Prologue ... 1 ... 2 ... 3 ... 4 ... 5 ... 6 ... 7 ... 8 ... 9 ... 10 ... 11 ... 12 ... 13 ... 14 ... 15 ... 16 ... 17 ... 18 ... 19 ... 20 ... 21 ... 22 ... 23 ... 24 ... 25 ... 26 ... 27... 28... 29... 30 ... Epilouge ... Glossary

Chapter 4: Blotch the Beggar

"Yä ever seen a rraakk before?" The fry’s voice is small. The boy is frightened. "I mean, a real one?"

Esmeree hunches behind the wooden boxes in the alley. Beyond is the busy street, along with its cluster of beggars pleading for money from townsfolk. She contemplates lying. "Na," she confesses, "Not even sure what they look like. Hear stories though."

"I’ve seen one," the second boy brags. "In Lunnel Alley."

"There ain’t na rraakks in Cliffs Reach, cuall," Esmeree’s third fry spits.

"Are too! I saw it!"

"Shut up," Esmeree snaps. "There ain’t rraakk in na Man cities. If there were, either we’d be dead or it would be."

"Yäh?" The second boy puffs out his chest. "What makes yä sä–"

He doesn’t get the chance to finish. Esmeree slugs him across the face, the handle of her gully adding weight and mass to the blow. He lands on his ass, tears already squirting from his eyes. Standing over him, she hisses, "’Cause I’m the fisher here, that’s why! I tells yä what’s sä and what ain’t. And I’m tellin’ yä there ain’t na rraakk in Cliffs Reach, sä shut up before I sends yä all tä the factories!"

She glances at the other two, but they don’t make eye contact, choosing instead to inspect their toes or the stone pavers of the alley. Fine by her. She keeps her knife out just in case and nonchalantly starts carving a simple design into the side of a box.

What’s she doing here? She’s barely older than her own fry! She’s not even sure she could take them if they all decided to jump her–Gwydd is certainly stronger than she is–and yet here she is telling them what is and isn’t true. What in the Hells is going on here?

"But they could come here some day?"

Esmeree was momentarily distracted. "Huh?"

Her first fry, Baran, hunches his shoulders in a way that makes him look disturbingly similar to Craig, especially since they share the same blonde hair. She wonders if he used to be one of Craig’s fry. "I was wonderin’ if the rraakk could come here, uh?"

"Oh." She shrugs, "I suppose. They’d have tä cross the Bracklands though. I suppose we’d see them comin’ if they did."

Her third fry speaks up, "I heard they sneak around in shadows and eat children in the middle of the night." Baran gasps in horror. Este is always an alarmist, and with an imagination like his, sometimes he even scares her.

"Sounds like Drake." She mugs, and her fry giggle appropriately. "All I know is they’re big, sä it would be hard for one tä hide in a closet or inside a box. Na one’s seen where they live. And everyone says they steal fry, but sä fuckin’ what? Sä do fishers!"

Two of her fry laugh at her dark humor. Gwydd, her second fry, still sits miserably on the pavers of the alley, nursing his jaw, and tries not to cry. She glares at him, "Brace up, or I’ll really give yä somethin’ tä cry about!" She flashes her knife at him, and his face hardens.

"Yä afraid of rraakks, Easy?"

Esmeree shrugs again, getting irritated with being asked about things she doesn’t know. "Dunno. Never met a real one. Kind of hard tä say, uh?"

Her carving has turned into a complex geometric diagram of how embers store and discharge magical energy. She angrily scrapes it out of existence. Damn that Andelliza and Myrdd!

"I ain’t afraid of na rraakk," Este boasts.

"Only ‘cause yä never met one, uh?" snaps Gwydd, suddenly coming back to life. Este grumbles but doesn’t disagree.

"I don’t like those vitchoor dwarves," Gwydd adds.

"Why not?" Este somehow sounds hurt by the idea.

Gwydd wipes his nose defiantly, "The walkin’ dogs took me sister away, back when I lived with me parents. Me ater couldn’t pay the gold ransom, sä they just kept her. Made her work in the mines, clean up after them, fuck them all night."

"That’s just like here in the Mill," Esmeree says.

"Nage, the dwarves were worse than any fisher, uh? They make machines out of things–"

"What," Baran interrupts, "Like the clock in the Mercantile Exchange?"

"Nage. Their machines are worse. They grow them, and they’re alive somehow." He shakes his head and makes a disgusted face. "Everyday, they took a piece of her away and used it tä build their machines. One day, there was nothing left. I’ll kick the little fuckers in the face if I ever get the chance."

Esmeree sighs. After a story like that, with his bruised lip and red-rimmed eyes, she actually feels sorry for him.

Este looks uncertain. "I see the Templars burning a lot of Chroani in High Summer. I guess I hate them."

"They ain’t monsters," Gwydd sneers. "They’re just devil-worshippers and witches! Dumbass Chroani!" He spits as punctuation.

Este shrugs. Baran adds, "Me tata got killed fighting the alfs in Ehre. That’s why me mam’a sent me tä Palpin tä live with her sister…" His voice trails away. Esmeree knows Baran’s aunt was already dead from bay overdose long before he set foot on that ship in Ehre. Typical hard luck case. That’s how the Mill gets most of its fry.

"I don’t hate the alf," Esmeree states firmly. "They ain’t done nothin’ tä me, and I won’t tolerate na speakin’ against them, yä hear?" Her fry look a little stunned by her tone. Her mind wanders back to her friend in the cage. She still has his seed-thing, hidden away someplace safe.

There is a period of uncomfortable silence, as everyone does their best not to look at anyone else. Este breaks it when he almost shouts with excitement. "They’re here," he whispers, pointing outside the alley, "The Crummy Rats are comin’!"

Esmeree waves her fry to silence and takes a look. Three Crimson Rraakk boys have approached their hiding place. Taking up positions outside the alley, they try to look nonchalant. Their attention is drawn to a beggar that sits apart from the others.

Esmeree watches intently. She doesn’t recognize the beggar, but then they all look alike to her. He’s covered in countless layers of ruined clothing. The man is a travelling hovel. Sitting himself in a gutter, he already looks like he’s been there for weeks. A crude burlap bag sits in front of him, and he beseeches passersby for alms.

"Let’s get them," hisses Gwydd, always eager for a fight.

"Shut up," Esmeree says quietly as she watches.

Gwydd steps forward, his dark eyes flashing, "I say we take them now!" He looks to the other fry for support. Este looks uncertain, but Baran backs Esmeree. She can always count on her youngest fry.

Her gully darts out and pricks the soft skin under his throat. He tries to back away from it, but she follows, maintaining the pressure until he fetches up against the alley wall. "I say we sit and watch. Objections?" She twists her knife, so he can feel it’s edge corkscrew against his skin. He licks his lips and shakes his head cautiously.

She nods her head as she returns to watching the street. She’s seen fry like Gwydd before. Feeling strong and confident, they make a play for fisher status too soon. They usually die publicly at the hands of their own fishers. Too often they disappear or become fodder for Drake. It would be too bad if that happens to Gwydd.

The Rraakks approach and circle the beggar menacingly. They put on a good show for Esmeree and anybody else who happens to be watching. They kick and taunt the man as he begs for mercy and charity. One claw-like hand is always outstretched, both to fend off the blows and accept donations. His head is ducked in suitably pathetic prostration. For the first time, she glimpses his face under that ruined cowl, and at first she thinks he’s a halogedig.

Ruined by ringworm scars and malformed by horrible injuries healed poorly, the man barely looks human. She can almost see the lice migrating from beard to mustache to scalp in search of more palatable grazing. She is certain such a creature has never ventured into the Mill. She wonders if perhaps they have the wrong beggar.

As suddenly as it began, the harassment ends. The Rraakks break off and swagger away. One of them hesitates and flicks some small coppers into his bag before moving on. Somehow, at some point in that encounter, important information about the Black Ember guild changed hands. Quickly, Esmeree begins summoning.

In her short time as Andelliza’s apprentice, she hasn’t learned many new spells. On thing she has learned, however, is that her ember has been casting spells of its own without her knowledge. It casts subtle magic to improve her breath and clean her teeth (she has always wondered why she hasn’t lost any yet) or ward away lice, fleas, and worms from her body. It cures her diseases, moves and animates things, burns things, heals her, and protects her. It purifies her food and water, sometimes enough so that others around her can reap the benefits as well.

But until the Lady teaches her how to summon these spells herself, she has to hope her ember knows the right time to cast them on its own.

The Lady has taught her one new spell, however. Closing her eyes, Esmeree gently rubs her ember and quickly begins the summoning. It is important to do it before her fry notice; neither she nor Andelliza know how the guild would react to a fisher witch in their midst.

The magic builds, and when it is ripe, she gently projects it onto who she guesses is the lead Crimson Rraakk. Only she can see the fuzzy aura surrounding his body.

She calls it her charm, and she usually only summons it for people she cares for (like Baran or Drake, if she ever gets the chance). She’s not sure if it actually does them any good, but it does seem to put her in touch with what’s going on with them for a short period of time. Eventually, the fuzzy ball of magic evaporates away, and she has to cast a new one.

Esmeree hopes this charm will help her keep track of the Rraakks as she goes after the beggar.

The beggar seems to have sensed Esmeree’s intense stare. As soon as the Crimson Rraakks leave, he picks himself up and shuffles away. He is faster than he looks, and Esmeree and her fry nearly lose him. She needs to deploy Este and Gwydd along different side streets and alleys to help track him down.

In the end, it is Baran, tagging along with Esmeree, who finds him. Lagging behind to poke through a forgotten pile of trash, he comes to the sudden realization that the pile is in fact the beggar.

When she hears his surprised cry, Esmeree quickly doubles back and skids to a halt next to him. The boy points in mute shock at the heap of filthy rags, and she is about to box him on the ears when the heap croaks, "Alms fer the poor?"

Looking down, she sees the beggar in his hovel. He grins a horrible gap-toothed grimace. Something like thick black sludge seems to ooze between the few teeth he has; Esmeree is horrified when she recognizes that sludge to be his gums. He is of indeterminate age and of unidentifiable build. He extends his ratty burlap bag and gives it a hopeful shake. It jingles, but Esmeree’s trained ears suspect its contents to be primarily rocks and bits of metal.

"Such a pretty girl! Alms from the pretty girl?" Shake, shake. Jingle, jingle.

Keeping her distance, she hoots a guild signal to her other fry. When Este and Gwydd arrive, she steps forward and gives the beggar a swift kick.

Esmeree is really pissed off. She had hoped to wrest the information she needed out of the beggar herself. She had hoped to return to the Lady triumphant, the source of the leak revealed and the plans of the Crimson Rraakks thwarted.

Instead, this filthy vagrant has proven immune to her most persuasive arguments. The strange man seems totally immune to pain.

And now she is faced with a difficult decision. She glides the tip of her gully down her cheek and under her chin as she examines the pathetic creature at her feet. He is beaten, bleeding. She is certain they broke some of his bones–she heard them break–and yet he still looks none the worse for wear. Not that he could look much worse…

What is most disconcerting is that throughout it all, he’s hardly complained. Except for some mild requests for the beatings to end, he never really cried out or begged for more than a few coppers or crumbs of bread. Her fry are exhausted–their feet and fists bruised from raining blows upon his submissive, yielding body–every piece of wood in the alley has been broken down into smaller pieces across his back.

Now she has to decide if they should press matters and risk killing the man or admit defeat and take him back to the Mill. She is certain artists like Drake and the Lady would easily coerce him to be more cooperative. Truly, this has been a disappointing day.

"The girl is kind, yes? Alms fer a poor old beggar from the kind girl?" He extends his hand hopefully. Some of his fingers are broken.

She gives him a swift kick.

"What is this?" Andelliza leans out of her window to get a better look at the hovel forming in her main room. At its center is the beggar. "I can smell it from here."

Esmeree steps forward. "Lady," she says, uncertain how to begin, "I believe we found the source of the leaks to the Crimson Rraakks."

"Really?" Andelliza sounds genuinely surprised. She settles her arms on the sill. "And this is it?"

Esmeree gives the creature a sidelong glance, "We saw him consortin’ with the Rraakks, Lady. They seemed to work in code. I don’t know what he told them, and we haven’t been able to get him to talk."

"Alms, me lady? A few coppers fer a poor old beggar?" Jingle, jingle.

"What have you tried?"

Esmeree shrugs. "We did what we could to soften him up, but…" She waves her hand in hopelessness towards the beggar. "He doesn’t seem to suffer from the pain, and he doesn’t seem to care whether he lives or dies."

"Alms fer a beaten man? Unlucky! Unlucky am I! A bit of food? I am poor and infirm." Jingle, jingle. "Alms fer a–"

"All he seems to care about," Esmeree shouts over him, "are his Hells-damned alms!"

"Well, fisher," Andelliza asks mildly, "Have you tried giving him some?"

The beggar smiles hopefully and extends his bag. Jingle, jingle.

Esmeree hates that fucking beggar.

Drop a couple quarter Guilders in his hand, and his vocabulary suddenly expands from his basic repertoire of alms, poor, and jingle.

Esmeree seethes in the gathering room as the beggar yammers happily to her fry, Andelliza, and anyone else who cares to listen. His name is Blotch, he’s grateful that they’ve stopped hitting him, and could he please have a couple more coppers to hold him over through the cold, cold winter season nights?

Andelliza finds it amusing, much to Esmeree’s chagrin. While she keeps a safe distance from his smell, she sits and entertains his ramblings. Food is brought in, and the filthy bastard eats better than Esmeree has all week.

Blotch is delirious with happiness, cold gravy and cheap uinom wine clotting in his beard and clothes. He makes a hovel underneath the table and indiscriminately feels around on top to snag and bring down random morsels. He eats ravenously, but Esmeree’s practiced eye sees him skillfully squirrel away bits and pieces into his clothes for future consumption.

At long last, his orgy of food slows. Blotch groans and gradually tips onto his side.

Fearing that he might fall asleep, Andelliza speaks. "Now, Blotch. It is our pleasure to play host to your meal, but now it is time for you to fulfill your end. Tell us about the Crimson Rraakks."

Blotch peers at her through his layers of clothes, hair, and dirt. With some effort, he manages to regain his sitting position. A hand extends his bag, and his eyes look calculatingly hopeful. Andelliza cuts him off before the first jingle. "Do not press your luck, vagrant."

His face falls, and the bag disappears. He rocks his head, and begins swaying back and forth. Just as he begins to grunt, Andelliza snaps, "And don’t pretend to be mad."

Blotch’s swaying breaks its rhythm, and his eyes lock on Andelliza’s. After a pause, he stops and slumps. "OK."

"Now I believe we have an understanding, yes?"

Blotch’s eyes dart back and forth, taking in everything and everyone in the room. All avenues of escape are blocked. He grumbles, "Yes."

"Excellent." She smiles beautifully. "Now. Tell us about the Crimson Rraakks."

He groans and passes gas thunderously. "Not much tä tell. They pays Blotch. They tells Blotch they’ll be back. They comes back, they kicks Blotch some, they leave. But they still give him his coppers. An’ maybe they come back again, yäh?" He smiles gruesomely. Jingle, jingle. "And then the pretty girl comes. She kicks Blotch too, but she has no alms for Blotch. Poor ol’ Blotch." Esmeree snorts.

Andelliza displays a large silver coin. Whatever gluttonous glaze had been clouding his eyes is suddenly cleared. His eyes follow its every move as she passes it from hand to hand. "Now, Blotch," Andelliza purrs. "I wonder if you’re telling us the whole truth?"

Blotch hesitates, trying to discern the best answer to get that coin. "Wellll…" he hazards, "Ah…" Meeting her eyes, he bows his head, "Yes."

"Hmmn… Yes. But if you had given those Rraakks some information… what would it be?"

The coin keeps turning in her fingers. Blotch begins to fidget, looking from person to person in the room. "Ah. Well. It’s an attack. Ah… A big attack. Here. Soon. Everyone’s gonna die. I was supposed tä do a headcount first. Yeah."

"Really," Andelliza wonders. "Amazing. You are a man of amazing talents Blotch. Despite being so… distinctive in your appearance, I admit never seeing you in my Mill. When did you perform this headcount…" She arches an eyebrow.

"Yeah, well," he fidget violently, "Yä know… Ah…"

"Yes, of course," she sighs, waving him to silence. "Esmeree, do you know where these Crimson Rraakks are?"

Esmeree closes her eyes and feels for her charm. Nothing. It’s either evaporated already, or the boy is too far away. "No, Lady. We, ah… lost them when we chased down this beggar."

Andelliza blinks and purses her lips disapprovingly. She rises gracefully, and everyone in the room suddenly finds themselves standing at attention. With a small toss, the silver coin rolls across the floor towards Blotch. Every eye in the room (except perhaps for Andelliza’s) follows that silver treasure’s path into the beggar’s grip. "This man is free to do what he pleases. Make him welcome as a stick of this Mill."

Esmeree chases after Andelliza after she leaves the room. "A stick? The walkin’ dog’s a filthy beggar!"

Andelliza turns to regard her apprentice. She reaches out and pinches the fabric of Esmeree’s ragged pauper’s smock. It’s the only garment Esmeree owns, the only one she can afford. Little more than a shapeless sack with holes for her head and arms, when she first got it, its hem reached her calves; now, it’s mid-thigh. She is painfully aware that perhaps Blotch owns more clothing than she does. "I believe, Esmeree, that we are hardly ones to judge Blotch’s choice of occupations."

Esmeree is surprised by Andelliza’s inclusion of "we", but she remains silent. "Be grateful, girl," Andelliza continues, "that you have a face and body and stone that permits other avenues of income besides groveling in the street."

"What he said was obviously a lie! And you gave him a silver Guilder and made him a stick?" Esmeree is astonished.

Andelliza continues walking. "Of course it was a lie. A very, very poor one. He knew it. We all knew it. But when I offered the coin, he had to say something, even if it was a lie. That is his nature. When offered alms, he will do what he must to get them."

"How would you know that?" Esmeree sounds shocked, disgusted, "You just met him!"

The Lady inclines her head slightly, "I learned this by examining the man, watching his body, and most importantly, listening to him. Had you done this earlier, perhaps, you would have solved that particular riddle and avoided embarrassment on the stage?"

Esmeree’s face burns, "We did what I thought was best. Any other beggar woulda–"

"Probably killed you. Four children against a grown man?" Andelliza chuckles unpleasantly. "No, you mistook compliance for weakness, and you went straight for the weapons and fists. Somehow, luckily for you, this beggar saw more to gain in enduring your punishment rather than doling it out. I see no reason not to reward that."

"But he lied to us! You reward that? He didn’t know the answer you wanted, so he lied to you!"

Andelliza tries to sound patient. "And in return, the coin I gave him was as valuable as the information he provided." Opening her hand, she reveals a silver coin in her palm. As Esmeree watches, it evaporates into nothingness.

"So you tricked him! Good! But you still made him a stick!"

"Is there something wrong with that? Need I be consulting with my insubordinate apprentice on each admission to the guild?"

Tempers flaring, Esmeree chooses to ignore the warning. "But he’s nothing! A beggar! He’s garbage! He–"

Andelliza stops short and stares down at her, and Esmeree is suddenly reminded of how tall the Lady is. Her tone is cool and sharp, "Consider this, fisher. When three Brack street thugs chose to turn rraakk with you, you came running to me for solace. This man, however, bore the brunt of four of you and never broke. He picked his price and held his tongue until we met it, even at the risk of his own life."

The Lady’s words ring harsh in Esmeree’s ears, even after Andelliza has left her standing alone, "Tell me, which of you most deserves membership into this guild?"

***

"Where did yä get this one?" squeals Baran, his bright blue eyes flashing. Much to Esmeree’s chagrin, her fry have taken well to this Blotch creature. They hover around him, cataloguing his countless scars, rashes, and skin diseases.

Blotch squints and examines the indicated scar, depression, or pustule on his arm. "Hmmn… Seems to me, I remember that to be from the hot ball from a musketeer’s pistol." He scratches absentmindedly at the old scar and chuckles, "As I recall, he didn’t like me sitting in his lady’s doorway. You kin see where the green crud started growin’ there. That’s these scars here and here… And you see where the skin’s still mucky here?"

"Did the gun hurt?" asks Baran in awe.

Blotch shrugs as much as his broken body allows. "Oh, I suppose. Hard to tell nowadays, but I got the message." He smiles, baring less than a handful of teeth, "And I left as soon as he gave me my alms."

The fry sigh at the beggar’s bravery. Esmeree makes a rude noise, but Blotch pretends not to hear it.

Gwydd examines the beggar’s bare back closely. "Hey! Where’d yä get these?" His finger traces but doesn’t quite dare touch the three long scars that rake his back in parallel.

Blotch contorts his body in the vain attempt to see the old wounds. "Ah," he breathes, "Them’s me dragon claws!"

All the fry sit up at attention, even Esmeree. "What?"

"Yäh. Back when I was in Ymyl Gwland, yes. Up north, where things like that lurk."

"There ain’t na such fuckin’ thing as dragons," sneers Esmeree. "Those are scars from a lash."

The fry frown, but Blotch smiles condescendingly. "Yäh, that’s what the Medianists want you to believe. One dragon, uh? Gock the devil, Gock the dragon. He who is to consume the world at the end of time. Yes, that’s what the Medianists say. Yes, there are no dragons, girl."

Esmeree’s face burns, wondering if Blotch has discovered her Medianist leanings. "Where’d yä learn sä much about Gock?" she snaps, hoping to turn this thing around on him, "Yä a Medianist?"

Blotch clucks as he shrugs his rags back on. "Been around. Been to many places. Been many things, I suppose." Painfully, he rises to what Esmeree supposes are his feet and jingles his alms bag. "Now it’s about time I been collecting alms, uh?"

With that, he gathers up his hovel and shuffles away.

***

Esmeree hustles after Myrdd, her arms filled with musty-smelling scrolls. The air in the Marble Town neighborhoods doesn’t carry the stink of Crimson Rraakks or know-it-all beggars. She enjoys her time up here, clearing her head of the Mill, even as Myrdd does his best to fill it up.

"It is very opportune you arrived, Esmeree," he exclaims as he weaves his way through the Marble Town crowds. She hurries after him, dodging the occasional kick or box from passersby. Such learned villeins aren’t used to seeing grubby little girls in their midst.

"I had just acquired these wonderful manuscripts," he continues, gesturing back at the load Esmeree currently bears, "There are examples of some delicious old EroBernac and Synesi texts."

Esmeree sighs and rolls her eyes. She doesn’t need an ember to foresee long days of reading ahead for her.

In his excitement, the old man actually begins to outdistance her, as she struggles with her awkward burdens. She doesn’t really catch up until he’s arrived at his makeshift home in the alleys of Marble Town. These streets are safe and comfortable to her, an appropriate second home when life in the Mill becomes too harsh. She dumps her load of scrolls on the pavers and collapses onto Myrdd’s blankets. She begins to feign sleep, snoring loudly.

Ignoring her, Myrdd sorts the manuscripts. "These will be most educational, Esmeree, although some of the subject matter may be… questionable."

Esmeree perks up and stops her snoring. She remembers the time Myrdd gave her a scroll of Synesi poetry. Quickly deeming it a good tool for learning the cultural mores of the pagan Synes Republic, he didn’t finish reading it. What started out simple–a straightforward coming-of-age tale about a well-to-do Synesi girl–ultimately became a lot more entertaining. Of particular interest was the detailed description of her indoctrination into the Synesi cult of Connus, goddess of love. So adept she became at physical pleasure, she was ultimately kidnapped by Ulbandi pirates, where she earned her meals by daily pleasing the crew. The delicious deprecations she suffered at their hands made for many a night’s role-playing by Esmeree and her friends.

"Questionable?"

"Well," he grimaces, "Some of these old Synesi texts can contain rather lurid passages. Rest assured, we won’t spend much time on them."

Leaning forward, she strains to read the titles on some of the scrolls. She can immediately discern the blocky Synesi text from the flowing EroBernac script. "Lurid?"

Myrdd pauses in his work and looks at the girl. "Now, Esmeree. We’re talking about the most deviant of subject matter. The Synesi are not Medianists and most certainly have no regard for morality. They see nothing wrong with writing about things a proper young Medianist maid should never expose herself to."

She feels those juicy tales slipping away from her. She scrambles for purchase. "Well," Esmeree hazards, "We can’t shield me from everythin’. Perhaps a careful analysis of the texts is in order, under yer guidance, to place everythin’ in the proper context?"

Myrdd frowns and shakes his head knowingly, "Esmeree, believe me, I understand your curiosity. You are entering that age where such things seem entertaining. And some of what you say makes sense..." He sighs and shuffles through what Esmeree predicts to be the most deliciously unsavory of manuscripts, "We shall review them." Esmeree smiles. "And afterwards, we shall observe the most strict of Medianist cleansing prayers and ablutions."

Esmeree frowns, not certain if she achieved a victory or defeat. She sits in silence for a long time, watching Myrdd busy himself with his new treasures. Unbidden, her mind compares Myrdd with the other beggar that has invaded her life, Blotch. There are few similarities, and she is relieved to discover that Myrdd is favorable in most comparisons.

"Ah look, child," Myrdd exclaims with surprise and he picks up a stray scroll, "This doesn’t belong here!"

"What is it?"

"Ach, an old Brack text." He opens it and peruses its lines, shaking his head, "Looks like a merchant’s manifest. Nothing of import, though it is very old. 100 years at least." He clucks at the frayed condition of the parchment’s edges before putting it back down and continuing with his work. "We can examine it later. Perhaps you would benefit from some lessons in old Brackish."

"Myrdd," Esmeree ventures, "Would yä say I speak Brack pretty well?"

Myrdd suddenly beams, "Child, you’d be welcome in the courts of the highest gwledig or rix."

She frowns thoughtfully. "Maybe that’s the problem."

"What’s the problem?"

"Just a word I’ve never heard before."

"Ach," he spits, "You mean that horrid boduus word?"

"Nooo… I’ve heard that word before. Another one."

"Well," he waves it away, "It is probably not important then. Probably something filthy, beneath you."

"Have yä heard the word dewines? Do yä know what it means?"

Myrdd hesitates in his work, obviously relieved. "Dewines? Oh yes, I know that word. The older Bracks sometimes shout it during Burning Times. You had me concerned for a moment!"

Burning Times? Esmeree is suddenly tense. "What does it mean?"

"It means sorceress, enchantress. You know, a witch."

He picks up his first reading sample, "I think we’ll begin with some fine religious poetry from EroBernd..."

Esmeree has already run away.

***

She huddles in the cramped space. She’s not as small as she used to be, but she still knows her share of secret places in the Mill. Between two walls, she wedges herself in the spaces created by pipes and beams. Dust from old plaster, wood, and pipe shavings clog her nose and mouth with each breath, but she is still relatively comfortable.

Two years ago, when Hair Thumb was in charge, this place would have been wet and musty in the fall and spring, freezing and smoky in the winter, and insufferably hot in the summer. With the Lady in possession of the Mill, it is merely cramped.

It is almost as if the building itself is healing. Holes in the wall, originally gnawed perhaps by rats or kobolde, are now nearly sealed over. As Esmeree patiently chips away at the fresh plaster, she wonders how Andelliza’s ownership could affect a building in this way. Perhaps it is as the Lady said, every thing has a spirit. Wherever the Lady is, she strengthens its anima.

She pauses and peeks through the hole. Beyond is Andelliza’s gathering room. Soon, she hopes, the Lady will call upon her sticks, and then she will learn the Mill’s plans for dealing with the Crimson Rraakks.

Now, however, she knows something the Lady does not. When the Rraakks invaded her territory, they were looking for a dewines. Either Andelliza or Esmeree was their target, and she doubts three boys could have taken the Lady. Esmeree was their target. Her heart flutters. They risked venturing so close to the Mill simply to capture one girl.

She carefully wipes the plaster and sawdust from her knife before putting it away. Perhaps that is why they only hit her on the head and didn’t use the gully. Perhaps they wanted her alive.

This implies so many things! The Crimson Rraakks know who she is! Why would a street gang of Bracks and Chroani know anything about her? Some beggar gave her away to them! What were they going to do with her?

The distant memory of terror chills her. She remembers being a smaller, younger girl, sitting on the floor of a warehouse, bound and naked. The hands of Craig hold her up as the old Medianist emissary examines her. She wonders if the Crimson Rraakks are working with the Medianists just like Hair Thumb was.

Esmeree sighs, getting bored. Who knows how long Andelliza will take to call her next meeting? She might have to crawl back up here tomorrow. Maybe next time she should bring some food…

Finished with her excavation, she bides her time playing games with her ember. It began as an exercise from Andelliza’s lessons–exerting a subtle influence upon the automatic summonings of her ember–but she quickly discovered her that ember responded to gentle proddings in a strange interactive way. She didn’t dare tell the Lady about this out of fear of what she’d say about its strengthening animus.

Placing a piece of wine cork on a rafter, she feels her ember summon, and the cork slowly begins to roll towards an edge. She concentrates, summoning on her own, and the cork rolls in a new direction. The ember responds, countering the move.

Happily, Esmeree plays her games. She giggles quietly with each unexpected twist and roll. It’s a stupid game, but it’s nice to have someone trustworthy to play with. At least she knows her ember would never hurt or betray her.

Deep down, she knows Andelliza would be very displeased. Such blatant feeding of her ember’s animus is unacceptable, but Esmeree relishes the idea of her ember becoming alive. The homunculus could become her protector, a lifelong companion for a lonely little girl.

It comes as a great surprise, however, when big hands burst through the hole in the wall and peel the plaster apart. Esmeree screams and nearly falls. Drake crouches before her, hands on knees, looking at her with some amusement. Beyond, the Lady fumes in her chair. Esmeree swallows, excuses forming and dying on her tongue.

The cork rolls off the rafter and falls to the basement far below.

"Is there some reason, fisher, that you choose to invade my privacy in this way?" The Lady sounds less than pleased. Esmeree feels very small before her.

"Be gentle, Lady," laughs Drake, "Largesse is a much-overlooked virtue here, and the children do tend to infest these walls like mice."

Andelliza sighs and glances at him, "Yes, but they are fry. Hardly important." She levels a hard look at Esmeree, "You know, Drake has dealt harshly with the sticks who would spy on me… But you are a fisher, Esmeree, and my apprentice. Somehow… I expect more from you."

Esmeree is speechless. Expect more from her? Esmeree didn’t know anything was expected of her, beyond her weekly dues. "Excuse me, my Lady?"

Andelliza waves it off. "Oh, never mind. Now. Tell me. What was it you hoped to see from in there?"

"Perhaps she hoped to witness certain carnal encounters between you and I," mutters Drake.

Andelliza sighs, "Then she’s eavesdropping in on the wrong room." She fixes Esmeree with a hard stare, "Speak, girl. What do you want? Don’t you have enough lessons for the week?"

Esmeree hesitates, looking from Drake to Andelliza. "I know what the Crimson Rraakks were after when they came to the Foreman Neighborhoods."

Drake glances at Andelliza, who smiles. "Really," she purrs. Her perfect nails draw pictures on the wooden arms of her chair. "What could that be?"

Esmeree steps forward. "They were after a dewines. I know what that means now. They were looking for a witch." Andelliza raises her eyebrows. "Lady," Esmeree sighs, "They were looking for me!"

"Really?" Drake looks surprised as he folds his hands behind his back.

"I think," Esmeree swallows, "I think it is the same as what Hair Thumb was doing with the Medianists. Looking for fry with embers!"

"You think they were going to turn you over to the Medianists? You know this for certain?"

"No," Esmeree hazards. "I’m only guessing. I don’t know if they were with the Medianists."

"Maybe," Drake suggests, "They had the same design, from different sources?"

"It can be as simple, Esmeree," Andelliza says coolly, "as looking to enslave you. The guild that possesses a witch can become very powerful."

"The Black Ember guild already has you, Lady," observes Drake, "Perhaps the Rraakks were looking to even the odds?" Esmeree’s breast swells at the off-handed compliment. To compare her with the Lady, even in potential!

Andelliza shrugs off the suggestion as something of no import. "Esmeree would hardly even the odds, right girl?"

Esmeree’s eyes drop to her feet, abashed, but she will remember Drake’s compliment. "Yes, Lady."

"Does there have to be a connection between the Rraakks and the Medianists?" Drake asks.

Andelliza waves off the question, tired of the subject. "Who cares why they wanted to take our fisher. What matters is that they tried and failed." Her pale blue eyes become hard, "And we know one of our own turned her over to them."

"That vitchoor, Blotch!" Esmeree’s fists clench. Perhaps now she can dissect him in the way he deserves!

"No," Drake corrects, "Not Blotch."

"But I saw him! I saw Rraakks talkin’ to him."

"Yes," Drake nods, "That’s exactly what you saw. And therefore, you didn’t see the other Rraakk talking to the other beggar."

"What?"

Andelliza sighs, "The Blotch creature was a decoy, stupid girl! With the Rraakks harassing him, you didn’t see the real transaction go down."

"How would you know?" she demands.

"Because we’re not stupid!" Andelliza retorts. Esmeree’s face flushes with embarrassment.

"They knew we were there?" she asks quietly.

Drake shakes his head, "No, probably not. If they did, they’d probably have just tried to take you again. I think they went through with the diversion in case one of the Lady’s people was nearby. And as it happened, there was."

"What are we going to do?"

"We?" Andelliza looks surprised.

"They tried to take me once!" Unbidden, her ember summons. A piece of plaster spins and rolls across the floor. Andelliza watches it carefully with her eyes. "The Medianists tried to take me! The Rraakks tried to take me! I’m your apprentice! Doesn’t that matter to you? Someone in the Mill is helping them!"

"Esmeree," Drake cautions.

"No!" Esmeree is shaking. "I’m not goin’ to let this happen anymore!"

"Esmeree," Andelliza barks, "Stop being foolish. We aren’t prepared to deal with these Rraakks yet, and you’re not ready to take them on by yourself." Esmeree gasps, frustration and rage threatening to erupt. "I recommend, child, that you go out, gather your fry, and concern yourself with making money for the guild, yes?"

Esmeree shakes, stunned silent. Slowly, she turns and stalks out of the room.

When the door shuts, Drake steps forward and crushes the rolling plaster under one boot. "If she succeeds…"

Andelliza smiles. "A nuisance is removed, and my apprentice becomes more valuable."

"And if she fails?"

Andelliza’s smile looses its humor as she settles into her chair. "A nuisance is removed. Nothing more."

***

Esmeree seethes as she drags the blade of her gully knife against the stone masonry. The blade is steel, of Brackish make, and is of relatively high quality by Mill standards. Now she does her best to sharpen its already deadly edge.

She’s already sent Baran off to find the others. As soon as they return, the games will begin.

A pile of trash shudders, and Blotch rises from his hovel. "Pretty girl? Alms from the pretty girl?" Jingle, jingle. "Oh, it’s you," he actually sounds disappointed.

"Fuck off, Blotch," hisses Esmeree. "I’ve na patience fer yä." She brandishes the blade in a very serious way.

The beggar cowers, prostrating his hands in supplication. "Don’t hurt ol’ Blotch. He don’t do nothing!"

"As far as I’m concerned, creature, stick or na stick, yer the cause of all me problems! I don’t care what Drake and the Lady says!"

Blotch hesitates. "Ah, troubles with the Brackish boys, yes? Crimson Rraakks. Baaaad boys, but they give Blotch his alms. Offer him more fer later. Maybe you give Blotch some too?"

Esmeree hisses and gives him a kick before returning to sharpening her knife. It is as her fry arrive that the thought occurs to her. What did Blotch just say? She stops and wheels on the beggar. "What do yä mean, later? When later?"

Blotch smiles and offers his filthy bag. Jingle, jingle.

© John Lawson 2001