Mercy

One

Filthy. Another cutpurse who’d stumbled into luck had cast off the rags she wore. Finding them vermin-free, Isara had snatched them up, glad to have another layer of fabric between herself and discovery. Her hair was of indeterminate color, and it lay lank and greasy against her skull. In her thin face, all pointed chin and fierce cheekbones, her eyes shone like topaz, hazel that ran with gold when she was angry.

Isara was always angry.

Her breath puffed in the frigid air; her hands were cracked with cold, but nimble enough to lift a purse. She hoped. She had been watching the merchant for the last bell, waiting for him to pause long enough for her to get to the heavy kid pouch that swung like a tumor from his belt.

Her stomach snarled.

The merchant turned as if he suspected her regard, glancing over his shoulder and she fell against the chill stone and timber building behind her, her boot sinking into ooze that crawled through the alley toward the sewers.

“Crop me,” she muttered. “It’s now or never.”

Did he see me? She wondered for only a moment and then she slunk after him, starvation seeming more imminent than gaol. Other urchins surged like a living plague, the city’s detritus. The unwanted and lost.

At last, she saw her chance. The fat merchant paused to exchange a few words with a bawd calling an offer so lewd that it made the young thief look twice, and Isara slid past him. She would have sworn her touch with the dagger was as light as a whisper as she cut its strap, but the oaf evidently sensed his loss, spinning on her with an accusatory finger and an outraged shout.

“Thief!”

Her heart pounded like a panicked hare; marked, she ran, weaving in and out of the crowd that reached for her with angry faces and rough hands. One man got a hold of her ragged tunic and tore a long strip. It was all she could do to wriggle free and dart away. The outraged cries followed her faster the fat merchant. Breathless, she thought, if they don’t send me to see Jack Ketch, they’ll cut off my hand.

Terror lent her speed, and she rounded the corner, coming up with crushing force against an armored figure. The guard.

As she glared up at her captor, her eyes blazed in her filthy face, the look of a wounded hawk. Gritting her teeth to bite back the fear she wouldn’t acknowledge aloud, she realized he wasn’t a member of the city guard, after all. A warrior by the look of him, he was tall and strong. She could make out nothing beneath his helm, though his eyes glittered through the slit as he regarded her silently.

“Go.” His voice held a rough, ragged sound as if he used it rarely.

Stepping back, he released her, and Isara ran, almost blind with shock at his unexpected kindness.

She marked the coat of arms etched into his greaves; when the watch wasn’t looking for her, she would have to find him. Little as she liked it, she owed him a debt, and by the gods, she would repay it.

***

Safe within the charred ruin, Isara huddled inside the splintered crate, lined with scraps of cloth and dirty straw that she'd lifted from a nearby livery. For the moment, the roof was still mostly intact, though the thatch was badly burnt about the edges. The walls still stank of smoke, and the furnishings were little more than ash; she'd already raked the place thoroughly for anything of value. The burnout had been her refuge for approximately three weeks; she was starting to wonder when they would evict her.

Her fingertips were crimson-smeared from where she'd scraped the raw skin, scrambling over a gate she didn't remember being at the end of that particular alley.

It just went to show what happened when she stopped being careful. Desperation causes dangerous mistakes, she thought grimly. Her belly rumbled, gnawing at her backbone like a sack of rats.

"Crop me," she muttered.

If the jaws of justice hadn’t nearly snapped her up, she would have already purchased a steaming meat pie, a wedge of soft white cheese and a whole loaf of brown bread. Sighing, she hefted the purse.

So much coin and no way to spend it.

From experience, she knew she needed to hide until nightfall, four bells or more. Deciding she might as well nap if she couldn't eat, she curled into her nest, falling into the wary sleep of one who never loses the awareness of that she is prey. The hiss of soft boots on uneven timbers woke her, and Isara curled into herself, arms about her knees, trying to will herself into invisibility. As she huddled there, hardly daring to breathe, she heard another set of footsteps.

There are two, the gods preserve me. Not that Isara put much stock in gods, who had shown her precious little mercy and no justice.

"I know I saw the little bastard come down this way," one of the men growled. "This is the last place on the street. He can't have disappeared."

"Serlath isn't going to pay unless we find the bag. And the brat."

The second voice sent shivers down Isara's spine; it didn't sound irritated or impatient. It didn't even sound human.

She was afraid they were going to hear her heartbeat. Trembling as if she had the ague, Isara felt for her dagger; she had only ever used it for severing purse straps.

The tread grew heavier as they approached the crate. Closer, creak, closer... I'll die of fright, she thought. This is it.

As she felt the wooden box being turned toward the filmy light that streamed through the torn hide over the sole window, she heard a shout outside.

"There's an alley that runs along behind the house. We didn't see it because of the vines."

The one that spoke like rusty knives said a word that Isara didn't recognize. She saw their shadows slink long and grotesque as they returned the way they'd come.

Her shivering lasted several more moments, and she felt physically afraid to open the bag, here alone.

What in the nine rings of hell have I stolen?

Weak with hunger, she waited until she felt sure it was safe to emerge. There was only one person in whole city that had been kind to her; she somehow knew that the warrior who had inexplicably set her free earlier in the day was her best hope.

Now she had to find him.

***

It didn’t take her long to pack. Everything that Isara owned slipped neatly into the fold-over pouch that she belted beneath layers of castoff clothing. Her most prized possession was a sling and several suitable stones; she'd almost put out Bully Cowper’s eye the last time she caught him torturing a cat before he ate it.

The other treasures that catalogued her small, sad life were few: a string of coral beads, a moldy heel of bread, and a bronze torc, the only thing she’d managed to salvage from the fire, so long ago. As she took a hasty look around the burnt out shell, somehow she knew she’d never see the place again.

“Crop me,” she breathed.

With a resigned sigh, she squeezed through the narrow tear in the hide over the window and skinned down the side of the house with a grace a squirrel might envy. Whisper-quiet, she paused, listening with more than her ears, but also her instincts until she felt sure she was alone. The night was darker than blackberry wine; it was cold and wet, a miserable mist soaking her ragged garb before she’d gone more than a few feet.

A sense of peril ran along her skin like wet hands, making her start each time a rat skittered in a pile of broken chairs, tensing when a shadow swirled oddly, thrown by the street lamp half a block away.

The merchant’s purse felt heavy in her hands, and she tried not to speculate what it might contain; Isara was sure it was far more sinister than simple silver. Those bounty hunters would not give up as easily as the lazy watchman. Deep down, she knew she was in more trouble than she’d ever been in her life, and that was quite saying something, considering she’d been on the street seven years.

Slinking along the broken stone walk, she stayed close to the walls, not wanting to run afoul of the night watchman on top of her other woes. Stumbling, her tread hissed like angry snakes. Was that someone behind me? She stopped for a full moment, her heart hammering like a smith at the forge.

Little as she liked it, the logical place to start looking for a warrior was the tavern. So close to the wharf, the Deep was a public house she normally avoided at all costs. Most of the sailors that frequented it had been at sea so long that they didn’t care what they lay down with, so long as it was breathing. Some of them didn’t even put that fine a point on it, and certainly wouldn’t balk at raping a dirty little street scab. Isara would put even money that a few might be disappointed at discovering the secret she guarded more fiercely than her true name.

“I have no choice,” she whispered. Into the stews she slid – her destination, the Deep.

***

Over ragged rooftops of tenements that huddled like humans in need of warmth, Isara stared at the gibbous moon. Ringed in ice, which as anyone knew meant ill-luck. As if I didn't have enough of it.

The moon had risen as if weighted with dread; it seemed reluctant to cast its uncertain light, a half-hearted challenge to the domination of darkness. At best, it showed her the danger spots in the broken road, across which the Deep squatted like a midden heap. On closer approach, it smelled only marginally better. Gathering her courage, she shouldered the door open and let it slam behind her.

Conversation stuttered as twenty pairs of eyes went over her, and then resumed its susurration, a cadence of secretive, unsavory things. A couple of men looked longer than she liked, even in her current state, and her loathing surged in an elemental wave. It took all her nerve not to reach for her dagger, a sure sign of weakness.

"I'm not runnin' a home fer wayward boys!" The barman shouted at her. "Ya either buy a drink sometime tonight or get the hell out!"

Isara nodded, knowing that Axarle was the least of her worries. He'd shouted that before, just for show, and then had the blowsy barmaid bring some hot cider when he thought no one was looking.

She was hunting Piers the Mouth, who would know where the warrior was to be found (if anyone did), but as bad luck (was there any other kind?) would have it, Piers had just gone upstairs with Rhodana, the most used woman east of Eljad. She would have to make the best of it. I can wait it out. At least it's warm...

Almost too warm, however, because Isara felt herself begin to sweat beneath layers of raggedness. Settling as far from the smoky hearth as possible, she let her gaze swirl the room without touching on anyone too long. The last thing she wanted was for some sailor to think she was a joy-boy, out to fence a night's company for a few pennies.

Sure enough, Freda brought her a mug of hot cider; she didn't bother pretending to collect the coins. Lucky for Isara, the crowd had lost all interest in her. A minstrel had come through the tattered curtain and was settling himself on stage.

She hoped he knew how to duck bottles and knives, since he wasn't likely to meet an appreciative audience.

"Sing, The Bonny Sea!" one patrons shouted.

"Sod off," another answered. "I want to hear The Maid of Lendarn."

Isara felt her cheeks heat; she knew only two verses of the last song, and they were lewd enough to please a pig. Glancing up, she saw the bard roll his eyes.

Still, he seemed to have a good sense of self-preservation; the man requesting the bawdy tune was fingering a cutlass as if he slept with it. Without further delay, the musician put down his mandolin and launched into a strong rendition of "The Maid of Lendarn."

Perhaps I can bide until Piers gets finished upstairs. Perhaps there will be no trouble...

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