You thought this would be ending soon, didn’t you. There’s nothing that will end the Kinslayer Chronicle!

Chapter 8 – The City of Dreams Part 2

On those streets, there were many ways to survive. Shafra got what he wanted through a heavy fist or rotted plank. He extolled his prices from your hide if he could ever get his fingers on you. But there were other ways that were more insidious.

Her name was Saorla. She was one of the kin. Her red hair wasn’t as bright, covered as it was in muck and filth. Her green eyes were dull, lit only by that familiar hunger that kept us breathing amongst the streets. She moved along the rooftops and through the alleys with an unspoken sorrow. For while I knew nothing but the burning sun and begging hordes, she remembered. And those memories clung to her like a disease. It kept some children away, fearful that her words would stir something deep inside them. She kept those memories to herself, with almost a pitied look every time I asked.

But she had a smile. It was a small thing. Her lips turned just slightly in a manner equally haunting as it was comforting. There was a power within it. She knew this and turned that smile upon unsuspecting marks. She would approach with the tried pathetic moan of a child hungry and worn. Her fingers lifted, shaking just slightly to eyes that barely glimpsed her.

“Copper to spare, sir?”

They would turn away. Most wouldn’t even feign seeing her. Some would whisper an apology or command for her to move. It mattered not. She always gave the same reply.

“May Iomhair sing your graces.”

And then she would smile.

I don’t know how it worked. The foreign name would prickle their ears and they would turn to see her for the first time. And I mean truly see her. Their eyes would take in the half muddy hair, scratched nails, dried skin and dim eyes. But they always stopped at the smile. I always say they saw Gersemi’s face in those lips. And while most of them wouldn’t know the Vanir’s treasured name, they certainly felt her riches in that moment. It unfroze fingers and unlocked purses. Coins fell into her hands easier than any other.

And Saorla would thank them again. Their reward a respectful bow of her head and a fleeting playful laugh as she scampered away.

That was the power Maen Nkowainn mystique. Even the ignorant heathens of Divanhane were powerless to it. But she was no Mourning Lily kept in delicate ponds beneath the protective ferns of the most guarded apipaito. Many were those that thought Saorla an easy mark. She was, after all, just a girl on the deadly streets of Divanhane. Desperation always forces fools to overlook the obvious. No mere girl would survive as she did.

I remember the first man. She had long taken to the streets by herself, insisting I stay back in the safety of the nest. But as I grew bigger beneath her care, so too did my confidence. The first day I tried to follow her, I did exactly as she told. She had shown me how to keep hidden. She had taught me how to be as invisible as a rat. Surely she knew that I trailed her. Playful gifts were left in her wake: a handful of fresh dates, a shiny copper piece, a colourful ribbon tied to some broken wood.

Then I cam across the body. He was in a small plaza, lying in the centre of the cracked and broken tiles like some crumbled fountain statue. His blood ran thick across his face, pooling in a vibrant halo about his wide, empty eyes and gaping mouth.

It wasn’t the first corpse I had ever seen. Those litter the streets of the City of Dreams. But it was the first of hers. She wasn’t there, of course. With her brief start, she had disappeared from the scene to clean herself as best she could. She slid up to my side, gently coaxing me away from her work. She brushed my questions aside, never confessing her responsibility. But I knew. Blood still flecked the back of her neck. Fresh stains shone brightly along her sleeves.

No, Saorla was a cactus rose. To many, she appeared a simple, helpless child. But there were thorns hidden beneath her petals. And those that got close only realized too late how sharp they could be.

Saorla never worked in front of me. She always kept that hidden. Even after I struck out on my own, wanting to help with the burden of bringing back food and scraps for the nest, she never allowed me to join her. She always took my coin, tucking it away with a smile and apology. I had to learn to be the sneaky rat to follow her. She was attentive and quick. Days she caught me following she would simply disappear into the shuffling hordes and I wouldn’t see her until she crawled up to our nest with some bread or muscles in the evening. But there is nothing that is truly safe in Divanhane. Eventually, I learned how to track her without being seen. Then I saw her and her begging.

And I learned why she had kept that hidden from me.

Saorla did not squander her riches on fancy meals or little keepsakes for comfort like so many other beggars. She didn’t even bring her coin back to the nest for some secret stockpile. She sneaked off before the rise of the morning sun and worked long into the afternoon. I had watched others beg. I knew how successful most children were. And Saorla made in one day more than many would in a month. With pockets heavy and jingling with her coin, she turned and disappeared into the alleys.

Following her then was the hardest. She tracked through unfamiliar streets and beneath crumbling sections of those great outer walls. She tracked through some of the dark places – places I would never have dared to explore if it weren’t for the sudden flash of her red hair in their shadows.

She retreated into the Holes.

There are sections of city that the guards do not tread. There are places where even the bravest mercenary refuses to go. Only the addled or desperate would step foot within them. These were the oldest parts of Divanhane. It was where the primeval spirit of that forsaken place resided.

The oldest walls had sunken into the dark earth. Masonry lay shattered and broken as if the Aenir had tried to sunder that blighted pit from the earth. Rotted boards protected from bleached stone like cracked bones of an ancient skeleton. Newer barricades rose around them for no architect would dare hazard the crumbling tiles that collected in great heaps between the leaning husks of collapsed buildings. There were few entrances into the Holes and most of them were heavily guarded. But it wasn’t to keep others out.

For though they were derelict, the Holes were not abandoned. The foulest of Divanhane often found themselves within the sunken pits hiding beneath the collapsed roofs of the ancient settlement. The merchant princes delighted in throwing their most hated enemies in, knowing that what darkness clutched inside would dispose of their rivals more efficiently than they ever could. Stories abound of the place and most of the poor would instinctively shy away from those barren streets.

But the rats knew how to enter. The rats could scramble along the crumbling planks over the heads of anxious guards. They could scramble down walls that would collapse beneath the weight of a larger wanderer. They could squeeze through the tiniest of spaces and escape the dangers that prowled in the twilight.

With heart half in my throat, I ascended along the barricades. The stone crumbled beneath my feet and each skitter of a rock felt like a clarion bell to summon the monsters from the dark. The only reason I didn’t get lost was because Saorla also trod carefully through that district. She picked her way carefully between two buildings, heading towards the soaring outer wall. It was a dead end and I knew she would be trapped. My mind could only imagine the riches she must have saved by now. A veritable vault of coin must be tucked safely within the broken stone.

I scrambled to the ground and approached the alley with care. Fear of what dwelt in the area forced me to arm myself with a heavy piece of masonry crumbled at my feet. I proceeded carefully, unsure how I would confront her.

But as I drew to the end of the alley, I did not find Saorla and her treasure. Instead, I found a gaping hole. Saorla was nowhere to be found. I examined the walls, but they were far too unstable for her to have climbed. I drew a steadying breath and fought the nagging desire to run.

Hunger can override the sharpest of senses. And I had been hungry all my life.

I meant to charge in, but my feet caught on the crumbled brick and I fell into the darkness. The hole descended into the deep. Light was almost instantly swallowed in its depth and I stumbled for some sense of direction. My hand found the ragged wall and with careful fingers I proceeded. The path sloped downward and as I went, I felt moisture begin to cling to the rock.

The path suddenly gave away and I found myself in one of the yawning sewer tunnels. Water splashed along, a disgusting smell nearly overwhelming me. I looked about, my eyes trying to adjust to the gloom. I found a small edge that scrapped the filthy river and my bare toes wrapped around the edge of the jutting stone as I shimmied along. My back pressed against the sickeningly moist stone and I tried as hard as I could to breath through my mouth while holding my nostrils closed.

Wherever lay Saora’s nest, it was always well hidden. Surely, this was her own private sanctum and place hidden even from me. And no one would have followed her to it.

Eventually, my guiding hand slipped into nothingness and I almost fell from surprise. I knew not how long the sewer tunnel ran, but another hole had apparently been bored into the wall. Though as my fingers plucked its edges, it felt more like the tunnel had given out instead of someone ripping through. I scrambled inside, eager to escape the putrid waters and its overwhelming stench. I crawled along on hands and feet, but this journey wasn’t as long.

I pulled myself up into a small hold. The shadows clung heavy in that space, but I could see the dark mouths along the walls all around me. These mouths no doubt led into a veritable network of tunnels running under the city to this dim cellar. As I took a few tentative steps forward, I tripped over more broken stone, falling hard and banging my knee. I cried out.

There was movement in the dark and I felt hands fall to my thin arms. I didn’t resist, slowly raised to my feet as I turned to my helper. I found Saorla looking down at me confused.

“You shouldn’t have followed me,” she whispered.

“Is this where you’ve hidden it!” I demanded. I wanted to brandish my brick but it was now lost in the darkness. She just drew me close, whispering careful words and patting my matted hair. I pushed her away. I was furious and hurt. I felt betrayed.

“Is this where it’s hidden?!” I cried again. Tears rolled my face.

“Where what is hidden?” she asked. But a Maen Nkowainn was born with a deceitful spirit. They had always said as much.

“I’ve seen you beg. I’ve seen how much coin you make. We’re eating stale bread and stolen oysters while you make a king’s riches each day! What have you done with it! Where is it?!”

I pushed her aside, scrambling deeper into the shadows. She called after me but I ignored her. I was no child anymore. I knew betrayal. I knew the streets. You looked after yourself and no one else. She must be saving up enough to escape. She must have hidden it deep in here where no one would find it.

And as my eyes adjusted, I discovered we were not alone.

Old hands fell upon my shoulders as a wizened face hunched down to stare into me with milky eyes. A scraggly beard tore his face like a thousand dried worms had burrowed their way from his cheeks and neck to lie dead and limp from his skin. His hands were clammy to the touch and sent shivers down my spine.

“Beware the hour of the crying crow!” he hissed with urgency. “They come, they come! Bar the holes and lock your door. He knows – oh he knows!”

I cried, wrestling from his grasp and falling backwards. Saorla was at my side quickly, her hands falling on me in the dark.

I looked at her, uncomprehending. She could read my confusion. She could always read what I was thinking. She said I was like a book, despite the masks I tried to wear.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I should have told you. But I didn’t think you would understand.”

“Understand what?!” I cried.

“I have to do it,” she said. “I have to help him. Don’t be mad, little one. Sometimes the world has plans for us we don’t quite get. Sometimes the Gods ask of us the hardest sacrifices.”

And it was then I knew. The little rat was bringing her master every last coin. Coin that could have been used for proper food. Coin that could have been used for shelter and clothes and tools. Every time I came back from an apipaito, every time I fell before a litter and was given some coin to avoid going to the magistrate over my injuries, every time one of the few compassionate hearts parted with their copper for some cold and hungry child wandering the street she had just collected it and brought it here.

She brought her work to the wrinkled hands of Old Turt. She turned over her copper and silver to the half blind man who sat in the dark, gulping like a fish his incomprehensible gibberish to the rats and walls. Dirty and worn were his robes. His blistered and cracked feet stamped in dry wrappings. Bloat toes poked from the top bearing cracked, yellow nails. His wiry hair, though long, was kept tied tightly in a knot on his head. It was a style I saw worn by only one kind of person. The elusive priests in their tiered temples and never opened their doors for the sick and dying upon their stoop. But their hair was oiled and shiny, pulled and combed elegantly straight.

I left then, despite her protests. I ran the streets. I skirted the walls and I clamoured over the roofs. I climbed the Maiden’s Tower, balancing on the crumbling wall and looking over the miserable port with its miserable people. I wondered over the many years I had foolishly trusted her. I wondered where we could have been had she not been secreting away her money on some decrepit old man. We were reduced to beggars and thieves all the while she spent what little we earned on some wretched fool who should be long in the grave.

In my bitterness and pain, I thought of all the places we could have been. I thought of the lost homeland of our people and it’s cool, green pastures. I thought of the many kingdoms and lands far from Divanhane’s oppressive walls. I thought of all the places she had told me in the dark as I lay hungry and weeping. We could have been anywhere. But she had doomed us to some insufferable existence.

My hands clenched in tight fists. There was only one course left to me.

And in those following days I learned the hardest lesson of my life. You can’t trust anyone. Everyone will let you down eventually. The closer you are, the greater the betrayal. The only protection, the only safety was to go alone. The only chance to survive was on your own.

The biggest rat does not feed the weakest. They feed on them.

I returned to the boy I had spent so much of my life running from. I sought out Shafra on his turf. The inevitable beating was a small price to say my piece. And I promised him the bite of flesh that he was due.

For I was getting old enough to understand that men had needs. And Shafra had no girls in his band. Some needs were hard to see to when what little coin you get must be spent on quieting the rumbling in your tummy.

Saorla was always careful. She knew the streets and their dangers. But compassion is the most expensive virtue and she foolish tried to keep hers.

It was no small task, luring her from her grounds. She could sense trouble and would abandon a roost at the first indication of treachery. There was no point in leading Shafra to our nest, she would sniff him out in a moment and be gone. The key was to draw her out and to force her willingly into danger. And I knew of the only bait that she would fall for.

She trusted me and paid for it.

To make it believable, I had to cut myself. I needed my own blood, leaving it in spattered patches through the street. There were no blades or tools to be had. Just my own cracked nails and rotted teeth. The sense of preservation is strong. I remember the first attempts to pierce my own flesh. My teeth pressed uselessly against my skin. Any time my jaw began to bite, I felt my hand flit from my mouth unwillingly. Long did I stand there, hand growing slick with saliva from constantly returning to my lips.

The bite came when I least thought of it. In my mind I was far from Divanhane. I was sitting before a warm fire, surrounded by merriment. Music danced in the air and the smell of roasted meat wafted in my nose. Faces barely known but ringed in bright orange and red sang and smiled around me. Warm arms wrapped around my shoulders and hands playfully tussled my hair. Someone offered me a succulent piece of meat. I bit in, deeper and deeper, imagining the sweet juices running down my chin.

The rest wasn’t hard. Stumbling from our shelter I slid through the streets. Most make way for a wounded animal, some shred of humanity staying their hand until the body stops moving. I collapsed in a plaza quiet and alone. I lay on the dusty tiles, my mind still transported somewhere far away. Somewhere pleasant and cool.

The moon was rising when last she stepped into the square. I think I heard her voice. Her hands were upon me, rolling me over to investigate my wound. She turned my hand over and over, gently prodding the tear that had long since stopped bleeding. Then she raised a hand to my forehead, checking my temperature.

At last she gave me that sweet smile. “I think we’re going to be okay.”

They came from the dark then. And she bristled at their movement. Her hands clenched into fists as they circled about her, like a pack of hungry dogs circling a wounded calf. Shafra flashed his cruel smile, looking her up and down.

“Did you do this?” she cried, her voice hard with fury and rage. “I will tear you limb from limb!”

But Shafra merely laughed.

“Quite the spirited prize little Koudi brought us, eh boys? I think I’ll enjoy this more than I thought.”

And she turned upon me. I imagine her face looked much like I did when I entered Old Turt’s hole. I was already on my feet, ducking from their circle and heading towards the alley. Her face welled with tears as anger and shock swept her. I think there was something else there but what I will never know. That face will be etched forever in my memory. For it is how she is remembered; the last moment I saw her.

Shafra’s gang moved in for their reward and I heard the scrape begin. I didn’t wait to see the outcome. Saorla was by herself and there were five boys. The odds weren’t in her favour. But even if she miraculously succeeded, I wouldn’t wait for her fury to turn to me.

I raced to Old Turt’s hole. I had visions in my mind. Visions I would see become a reality and I had to get there before she could take another one of her hidden routes. I could picture it now, the old man sleeping upon a small fortune garnered from beggar children. I had seen madness before. Those that run dry, parched and desperate as they stumble frantically through the streets. Their behaviour erratic, they throw themselves pleadingly upon any nearby. The sun glares down and as more and more keep their distance the last vestiges of their inhibitions shred away until they are practically crawling naked through the dust. Sometimes the guard will come and make them disappear. Sometimes they croak and drag themselves until at last they stop moving and collapse in the dirt.

Then the rats come.

I was at Old Turt’s hole, guiding myself along the sewer wall with my tender hand. As I stepped into that small tunnel, I reached down and picked up a sizable stone. It wouldn’t take much. I had defended myself with less. A few raps to his head would take him down and then I would be free to find my hard earned coin. Then I could pay some caravan to take me far from here. Far from this damnable city and its miserable people.

As I emerged into his cellar, I heard movement and readied my offence. I stepped slowly, trying to keep my feet as soft and quiet as possible. As my eyes adjusted, I saw a mass shiver and shake in the dark. My muscles tensed. My soul was prepared.

I raised my stone but as the shape drew erect, I felt my fingers loosen.

It was just a babe, swaddled in cloth and resting in a basket. Confusion caught me the second time in that hold and I felt my weapon become disarmed. It clattered against my feet.

Its sound awoke a small chorus of cries. All in the dark were various bundles of rags and baskets. They each gave off a disgruntled wail, startling their neighbour and awakening the next. Down the line they went until all were shaking small fists in the dark. Toothless mouths called out into the night. They called out unanswered at the startled child standing amongst them.

There came a sound from further in, the scrapping of a door on stone. Shuffling in with wrapped feet and ragged robes came doting Old Turt. A crusty loaf of bread was carried in one hand and a small glass of milk in the other. About and about he went, tending each in turn. He’d dip the bread in the milk then raise it to their wailing mouths. He stammered and whispered as he went. Always some incomprehensible gibberish. When last he tended the crying babes he turned to me, looking at me mutely as he held out the remainder of the meal.

I took it, wordlessly and he cracked a crooked smile before shuffling off into the dark and through a door.

And perhaps then I began to understand why there were few children lost amongst the beggars. Even my earliest memories were of cold and stone – of squeaking in darkness.

I think I cried then. And some of those tears were over the realization that my fortune was not here. It never was. There are no riches to be found in Divanhane.

I fled that hole. I ran through the streets, distraught and alone. The next few nights were spent in unfamiliar quarters with unfamiliar dangers. But I dared not the deepest shadows. I feared finding hidden holes filed with awful revelations. More than once I attempted a careless pocket and was rewarded with a severe beating from the guards. Each kick and punch felt like penance justly earned.

I did search for Shafra later. Much later than I would care to admit. It was with sunken heart that from far observations I didn’t see Saorla amongst his number. I returned to her familiar territory, but the streets were bare of her presence. Even some of the regulars seemed to sense her absence. At long last I returned to our shelter but it had long been trashed and scavenged.

As the weeks went by, I searched farther and farther. I don’t know what I expected to find. Perhaps forgiveness, though I knew I deserved none. The weeks turned to months and the months turned to years. But Divanhane was a big city and you could spend a lifetime searching its darkest corners and still not find all that’s hidden.

Once I was larger clever, I followed Shafra. If there was one place I could earn my answers it was from him. I trailed him for weeks until I was able to slip past his natural suspicion. After many long days of distant watching and following, I finally found his little home carved cleverly in the rafters of a dockyard warehouse. I waited until the deepest of nightfall before I sneaked in. It had taken many months of scrimping and saving my earnings to afford the pure alcohol and match. But the reward was worth it. The pure but scented arak was known for its strength and ability to be missed by suspicious priests. I’d soaked his tattered pile of rags in it so even he didn’t realize what he nestled down in.

When last I was assured he was sound asleep, I dropped the match. He awoke quite quickly but the flames were faster. He was shouting and screaming, trying desperately to put them out. In his fear, he tumbled from the rafters to the warehouse floor. I quickly stamped out the blaze and descended after him. He lay groaning and broken on the ground below. I put out the fire still clinging to the remains of his clothes and pink flesh.

I asked after Saorla. But even after his fall, a shred of his street pride remained. He feigned ignorance, then he taunted me. But he was in no position to defend himself. And a boy can only defend against so much. I had long learned how to hurt. Shafra eventually divulged his answers. Saorla, it seemed, was far to scrappy for his boys to contend with. So they simply sold her to a passing trader. She had been beaten into unconsciousness so she didn’t even fetch a decent price.

I left him on the floor. Perhaps some worker found him in the morning. Or they found his body. I don’t know. I never saw him again.

A nameless, loosely described merchant is impossible to track. I searched as hard as I could, asking for a red-haired girl on the market. But none had memory for a transaction dealt so long ago. I would go to the markets every day asking. Months passed and the answer was always the same. After awhile, some merchants would share rumours of possible sightings far from the city. I can’t know if they were true or if they were just saying it to be rid of me.

When I was big enough to hold a sword intimidatingly, I took the path most who survived that long did. I sold myself as a guard and mercenary for a caravan. At long last, I finally got to put the walls of the City of Dreams behind me. And I’ve never looked back at them since.

I could die happy if I never see them again.