Quest of the Five Clans

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

In which a gauntlet is walked, not run

In stories characters wander unaware towards some place of significance. The thought-burdened hero broods while wise feet guide. And so he stops, surprised to find himself beneath his lost love's window, the door of the confessional, a tree branch designed for a noose.

What nonsense. You stand at the crossroads considering: left, right? Forward, back? And make your choice. I'd never let feet steer. They'd wander before some drayman's cart, get me crushed. No, my head directed this thought-burdened self down High Street, entirely aware of every turn, every alley, every cobble.

I needed to be. Within five streets I had traded helmet for hat, then hat for cap, turned a Magisterium guard-cloak inside out to become a penny-guard's. I changed my walk to casual stroll. And yet the blind beggar a street behind kept to the same turns. Ahead I spotted an associate spadassin, leaning against a wall, blinking sleepily from under the straw hat of a farmer. I hoped the real farmer was not lying throat-cut in an alley. A milksop thought, I suppose.

The High-Street clattered with horse hooves and soldier boots, ladies' heels and farmer's clogs. Carriage wheels, cart wheels, dray-wheels, wagon wheels, rattling barrows, everywhere the rumble and tumble of wheels thumping every puddle-filled hole. Idlers commanded lamp-posts and barrels to watch the river of the working world: tradesmen, messengers, butchers and bakers, bankers, beggars and bandits. Maids with bosoms, boys with eyes, farmers with buckets, knife-grinders, fish-mongers, costermongers, preachers, prostitutes, pickpockets, topers and drovers and drunkards and dogs. The stench of horse-shit, ox-shit, cow-shit, dog-shit, man-shit rising from the street beneath shoe and wheel and paw. Earth, mud, dung, sweat, smoke, spices and breads and peppers from shops and carts made a shout of smells to deafen the nose. Colors of cloth, skin, fur, cloud and mud smearing a city-rainbow behind the tinted-glass air of a thousand different smokes. White smokes of bakeries, black smokes of smithies, brown smokes of houses, blue smoke of trash. Wind rippled smokes, rippled flags, rippled folds of dress, feathers and cotton awnings and canvas coattails, a harvest-field of rippling colors between the brown ground and gray sky.

Which is all but to say, the city street swarmed with sounds and sights and smells. An excellent place to hide my person. Alas, equally excellent for hiding a dagger.

I longed to go home. But the Council Guard would be hammering at my door. By now it lay in splinters. They'd be pawing my books, knocking over vases, tapping walls for secret cabinets. The thought angered me. My wines, my books, my cloaks. They would terrorize Elspeth my maid, Stephano my valet.

Granted, Stephano is a former pirate. Privateer, as he would say. Face like a fist, carved with scars, etched with burns. His kindly look makes dogs whimper, his warm smile throws children into convulsions. I would have to trust Stephano to mind the house. Protect Elspeth. While I sought to redeem myself from last night's fiasco. Or at least avoid capture and sudden death.

Redemption would be easier with sleep and money. And lunch. Clean clothes would be nice as well, if not required. At home I hid certain items for just this sudden storm. Coin, negotiable jewels, papers of identity. My best saber. I needed only a minute to reach secret cabinet known only to myself and Stephano.

But no doubt the paths to my house were watched from corner, from roof, even the sewers beneath the street. Tempting to see how close I could get to my own door. Before dying? Scoffed the voice of doubt. Well, yes, admitted the voice of Honesty. But I'd take plenty with me, declaimed the voice of Courage. What use is that? Shouted Wisdom and Cowardice in chorus. Any soldier knows, those two often partner.