Chapter Ten

 

 

Marta had lived in Valeria all her life, had walked its streets in the winter and the summer, during great celebrations and somber funerals, yet never had she seen the streets as empty as they now were. Though she walked on the main avenue of the city, one might have been forgiven for thinking it some secluded side alley. Gone were the crowded stalls, the vendors and merchants shouting out their wares, haggling prices with their customers. Most of the shops she passed were boarded up, and what little she could see through the covered windows showed them dark inside, their owners having apparently decided to weather what was to come in the relative safety of their homes.

Marta tried to tell herself that the unusual emptiness was a good thing. After all, fewer people in the streets meant fewer chances of her running into someone she knew, and her progress toward the city gate was not impeded as it might have been in normal days, which meant she was making good time. A dubious comfort considering where she intended to go, but the most comfort she was likely to get anytime soon. Still, the sight of her city—the city she had loved and hated since she’d been old enough to love or hate anything—looking so abandoned, was disturbing. Sometimes, she could trick herself into believing it wasn’t all as bad as she thought, could forget, for a few moments, the dangers threatening them. But seeing the empty shops and empty streets brought home the threat with clarity all too stark to comfort a girl who had spent her life telling others—and herself—lies.

It was as if there had been some great mass exodus out of the city, one to which she had not been invited. There hadn’t been, of course—after all, where would they go? The enemy army might not be visible but it was out there somewhere. Marta didn’t know where they had gone or what they were waiting for but, in her experience—experience hard-gained over the last few weeks—the servants of the Dark weren’t a particularly patient lot. She thought that they would all discover the reason for the army’s delay soon enough, no doubt to their grief.

A voice from somewhere up ahead startled her from her thoughts, and she glanced around, suddenly sure someone was going to attack her. After all, the normal citizens might have taken refuge in their homes, but criminals would still be criminals. That much, at least, could be relied upon, even in such uncertain times as they now found themselves.

But no footpads or muggers waited for her. There was a stall up ahead with a merchant standing before it talking to two older, matronly women, though Marta was too far away to make out their words. Yet, she was glad for even this small semblance of normalcy, and allowed her curiosity to get the better of her, walking up to the stall.

“As I say,” the man went on, nodding an affable greeting to her before turning back to the women, “I’ll sell you ladies two bottles for the price of one. Not something I’d normally do mind—I got to eat just like everyone else, understand, but given the circumstances…well…” He paused, shrugging in affected nonchalance. “Seems to me I ought to do my part.”

“And they really will stop them?” one of the women asked hopefully. “They won’t attack us, if we drink this…tonic of yours?”

“Oh, absolutely, ma’am,” the trader said, nodding solemnly. “My tonics last for twenty-four hours and are guaranteed to stop any nightling in its tracks, if one of the little buggers even thinks about coming near you.”

Marta had seen a lot of swindling in her day, had done a lot herself. It was one of the minor dangers someone growing up on the streets was forced to contend with—cruel men with cruel knives being far higher on the list. She had mostly grown accustomed to how merchants often sold more lies than goods, for lies were far more profitable, could turn a useless brass trinket into a lost treasure. She had never felt one way or the other about it, really, thought it just as natural for human beings as breathing. After all, everyone had to make a living somehow and sometimes that meant doing things that the priests might not exactly smile on.

But this time, it was different. This time, she found that she did feel one way about the man’s lies and the old women so desperate they’d swallow them whole and thank him for the opportunity. And the way she felt was angry. Perhaps, it was Sonya’s absence which had her out of sorts. Maybe it was the stress that everyone in the city was feeling at the prospect of the coming siege. Maybe it was her own hurt from feeling cast aside by Alesh and the others. Whatever it was, she was angry and there was no mistaking that. Particularly when she realized she had stomped up to the merchant’s stall and with one sweeping gesture of her arm, sent all of the bottles—full, she suspected, of colored water—flying off the table to shatter on the cobbles of the street.

She was shocked by her own actions—the last thing she needed to do was draw attention to herself—and the two women and the trader seemed equally so, staring at her with wide eyes, but she couldn’t deny the surge of satisfaction she felt hearing the bottles break.

“W-what do you think you’re doing?” the trader sputtered, reaching down as if he meant to grab up all the broken bottles, to somehow put them back together.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Marta demanded. “Tell me something, trader, have you ever even seen a nightling?”

The man paused in his vain attempts to salvage his merchandise to glance up at her defensively. “Sure I have. Hard not to, these days.”

“Oh?” Marta pressed. “And how close did you get? Did you pet it?”

“Pet it?” the trader asked incredulously.

“Well,” Marta said, “if these potions of yours make the creatures as docile as you say, seems to me you could. Might even take one as a pet, name him Spike, maybe. Or Talon. Some of them do have spikes—I should know, for I’ve seen them far closer than I’d like—and pretty much all of ‘em have talons. So what about it, you take one as a pet?”

“Of course not,” the man said, his face suffused with anger, “what kind of a fool would think to do such a thing?”

“Maybe the same kind of fool who would think your tonics would do anything more for them than give ‘em a minor stomach ache, like as not,” Marta rejoined. Then she glanced at the two old women. “Sorry, ladies. No offense, of course. But fact is”—she scowled back at the merchant—“the only people safe from the nightlings are the dead, and they’ve got their own problems to worry about.” She thought about that for a second and shrugged.

She winced, half-expecting Lady Tirinian to scold her as she did when Marta used such language before realizing that Lady Tirinian wasn’t around. She felt a pang of sadness and regret at that, for whatever else being in the Tirinians care had done, it had been nice to have someone care for her, someone to whom she mattered. And though the castle had felt like a prison at times, it had also been a sanctuary. A home.

Perhaps, in the end, that’s what a home was. A prison and sanctuary all at once. A place that tied you down sometimes, sure, but one that also kept you safe, a place not unlike the friends—and family, for those people who were lucky enough to have one—that a person surrounded herself with. A place that she had given up willingly because Sonya had been taken from it unwilling. “Best go home, ladies,” she said finally.

The two women muttered to each other scowling at Marta and the merchant in turns as they walked down the street. “You’ll be paying for all of this!” the merchant said, and Marta turned back to him.

“Oh?” she asked. “Well, I’ve got some potions of my own I can give you in trade, how’d that be? Maybe even I can find one to get rid of that big mole on your face.” The merchant scowled, bringing his hand to his nose in an unconscious gesture, and Marta took the opportunity of his brief distraction to hurry away.

She was glancing behind her, making sure that the man wasn’t following, seeing that he was shouting for guards, but she wasn’t terribly worried about that as all the city’s guardsmen had more important stuff to be about than chasing little girls through the streets. She wasn’t watching where she was going though, and so didn’t see the figure step in front of her. She bumped into the newcomer and let out a strangled yelp as she stumbled, only managing to keep her feet by reaching out and grabbing the stranger’s sleeve.

Once she’d caught her balance, Marta swallowed hard, her gaze traveling up from the figure’s shirt warily as she expected to see a city guard, after all. Instead, she was surprised to see a face she recognized blinking at her owlishly. “Fermin?” she asked incredulously. “What are you doing here?”

The manservant was cradling dozens of small bundles of bread and salted meat in his arms. He goggled at Marta in open surprise. “Lady Marta?” he asked. “Forgive me, I was out stocking up on food for the siege—the prices these merchants charge is nothing short of criminal, if you ask me.” He scowled down at the packages of meat and bread he carried. “Particularly for such poor fare as this. Still…” he sighed. “I suppose that, in the coming days, we will be thankful for anything we have, though I fear the meals may not be anywhere close to the level which Lord and Lady Tirinian expect—deservedly, of course,” he added hastily as if Marta was about to call him out.

As far as Marta could tell from her time around them, Fermin was far more concerned with what was proper for people of their station than the Tirinians themselves, but she wasn’t really thinking about that now. What she was thinking about, instead, was what terrible luck she must have to run into the manservant of all people while pointedly neglecting her lessons and trying to sneak out of the city. Rion, where are you and your damned coin when I need you?

“If you don’t mind my asking, Lady Marta,” Fermin said, “what brings you out into the city? I was under the impression you had a tutoring lesson today.”

“Ah,” Marta said. “Right. That. Well, he let me go early. Said I was doing so well he thought I could take a day off.”

Fermin frowned thoughtfully. “I must admit that doesn’t sound much like Tutor Malekson. I would have thought that he would have kept you longer, if anything.” His eyes went wide as he seemed to realize what he’d said. “No offense meant, Lady Marta.”

“None taken.” Marta scowled, telling herself that, if by some miracle she did make it back to Valeria, old Malekson was going to find a snake in his desk. “Well,” she said, clearing her throat, “I guess I’d better be off, then. See you around, Fermin.” She paused, wincing. “That is, I’ll see you in an hour or so. I’ll be back at the castle soon.”

The manservant gave her a decidedly suspicious look. “I don’t mean to nag, Lady Marta, but I cannot help but notice you still have yet to mention what has brought you into the city. Nor,” he said, glancing over her shoulder at the bag she had tried—and failed miserably, apparently—to hide behind her, “what need such an errand has for what looks perilously close to a traveling bag.”

Marta opened her mouth, prepared to launch into a lie so outrageous it couldn’t help but be believed, the type she’d told a thousand times before to great effect. This time, though, none came, and she was left gaping like a fish on land. “I…that is…” Finally, she sighed. When lies wouldn’t work, she supposed that sometimes all that was left was the truth. “I’m going to find Sonya,” she said flatly.

Fermin took in her declaration—said in a challenging way—as if he wasn’t surprised in the least, only nodding. “I see. Sonya whom, as we understand it, was captured by that Ekirani fellow, the Broken’s, men, and is no doubt imprisoned somewhere, surrounded by an army of servants of the Darkness?”

Marta winced. “That’s the one. Look, Fermin,” she said, surprising herself by the tears gathering in her eyes, “I have to help her. Nobody else can—they’re all busy, doing what they have to do to keep the city safe. I understand that, really I do, but I’m tired of not helping, tired of being worthless. Going after Sonya…it’s something I can do.”

“I see,” Fermin said, nodding slowly. “And you are aware, of course, that such a journey will almost certainly end in death? Likely a very gruesome, very painful death?”

Marta swallowed hard but managed a nod. “Yes.”

“There will also be dirt involved,” Fermin pressed. “Stains on your clothes that will not come out no matter how much care is taken in their cleaning.” He said this, it seemed to Marta, with even more concern than the gruesome death bit.

“Yes,” she said, more easily this time.

“Listen, Lady Marta—” he began.

“Look, Fermin,” she went on, “please, don’t try to talk me out of it. I have to…I have to help her.”

The manservant studied her for another moment. Often, Fermin’s preoccupation with serving his masters made him come off as distracted, even flighty, but he did not appear so now. His gaze seemed to bore into her. Finally, he gave a single nod. “Very well. When are we leaving?”

“We?” Marta asked in surprise.

It was Fermin’s turn to wince. “I admit I’m not exactly…an adventurer, per se. But a lady such as yourself should never go on a journey without being accompanied by a servant to see to her needs. It would not be proper.”

Marta snorted. “Proper.”

“A lady,” Fermin said, frowning, “should also avoid snorting whenever possible. Come to think of it, she should take pains to avoid burping or sneezing or any other indecorous activity. Like being stabbed to death by servants of the Darkness. It would be most improper.”

Marta grinned. The manservant wasn’t exactly the first traveling companion she would have picked for such a journey, and she knew that she should try to talk him out of going. But the thought of not traveling alone, of having someone, a friend, with her, lifted her spirits considerably. “But what about the Tirinians?” she ventured. “Surely, they’ll need you around.”

Fermin winked. “I’m sure Lord and Lady Tirinian can manage to draw their own bath water and refill their own wine goblets for a time. Lady Sonya needs us.”

Marta had feared that mentioning his noble masters might dissuade the manservant from accompanying her. But looking at him, she saw a truth in his eyes—she wasn’t the only one concerned about Sonya. “Thank you, Fermin,” she said, her voice choked with emotion.

Either the manservant failed to notice, or he chose not to, only nodding. “Of course. Now come.” He glanced up at the sky where the sun was making its slow way across the horizon. “If we hurry, we might even be dead by dark.”

“Fermin,” Marta said, surprised once again by the manservant, “was that a joke?”

Fermin sighed. “If it was, Lady Marta, I fear it wasn’t a particularly funny one.”