14. Cat & Arrow
Sera woke slowly at first. The small bed felt smaller as her extremities regained consciousness with a long stretch. Spreading her toes and arching her back, she yawned but cut it short at the coldness nipping at her back.
Fully awake, she turned and discovered cold sheets. The light from the single window told her dawn had passed and she had overslept. Panic gripped her heart, Mrs Bailey did not take tardiness lightly. She threw the covers off her body, immediately assaulted by cold air.
"Hannah?" she yelled. Her coat was nearby; she yanked it on and stuffed her feet into her boots. The sweet smell of honeyed porridge met her at the door. A warm fire had been lit and a pot full of porridge set upon it. The balmy air welcomed her as two sets of blue eyes blinked at her in surprise. Kole and Hannah sat at the table, each with a bowl before them. Between them was Hannah's sketch book, and Kole held a piece of charcoal above it, paused mid-stroke.
"We were going to wake you in a moment," Hannah explained. She looked from Sera to the fire. "Breakfast?"
Sera tightened her coat around her middle. "I'd rather you'd woken me sooner. I have to prepare for work and Hannah, you have Porters–"
"I'll take care of it," Kole said brusquely.
"You're going to make your sister lunch?"
No answer, just a shrug and a grin from Hannah.
There was a part of Sera that did not want to interfere with whatever the two had been doing before she woke, but the other part, the more sensible part, told her life was not as sentimental.
"Hannah, you have not dressed yet."
"I will. I just want to–"
"Hannah."
The girl looked to her brother for reinforcement. Koltin sighed, leaning back in the wooden chair with a creak and a wince. The majority of his wounds were hidden under his shirt, leaving a few bruises on his head. His hair was wet from a recent clean, but Sera could see a patch of crusted blood he had missed.
"Dress quickly and we can finish before leaving," he said.
"Really? Why do you always take her side?" She stood without taking the trouble to lift her chair. The sound of wood scraping on stone made Sera raise a disapproving brow. Hannah mumbled an apology and shuffled out the room. Movement and body language alone, Sera recognized the signs of a rebuked but still temperamental Seaward.
Once the curtain closed and she could hear Hannah shuffling around. Sera took the seat next to Koltin. Her hands immediately went to his head.
"I've rinsed it already," he hissed under his breath.
"You missed a spot," she retorted. "Did she ask about the bruises? What did you say?"
"She asked and I told her I got into a fight."
"A fight?" She snorted and lifted his shirt, despite his attempts to shrug her off. In the morning light his bruises looked worse and she winced, thinking of the previous night. "Could you not have stuck with the wall bit?"
He chuckled but despite the laugh, his face remained humorless. Pursing her lips, she lowered the shirt and forced him to look at her by the chin.
"What is it? Something is wrong. I know it."
Like dark blue balls of ink, his eyes bore into hers. His quill was ready to write. She could tell. He wanted to tell her, but something was stopping him. His gaze dropped. "I'm not..."
She smoothed down the faint stubble forming along his jaw. "You'd let me know if it were important, right? If Hannah was in danger?"
He swallowed, his jaw tightened and released.
"If you need me to help Koltin—with anything—I can. Even if it is just to talk. You know that."
Something hardened in him and he nodded. "You cannot help with this, Sera. I have to work through it. Figure things out."
Her brow furrowed at the pang of rejection. She told herself she was being irrational, that it was normal for him to hide things from her. He was the Thief King, it came at a price, a burden. In the past he had told her everything, even what she had not wanted to hear, and she had listened until it became too much. The promises he had made had been his decision. She may have motivated them, but he had made them. He had wanted change—needed change.
"I'm ready," Hannah appeared, turning on the spot for inspection. "I have three layers on, so yes, Sera, I will be warm. My bag is packed, want to check?"
Sera dropped her hands and smiled. "No, I believe you."
"Koltin? Can we continue?"
Koltin stood without a wince or show of pain. "Sparrow, I think we better be off if we are to catch the baker early for those sweet rolls."
"But what about the lesson?"
"You caught on quick, Sparrow. I doubt there is a lot more I can show you. I can look later if you practice today. As long as you remember what I showed you, you will learn best practicing." He gathered up her drawing tools and book, then handed them to her to pack away. "Give Sera a kiss while I get a coat."
He slipped into their room, scratching his neck with his good hand.
"You look worried," Hannah said as she slung her bag over her shoulder. "Is it the fight? He said it wasn't his fault."
With a smile and shake of her head, Sera attempted to dispel all traces of concern from her features. Hannah's face said she apparently didn't do a very good job of it. "I'm just thinking." Her voice was stronger than she expected. "He still has to pay for not showing up, remember?"
Hannah grinned and kissed Sera on the cheek. "I guess we can forgive him. He fell on the wrong side of someone's fist last night. Maybe it did him some good."
Sera laughed just as Koltin came back. She could distinguish his gear under the large coat he wore and shivered. Sometimes she wished he did work in the mines as he claimed to his sister. It might make her feel better every morning. However, she had heard stories of the workers in the mines. Koltin was likely safer wielding daggers and chancing fate than digging in that dark, hollow mountain.
She stood as Hannah hugged her. Koltin paused as if contemplating something.
"Are you not saying goodbye to Sera?" Hannah demanded at the door. "Could you please kiss her so we can leave already?"
Koltin smiled at his sister and walked over to Sera, placing a cold kiss on her cheek. She reached for his hand but he was off before she could grasp it. Again, a feeling of icy rejection flooded her. It was as if a part of her was pulling away and she did not know why.
Porter's school for the poor children of the Lowies was in an old, abandoned cathedral. Years ago the clergy had pulled out of houses of worship situated too far from the city core—too many robberies and deaths on sanctified ground, or so they claimed. That had been way before Kole's time—maybe even before Rufus'. It would not have been above the deceased Thief King to strip a cathedral of everything of worth.
Porter had grown up in religious sects and seen fault in their preferences. Perhaps it had been how blessings were only granted to those who could afford it, or the fact that the gods were forgotten to most and abused by others. Whatever the cause, Porter had decided his pious ways were more suited to teaching the youth a better way of life, giving them opportunities and skills they'd otherwise have no access to.
Donations and volunteers kept the school running. Kole wished he had known about the school when he had been a youth—such an opportunity would have perhaps shown him a different avenue. A cleaner one. But then a cleaner means of earning would not earn the large anonymous bags of gold donated to the school every month.
"So?" Hannah nudged his hip with her shoulder. Her slight frame skipped ahead over the mosaic of puddles in the street, then stopped to wait for him.
"So what?" he asked, nudging her in return. His mind still lingered with Sera; the regret he felt for acting so strangely. He had come close to cracking a few times. Silence had seemed the only way. Talking always led him to trouble and with Sera, the more he said, the more she figured out. The safest option was to say nothing, to not react and to pull away, even if it was just for a night. Come tomorrow, he may have the freedom to tell her everything. She would be mad but she would understand. The other side of the coin scared him. What if last night had been their last? What if–
"What are you thinking about? You've been awfully quiet while I've been rambling on. You've barely given me any constructive comments."
Kole regarded his sister. These were the moments he wanted to throw a horseshoe in the inner workings of time and force it to halt. Childhood was safe and fun. Hannah deserved to know only safe and fun. He sighed. "I can't help it if you are absorbing everything too fast."
"What about that shadow and light stuff you were talking about?"
"Chiaroscuro?"
Hannah nodded, a puff of white air floated from her mouth as she exhaled.
"It's simple really." Kole looked around for an example. "See there, down that alley. Look at the top where the light hits the lighter stones before the next building's shadow begins. See it?"
"Yes."
"Now to draw that properly would be to be able to capture the contrast of light and dark in one artwork—in one piece of work. Every drawing—every painting—is composed of highlights and shadows and it is your choice to emphasize each's presence. Light does not exist without darkness and vice versa."
"So every drawing must have both?"
"It should have. We're all made up of light and shadow after all."
"That sounds like something Porter would say," Hannah smirked. "Chiaroscuro? Where did you learn that word?"
"A pirate," Kole grinned. The truth in the words would come across less perilous to Hannah he thought. To his surprise, she frowned. "You don't believe me?"
"It's not that." Hannah shrugged. "I just know that pirates do exist and...Father...I just think the fables are wrong."
"All fables?"
"Most fables. If we're all made up of shadow and light as you say, then I think some are made darker than others."
They were no longer alone on the streets. The baker's shop created a bubble of delicious aromas that attracted all the early workers. Kole smiled at his sister and squeezed her shoulder before they plunged through the growing crowd.
"Hannah," he said softly. "Sometimes it's not the darkness inside people that make them do bad things, sometimes...sometimes it's the darkness that surrounds them that forces their hand. You cannot judge a fox for killing a hare if it has to eat. You understand?" A pink tongue peeped out as she pondered. "What I'm trying to say is life forces us to carry out choices. Sometimes we choose wrong. Sometimes those choices are hard to make, but we grit our teeth and make them anyway."
"Do you think the thieves choose to be who they are?"
Kole schooled his face into neutrality. "Some of them."
"Do you think death dealers choose their profession?"
"Hannah, where did you hear that term?"
She shrugged. "Can we get those sweet rolls now? I can smell them waiting for us."
"Where did you hear that term, Hannah?"
"Around. Everyone knows it. They're assassins. The boys in my class play death dealer dash. I sometimes join in."
Kole clenched his jaw and straightened. He had not even realized he had been bending over her, as if lowering his face to hers could force the words out. "Let's get those rolls," he said. His voice resigned to a harsh rasp.
Chase rifled through the pages, searching for...something. A name or amount that did not sit right amongst its brethren. So far, he had recognized a few noble names. Some had made him cough with surprise. Others had confirmed long held suspicions. On any other day he would have tried memorizing the list. Studying who frequented the brothels and whose pouch was unnecessarily heavy.
The thieves he had gambled with had given him little to go on in terms of new players in the game. There was, however, the Northies to be taken into account. The lesser internal war that had occurred so quietly was something to take seriously. The Northies was a considerable area; a territory that if combined could—would—challenged Kole's.
He dropped a piece of parchment, resting his forehead in his palms. Two more nights. All they had was two more nights and then Kole was...What? Dead? Chase dragged his hand down to his chin and up again. There were fates worse than death. Chase knew better than most the pain one could inflict on another person if one's conscience would allow it. Bay's death had been indication that this man—whoever he was—raged no war with his conscience. Not for the first time Chase wondered what possible act could have justified the death of a child. Rufus had still had limits. Before Rufus' death, Chase had contemplated using all he had learnt under the ruthless Thief King against him.
Rufus had not truly recognised the killers he had created. At the time, Kole and Chase hadn't either. The coin was good, the jobs physically easy most of the time. It took years of accumulating blood for them to realise a hand can only stain so much until it asks to be cleaned.
When Kole had voiced his thoughts to kill their mentor, Chase had initially wanted the pleasure. His family had stopped him. Kole had Sera and Hannah, but two heads to watch was easier than five and one wastrel.
His chin propped in his palm, Chase began a cascading rhythm with his fingers against his cheek. Kole risked his family to save Chase's that night, and in return Chase pledged his loyalty and life to protecting Kole's. It was more than friendship between them, they had experienced too much together to separate them into two entities that made a whole. No. They were a unit. They moved together. They backed one another and they protected everyone and everything that mattered to either of them.
Bay was their failure.
Chase stood, unable to sit a moment longer. He needed fresh air. And maybe a walk. The tailor nodded to him as he appeared from the hidden basement. The man did not say much to the thieves that passed through his doors. Most of the time they never saw the man, being as they were primarily active at night. When they did cross paths, the agreement was the only thing stopping the man from reporting any of them. Chase gave a meaningless salute and exited the shop.
The air hit him in the face. Immediately making him think his nose would fall off. It was a joke from his childhood and he in turn relayed it to his sisters. He wiped his nose on his sleeve and trotted off, hoping to find a busy street to merge with.
The main thoroughfare was bustling by the time he reached it. Looking at the sky, Chase guessed it was near noon. The clouds were less ominous than the night before. Although it had not actually rained, the threat had hung thick with its deep groans and rumbles.
His house was a swift run across rooftops but a slightly lengthier walk on cobble. By the time he reached his front door, his nose must have been blue and hair wet from the light drizzle that fell.
He knocked and the door creaked open—slowly, as if it wished not to reveal its secrets. The scene that lay beyond the door formed a frozen sheet inside his chest.
A dagger fell to Chase's hand and with his other he pushed the door open further. Inside the furniture was awry. Broken chairs scattered on the stone floor, the old moth-eaten rug disturbed. Chase scanned the room for traces of blood. A little on the edge of the table caught his attention. He stepped inside and shut the door with a bang. He remained where he was, waiting as long as he could to attract any lurkers out. No one came.
The cold sheet curling around his chest, constricted his air and his heart rate to rose. Panic snaked its way from his lungs through his veins and into his heart, leaving a chilly bite at its center. It took all his strength to move forward; everything inside him was screaming at him to roar, to rage, to stampede. He controlled his savage urges and forced his legs to move.
He checked the three small rooms. They were empty. One showed evidence of a struggle. The other two still had unmade beds; shoes lying in the same places they had last been kicked off. Back in the living area, he noticed someone had attempted to reach for a knife. He followed a blood trail to under the table where he found said knife. A dark crimson line iced its edge.
The blood on the table was likely from a different blow. Grooves in the floor tracked the table a few paces back, which upheld the theory that someone had fallen and cracked their head. Who? Chase did not know. Which one of his sisters had been hurt? Which one of his sisters had hit her head? Had Penny been home with his mother? There had been a struggle. Perhaps his father had been sober enough to fight back.
Chase made to leave. Misty was the best tracker. She'd find the clues lying somewhere in this room. His hand hadn't extended towards the knob when he froze at the door, feeling all his hope, anger, fears and panic drop to his feet. A dead cat stared back at him. Dull yellow eyes faced him with nothing behind them. No life, no sorrow, but what he imagined was pain. It was pinned to the door by an arrow embedded in the scruff of its neck. A note had been threaded onto the arrow's shaft.
With shaking fingers, Chase took the note and read.
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