Cascet of Souls

“We finished?” asked the boy, still gripping his knife. “I got nothin’ more to trade or sell.”

“That’s fine.” Tucking the stone away, Alec turned to take his leave, but alert to any sound of the boy coming to knife him. Glancing back, though, he was already gone.

Seregil kept his distance, blending in with the crowd of destitute and cutthroats coming out like bats as the light failed. He dogged the one-eyed man, hoping to see him do another trade, but the old codger seemed to have somewhere to go, for he went on without pausing anywhere, head down and limping a bit. Dressed no better or worse than those around him, he attracted no one else’s attention, and no one greeted him.

It took him a moment to notice the tall, dark-haired man trailing the old one. At first he thought it might be coincidence, but when the old man turned, so did the big man. Seregil frowned; the last thing he needed was for the old man to get murdered in front of him before he could talk to him.

Drifting along behind them, Seregil caught glimpses of the old man’s face when he turned down a byway, and then another. Though the bowed legs could have made him a horseman, a cripple, or just undernourished, he had the rolling gait of a sailor. Perhaps the raven folk did come from somewhere else, by ship, or from a seafaring people.

The taller man’s face was hidden by his cloak hood but Seregil guessed from his stride and those broad shoulders that he was more than a match for the old fellow, and could easily have overtaken him by now, if he’d wanted to. Perhaps Tall Fellow expected Old Fellow to lead him

somewhere? If so, Seregil suspected it might be of interest to him, as well.

Having to keep out of Tall Fellow’s way made Seregil hang back more than he liked, and he nearly lost them both when the old man turned aside and headed deeper into the shack town through a wide place in the path. There were more people here, bargaining with the sellers of bruised vegetables and questionable meat. Seregil had to look over heads and past shoulders to keep them in sight.

And then Old Fellow was gone, along with his tall shadow.

“Bilairy’s Balls,” Seregil muttered as he hurried up to where he’d last seen him and looked around. It was an intersection of sorts where two paths crossed amid a cluster of tumbledown shacks. Seregil checked both ways, but there was simply no sign of him, and no hope of tracking his footprints in the churned mud. The mist was turning to a downpour again and the damp was coming through his clothes.

“Lookin’ for someone, sweetness?” a scar-faced tough called to him from the open door of one of the sturdier-looking buildings. He was dressed in the remnants of worn cavalry leathers, with a long sword at his hip and a decidedly predatory look in his eye. A fat louse crawled out from under his stringy black hair onto his left cheek. He absently pinched it between thumbnail and finger and flicked it away.

“My father,” Seregil replied brusquely, pretending not to anticipate the man’s clear intention. “Old fellow with a patch and a limp?”

“Ain’t seen him,” the man drawled, leaving the doorway and coming a little closer. “You’re soaked through. Come on in and I’ll get you wetter.” He grabbed Seregil by the arm, trying to drag him into the hovel.

Seregil didn’t have time for this. Drawing his knife, he kneed the man in the balls, then took him by the hair as he fell to his knees and bent the man’s head sharply back as the would-be rapist groaned in pain. Pressing the edge of the blade to his throat just hard enough to break the skin, Seregil whispered, “I don’t need no wetting from you, you whoreson bastard.”

“Filthy bitch!” the man hissed. A trickle of blood crept

down his neck to stain the already dirty collar of the shirt he wore under his leather vest.

“Didn’t your ma teach you any ma

“Yes!”

Knowing better than to take the man’s word for it, Seregil drew back his knife hand and punched him in the head hard enough to stun him. He fell face-first into the mud with a muffled grunt.

“You should cut the bastard’s throat while you have the chance,” a wretched-looking young woman whispered from inside the man’s shack. Her dress was little more than a rag, and she had a freshly blackened eye and a swollen lip.

Seregil pulled the man’s knife from his belt and tossed it at her feet. “I’d hurry, if I was you, dearie,” he told her, then turned back to his search, leaving the man to the woman’s doubtful mercy.

The old man was long gone by now. Angry at losing his mark, he cast around a little while longer, hoping to find him trading with someone else, but there was no sign of him.

“Bilairy’s hairy codpiece!” he muttered.

Then suddenly he spotted him again, standing talking to someone on the muddy path between two shanties, just visible through the rain.

There you are, old grandfather! Time we had a little chat.

Holding the mud-caked hem of his patched skirt up with one hand, Seregil slogged along clutching his shawl over his head with the other, as if looking for shelter. He was almost to the old man when suddenly Tall Fellow stepped out from behind a shack, sword drawn. His sodden hood hung around his face, but Seregil could make out the black kerchief masking his nose and mouth.

“Well now, who do we have here?” the tall man asked in an amused, raspy voice.

Seregil pulled the shawl closer around him, hoping his large kerchief hid his face well enough. “No one, sir. I was just-” Now and then the truth was the best tack to take. “I was hopin’ to talk with the old raven man.”

“And what raven man would that be?”

Seregil looked past Tall Fellow’s shoulder but the old man was gone.

“Now you’ve made me lose him!” Seregil whined. “Are you one of ’em, too? Can I make a trade with you?”

The masked man chuckled. “And if I am? What does a scrawny little thing like you have to trade?”

Seregil tightened his hands in the folds of his shawl. “Well, nothin’ really, except maybe a tumble…”

“Like you gave that man back there?” The man laughed darkly. “I can do without that kind of fun.”

Damnation, the bastard had seen him take down his would-be rapist. No wonder he wasn’t falling for the helpless beggar act.

“To the crows with you, then,” Seregil muttered. “I’ll find someone proper to trade with.”

“Now, don’t be hasty, dearie.” The man took a step closer, and Seregil could hear the unseen smile in his voice. “How’s about a lock of hair?” He drew a sword that had seen years of use. “I can cut it for you myself.”

“N-no,” Seregil said, taking a cautious step backward. As he’d feared, Tall Fellow advanced.

“Are you sure, my lovely? Just a few silken strands and I’ll give you something for luck.” But that sword said otherwise.

Seregil brought a hand up to his covered head. “I’m afraid you might cut off too much with that big blade of yours.”

The man raised the sword and Seregil took to his heels, holding up his skirt with one hand again and clutching the shawl with the other. The man caught the end of the latter and nearly pulled him over backward. Seregil let go of it and ran for all he was worth, ducking around a pony cart and leaping over a collection of pots an old woman had displayed on a sodden blanket. Behind him, he could hear the bastard shouting something about having been robbed, as if expecting someone here to give enough of a damn to stop Seregil. He pelted on, dignity a bit dented. The man had been playing with him, and he had the sinking feeling that he’d been sussed.

Once he was sure he’d thrown off pursuit he slowed and

held his skirts in a more womanly ma