Although he was exhausted, Rem slept fitfully. True surrender to sleep was hampered by a storm of thoughts swirling and racing through his exhaustion-addled brain—thoughts that he could not entirely make sense of or banish. He worried about acquitting himself well in his new position. He wondered what sort of strange encounters he might have in the days and weeks and months to come, walking the ward. He idly built scenarios in which he—with Torval’s help—stepped in to alleviate tense or dangerous situations and did so with a combination of guile, luck, and occasionally physical violence that he was not even sure he was capable of.
You are skillful, his father had said after many a tournament melee or sparring session with blunted swords, but you are not ruthless. In tourney, that will cost you a cup. On the battlefield, that could cost you your life.
Could he survive the perils of Yenara and her close-packed wards by being skillful but not ruthless? He truly wondered …
That led him to entertaining all sorts of unpleasant worst-case scenarios in which minor scuffles and routine calls for order escalated quickly into uncontrollable blood feuds, usually ending with him taking a dagger in the belly or a dirk point in the throat.
So much could happen. In an instant. Over nothing.
Was he equal to that? Could he face that, night after night?
His father would have said no. And somewhere deep inside himself, Rem probably agreed with him—which was why he was here now, in a shabby little rented room, in search of a new life to live, a new Rem to be, and not back in his bedchamber in a castle in his father’s dukedom.
Stop it, his mind snapped. Stop letting your father’s words—anyone’s words—define the person you want to be. If you want to do well here—to thrive here, despite all the danger and uncertainly—you can, and you will. Sleep now, you fool—you’re tired.
And so, he slept. He woke at intervals, wondering if the day had passed, dimly hearing the bells from the Great Temple of Aemon announcing that it was only midmorning, midday, early afternoon.
Just as frustrating, dreams plagued him throughout his fitful sleep, all of them centered on Indilen. There were several variations, but they all amounted to pursuits. He would see her from a distance in the market, then call to her. She would turn toward the sound of his voice, acknowledge him with a smile and wave, then turn and amble away. As Rem tried to follow, the press of the crowd and the flow of foot traffic would, inevitably, keep him from overtaking her. Always, she disappeared into the milling throng, and he was left alone, with the nagging feeling that he was being followed as well, just as he was following her.
He had that same dream—or some variation of it—at least three times during his slumbers. Each time, he found her in a different location—the marketplace, the waterfront, the Pickled Albatross—and each time he lost her in the crowd, finally realizing that he, too, was being followed. The last time this rather unpleasant nightmare awoke him, he would even have sworn that he felt a heavy hand fall on his shoulder just as he awoke.
Somewhere, Aemon’s bells rang. It was the middle of the afternoon. His shift would not start for several more hours, but after that last replay of the familiar dream in which he lost Indilen, over and over, Rem didn’t feel much like rolling over and going back to sleep. It wasn’t simply that the dream troubled him, or reminded him that he had, somehow, lost something (rather, someone) quite special—there was also the vague sense that he knew something that should suggest a puzzle waiting to be solved, but what that something was and just why it should trouble him he could not say.
He pondered. First, he considered Indilen herself: auburn-haired, dark-eyed, pale and vaguely freckled, her smile both merry and world-weary, idealistic and experienced. Clearly, she was smart, and she had an independent streak—otherwise, what would she be doing here, in a city not her own, trying to make her own way in the world? But she was also cautious—neither naïve nor foolhardy. She had been drawn to Rem, just as Rem was drawn to her—he honestly believed that—but, like any smart girl in a new place, she would have wanted to be cautious about him. He assumed that’s why she had invited him to meet her at her place of work, the Pickled Albatross: it was public, and if he gave her any trouble there, she could have him ejected.
Thus their meeting was low-to no-risk on her part. She had control, and she was on safe ground.
Therefore, could Rem really assume that she had simply quit her job and stood him up, without something important having waylaid or drawn her away? True, she might have simply decided both that she hated serving ale to drunken louts and that she had nothing to gain by getting to know Rem, but somehow—foolishly or not—he did not think that would be the case with such a girl. She seemed the sort to keep her promises, and so he regarded her failure to keep those promises—both to him and her employer—as more than a little suspect.
All right, then. Perhaps something had happened to her, he thought, staring up at the knotty wooden ceiling beams above his bed. What? What could have become of her between the time Rem saw her at the morning market and the time he arrived at the Pickled Albatross and Indilen failed to report for her shift?
Answer: quite a bit. Yenara was a bustling city full of very shady characters with all sorts of bad ideas about how to entertain themselves or make a living. Indilen could have been snatched by cutpurses, who saw her regal bearing and the fine scrivener’s set she carried and instantly marked her as easy prey. They might have stolen everything of value in her possession and left her strangled or bleeding out in a back alley.
He shuddered. What a horrible thought.
And how doubly horrible that he could easily imagine it, in all its vile detail.
Perhaps, he thought, I should seek her out.
The sensible part of him balked at that thought. What if she simply didn’t want to see him again? What if she had purposely avoided him? What if his assumptions that she liked him, that she wanted to know him as desperately as he wanted to know her, were all wrong? Would it be fair of him to hunt her down and confront her and make her tell him that, face-to-face? Shouldn’t he simply leave her be, wherever she was and whatever had become of her?
No, he thought. No, I shouldn’t. Something terrible may have befallen the poor girl, and wouldn’t your heart be broken, your honor impugned, if you had suspected as much and not tried to learn the truth? You need not put any pressure on her if you find her—simply make it clear that you were worried, and you wanted to make sure she was safe. That is all that you need to know, and no more.
That thought—that determination—got him out of bed. In moments, he was dressed. He bounded down the stairs of his boardinghouse, splashed water from a nearby public fountain on his face to refresh himself, then headed off in the direction of the Fifth Ward and the Pickled Albatross.
He had a couple hours before his shift began. He could squeeze in a little investigative work of his own before he reported for duty …
Rem arrived at the Pickled Albatross in the early evening. Outside, the sun was falling and the shadows in the street grew long, but inside, the night had not yet begun. It was still too early for the longshoremen and laborers who toiled on the waterfront to be released from their daily labors so that they could get about the important business of a night’s drinking, thus the tavern was largely empty, the normal midnight roar declined to a dull hum of muttering voices, occasional coarse laughter, and the scrape of chair legs on the rush-strewn floorboards.
Rem stood near the doorway, searching the great room for his quarry: that brusque, unflappable blond barmaid that he and Torval had been served by the night before. Something she had said to them lodged in Rem’s mind and kept repeating itself like the only phrase known to a Maswari parrot. Her words echoed, again and again, while Cupp’s own, in sharp contrast, were interjected between them. It might mean nothing at all, but their two explanations seemed to vaguely contradict each other, so Rem thought a polite follow-up couldn’t hurt.
When she hustled past him, emerging from the kitchens and on her way to a table with a tray loaded down with bread, beer, and wedges of very smelly cheese, Rem nearly missed her. He raised his hand and tried to flag her down, but she was on a mission. Thus, he followed, scurrying across the room in her wake, deciding that calling out for her and making a spectacle of himself probably wasn’t the best approach.
She delivered her goods, took coin from the men at the table who received it, then turned to careen toward another waiting table of cardplayers who had flagged her down. That’s when Rem struck, inserting himself into her table-to-table path and offering a winning smile to try to reassure her.
“Hello there,” he said. She nearly fell on her bottom, having to work entirely too hard to stop her forward trajectory when Rem blocked it. Rem caught her before she could fall. “I’m very sorry. Do you remember me, by any chance?”
“No, sir, I don’t,” the girl said. “But don’t take it personally, I serve a great many fellows on a daily basis, so if we’ve just met once, you were unlikely to make an impression.”
Rem motioned to his watchwarden’s cuirass and signet. “I was in here last night, with my partner, a dwarf.”
“Ah,” she said, smiling a little. “The Double Drakes, followed by the brawl.”
“Precisely,” Rem said.
The girl bent close, speaking in a conspiratorial whisper. “You’d best not let Cupp catch you here all by yourself. He’s likely to give you a pass if Torval’s with you, but alone? He’ll chew you up and spit you out.”
“That bad, is he?” Rem asked.
The girl shook her head. Her manner was resigned, almost disinterested. “You have no idea.”
“Well,” Rem said, “I’ll be brief, then. Do you remember us asking you about another barmaid? Indilen?”
“Oi, girl!” the cardplayers at the neighboring table called.
“I’ve got to go,” she said to Rem.
“Just a quick question or two,” Rem said. “Do you remember what you told us?”
“Right,” Rem nodded, “you said—”
“She arrived for her shift on Saturday,” the barmaid said impatiently. “Cupp sent her on some errand, and she hasn’t been back since.”
“So she was here on Saturday, but—”
“Wax in your ears, love?” the barmaid asked, looking at Rem like he was a stray, underfed puppy. “She was here, Cupp sent her off, she never came back.”
Rem nodded. That’s what he feared she’d said. “All right, then. Thank you, er … what’s your name?”
The girl cocked her head a little. Her eyes narrowed. A crooked smile livened her soft face. “Planning to ask after me when I flee this roach hovel?”
Rem reached into his pocket, pulled out his last few coppers, and handed them over—an offering. “No, ma’am—I just want to thank you by name for helping me.”
“Jhonna,” she said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me …”
Away she went to take the cardplayers’ orders. Rem slowly extricated himself from the seating area, moving in a slow, driftwood fashion back toward the main entrance.
She came in on Saturday. Cupp sent her on an errand. She never returned.
That wasn’t what Cupp had said.
Should he ask the tavernkeep again? Should he challenge his story in light of the one Jhonna told? No. That was foolish. Accused of lying, Cupp would only take it out on the barmaid.
It could all be a simple mistake, of course. Maybe Cupp spoke out of turn? Chose his words lazily? Maybe he didn’t really mean that he hadn’t seen her in two days, but that she simply failed to return from the errand and work her Saturday-night shift?
“What in the sundry hells do I have to do to be rid of you?”
Rem was snapped out of his reverie. Cupp had found him. The big, thick-bellied tavernkeep had just emerged from the kitchens, and he didn’t look pleased to find Rem in his foyer. Rem decided to play it like a professional: cool, collected, indifferent.
“Evening, sir,” Rem said, as cordially as he could manage. “Seems a quiet afternoon hereabouts?”
“You may be a watchwarden,” Cupp said, “so when you’re on your shift, I may be forced to be polite to you and give you your free bloody beer, but if you’re not in here on official business, then I don’t want your troublemaking arse in the place, do you understand—”
“I do,” Rem interrupted. “And I apologize, profusely, for any trouble I’ve caused you, either before or after acquiring this signet.”
Cupp sneered. He seemed to sense sincere regret in Rem’s voice—indeed, Rem was trying to offer some—but the tavernkeeper was belligerent nonetheless. “Fine, maybe in the future I won’t consider you a bloody pox on this place. For now, get out.”
“A quick question,” Rem said, “and I’ll be on my way. About Indilen.”
Cupp’s eyes rolled. “Bloody hells, lad—are you still on about that little twist?”
Rem tried to look lovestruck and ridiculous. He probably didn’t have to try very hard, but he needed Cupp to believe he was a fool after a piece of tail, and not a watchwarden questioning him to test the veracity of his story.
“Sad to say,” Rem answered.
“I told you, she missed two bloody shifts. She’s fired. If I see her, I just might chain her back in the scullery and make her wash mugs for a few nights, just to teach her what it means to run out on a contract with me.”
“So she never showed up for her shift on Saturday at all? Ever?”
“What did I just tell you?” Cupp snapped. “No. I ain’t seen her since the night before that. Now take your eager prick somewhere else, Mr. High-and-Mighty Watchwarden, before I tear it off and feed it to the alley mutts.”
With that, Cupp spat at Rem’s feet and lumbered away. Rem watched him go for a moment, satisfied that he was onto something.
According to Jhonna, Indilen showed up for her Saturday shift, was sent on an errand by Cupp, then never returned.
According to Cupp, Indilen never showed up at all.
Someone was lying. The question was who, and why?
It was Golden Hour—the sun below the horizon, but light still in the sky—as Rem trudged back to the watchkeep from the Pickled Albatross. The activity in the streets was a strange reversal of all that he’d seen that morning, after he and Torval had gotten off work: vendors closing up their stalls and carts for the night, shopkeepers closing their windows and doors, laborers coming home from work and children playing out the last light of day in the streets before their mothers ordered them home for the night. Rem felt a strange, familiar peace among all these humdrum daily activities. He almost felt as if he were home—or in a place he could call home.
The walk to the watchkeep in the Fifth Ward took him less than a half hour. When he reached his destination, there was only a narrow band of pale red-gold light in the western sky, beyond the harbor and the great lighthouse, the sun having finally slipped below the horizon. A sliver of moon rose out of the east. Mounted torches burned all around the little square that fronted the watchkeep, and little tin lamps hung on posts, keeping the square alight even though night was now upon them. It felt a little strange when Rem showed his watchman’s signet to the guards at the main entrance and was immediately granted entrance.
I guess they haven’t changed their minds, he thought. I’m really here, really a part of the city watch.
In he went, to start his second night on the job.
All the watchwardens on duty—sixty or seventy, perhaps—were crammed into one corner of the administrative chamber, all jostling for a view into one of the side chambers. As Rem pressed nearer, trying to elbow his way through the crowd to see what had them so fascinated, he heard a man shouting, apparently in pain, swearing and cursing himself and everyone around him. Little by little, Rem crept nearer the front of the crowd, catching only a few sour looks along the way. At last, he could see through the archway that led into the side chamber and had a view of the chaotic scene therein.
It looked like some sort of little infirmary, hosting a wooden table, a couple chairs, bundles of wadding and bandages, and all sorts of strange probing implements and apothecary jars. Presently, a man lay on the table—bearded, long-haired, voice low and gravelly. It was he that kept cursing himself for a clumsy fool, for having let such a thing happen. Rem saw plainly, even from his imperfect, crowded vantage, that the man’s right ankle was swollen terribly, horrible, livid bruises already blooming beneath the puffed-up flesh. Another man—thick and round as a barrel, bearded and florid of face—stood at the injured watchwarden’s side, trying to get the cursing injured man to lie still.
“Stop mewling, Sliviwit!” he coaxed. “Just lie still and hold your tongue and—”
“What in the sundry hells was I thinking?” the injured man, Sliviwit, howled. “That was a bloody, buggered rookie mistake—”
“It’ll be all right,” the fat one said, trying to get his partner to lie still.
“Hold him, Demijon,” someone said. “The healer’s coming!”
Then, off to Rem’s left, the crowd parted. A young woman with silver hair and puzzling, ancient eyes moved through the crowd without hindrance and arrived at Sliviwit’s side. She studied the swelling ankle for only a moment before holding one hand out to Sliviwit’s thick-waisted partner, Demijon. Demijon, without hesitating, laid his hand in the girl’s. She pressed it down on the swollen ankle, her own palm atop, and Sliviwit howled at the pain of their touch. Without anyone having to ask, two more watchwardens stepped forward and held Sliviwit on the table.
Rem guessed what he was about to see, and had to remind himself to breathe as he awaited it. He had heard of such wonders as he was about to witness, but never seen such a thing firsthand.
Everyone grew silent, as if all understood what was about to unfold. The strange girl with the silver hair muttered words in some ancient tongue that Rem could not identify. As she did so, Sliviwit, the injured man, began to gnash his teeth and growl, clearly in a great deal of pain, now using every ounce of strength he could muster to bear it and resist the urge to buck. At the same time, Rem saw that Demijon, his partner, with his thick hand pressed down on Sliviwit’s broken ankle under the silver-haired girl’s own palm, grew pale and sickly. It was like watching someone succumb to seasickness or food poisoning. His eyes lost focus. His skin blanched. Fine beads of sweat broke out on his brow. There was not a sound in the room apart from Sliviwit’s snarling against the pain and the desire to thrash away from it.
Everyone stared. No one made a sound. After a time, Rem realized he was holding his breath.
Then it was over. The silver-haired girl removed her hand and Demijon’s. Sliviwit, suddenly free of the pain of whatever healing spell the girl enacted, fell backward onto the table, panting, desperate for breath. Demijon reeled backward, dazed and in danger of toppling. One of the two watchwardens who had rushed forward to brace Sliviwit leapt to Demijon’s side. The fellow helped the heavy watchwarden lean back against the table behind him. Rem looked to Sliviwit’s ankle. Already, the swelling subsided and the bruising faded as though the injury were weeks old and not minutes.
Just like that, the spell was broken. The crowd around Rem turned from the scene and began to disperse. Rem was surprised to find Torval at his elbow, having apparently watched the whole thing unfold in silence, never once making Rem aware of his presence.
“Ever seen such a thing?” Torval asked.
“She’s a healer,” Rem said, indicating the silver-haired girl as she glided away again, silent, swallowed by the milling crowd of watchwardens.
“Aye,” Torval said, nodding. “One of our Mage Squad.”
“She drew energy from the healthy man to help her heal the injured man—is that right? That’s why the big fellow ended up so white-faced and woozy?”
Torval nodded. “When your partner’s in need, you give, be it coin or blood or the very life force that animates you.”
Rem shook his head in astonishment. “Extraordinary,” he whispered, then joined Torval and the rest of the crowd as they milled away from the little infirmary chamber and spread out through the administrative area.
Across the room, Ondego and Hirk stood just outside Ondego’s office, conferring with each other apart from the others. Rem also saw what he believed to be more milling bodies, pressed into Ondego’s office—but he could not be sure. Since Ondego and Hirk blocked the doorway, it was hard to see. Outside, the gathering seemed loose and at ease, with watchwardens sitting on desks, chairs, or just standing about. Rem found himself a chair and sat. Torval stood.
It took only a moment for the watchwardens to come to their comrade, one by one, and offer their condolences about Freygaf. Rem overheard almost all of the muttered offerings, and they generally consisted of, “He was a good man,” “We’ll all miss him,” or “The gods of the mountain are probably wishing they could give him back about now.” Rem supposed Freygaf must have been blustery and a brawler, but, on any given day, a solid man to have on your side.
Hirk whistled. Everyone quieted down and gave Ondego their attention as he moved to the center of the room.