That Which Occured in A Folkestone's Landing Alley
Foursday,
Third Hand of Fireseek, EE239
Tándir
of Great Harbor
Folkestone's
Landing, Wirost
I
sat in the study of our home, contemplating the information that had
just come to me by way of Trelbar. It had taken three years but I
finally knew not only whom had tortured my friend and agent, Bastion,
but also where the man had made his way to during my long absence
from Folkestone's Landing.
Firion
"the Skinner", formerly of Folkestone's Landing, was now
residing in the city of Liekland on the Isle of Tymath. The Skinner
was now front and centre. This time Saafiyah, no matter what she
said, was going to remain tucked away at whatever inn we took up
residence in in Liekland. I had gotten all the gruesome details of
the torture that Bastion had been subjected to, and I planned on
doubling it for the man who had hard won the nickname he'd been
given. There was no way that I was going to expose Saafiyah to that.
None.
"Can
you find someone for me?"
I
was staring at a map of the Mystshrouds, the sounds of the Soul
Market faintly reaching me. I saw Saafiyah watching me from the
study doorway with her intense, serious expression. Now thirteen
cycles she was even prettier, a stunningly gorgeous girl. But that
expression, I knew better than to ignore.
"Who?"
"Chadli
Blackwood."
"Who's
Chadli Blackwood?" I asked.
"He
killed my mother."
That
made me pause. She'd never told me about her parents. In three
cycles, she'd never spoken once about her past before I had picked
her up by the scruff of the neck that first time. "Why?" I
asked; a question already knew the answer to. I think I'd known it
ever since I'd first seen her handle a bow at eleven cycles old, the
intense focused commitment unforgettable.
Saafiyah
had two sides. One side, the side she was showing at that moment,
was a stone-cold professional, a killer. Like no one else I'd ever
met, Saafiyah had the ability to kill, expertly, with ease. While
she was far more insistent than I'd ever been in making sure the
target deserved to die, she was exceptionally cold-blooded when it
came time to take them out. With her it was almost an evangelical
calling, something seared into her soul from her childhood; a need to
rid the world of monsters. Human monsters, but monsters nonetheless.
In
fact, if I wasn't so sure she was ferociously in love with me,
looking up to me as something of a father figure, I'd have been a bit
concerned for my own life. I was no angel.
Despite
her dedication and determination, Saafiyah had a second side. That
side I loved, too. At thirteen cycles Saafiyah had grown. Subtle
curves were beginning to emerge and the last vestiges of childhood
had left her face, leaving behind a sculpted beauty with thick
burgandy hair and magnetic olive-green eyes. Despite the physical
changes she had retained the soft, marvellously playful side; sneaky,
boisterous, forceful and, when she wanted, seductive personality.
She could twist me around her little finger effortlessly, make me
laugh or cry with frustration and, far too frequently, drive me to
despair with her intransigence. The world was going to conform to
Saafiyah Teracina of Folkestone's Landing come hell or high water.
And I loved every little bit of her so much it hurt.
"Are
you sure you want to find him?" I asked carefully.
She
nodded, her thick burgandy pony tail bobbing. "I'm ready. It's
time."
"Okay.
I'll find him. I'll need more information than his name, though.
I'll need details."
"I
know," she smiled, an enigmatic smile. "Thanks."
"Who
is Chadli Blackwood? What can you tell me about him?" I asked.
By
the time Saafiyah had told me just a small portion of her story my
heart hurt, wishing she could have had a normal childhood. Her
father had been a slaver, her mother a slave. He had become smitten
with the woman and had stolen her away many years ago, betraying the
slaver's guild in the process, a decision that would have fateful
consequences for him as well. Saafiyah was born out of their love
for each other and all had seemed well, their tracks covered, for
seven cycles after her birth until the slavers had come for the
mother. Her father had not been home at the time to protect his wife
and she had been dragged out into the street and hamstrung, a common
punishment for runaway slaves. Hamstrung slaves being of little to
no value or usefulness, she had been sold on into the hands of the
fighting pits of Folkestone's Landing. Her death had served as
entertainment for a small crowd.
Chadli
Blackwood was the man who had hamstrung her mother in the street, the
man for whom her father had worked years before. He had not
literally killed her mother but had set the stage for her death.
A
cycle later, at the age of eight, the slaver's guild caught up with
Saafiyah's father.
I
understood much more about the girl that afternoon than I had in the
three years she had been at my side.
She
walked around the heavy desk that filled my study, sat in my lap as
if she were still a child, kissed my cheek gently and hugged me,
whispering, "Thank you, father." I sighed. Saafiyah knew
I'd do anything for her. It hurt loving her.
Two
hands later I found Chadli Blackwood.
"No,
no, no!"
Her
dark burgundy ponytail whipped around as she looked over her shoulder
at me, olive-green eyes flashing with indignation.
"What?"
"I
told you it was too risky. You missed his heart," I said with
no small measure of annoyance.
Saafiyah
turned and looked down. "Really?"
Chadli
Blackwood lay on the ground at her feet, a spreading dark red blood
stain on his chest contrasting sharply with his frayed and scruffy
open neck linen tunic. His eyes were wide open, pupils dilated and
glossy with shock, hands twitching at his side as if trying to move,
the effects of the stryghumine that had coated the blade of
Saafiyah's dagger. The sweet, spicy scent of rum smelled strong, the
result of a broken jug he'd dropped at his side. Rum scent battled
with a dank mouldy odour in the still night air, the result of a
recent passing thunderstorm. Chadli was probably shocked at what
this young girl had just done to him; having a dagger thrown into the
chest looked like it hurt. I had no doubt he was surprised, too.
His mouth moved as if he was trying to say something, no sound
emerging.
Saafiyah
straddled the immobilized man's waist and drew the dagger from his
chest. I could see the fear in his eyes as she looked down at him.
"Líadan
Linhau sends her regards, slaver," she spoke quietly.
The
bloodied point of the dagger entered Chadli's throat ever so slowly,
parting flesh and muscle. It sliced cleanly through the slaver's
windpipe, and if possible the man's eyes grew even wider at the
realization that his next breath would never come. Inexorably, she
continued applying pressure, his body beginning to instinctively
convulse in panic beneath her lithe form. Finally, mercifully, the
angle of the dagger brought it's tip to the base of the man's
brainstem. The movements of his body stopped, eyes glazing over in
death. Blood seeped out around the sides of the blade as his watery
brown eyes became vacant. A dark stain spread at the crotch of his
brown breeches as muscles relaxed in death.
"There!"
She gave a short nod, satisfied with her work. Then under her
breath she muttered, "Krugrapi."
Glancing
around I was relieved to see the dark alley leading to the waterfront
was still deserted. Carts loaded with goods passed regularly at the
mouth of the alley, torches providing flashes of illumination on the
wet street. One lone covered sconce mounted to a wall next to a door
cast a weak yellowish light in the alley creating soft shadows and
highlighting cracks in the cobblestone walkway being invaded by
weeds. I was pissed. We'd been here for almost ninety beats; far
too long. Why the hell didn't Saafiyah ever listen to me?
"Come
on," I said, reaching out to her, frowning.
She
withdrew the dagger from the dead slaver's throat, blood bubbled out
of the wound. She smiled and rose off his body, her delicate hand
slipping into mine.
"Dagger,"
I clarified.
With
a grin, she let my hand go and passed me her dagger, careful to avoid
touching the poison coated blade. I wished she'd do more of that; do
what I'd taught her. I ran the blade through a piece of folded
canvas several times, removing any remaining residue of the
stryghumine from the weapon. I folded the canvas again and slipped
it into one of the pockets of my cloak before handing the dagger back
to Saafiyah. Reaching out I offered my hand again. The girl slipped
her hand into mine, still so small even at thirteen cycles old.
"Sorry?"
she offered with a smile, eyebrows arched, pretty eyes turned up to
me glittering in the night.
Sorry
my ass.
I
checked the street both was as we exited the alley together, emerging
from the shadows. The occasional cart rolled along the road, the
waterfront district never sleeping. We wouldn't be noticed or, if
seen, not remembered; just a father and his daughter.
"Are
you going to talk to me, Tándir?"
With
a tug of her hand we turned onto Sailor's Row, a straight shot from
the waterfront to the Soul Market.
"Are
you angry with me?" Saafiyah asked in an inquisitive voice,
seemingly not intimidated by my silence in the least.
I
was angry. Her actions had been unprofessional in the extreme.
Striding towards the Soul Market, Saafiyah skipping every third step
to keep up, I tried to calm my anger. She seemed to think this was a
game. It wasn't.
"What's
the big deal?" Saafiyah asked. "He's dead, isn't he?"
"I
told you, let him pass and then take him from behind," I
explained, though why I was explaining I didn't know. "You've
got to start listening to me, Saafiyah."
"I
heard you, father," she said. "But I thought I'd practice
the heart shot. You said it was hard." After a brief pause she
added, "You were right! It's much harder in real life!"
I
almost let out the smile trying to escape despite my displeasure.
Just in case, I turned my face away from her and scanned our
surroundings again; still dark, still alone, only the stars above
providing the barest amount of light that reflected back off the
slick wet road. When a measure of control returned, I stopped,
turned to her and frowned. "If you're not going to listen to
me, that's it. Next time you'll stay behind."
With
a firm tug on her hand we resumed walking. Saafiyah started
muttering under her breath, something she did a lot when she
disagreed with me, which, Ishneflex help me, she did a lot. I heard
her mutter, "You told me to practice," followed by, "I
always listen to you," and, after a brief pause, "and you
didn't say anything about not making a heart shot, either."
It
was very hard to maintain my frown as we passed from the waterfront
to into the Soul Market. I shook my head at her recalcitrance. She
was the single most aggravating and frustrating female I'd ever
known, and not by a bit, but by a Tyystian mile.
In
the three years since Saafiyah had entered my life, I'd never
understood how she did it. I'd never figured out how she could get
under my skin and drive me so damn nuts I'd want to kill; just kill;
anyone in sight would do. And then lightning-fast she'd do something
that would demolish my anger and my defenses, completely lay waste to
my detached and analytical self; like now.
She
stopped in front of our apartment, almost in the same spot we had
first met three cycles ago. "Sorry?" she said again,
olive-green eyes glistening beautifully and a soft enigmatic smile
forming on her lips.
Seeing
the smile it hit me. "You missed his heart on purpose, didn't
you?" I asked softly. "You wanted to punish him."
She
didn't reply. The smile remained as she turned, tossing her hair
over her shoulder, and opened the door to the apartment building.
I
loved Saafiyah so much, at times it hurt. She had truly become my
daughter, perhaps not by blood but still my daughter. I loved that
enigmatic smile of hers, too. It always made an appearance when she
was satisfied, usually when she got something she'd wanted that I'd
not been in favour of. I loved that enigmatic smile so much it made
my heart ache and pride blossom at her willfulness.
I
gave up, following her into the apartment building.
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