Enys scratched his head beneath a layer of dark auburn hair, liberally frosted with white. “No. Is that some kind of creature the farming folk tell children about to get them to behave?” He smiled in his usual jovial fashion.
Martin couldn’t let himself sound too crazy. “I went to a pub the other night and heard tales.” A plausible enough answer.
Enys gave a laugh. “Men filled with ale tell many tall tales. Don’t you believe none of it.”
If only Martin could heed the advice.
With only two constables in the lower city, the streets were patrolled mainly by volunteers. The rich of the upper city afforded much in the way of protection, leaving the poorer of the city to fend for themselves. No one Martin spoke to shed any light on the woman’s attack.
In the early morns, he practiced knife and sword with the city guards, then patrolled or escorted notables of the high city to meetings with more notable citizens. What did they have to talk about? Leveraging more taxes on the poor?
Occasionally, he escorted a wealthy merchant’s son, daughter, or mate to the temple toworship.Even the magistrate himself came several times each sevenday.
To cavort with nubile youngChosen.
Then they went home. Several showed the effects after a time, like the woman from the carriage. As with the monsters, no one seemed able to see but him.
And the carriage driver.
Every eve after once more telling his fellow guards he’d not join them at a tavern, Martin took up the unexplained sword and stalked the streets.
Woe be to any creatures he might find with evil intent. The sword gleamed, obviously well-cared for. The tooled leather sheath must’ve cost someone a fortune. Who had snuck into his rooms, taking nothing but leaving such a valuable gift?
Every so often, while hunting, he’d catch a flash of brown from the corner of his eye.
On one such night, he focused on a person in the crowd. Something wasn’t right. A sense of wrongness hung about the man. Martin followed.
Dark, dank alleys, poorly lit streets, dilapidated houses. The scent of refuse and despair. Martin trudged after the man who’d caught his attention, sending tendrils of worry squirming through his belly. At last, they reached a closed storefront. It could be a milliner, an apothecary, or even a tinker’s shop. One of many similar businesses in the lower city. Martin stayed back, hiding in a recessed doorway. The man glanced around. Not a soul stirred. He lobbed a rock through the front window, crawled through, and emerged with a filled sack moments later.
Although Martin’s guard unit didn’t patrol this section of the city, letting a criminal walk free sent bile burning the back of his throat.
He stepped into the man’s path. The thief’s eyes widened. He tossed the sack to the ground, the surprise changing to determination. Quicker than most eyes could follow, he snatched a knife from beneath his cloak, dropping into a fighter’s stance.
Martin flipped his cloak back to reveal his sword. “City guard,” he announced.
Once more, the man swept his gaze around the deserted street. Footsteps fast approached, from where Martin couldn’t tell.
The man paled. He attempted to retrieve the sack twice, then gave up, disappearing into an alley as the footsteps drew closer. The footsteps stopped abruptly.
“Who’s there? I’m a city guard. Identify yourself.” Perhaps another guard lurked in the shadows, in which case Martin might have to explain what business brought him out of his district.
Nothing. He returned the sack to the shop. How could he keep other thieves from entering?
As with the day in the forest when he’d been forced from his home, something burst from his fingertips, but not fire this time. For a moment, the shopfront glowed. Then, the glow dimmed, leaving a faint shimmer around the door and window.
A ward? He’d constructed a ward? His gran spoke of magical barriers once but never told him how to accomplish such a feat, refusing to train him in magery lest the knowledge lead to his discovery. Easier to pretend he wasn’t a mage if he didn’t know how to use his skills.
Still, the unseen owner of those footsteps didn’t show. Had someone seen him perform magic? Too late to dwell on consequences now.
Martin retraced his steps. Home. He needed to return home and puzzle out this mystery. Once he reached better-traveled streets, he encountered people set about their daily lives. From some, he felt nothing. Others? The woman in the green dress cheated on her mate. Another woman silently cried inside for having to sell her body on the streets to feed her family.
A well-dressed man with a smug expression inherited a fortune after killing his brother and accusing a servant. The servant hanged.
The prostitute’s guilt appeared a pale green thing compared to the man’s black aura. More and more, Martin felt violence, evil, and wrongdoing all around him. However, those driven by viable needs didn’t weigh as heavily on his mind.
I murdered my sister.
I stole my brother’s mate.
