A man came lurching out of one of the side bars, bottle in hand, laughing loudly. His hood was drawn, and he slung both his arms over the Witchblades like they were old friends, bottle still hanging from one of his hands. His lurch threw them off balance as he chatted drunkenly with them, seemingly unaware of their attempts to disentangle themselves.
Kess knew blind luck when she saw it. She ran for all she was worth, her form small enough that she lost her pursuers quickly in the crowds, especially as she approached Dawngate. She slowed there, winded, as people streamed around her and the amber lights glowed in a relaxing hue.
I’m such a fool, she thought. What had she been trying to prove, anyway? That she could fight? Kess knew she could fight—fighting was never the problem. It was something else, something deeper. She—
An arm thumped around her shoulders, the weight of a man pulling her down and away from the crowd, towards a crowded tavern sandwiched between shops.
Kess tugged at the arm, heart pounding, until the man whispered in her ear.
“For someone so well-versed in Downhill life, you don’t seem very aware of your surroundings,” Rowan murmured.
“You!” Kess gasped.
“Me,” he replied, and steered her into a tavern. Kess let him do so. With the adrenaline of her encounter gone, she felt exhaustion settle over her, strong and true. They sought a quieter area upstairs, where the tables overlooked the tavern proper.
“Why are you following me?” she asked as soon as drinks were left at their table. She downed her tankard, wincing at the taste.
Rowan eyed her skeptically as she set the empty mug on the table.
“It’s not even noon.” Kess finished the drink, her eyes never leaving his. “Clearly your self-destructive tendencies go even further than what I just witnessed below,” Rowan said, taking a small sip of his own ale. He made a face at the taste. “Clouds, woman, how do you drink this swill?”
“With great difficulty, unfortunately.” She flagged down the serving woman for another. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“I’m keeping an eye on you so I don’t suddenly lose my distraction before we ever set foot Uphill.” He nodded towards her. “That mark might fade, but people’s memory of you won’t if you keep throwing yourself in front of them. Arlette suggested I track you down when I woke up and found the manor suspiciously quiet.”
“She’d better be paying extra for that.”
“She’s not.” When the woman came back, Kess ordered another. Rowan raised an eyebrow.
“So, your hobbies include fighting, drinking enough to put someone my size under the table, and what else? Gambling?” Kess shrugged, finishing her second drink.
“Sometimes. Frankly, my pastimes are none of your business, lightning-bait.” Rowan scowled slightly at the term. Kess had always thought it was funny, but Uphill citizens viewed it a little differently.
“Classy. Did you have a plan at all back there?” Rowan finally asked. “You clearly didn’t know those men.”
“I wanted to fight,” she said simply. “That’s all.”
“So you choose the most dangerous part of the city that neither Forgebrand nor the Blueblades police, so you can beg for a chance to fight in a ring where the rotting wood is more likely to get you than the fighters?”
“The fighters are better in those rings.”
“Maybe because they’re desperate.”
The serving girl brought her another drink, though she eyed Kess warily as Kess handed over her coin. Kess eyed the liquor doubtfully and found herself suddenly missing Draven’s tavern.
“Why are you here?” she asked, holding Rowan’s gaze flatly. Rowan eyed her incredulously as she sipped at her drink.
“Because I’m trying to understand what drives a woman experiencing safety for the first time in a month—maybe longer—to throw herself headfirst into something unimaginably dangerous as soon as she has the chance,” he said. “Those very men left a girl dead in an alleyway yesterday, thinking it was you. They didn’t even realize the price on your head until today. The criers were on about it for hours, thinking they’d found the Marked woman everyone is on about. Then they had to retract that story and replaced it with the bounty the Uphill has on your head.”
Kess felt the blood drain from her face and took another sip of ale to hide it. It was all a bit much for a girl who, until a few days ago, had made herself a nobody in the Downhill. In most circles, anyway. She sighed, closing her eyes.
“There’s nothing to understand, Rowan,” she finally said, scowling at the room below. “Some of us just have bigger demons to deal with than whether or not daddy is willing to share his coin.” She leaned forward, looking him up and down, assessing. “How did you get that far below without being robbed blind?” He looked far too rich for the neighborhood Kess had been in, and Kess had never known a topsider capable of keeping their coin inside the mountain.
Rowan smiled. “I didn’t,” he said. “Who do you think is paying for this?”
Kess tossed her tiny bag of coins onto the table with a clink, rolling her eyes. She hated Rowan, but she had enough coin now to last her several lifetimes—even if she’d only brought a portion of it with her. At least he’s easy on the eyes, she thought, taking another drink.
Rowan took the bag and picked through it, then swore. “Clouds, Kess, you’re broke.”
“What do you mean I’m broke?”
“I mean you have almost nothing in here.”
“Almost nothing—“ Kess nearly choked on her drink. She lowered her voice, looking around. “Rowan, that’s worth two gold minings,” she hissed. “Are you blind?”
Rowan blinked for a moment, turning the coins in his hand. “Is that a lot?” he finally asked. Kess stared, dumbfounded. He was foolish and rich. She took a deep breath and thanked the alcohol for cooling her temper. When she finally spoke, her voice was more even than she expected it to be.
“Rowan, that would feed a family Downhill for a month,” she said. “Did you just crawl your way down here yesterday?” He smiled, though she didn’t miss the slight flush to his face.
“Something like that,” he said. His smile faded. Kess tilted her head, studying him.
“So, let me get this straight,” Kess said. “The very man in charge of all those clouding lights Uphill doesn’t even know the worth of simple coin. This same man—who, I might add, is stormsick enough to not realize the blessing he has in weathering the lower city without Fulminancy—is tasked with not only teaching me to control those powers, but somehow figuring out how to stabilize them for the entire city.”
“Not a very diplomatic way to word it, but yes.”
“And when has diplomacy ever mattered?” she demanded. “Diplomacy is a pretty word that rich people use to dress up the blood they spill.” Kess flagged down the serving girl, who had been pointedly ignoring their table. Kess wasn’t sure if she’d seen the mark on her face, or if the copious amount of alcohol had scared the woman off. Regardless, it gave them at least some modicum of privacy above the tavern.
Rowan shook his head as the woman trotted off again with Kess’s request for food. “Didn’t you eat this morning?”
“Being a fugitive is hungry work,” Kess said simply. Rowan just rolled his eyes.
“Have you ever thought about solving a problem with words instead of fists?” he asked. “You seem smart enough. You’re poised—when you want to be. The greatest societal institutions of our time were made with diplomacy—with learned men and women debating with one another. It doesn’t seem like such a bad calling to me.”
Kess just snorted into her ale, nearly choking on it again. This man was stormsick.
“If you’ll forgive my crassness, that’s a load of horse dung,” she said. The light in Rowan’s eyes faded, and Kess almost felt bad for a moment. She continued on. He had to learn sometime. “Look around you,” she said, gesturing with her tankard. “What institutions make up our fine city, Rowan?” She nodded towards the fighting rings, present even in an upscale tavern like the one they now occupied. This tavern’s rings sat in a corner, well-maintained, and less bloody than a lot of places, but they were still fighting rings. “Our chief institution is a blood sport, used to separate the rich from the poor. Men fight and die for the chance to earn higher sashes. Other unluckier men are spotted for Fulminancy and taken Uphill for Fanas knows what—“
“They’re revered. They’re given training, housing, decent salaries.”
“That’s the official story,” she said. “What of our other institutions?” she asked, suddenly thoughtful. “A police force mostly tasked with keeping the poor out of the rich’s business and tracking down their bastard children. Schools for the wealthy only, because no cobbler’s son has the need for book learning.”
She stopped as the serving woman brought out several plates of finger foods. One plate was full of tiny sandwiches, popular for ladies in this part of the city. Rowan just raised his eyebrows at the plate as Kess studied it. Kess shrugged and popped one of the tiny sandwiches into her mouth.
“Isn’t that a little dainty for your barbarian tastes?” Rowan asked, watching her. She laughed, but it felt humorless. Clouds, this man was irritating.
“I’m the barbarian?” she asked. “Rowan, you don’t even know the value of your own coin.” There was that flush to his face again. At least he’s feeling properly ashamed, Kess thought. She dusted off her fingers. “Anyway, institutions,” she continued. To Rowan’s credit, he didn’t seem bored by the conversation. Perhaps this was more his wheelhouse than, well, currency.
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“What of the Council?” he asked, leaning his arms on the table. “The Seats? They keep people like you from destroying half the city on a daily basis. Surely that justifies their existence.” Kess shook her head, grabbing another sandwich.
“Both institutions formed primarily to cater to people who were born into power.” Rowan frowned, watching as the crowd below ballooned. It was late in the afternoon, but taverns like these knew no true hours.
“They enact city-wide policies that benefit everyone,” he said, meeting her eyes again. He was earnest—she’d give him that much. She tilted her head, studying him.
“And when, Rowan, was the last time you—as a Downhill citizen—benefited from those policies?” Kess snatched another sandwich as she waited for him to respond, but the look on his face told her everything she needed to know about his answer. “See?” she said. “They exist to further their own means.”
“Not all of them are like that,” he said quietly, something distant in his gaze. “Some are different.” Kess froze mid bite. She almost felt sorry for this man. How could someone who grew up in this city be so oblivious to how it runs? But, studying him, Kess wasn’t sure it was entirely that. The man seemed uncomfortable, like he wanted to believe something other than the reality in front of him. Well, that makes two of us, she thought.
“Rowan,” she said. “Men attracted to power are already those the least fit to use it properly. People aren’t inherently good. For example,” she said, waving with her sandwich. “You’re probably trying to milk me for information so you can take it back to Arlette.”
“I’m not—“
“Can you really, honestly say that you’ll mention none of this to Arlette?” Kess asked, holding his gaze. Rowan stared back at her stubbornly, but that discomfort had taken hold of his expression again. “Would she really go so far as to ignore any information she can glean on a woman who could blow her house to next week, ruin her cover Downhill, and whose very presence—if discovered at that house—would mean she’s windblown?” Kess shook her head. “It wouldn’t surprise me if she knows more about me than I do. And frankly, if she didn’t learn as much as she could, she’d be a fool.” She held Rowan’s gaze. “She doesn’t seem like a fool to me.”
Rowan sighed, and reached for a sandwich finally, though his eyes occasionally darted to the tavern below. He might have lived years of his life Downhill, but he still doesn’t seem comfortable here, Kess thought.
“You sure seem to think a lot and talk a lot for someone who made a career out of diving fights,” he said. “Which, I might add, is illegal.”
“Oh? And was interfering with Witchblade business earlier legal?”
“I wasn’t interfering. It was a drunk man looking for a pair of drinking buddies.”
“Drinking buddies wearing Witchblade uniforms,” Kess said flatly. Rowan finished a sandwich and held her gaze with no humor in his eyes.
“It was a very drunk man,” he added. Kess rolled her eyes.
“See, not even you can paint everything black and white,” she said. Rowan folded his arms.
“That’s rich, coming from you.”
Kess just watched the tavern below as a group of men shouted over a card game. “Self hatred isn’t a new thing,” she said quietly. “Maybe if you spent more time around people less fortunate than you, you’d recognize it.” She took another drink of her ale, now lukewarm. “It’s common enough.”
“Why would anyone choose to hate themselves?” Rowan asked, his eyes on the game below. Kess watched them as they swore and carried on. They seemed like happy enough men—jovial, happy to be out with friends. Like Rowan, they were missing that haunted look Kess saw in her own eyes.
“Have you ever wanted something very badly, Rowan?” she said, her voice barely carrying over the conversations below. “So badly that you’d give up just about anything to get it?”
“Everyone wants something, Kess. Some people just want it more strongly than others.”
She met his eyes. “What if you can’t have what that is?” she asked. “What if the only thing standing between you and your dream is you? Tell me you wouldn’t hate yourself, just a little.” Gone was the slight levity of their earlier conversation. Rowan’s expression was contemplative, like this was some sort of puzzle to solve.
“I don’t have to hate myself if I can work around it,” he said, picking at one of the sandwiches with a fork. “If you solve the problems standing in the way of your dream, you don’t have to hate yourself. Why would you hate the very person who solved the issue?”
Kess hesitated for a moment, stunned at Rowan’s positive outlook. It was exceptionally odd, given that Rowan was a Dud. How someone could be a Dud and avoid having even a little bit of self-pity was mind-boggling to Kess. Maybe he simply hid it well. Still, his perspective was flawed.
“Not everything is fixable,” she said quietly. “Can a man without legs decide he wants to be a master messenger?”
Rowan raised his eyebrows at her. “Of course,” he said. “He gets a horse.”
“And who helps him on and off of that horse?” Rowan ran one hand through his slight curls in thought. Far from making her giddy, Kess found that his good looks mostly just pissed her off.
“He has an elaborate series of platforms set up throughout the city to help him mount,” he said, tapping his fork on the plate. Kess found herself suddenly frustrated.
“And how does he get those platforms out?” she demanded. “Certainly his competition wouldn’t help him.”
“He pays the shopkeepers,” Rowan continued. “Far from feeling put out, the shopkeepers find that the spectacle of his mounting and dismounting is a testament to the determination of the human spirit. Business blossoms, and the shopkeepers are lauded as kind individuals worthy of spending coin on.”
Kess finished her drink, suddenly not caring how much she’d had. Her face felt a bit flushed, but she’d been worse off before. She looked at Rowan incredulously. “And who gets him to these mounting locations in the first place?”
Rowan rubbed his temples, the twinkle in his eyes gone. “Clouds, Kess. I’m just saying that if a man—any man—wants to do the impossible, the first step is to refuse defeat. You might have accepted defeat, but I haven’t. Not yet.”
He finished his own drink, though Kess could see that it hadn’t affected him as much as her. She opened her mouth to argue with him again, but stopped short as a larger crowd of men pushed their way into the tavern below.
They were obviously soldiers of some sort—not Fulminancers, but militiamen, usually hired out for small jobs around the city. Kess squinted at them as a broad man worked his way to the middle of the tavern. It was then that Kess noticed the brand emblazoned into the side of the man’s jacket—an octagon divided into two with a line, the line touched by the corner of another square—Forgebrand’s symbol.
There was something odd about the symbol, though. Where the octagon was usually divided in two, a pin was embroidered, the silver ending in a tiny ruby on top. Kess didn’t have long to study the change before the man turned, conversing with his fellows.
“Forgebrand,” Rowan said, his voice low. “What’re they doing here?” Kess just shook her head, still trying to divine the new symbol sewn into the patch. She’d seen the symbol often enough around Draven and his men, and yet it had been different. There was something oddly familiar about the addition—a fleeting reminder of something Kess couldn’t quite define.
Unlike Draven and his friends, the men below were hardly craftsmen, their sashes mostly a mix of orange and white. Rowan’s red sash would have stuck out like a sore thumb in the tavern if it wasn’t hidden beneath his cloak. “Here for a simple night out with the boys, or something more?” Rowan murmured.
His hand drifted to his sword. How he’d smuggled that down and out of the Pits without getting killed, Kess had no idea. She couldn’t blame his tension; Forgebrand was benign enough on its own, but the collection of burly men down there would put anyone on edge. Kess cursed herself for her alcohol consumption and looked for a nearby exit, just in case. The leader of the men below began to speak, his voice booming throughout the tavern.
“Forgebrand is an organization of change,” he said, and several men roared in approval, raising their drinks. “But our betters Uphill still think to solve our problems for us. These problems, it seems, always stem from the Fulminant, Mariel take them.” Several men muttered darkly. Kess twisted her mouth at the irony. Why worship Mariel—one of the original Fulminant Seats—but condemn her descendants?
“Mariel gave us the Fulminant to have a fighting chance against the Uphill, but her children have abandoned us. They climb the rings, they rank into new sashes, and they leave us to rot and die Downhill.” He shook his head darkly. “True representation for the lot of us was dead as soon as today’s Mariel abdicated her duties Downhill. If we want change—real and lasting change—I say we give the Uphill what they want. They want the Fulminant?” he asked, lifting a tankard from the bar. “They can have the Fulminant. A new Mariel returns, and with her, our freedom.” He lifted the tankard in the air to the roars of the crowd. “In the meantime, we welcome her return with a hunt—that of a Marked Bloodcrawler who fled Redhill not a month ago now.” Kess’s blood ran cold, and she moved to stand, Rowan not far behind. “The bounty is rich, lads—four gold minings. With the lass in hand, we won’t need Mariel to negotiate for us any longer. Let the hunt begin!”
The tavern roared, and over the noise, Kess saw the tavern owner discreetly point to the shadows of the loft where they stood.
“Got to go,” she hissed to Rowan, throwing a few coins on the table.
“No kidding,” he said, trailing after her as she made her way to a side door she’d noticed on their level. A roar and footsteps followed as Kess burst out onto a balcony, with Rowan not far behind. She nearly pitched off the balcony if Rowan hadn’t snatched her cloak.
The ground yawned before her, but Kess preferred that to dealing with Forgebrand’s militia—she leapt without another word to Rowan, clearing the balcony. The ground slammed into the balls of her feet with a jarring impact that she felt all the way into her still injured thigh, but Kess used her momentum to roll and avoided the worst of the blow. Still, it wasn’t pleasant. Wincing, she checked for Rowan. He ran towards her, picking branches from his clothes and looking like he wished he could turn her in and be done with it. She grabbed at his cloak as the men appeared on the balcony, and they ran.
“Does this happen to you often?” Rowan asked as they cut into the market crowd. Heads turned to stare, then darted out of the way as the Forgebrand men charged behind them.
“Often enough lately,” Kess huffed, glancing behind them. Fortunately, she and Rowan were faster than the large group of men, and already they were having problems keeping up. Kess cut down another alleyway, then stopped short as several men blocked the exit.
Rowan grabbed her arm then, turning another direction and leading her into a tangle of wooden structures usually used as shelter during Floodstorm seasons. Feet hammering on the docks, they ran past throngs of people, then burst into a major intersection.
Here, the crowds were even worse, packed with people spending what coin they could while the weather was nice. They slowed, Kess limping slightly. Rowan watched her for a moment, his face expressionless, though he was slightly winded as well.
“Are you going to make it?”
“I’ve been injured before,” she snapped. “Just focus on getting us out of this.”
“Why should I get us out of this? You’re the one they’re chasing.”
“Leave me if you want,” Kess said, “but you took point. If you have any ideas, now would be a great time to show them.” Kess was familiar with this major market, but she wasn’t sure they’d be able to avoid being tailed home, especially when so much money was involved. Rowan watched her limp along for a few more moments before he finally sighed and tugged her into a crack between buildings so tiny that they had to go down it single file. At the end was a grate—and not a clean one. Kess groaned as Rowan kicked the grate aside, eying the entrance to the alleyway.
“That’s rather dramatic for someone as well-versed in the Downhill as you,” he said, smiling humorlessly.
“Just because I pay more attention than you doesn’t mean I find the sewers pleasant,” she said, but moved to climb into the hole. It was disgusting, really, but it would certainly guarantee they weren’t being followed. At least the manor had plumbing.
Each rung was slick with substances Kess pointedly chose not to identify as she climbed down, and her boots slipped in the muck as she touched the ground in the darkness. Overhead, the grate clunked into place, and Rowan’s boots hit the rungs with a clang as he descended. He winced at his hands as he touched the ground.
“Not all of them are this bad,” he said apologetically.
“Well, it seems a fitting way to end the day,” Kess groused as she followed him through the dark tunnel. At least they were safe, though a bounty so large would present problems for Kess Downhill. She would never fight again. A sick feeling panged in her gut that had nothing to do with the smell as she followed Rowan through subterranean passageways sloping through the mountain. If she couldn’t fight, then—
As if in reply, a single tendril of Fulminancy crawled down her arm, lit up the dark tunnel briefly, and died with a snuff.
If she couldn’t fight, then she was as good as a burning fuse.
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