Short Story 1, Post 1

I'm just gonna post what I have so far. I'll continue posting the additional bits as I finish them. I'm rethinking the posting process. I kinda got used to the whole "page a day" thing so...I'll just continue that, but try to finish the story in a weeks time.

On Monday, I'll post the beginning and try to finish it by Friday - posting as I go. This one will have to suffice for this next week. I'll continue on Monday and attempt to finish it by Friday.

The streets were crowded; the scents were raw and animal. Dusk was settling in the the alleys and drawing deep shadows along the high street. Light poured from open shop windows. Vendors cried out their wares and the mummers were performing, cutting a wide swath from the center of the lane. Yelin sidestepped them, pressing through the throng that gathered to watch. He slid his hands into his pockets and wrapped his fingers around the coins he found there. Let the pickpockets attempt to seize them now, he thought as the press of bodies drove him nearer to the troupe. He glanced toward them and smiled.

The tallest of the group, a lanky youth with tousled white hair, capered behind a painted face. His body was all angles and lines. His shoes clattered shallowly against the worn paving stones as he spun in a wild dance. Beside him, clad in a shift of white, a lady sawed upon a violin, screeching out The Floating Crowbar with abandon. Her tones were less than precise. He found it odd that the dirty hem of the ladies' shift should cause him a twinge of sadness. There were jugglers with them, the tight line of batons whirling and singing through the thickening air. A dwarf called out to the crowd, reciting lines and capering in a threadbare jester's costume. The bells upon the hat jangled as he moved.

He stole past them with a snigger.

The cold of the evening deepened as the sun pulled its rays in upon itself and left the city in shifting darkness. Mist rose from the stones, seething about feet and running down cooling walls. Condensation filled the wind, adding moisture to the cold. Yelin felt it upon his face like sea-spray.

The lamplighters were moving about the streaming crowds, wax dripping indiscriminately upon those beneath them. Stilts fastened with leather thongs to their legs, they lurched overhead from lamp-post to lamp-post: raising the sooty glass, placing their guttering flames to the sodden wadding within and – with a thick key from about their necks – coaxing gas to a warming glow. They called the hours as they passed, more to clear the way before them then to pass information.

The streets of Illym were filling.

* * * * *

He found the tavern at the end of a forlorn alley, a few twists from the high street.

The sign hung from chain that dripped rust. He could not make out what might have been carven upon it.

Tren was waiting. He was in the darkest corner as he said he would be. The room was full of smoke and crowded as Yelin entered. The burning lamps shed a sickly orange on the warn tables. The air was rank with sweat and piss. No one noticed as he crossed the room, pulled back a chair and sat.

"You're late.” came Tren's voice from the shadows.

"I had other business that detained me.”

The bearded man chuckled, a rumble barely heard above the murmur of conversation, “Maybe I got other business too.” Tren began to stand.

Yelin placed a hand upon his shoulder, “I'm here ain't I?” He pressed the man back to his seat, “I'm still willing. What's a few minutes here or there?”

"Timing is everything, friend.” Tren's face was hidden within a heavy hood, “A man in your business should know that.”

Yelin smiled, “I am aware of my business.”

They sat for a while in silence. They ordered drinks. Tren had another ale while Yelin settled for a red-clover wine. It was better than expected; spiced, rich and earthy.

The thick-bearded man cleared his throat and spat, “Let's get to it then.” he said, wiping the spittle from his lips with the back of a dirty hand, “They leave at first-watch every night.” His voice was low, “No-one knows where they go and it don't matter. What's important is that they ain't there. Some say the coalers bring them their trappings up the river, hidden in among their loads: cloth, herbs, potatoes and the like from the Wild Lands. Stuff to make their poppets. But, again, it ain't important. What I want is in that house.”

Yelin had lit his pipe. A long exhale of whispy smoke traced his words, filling the table with a pleasant scent of blackberries, “You mentioned a map?”

A sheaf of parchment was spread under the swaying light, “Sileh got this for me. He copied it from memory.” Tren was speaking quickly, “You remember what happened to him, don't you? How they found him?”

Yelin remembered. He had seen him. He let the vision run from his mind as water through a sieve. A shudder sent ripples along the surface of his wine. “I need no reminder.” His hand found the stubble that lined his mouth and smoothed it down, “Tell me again about the layout and where you think this thing lies.” He enjoyed the rasping of bristles against palm.

Pressing the paper flat under his hands, Tren leaned in, belched and spoke, “He only saw the first floor before they found him. But he had a goodly amount of time to explore. They have fourteen in their number. He didn't count 'em as they left. One must've stayed behind.” His smile revealed blackish teeth. “You count 'em. If they don't all leave. Don't go in.” He set a grubby finger on the parchment, “This is the entrance. Simple lock. Should be easy to get past it. Once inside...there's this foyer with another door behind. Bigger lock, more difficult. Once passed it...there's a hall. Sileh said the lower chambers were get-at-able by means of a door under the stairs, “ he pointed to a series of ragged lines, “just there. Now this hall has a number of doors, the first takes you to a library. Don't go in there. I don't want no books. There's a kitchen and a few other rooms: study halls, gathering rooms, a dining hall. None of them is important. It's below the stairs that I think they have it.”

Yelin pulled a stray bit of tobacco from his tongue, “How will I know which you want? Assuming I make it that far.”

The other man laughed and leaned back. “I don't know. I figure it'll look like me.” He shook his great shaggy head back and forth, “Somehow, it'll look like me.”

* * * * *

Mist boiled in from the harbor, moving in slick slow tendrils along the cobblestones. Yelin felt his toes cramping slightly within his thin, leather boots. He tightened his grip on the uneven stones, shook his foot, and continued his climb. The poor workmanship of the wall made his task simple. His hand met with the topmost timbers of the roof. He took a moment and let his gaze drift. Below, the alley was a yawning, black pit.

With little or no sound he pulled himself up onto the rooftop and perched on the edge. He drew his feet underneath him and procured his pipe.

I have time, he thought, it isn't even night watch yet. He had a clear view of their doorway. There were burning lights within the windows, single candles in the upper chambers and lamp-lights in the first floor. He glanced upward and saw the Hunter's Moon casting a bright light upon a shelf of low, swift moving cloud. The wind, at this height, caught his cloaks and sent them billowing about him. He gathered them close and, with a few quick flicks of his wrist, set spark to his bowl. The tobacco smoldered for a moment and caught. He watched the smoke as it was snatched greedily from him into the night by the wind. It roiled and twisted from his mouth.

Illym stretched out about him; hillsides of slate roof and valleys of cobblestoned street. From his vantage point, the Spires caught the moonlight and reflected back pale glimmers. It was there the Priests lit their incense and sent their prayers to the gods. There were houses for each of the Three: Illganth the Thoughtful – the many-armed patron of wealth, Cheathina the Resolver – patron of safety with her pillows and rings, and Stoophad the Innocent – patron of the Children. She was all of bosom and eyes.

The fresh gaslight from the High Street brought with it song and motion. As far as he could see, the massive layers of stone and timber of Illym crowded, the great city of the Narsoom, bannermen of Urnit the King of Athper, son of Dreillim and Holder of the Land Kinrt. Below and about, the city breathed; an acrid intake of smoke and fire, a sweet exhale of life and folk.

The smoke of his pipe stung his nostrils as Yelin pulled it in. He let his lids drop as he waited. The city moved, shrugged and rolled over.

* * * * *

There was a distant sound, a trickling of bells. He roused and peered over the edge. The rope about his waist tightened. Below, heavily cowled figures passed in a tight line. Yelin could just see the first. He or She held a lantern above them hooked to a stick. The door was open and they filed out slowly. The robes were long, flowing things of russet velvet, the cowls were tinged with silk and the slippers they wore, just glimpsed as they slid along the wet cobblestones, were ermine with soles of leather.

The pipe was still in his mouth. He worked it free of his lips and tapped the ashen remains over the edge. The dottle dissipated in the wind before it struck the ground.

Thirteen.

I'm counting them. He smiled.

The last pulled the door shut and twisted a key in the lock. It was an ornate thing with horns. There was slight flash of a vermillion hue as the lock slid into place. It was a flicker of cinnabar that spoke of enchantment.

My Ma always said that I had keen vision, Yelin thought. He rolled his eyes as they moved below him. Portentas Mal? Of all of the entrance forbidders to choose? Portentas Mal? It was a parlor trick, an first year alchemists' legerdemain. I should either laugh or begin to fear. Could it be a performance for the watchful? Or a lulling 'show of hand' for the foolish?

The last of the hooded initiates turned the dark corner and sped along Yellow's Walk, the road that tied to the main arteries that fed to the Warf Roads. The final fellow held a lamp, as well. It was born behind him on a shepherd's crook similar to the first. A fine line of fools they looked. The swinging light set wild, angular shadows upon the brick walls that loomed over them.

One remains inside. Same as before, he thought, pulling the rope free of his waist and fixing it with a robust knot to the pile of stone at his back, began to lower himself to the darkened street. Most likely the stone to which he was anchored served as some sort of communal chimney for the poor, oppressed folk whose building he had traversed this night. With the rope sliding through his fingers at slow, released increments, Yelin fell to the past the shuttered windows and alighted upon the stone. His feet settled into an oil-slicked puddle and his sharp intake of breath held a swear.

Across the street and on the corner the doorway loomed. A few quick steps and he stood at the threshold. A light still burned in one of the lower windows, a lantern by its unshifting nature. Above him and hanging out over the street, a sign was affixed to a iron pole and chain. It was a simple picture, easy to see in the darkned light; a fleur-de-lis or Yellow Flag. The only difference was the binding that bound the stylized lily petals was that of a sickly thorn.

He fumbled within the pockets of his clothing for a downy pouch. His fingers found it and untied the threads that held it closed. He withdrew the powder within and blew a scant amount upon the lock. There was a small flash of blue. The picks flew within his fingers and the bolt slid back.

Yelin pulled open the door and disappeared inside.

There was little or no light within the small foyer. Another door lay a few feet from him. Lined upon the floor at his feet were boots of varying size and make. Pegs lined the walls and more of the same cloaks that he had seen were hung upon them.

He could hear the voice of Tren within his head, the consonants slurred with drink, “Once inside...there's this foyer with another door behind. Bigger lock, more difficult.”

He pulled a small bit of parchment from his pockets, breathed over it and spoke a few mumbled words. The paper flickered at the edges and browned. He released it with a whisk of fingers. A light flared above him, a mere candle flame. It held above his head, though no wick gave it existence. The Thieves' Light, an incantation that offered a radiance for his eyes alone. He had spent a year in study to achieve the skill. Another word and the light adjusted, focusing toward the interior lock. His eyes adapted to the sudden influx of illumination. His pupils tightened as he leaned in.

Another plume of powder upon the lock.

There was a surety to his movements; a practiced skill that quickened his hands. Yelin's palms were hot and the pads of his fingers tingled. He brought his thumb the tips; back and forth, back and forth before he lowered a small mirror into the keyhole. The light was angled back against the interior of the lock.

The mechanism was complex; cogs and projections and bars of brass encircling further wheels tied to springs and free floating flywheels.

That's it so far...I'll add more on Monday night - unless I get to add more over the weekend. Thanks for your patience and make sure to leave comments on what you think. I edited it a little after the original post to make the reading a little easier.