Allayria stares blearily at the house on the other side of the street, eyes sliding once more over its obnoxiously familiar stone architecture, and the carefully wrought fence and carved sculptures that adorn a place so clearly comfortable in its own opulence.
Iaves shifts behind her in the usual ten-minute movement to stave of sleep. Rex, tail swishing with lazy happiness at being out of The Open Arms, blinks, her eyes drifting closed as her muzzle settles onto crossed paws. It is Allayria and Iaves' turn to take both day and night duty, and neither of them is doing too well.
It doesn't help either that Ruben has been making his rounds once more—to the markets and the taverns, sharing coin and wine while making himself conspicuous. Ben thinks it is a ploy to cow them, nothing more, but Allayria wonders if the old man still might be onto something: the four sleep in shifts and keep to the shadows.
She hasn't told the others about her run-in with the old Skill master yet. After purchasing the rest of their food and then doubling back and looping around several times to make sure she wasn't being followed, she had snuck back to the hotel much later than expected. At the time, there had been grousing and demands about what had held her up, but most of it was quelled by the smell of freshly baked bread.
Taking in the flat shadows beneath their eyes, the slowness of their hands as they feasted on the food, Allayria hadn't had it in her to give them any more to worry about. She can keep vigilant for Ruben enough for all of them. And... well, for all her suspicions and all her wariness, Ruben is not acting as an aggressive opponent. Allayria's gut tells her as long as they lay low—as long as he doesn't know, the voice in the back of her head, the one that always worries about being found out, whispers—he will wait. Fighters don't get that old without learning patience.
Allayria rubs her eyes, fighting off her own opponent: the impulse to stretch her limbs out and emit a jaw-cracking yawn. Time and space have shrunk again, seeming to only consist of following, eating, and sleeping, then following again and again and again...
She watches a milkman stride across the street, imagining she was him, with the nice, warm, wool coat, the stiff posture, the almost lock-kneed stride...
She blinks then sits up, throwing her arm over so it smacks Iaves.
He grunts.
"What?"
"Look at that man," she says, pointing to the milkman. "What is he?"
"Ben taught you that stupid game, didn't he?" he complains. "I have never—"
He trails off and his eyes are fixed on the man marches toward the Brezkin residence.
"He's a Jarles, isn't he?" Allayria says.
"Can't think of anyone else who walks like they have a stick up their ass," Iaves responds, turning around and clamping a hand on her wrist. "Take Rex and go get Ben. If I have to move she will lead you to me. Go get him now."
Ben awakes as soon as she puts a hand on his shoulder, rolling over with a wide gaze and a clear expression. She tells him what they saw and he climbs out of bed, slipping on clothes in the dim light.
"What about Meg?" Allayria asks as he retrieves his knife from beneath the floorboards. "Do we wake her up?"
"If you think for one second you are leaving me here," a voice erupts from the other side of the room as a scowling, ruffled-hair form claws its way out from under blankets and furs, "think again."
Ben shrugs, tossing a bundle of rope at Allayria before slinging a pack over his shoulder.
"Get up then, Sunshine, and let's go."
Rex's paws pad quietly along the tiled stone, her tail twitching as she trots long, leading them through a twisting vine of alleyways and streets toward her companion. The three move as quietly as they can behind her, sneaking glances back at the sounds of doors clambering open or footsteps ringing on the pavement.
Rex doesn't lead them back to the abandoned apartment; instead she takes them to the east of Brezkin's house, down crumbling stairs and along shadowed bins until they see a figure hunched in a doorway, face tilted out just enough for the moonlight to catch his matted, mopped hair and the long profile of his nose.
He turns to them, unsurprised, and holds a finger to his lips, pointing down the street at something they can't see. They approach the corner, stiffening when they hear a low rumble of voices.
"Serfigue," Ben murmurs, leaning over her shoulder to try to catch their words better. From across the street Iaves mouths something at them, gesturing toward the voices.
"A guard," Allayria guesses, keeping her voice a breath in Ben's ear.
There's a soft creak behind them and they both twist around to find Meg off the ground by the height of a man, fingers clutching a nonexistent ledge and foot crooked on a doorframe.
Ben's eyes widen but Meg doesn't glance down to catch his furious stare. Instead, she seems to feel along the stone with her fingertips before she jams them into the rock, holding tight to the suddenly malleable surface. She brushes her foot along the side before doing the same thing, scuttling up in a spider-like fashion toward a stone balcony that curves around the corner of the building.
"That's amazing," Allaryia murmurs, watching her go. She had tried something similar in Morgalth, but her technique had been much cruder.
Ben's hand is warm on the nape of her neck, his thumb lying across her collarbone as his breath ghosts across her ear.
"Watch her and the alleyway," he whispers, slipping the knife out of his belt. "Anything happens, use the call we agreed on in Morgalth."
"What are you—?" she hisses, but he slips around the corner and she looks up to find Meg over the balcony ledge and around the corner as well.
She looks down at her lone, remaining companion: Rex, who returns the stare with a doleful, unreadable look.
"Unbelievable," she whispers to her and then looks around, at the empty alleyway and the now vacant building side. "Un-freaking-believable."
She leans back against the wall, trying to relax into it as she looks around, inspecting every shadow, every crevice along the winding paths for unfamiliar faces or shifting bodies. The voices have lulled to an indiscernible murmur and she can hear several boots clattering on the street, though they seem to be far away. She's blind here, with no idea what's going on or if anyone needs any help.
She glances around once more, feeling her shoulders hunch up and tense. In her pocket, the ball of sleek metal flexes and wanes almost pathologically, moving in constant, repetitive motions as her eyes sweep the alleyway once more. She wants to scale the wall and join Meg, but that's not something she can likely explain away.
She's thinking about peering around the corner to see where Ben has gone when she catches Iaves pointing frantically at her. Her brows knit together and she turns a palm up, leaning forward slightly.
It's then that she hears it: a sudden shift in pant legs and jackets—the noises of several people suddenly thundering down in her direction.
Hello, everyone! I was going to write something witty here, but I'm really tired. *jazz hands*
In boring scheduling news, I'm hoping to break this terrible habit and have the next chapter up for the weekend (Friday/Saturday) instead of at the end of the weekend (Sunday). My late nights have been devoted to group papers recently, which is definitely not as fun as this.
Note: A full view of the header art can be found on my deviantart account here: http://asimsluvr.deviantart.com/art/Iaves-658285947
References:
Face: LLstock
Wolf: Wincey
Feathers: Magweno