Shadow Weaver Book 2: Song of the Naga

Chapter 6

It is early evening when we ride into the Hybourg. Murky half-light seeps over the dirty streets. The last time I was here, snow piled up beside stooped houses, and the cold softened the awful smell. Now, even from the outskirts of town, the rotting egg and blood-like stench are enough to make my stomach roll, and try to throw up my lunch.

My only point of reference in this labyrinth of lopsided black-bricked houses, and shelters of animal skins hooked up to brick walls, is the giant Pit in the center of the town. Its oval shape resembles a coliseum. The high roof is flat, the enormous walls black, and long slit windows circle the top of it like the fangs of a monster.

We rent a room in a tavern in what must be the nicer part of the town because I see the occasional woman walking alone. The tavern is airy and clean, and the overhanging rotten smell is kept at bay.

The landlord shows us to a room with two single beds, but I lay my fur on the floor. Almost seventeen years on a forest floor means I do not sleep well on a mattress.

We dinner downstairs, tucking into the hot baked pies with abandon. Both of us eat double rations. The steamy, succulent meat, gravy, and carrots, the sense of being on the move, being with Tug-it is enough for warmth to bloom in my chest, and for a short while as we sit there, I am happy.

At one point, I smile at Tug stuffing his face, gravy dribbling down his chin. He stops, catching himself.

I laugh. "Deadran would be disappointed," I say. Deadran, the Prince's tutor, spent much time when we were all traveling to Lyndonia teaching me how to behave like a lady to disguise the real reason I was traveling with the Prince.

Tug pulls at the edge of the tablecloth and daintily wipes the corners of his mouth. "Much better," I say, and he laughs.

Though there is only one hour of true darkness and the long twilight evenings are mild, we set out into the streets wearing cloaks to conceal our knives, and hoods raised to shadow our faces.

Tug must have chosen an inn as far from possible from Brin because we walk twenty minutes through the Hybourg. The tension in my body ratchets up until I'm ready to ping. Hundreds of bright and violent memories rip through the mind-world in layers of color, noise, and aggression.

After a group of men has passed, arguing and jeering, Tug pulls me into an alley.

"We are almost there," he says. "When we get inside the drinking house, you do not slow for anything, you keep moving, keep your eyes forward, do not stop if you see Brin, and I'm sure I don't need to tell you the importance of him not seeing you."

I nod, nervousness transformed to humming alertness.

We slip through a second alley and exit onto a wide, cobbled road. Lodgings line either side, two and three stories high. The road curves and vanishes into a tunnel. Soft orange light glows from many of the first and second-floor windows. The pavements are piled up with wooden crates and sacks of rubbish. The buildings all have colored glass stuck into the walls.

This must be why Brin likes this part of town. Brin wore crystals and colored glass to protect himself from the likes of me. In the weeks I was with him, he never stopped believing that my sight was a dark gift, poisoning and manipulating those in my presence. The number of crystal pendants around his neck grew with his conviction that Tug was falling under my spell.

Tug leads the way to a building with an awning over the front windows. I follow him through a wooden door. Heat, ale, and sweat assault my nostrils, while loud conversation pounds in my ears.

I pull my hood further over my head. Men push and shove around us. I follow Tug with my head down. An image flashes in the mind-world, clearer and sharper than anything else.

Tug has spotted Brin. From the corner of my eye, I take in Brin's half-slumped bulk as he slurs something at another drunkard. The webbed tattoos on his face are unmistakable.

Two men sit close by, drinks untouched. Each has a tattoo shaped like a skinny sword with curved prongs on their neck. Within seconds we exit the tavern into a dark courtyard. I raise my sleeve to my nose to filter the stench. Tug leads us down a passage that is so narrow, he has to turn sideways to get his shoulders through. We come out at the side of the building back onto the cobbled street with the archway. Without speaking, we walk briskly toward the Pit in the distance.

I focus my awareness on the mind-world behind us, checking whether anyone is following. After a few minutes, I relax. There is no one.

Tug seems to come to the same conclusion because he starts talking.

"Tell me what you saw."

"Brin drunk. Two gang members watching him."

"They were Sai," Tug nods. "What else?"

In my mind, I retrace the few seconds it took to walk through the tavern--the revelers, the disheveled women sitting on their laps, nothing unexpected.

"What about the young man with the top knot at the bar counter?" Tug asks.

I shake my head.

We keep walking, and Tug doesn't elaborate. I wonder about the man, but I am more interested in where we are going. I hope we are going to the Pit. It's why I'm here, after all. Not for Brin.

An image bursts into the mind-world, like a face-slap jolting me to attention. It is an exact duplicate of the street we are on right now. Tug is asking me to pay attention, drawing my awareness to an alcove where a figure lurks, smoking. The figure is watching a lit tavern on the opposite side of the street. A sign swings across the tavern doorway advertising bed and boarding.

"It is where Brin usually stays," Tug murmurs. "And as it is also under guard by the Sai, I imagine it is where he is staying now."

"They're watching to see he doesn't vanish without paying the debt?" I ask.

"He's not got his wits about him to vanish."

'Then why are they keeping such a close eye on him?"

Tug nods, as if agreeing it's an important question. "Before we get any closer, I need to find out what Brin has got himself into."

A large part of me hopes Tug will abandon his companion; that he will decide it is too dangerous to help him. It was only after Brin's injury during the bird-men attack when we had to leave him behind that Tug and I could start trusting each other.

But Tug is not a man who takes the easy option. His friendship with Brin is grounded in some loyalty with hidden roots. Some event that means Tug owes Brin eternally, or at least until he has saved him from a deadly gang who wants to chop him into pieces.

"I could search Brin's memories," I suggest. "It is the fastest way to find out what's going on."

"No, you would need to get too close to him. Besides, with the alcohol he's consuming, his recent memories are probably shot to pieces. No, something doesn't add up. I will have to find out what is going on another way."

Hi! Sorry this chapter's a little short, but the next one is longer--promise! Have a great weekend.