UnNamed Read online

  She tilted her head and pursed her lips, no mistake about it. She fucking hated him.

  Okay, it wasn’t just the comment about parenting. He might have possibly trashed her room at her brothel on one of his drunken rampages. It wasn’t just overindulgence, he was running a distraction mission, but keeping that in confidence with his client was a condition he couldn’t break. He ended up paying her for the damage, but she had pouted and said she lost three days’ wages. Which he knew was bullshit and told her so. He wasn’t great at scoring points with her and he didn’t care to.

  Brat’s mom was harmless. At least she would be up until the point where she found her kid hiding in his cloak. Brat had gone stock still after seeing Mom swishing around, but he could feel the hammering of the kid’s heart everywhere they were pressed together. He was an expert at schooling his face. He wasn’t exactly an expert on smiling (okay, not at all) so he didn’t bother trying. Fuck, why did you always get an itch somewhere you can’t scratch it?

  “Bastard…” she drawled, her voice cheery yet dripping with contempt.

  “Whore,” he returned with the same aplomb, wincing at the sudden pinch of Brat’s nails in his side.

  “I have a name!” she spat back. “It’s— “

  “Lovely, I’m sure. Equally unimportant. And not what you stormed over here for,” he added drily.

  “Stay away from my kid. I suppose it’s wishful thinking to think you’re just passing through,” she pressed, exaggerating a sneer in case he missed her initial disgust. Gods, whores were theatrical…

  “No one ‘just passes through’ Orendon. It’s next to nothing,” he reminded her. Another reason he hated coming here. You basically announced you had a purpose and saying otherwise was a dead giveaway you were hiding something. It certainly wasn’t a vacation destination.

  She edged closer, squinting her eyes with a shrewd tilt of the head and he resisted the urge to pull the kid closer. She was dangerously close to ‘her kid’ now. As twiggy as Brat was, they wouldn’t pass a touch test. He was solid muscle and the kid was all bone and the squishy skin of prepubescence.

  In that moment, two things happened. He primed himself to pitch forward in a coughing fit to force space between them and the sky opened up suddenly for another downpour. Brat’s mom squealed and ran back to the eaves of the tavern she’d sashayed out of and he was never so thankful for the blasted rain in his life. The moment her back was turned, he pulled the kid into the nearest alley and dumped Brat against the wall, leaning against the opposite.

  Brat shivered from the onslaught of cold rain and fumbled to get their own rain cloak out of their pack. He knocked the kid’s hands aside and yanked them around to do it himself, shaking it out and fastening it around the kid’s neck before buttoning up his own.

  The kid was acting weird now, refusing to meet his eyes and he couldn’t get a read on it so he focused to the far end of the alley. No matter where you were in the city, alleys were ripe for criminals so sticking around was a bad idea.

  He held out his hand and flicked his fingers towards his palm in a ‘gimme’ gesture. Again, the kid looked frozen with uncertainty, so he let out a quick sigh.

  “Follow me,” he elaborated before taking off in a jog down the narrow alley. He didn’t go full blast because as quick as the kid was, there was no way their stamina would last. Kids could be masters of reflex, but usually zipped about in short blasts. He couldn’t afford to let the kid get snatched by some wandering slaver or hurt.

  He never said as much, but it was technically a protection mission throughout. Whatever else he had to do to accomplish things, he didn’t throw anyone under the bus. He always found a way to protect assets. If you were short-sighted and let someone die to save your own ass, you lost that option for later. Call it cold, but it still fell under a virtue, so fucking semantics.

  Pulling the kid into a back kitchen entrance, the cook’s assistant was busily plowing one of the kitchen maids, his body undulating and his hairy bare ass on display. He heard the kid squeak-- bright red with embarrassment and looking ready to run back out into the rain-- but he grabbed Brat’s collar and shook his head to stay silent, half-dragging the kid past them and through to the adjoining room.

  “Your mom headed back in the tavern, so stay sharp,” he murmured quietly but with command. “There, up the servant’s stairs. There’s a fire escape on the second floor. Open it when you get there.”

  “Where the hell are we going from there?” the kid whispered in that stupidly alarming rasp of a whisper. He shot the kid a look that told Brat to just do it. Orendon was always going to be a labyrinth of places he would do best to avoid.

  He stood at the door, making sure he could block Brat from being spotted, then took the small winding staircase with surprising ease.

  Brat had opened the window but stood there unsurely.

  “Don’t scream,” he ordered the kid and Brat barely had time to clamp their mouth in confusion before he tossed the kid between the buildings and onto the balcony of the tailor’s shop. It was off of an empty attic that no one used, so as long as the kid didn’t start stomping around, no one in the shop would notice.

  He leapt the window frame and propelled himself over. He grabbed the doorknob in an attempt to open it.

  “Shit,” he grumbled. The door was unlocked but it was clear it had been nailed shut. He leaned out over the rail and saw the old iron ladder was still there and swung the kid over to it. Brat had the common sense to keep their surprise down to a sudden gasp and headed down the ladder. They ended up in another alley, so it was another jog for the main street. He slowed his steps before heading into the foot traffic there. The market was thin here but it would get more crowded as they went. No one stopped business for rain or there wouldn’t be any. It would be stupid to veer off the main road because rain also hid crimes better than night. Better to make slow progress for the Palace rather than risk it. They would need their energy for the shitstorm ahead.

  “You never told me what you’re after,” Brat complained.

  “And I don’t intend to. You’ll do as I say and you get to keep your head,” he gritted out through a menacing smile that was meant to be reassuring and fell short.

  “You wouldn’t trust anyone just because they said so,” the kid grumbled.

  “Indeed. Now shut-up. You’re too noisy,” he reminded the kid, his mood already declining as he felt stickier under his rubbers. He’d probably need monkey grease to peel his balls away from his leg after this.

  Markets were always saturated squirming places, an abstract of people, smells, and chaos. It was more like a stew than a blend; nothing stood out because everything stood out. Faces would swim into view the moment they collided, only to fade forgotten into the miasma once again.

  It was moments like these when he realized the short yappy one he traveled with, no matter how rough around the edges, was in fact just a kid. Brat’s eyes lit up as they flittered between stalls, a whirlwind of feet and fascination. If the kid lingered too long and didn’t stay ahead of him, he’d whack them like a stray dog, setting them bouncing on an erratic course once more. Brat wasn’t long on the grudges, just followed the slight with a frown then chased after the next shiny thing.

  Brat seemed to look at the world with a conflicting combination of shining innocence and the darker side of street life. Kids that didn’t know anything else never quite lost that childish hope. If it can’t possibly get worse, the alternatives are always better.

  His own life hadn’t been as hard as the kid had it. At least not at first. Once upon a time in a land faraway, he’d been a brat with a silver spoon. You didn’t get to shine that bright and not tarnish quickly if you wanted to survive. At first, he hadn’t been sure he wanted to. Did a damn fine job of running head first into danger. Fighting a Gardell, for one, hadn’t been one of his finest decisions. Then again, neither had the alternatives.

  He had to smack the kid’s hand twice more as they made to sl
ip some cheap trinket into their bag. The third time, he scooped Brat up by the collar.

  “Get the guards on our ass and I’ll give them your hands myself,” he warned, levelling his dark eyes at the kid.

  “You won’t… Not while you need me to pick the locks,” Brat grumbled. The locks, right… It had been a stupid lie, but one he couldn’t back out on without coming up with another to fill its place.

  “You won’t need feet,” he shot back with a frightening grin, but the kid was already flying off to another street vendor.

  Brat had skidded to a halt at the mouth of the next alley and his senses stood on end. Slavers? Couple of teenagers fucking? Impossible to tell what the kid was frozen up about. The rain was breaking once again and the sun was peeking out. When the kid spun in his direction as he caught up, there was a shimmer of golden light in Brat’s pale blue eyes that almost stole his breath. Felt like his ribs drew shut in a vice, all that blinding sparkling naïveté. The kid was a butterfly that came bearing bricks.

  Without thinking, Brat reached out and grabbed his wrist, tugging on him to follow. His feet felt large as they slapped on the street, moving only with limited mechanical function until he anchored himself, the kid jerking to a sudden stop as if letting go hadn’t been an option.

  “I told you we’re sticking to the main street,” he growled, but the unsettling feeling he had only grew now.

  Had this place always been here? He thought he knew the city like the back of his hand, but couldn’t remember ever being here. To makes matters worse, it wasn’t damp like nearly every other part of the city despite its lack of full sunlight.

  No one was here for that matter. He looked back and could still see the bustle of the market, people passing. They splashed through the still wet street there, upsetting the one deep puddle in view. No one looked down the alley and he had the oddest urge to yell to see if they could. Of course it was stupid; they were right there.

  He almost knocked the kid over when he jumped and spun around at Brat’s gentle tug, but the kid’s reflexes kicked in and they ducked. His hood fell back, his dark eyes wary as he narrowed them at the kid to hide the rapid rising of fear and uncertainty that made his heart race.

  “The hell is this place?” he asked, hating how far away it sounded. It damn near betrayed the fragility under the surface.

  The kid beamed with an odd sort of pride that kids seemed to get when they have the jump on you. He went to pull the hood up again, but Brat pulled him further in before he could, once again making him conscious of whatever weakness was plaguing him here.

  “Pretty cool, huh? Can’t believe no one comes here… It’s not exactly a palace, but I like coming here to think,” Brat added with a chirrup. It wasn’t false bravado; he could see that the kid genuinely felt safe here, but didn’t share the kid’s blessing of having any useful thoughts himself.

  He lifted an eyebrow, casting much doubt as to how much ‘thinking’ the kid actually did either.

  At the end of the alley, it didn’t get less ominous. The place had broken into a large area with a ruined edifice, a forgotten hub of the city where about seven other alleys led to this spot. And the magic number is eight… Curiosity laced in with the sense of danger and he allowed the kid to pull him towards the building dripping with the long fingers of ivy. It was haunting in its architectural beauty despite its clear neglect. Did I just hear women’s laughter?

  Once inside, he could hear the sound of water drops, but it wasn’t from a leaking roof. The floor dipped down in a familiar basin and there was a large spigot on the wall where the dripping came from.

  “A bathhouse… How long has this been here?” he asked, hearing the echoes of his voice thrumming around them. The usual roughness of his tone softened in undisguised wonder.

  The kid shrugged with indifference.

  Right. Stupid question.

  “Dunno. No one ever bugs me here though. Swear I’ve had people chasing me, right on my heels, but I always end up coming here and no one follows. You think this place is magic?” the kid asked hopefully.

  It felt odder to him that the kid would want to share this place with him. There was a degree of trust he needed from his clients to get a job done, but he didn’t need or want this kid trusting him. He wasn’t anyone worth looking up to and he sure as hell didn’t deserve to be trusted.

  He wanted to tell the kid they were full of shit, but words failed him. Magic was long gone, if it ever was. Yeah, the Flame might have been an oddity, a remnant of that time that he had to keep hidden, but come on. Magic? Orendon was just some shit capital in the middle of nowhere with…

  A really big secret. He knew what the hell was here. He’d almost gotten in deep shit digging for information here, not knowing just how much the wrong sort had been searching for the Flame. He had to head back east, all the way to the damn Archives, the biggest library in the Anders territory, just to find any mention of it.

  It read like a damned fairy tale. All this talk of Rain Maidens and Gates and the key to salvation. It didn’t make much sense then but he got all he wanted to know—the Flame of Arkhades was a key to whatever the hell was in the King’s Vault. Whether or not that was another stinking metaphor, the kid was definitely not just some common street rat. Something was going on here, but he was balking at the word ‘magic’ and not coming up with a single better word to brush it off with.

  “Bullshit,” was all he could mumble before his eyes landed on a roughly painted symbol he had almost missed while he was too busy being thoroughly creeped out.

  The kid followed his eyes, but they flicked back to his with dull indifference, perhaps edged with frustration that he wasn’t being captivated by the same things. He stepped past the kid and undid the buttons on his cloak, drawing the blade out. It glowed with fire, but it was muted here and he could see the symbol matched the one welded into the Flame’s surface. He wished he hadn’t skimmed past the rough meanings of the runes littered through the books.

  Brat had followed, getting on tiptoe to frown between the blade and the trepidation on his face.

  “Is that the same symbol?” the kid piped up. It sounded too loud to his ears and he clenched his jaw to stifle another urge to jump. The fuck was making him flinch like a little girl?

  He shook his head, jamming the dagger back into the sheathe, the matte surface of the bone swallowing the glow.

  “Why the hell did you bring me here?” he asked Brat with suspicion, but the kid’s confusion was genuine.

  “I thought we could take a shortcut past the market. You said you wanted to avoid trouble, right?” the kid explained as if expecting a reward for not being a pain in the ass.

  He stifled the urge to ask if this place was really the safer option. He bobbed his head in a grim nod and Brat sped towards the side exit as if knowing he was anxious to leave. The kid waved for him to follow and once they traversed a different hub back towards the people, the feeling of otherness passed once more.

  As if by magic. Damned if he was going to admit it.

  He tugged the hood of his cloak back up on instinct and he caught the kid frowning at him when he did. As curious as the kid was, Brat never asked about his scars, even seemed disappointed when he covered them again. He didn’t do it out of vanity. People tended to remember scars like his and being remembered wasn’t something he cared for. He made it a point not to work for the same person twice, so he sure as hell wasn’t trying to start a customer loyalty program with scars he could use as signboards.

  The kid flicked a second glance over at him and he knew it was coming before the mouth started flapping.

  “Why are you always covering your face?” the kid asked, balking a little when his eyes darted over and his lip curled in a menacing snarl. So much for never asking. Brat held his gaze though and he couldn’t help but be impressed. Maybe the kid was getting some hair on their… well, wherever the kid grew hair. He was on the fence with this one.

  “Move,” he said, mea
ning to be gruff, but sounding annoyingly gentle instead.

  The kid was oddly obedient, although stomped off in a dramatic display that reminded him too much of the kid’s mother. Last thing that kid needed was to take after her.

  The markets tapered off as they passed close to the Central part of the city. It was almost an instant change, as if a newer, more loved part of humanity was pasted neatly against the remnants of the other. The buildings were suddenly nicer, the people in clean tailored clothes. It wasn’t rich by any means, but this was the part of town that seemed to say they gave slightly more of a shit.

  A merchant with a sad smile on his face was packing away his table full of daggers in carved wooden sheathes. It was still early in the evening but city laws didn’t let vendors sell weapons after certain hours.

  Brat ran a finger over the surface of one with a sense of awe.

  “Wow, I love the design on this one…” Brat gushed, but he bent down beside the kid, squinting at it with skepticism.

  Beautiful wood but he wouldn’t exactly call the natural grain a ‘design.’

  The merchant’s tired eyes lit up at Brat’s words, becoming liquid with a strange mix of sadness and joy. A lot of layers behind that sticky veneer on the surface though. Some people call that sort of person ‘complicated’; ‘pain in the ass’ was more like it.

  “What an eye you have! Uluvean wood! My… my daughter liked that one too,” the merchant said, an odd hitch in his voice. There was a lie there, but that was a side note. That other word was the one he was interested in…

  “Daughter?” Brat asked, seeming either offended or fascinated. Not that word, but close…

  “Yes, yes… She drowned while visiting the docks last year…” the man said, drifting into melancholy. There it was… The daughter was real, but why lie about how she died? The merchant shook the sadness away and smiled at Brat holding out his hand. “But how rude of me! My name is— “