“Hey now, I offer only authentic… north west docks, over by Meanside,” Remmitt squawked as Marius tightened his grip. Marius smiled, and let go. Paschar slumped to the ground. He shrank away, pressing the back of his head hard against the wall. Marius crouched in front of him and leaned forward so that their faces were inches apart.
“I’ll remember how helpful you were, Remmitt,” he said softly. “If you were helpful enough, I won’t have to find you again, will I?”
Paschar nodded, shook his head, nodded again, and finally settled for remaining perfectly still.
“I’d say goodbye,” Marius patted him on his shoulder. Paschar did his best not to wince as Marius’ stone-hard hand struck. “But you ain’t seen me, right?” He rose, and stepped quickly past the mussel fryer, who had resolutely faced streetward during the entire exchange. Only once he could no longer see Marius in his peripheral vision did Paschar draw a single, painful inhalation, and begin to curse his tormentor.
Half an hour later, as he was in the process of reluctantly parting with Severn Magnassity’s very own sextant, just so his poor children could eat some real meat for the first time in months, Paschar stopped and stared into the distance. All of a sudden, a realisation had hit him. At no time during his encounter with Marius – not when he was talking, not when he was holding him against the wall, not even when he leaned down and shoved his awful, awful face into his – could Paschar recall his assailant breathing. As his discerning client began to protest, Remmitt stepped away from his stall and slowly walked, then jogged, and finally ran up the Pipe Barrel towards a bag he kept under a loose floorboard in a rented room of the Lodger’s Rest Hotel. Within a week he was knocking on the door of a monastery in the heart of Taslingham, begging for sanctuary.
TEN
Meanside was a good half hour’s walk from the southern bank of the river. Marius set off at a fast stride, slipping through the crowds without bothering to watch the unfolding life around him. He knew his way around Meanside like blood knows its way through veins, and he barely had time to plan his progress before he was climbing the road that led onto the Magister, the oldest, largest, and most famous of Borgho’s “thousand bridges”. The mad King Nandus had built his palace here, and parts of the walls had been preserved along the walkways at either side of the busy thoroughfare. Marius had been little more than a teen when he’d stood side by side with soldiers, street mongers and wharfies and defended the span from the forces of Tarem Bridge, a half mile down the water, the year the river froze over and the Battles of the Blade Gangs broke out. Ninety steps towards the far side the broken remnants of Nandus’ Wizard Tower… Marius stopped, and leaned against the bridge wall, staring down into the muddy swirl of water flowing underneath.
“Hey there, Mischa,” he said softly, “It’s me.”
The water flowed past, unheeding. Marius watched it, seeing patterns in the churn. He needed to get to the Minerva, but there was time enough for memories.
She had been crossing the bridge from the offices of the dock manager towards the villas of the richer merchants when the fighting had welled up along the river, and she was caught at the foot of the Wizard Tower. Marius was already there, crouched against the bricks, trying to squeeze himself into the cracks.
“What’s happening?” She threw herself to the ground as a volley of crossbow bolts flew over the wall from below. “What’s going on?”
Marius had said nothing, just peered up at her from between his fingers. He was terrified. Even so, looking up at her, hair falling loose from its bun and framing her long, oval face, her large green eyes wide with alarm, he felt something shift inside him. Without thinking, he peeled himself off the wall and buried his face in her chest, hands gripping her arms with terrified strength.
“Hey, hey.” She lowered herself down next to him, her back to the wall. Carefully, she prised him away and altered her stance so that they sat, huddled together, while combatants tangled about them.
“What’s your name, lad?”
“Marius,” he stuttered. “Marius dos Hellespont.”
“Oh,” she looked surprised. “Raife’s son?”
“You know my father?”
She paused. “I’m aware of him. So what’s all this, Marius? What’s happening?”
Marius pointed further along the wall. “It’s the other bridge, Miss.”
“Call me Mischa.” She smiled, brushed his hair back from his face. “I don’t let just anybody call me that, you know.”
Marius reddened at the sudden familiarity, but it did the trick. His fear forgotten for the moment, his words came out in an unbidden stream. “It’s the Tarem Mob, Mischa. They’re using the ice, skating across it. They can’t get on the bridge at the ends, so this is their chance, see?”
“But why?” Two fighters stumbled against them. Mischa kicked out, and they wheeled away into the crowd.
“Tarem Bridge and Magister. It’s like any other gang. They hate each other.”
“But this? Crossbows? Machetes? People are getting hurt, Marius.”
“I know.” Marius crouched lower. “I never thought this would happen.”
Mischa noticed the red rag tied around his upper arm. “Tarem or Magister?”
“Magister,” he replied, fumbling at the knot. “I only wanted a bit of fun.”
“Don’t we all, lad? Don’t we all?”
They hunkered down and watched the fighting. Mischa shook her head.
“We can’t stay here, Marius. It’s only a matter of time before we’re noticed.” She made to stand. Marius pulled desperately at her arm.
“Don’t. They’ll hurt you.”
She stopped in mid-crouch, and placed her hand on his shoulder. “If we don’t move we definitely will get hurt. We have to get to the end of the bridge. It’s the only way to safety. Look.” She reached into her sleeve, and withdrew a small square of lacework, tucking it into his hand. “For protection,” she said, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek. Marius inhaled, smelling the sweet smell of her perfume, feeling the smoothness of her cheek and lips against his skin. He closed his eyes. Something inside him woke up and cried for life.
“Do you trust me?” she asked. Marius opened his eyes and looked straight into hers. He had never swum in a pool so beautiful. He gulped, and nodded.
“Then come on,” she said, pulling him to his feet. Together they ran towards the end of the bridge, hand in hand, dodging combatants as they ran. Twice, someone loomed out of the chaos, and Mischa kicked out. Each time she hit their assailant in the groin, and he doubled over. She kicked them again in the face as she stepped past.
“Steel toes,” she gasped as they ran on. “Every working girl should have them.”
They almost made it. They were in sight of the lower gate house that marked the end of the bridge when the press of the crowd pushed them towards the edge of the walkway. Grappling hooks hung where Tarem combatants had climbed up from the ice below. Marius stumbled, and they fell, landing against the wall.
“Come on,” Mischa said, pushing against the wall to regain her footing. Marius rose, and pulled at her hand. She gathered her legs beneath her, and at that moment, something heavy and dark reared over the wall and dug itself into her shoulder.
Mischa screamed as the two-pronged grappling hook bit deep. She reared up, scrabbling at the wound, letting go of Marius in the process. He leaped towards her, but in that instant, the combatants below them pulled on their rope. Mischa lurched backwards, hit the edge of the wall, and before either of them could do anything, was hauled up and over. Marius slammed into the brickwork, hardly feeling the impact against his nose and cheek. He pulled himself up on rubber legs, and hung over the top, oblivious to the fighting around him, and the snapping retorts of shot and crossbow bolts flying past.