a dense throng, with revellers moving like a great wave, laughing and oblivious of the drama in their midst. For anyone else the sea of bodies might have been overwhelming, but River was no ordinary man,
he could follow the ebb and flow
.
He passed smoothly through the crowd, moving inexorably towards his target whom he could see pushing past the wall of people in desperate panic. River’s grip tightened on his blades as he moved in. He would strike quickly then disappear, leaving his final victim to bleed out on the packed street.
Before he could reach him however, his quarry, with a final desperate burst of strength, broke from the crowd. River emerged to see him turn down an alleyway. They both splashed through the filth of the back street. It was never really a contest: River was on him well short of the bustling avenue at the end.
The man must have sensed that death was on him, because he turned, hands held up in surrender.
‘Please don’t kill me. They only hired me for one night. I knew it was wrong. I just needed the money.’
River had been expecting a plea for clemency, the same as he had heard a hundred times before, but it was not the words that stayed his hand. Looking back at him was not a man, but a boy, maybe five winters younger than River himself. His eyes were wide and blue – innocent, even childlike, not the hawkish, brutal eyes of a seasoned thug.
For several beats of his heart, River simply stared, his blade still poised to deal the killing blow – but he couldn’t.
It simply wasn’t right.
Surely he could have done nothing in his short life to be deserving of a blade across the throat, just for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Roused by a sudden scream, River darted a glance towards the bustling street.
‘Robber! Murderer!’ screamed a woman, staring down the alleyway at River with his blades drawn and ready to kill.
Damn it!
Before he could flee, the woman gained two companions, open-faced bascinets on their heads. Weapons in their hands.
Greencoats.
Without giving the boy another thought he turned tail and fled.
He could hear the Greencoats ordering him to stop, wasting their breath on calling out instead of chasing him. Let them – by the time they started in pursuit he would be gone.
River leapt atop an abandoned cart then vaulted upwards, planting his foot against the side of the alleyway and boosting himself to the rooftop above. Glancing back he saw the Greencoats setting off, splashing down the alley behind him. One put something to his lips, blowing hard, and a shrill whistle rose high above the sounds of the crowd.
Not giving it a second thought, River moved off, but heard another whistle, as though in answer to the first. It was quickly followed by a third.
‘Oi! Bastard!’ cried a voice to his left, and River looked up in time to see another Greencoat taking aim with a crossbow.
He could so easily have taken the man down – flung one of his blades and silenced him – but this was not the mark or one of his thugs. This was a Greencoat; one of the city’s custodians, and River was not a simple murderer.
No, as he ran from his Greencoat pursuers, some of whom had already made it to the rooftops, he vowed that tonight he would do no more killing.
He just hoped that his pursuers would return the favour.
EIGHT
R ag stood on the roof of the Silent Bull, arms round Tidge’s shoulders. All of them looked out towards Eastgate, from where there still came the sound of celebration.
It had been a good night. Everyone had eaten well, Fender’s bronze trinket paying for a large pot of broth and fresh bread, courtesy of Boris the Innkeeper. Migs was lying on his back, caressing his swollen belly, whilst Chirpy sat cross-legged beside him gazing over the rooftops at the bright lights. Where Fender was, Rag had no idea – he’d left before sundown and not come back. Not that she gave a shit. She’d not spoken to him since he’d bullied Markus away
he could follow the ebb and flow
.
He passed smoothly through the crowd, moving inexorably towards his target whom he could see pushing past the wall of people in desperate panic. River’s grip tightened on his blades as he moved in. He would strike quickly then disappear, leaving his final victim to bleed out on the packed street.
Before he could reach him however, his quarry, with a final desperate burst of strength, broke from the crowd. River emerged to see him turn down an alleyway. They both splashed through the filth of the back street. It was never really a contest: River was on him well short of the bustling avenue at the end.
The man must have sensed that death was on him, because he turned, hands held up in surrender.
‘Please don’t kill me. They only hired me for one night. I knew it was wrong. I just needed the money.’
River had been expecting a plea for clemency, the same as he had heard a hundred times before, but it was not the words that stayed his hand. Looking back at him was not a man, but a boy, maybe five winters younger than River himself. His eyes were wide and blue – innocent, even childlike, not the hawkish, brutal eyes of a seasoned thug.
For several beats of his heart, River simply stared, his blade still poised to deal the killing blow – but he couldn’t.
It simply wasn’t right.
Surely he could have done nothing in his short life to be deserving of a blade across the throat, just for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Roused by a sudden scream, River darted a glance towards the bustling street.
‘Robber! Murderer!’ screamed a woman, staring down the alleyway at River with his blades drawn and ready to kill.
Damn it!
Before he could flee, the woman gained two companions, open-faced bascinets on their heads. Weapons in their hands.
Greencoats.
Without giving the boy another thought he turned tail and fled.
He could hear the Greencoats ordering him to stop, wasting their breath on calling out instead of chasing him. Let them – by the time they started in pursuit he would be gone.
River leapt atop an abandoned cart then vaulted upwards, planting his foot against the side of the alleyway and boosting himself to the rooftop above. Glancing back he saw the Greencoats setting off, splashing down the alley behind him. One put something to his lips, blowing hard, and a shrill whistle rose high above the sounds of the crowd.
Not giving it a second thought, River moved off, but heard another whistle, as though in answer to the first. It was quickly followed by a third.
‘Oi! Bastard!’ cried a voice to his left, and River looked up in time to see another Greencoat taking aim with a crossbow.
He could so easily have taken the man down – flung one of his blades and silenced him – but this was not the mark or one of his thugs. This was a Greencoat; one of the city’s custodians, and River was not a simple murderer.
No, as he ran from his Greencoat pursuers, some of whom had already made it to the rooftops, he vowed that tonight he would do no more killing.
He just hoped that his pursuers would return the favour.
EIGHT
R ag stood on the roof of the Silent Bull, arms round Tidge’s shoulders. All of them looked out towards Eastgate, from where there still came the sound of celebration.
It had been a good night. Everyone had eaten well, Fender’s bronze trinket paying for a large pot of broth and fresh bread, courtesy of Boris the Innkeeper. Migs was lying on his back, caressing his swollen belly, whilst Chirpy sat cross-legged beside him gazing over the rooftops at the bright lights. Where Fender was, Rag had no idea – he’d left before sundown and not come back. Not that she gave a shit. She’d not spoken to him since he’d bullied Markus away
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