"Fancy seeing you here."
Arlen dropped from the roof and landed behind the otherworld boy in the alley. The boy whirled to face him, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. The gutter behind him was swimming with puke.
Arlen's lip curled at the smell. "Bought from the wrong vendor, did you?"
The boy just stared at him, goggle-eyed and reeking. There was something hanging around him that was reminiscent of the Unspoken, and Arlen's frown deepened. Perhaps the Gift would manifest sooner than he had banked on.
"That note you gave me," the boy said abruptly, "What did it say?"
Arlen casually hooked out one of his daggers for polishing on his tunic, staring over the flashing blade. The boy's eyes followed it and his face turned wan.
"Well, Jordan... It is Jordan, isn't it?"
The boy nodded.
"That depends entirely on how many people know about the note." He smiled nastily. "Its translation changes the higher the number goes, see."
Jordan swallowed. "Just me."
"And?"
"I didn't tell Yddris," Jordan said quickly, "But I swear he knew I had something."
Arlen scowled. Jordan, apparently interpreting it as directed at him, backed up and put his foot in his own sick. Arlen snorted, put his dagger away and leaned back against the building behind him with his arms crossed.
"Listen, boy," he said, as Jordan tried to scrape his boot heel on the wall and keep an eye on Arlen at the same time. "I want to help you get what you want; I told you that last time we met. The Unspoken will get in the way if you let him." He fixed the boy with a shrewd look as guilt passed over his face. "But you already knew that, didn't you?"
"No," Jordan said, "I mean... I don't know. I don't know either of you. You even less than him."
"Wouldn't be too sure about that," Arlen said with a grin, "Those cloaks hide things. Me, I'm an honest man. I might pick your pocket and spill your guts on the street but you'll know who did it."
Jordan went white. Arlen laughed.
"Don't look so worried, I've already said I won't hurt you."
"Actually, you didn't..."
"Anyway," he added loudly. "The note. It was an address, actually, but since I've bumped into you here it's hardly important."
"An address?"
"I made you an offer," Arlen said. "Remember? You help me, I return the favour. Get me?"
Jordan looked faintly green by this point. Feigning a casual move, Arlen stepped out of the range of fire if the boy threw up again.
"If you can't make all of this go away," Jordan said slowly, "I'm not interested."
"And if I said I could?" Arlen smiled and cocked his head. "What would you say?"
"I would say that sounds like a lie."
Arlen considered him for a moment. There was a waver there, he was sure of it. It was obvious that the boy wanted it badly enough to ask; it wasn't clear whether he would act on it. Jordan was clearly naïve, but not thick. Arlen wondered whether he might have judged unfairly the first time he'd seen the boy. He could think of more than one person who might have jumped on the offer with no consideration at all.
Feeling considerably kinder and relieved that he wasn't dealing with a total blockhead, he relaxed his stance with a lazy smile.
"You're not stupid, are you, boy?" he said. "That's good. Not much use I can get out of an idiot. So...okay, you caught me exaggerating a bit. I'm afraid I can't do anything about you being Gifted, boy; if that's going to happen, it's going to happen no matter what you do."
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."
The guard looked at the seal and then at Arlen. He stepped aside. "Make it fast. He can barely stay awake at the moment."
Arlen nodded shortly, doubting that very much. The little chamber was bathed in candlelight, and Silas lay sweating on his pallet in the corner. He was grey-faced and dark circles surrounded his eyes, but his gaze was alert. As the door closed and left them alone, the boy reached under the blanket and pulled out a small pendant on a string.
"It's Sebastien's," he said in a quavering voice, "M-my proof."
Arlen made no move to take it. "What were you thinking?"
"I panicked," Silas said quickly, "The slave was there and I didn't know..."
"You mean she saw you?"
"Y-yes." Silas's eyes were huge. He sank lower on the bed and hissed in pain, hand flying to his side. "I didn't know what else to do."
"Did waiting cross your mind?" Arlen snapped. "Why would you carry out a job when somebody saw you at the scene?" He growled. "And when did I ever say that injuring yourself was a good cover-up? You'd have been better off killing yourself. It would at least have been more convincing."
"But...."
"There's no but here," Arlen interrupted, "Sebastien died by poisoned blade. You were injured with a different weapon entirely, in the presence of witnesses, and did not die from your wound. Don't tell me you're surprised that they suspect you."
"I'm not," Silas said, even sweatier now, "But.... Arlen, is Silversong going to kill me for this?"
"You deserve it, night take you," Arlen muttered, "But no, he's not. He considers the punishment Lord Harkenn going to deal you when he finds you guilty a sufficient payment for the screw-up, considering you got results." He paused. "Your debt, however, isn't any smaller."
"I can't go to jail," Silas whispered. "Arlen, please, it all will have been for nothing if I go to jail!"
"You should have thought of that," Arlen muttered, stepping forward and scooping Sebastien's pendant off the floor. "Shouldn't you?"
"But...." Silas tried to get up but fell back with a cry of pain. "You need an apprentice! Don't you? I heard.... I heard it from someone. You could take me. Take me with you!"
"And why," Arlen said, stowing the pendant in his jacket and turning on his heel to fix the boy with a cold look, "Would I take on a knucklehead like you as my apprentice?"
He swept back out before the boy could respond. As the door closed behind him, an enraged scream echoed from the room beyond. The guard glanced over his shoulder.
"He's been doing a lot of that," he said. "Gets tiring after a while."
"I imagine it does," Arlen muttered, already walking away.
Though he passed through the same place on his return, Arlen didn't see Jordan again. He hadn't realised he had been looking until he didn't see him, and when he did realise what he was doing he shook his head and sped up. There was something about that boy that reminded him of something and he didn't know exactly what it was; perhaps it was simply a favourable comparison with Silas. He wasn't overtly intelligent or brave. Certainly not agile. Besides, the boy was destined for the witch men. Just standing beside him had made that obvious enough; it was only a matter of time. And yet...
Usk was waiting for him in his front room when Arlen levered himself in through the window of the house they shared. It had once had two floors and a cellar, but the cellar had caved in long ago. Usk and Arlen resided on the top level where the only access was through a window. Anyone looking at it from the street would think it derelict. The façade was even effective enough to throw off most demons.
The Varthian looked up from picking something out of his soup with a grubby finger. He grunted.
"Well met," he said. "What did he have to say for himself?"
"He had the gall to ask for an apprenticeship," Arlen growled. He crossed to the pot hanging over the fire and took a long draught of soup from the ladle. He threw it back in and reached up to undo his cloak. "I've got no sympathy for the little shit."
"There are worse options," Usk said.
Arlen turned to face him. "I'm sure there are, but they're harder to find than better ones."
Usk raised a bushy eyebrow, yellow eyes glinting with amusement. "You already scouted someone, Arl?"
"No."
Usk put down his bowl and started picking at his nails. Arlen joined him at the table. It was the only furniture he owned, but it was the only furniture that would have been any use to him anyway. He flicked a bit of gore off the corner of his chair before he pulled Usk's bowl over and helped himself to the leftovers.
"Maybe."
Usk looked up, grin already in place, and Arlen scowled. There were disadvantages to hanging around one person for too long. Usk already knew him too well and the brute was too big and well-connected to bump off on the quiet. He was certain Usk felt a similar way about him. All there was to do now was continue as they were and not be the one to take the fall if it came crashing down around them.
In the meantime, Arlen had to deal with Usk's annoying, uncanny habit of knowing when something was bothering him.
"Let me guess," the big man grunted, settling back in his chair and making it groan ominously. "The otherworld boy?"
"That was fast." Too fast.
"Could already tell," Usk said. "He's about the only project of Marick's you've taken an interest in for a while."
"Not that it's any use," Arlen countered, still frowning. "He's bound for the witch men. You can tell just standing next to him that it'll happen."
"He wouldn't be the first two-timer in the guild," Usk said reasonably, "And I doubt Marick would take objection to an Unspoken's skillset in his repertoire."
"No, he wouldn't, but the boy's too nice," Arlen said. "I'm willing to bet he's never even known a woman. Forget thievery and assassination, the kid's a virgin."
Usk chuckled. "He wouldn't be the first for that, either."
Arlen smirked, but it quickly slid from his face. "It wouldn't work. Especially if that bastard Yddris apprentices him."
"You've dealt with worse than Yddris, Arl," Usk muttered. "You know the boy's good material. Nice kids are malleable. Make 'em whatever you want to with the right tools. And," he leaned forward, "you know Marick already wants him. If you offered to teach him he'd say yes."
"Marick would." Arlen was grasping at straws. "The boy never would."
Usk grinned. "Didn't you tell him you could get him and his sister home?"
"I implied it."
"Well, then." The Varthian pulled a pouch of blackweed from his trouser pocket and started rolling two cigarettes with it. He handed one to Arlen and lit them both with a match. "He'll come. I'm willing to bet on it."
He slapped a silver Cert down on the table between them and raised his eyebrows. Grudgingly smiling, Arlen added a Cert of his own.
"You're on."