13 July 1023 P.E.
Market Street, Darnan
Young Brand once again found himself running from the city guard. Shouts followed him as he ran to a row of barrels, jumped up, sprinted across their heads, then jumped over to a ladder on the side of a building. He grabbed at the rung with his empty hand, but his sweaty fingers slipped off the smooth metal.
The lanky boy collapsed in a heap, flattening his ill-gotten sweet bread roll and coating himself with crumbs and dust. He shoved what was left of the roll into his mouth, swiped his hands across the front of his threadbare tunic, and jumped up onto the ladder, scampering up it with sticky fingers.
At the top, he spun about, trying to get his bearings. The ladder behind him rattled as the guards started climbing it, cursing as they went. Brand sprinted across the rooftops in the direction of the cloth sails of Market Street billowing up between several buildings a few streets away.
He ran as fast as his long legs would carry him, jumping short alleys and scampering along boards straddling other gaps between buildings, until he found himself on the roof of one of the taller buildings of the market. He skittered to a halt, realizing that the gap across the market street was far too wide to leap across, then teetered on the edge of the building. His arms windmilled a bit before he was able to regain his footing. He paused for a moment, scanning for any other way across or any way down to street level. There were none. Behind him, he heard the clank of several pairs of heavy steel-clad boots.
He spun to face the grinning guards.
“You’ve escaped us too many times, lad,” the officer said. His face was shining red under his metal helmet. “Come with us quietly, and we’ll sort this all out, alright?”
Brand glanced behind him. He could see Sanders’s shop down below on the other side of the street. If he could just get down there without breaking his neck, Alastair would help him…
Brand’s stomach twisted as he stared down at the five-story drop. He’d survived a drop like that a month ago, but he had no interest in attempting that feat again.
A fire escape bolted to the side of a building on the other side of the street caught his eye. I just need to get over there. Brand eyed the cables suspending the shade sails hovering over the middle of the market.
The guards were inching closer, their semi-circle closing like a noose around him. If Brand had any hope of getting out of this, it had to be now.
Brand darted to his left to one of the cables and stepped out onto it, holding his hands out wide. He inched his way out across the cable while the guards behind shouted at him.
“How’s he doing that?” he heard one of them exclaim behind him.
Teeth clenched, Brand silently wondered that himself. He’d always seemed to have better balance than others his age, but he’d never attempted something like this before. He reached the other side and turned with a jaunty wave, then slid down the fire escape.
Maybe I don’t need Alastair after all, he thought.
Brand hit the ground and spun—straight into a meaty fist. Brand went down like a felled tree. He groaned as someone grabbed him by the front of his shirt. Brand blinked, and the face of the red-haired guard from the day before swam into view.
“That’s quite enough, boy. Off to the station with you.”
The guard slapped a pair of cuffs on the boy and frog-marched him down two streets over to the nearest guard station. As they walked, the other guards joined them, seven in all, Brand counted, each one adding their own taunts and taking a turn spitting at the youth. Brand felt a flush of wry pride at how many guards they’d sent after him.
The guard station was dim and dusty and still somehow as hot as the street outside. Golden light streaming through narrow windows set high above them caught on millions of dust motes floating in the air, casting thick beams of light that somehow didn’t quite make it to the cramped but neat rows of desks below. Some guards, red-faced and serious, came and went with their jaws set and fists clenched. Other sweaty guards leaned up against cabinets and walls in clusters, their jackets unbuttoned, fanning themselves with paperwork and pointing at Brand. Their echoing laughter followed the young boy down the aisles.
The red-headed guard marched Brand through rows of desks until they reached one toward the back of the room, then shoved the boy into the chair in front of it. He unlocked one side of the cuffs and clamped it onto a heavy iron ring on the desk. Then the red-headed guard sat down among the papers on the other side of the desk. He pulled out a pair of tiny reading spectacles and started sifting through the papers.
As he sat there, Brand saw the other guards around them pointing, chuckling, and leering at him. The boy twisted away so that his back was toward most of the room and hunched down, trying to seem as inconspicuous as possible.
Brand’s skin felt sticky from the muggy, stale air. He stared at his fingers and picked at his nails. After what seemed like an eternity, Brand mumbled, “I thought I was going to jail.”
“You will be soon enough, boy,” the guard said, not looking up. “There’s paperwork to be done first.”
Just then, there was a commotion down at the other end of the hall. One of the unbuttoned guards shouted “Hey you! You shouldn’t be here. Stop!”
Brand looked up to see Alastair striding towards him. A crowd of city guards was shouting at him and trying to stand in his way. But the big shopkeeper seemed as unstoppable as a locomotive. He shouldered his way past the guards, of whom even the tallest only reached the big man’s shoulder. Alastair came to a halt in front of the red-haired guard’s desk. The guard rolled his eyes and waved off the rest of his squad.
Brand beamed.
Alastair folded his arms over his barrel chest and glared at the youth, making Brand cower down in his chair even more.
“I’m here for Cadmus,” growled Alastair, his usual jovial demeanor replaced by roiling irritation.
The red-headed guard scoffed at the shopkeeper. “Oh you are, are you? He’s been apprehended in a theft, charged with several others, and,” the guard stood, “if you know what’s good for you, Alastair, you’ll keep your shady nose out of this business.”
“How much do you want?” Alastair asked.
The red-haired guard glanced around at the other guards, who had dispersed but still kept their eyes trained on the shopkeeper. “You aren’t seriously trying to bribe me in a guard station, are you?”
Alastair rolled his eyes. “Bail, Hessian. How much to spring the kid until his trial?”
Hessian leaned forward on the desk, hands planted on it. “He won’t have a trial. He—”
“I am his legal guardian.”
Brand started. What?
Alastair reached into a pocket and pulled out a yellowed piece of paper. He handed it to Hessian.
“I demand that he have a trial. I hope for your sake you have evidence this time.”
Brand frowned at that. This time?
Hessian’s brow furrowed and his eyes narrowed as he examined the yellowish document. Then he looked up at the big shopkeeper.
“You’ve never mentioned you had a ward before,” Hessian said, suspicion dripping from every word.
“Have you ever asked?” Alastair said with a tight smile.
“I suppose I didn’t,” Hessian said softly. He glanced from Brand to Alastair, then back again several times, as though comparing the two. Finally, he shook his head. “After what I saw, he won’t last two minutes at a trial. Fafnir wants all persons of strange or questionable abilities handed over to him. You’ll only be bringing attention to yourself in ways you may not appreciate.”
Alastair’s jaw was set in a firm line. “He will have a trial.”
Hessian’s eyes locked with those of the big shopkeeper, curiosity mingling with distrust. Alastair held his own glare steady. After what felt like an eternity to Brand, Hessian dropped his gaze and handed the yellowing paper back to Alastair, who folded it carefully and placed it back in his pocket.
“Very well. The fine is ten gold pieces, and I will notify you personally of his trial date. It is your decision as his guardian whether you wish to retain counsel or not. In the meantime, I advise you to keep a close eye on the boy at all times. If he were to go missing, I will have no choice but to issue a warrant for your immediate arrest.”
Brand saw Alastair wince at the price, but the big shopkeeper nodded curtly and produced the coins without complaint. Hessian stared at the money in front of him.
“How did you get that much money? You didn’t steal it, did you?”
Brand could see Alastair’s jaw muscles bunch as he clenched his teeth. The man’s thick knuckles blanched as he balled his hands into massive fists.
“A loan.”
“Against what? Your life? You haven’t got anything else of value.”
Alastair met the guard’s glare. “Basically, yes.”
Hessian drew close to Alastair and hissed, “This is folly! Ward or not, he’s nothing, just an urchin, not worth your time, let alone your life! Think of your business. After what happened three years ago, you’re barely holding on as it is.”
“Thanks to you. You didn’t have to turn me in,” Alastair growled softly. “And if I remember correctly, I won.”
“You still lost everything. You cannot win this one, and you will fall with him. For good.”
Alastair looked the red-headed guard in the eye and firmly said, “Then so be it.”
Hessian hesitated. “You’re a good man, Alastair,” he admitted softly, glancing around the station, “one of the better ones if you’d only straighten out.”
Alastair shook his head. “We sail by different compasses, you and I.”
“I suppose that’s true,” Hessian said. He sighed, then unlocked Brand’s restraints.
Alastair beckoned to Brand and led the boy out of the station with one heavy hand resting on Brand’s shoulder. Brand could feel dozens of eyes on his back as they exited the building.
Once outside, Brand grumbled, “All over a stupid sweet bread. The baker throws out dozens of rolls a day and they go to the pigeons. What’s wrong with me taking one?”
“For one, you didn’t take a stale three-day-old roll she’d just thrown out. You stole one from the counter. For two, this was less about the roll and more about that fall you took last month. I’m sure you noticed how many more guards were after you today.”
“I got lucky,” Brand mumbled.
“No, you’re different,” Alastair corrected. “Different will get you killed around here.”
“Why did you forge that document saying you’re my guardian? You’ve never cared one whit about me before.”
“I didn’t forge it, and I do care. I’m just not…” An odd look passed over the shopkeeper’s face as his voice trailed off.
Brand instantly regretted his words.
“I’m sorry,” the boy mumbled. “You’ve always taken care of me, sort of.”
Alastair stopped and turned Brand to face him. The big man looked as though he’d aged a hundred years in an instant. A huge weight of sadness now seemed to press down on his shoulders, making him sag.
“I’m sorry I haven’t been able to make life more comfortable for you,” Alastair said. “Life hasn’t been all that kind to me either. I’ve done what I could, kept most trouble out of your way, helped you get back up when I couldn’t. The truth is, your mother didn’t have time to pick a better guardian before she died.”
At the mention of his mother, Brand’s eyes grew wide. Alastair had never spoken of Brand’s mother, even when he’d asked. The shopkeeper had always brushed off the boy’s questions as though he’d never met her. “Why? How did she die?”
Alastair sighed heavily. “She died of the plague. Right after you were born. It’s a terrible way to die.”
Brand wanted to ask more, to ask why the shopkeeper’s face had darkened with pain at her memory, but Alastair had started walking again. Brand trotted to catch up. Despite his great weight, the shopkeeper’s long legs carried him quickly down the street. Brand noticed for the first time that Alastair was wearing a great coat even though he was sweating profusely in the murderous desert heat.
Alastair’s face turned stern again.
“As for why I had to get you out of there—Once they got you in prison, the high lord would have been called, and you’d have been dead by morning.”
“What? Dead? Why? It was just a sweet roll!”
Alastair pulled Brand into an alley and shoved the youth against the wall.
“Aren’t you listening? It’s not what you did; a hundred boys steal bread every day. It’s what you are. You’re not like them! No one else could fall from a five-story building and survive, let alone walk away. People noticed that you’re different, and being different will get you killed! Now, I’m taking you back to the shop, and you’ll stay there quietly doing whatever task I can think of, while I go find someone who can help. If you leave, I’ll whip you like you’ve never been whipped before. Do you understand?”
Brand nodded mutely, shaking slightly. In all the years he’d ever known Alastair, he’d never seen the man act like this, so agitated and fierce.
The boy followed Alastair silently back to the shop. Once there, the shopkeeper pulled the yellow paper from his pocket and stuffed it in a desk drawer.
The big shopkeeper moved around to the counter, where he pushed aside the mechanical sewing machine Brand had seen him working on last month. Alastair must have been working on it again when he learned about Brand’s predicament.
“How long have you been working on that?” Brand asked, grasping at something normal to talk about. “It shouldn’t have taken you more than a week.”
“Never mind,” Alastair growled. “Sit down.”
Alastair set the boy to work dismantling the crumpled mechanohorse Brand had noticed the day before. With another stern warning, Alastair left the shop.
As Brand worked on the oxidizing heap, untangling and unscrewing and yanking it apart with trembling fingers, he tried to figure out what Alastair had meant out in the alley. He was just Brand, a nobody, a street urchin with no parents. Nobody wanted him.
Unbidden tears splashed on the greenish bronze metal. He wiped the water away angrily. He was too old to cry. He dried his eyes and focused on his work.
* * *
Alastair left the shop at a good clip, letting his long legs carry his heavy frame quickly down the market street, his long coat flapping in the brisk summer breeze. He was already sweating heavily, but he couldn’t risk anyone noticing his tattoos and remembering them. “Blasted desert,” he grumbled to himself.
Where would the man be?
Brand had caught the man’s attention last month after nabbing that mechanohorse processor in the financial district, Alastair was sure. It was one of the best places to catch a carriage without being noticed.
The stranger had been wearing a three-piece suit, Alastair remembered, but not a terribly stylish one—a service uniform, cheap but crisp. A bar or restaurant, perhaps? The restaurant district was in between the market and the banks.
The man had said he could help Brand, and there was only one type of person the shopkeeper knew that might be able to help the boy. Alastair needed to get close to the man; the same street would suffice. He headed for the restaurant district a few streets over.
Alastair had to pause on a curb as a mechanohorse carriage trotted by. He tipped his hat at a couple of ladies in lacy summer dresses, then charged on, winding his way through alleys and side streets. He stopped at a large intersection, looking around.
A stone fountain of a kashmari on a rearing horse stood at the center. Along the six streets radiating from the intersection were a dozen restaurants and bars that Alastair could see. He couldn’t see their staff, though, so he strode across the street to one with long windows and peered inside. He repeated this until he found an upscale pub where the service staff wore the same kind of uniform as William James had been wearing. He pushed open the door and ducked in, drawing the attention of the patrons.
It was dark and cool here, which Alastair appreciated. Still too dry, he thought, trying to ignore the constant itching of his skin.
“Hello, good sir,” a woman in a crisp waistcoat and coiffed hair said. “How many in your party?”
“Uh, none. I’m looking for a member of the staff. A William James.”
“If you’ll wait one moment, I’ll inquire in the back.”
“Thank you.”
Alastair pulled off a glove and stuffed a hand into his pocket. His fingers closed around a prism about the length of his finger. It was cool to the touch, and when his finger glided over it, he could hear a soft hum in the back of his mind.
He glanced around at the staff. Nothing. Then, from a door behind the bar strode a man who glowed ever so faintly to Alastair’s eyes, little more than a soft golden patina. The shopkeeper took his hand out of his pocket and replaced the glove. The glow surrounding the approaching man vanished.
“Hello again,” William James said with a smile half-hidden by his mustache. “How can I help you?”
“It’s the boy,” Alastair said quietly. He kept a cordial smile on his face and tried to stay relaxed. “Can you come now?”
William James matched the shopkeeper’s blank smile and nodded amiably. “Of course. If you would give me one moment, sir.”
Alastair waited for the man to speak with his boss, keeping his face passive and his hands still lest he seem impatient.
Then the two men left together.
William led Alastair into an alley behind the pub. The smaller man then glanced around cautiously. He pulled out his pipe and started smoking.
“What is it? Has something happened?”
Alastair stared at the pipe. William pulled it out of his mouth.
“Just in case someone looks this way,” the mustached man said. “Looks like I’m talking to a friend while on break.”
Alastair grunted and glanced over his shoulder. No one on the street seemed to notice the two men in the shade of the alley. “Cadmus was arrested. The guard who did it let me have him on bail pending a trial, but he made sure I knew the boy will be handed over to Fafnir as soon as the trial is over. And he assured me the trial would be short.”
William leaned back against the wall and puffed on his pipe a few times. “You should have let me take him last month.”
“Perhaps. But I’ve learned to be suspicious of people like you. It’s that suspicion that has kept me and the boy alive. No matter. ‘Yesterday is past and today needs attention,’ as they say. Can you help him?”
“Why can’t you help him anymore?”
Alastair looked at his boots. There was a hole in each toe. “I can only hide him. Now that they know he exists, he needs someone to teach him to fight.” He looked back up at the strange man. “Believe me, if I had another choice, I’d take it.”
“You can’t run away with him? I’m sure you could vanish into another city, one where Fafnir doesn’t pay as close attention.”
Alastair’s thoughts went to the letter he’d sent off after William James had visited. He still hadn’t received an answer. That worried him, but he couldn’t think about that just now. “I will leave, for a time, but where I’m going, he cannot follow. It’s even more dangerous. No, he needs you.”
William James regarded the big shopkeeper for a long moment. “Alright. I will still hide him, though. No one can fight every kashmari in the city, not even my kind.”
Alastair nodded. “Of course.”
“He’ll need to change everything: his habits, his speech. He’ll need to be educated if he’s to hide properly.”
“He’s a smart boy. I’m sure he’ll handle it all well.”
“And you can never see him again.”
That brought Alastair up short. “Never?”
William shrugged. “You said he was just a street urchin you looked after once in a while.”
“Yes, I did say that,” the shopkeeper said slowly. “It’s just…not entirely true,” Alastair admitted.
Alastair didn’t like the knowing smirk William James gave him. Alastair pointed menacingly at William and took a step closer so that they were nose to nose. The musty smell of pipe tobacco filled Alastair’s nose. “Not a word to the boy or anyone else, though. Ever. You have no idea what kind of danger he’ll be in if certain people get wind that he’s related to me.”
That prompted a genuinely curious tilt of the head from William, his eyes searching the big man.
Alastair had worked hard to blend into the scum of the city and knew he looked the part. In truth, the best way to look like them had been to become one of them. The fiasco three years ago had certainly helped with that.
But he knew that’s not what the smaller man saw. Not this time.
“I promise,” William said. His voice was gentle. “But you must promise me you’ll never seek him out.”
Alastair’s heart sank. Cadmus was the one bright spot in Alastair’s life. The boy had shown him a lust for living that Alastair had thought long buried by sand and dust and worry. To have to continue on, scraping out a putrid life here on this forsaken rock, and without Cadmus? He looked away.
“It will be too dangerous for both of you,” William James said. “You understand what I’m saying? What he will become? If you think he’s in danger with you now…In a few years, he’ll be far more dangerous to you. The kashmari will know him. They will fear him, hate him, hunt him. And you, if you are seen with him even once.”
Alastair grunted. The shopkeeper wryly mused to himself how interesting it was that this man could be right for all the wrong reasons. All the same, he was still right.
Is this the right choice? Alastair wondered. He’d survived just fine all these years, after all. Couldn’t he just teach the boy, as Alastair had taught Cadmus’s mother?
But despite Alastair’s best efforts, Yelena Brand had indeed caught the attention of the high lord and paid for it with her life. And Cadmus would be far more of a threat than Yelena ever could have been. No, the boy needed more than what Alastair could teach him. He needed to learn how to fight, not just hide. If the price was him never seeing young Cadmus again, then Alastair was just going to have to deal with that. He took a deep, steadying breath of hot desert air and for once was too distracted to mind how dry it was.
“Yes, I understand. Do what you must.”
* * *
As Brand worked, he kept glancing over at the drawer he’d seen Alastair drop the yellow piece of paper into. Finally able to stand it no longer, he dropped his tools and went over to Alastair’s desk, which was nearly invisible under a mountain of spare parts. He dug around for a moment, found the drawer in question, and pulled out the yellowing paper he’d seen Alastair give to the red-headed guard, Hessian.
On it was written a single sentence:
I, Yelena Brand, do hereby give Alastair Sanders legal guardianship of my son, Cadmus Brand.
Instead of Alastair’s short, choppy writing, it was written and signed in a neat, looping hand. An ornate blue stamp with the words “I hereby witness this statement as true and valid” formed a ring around another, unidentifiable signature on the corner of the paper.
“What are you getting into, Cadmus?” Alastair said from behind the boy. Brand jolted and spun to see Alastair stalking toward him. Behind the big shopkeeper, a small, mustached man in a suit followed. Alastair saw the paper in Brand’s hand and his face changed from stern to sorrowful.
“Ah.”
Brand looked down and traced a thumb over the letters. His mother’s signature. It was graceful and elegant.
Alastair’s heavy hand rested on his shoulder, solid and reassuring.
“What was she like?” Brand asked.
Alastair sighed and took a seat on the stool beside Brand. He glanced back at the other man, who nodded, then turned back to Brand.
“She was the kindest woman I’ve ever known,” Alastair said. “She always tried to see the best in people, no matter who they were. And she loved to tinker.”
“Like you?”
Alastair smiled. “Yes.”
“Did you know my father?”
Alastair’s face darkened. Brand saw the heavy look exchanged by Alastair and the newcomer. The stranger arched a curious eyebrow and placed his fists on his hips. He looked a little like Hessian, Brand thought, though kinder.
What did that mean?
Alastair turned his attention back to Brand. “Yes. I knew him.”
“What was he like?”
The answer took the shopkeeper a lot longer to formulate. Brand could see him shift uncomfortably on his stool. A mess of indecipherable emotions flickered across the big man’s face. Finally, he spoke.
“He was ambitious. And I suppose he thought he was helping people, in his own way.”
“How did he die?”
Again, the seconds dragged on into minutes as Alastair searched for the words.
“He was killed by Fafnir, the same as your mother.”
“You said she was killed by the plague.”
Brand thought he could see tears well up in the corners of the older man’s hazel eyes, but Alastair blinked them away before they could fall. When he spoke, his usually clear voice was hoarse. “Fafnir could have saved her, but he didn’t. Her death is on his hands.”
He turned to the stranger. “Cadmus will need a daily prophylactic to prevent him from contracting the plague. Because of his mother…he’s susceptible to it.”
The stranger nodded slowly. “I think I know of someone who can help me procure it for him.”
“Good.”
Brand frowned. “And my father? Did my father die of the plague? Could Fafnir have saved him too?”
Alastair shook his head.
“Then how did he kill my father?”
Alastair winced and scrubbed at his face. He looked so tired and beaten. “That’s a tale for when you’re older.”
The boy tried to hide his disappointment.
The shopkeeper stood, forestalling any argument from Brand. Alastair gestured to the man he’d brought with him.
“This man is William James. I want you to go with him. He can help you.”
Brand’s jaw dropped. “Go? Go where? Why?”
“To live with him. He’s going to…help you.” Alastair looked as though the words coming out of his mouth were bitter to the taste.
“But—”
“It’s not safe for you here. William can protect you.”
Brand cast about for some other reason that might sway the shopkeeper.
“What about you? Your shop? Hessian said he’d arrest you if I vanished.”
“He won’t get the chance.” Alastair looked around the shop with a sad fondness. “I could do with a change of scenery. Maybe I’ll go to New Braunen. It’s closer to the Wastes, sees more scavengers come through.”
The shopkeeper offered his hand to Brand. The boy took it, but then grabbed the older man in a bear hug.
“I’ll miss you.”
Alastair held the boy tight. It was one of the few times when the shopkeeper had ever embraced him. Brand felt so safe and yet so lost. He held on as though he could remain forever if he didn’t let go.
Alastair took Brand by the shoulders. “It might take me a century to see you again, true, but I will find you. Or you will find me. Some day. You have my word. And when we meet again, Cadmus, remind me to tell you that tale I spoke of last month, after your fall.”
“The one about the princess and the mechanohorse?”
“The very same one.”
When Brand released Alastair, wet tears left shining tracks down his round, ruddy cheeks. Alastair smiled anyway.
“Good luck, and try to stay out of trouble, Cadmus.”
As Brand left the machine shop for the last time, he glanced back at the shopkeeper. Alastair Sanders raised his hand in farewell.
Brand raised his own in farewell to the only father he’d ever known.
