Nightblade: A Book of Underrealm (The Nightblade Epic 1) (15 page)

Her fingers relaxed on the hilt of her dagger and emerged from her cloak.

Those old eyes caught the movement. He studied her for a moment, as though thinking. When he spoke, it was in a soothing voice.

“Did his blade kiss you?”

Loren shook her head. “No. I am no stranger to knife fights.”

She was, but thought it might not be wise to admit. This man could be a thief as well, and if so he seemed more capable than the guttersnipe.

He smiled at her words, and she wondered if he heard the lie inside them. But all he said was, “Indeed.”

Silence stretched for a distance that neared awkward. Loren studied the man while pretending to look anywhere else. He stood of average height, but something in his composure made him appear much taller. Loren felt herself a small child in his presence. He wore a shirt and sleeves of chain under his dark red cloak, along with gauntlets of gleaming steel that folded over themselves. A strange symbol clasped the cloak at his throat: three rods bound by a ring, with wings sprouting from either side. Loren had never seen anything like them. He wore his hair close cropped, without a trace of stubble to dust his chin.
 

Loren cleared her throat, thinking of what she could say, but could only summon, “Thank you for your assistance in bringing the fight to a swift end, though I am sure I could have bested him. I am fortunate, I suppose, that you ensured it.”

“Fortunate, yes,” said the man, his voice holding a hint of amusement. “Though my presence was no happenstance. I saw you quite some time ago, skulking from shadow to shadow. I guessed you might be a stranger to these streets, and deemed it prudent to follow in case you should find them less hospitable than you might wish.”

Loren thought of that, and what a fool she must have looked to this imposing man. She straightened. “If you thought me in true danger, you need not have troubled yourself.” She nudged the man on the ground with her toe. “This one would have found me a pricklier foe than I look.”

“Of that I have no doubt,” said the man, inclining his head and taking a step back. “I know I may take my leave in assurance of your safety, now that you have had a taste of Cabrus’s streets and alleys.”

“Very well then,” said Loren, strangely sad to see the man go.

He nodded, turning it into a half bow, and walked away. But as the man reached the corner and prepared to round it, he paused and turned back to Loren, his blue eyes squinting.

“How long since you arrived in the city, if I may ask?”

She shrugged. “One loses track.”

“Indeed.” He could put such hidden meaning in that simple word. “I am seeking a man. Mayhap you have seen him. Not overly tall, but neither is he short. About your height, in fact. His hair tumbles in waves, and his eyes are a pale grey-brown. He may have worn a blue coat.”

His description of Xain was so perfect that Loren could not help herself; she stood flabbergasted, her mouth falling open in shock. Too late she tried to hide her reaction, and her teeth clicked as they shut.
 

He stiffened. “You have seen him?”

“Never,” said Loren. “I only wondered what sort of fool would walk about in a bright blue coat. If I
had
seen him, he would be lighter a coin purse, I can assure you.”

He took a step forward, and Loren tensed—but he moved only out of eagerness and made no move to grip a weapon or attack. “It is most urgent that I find this man. I would offer a mighty reward for any information that led to his location.”
 

The man drew back his red cloak to show Loren his belt, and the two fat purses hanging by his sword.

She almost felt tempted, but something held her back. Loren knew nothing of this man or his intentions, and whatever Xain had done, he had not earned her betrayal.
 

She shrugged, raising her eyebrows. “Gladly will I take your purse if it weighs so heavily at your belt, but I fear you would gain nothing from the purchase. I will admit an urge to lie and give you worthless information. But I will not cheat a man who tried to save my life, needless though his aid might have been.”

The man studied Loren a long moment. She felt bare beneath his piercing blue gaze. “I do not seek to harm the wizard,” he said in an even voice. “I ask you to remember that. If, by some chance, you should
discover
something about him, I would beg that you find me. You may find me at the Wyrmwing Inn while I remain in the city.”
 

The man turned and disappeared.

eighteen

Loren’s heart fluttered. Damaris, too, had taken a room at the Wyrmwing. Were they in league? She supposed not, for then the man in the red cloak would have had her description.

It did not matter. Loren had no desire to seek the place out. And now she stood in much the same straits as when Corin released her. She must find Annis, and still had little idea where to look.

She turned her feet south and east again, making her way as best she could through the city’s alleys. She observed the beggars with a wary eye, avoiding them where she could. When she had to pass one, Loren sank a hand into her cloak and placed it on the dagger. Whether they saw the threat in her gesture or for some other reason, she always passed unmolested.

Soon, the alleys grew sparse, the streets more plentiful, and the difference between them diminished. Before long, Loren found herself walking on crowded streets covered with more filth than she had found even in the alleys.

This must be the area Annis spoke of,
she thought. But when she found a wide square to gain some sense of direction, still Loren could not see the city wall. If anything, she felt more lost than at the birth of her search.
 

If I walked in Annis’s shoes, what would I do?
 

A child used to wealth, raised into plenty, she might try to find an inn. Then again, she might find no inn to meet her standards. She might shed her wealthy clothing for beggar’s rags to blend in, but then again the girl might find such rags too louse-ridden and threadbare.
 

In truth, Loren knew little of what Annis might do. How could she know the mind of a child brought up into wealth and privilege? Other than fleeing their families, they had nothing in common.

Loren felt a nagging in the back of her mind. Again, she drew eyes from passersby. Here, her fine cloak stood out like ebony amid a birch copse. Whatever her course, it had to be better than standing here looking lost.

She chose a direction, walked with purpose, and soon noticed that though the streets might be overrun with the poor and unfortunate, they were nearly empty of constables. She saw but one, leaning against a wall to whisper in the ear of a woman whose skirt rode far too high. Loren looked hastily away. Even she knew the purpose of such an exchange. She did not bother to hide her face as she passed, and the constable’s eyes never left their target.

Long and longer she wandered, up and down streets, into squares and alleys until the sun drew behind the tops of the taller buildings. Loren watched it with mounting anxiety. She did not desire to wander these streets come sundown. That meant she must find an inn for the night, but how could she know which to choose, one where she might still live come morning? She could not help but think that Annis would know what to do.

When her stomach growled again in protest, she stopped at a tavern to order some stew. Above the door hung a sign displaying a princess dancing with a boar, proudly bearing the unimaginative title of
The Princess Pig.
Loren paid extra to take the bowl and wooden spoon with her, and carried her stew into the street. She did not wish to pause her search when Annis might wander by at any moment.

She had neared the end of her bowl when a street urchin appeared, massive eyes imploring Loren from a gaunt face. The boy was mayhap ten summers.

“Have you any to spare, please?” he said in a tiny voice. He rubbed the back of a hand across his swarthy forehead, which merely smeared dirt across it.

Loren’s appetite vanished. The stew had grown cool anyway.
 

“Here. Keep the bowl. You can use it to collect alms.”

The boy’s eyes, impossibly wide already, grew even larger. “Oh, mercy, my lady. Thank you, thank you.”
 

Before Loren could stop him, he lunged forward and wrapped her in a hug. The poor child’s head scarcely reached her chest. His arms felt like thin wooden rods as they pressed into her back.

“That is enough,” Loren said, trying to sound gruff. “Be off with you before I take it back.”

The boy nodded vigorously and turned to scamper away. Loren could not stop a small smile as she turned away. Instinct seized her. Something was odd. Different.

Loren slammed a hand against her hip to find her coin purse gone. A pair of frayed strings hung from her belt.

She whirled to see the boy’s retreating form between the tavern and a tanner’s shop next door. “Stop!” she cried.

The boy turned for a split second. He smiled with his tongue poking through his lips and turned to sprint away.

“Does no one in this city keep their thieving hands to themselves?” Loren gave chase, and rounded the corner so fast she nearly skidded to a fall. She bounced against the wall and continued to run.

The boy fled like a rabbit, any trace of frailty or weakness gone. His bare, filthy feet pounded on stone. He spun once as he ran, lashing out to fling his bowl at Loren. She barely raised a hand in time, and the bowl
cracked
off her forearm.
 

This boy was fast, but years of hunting with Chet, running for hours through the forest to reach the best grounds, had given Loren an endurance unmatched by any in her village.

Every time he reached the gap between two buildings and dodged through, Loren seemed to have gained some ground. The boy noticed, too—his occasional looks over his shoulder slowly gathered an air of fear. Her blood boiled. How dare this boy steal from her? She was Nightblade after all.

He soon changed tack, using size to his advantage. He found narrow gaps in wooden fences and stone walls, leaping through like a rabbit. But the boy could find nothing too narrow for Loren. Though she sometimes paused to preserve her bow, she always covered the distance in the next long sprint from building to building. As she drew nearer, Loren felt a grin find her face.

“You run a pretty race, little rabbit, but this wolf will catch you!”

The boy answered by increasing his pace. He diverted course, suddenly running straight for a wall affixed with a tall wooden gutter. He seized the gutter in his hands, propped his feet against it, and shimmied up like a bear cub climbing a sapling.

On the nearer wall, the building had two rows of windows with wooden sills. Loren leapt for the first windowsill. Her fingers gripped its wooden texture as easily as a tree branch, and she vaulted up to seize the next one. She pulled hard and pushed up with her feet, leaping to seize the shingle roof with her fingertips before hauling herself to the top.

The roof sloped gently upward. She ran up and reached the peak just as the boy scaled it. He barely had time to look up in surprise before Loren took him in a flying tackle and slammed him hard into the shingles.

The boy cried out, more from fear than pain, and tried to squirm away beneath her. Loren wrapped an arm around him to flip him facedown, and caught his neck in the crook of her elbow.

“You would do well to stop,” she growled in his ear. “There was no better wrestler than I in my village.”

The boy went tense and still below her, heavily panting. Then the fight left him at once, and he went limp.

“Now,” said Loren. “Where is my coin purse?”

The boy said nothing, but she spied a bit of brown cloth poking out from between his tightly curled fingers. She freed one hand and snatched it, trying to pry his fingers open. A bit of his spirit returned, and he gripped the purse tighter. She slammed his hand onto the shingles, and he cried out, letting go with a whimper.

She snatched the purse and pushed up, rolling away to inspect her prize. The boy had cut the strings, which hung in frayed tatters. Still, they were long enough to retie around her belt, and she took a moment to do so. All the while, Loren kept a careful eye on the child.

She crawled up from the boy, and he leapt up into a crouch, looking like a cornered rat. But as Loren made no further move, his narrowed eyes gradually softened.

Once she finished retying the purse, Loren rose to her feet. The boy recoiled, ready for a fight. But Loren only dusted herself off and flapped her hands as if shooing a cat.

“Go on, then. Off with you. Begone.”

The boy studied her carefully. “You mean you don’t want to fight?”

Loren scoffed. “Fight one such as you? I would break you in half, and for what? You are a little boy, and the worst thief I have ever seen.”

The boy finally released his crouch, standing as tall as his diminutive frame would allow. “A bad thief? Never! I steal a thousand and one purses each day, and never have I been caught, excepting only you. And there’s nary a man better in Cabrus when it comes to rooftops.” He glanced at the gutter he’d climbed and eyed Loren ruefully. “Well . . . excepting you, I suppose.”