Down the grey street he descended, fleeing the specter of Lisvette that seemed to tail him through every wall and behind every door. This was tomfoolery, of course, but by the time he realized he was not being somehow pursued, he was stranded amidst tired-looking homes, whose inhabitants he speculated were teetering between well-to-do and poverty.
He stopped then, white vapor spiraling from his lips and into the night. It was only then that he realized he had no idea where the smithy’s household was located. He had not an inkling; not even a last name to ask around for [for “Vince” was as common name in the city, and therefore could not be used as a lead].
He twisted in place, ogling the walls around him. Where on earth do I look now?
Wandering forward with aimless, rhythmic steps, Rory ambled down the alleyway, lost in mind and in body. At the end of the passage he could suddenly make out the shape of a rugged, poor man—a beggar—hunched against the gloomy wall with the eerie disposition of a corpse. The beggar appeared to be sleeping, and his left sleeve’s emptiness betrayed the lack of a left arm.
Rory stared at him for a bit, wary but also struck by pity. He fumbled with his pants’ pockets, foolishly removing the clinking bag in its entirety and holding it in view. He distilled two silver clinks from the bundle and was about to place them before the poor man, and leave them there for when he awoke in the morning, when a second thought stayed his hand. Why should he be giving the peasant any money at all? Why did the peasant deserve it? He most certainly didn’t; sleeping in the streets like that, rather than earning a wage. He’d probably done something to lose his left arm. He’d probably been really stupid, that’s what. That’s why a lot of people were poor, really. They were too stupid to be anywhere else, that’s what father always said.
He returned the coins to his bundle.
He rounded the turn and found himself at what appeared to be the neighborhood dump. It wasn’t as haphazard, acrid, or filthy as the slums further down the city streets, in the more impoverished parts of the capital, or worse, in the rugged cities the likes of Harlaha, in the southeast. It was, however, still a dump—the first dump Rory had ever seen in his life—and he noticed in a daze, two severely broken fruit carts thrown amongst the messes, tatters of worn-out, moth-eaten clothing, and fragments of broken spears and shovels. An unpleasant, rotting smell emanated from the cornered heap, and upon further observation, Rory realized it wasn’t simply because a sewage line near the battered carts had slightly ruptured from the heat. Beside the heaps of garbage, and laying on it’s side, was a horse’s carcass, in late stages of decomposition. It released a horrible stench into the atmosphere, and Rory could scarce look at it, as he could feel it’s flesh was crawling with maggots.
I guess there’s nowhere to go now. I’m such a fool. I should’ve sent someone instead.
Lisvette’s words returned to him once more, and he almost stumbled as his ears rung with her voice: “But of course, only naturally, being as important as he is, he will find his query (or hire somebody to find it for him) and recover it by means of bribery or violent coercion…
It wasn’t quite the heart-warming flashback he would’ve longed for in the acrid darkness of the alleyway that stank of piss and rot.
I guess I’ll just have to go back.
A part of him rejoiced, ready to turn back at any moment, but another part sank to the pit of his stomach, where it sulked silently, and bubbled.
He looked down at the pouch of silver clinks in his hands, and wondered what would be best to do with them. He most certainly would not keep them on him—no way would he sleep another night with the vile lump of silver guilt befouling the air of his room. He looked back to where the beggar had been sitting, thrust them upon the poor man, as if shaking off a curse, but the beggar was nowhere to be seen. It was as if he’d vanished into thin air.
