Once or twice he thought he’d lost him; in the gloaming, light was smearing into dark, the streets turning bleary and grey. As the evening crowds thinned out, though, as they passed into quieter and poorer streets, the game of cat and mouse became unavoidably clear.
They’d passed into familiar territory, a maze of back streets. Residential. Tom figured they must be getting close to the place; it was that, or this toft had caught on and decided to throw him off. They were alone, except for a beggar all wound up in a tatty old blanket at the end of the alleyway, sleeping in a pile. Shadows clung thick to the doorways; no candles burned behind the dusty panes in the windows. His breath’d started steaming on the air, and he was pulling his greatcoat tighter around him, burying his hands in his pockets against the chill.
Tom knew these flats well enough. An old flame’d lived here, but no more; he hadn’t been around in years, and the place didn’t look any better. Still more hospitable-looking than the tenement housing like he’d grown up in, but he was itching to get back to Quarter Fords and Ishma and a warm bed. (If he got back.)
As the Bastian slowed down, he tucked himself into the shadows beneath a doorway. He was getting twitchy, itching for a drink; gritting his teeth, he pushed the feeling down, eyes fixed on the other man. Looked like he was about to go inside. With a brief glance around – once up the alleyway, once down – and a lingering look up at the shadowy windows above, Tom decided to make his move.
“Hey, hey,” he called lightly, laughter in his voice. “Ain’t you the kov they call, uh— Eon, ’s it?”
As he stepped out into the street, he flashed the Bastian a winning grin. Underneath his heavy brow, his eyes weren’t smiling. He kept one of his hands at his belt, resting casually on his knife.
“Heard you’re sellin’, mate. That so?” he asked, friendly as you like, leaning himself up against the brick nearby.
The streets were full of beggars and cutpurses, clinging just at the edge of the pretty lights; nobody’d notice one more peeling away from the shadows and slipping along the streets, never too far from an alleyway to duck into. Castle Hill was a decent enough place – damn sight prettier than Sharkswell or Voedale – now humble little neighborhoods, now old merchants’ houses with their terraces and archways, cascades of ivy and moss. Plenty of shady nooks and crannies to hide in, and plenty of passersby. Nobody’d notice one more face.
Well, that’s what he hoped, anyway. If the mark knew what he was doing, he hadn’t let on yet; still, Tom knew this man’s reputation well enough to know he was a tricky stopclocker, and he’d gotten burned enough that his hands were cautious around the flame. Cooke was a giant of a man, and light-footed as he was, he doubted he’d gone entirely unnoticed.
Tense game, this.
He followed the Bastian for several streets – pausing at intervals, taking shortcuts through alleyways, ducking behind ramshackle stands where peddlers were packing up. Once or twice he thought he’d lost him; in the gloaming, light was smearing into dark, the streets turning bleary and grey. As the evening crowds thinned out, though, as they passed into quieter and poorer streets, the game of cat and mouse became unavoidably clear.
They’d passed into familiar territory, a maze of back streets. Residential. Tom figured they must be getting close to the place; it was that, or this toft had caught on and decided to throw him off. They were alone, except for a beggar all wound up in a tatty old blanket at the end of the alleyway, sleeping in a pile. Shadows clung thick to the doorways; no candles burned behind the dusty panes in the windows. His breath’d started steaming on the air, and he was pulling his greatcoat tighter around him, burying his hands in his pockets against the chill.
Tom knew these flats well enough. An old flame’d lived here, but no more; he hadn’t been around in years, and the place didn’t look any better. Still more hospitable-looking than the tenement housing like he’d grown up in, but he was itching to get back to Quarter Fords and Ishma and a warm bed. (If he got back.)
As the Bastian slowed down, he tucked himself into the shadows beneath a doorway. He was getting twitchy, itching for a drink; gritting his teeth, he pushed the feeling down, eyes fixed on the other man. Looked like he was about to go inside. With a brief glance around – once up the alleyway, once down – and a lingering look up at the shadowy windows above, Tom decided to make his move.
“Hey, hey,” he called lightly, laughter in his voice. “Ain’t you the kov they call, uh— Eon, ’s it?”
As he stepped out into the street, he flashed the Bastian a winning grin. Underneath his heavy brow, his eyes weren’t smiling. He kept one of his hands at his belt, resting casually on his knife.
“Heard you’re sellin’, mate. That so?” he asked, friendly as you like, leaning himself up against the brick nearby.