Page 14 of The City Of Fractured Memory

I make a noncommittal sound. I refuse to be thwarted at the first hurdle, but I’m not exactly sure how to proceed from here either.

“Come on then, let’s go,” I grumble, pushing off from the wall. “I just need to stop at one of the stalls quickly first.”

Stryx gives me a knowing look which I choose to ignore, pushing my way through the growing crowd of hooded buyers and scanning the chambers for what I need. It’s not my first time here, nor will it be my last, but the Maw has an annoying habit of rearranging itself most nights, making it very difficult to seek out specific vendors.

I finally spot a familiar coloured silk hanging from the entrance of a small chamber, and dive out of the flow of the crowd, tugging Stryx along close behind me. We duck under a huge chest being heaved along on the shoulders of two very sketchy looking men, and emerge into the small opening in the rock, finding a modest looking stall filled with various golden trinkets. I nod a greeting to the wizened woman standing behind the wares, her thin, papery skin creased and wrinkled across her stern face. She returns my nod subtly, pretending not to know my face, as is the usual custom here.

“I have a piece I think would suit you, my dear,” she says with a rasp, maintaining the charade that we are unacquainted. She shuffles a few boxes around behind the stall before retrieving a tiny carved wooden box and placing it in my hand. A familiar glint of gold catches the light as I open the box to find a new talisman, the runes etched into it glowing with power. I snap it shut quickly, pocketing it as I retrieve my money from my cloak, but as I pull out the funds to pay her, my drawing is knocked free, floating to the ground at her feet. She bends to pick it up before I can grab it and she studies it with a frown.

“What is this?” she says with deathly quiet. My heart stumbles as I read her body language––shoulders tightening, her lips pursing as her eyes widen almost infinitesimally.

She knows something.

“It’s a tattoo. Have you seen this before?” I ask in a hushed tone, leaning in closer to avoid being overheard.

She looks at me hesitantly, like she’s trying to decide whether or not to divulge the information. My Shadow, who has been noticeably absent since I awoke, decides now is the appropriate time to materialise, his black mass forming just out of sight. I try to ignore his presence and focus on the vendor, but I have a sudden overwhelming sense of urgency flooding my veins.

Run.

The word envelops me and I mentally curse at him, tapping my fingers repeatedly as it becomes harder and harder to fight his command. The woman makes no mention of my sudden discomfort other than a cursory glance to my fidgeting fingers, but also remains silent to the question I need answering. She looks down again at the drawing and her face pulls into a deep frown, her jaw clenching.

Run now.

My heart starts to palpitate as I continue to ignore my Shadow, flexing my toes in my shoes as my feet urge me to move. Without warning the woman crushes the parchment into her curled fist and lobs it at me. I barely catch it before her finger is pointed in my face, her features contorted into a snarl.

“You play with things beyond your ken, Detective Wren,” she hisses. “Do yourself a favour and leave before the wrong people see this. It may already be too late.”

My heart stumbles and my breath catches in my throat at the sound of my name. She knows my face, of that I am certain, but my name? The implications of that are harrowing to say the least.

“How–”

“Go!” my Shadow and the woman rasp in unison as she shoves me back, causing my ankle to roll painfully as I stagger to stop myself colliding with Stryx.

I don’t need to be told a fourth time.

I grab Stryx’s hand and flee, throwing the money for the talisman behind me to the floor at the woman’s feet. She lurches for it greedily, scooping it into her bony hands and clutching it to her chest as we join once again with the crowd. The people flow along like a steady river, the current of the footfall pulling us further into the Maw.

I crane my neck to see above the sea of heads and spot a faint pinprick of light shining through a small side tunnel. Hastily, I pull Stryx out of the throng of people and into the dark tunnel, grabbing a lit torch from a brazier at the entrance and holding it above my head to light the way. We stumble along the uneven floor, the fire sending dancing shadows along the roughly hewn walls as we make our way towards the growing light at the end. A waft of fresh air hits my face as we exit the tunnel into the streets outside, the glowing amber light we’ve been following emitting from a half collapsed lamp post ahead.

I breathe in a large lungful of air as my nerves begin to settle, though we are far from danger yet. Ahead to our right, the gaping cavern at the entrance to the Maw looms, and I plan to get away from it as quickly as possible.

“And there was me thinking the morgue was my least favourite place,” Stryx muses, her eyes darting about nervously.

I huff an anxious laugh, my breath releasing in a cloud as the cold of the night draws in on us. I tighten my cloak around me before taking her hand once more and leading us back to the sky bridge. “Well, if we linger here any longer, we won’t be going into the morgue by foot, that’s for sure.”

Nine

Inever thought I would be relieved to see the Division up ahead, especially at midnight, yet here I am.

The chill of the morgue’s stone corridor seeps through my boots as we enter, every step I take echoing against the flagstones. I hold my breath, motioning Stryx to keep close. The last thing I need is another run-in with the Chief, so we decided en route to opt for the ‘sneak round the back’ option. I’m certain I’m finally circling something real, and I refuse to let him get in my way any more.

A murmur drifts from up ahead, low voices spilling through the half-cracked door of the warden’s chamber. I freeze, my back pressing to the wall, pulling Stryx with me.

“…Riven,” one voice carries to us, laced with contempt. “He allegedly slaughtered an entire cell block yesterday morning. Every prisoner, gone. No trial or warning, just a bloodbath.”

My gut twists. They must be talking about Riven Ashfell. I’ve heard his name before––the ruthless governor of Aethermere.

Another male voice lets out a scoff. “Not surprising. That family’s always been rotten. Power-hungry to the bone. His father was well known for his contempt for the Echofae when he lived, and the Gods know what they do to those poor slaves they keep. Questionable doesn’t begin to cover it.”