fic - AU/canon divergence - parts 1 & 2
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last_herald_mageSomething I always knew would eventually happen but nevertheless has not done so before; yesterday on the 87 bus I was standing two feet away from a girl with an LHM. Promise, crisp new copy she'd only just started reading, and in public? Oh babe, is this your first time?
Idk but it prodded me into starting to post this. Been holding off because I'm very not positive of how it's hanging together. I realised a few days ago that all my canon geography is shit and I reaaaallly don't care. It will eventually have sex, and pirates. No really. It will also probably later have discussion of awful dark shit, but nothing too wangsty in its main run. This is the first two chapters; looks like it's going to be another 40k+ long haul oh fuck me.
STRANDLINE
It was far from the first time he'd been inside a prison.
The cells of Mountather were under the fortress, and his sight, attuned as it was to the bright mountain daylight, could barely make out the shape of the walls. The smell of rotten straw assailed him, and he was coughing even before his captor grabbed him by the neck as he struggled and argued his way down the stone stairs. "It wasn't me," he protested, with some difficulty. "I've never even been there." The only response was an indifferent grunt. In silhouette, he saw the duty watchman salute and unlock the iron door, and he was dragged down the hallway to a tiny cell and dropped on the ground without ceremony. He heard his captor slam the bolt closed and stride away, and he tried to breathe in the mouldy, fetid air. He was too tired - physically and mentally - to do much else. He had enough room to lie down, but little more; the iron cage was perhaps eight feet by five feet, one of a row of a dozen.
He turned his head, and tried to pick straw from his hair and his threadbare clothing. A little light shone through a tiny, high window, falling on the grey stone beyond the iron-grate door. His sight brightened slowly, until he could see his neighbours in the dismal prison. In the cage to his left, a young man sat on his heels and watched him curiously through the bars. He turned, almost feeling his body creaking; to his right, an older man slouched and smiled darkly at him. "Ne'er been where?" the older man whispered, scratching at a trimmed beard - too neat for him to have been long inside here, that's for sure.
His neighbour had sounded amused. "Horstine," he muttered. "They swore they had a warrant for a man matching my description in Horstine. But on my life, I've never been there."
He knew this was an incredible statement. His cellmates would all know that the only safe road that led east through the mountains to Mountather passed through Horstine, and in truth he had been there, but not for many years. Today he had not travelled to Mountather by any gentle means.
From elsewhere in the dimly lit jail, he heard a laugh. "Warrant for what?"
"I can't imagine what iniquities they would lay at my door," he snapped, indignant, and then paused for effect. "I believe smuggling was mentioned." With his eyes closed, he heard several chuckles through the dark. Smuggling was a petty part of their world. They were thieves, enforcers, hired killers. Just the people he needed to talk to. "I was merely travelling to Cul Aber," he continued mildly.
He heard the iron gently creak as the man to his right shifted his weight against the bars between them. "Oh, that so? All kinds of chances there, if you know what you're doing. But if you don't, mind..."
Someone hissed, darkly.
"Sounds like you know it well," he offered respectfully.
"Tsh, Dower know the scale, ain't got a clue what else goes downriver," interrupted a man too distant for him to see clearly.
"Watch yourself, mornsman -"
"Or you'll what? Drown me with tears for yon Polly -"
He heard bars grabbed, shouts, iron rattling futilely. He heard the watchman strike her spearbutt on the floor, and then the man to his left whistled a few tuneless notes and yelled, "Truce, fools."
Close on his left, he heard Dower thump down into the straw. "Arright," and he spat.
When the quiet had gone on long enough, he pulled himself up and rested his back against the wall, trying to see what he could of his companions. He'd chosen the right place to meet with a few colourful personages of the area. He knew they were awaiting their hearings before Mountather's magistrate, and wouldn't be lingering long; though most would be familiar with the cells from previous visits. Four men, one woman, all grimy and scuffed, but he noted that three of them dressed quite well; the kinds of things that got you arrested on the roads near Mountather could also bring a handsome living. The three he could easily see were all tattooed with simple symbols, though Dower's was hard to notice; a wavering blue line so high on his neck that his beard largely concealed it. The woman wore her mark proudly on her bare shoulder; something jagged, like sharp teeth. Gang marks?
"So," he continued, content to play the fool. "Anything I should watch out for down in Cul Aber?"
"Who you piss off," spat the lone woman, ten feet away from him behind two thickets of iron bars. "And who you don't. Like right now, you stay good with the scale or -"
"Cheth, watch your damned mouth," snapped the man to his left. "He could be anyone. What if he's an informant?"
"Who'd bloody bother?" asked Dower. "We ain't shit. Who you think you is, Queen Poll on the river?"
"You wish I was." The others laughed. "Won't say you're right but if he needs to be told, I ain't sure we should be so good. I not seen him around. He ain't covered by song truce -"
"Horseshit," croaked the man furthest from him - his throat sounded constricted, and his thin, ragged form was still little more than a shape far away. "Everyone gets song truce. That's why it's truce."
There were murmurs of assent to this riddle; its wisdom escaped the newcomer. He was not inclined to admit it. "Is there anywhere, uh, particularly rowdy I ought to, well, beware of?"
Laughter. A game, not least for the benefit of the watchwoman, who was doubtless charged to report any signs of conspiracy among the prisoners. "Well, you know the docks are quiet enough by day this time of year, but they're mighty dangerous at night..." trilled Cheth. "The scale trade upriverways - that's south. Culway make her way north," she explained. "She take a great curve around the city. So the rock harbour stay up north, that's on the downriver side of the bend - you don't want to cross us." Someone else snorted in derision. "The morn though, they mix with whoever they please these days. Live in boats off the docks most the year. But it's not like an innocent sort would have any reason to mix with that kind. Ain't no trade across the river with Ceejay, is there?"
"But of course not - that would be smuggling," he replied stiffly, to more hilarity. "Do many visitors pass over the border?"
He heard someone spit. "Our way, just runaway slaves. Their way, the morn and their special friends, sometime." At that, he heard a low chuckle. "Course, this time of year it's not so easy. They couldn't pay me enough to take a boat out, not even with Duchess Polly's word on it."
Cheth grunted. "Like she tell aught except what's good for scale."
"Would you set to river if Poll said you were going down?" Dower asked her smugly.
Cheth didn't reply. He tried to understand her words, her silence, but had little time to consider it - better to get some sorely-needed direction. "Anywhere else I should, ah, avoid, if I don't want to get mixed up with smugglers and miscreants?"
"In Cul Aber? Might find your work cut out," grinned the man to his left. "Especially down by Lighthouse Market, and the old Inn Row. Pinter Square's a mess too."
"It's not even worth it no more," muttered Cheth. "Nary a song now. He used to sing there all the time. Now it's all for truce and coin."
Songs. That's the second time they've talked of songs. He stored the mystery away, as if folding a paper and slipping it in the pockets of his mind. "I didn't catch your name," he asked his neighbour, and extended his fingers absurdly through the bars - the gap was too narrow to admit his whole hand.
"Shossel. Yours?"
He hesitated - but it's all to the good for this particular reputation. "I'm Valdir. Pleased to meet you." Truly, what you've all told me was worth the manhandling, if not the awful smell.
He'd had enough. He sent a weak mental appeal to Tantras, who appeared within minutes to drag him out again, grunting something about the magistrate and interrogations and his many previous offences while the unfortunate Valdir protested his innocence. Atop the stairs, Tantras kicked the heavy jailhouse door closed with a thud.
And that is the last my new friends will see of poor Valdir. May they assume the worst of his fate.
Vanyel found himself almost blind again, in the full sun in Mountather's keep courtyard. None of the colours made sense - sky, stone, air, a thin palette of blue and grey. It didn't help that his head still felt like the place between Gates, bereft of warmth or energy, thrumming with hurt. He slumped against Tantras, who was gracious enough to support his weight as they walked toward the stables where Yfandes and Delian were being tended. "And I thought you were enjoying a little rest down there," Tran nudged him, and Vanyel glared. The Death Bell had sounded at almost dawn; he'd Gated them to Mountather as soon as the Circle had allowed it of him, and he'd not taken near as much rest as he needed before paying his visit to the prison. His mind protested at the thought of the hours of riding ahead of them before they'd reach Cul Aber. So Tantras knew full well why he was tired. "Hear anything worth hearing?"
"A lot." He shook his weary head. "More importantly, I'm maybe starting to understand their manners. Some of what we know suddenly makes more sense. Remember what Captain Audley said about how little violence there's been between the bandit groups lately? The prisoners were talking about a truce. And there is crossborder traffic among at least one of the gangs - but even they don't like it at the best of times, which this is not," and he sighed heavily. "Can you imagine a worse time to be searching along the border?"
"Midwinter. In a war," suggested Tantras optimistically.
"Midwinter, we might have been able to walk across the river. I could have held the ice together under us," he grumbled. Tran's eyes widened with unease at the thought. "So yes, even smugglers are too scared to make the crossing to Ceejay while the spring snowmelt's at it's fullest. But they do cross, which is more than anyone else will admit to."
Tran shook his head. "How did Harren get into Ceejay?"
"He crossed south of here, before the point where the Cejar flows into the Culway from the east. The Culway's a lot narrower there - there's places shallow enough for a Companion to ford across," explained Vanyel. "He headed north, and when we spoke yesterday he was in Lydra - that's not five miles from Cul Aber, just over the river and a little uphill." About half of one of those miles were occupied by the vast, treacherous Culway. They'd been over this. Being closer to infuriating landscape of Valdemar's eastern edge didn't change the lay of it. "If anyone saw Harri reach Valdemar, they're in Cul Aber and from all we've heard I doubt they make their living doing anything savoury."
"So you're going to keep pretending you're a street scuff sort," Tantras said. He seemed disappointed that it wasn't a question.
"We're running out of time," Vanyel reminded him. "We have to find Harri."
Tantras stopped walking. "Harri's dead."
Vanyel stepped away from him, so tired and frustrated he wanted to scream. "And if we want to know why, we're running out of time," he repeated. Tantras stared at him, and the hurt in his eyes made Vanyel feel the bell still reverberating in his bones. I know how you feel. But if there's one last thing I can do for him, I have to do it. "Tran. There aren't enough of us left that I can afford to lose a mage and not know how or why. I have to find Harri. I don't have a choice -"
"Don't kill yourself," muttered Tantras, and he resumed his path to the stables.
Good advice. I may need it after the last few hours. For all his pain and fatigue, he couldn't rest until there was nothing left in him. He had days, at most, remaining in which he could cast the spell that would reveal Harri's final moments.
Unlike Tantras, he was beyond the point of thinking of Herald-Mage Harren as a friend and comrade. Harri was now a time-candle, burning at both ends. Harri was one last dispatch in fading ink; if Vanyel could only find where he fell, he could summon the facts of his death, the face of his killer.
From his sheltered spot at the edge of a cobbled square, Valdir watched the grey city.
His fingers hurt. The bitter wind had ripped his songs away almost as soon as they left his hands, whistling away through the cracks in the stones around him; what few passers turned to hear him soon moved on. But he watched them, playing only songs he knew very well, careful of his energy, careful of his focus. Sometimes he sang, in part for show - that was what had elicted most of the pile of pennies gathered in the old cloth hat on the cobbles before him; rousing, familiar words. Not much coin, and few had lingered to speak to him.
His tiredness had long ago reached that point at which rest was no longer possible. It was as well that he worked best on instinct, because his thoughts were long gone. His eyes flickered from his earnings up to the fading sky, to the crowds that were slowly gathering as evening drew in. Some semblance of nightlife beginning; down the square, someone swung open their shutters with a dull clank of rotting wood.
If any life were to come to the area, he was at least hoping someone would try asking him for protection money. Trouble. He badly needed some trouble.
:What you need is a rest from this, Van.:
He shook his head, for all Yfandes couldn't perceive the gesture - she was with Delian, in the stables of the westerly gatehouse, perhaps a mile from the place where he leaned on a weathered milestone cradling his old lute in his hands. :Can't. Unless Tantras has turned up something useful...?: She sniffed at him sleepily. Not likely. Not like his own workings were any more likely to succeed - but even the smallest chance was worth grasping. His was a fool's errand, perhaps, but not one they could refuse, nor abandon before it was over.
But she was right. If nothing else, he needed a change - perhaps to explore the night by the riverside. Surely there'd be enough trouble there to keep him awake. One more song, he told himself. Too early for bawdy, just yet - something romantic. The stony city would lend itself to a lovelorn ballad, if only the wind would allow it to be heard. As he struck up again, he fleetingly wondered if he should have allowed Tantras to arrest him again - Tran had made that genteel offer when they'd been about a mile outside the city, but Valdir had elected to enter the city alone, on foot, and not pursued by the law. He'd hoped that some distance would be of advantage, to both of them. Tantras had set out to make every official investigation into how a man might enter Cul Aber - border records, shipping manifests, doubtless enduring dinner with the mayor, politely introducing himself to the levers of corruption all the while. He had said he was looking forward to befriending everyone who offered him a bribe. Meanwhile Valdir would be currying favour with Cul Aber's less genteel class of criminals.
Yes, he could have ridden south and walked across the border with a diplomatic pass, or stolen across under a cloak of magic. Neither would have accomplished the least thing, because neither would have allowed him to retrace Harri's last steps along whatever secret path away from Ceejay he had taken. The very definition of secret border crossings was that the Heralds of Valdemar didn't know of them.
So here he was, singing on the streets in the desperate hope of locating a friend's corpse.
And what had he achieved, so far? No leads. He had asked a polite older woman for directions to the Lighthouse Market, not finding it on the map they'd examined before leaving Mountather, and she'd answered him with a warding sign. And not even a dozen pennies. He'd seen few in this quarter who looked to have anything to spare; the rains had washed the city thin, filling the Culway to its banks with snowmelt, raging so fast as to keep every fisherman and smuggler ashore.
Of all his luck. If he hadn't been focused on being Valdir, his mood would have spun into the city's dismal spiral.
As he'd wandered through the city earlier, he'd felt relics all around him of Cul Aber's former wealth; once, the city had traded Valdemar's treasures for delicacies from Ceejay and silks and strange herbs from the Eastern Empire, and it still felt like a shell, disintegrating around those lost riches. Cobbled streets, high walls to bank the river, crumbling cornices and scarred stone where gargoyles had been long ago ripped out and stolen. It had been a long time since Valdemar had been able to spare much to trade, even with neighbours whom they shared good terms with.
But there's always music. Someone would always stop to hear the music. Odd, too, that he was singing a song from almost as far west as he'd ever been - from the shores of Lake Evendim - and here he was further east than he'd yet been. It was but chance that he'd previously been to Mountather, and lingered long enough that he remained able to build a Gate through to the fortress chapel. That chance alone meant they may yet have time.
The wind seemed to quiet. Now his song fit here; its brief and fleeting passions, its willingness to look back at good times and say farewell. The grey of the stones was brightened by golden evening light, and even the loneliness of the city seemed beautiful -
Someone was singing along.
His hands kept moving by memory even as his eyes whipped around the square to find the one man, of all the passers, who was still.
There. Staring at him, smiling brighter than the last light of evening. He sang on as Vanyel's words faltered. "Should summer winds bear me on, wish me well." In the square, his voice carried where Valdir's had failed to - high and clear, sounding in the space as if he were perfectly used to it, as if his voice belonged there. Their eyes met, and Valdir felt out the last few chords as if his hands were possessed by that same spirit.
The man drew close to him as he drew silent, and he leant a hand on the wall behind Valdir; he flicked a silver from his pocket, and it landed atop the tiny clutch of coppers in the upturned hat. "While since I heard that song," and another smile crossed his thin face, making his hazel eyes momentarily as warm as sunlight. "And ne'er so well, I do say. Heard you a street away, heading past Rook's to the Westerly market."
"You sing well yourself," he replied. An understatement. The stranger sang so well that part of him still felt - faraway, locked into the story of the lover that drifted on the four winds as the seasons changed. It was hard to remember who he was - and who he wasn't. What name he wore. How far he was from Evendim - or anywhere. Gods, but that voice - how did anyone here knew a song of Evendim?
The stranger snorted with odd humour. "I can hold a tune. And that's why I ask myself, what's a voice so fine doing out on Pinter Square? Worst pitch in the city. I know from when it was all I could get." He leaned to look Valdir close in the eyes. "You hadn't been here long if you not figured that."
"Was starting to," he answered, nodding at the pennies; barely enough for a meal, much less a room, before the stranger's generosity. What was he to make of this man? He'd thoughtlessly dropped him a silver, but nothing in his manner suggested he was a gentleman. The clothes that clung to his body in the wind were better than Valdir's, and had the oddness shared by many of the city's inhabitants; simple wool and linen of Valdemaran weave, and a scarf of foreign silk that had become a billowing, dark blue trail behind him. His boots were well-worn. He was thin, but his bright eyes and thick hair - a red that shone in the sunset - made him seem hale. Slight though he was, and wearing none of the tattoos that had adorned Valdir's former cellmates, he had an ease that felt knowing and oddly territorial. Your pitch. You belong here, I don't, and you know it.
"Here from out west?" the stranger asked. Valdir nodded; he'd learned over the years that it was best to talk as little as possible and, beyond the barebones, to allow anyone who inquired to assemble as many assumptions about his persona as they wished to. And everything was west of Cul Aber. "How come?" The words were merely curious, but his eyes were piercing.
He'd seen many people thinking that today; this was the first one to ask. "Just to raise a few pennies before moving on. Maybe you can help me," he inquired shyly. "Do you know how I could get passage to Ceejay?"
The stranger's face went blank, his eyes like cold, flecked-green stones. "I do," he said after a moment's silence. "But I don't tell stuff like that for nothing. You've got to give me something."
Valdir's face crumpled in barely feigned despair, and he gathered the threadbare cap full of coins in his hands. "I've nought to give, sir, I -"
He was interrupted by a laugh. "I'll tell you if you kiss me."
Valdir's look of surprise was not feigned at all. If I what? He thought fast - he had weighed worse options quickly in worse circumstances, though he recalled none stranger. He guessed I'm shaych - or doesn't care? The stranger's striking smile revealed nothing. I don't even know his name. He is attractive - really, very attractive - but I would never - he felt himself blushing fiercely. It doesn't matter what I'd do or not do - I'm desperate and penniless here, remember? If I threw away my first sight of an answer -
That was the crux of it; he had much to gain and nothing to lose but his dignity, and he was in no place to cling to that too tightly. He set down his cap and his lute at his feet, and he leaned awkwardly forward, closing the gap between them.
He had no idea what he'd expected. Nothing so slow and gentle, for sure. Hands cupped his face, stroking his hair as their mouths moved, a tonguetip no more than teasing at his dry lips. He responded, and closed his eyes without meaning to as he allowed the kiss to deepen. Oh gods, I'm not myself. I don't know you. He felt lines wavering even as their tongues moved together, the barrier between himself and Valdir slipping. If you're this good at kissing, I could wish it was me you were really kissing...
Their faces slid apart. The stranger's eyes seemed to take the measure of him in a way that made the hairs on Van's neck stand on end. He felt confused. Valdir had never been kissed before, and it was only now that Vanyel remembered why; because Valdir getting close to someone could not possibly be wise.
I had to, he told himself. Never mind that it had been an incredible kiss. The other man turned on one heel, and he beckoned for Valdir to follow. "I don't even know your name," he asked.
The question earned him a raised eyebrow and a smirk. "Stefen. Stef, if you fancy. Yours?"
"Valdir," he replied. "Where are you going?"
"I got to show you something. I just tells you, you won't get it. Follow me." Stefen strode away without another word, and Valdir rushed to pocket his coins and sling his battered lute on his back, stumbling after cap in hand. Stefen was singing again, more softly but still seeming to fill the whole world with the melody - contained as this slipshod world was by rickety walls and shuttered windows, slates and stones.
The sound distracted him as he tried to memorize their route; past street-merchants packing their last wares, through alleys so thin he could easily have reached out to touch both sides, the last light of day allowing them to pick their route around lost flagstones and rubbish, although something told him that Stefen would have been just as surefooted in total darkness. Van slipped a hand to his lips, which still seemed to tingle with the force and fascination of the unexpected - a kiss as daring and breathtaking as that voice. Only Valdir could have felt this. Stefen would never have sung to Vanyel - much less kissed him.
And I haven't been kissed like that in years. Why me? He's beautiful, he clearly knows this town, and if that kiss was any indication... He could have anyone he wanted. And he swears he knows how to get me into Ceejay. Who is he?
The thought had been purely rhetorical, but he felt Yfandes' thoughts rumbling about his own. :Van,: she cautioned. :Are you sure you should be following this man? What if he's just looking to take advantage of you?:
That hadn't really crossed Vanyel's mind; was he being too trusting? But her worries didn't make a lot of sense. :He knows I've nothing worth taking. And really, if he meant to take advantage of me, he would have asked me to -: He diverted the thought out of an approaching gutter. :- For something more than just a kiss, sweetheart.: He was surprised not to feel a little revulsion at the thought - shouldn't he?
:You have a point. I'm trying to look at it from his point of view? He meets a penniless singer far from his home and alone on the street. Perhaps he's not taking advantage of you, but taking pity on you. Really, Chosen,: she continued before he could frame his scepticism. :Suppose you were a girl who'd fallen on hard luck - bargaining for your virtue would seem indecent, but a kiss seems like an innocent enough request. Which suggests this Stefen is a decent sort - or that he likes to think of himself as such.:
Vanyel was content to pretend he'd reasoned his way to the same conclusion. But the song's lonely refrain was tugging at him, making him feel that fleeting kiss all over again. :Fandes,: he nudged her. :Do you hear that?:
:That one's from over by Evendim, no? I've heard you sing it before.:
:It was how he's singing it that I was noticing. Am I wrong?:
:That's - oh, hells, Van.:
The young man had the Bardic gift, and he was leading Valdir through the slums of Cul Aber. :So I have to follow him,: he explained, touching his lips again.
It was almost dark when they reached the Culway. The city had long ago risen to meet the great river-wall; a maze of docks and moorings led down toward the waterline, and from what light lingered, he could see that much of the structure was now underwater. There were no nightwatchmen near, no torches, for who would need to be down near the docks at night? Judging from the movements in the shadows, they were far from alone. He kept close to Stefen, less wary of the devil whose name he knew.
Far below them, beams of cloudy light shone from the bottle windows of long barges moored at the docks; he heard raucous voices from inside, not all of them Valdemaran. Foreign traders that the spring tide had washed up in Cul Aber, making whatever entertainment they could? Seems likely. He almost tripped as his foot caught in a knothole on the wooden dock. Gods, for a magelight. And a few more answers than questions. Stefen had stopped singing; he led Valdir down the creaking, swaying paths that led down towards the water, outside the ancient river-wall. The steps were slippery and soft, and at every step he expected them to give way beneath him.
"Is tricker than usual, but still my favourite way. There's a few ways there," explained Stefen. "Here, you're going to get your feet wet," and Valdir heard a splash as he stepped down onto a landing that was evidently a few inches below the water line. The river was loud here, and it was as hard to hear Stefen's words as it was to see his gestures in the dark. "See that?" Ahead of them, there was a thick stone ledge at the base of the wall, as if the wall itself were built in steps. Stefen stepped up onto it, and extended his arm back to Valdir. "Just round corner," he indicated ahead of them. "It's not so bad. But watch your step." Valdir carefully grasped his hand around Stefen's cold, thin fingers, and gingerly joined him.
Not so bad, indeed. But the sound of the river belting northward, swollen to its natural limits, was battering his senses as Stefen set off along the ledge. Valdir followed with his back to the wall; the ledge was all of twelve inches wide and led to who knew what, and Stefen was striding ahead of him with accustomed ease. It's a path a child would make, and he remembered another life, another time, where he'd taken much more precarious routes to get to where he wanted to be. How old is Stefen, anyway? The first moment their eyes met still clung to him like a warm cloak - a youthful voice and old, familiar eyes -
As they rounded the curve of the river, he saw a red gleam on the water. He thought he heard a hum of voices in the air.
Ahead, the shadows widened into improvised cousins of architecture - a misshapen pier reaching into the river. The wall behind was an abrupt, dark hollow. "Welcome to the Lighthouse Market," said Stefen, and he led Valdir toward the throng of people.
Paydirt. He watched from inside the hollow mask of Valdir, and sensed the hunt closing in. If anyone knows, they'll be here. He felt his intention hanging inside his mind like a spelltrap, hidden under Valdir, lost amid the riotous crowd.
Even in the low light, the makeshift marketplace felt more vibrant than the rest of Cul Aber combined. He stepped onto a wide bank made of mis-set stones held together by dubious cement, bare inches above the waterline; unfamiliar smoke-scents engulfed him, as if he'd had any doubt of the market's trade. Or trades; under red lanterns hanging inside the breach in the wall, some quite interestingly-dressed women were braving the cold - and a few men, to his eye more interesting yet. He saw swathes of tattoos on their bare skin; art, gang-sigils, sometimes Cejan scripts he couldn't interpret. The lanterns wove a path deeper into the breach - deeper than reason would have allowed. Smuggler's paths under the city? Natural caves? He didn't know, and Stefen was weaving through the crowd ahead of him. Everything around them was light, smoke and shadow; people huddled over low fires by the water, filling the air with smoke-trails as they cooked oily fish or stranger-smelling goods.
Stefen reached back to grab Valdir's hand as he ducked into the hollow of the torn wall - a girl gave them a wink, but he noted that she didn't spare them the solicitation she bestowed upon every other male passer. Stefen was known to be disinterested in the girls, then. Valdir stooped through the tunnel; there was stone underfoot, and to their right they passed deeper hollows, thinly curtained recesses full of smoke and bodies, trails of lanternlight that reached who knew how far deeper - it's like a maze between the city and the river. People slipped past them, never looking at their faces. Stefen, he noted, held a fold of his scarf over his face. Valdir's feet slipped, and he stumbled into his companion, a little dizzy.
Stefen shrugged off his apology and wrapped his free hand around Valdir's waist, keeping him close. He leaned up to speak close to Valdir's ear, words muffled by the cloth over his mouth. "Smell that? That's dreamerie. Heard you don't get it so much in other towns. Mix of poppyheads and a couple of pretty flowers from out east. They trade the makings of it and cut it right here on the beach - is one reason the Lighthouse Market exists. Wasn't the one I brought you hear for, though." The tunnel led unexpectedly back out into the night, onto a second spit of stones the like of the first, and Stefen drew deep breaths of fresh air and then cupped his hands to his lips. "Polly!"
From somewhere in the mass of people - huddled groups of sellers, smokers, dancers, couples sat at the water's edge, or fucking against the wall - a woman slipped through. "You're lucky I ain't busy - what you got for me?" She was tall, about Valdir's height, and probably close to him in age; her hair held back by strands of beads, streaked through with hennaed stripes that greyed out near the crown of her head. Her neck was graced by a tattoo - a fishtail, arcing into a jagged line of water. He'd seen many similar marks around them; he knew them now for mere imitators.
"Just here to catch the tide," Stefen answered, and she snorted.
"Not tonight. Less you want to drown out there. I'd leave it til," and she licked a finger laciviously and held it aloft. "Two more nights, maybe. Unless your friend want to go swimming?" she asked, looking blandly over Valdir.
"Sh, no one ever tried to seranade you on the water?" Stef winked at her.
"Only for my bloody boats," she hissed, jerking her head. "If you's serious, just do me a damn favour and listen to me, right? I ain't going to be happy if you go down." And with that she was gone, her long silk skirt trailing after her as she pressed back through the crowd.
"S'a good thing for you that she owes me," Stefen whispered. "No one knows the river like Poll. Everyone else who try to own this run drowned one by one while she sat on the riverbank nodding her head and going 'I told you so.' Now she gets a scrape off every coin gets changed on the whole riverside. All without raising a knife - not that she wouldn't. But do you see now? How she brings hers home?"
Vanyel looked around at the fires and the lanterns in renewed comprehension. But of course. Any city guard that looked down from high above would see only the red lanternlight, and if they knew the way they might stray down to breathe a little illicit air or negotiate a price for their silence - be it cash, goods or companionship. They would think themselves bought, and no more of it. But should a boat set sail in the night from the far, foreign side of the river, the Lighthouse Market would be there to shine the way home.
If Harri had left Ceejay by night, he must have seen it.
-->Part 3
Idk but it prodded me into starting to post this. Been holding off because I'm very not positive of how it's hanging together. I realised a few days ago that all my canon geography is shit and I reaaaallly don't care. It will eventually have sex, and pirates. No really. It will also probably later have discussion of awful dark shit, but nothing too wangsty in its main run. This is the first two chapters; looks like it's going to be another 40k+ long haul oh fuck me.
STRANDLINE
It was far from the first time he'd been inside a prison.
The cells of Mountather were under the fortress, and his sight, attuned as it was to the bright mountain daylight, could barely make out the shape of the walls. The smell of rotten straw assailed him, and he was coughing even before his captor grabbed him by the neck as he struggled and argued his way down the stone stairs. "It wasn't me," he protested, with some difficulty. "I've never even been there." The only response was an indifferent grunt. In silhouette, he saw the duty watchman salute and unlock the iron door, and he was dragged down the hallway to a tiny cell and dropped on the ground without ceremony. He heard his captor slam the bolt closed and stride away, and he tried to breathe in the mouldy, fetid air. He was too tired - physically and mentally - to do much else. He had enough room to lie down, but little more; the iron cage was perhaps eight feet by five feet, one of a row of a dozen.
He turned his head, and tried to pick straw from his hair and his threadbare clothing. A little light shone through a tiny, high window, falling on the grey stone beyond the iron-grate door. His sight brightened slowly, until he could see his neighbours in the dismal prison. In the cage to his left, a young man sat on his heels and watched him curiously through the bars. He turned, almost feeling his body creaking; to his right, an older man slouched and smiled darkly at him. "Ne'er been where?" the older man whispered, scratching at a trimmed beard - too neat for him to have been long inside here, that's for sure.
His neighbour had sounded amused. "Horstine," he muttered. "They swore they had a warrant for a man matching my description in Horstine. But on my life, I've never been there."
He knew this was an incredible statement. His cellmates would all know that the only safe road that led east through the mountains to Mountather passed through Horstine, and in truth he had been there, but not for many years. Today he had not travelled to Mountather by any gentle means.
From elsewhere in the dimly lit jail, he heard a laugh. "Warrant for what?"
"I can't imagine what iniquities they would lay at my door," he snapped, indignant, and then paused for effect. "I believe smuggling was mentioned." With his eyes closed, he heard several chuckles through the dark. Smuggling was a petty part of their world. They were thieves, enforcers, hired killers. Just the people he needed to talk to. "I was merely travelling to Cul Aber," he continued mildly.
He heard the iron gently creak as the man to his right shifted his weight against the bars between them. "Oh, that so? All kinds of chances there, if you know what you're doing. But if you don't, mind..."
Someone hissed, darkly.
"Sounds like you know it well," he offered respectfully.
"Tsh, Dower know the scale, ain't got a clue what else goes downriver," interrupted a man too distant for him to see clearly.
"Watch yourself, mornsman -"
"Or you'll what? Drown me with tears for yon Polly -"
He heard bars grabbed, shouts, iron rattling futilely. He heard the watchman strike her spearbutt on the floor, and then the man to his left whistled a few tuneless notes and yelled, "Truce, fools."
Close on his left, he heard Dower thump down into the straw. "Arright," and he spat.
When the quiet had gone on long enough, he pulled himself up and rested his back against the wall, trying to see what he could of his companions. He'd chosen the right place to meet with a few colourful personages of the area. He knew they were awaiting their hearings before Mountather's magistrate, and wouldn't be lingering long; though most would be familiar with the cells from previous visits. Four men, one woman, all grimy and scuffed, but he noted that three of them dressed quite well; the kinds of things that got you arrested on the roads near Mountather could also bring a handsome living. The three he could easily see were all tattooed with simple symbols, though Dower's was hard to notice; a wavering blue line so high on his neck that his beard largely concealed it. The woman wore her mark proudly on her bare shoulder; something jagged, like sharp teeth. Gang marks?
"So," he continued, content to play the fool. "Anything I should watch out for down in Cul Aber?"
"Who you piss off," spat the lone woman, ten feet away from him behind two thickets of iron bars. "And who you don't. Like right now, you stay good with the scale or -"
"Cheth, watch your damned mouth," snapped the man to his left. "He could be anyone. What if he's an informant?"
"Who'd bloody bother?" asked Dower. "We ain't shit. Who you think you is, Queen Poll on the river?"
"You wish I was." The others laughed. "Won't say you're right but if he needs to be told, I ain't sure we should be so good. I not seen him around. He ain't covered by song truce -"
"Horseshit," croaked the man furthest from him - his throat sounded constricted, and his thin, ragged form was still little more than a shape far away. "Everyone gets song truce. That's why it's truce."
There were murmurs of assent to this riddle; its wisdom escaped the newcomer. He was not inclined to admit it. "Is there anywhere, uh, particularly rowdy I ought to, well, beware of?"
Laughter. A game, not least for the benefit of the watchwoman, who was doubtless charged to report any signs of conspiracy among the prisoners. "Well, you know the docks are quiet enough by day this time of year, but they're mighty dangerous at night..." trilled Cheth. "The scale trade upriverways - that's south. Culway make her way north," she explained. "She take a great curve around the city. So the rock harbour stay up north, that's on the downriver side of the bend - you don't want to cross us." Someone else snorted in derision. "The morn though, they mix with whoever they please these days. Live in boats off the docks most the year. But it's not like an innocent sort would have any reason to mix with that kind. Ain't no trade across the river with Ceejay, is there?"
"But of course not - that would be smuggling," he replied stiffly, to more hilarity. "Do many visitors pass over the border?"
He heard someone spit. "Our way, just runaway slaves. Their way, the morn and their special friends, sometime." At that, he heard a low chuckle. "Course, this time of year it's not so easy. They couldn't pay me enough to take a boat out, not even with Duchess Polly's word on it."
Cheth grunted. "Like she tell aught except what's good for scale."
"Would you set to river if Poll said you were going down?" Dower asked her smugly.
Cheth didn't reply. He tried to understand her words, her silence, but had little time to consider it - better to get some sorely-needed direction. "Anywhere else I should, ah, avoid, if I don't want to get mixed up with smugglers and miscreants?"
"In Cul Aber? Might find your work cut out," grinned the man to his left. "Especially down by Lighthouse Market, and the old Inn Row. Pinter Square's a mess too."
"It's not even worth it no more," muttered Cheth. "Nary a song now. He used to sing there all the time. Now it's all for truce and coin."
Songs. That's the second time they've talked of songs. He stored the mystery away, as if folding a paper and slipping it in the pockets of his mind. "I didn't catch your name," he asked his neighbour, and extended his fingers absurdly through the bars - the gap was too narrow to admit his whole hand.
"Shossel. Yours?"
He hesitated - but it's all to the good for this particular reputation. "I'm Valdir. Pleased to meet you." Truly, what you've all told me was worth the manhandling, if not the awful smell.
He'd had enough. He sent a weak mental appeal to Tantras, who appeared within minutes to drag him out again, grunting something about the magistrate and interrogations and his many previous offences while the unfortunate Valdir protested his innocence. Atop the stairs, Tantras kicked the heavy jailhouse door closed with a thud.
And that is the last my new friends will see of poor Valdir. May they assume the worst of his fate.
Vanyel found himself almost blind again, in the full sun in Mountather's keep courtyard. None of the colours made sense - sky, stone, air, a thin palette of blue and grey. It didn't help that his head still felt like the place between Gates, bereft of warmth or energy, thrumming with hurt. He slumped against Tantras, who was gracious enough to support his weight as they walked toward the stables where Yfandes and Delian were being tended. "And I thought you were enjoying a little rest down there," Tran nudged him, and Vanyel glared. The Death Bell had sounded at almost dawn; he'd Gated them to Mountather as soon as the Circle had allowed it of him, and he'd not taken near as much rest as he needed before paying his visit to the prison. His mind protested at the thought of the hours of riding ahead of them before they'd reach Cul Aber. So Tantras knew full well why he was tired. "Hear anything worth hearing?"
"A lot." He shook his weary head. "More importantly, I'm maybe starting to understand their manners. Some of what we know suddenly makes more sense. Remember what Captain Audley said about how little violence there's been between the bandit groups lately? The prisoners were talking about a truce. And there is crossborder traffic among at least one of the gangs - but even they don't like it at the best of times, which this is not," and he sighed heavily. "Can you imagine a worse time to be searching along the border?"
"Midwinter. In a war," suggested Tantras optimistically.
"Midwinter, we might have been able to walk across the river. I could have held the ice together under us," he grumbled. Tran's eyes widened with unease at the thought. "So yes, even smugglers are too scared to make the crossing to Ceejay while the spring snowmelt's at it's fullest. But they do cross, which is more than anyone else will admit to."
Tran shook his head. "How did Harren get into Ceejay?"
"He crossed south of here, before the point where the Cejar flows into the Culway from the east. The Culway's a lot narrower there - there's places shallow enough for a Companion to ford across," explained Vanyel. "He headed north, and when we spoke yesterday he was in Lydra - that's not five miles from Cul Aber, just over the river and a little uphill." About half of one of those miles were occupied by the vast, treacherous Culway. They'd been over this. Being closer to infuriating landscape of Valdemar's eastern edge didn't change the lay of it. "If anyone saw Harri reach Valdemar, they're in Cul Aber and from all we've heard I doubt they make their living doing anything savoury."
"So you're going to keep pretending you're a street scuff sort," Tantras said. He seemed disappointed that it wasn't a question.
"We're running out of time," Vanyel reminded him. "We have to find Harri."
Tantras stopped walking. "Harri's dead."
Vanyel stepped away from him, so tired and frustrated he wanted to scream. "And if we want to know why, we're running out of time," he repeated. Tantras stared at him, and the hurt in his eyes made Vanyel feel the bell still reverberating in his bones. I know how you feel. But if there's one last thing I can do for him, I have to do it. "Tran. There aren't enough of us left that I can afford to lose a mage and not know how or why. I have to find Harri. I don't have a choice -"
"Don't kill yourself," muttered Tantras, and he resumed his path to the stables.
Good advice. I may need it after the last few hours. For all his pain and fatigue, he couldn't rest until there was nothing left in him. He had days, at most, remaining in which he could cast the spell that would reveal Harri's final moments.
Unlike Tantras, he was beyond the point of thinking of Herald-Mage Harren as a friend and comrade. Harri was now a time-candle, burning at both ends. Harri was one last dispatch in fading ink; if Vanyel could only find where he fell, he could summon the facts of his death, the face of his killer.
From his sheltered spot at the edge of a cobbled square, Valdir watched the grey city.
His fingers hurt. The bitter wind had ripped his songs away almost as soon as they left his hands, whistling away through the cracks in the stones around him; what few passers turned to hear him soon moved on. But he watched them, playing only songs he knew very well, careful of his energy, careful of his focus. Sometimes he sang, in part for show - that was what had elicted most of the pile of pennies gathered in the old cloth hat on the cobbles before him; rousing, familiar words. Not much coin, and few had lingered to speak to him.
His tiredness had long ago reached that point at which rest was no longer possible. It was as well that he worked best on instinct, because his thoughts were long gone. His eyes flickered from his earnings up to the fading sky, to the crowds that were slowly gathering as evening drew in. Some semblance of nightlife beginning; down the square, someone swung open their shutters with a dull clank of rotting wood.
If any life were to come to the area, he was at least hoping someone would try asking him for protection money. Trouble. He badly needed some trouble.
:What you need is a rest from this, Van.:
He shook his head, for all Yfandes couldn't perceive the gesture - she was with Delian, in the stables of the westerly gatehouse, perhaps a mile from the place where he leaned on a weathered milestone cradling his old lute in his hands. :Can't. Unless Tantras has turned up something useful...?: She sniffed at him sleepily. Not likely. Not like his own workings were any more likely to succeed - but even the smallest chance was worth grasping. His was a fool's errand, perhaps, but not one they could refuse, nor abandon before it was over.
But she was right. If nothing else, he needed a change - perhaps to explore the night by the riverside. Surely there'd be enough trouble there to keep him awake. One more song, he told himself. Too early for bawdy, just yet - something romantic. The stony city would lend itself to a lovelorn ballad, if only the wind would allow it to be heard. As he struck up again, he fleetingly wondered if he should have allowed Tantras to arrest him again - Tran had made that genteel offer when they'd been about a mile outside the city, but Valdir had elected to enter the city alone, on foot, and not pursued by the law. He'd hoped that some distance would be of advantage, to both of them. Tantras had set out to make every official investigation into how a man might enter Cul Aber - border records, shipping manifests, doubtless enduring dinner with the mayor, politely introducing himself to the levers of corruption all the while. He had said he was looking forward to befriending everyone who offered him a bribe. Meanwhile Valdir would be currying favour with Cul Aber's less genteel class of criminals.
Yes, he could have ridden south and walked across the border with a diplomatic pass, or stolen across under a cloak of magic. Neither would have accomplished the least thing, because neither would have allowed him to retrace Harri's last steps along whatever secret path away from Ceejay he had taken. The very definition of secret border crossings was that the Heralds of Valdemar didn't know of them.
So here he was, singing on the streets in the desperate hope of locating a friend's corpse.
And what had he achieved, so far? No leads. He had asked a polite older woman for directions to the Lighthouse Market, not finding it on the map they'd examined before leaving Mountather, and she'd answered him with a warding sign. And not even a dozen pennies. He'd seen few in this quarter who looked to have anything to spare; the rains had washed the city thin, filling the Culway to its banks with snowmelt, raging so fast as to keep every fisherman and smuggler ashore.
Of all his luck. If he hadn't been focused on being Valdir, his mood would have spun into the city's dismal spiral.
As he'd wandered through the city earlier, he'd felt relics all around him of Cul Aber's former wealth; once, the city had traded Valdemar's treasures for delicacies from Ceejay and silks and strange herbs from the Eastern Empire, and it still felt like a shell, disintegrating around those lost riches. Cobbled streets, high walls to bank the river, crumbling cornices and scarred stone where gargoyles had been long ago ripped out and stolen. It had been a long time since Valdemar had been able to spare much to trade, even with neighbours whom they shared good terms with.
But there's always music. Someone would always stop to hear the music. Odd, too, that he was singing a song from almost as far west as he'd ever been - from the shores of Lake Evendim - and here he was further east than he'd yet been. It was but chance that he'd previously been to Mountather, and lingered long enough that he remained able to build a Gate through to the fortress chapel. That chance alone meant they may yet have time.
The wind seemed to quiet. Now his song fit here; its brief and fleeting passions, its willingness to look back at good times and say farewell. The grey of the stones was brightened by golden evening light, and even the loneliness of the city seemed beautiful -
Someone was singing along.
His hands kept moving by memory even as his eyes whipped around the square to find the one man, of all the passers, who was still.
There. Staring at him, smiling brighter than the last light of evening. He sang on as Vanyel's words faltered. "Should summer winds bear me on, wish me well." In the square, his voice carried where Valdir's had failed to - high and clear, sounding in the space as if he were perfectly used to it, as if his voice belonged there. Their eyes met, and Valdir felt out the last few chords as if his hands were possessed by that same spirit.
The man drew close to him as he drew silent, and he leant a hand on the wall behind Valdir; he flicked a silver from his pocket, and it landed atop the tiny clutch of coppers in the upturned hat. "While since I heard that song," and another smile crossed his thin face, making his hazel eyes momentarily as warm as sunlight. "And ne'er so well, I do say. Heard you a street away, heading past Rook's to the Westerly market."
"You sing well yourself," he replied. An understatement. The stranger sang so well that part of him still felt - faraway, locked into the story of the lover that drifted on the four winds as the seasons changed. It was hard to remember who he was - and who he wasn't. What name he wore. How far he was from Evendim - or anywhere. Gods, but that voice - how did anyone here knew a song of Evendim?
The stranger snorted with odd humour. "I can hold a tune. And that's why I ask myself, what's a voice so fine doing out on Pinter Square? Worst pitch in the city. I know from when it was all I could get." He leaned to look Valdir close in the eyes. "You hadn't been here long if you not figured that."
"Was starting to," he answered, nodding at the pennies; barely enough for a meal, much less a room, before the stranger's generosity. What was he to make of this man? He'd thoughtlessly dropped him a silver, but nothing in his manner suggested he was a gentleman. The clothes that clung to his body in the wind were better than Valdir's, and had the oddness shared by many of the city's inhabitants; simple wool and linen of Valdemaran weave, and a scarf of foreign silk that had become a billowing, dark blue trail behind him. His boots were well-worn. He was thin, but his bright eyes and thick hair - a red that shone in the sunset - made him seem hale. Slight though he was, and wearing none of the tattoos that had adorned Valdir's former cellmates, he had an ease that felt knowing and oddly territorial. Your pitch. You belong here, I don't, and you know it.
"Here from out west?" the stranger asked. Valdir nodded; he'd learned over the years that it was best to talk as little as possible and, beyond the barebones, to allow anyone who inquired to assemble as many assumptions about his persona as they wished to. And everything was west of Cul Aber. "How come?" The words were merely curious, but his eyes were piercing.
He'd seen many people thinking that today; this was the first one to ask. "Just to raise a few pennies before moving on. Maybe you can help me," he inquired shyly. "Do you know how I could get passage to Ceejay?"
The stranger's face went blank, his eyes like cold, flecked-green stones. "I do," he said after a moment's silence. "But I don't tell stuff like that for nothing. You've got to give me something."
Valdir's face crumpled in barely feigned despair, and he gathered the threadbare cap full of coins in his hands. "I've nought to give, sir, I -"
He was interrupted by a laugh. "I'll tell you if you kiss me."
Valdir's look of surprise was not feigned at all. If I what? He thought fast - he had weighed worse options quickly in worse circumstances, though he recalled none stranger. He guessed I'm shaych - or doesn't care? The stranger's striking smile revealed nothing. I don't even know his name. He is attractive - really, very attractive - but I would never - he felt himself blushing fiercely. It doesn't matter what I'd do or not do - I'm desperate and penniless here, remember? If I threw away my first sight of an answer -
That was the crux of it; he had much to gain and nothing to lose but his dignity, and he was in no place to cling to that too tightly. He set down his cap and his lute at his feet, and he leaned awkwardly forward, closing the gap between them.
He had no idea what he'd expected. Nothing so slow and gentle, for sure. Hands cupped his face, stroking his hair as their mouths moved, a tonguetip no more than teasing at his dry lips. He responded, and closed his eyes without meaning to as he allowed the kiss to deepen. Oh gods, I'm not myself. I don't know you. He felt lines wavering even as their tongues moved together, the barrier between himself and Valdir slipping. If you're this good at kissing, I could wish it was me you were really kissing...
Their faces slid apart. The stranger's eyes seemed to take the measure of him in a way that made the hairs on Van's neck stand on end. He felt confused. Valdir had never been kissed before, and it was only now that Vanyel remembered why; because Valdir getting close to someone could not possibly be wise.
I had to, he told himself. Never mind that it had been an incredible kiss. The other man turned on one heel, and he beckoned for Valdir to follow. "I don't even know your name," he asked.
The question earned him a raised eyebrow and a smirk. "Stefen. Stef, if you fancy. Yours?"
"Valdir," he replied. "Where are you going?"
"I got to show you something. I just tells you, you won't get it. Follow me." Stefen strode away without another word, and Valdir rushed to pocket his coins and sling his battered lute on his back, stumbling after cap in hand. Stefen was singing again, more softly but still seeming to fill the whole world with the melody - contained as this slipshod world was by rickety walls and shuttered windows, slates and stones.
The sound distracted him as he tried to memorize their route; past street-merchants packing their last wares, through alleys so thin he could easily have reached out to touch both sides, the last light of day allowing them to pick their route around lost flagstones and rubbish, although something told him that Stefen would have been just as surefooted in total darkness. Van slipped a hand to his lips, which still seemed to tingle with the force and fascination of the unexpected - a kiss as daring and breathtaking as that voice. Only Valdir could have felt this. Stefen would never have sung to Vanyel - much less kissed him.
And I haven't been kissed like that in years. Why me? He's beautiful, he clearly knows this town, and if that kiss was any indication... He could have anyone he wanted. And he swears he knows how to get me into Ceejay. Who is he?
The thought had been purely rhetorical, but he felt Yfandes' thoughts rumbling about his own. :Van,: she cautioned. :Are you sure you should be following this man? What if he's just looking to take advantage of you?:
That hadn't really crossed Vanyel's mind; was he being too trusting? But her worries didn't make a lot of sense. :He knows I've nothing worth taking. And really, if he meant to take advantage of me, he would have asked me to -: He diverted the thought out of an approaching gutter. :- For something more than just a kiss, sweetheart.: He was surprised not to feel a little revulsion at the thought - shouldn't he?
:You have a point. I'm trying to look at it from his point of view? He meets a penniless singer far from his home and alone on the street. Perhaps he's not taking advantage of you, but taking pity on you. Really, Chosen,: she continued before he could frame his scepticism. :Suppose you were a girl who'd fallen on hard luck - bargaining for your virtue would seem indecent, but a kiss seems like an innocent enough request. Which suggests this Stefen is a decent sort - or that he likes to think of himself as such.:
Vanyel was content to pretend he'd reasoned his way to the same conclusion. But the song's lonely refrain was tugging at him, making him feel that fleeting kiss all over again. :Fandes,: he nudged her. :Do you hear that?:
:That one's from over by Evendim, no? I've heard you sing it before.:
:It was how he's singing it that I was noticing. Am I wrong?:
:That's - oh, hells, Van.:
The young man had the Bardic gift, and he was leading Valdir through the slums of Cul Aber. :So I have to follow him,: he explained, touching his lips again.
It was almost dark when they reached the Culway. The city had long ago risen to meet the great river-wall; a maze of docks and moorings led down toward the waterline, and from what light lingered, he could see that much of the structure was now underwater. There were no nightwatchmen near, no torches, for who would need to be down near the docks at night? Judging from the movements in the shadows, they were far from alone. He kept close to Stefen, less wary of the devil whose name he knew.
Far below them, beams of cloudy light shone from the bottle windows of long barges moored at the docks; he heard raucous voices from inside, not all of them Valdemaran. Foreign traders that the spring tide had washed up in Cul Aber, making whatever entertainment they could? Seems likely. He almost tripped as his foot caught in a knothole on the wooden dock. Gods, for a magelight. And a few more answers than questions. Stefen had stopped singing; he led Valdir down the creaking, swaying paths that led down towards the water, outside the ancient river-wall. The steps were slippery and soft, and at every step he expected them to give way beneath him.
"Is tricker than usual, but still my favourite way. There's a few ways there," explained Stefen. "Here, you're going to get your feet wet," and Valdir heard a splash as he stepped down onto a landing that was evidently a few inches below the water line. The river was loud here, and it was as hard to hear Stefen's words as it was to see his gestures in the dark. "See that?" Ahead of them, there was a thick stone ledge at the base of the wall, as if the wall itself were built in steps. Stefen stepped up onto it, and extended his arm back to Valdir. "Just round corner," he indicated ahead of them. "It's not so bad. But watch your step." Valdir carefully grasped his hand around Stefen's cold, thin fingers, and gingerly joined him.
Not so bad, indeed. But the sound of the river belting northward, swollen to its natural limits, was battering his senses as Stefen set off along the ledge. Valdir followed with his back to the wall; the ledge was all of twelve inches wide and led to who knew what, and Stefen was striding ahead of him with accustomed ease. It's a path a child would make, and he remembered another life, another time, where he'd taken much more precarious routes to get to where he wanted to be. How old is Stefen, anyway? The first moment their eyes met still clung to him like a warm cloak - a youthful voice and old, familiar eyes -
As they rounded the curve of the river, he saw a red gleam on the water. He thought he heard a hum of voices in the air.
Ahead, the shadows widened into improvised cousins of architecture - a misshapen pier reaching into the river. The wall behind was an abrupt, dark hollow. "Welcome to the Lighthouse Market," said Stefen, and he led Valdir toward the throng of people.
Paydirt. He watched from inside the hollow mask of Valdir, and sensed the hunt closing in. If anyone knows, they'll be here. He felt his intention hanging inside his mind like a spelltrap, hidden under Valdir, lost amid the riotous crowd.
Even in the low light, the makeshift marketplace felt more vibrant than the rest of Cul Aber combined. He stepped onto a wide bank made of mis-set stones held together by dubious cement, bare inches above the waterline; unfamiliar smoke-scents engulfed him, as if he'd had any doubt of the market's trade. Or trades; under red lanterns hanging inside the breach in the wall, some quite interestingly-dressed women were braving the cold - and a few men, to his eye more interesting yet. He saw swathes of tattoos on their bare skin; art, gang-sigils, sometimes Cejan scripts he couldn't interpret. The lanterns wove a path deeper into the breach - deeper than reason would have allowed. Smuggler's paths under the city? Natural caves? He didn't know, and Stefen was weaving through the crowd ahead of him. Everything around them was light, smoke and shadow; people huddled over low fires by the water, filling the air with smoke-trails as they cooked oily fish or stranger-smelling goods.
Stefen reached back to grab Valdir's hand as he ducked into the hollow of the torn wall - a girl gave them a wink, but he noted that she didn't spare them the solicitation she bestowed upon every other male passer. Stefen was known to be disinterested in the girls, then. Valdir stooped through the tunnel; there was stone underfoot, and to their right they passed deeper hollows, thinly curtained recesses full of smoke and bodies, trails of lanternlight that reached who knew how far deeper - it's like a maze between the city and the river. People slipped past them, never looking at their faces. Stefen, he noted, held a fold of his scarf over his face. Valdir's feet slipped, and he stumbled into his companion, a little dizzy.
Stefen shrugged off his apology and wrapped his free hand around Valdir's waist, keeping him close. He leaned up to speak close to Valdir's ear, words muffled by the cloth over his mouth. "Smell that? That's dreamerie. Heard you don't get it so much in other towns. Mix of poppyheads and a couple of pretty flowers from out east. They trade the makings of it and cut it right here on the beach - is one reason the Lighthouse Market exists. Wasn't the one I brought you hear for, though." The tunnel led unexpectedly back out into the night, onto a second spit of stones the like of the first, and Stefen drew deep breaths of fresh air and then cupped his hands to his lips. "Polly!"
From somewhere in the mass of people - huddled groups of sellers, smokers, dancers, couples sat at the water's edge, or fucking against the wall - a woman slipped through. "You're lucky I ain't busy - what you got for me?" She was tall, about Valdir's height, and probably close to him in age; her hair held back by strands of beads, streaked through with hennaed stripes that greyed out near the crown of her head. Her neck was graced by a tattoo - a fishtail, arcing into a jagged line of water. He'd seen many similar marks around them; he knew them now for mere imitators.
"Just here to catch the tide," Stefen answered, and she snorted.
"Not tonight. Less you want to drown out there. I'd leave it til," and she licked a finger laciviously and held it aloft. "Two more nights, maybe. Unless your friend want to go swimming?" she asked, looking blandly over Valdir.
"Sh, no one ever tried to seranade you on the water?" Stef winked at her.
"Only for my bloody boats," she hissed, jerking her head. "If you's serious, just do me a damn favour and listen to me, right? I ain't going to be happy if you go down." And with that she was gone, her long silk skirt trailing after her as she pressed back through the crowd.
"S'a good thing for you that she owes me," Stefen whispered. "No one knows the river like Poll. Everyone else who try to own this run drowned one by one while she sat on the riverbank nodding her head and going 'I told you so.' Now she gets a scrape off every coin gets changed on the whole riverside. All without raising a knife - not that she wouldn't. But do you see now? How she brings hers home?"
Vanyel looked around at the fires and the lanterns in renewed comprehension. But of course. Any city guard that looked down from high above would see only the red lanternlight, and if they knew the way they might stray down to breathe a little illicit air or negotiate a price for their silence - be it cash, goods or companionship. They would think themselves bought, and no more of it. But should a boat set sail in the night from the far, foreign side of the river, the Lighthouse Market would be there to shine the way home.
If Harri had left Ceejay by night, he must have seen it.
-->Part 3
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Date: 2014-09-23 12:00 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-09-25 12:23 am (UTC)It is still going. I have about 20k down now, and should post some more at the weekend if not before. (ahem. I still feel bad for not posting anything for your birthday, so will at least have something in the bag for Kat's .___. )
I miss your fic very much but I understand that you have BOTH HANDS full of THESE SMALL HUMAN BEINGS YOU HAVE PRODUCED, so I just hope you're hanging in there! <3
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Date: 2014-09-25 11:56 am (UTC)Not that I can criticize canon too much, since it is giving us our ideas, but still...
I like that you narrowed the age gap and the power gap so convincingly. Passive Valdir is good; I feel like it will make it all that much more shocking/ betrayal-like to Stefen when he realizes who Valdir truly is.
YES my hands are full, but I'm also uninspired. I think I'm too focused on the mundane and not enough on the creative, so I can't think of a fic that doesn't involve cleaning a toddler's turd off the kitchen floor. Hopefully you will inspire me!
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Date: 2014-09-25 12:20 pm (UTC)Ahaha, yeah, Van's adventures are mostly something we just hear about in passing while canon focuses on these personal interludes about love and family. Stef suffers in this regard too - we know he's awesome, and that he writes tons of songs and has adventures, but NEVER get to find out about it. :(
I was uninspired most of this year - burned myself out a bit in winter when I accidentally 3 jobs. It always seems to come back, though.
Comment
Date: 2014-09-26 06:46 pm (UTC)I am really liking this. Valdir is a strange incarnation of Vanyel and making him meet Stefan now is amazing! :D
I am going to re-read this with more calm ^__^ How old is Stefen here? :D
Re: Comment
Date: 2014-09-27 01:22 am (UTC)Thanks for reading! Will be posting more on Sunday. Stef is 18, I guess?
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Date: 2014-09-27 12:55 pm (UTC):( will be v hard to resist the urge to read this in snatches when i am supposed to working with sharp objects and fire ahahaha
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Date: 2014-09-27 01:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-09-28 01:08 am (UTC)AUGH EPIC ROLE REVERSAL. That whole scene is visually impressive. Billowing scarf, etc. I am waiting for the delicious moment Stefen realizes who he was really hitting on XD. I like the disconnect/disorientation and the way Vanyel kept TOUCHING HIS LIPS. oh Van. Has he really turned back into a virgin, REALLY. I love everything about this.
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Date: 2014-09-28 04:10 am (UTC)ty ty! Lol Van needs more random makeouts in his life. I am basically stumbling around in this AU having fun with all the visuals and making shit up. i expect the overall structure will be [PWP + upteen thousand words of WAIT I CAN EXPLAIN]
...fuck it, it's after midnight here, will post some more now.