A Dead God's Tear (The Netherwalker Trilogy) (29 page)

"Keep my room free, Barry. I'll have the pay for you within the day."

Barry responded by slamming the tavern door in Simon's face. As soon as Simon was sure that the tavern keeper wasn't coming back out, the smile on his face fell into a frown. He turned back to gaze out at the ramshackle buildings of the Lowtown, still rubbing the last fairy dust remnants of sleep from his brown eyes. He tried in vain to arrange his straight black hair into something resembling order. It was a useless fight, but it distracted him temporarily from the burden that Barry just put on his shoulders.

Damn! He was hoping for some time to write a bit of music. He
’d had this tune in his head the last couple of days and it was driving him nuts. He needed to find a way to jot it down, but it would probably take him all day to earn his rent for last night and today.

Then, no doubt, he would spend the night entertaining the patrons of the bar with song and story, earning perhaps a bit more money for the linings of
his pockets. If he got lucky, he might just end the day in bed with a warm girl for his troubles. . . perhaps two girls, even! But alas, it would seem as if that tune was doomed to linger within his head just a bit longer. . .

He sighed, priorities
. . .

Eh, he'd just see which way the cards fell today. No sense worrying about it. He felt it was time to move on though. The familiar excitement of wanderlust was beginning to make him restless, becoming a pleasant shiver that ran down his spine and eventuall
y settling, tingling, into the tips of his toes. He had spent too much time in Harcourt, and it was near time to hit the road and see which way the winds of Fate took him. Well, there was also additional motivation in that the local guard was getting wise to his antics, and he owed a bit of money to several unsavory groups of people, but that sounded far less romantic.

Simon reached into his pocket and pulled out a personal invention he had dubbed his "little helper." It was a thin knife, whetted to a sharp
cutting edge. Instead of a conventional handle, the end curved around into a ring that could fit around the middle finger. One could cup their hand and flip it around to rest in your palm, and no one would be the wiser. It was so invisible that Simon felt like a wizard. It brought a whole new definition to the term: cutpurse. The local guard was always on the watch for the tiny switchblades and daggers normally inherent to thieves, but they had not a clue as to the existence of this little gem.

A huge grin
worked itself on Simon's face. Twirling the "little helper" around on his index finger, he stepped out onto the street, whistling the tune in his head. Despite all the troubles he had seen and was no doubt going to see before he closed his eyes, he felt great to be alive. There was truly no greater feeling than to be free, without a care in the world. To do whatever it is that you wanted as a self-made man. The deplorable conditions of the Lowtown held no sway over Simon's moral. To him it was a land of opportunity. Well, now that he thought about it, it was probably better to call it a very dirty land of opportunity.

Still whistling, his experienced eyes spied a black pouch, overflowing with coins, hanging from some young man's hip, practically begging to
be lightened. It was if the Gods themselves had heard his plight and delivered him an answer in the form of a bulging purse. Well now! Things were looking up! It looked to be a foreign trader, or perhaps a naive noble on an errand, probably en route to the Bazaar. Simon couldn't see any other reason for such a fat purse in a place like the Lowtown. Nor could he excuse the stupidity of displaying it so overtly. It would be a crime not to steal it!

Simon's smile got wider as he followed the witless man throug
h the dirty streets of Lowtown, weaving in and out of the crowd with practiced ease. It seemed like things were going his way for once. He just might get time to write down that song, and perhaps even an early breakfast. Then there was that barmaid. . . what was her name. . . Dalilia? He tried for several moments to place the name to her face, or more specifically her body, before eventually shrugging it off. Eh, he was never good with female names. Not that it really mattered. All one had to do is feed them what they want to hear and they would become clay in the right hands. His hands.

If that failed, there was always alcohol.

Thank the gods for stupid people! At the thought, Simon did falter a bit, losing the man he was following in the mushrooming crowd. Such thoughts were sacrilegious for a priest.

After a moment of intense thinking, he shrugged. His god wouldn't really mind. In fact, The Broken One would probably applaud his resourcefulness. Such was the irony of priestly life.

Reassuming the whistling where he left off, he cupped the "little helper" and moved in for the kill.

Chapter 17

"A
mazing." Marcius sucked in his breath, forming a reverse whistle.

The three of them had just crested the top of a small grassy hill and displayed out before them, like a glittering jewel laid bare, was what could only b
e the trade city of Harcourt. All around the city stretched the Golean plains, the long reeds of the low grassland swaying seductively in the breeze, like a sea made of golden waves.

Marcius thought the Golean looked beautiful when he first had left the Solokivian woods, but several tough days of traveling it on foot, with very little food, quickly robbed it of its glory. A vision brought kicking and screaming to the forefront of his
mind as he watched the wonder before him. He could stand here forever, basking in the majesty.

"Come on, Marc! We don't have time to sit around gawking and holding hands," Alicia said with a huff, tromping her way past Marcius.

Marcius narrowed his eyes; he finally had enough of it all. Ever since their narrow escape from the jaws of death, Alicia had been irritable, snappish, and even outright mean. She even refused to talk about what had happened at the bandit camp, only furthering suspicion for both Marcius and Jared.

He was, at first, too grateful to just get away with his life to respond negatively, but her constant attitude had worn away whatever positive feelings he had about her. "Alright, that's it Alicia!" he seethed, hoping his courage held long e
nough to get his feelings off his chest. "I'm tired of treading around you as if I was walking on eggshells! What's your problem? What is bothering you?"

"What is
my
problem?" She whirled around, her hair twirling in a dervish of gold and bronze, and Marcius acutely regretted his outburst when he saw the anger and pain evident on her face. "My problem?" she practically shouted, pointing an angry finger at herself, before jabbing it at Marcius, "My problem is you!"

"Me?" he was stunned more so than angry, "W
hat did I do?"

"By the Gods, 'what did you do'!? You're trying to tell me you don't realize? Did you forget the fireball you dropped at your own feet? Damn, if you're this incompetent, we might as well just turn back now! The Academy will laugh at me for b
ringing you!" She looked on the verge of explosion, her hands now grasped firmly by her side as if she had to physically restrain herself from striking him.

"Wait, what do you mean by that? I'm confused as to where you are going with this." His own anger w
as slowly creeping back, and it was a trial to stop it from surfacing in his words and actions.

"Did it ever occur to you to trust in us, your friends, to rescue you? Instead of taking it in your own hands and completely throwing out everything we were wor
king for?" She paused, considering Marcius with dangerous, narrowed green eyes. "No, it didn't occur to you, did it? I'm not sure if I want to put my life in the hands of someone who doesn't trust me." The jaw line around her mouth tightened as she spat the words out.

"Look, we got out of it okay. I'm sorry for not thinking ahead, okay? I apologize, I was wrong. I did what I thought I had to do, but it was a mistake." Marcius's voice strained as he struggled with his fury.

Instead of placating her, his words only seemed to infuriate her more. "You did what you thought you had to do?! You don't even understand the meaning behind those words. Don't you dare say them again! The only reason you even survived that was because I saved your sorry life! If I didn't quick cast that shield spell, you'd be an obscure crater in the middle of the woods! Is that how you want to be remembered? Marcius Realure, the Blackened Crater of Stupidity?"

Marcius exploded, the words coming out in a rush of heat. "That's easy for you
to say! You were not the one being strangled by a huge oggron! You didn't have to see his sneer staring you in the face as you slowly died! I don't know about you, but I'd rather my death be in my own hands, and not have it as some sadistic pleasure for some monster! I don't draw breath for
his
satisfaction!"

His retort seemed to steal some of Alicia's bluster, for she recoiled just a bit in surprise before stepping forward to intently stare up at Marcius's face, studying him for a few seconds. It took all
his willpower not to flinch from her probing gaze.

"Is that so?" she said quietly, the sudden calmness coupled with her pleasant northern accent scared Marcius far more than seeing her angry. "Remember that you have a responsibility to your friends, next
time. Okay? We're in this together. I've done things for you two, and I expect for you to show me the same respect by trusting me. Remember that show of faith I asked of you so long ago? Time to display it."

Her fingertip pushed Marcius hard in the chest,
causing him to stumble back a bit, before she turned around and continued down the road, not waiting to see if Marcius and Jared followed her.

A stunned Marcius could only look to Jared, who had remained silent throughout the entire
spectacle. The blonde swordsman walked up to stand next to his friend, both of them staring at the back of Alicia. Her swaying bronze hair caught the light and seemed to shine, somehow matching the gentle golden hue of the Golean. "I told you,” Jared started smugly, breaking the awkward silence. "The best way to get her to become our friend is to treat her like a person. Didn't I, Marc?"

"What do you mean?" Marcius asked numbly, still a bit taken aback. He mentally ran through the entire encounter, yet he could find no tangible
reason for her change of heart.

"She called us her 'friends,' Marc. She called us her 'friends'! I'll bet you anything that we're the first ones she's ever had. I would say that was her, rather feeble I'll admit, attempt at saying she forgave you."

"Funny way to treat your friends. . . "

Jared stared thoughtfully at Marcius, and then glanced at Alicia who had started walking back; no doubt ready to berate them for lagging behind. "Not really. She's scared, that much is obvious. She would never admit it and
this is probably just her way of dealing with it, I think. Let's be patient. Whatever is really bothering her will eventually come out. And you know what she said is true. We're in this together. You're my best friend, and the world would be a duller place without you."

Jared jogged out to intercept Alicia, leaving Marcius to digest what he said. She was
. . . scared? So he wasn't the only one? A part of him, hidden away where it could avoid the conscience, took pleasure in the fact that he had not been alone in that regard. People needed him? Even though he was nothing more than a burden? A thought struck him. "Jared!" he called out.

The blonde man turned around, walking backwards as he looked at Marcius questionably. "What is it, Marc?" he yelled back, arms
wide open.

"Were you scared too?"

Jared grinned, "Out of my mind! I'm just good at hiding it! Isn't adventure grand!?"

Marcius smiled back. Jared's easy going manner was a balm on his nerves. "Hurry up, you lag about!" Alicia shouted now that she
was close enough. "I saw a trade caravan a bit further up, over the next hill! We can probably hitch a ride the rest of the way!" She was as insistent as always, but this time instead of a scowl, she wore just the faintest trace of a smile. Marcius agreed with his earlier assessment of the woman. She truly did shine when she smiled.

Please, never do that again, Marc. The power I grant isn
’t meant for suicide.

"Okay!" Marcius cupped his hands over his mouth and shouted back, both to his familiar and Alicia.
He stole one last glance at Harcourt, shimmering off in the distance. It was hard to believe he had just escaped Death's door, and it was even harder to believe that he was honestly becoming excited about this journey. He had almost died, for Avalene's sake! He should be scared, hell he
was
scared, but he'd learn, the Gods as his witness, he'd learn.

He had a promise to fulfill to Antaigne and his father, and he swore to be a burden no longer to his friends. If the Academy was the only way to ensure that,
well then he'd do it with a smile on his face and on his heart. No longer would he let other people do the fighting for him. He felt an uplifting surge of agreement, no doubt from Faerril.

We have good friends. And Alicia looks funny when she's angry, all
flushed and red.

Chuckling, Marcius couldn't agree more, on both accounts. Onward he hurried toward his friends, the caravan, and subsequently, Harcourt.

❧
　❧　❧

"We’re staying
here?!
" Alicia fumed, glaring at the building in front of her.

"We don't have
much of a choice, considering the amount of coin we have," Jared responded in a placating voice. He jingled the pouch Alicia had given him pointedly.

Marcius said nothing, but inwardly his sentiments reflected Alicia's. The tavern his friend had lead the t
hree of them to seemed, in comparison to the rich lofty portion of Harcourt they had walked through only hours before, barely passable as a shack. But Jared was the only one out of the three of them that had any extensive experience in the city. Marcius obviously had never been outside of Rhensford, and Alicia even admitted to only passing through Harcourt. So it was up to Jared to guide them as they collectively searched for a way to make enough money in the city to afford them the rest of the way to Aralene.

It made sense, in the logical portion of his head. If they saved money on room and board, it would go a long way in accomplishing their goals, and according to Jared, this place always had the lowest rates. But looking at the squalid tavern was enough
to shake any faith he had in his blonde friend. Did they honestly have to go this low?

We have fallen low indeed, and the scent makes me sick.

Marcius wrinkled up his nose, subtly agreeing with his familiar. The smell was as bad as the view, something akin to the odor that lingered around poorly maintained stables. Everything around the Lowtown district just looked so used, worn down, and dirty. The people that hung about all wore the same sullen, defeated look as the buildings. Marcius found it difficult to ascertain if the residents of the Lowtown modeled their environment, or if the environment reflected the thoughts and feelings of those around it. This was where people who were defeated by life went to wallow in their misery. A place of forgotten dreams and lost hope.

And dust! It was everywhere! In his shoes, on his clothing, his hair, finding refuge in every facet of his known body, and even in some plac
es he didn't know of until now! How could one live in such conditions? How could one end of the city be so magnificent, with temples awash in splendor proclaiming the laurels of their god or goddess and gaudy nobles chatting with smiles upon their faces, while the other side sat in quiet agony?

Rhensford had a poor district as well, but it was never this bad! Or was it? Maybe he just refused accepting such an uneasy notion of his hometown, subconsciously ignoring the truth before his very eyes? It just did
n't make sense. Marcius sighed dismissively. Such thoughts were best reserved for later, when he wasn't standing in the middle of a dirty road, staring at a run-down tavern that would be his home for the next couple of days. Hopefully it wouldn't go beyond that. The place felt like a trap, drawing people in and ensnaring them in a web of hopelessness and despair. Something Marcius had felt a lot of, ever since the attack on Antaigne.

Magic. It had been magic that was at the root of his problems. Marcius fel
t that truth in heart, in the very marrow of his bones, and yet here he was, chasing that tempting mistress across the entire continent. Any sane man would have left long ago, given up that dream in the face of such loss and danger. If the whole situation wasn't so poignant to him, Marcius probably would have laughed at himself.

He felt helpless, adrift in an encompassing tide that was merely pulling him toward a destination that was unknown. There was little he could do but go along with the force and see
where it led him. Apparently the building in front of him was one of the stops along his journey, a fact he had no choice but to accept.