Nobbe was utterly miserable. More miserable than he could ever remember being. His old squad had been re-united, more or less. Galgun was off leading the sorry excuse for an army, and that little horror, Sprite, was off with that skulking son of a sheep, Flint, and a whole host of other skulking bastards. He felt exposed without Sprite at his shoulder, but he wasn’t about to admit that to anyone and anyway, it was a small price to pay as long as he didn’t have to feel those unnerving, dead eyes on him.
They had split into two groups of three to avoid notice, and it had worked so far. He still couldn’t fathom why they had separated him from Sephi. Fine, they’d been on the verge of drawing weapons on one another for more than a day – and she shouldn’t have stolen his whetstone, anyway – but they both knew enough to put a lid on it when it the serious stuff began; it was just a little antagonism between husband and wife, completely normal before going into battle.
Bid, as big as a house, had been chosen to guard Kuzzur. The dumb mule hadn’t strayed more than a pace from the mage since they came within sight of the city walls. Which was stupid; Kuzzur looked like he was under arrest. Explaining that to a rock would yield better results than explaining it to Bid. Just doing my job, he’d said, somehow looking all hurt despite being one of the meanest bastards Nobbe had ever had the misfortune of laying eyes upon. At least Sephi had the sense to look like she was accompanying Kuzzur, rather than escorting him.
Forty paces further back, Nobbe was left in the dour company of the mage, Ankarr, and company healer, Brook. Conversation had been minimal, other than when one of them felt the need to tell Nobbe to be quiet, despite the fact he was making perfectly reasonable points.
He glanced sideways at Ankarr. How he hated sorcerers. Most sorcerers, at least. Kuzzur was all right for a mage. Ankarr’s idea of remaining inconspicuous was to creep through the city as though any person might accost him at any time. A shady glance at a woman selling bread followed a glower at a bridling wharfmaster. Nobbe had been required to administer several digs to the mage’s ribs to relax him. Until the bastard had put some kind of ward up, resulting in a jolt that ran all the way up Nobbe’s arm, almost flooring him. There would be words about that later. No-one got away with that sort of thing, especially not some jumped-up, paranoid mage.
And I’m pretty sure I saw him laughing.
Brook, usually full of questions and laughter, had been uncharacteristically quiet. Too happy and too stupid by far, Brook was, that was his problem. People like that couldn’t cope when the whole world turned inwards and things went to shit. His pranks were good for morale when it was all pissing around in the hills and waiting for something to happen, but they were in the city now and this was serious business. Nobbe would have to keep a close eye on the healer.
The squad had left the North Bank soon after entering through the city gate. The city itself was heaving. Villagers come to celebrate Adenne’s Night had swelled its numbers, which saw an increase in hawkers, thieves, bodyguards and just about every other type of character seeing an opportunity to make a little extra coin. The docks were jammed full of goods arriving from upriver. Indeed, there had been a queue of vessels tailed back beyond the Curtain as they’d approached the city.
Nobbe swallowed his complaints as they approached the edge of the Rattle and focussed on the task at hand. He needed a little caution, but not too much. To keep eyes on the alley mouths, but no need to stare at every last person they passed by. There was no fear of being robbed or knifed. They were still soldiers, after all, and despite their best efforts at subterfuge, he knew they still moved like soldiers; a deadly, economic grace to their gait, but appearances were everything, especially in the Rattle.
The city was loud to his ears after spending two years in the country. They’d left the docks behind, but Nobbe could still hear the clang of the wharfmasters’ bells, the shouts of the dockers as they hauled goods to the warehouses. The relentless cries of hawkers as they sought to offload their wares on to all-comers, revelling in the crush of passers-by. The slosh of chamber pots being emptied into the street, and the high-pitched squeals of children playing. A cacophony of unceasing noise.
What shook him most, however, was the growing realisation that he hadn’t missed the city. He’d grown up here, spent his entire life here, only occasionally venturing outside the safety of the Curtain to meet a desultory attack from one of their neighbours, or to go out on patrol in the hills to give the appearance of royal control. Within a few days, he was back in the familiar, ragged embrace of the city. His city. The city was unchanged, yet he couldn’t say the same about himself. He had returned as a stranger, an assailant.
As they negotiated the warren of cramped streets and alleys, he questioned their return. He was no historian, but he couldn't remember a time when the people of Caran had openly fought each other and what they were about to attempt was treason. He'd railed as much as any other soldier and citizen about the corruption in the noble and merchant classes, about their monopoly over the power in the city. But he'd also accepted it with a shrug, because life was easier that way and what could he, a simple soldier, do about it anyway? That was a game for people with ambition, and ambition required wealth.
He glanced at the preceding group, at the man at its centre. Kuzzur was a wholly unremarkable man in every way imaginable. A middling mage from a poor background, as far as Nobbe was aware. He'd never been a leader. Maybe he was smart, but maybe that was just experience. Not a man who commanded respect, or fear, and commanders needed a healthy dose of at least one. The best had both. Was it folly to throw his lot in with such a man? Did he have mere days... hours to live?
It was too late to be changing sides, not that he would. Not without the squad, and weren't they just the most pig-headed, stubborn set of people walking the face of the world?
He gazed upon a girl that couldn't have been past her sixteenth year, tightly clutching a crying babe, and he felt a wave of overbearing dismay. The girl, dirty-faced and under-nourished, slumped against the wall of an alley, stared into nothingness, making no attempt to soothe the child. Even if they were successful in what they were about to attempt, Nobbe wasn't certain it would help that girl and the hundreds of others just like her, because that was just the way things worked. It didn't matter who was pulling the strings, the puppets would go on dancing the same dance. He looked ahead once more, at Kuzzur's slight frame as it bobbed through the mass of people.
And what sort of puppet-master would you be, I wonder? I think you may be in for a shock, friend, whether the events of the next couple of days go to plan, or not.
As they moved deeper into the Rattle, the surroundings became dimmer and the streets became narrower. The atmosphere was altogether different to that of the dockside or the outskirts of the Merchants Quarter. No-one hawking freshly baked pies or fine tailoring here. Makeshift stalls displayed an array of goods and materials, much of it acquired by illegitimate or opportunistic means. Artefacts, relics and charms here, a collection of battered weapons there, supposedly imbued by a powerful sorceress or once belonging to some Patron or other. Tattered curtains were draped across some buildings and alleys, partly to prevent prying eyes from more sinister merchandise, and partly to retain the anonymity of those purchasing such merchandise. Many stalls weren't worthy of the name; ragged blankets littered with an array of mostly useless items.
Brook stopped to purchase a gull feather from a scrawny-looking urchin, tossing a copper at the lad's feet before tucking the feather into his belt. Nobbe gave him a disparaging look once they were out of earshot of the boy.
'It's no damned use.'
'Maybe. Maybe not,' the healer replied with a sour look.
'You think the bigger boys round here won't slit his scrawny throat for a copper? A copper's a lot of money in these parts. Careless of you. Damned careless.'
Brook picked the feather out of his belt, his jaw bunching as he frowned at it. 'Was only trying to buy the lad a hot meal, Nobbe.'
'Yeah, well, it'll probably be his last,’ Nobbe growled.
Brook halted, making to turn and re-visit the makeshift stall. Nobbe grabbed him by the tunic and spun him back in the direction of travel. 'Leave it. Just leave it. Lad's probably gone already. It's done. Should've left your kindness at the Curtain, Brook. The Rattle don't want none of it.'
They set off again, trailing Sephi's group, only to find that the preceding trio had paused. Nobbe and his two companions hung back to observe for a moment. A man was talking to Sephi, and there was a certain familiarity in the way he stood. By contrast, Sephi stood with hunched shoulders, her gaze darting to either side as she grasped for a way to evade the man's attention.
Nobbe blew out an exasperated breath. It looked very much like they'd been recognised. He tensed, waiting for someone to do something about it. Cursing under his breath, he closed the gap between the two groups, and hooked his arm around the man's neck and dragged him into the narrow mouth of an adjacent alley. He flung his captive against the damp stone wall. Glancing to his right, he sighed, seeing all five of his squad crowding the alley mouth. 'All of you? Sure, six people shoving someone into an alley. Can't think why that would attract any attention! Bid, you big oaf, take Ankarr and stand watch.'
'Hey, I'm sergeant around here,' the huge, bearish man rumbled in reply, folding his arms stubbornly.
'Then start acting like it. Just go, will you?'
He turned back to the man standing before him, who was rubbing the back of his head, the hand coming away bloodied. 'Nieme's Blessing, Nobbe, you could've gone easy on me. I was only talking to your lass, is all.'
Nobbe felt his stomach clench.
'Yarrid.'
He punched the man square in the face, feeling the nose squish under the force of the blow. He spat to one side as Yarrid sagged against the wall before sliding down it to crumple in a heap.
'Brook, heal the bastard.'
Nobbe paced back and forth as Yarrid recovered under Brook’s ministrations. Yarrid groaned and spat blood, flashing a hurt look up at Nobbe.
'You stupid sheep's arse, Yarrid. You should've just walked on by. Had to go and say something, didn't you? And to Sephi? I wouldn't mind, but she's hardly one for conversation, is she? What were you thinking?'
Yarrid looked up from where he knelt, his face twisted in a mix of fear and confusion. 'Nobbe. I was just saying hello. Nothing more in it, I swear it.'
Nobbe grabbed Yarrid by the lapels of his tattered jacket and shook him viciously. 'We was trying to escape notice, you stinking rat!'
Releasing the man, he turned, running a hand through his hair, trying to think. He shared a look with Brook, then looked over at Kuzzur and Sephi. Sephi clearly understood his meaning, her jaw setting in reluctant acceptance of what needed to be done.
Brook leapt up. 'Hey, Nobbe. No. No, that's not right. That's not why we're here. Kuzzur, tell him, that's not why we're here. Yarrid's done no wrong.' He moved closer to Kuzzur, pleading. 'You can do something, right? Make him forget. If he can't remember seeing us, then we just move along.'
Kuzzur’s face twisted with indecision. 'I... I can't make a person forget. I merely nudge here and there to influence decision making. It's reactive, not pro-active. I could make him forget for a day or two, but the human mind is complex. Eventually, the memory would return.'
'A day or two might be enough,' Brook replied, hopefully.
Nobbe shook his head, drawing his belt knife. 'Kuzzur… No chances, no surprises. You know how it works. You got to make hard choices, Kuz. I just need your nod.'
Realisation dawned on Yarrid's face, his eyes going wide. He raised his palms as he backed against the wall like a cornered rat. 'Nobbe. You can't be serious,' he pleaded incredulously. 'I'm not going to say anything. Why would I say anything? Who would I say anything to? If you lot is dead as dead can be, then I didn't see nothing. I won't tell a soul. Not even the Gods will know you was here. Nobbe, friend, you know me. It's just old Yarrid. We used to drink together, eh? Those nights at Stumpy's, drinking the foulest grog in all of Caran.' A panicked laugh preceded a whimper from the man. Movement caught Nobbe's eye, and he glanced down to see a small stream running from Yarrid's foot. The man had lost control of his bladder.
Nobbe found he couldn't meet Yarrid's eyes as he brought the blade up towards his throat. 'Ain't no choice, Yarrid. You should've kept your stupid trap shut.'
A voice, rising in pitch, reached down from the alley mouth. 'Where's my husband? Grammle the Croak said he saw you bundle him down this here alley. Never mind giving me a dumb look, you blasted lout. I know he's in there. Now let me pass.'
Nobbe froze, shooting a look towards the alley mouth. An apologetic shrug came from Bid as a woman wriggled past him, dragging a grubby-faced infant in tow, streams of bright green snot pouring from both nostrils.
'Massie,' Nobbe breathed, glancing down at the toddler and withdrawing the knife from Yarrid's neck.
She barrelled onwards - not halting at the flash of iron - to accost Nobbe, peppering his face and shoulders with a frantic onslaught of slaps and prods. 'You! I thought you was friends with my Yarrid, even if he is a good for nothing, thick-headed pig of a man. Don't give you the right to go slitting his throat, does it? If anyone gets to slit his throat, it's me. Now, go on, leave him be.'
Nobbe covered his face and neck as best he could under the attack. He glanced up to see a satisfied grin on Sephi's face, fuelling his indignation. 'A little help, wife?' Tiring of the unrelenting barrage, he batted away Massie's blows and pushing her into the arms of a chuckling Brook. 'What's so funny? Now we got three of them to deal with.'
The squad's amusement quickly died. When it was clear that Massie had no intention of renewing her attack, Brook released her. Yarrid ducked and dodged away from the blur of cuffs and slaps with practiced ease. Nobbe approached Kuzzur, pausing for a moment to shoot Sephi an angry glower, his wife responding with an apathetic shrug.
Kuzzur raised his hand in acknowledgement before Nobbe had the chance to talk. Nobbe always thought there was a sad cast to the mage's blue eyes; the gravity of the situation seemed to exacerbate that, as if he'd just realised that he must shoulder the burden of what must be done. 'Yes, Nobbe, not an enviable task, the judgement of another's fate. One that I should have relieved you of sooner. Sephi, Brook, gather them up.'
Sephi moved past Kuzzur and swallowed. 'Will I need my knife?' She asked in a whisper.
Kuzzur shook his head. 'I don't see that there will be a need for that. If I keep them close, I should be able to avoid them saying anything incriminating.' Yarrid, Massie and the child, suddenly amenable, filed out of the alley, Sephi and Bid in front, Brook and Ankarr following behind.
Kuzzur fixed Nobbe with a weighing look. 'Would you have done it, had I given you the nod?'
Nobbe leaned back against the cool wall, and nodded. 'Yeah. Never liked the bastard much anyway,' he replied, forcing a laugh. He paused for a moment. 'Would you have given me the nod?'
The mage tilted his head, considering. A small smile crept on to his face. 'I think we're going to need soldiers like you in what's to come. It’s good to be back, is it not?' He then turned away, stepping back out into the chaotic street.
Nobbe frowned at Kuzzur’s back, letting out an exasperated sigh.
Swerved the question. Hah, I think you might be cut out for this leadership thing after all, Kuz.