Nightfire | The Whispering Wall #1

Seventeen: A Wager

Jordan swallowed and narrowed his eyes. "You're implying you can get us home, though?"

Arlen smirked. "Am I?"

"Jordan!"

"Night take me," Arlen cursed. "Those bloody witch men trail you everywhere, don't they?"

Jordan scowled. "Apparently, yeah."

"Translate the note," Arlen said. Footsteps were coming in their direction. "And meet me there in a month's time if you want to make a deal."

He turned and levered himself onto the roof using the gutter, leaving Jordan in the alley. He had just pulled his boot up out of sight when two Unspoken rounded the corner, and though it would be wiser to leave, Arlen hesitated. It wasn't Yddris who had come to find Jordan, but the Unspoken in black sounded familiar to him all the same.

"It's dangerous to be out here by yourself, Jordan," the man said sharply, "Who were you talking to?"

"I wasn't talking to anyone."

"There was someone else here, though, wasn't there?" A pause. "And they're still here."

Arlen scrambled across the roof and dropped down on the other side of the building. The voices went quiet. Somehow he didn't think Jordan would admit to speaking to him, at least not right away, which was some small progress at least that he could take back to Marick.

Arlen even surprised himself with his own optimism.

He took off. He had landed in a small side-street, parallel to the alley in which he had found Jordan but with an entrance at the opposite end. Before any hooded men decided to overstep themselves and come looking for him, he would make himself scarce. As he entered the main road, he tied his hair back with a leather thong and retrieved his eye patch from a coat pocket, settling it into place before any of the milling civilians even registered his presence. He loathed the patch, but it was a remarkably effective disguise. Without one white eye and a Devils' mark, the description on his wanted posters was conveniently, comically vague. Even without the patch people wouldn't report him for fear of the Devils' revenge, but on this particular errand he wanted to draw as little attention as possible.

It wasn't long before the plain stone houses gave way to the brilliantly coloured fronts of the Orthanian quarter. The alley in which Arlen had found Jordan wasn't far from the border between the quarters, which was convenient enough for him. It wasn't light out, which afforded him more cover; the days grew dimmer as the dark season closed in. Soon the Orthanian temple shone like a beacon over the roofs. It never disappeared from sight for more than a few steps at a time on the approach.

It was a risk coming in the daytime, but Arlen had no hope of seeing Silas in night hours after the idiot stunt he had pulled after Sebastien's death. It was such a basic error that it had already gained a kind of infamy in Marick's halls and it was dragging Arlen's reputation down with it. He scowled despite himself. It wasn't like he hadn't specifically instructed the boy on how to carry the task out. At no point had he ever said that injuring oneself instead of making a speedy getaway was a good idea.

He was still working himself up into a quiet rage when he reached Silas's chamber door. It had a city guard on it, which Arlen had expected. A clumsy cover-up like that was bound to make the boy a suspect.

"Here to visit," he said gruffly.

The guard stood up a little straighter. The eyes glittering behind the visor scanned Arlen up and down. "Name and purpose."

"Dirk Baile," Arlen said. He dug into his cloak and produced a scroll wrapped in purple ribbon and sealed with purple wax. The ram skull emblem was clear on it. "His highness' business."