No One's Chosen (24 page)

The conversation remained light which put Óraithe at
ease. She had stolen things, but she had not broken into a shop
proper. Worse, it was a shophouse and the owner would be just above
them. Soon enough the candles and torches in the houses were
snuffed and Scaa stood. They made for the front door. There was no
other option as the cheap stucco building offered only a single
window on the second floor. They could certainly find a ladder and
enter through it, but they would be closer to the shop owner than
they might like. Óraithe knew that being seen could be the end of
things before they began. He would report it and the High District
guards would assume she meant to steal some bread or cheese or
perhaps one of the fish brought over by the river elves. Óraithe
wondered what fish might taste like as Scaa examined the wooden
slat door that had been slid in front of the opening curtain and
barred from behind.

"You might be small enough," Scaa said to Óraithe,
though her focus was on the door blocking their path.

"At least this height may be good for something,"
Óraithe replied. "What would you have me do?"

Scaa put a hand on the door. "These are most often
fairly thin. People neglect that wood bends." Scaa leaned down and
pushed lightly against the door until she heard the wooden bar fix
it self against the slots that held it. She then put some weight
into the push. The door flexed and the wood crackled a bit, but
held.

Scaa was right, there was enough room, if just.
Óraithe crawled into the crack, looking around the shop before
laying on her side and wriggling the rest of the way into the shop.
She stood and lifted the bar as quietly as she could manage. It was
heavy, she struggled to put it down quietly but managed somehow.
She slid the door just the slightest bit to the side and Scaa
joined her in the shop.

The shop was dimmer than the street outside and it
took Óraithe a moment to adjust to the lack of light. The shop was
larger than Cosain's. Not so tightly packed. The walls held racks
and racks of dresses and fine shirts and doublets. She could not
tell the colors of any of them properly in the dark. They were only
light and dark and lighter and darker. Shades of grey. It did not
matter, she supposed. She would wear it for a part of a day and
then be done with it. Óraithe walked over and ran a hand across the
fabric of the dresses. They were so incredibly soft. Velvets and
silks and soft linens. A few were even lined by fur or made of
heavy wool but Óraithe could not imagine what anyone would need
with such a thing. Surely fur and wool were intensely hot. Maybe in
the north such items made sense.

Scaa had moved to the back side of the shop where the
shoes were kept. Óraithe could just make out her head slowly
running across row after row of shoes. Óraithe didn't have a clue
what sort of shoes went with dresses or what the High District
elves thought was stylish, she doubted Scaa did either.

Óraithe could not help herself. She grabbed the skirt
of a particularly soft dress and buried her face in it. Through the
muffle of the fabric she thought she heard a footfall on the floor
above them. She whipped her head out of the fabric and looked to
Scaa, hoping she was imagining things. Scaa had ducked herself
down, staring intently at the stairs. Óraithe could not take her
eyes off of Scaa for some reason. When the younger elf crouched
low, Óraithe did the same.

A light flickered down the stair to the living area
above. Óraithe looked at it and back to Scaa. She was so close to
the stair that there was not much she would be able to do if the
shop owner were to come down and find her there. The light grew
brighter. The shopkeep was coming down. Óraithe's eyes shot back
and forth from the stair to Scaa. She was not moving. What was she
doing? They had to go. They could come another night and try again.
There could not be more than five stairs, maybe six. There was
time, wasn't there? Scaa must know. Why wasn't she running?

Óraithe saw the shopkeeper's feet first. Old but
dainty and frail. It was a woman. Very old, must have been past
four hundred. She continued down and the slim, aged body of a
grey-haired woman came into view. She was short and little more
than bones. The old shopkeep squinted into the room, the light of
the lantern still bright in her eyes. Óraithe knew she was well
hidden for the moment. The lantern cast only a small glow out into
the shop and she was well away. Scaa, however… Óraithe pulled her
eyes from the light meant to reveal them both. Scaa… Scaa was
standing. Why was she standing? Did she mean to confess or perhaps
bowl the woman over and run for the door? An orange glint flashed
in Óraithe's eyes. What was it? Óraithe squinted. A blade. Her eyes
widened and she stood without thinking.

Scaa lurched forward with the rough iron dagger.

"NO!" The words flew from Óraithe with a high pitch
and a tremendous volume. The old woman looked over in a start, she
met Óraithe's eyes. The dagger plunged into her chest.

It was a sickening amalgam of sounds. The wet slick
noise mixed with a screech of ragged iron piercing bone. The
shopkeep's throat sounded a terrible gagging click over and over as
she lay on the ground bleeding out. Scaa was breathing heavily over
the dying clothier. Óraithe could not see what sort of face her
compatriot had been making, she only heard her speak.

"The lamp! Go! Grab what you can!"

Óraithe wheeled, wrapped her arms around as many
dresses as she could manage, and yanked. Most of the dresses pulled
free easily enough, a few ripped, but she could not bother. Óraithe
ran to the door with the clothing in hand and flipped the wooden
covering onto the ground. The room was filling with orange flame
when she turned to see where Scaa was. The younger elf was running
toward her, dropping a shoe here and there as she did.

Out into the cool air of the night, they ran until
their lungs no longer allowed it and then ran some more. All the
way back to the den. The sound of their feet on the stones beneath
and the huffs of breath were the only sound. Óraithe felt as though
she might die before they made it but she did not.

When they were in the dim light of the basement den
they called home, Óraithe threw the dresses to the floor. Scaa
dropped the shoes. Óraithe shoved the taller girl in the back.

"Why?" Her voice cracked when she shouted the word.
"What could we possibly to gain from killing that old woman?"

Scaa turned and looked at Óraithe. Her eyes were wet
and red, she had been crying. Her face was dry and stern now but
her voice still wavered. "We cannot afford for her to have spoken
to anyone."

"So you
kill
her? This fight is meant to be
against the highborns, Scaa." Óraithe's tone was harsh and angry.
This was not how it was meant to be.

Scaa raised her deep, raspy voice in response. It did
not falter. "I would kill every elf in the slums and every elf on
the other side of that cursed fence to keep my neck out of those
ropes!" She gestured vaguely toward the square and the gallows that
stood there. "I will not swing from my neck while a thousand fools
stare and gasp!"

"What good is any of this if we kill innocents?"

"Innocent of what? She was old. She had lived more
than we likely ever will and she sold finery from the highborn
besides! She profits from the fools that would covet that
lifestyle."

"We could have run and come back."

"And we could do everything on the morrow and on the
morrow again and on the morrow again."

"I wouldn't…" Óraithe knew she wished for action, but
there must be ideals. She struggled for the words to explain.

"This is what you asked of me, was it not? To help? I
was simply—"

"NO!" This was wrong, Óraithe knew it. That woman was
innocent and, worse, Scaa was telling her her own business. This
was all wrong. She wouldn't have it. "Shut up! I've had
enough."

Scaa looked shocked that the small elf was speaking
to her in such a tone but she did not raise a hand or open her
mouth.

"You are meant to be my compatriot.
We are meant to make things better. Not worse. Not bring death to
people who have it the slightest bit better because it's convenient
or because you are so unable to control your bloodlust.
I
will decide how things
are to be done. Not you. If that does not suit you, you are welcome
to take your orphan boy and sleep in the street from whence you
came. You may then do as you please. Kill and steal and burn and
whatever else. I do not care. But you will not do those acts in my
name."

Óraithe's eyes had narrowed, she realized now that
she was pointing directly at Scaa's face and that she had walked
over to her. Scaa need only swing her broad fist if she meant to
disagree. When she realized where she stood and what she had said,
a wave of fear washed over Óraithe. Fear of losing what little she
had gained toward her rebellion. Afraid it would end before it
began. Afraid Scaa may kill her. The girl had seemed forthright and
intelligent enough before but she killed the old woman. She wants
blood more than she let on. The coin was no big part of it. The
bed, maybe.

Scaa lowered her head and Óraithe finally
exhaled.

"You have the right of it." Scaa turned away. "I just
saw… I saw all of that finery and… shoes… I don't even…" She turned
back to Óraithe to plead. "They had spikes on the bottom. How do
you even walk on such a thing? Why? And why do they have it and not
me? Not Bonn?"

"Scaa," Óraithe's voice had softened, "this is not
only about taking. It must be about giving as well. We must set the
balance right. And that does not happen if we would harm those who
do not deserve it."

Scaa bit her lip. Her husky voice came shallow and
uncertain. "I understand you, Óraithe. I do. Or I tell myself I do.
I do not agree with you. Guilt runs deeper than your ideals or than
the blood someone is born with." The boyish elf looked at Óraithe.
"But I will follow you. I will trust you to deliver us from this
life."

It was less than an hour after that Bonn and Teas
returned. Teas hardly seemed to notice Óraithe or Scaa at the
table. She dropped off her notes and ran to the clothing they had
pilfered. She cooed and fawned over them, remarking on each dress
in turn, and then the shoes.

Óraithe lost herself in the notes. They were detailed
and would be useful.

"I forbid it!" Scaa's voice was strained and
shocked.

Óraithe looked up to find Bonn half-wearing a blue
silk dress and nothing else. Óraithe raised an eyebrow as Teas
turned to her in protest.

"Tell her it's fine, Óraithe!" Teas pleaded.

Óraithe moved her eyes from Teas to the boy. He
smiled stupidly and pulled the dress up around his shoulders.

Scaa looked at her with the same resolution-seeking
face Teas had worn. Óraithe shrugged at Scaa "What would you have
me do?"

Scaa dropped her shoulders in defeat and returned to
the table.

"I did not agree to this," she complained to
Óraithe.

"The boy likes it," she said, returning to her notes.
"No harm in it."

Teas and Bonn began singing a song she had taught him
about being a beautiful Treorai in search of her lost Binseman.
Scaa groaned and Óraithe read her notes and the night went on.

There had been a brief respite from the rain during
the night, Rianaire had been told that morning, but now the skies
were black with clouds and the rain fell in heavy, thick sheets.
The roads would be a mess, but there was little she could do about
it and the prospect of another night spent in the Cnoclean keep
eating with the insufferable lot that counted themselves as
highborn would not serve.

The night before had been long and cool and without
much sleep. Síocháin had woken early as she always did and
retreated to her room to prepare herself for the day. Rianaire woke
along with her but quickly fell into the charms of the warmth of
the bed and remained there, half asleep, until the carriage was
prepared.

The day had brightened somewhat as the sun did its
best to bore into the world and bring it light. Síocháin came to
fetch Rianaire. She had brought a plate of breakfast. A lamb steak
pounded thin and cooked in butter with eggs and a quaff of heavy
cream. Rianaire could hardly make her way through a fourth of the
over-rich food.

"Guh," she sputtered, standing. "I'd die of this food
if I were here much longer."

Síocháin moved to dress her. Normally the food was
lighter fare, seen to by her Aerach, but he was off. She suspected
the food she'd been given was by way of an overeager chef in the
kitchens.

Rianaire stepped into her dress and considered
Síocháin properly for the first time. She had worn a much more
modest dress for the day's travel. A fine wool, not too thick for
the day's ride. It was a cool grey and sported a high neck.
Rianaire smiled at that. Síocháin was being modest. Under the
covering of wool, Síocháin bore the marks of their night's work.
Bites and kiss marks and the like.

Síocháin pulled the dress up around the Treorai. It
was a light blue that Rianaire felt went well with the cool grey of
Síocháin's outfit. It sported a lower neck than Síocháin's woolen
dress, but was not so exotic as what she had worn the night before.
It would cover the marks Síocháin had left in return.

"The carriage is prepared?" Rianaire said
plainly.

"It is. As are the guards. Grod has no end of
complaints. He has made my morning quite noisy." Síocháin's tone
was flat as ever.

"That's to be expected, I suppose. The rain has
likely made the roads unfit for easy travel." Rianaire stepped away
as Síocháin finished with the last buttons on the dress. "Under
other circumstances, I might have delayed us an extra day."