Guardian of the Night

3

The light of the moons fell through the window, draping their cold fingers across the thick covers. Off to the side, Amaini, her daughter's child stirred as the second tap at the window informed Bilain that it was time to rise. The Time Knocker did not tap a third time, moving on to the next home to rouse a worker for the coming day. If someone didn't hear them after the second tap, that was their own responsibility.

Bilain slid out from beneath the covers and shivered, scratching her backside as she stifled a yawn, not wishing to disturb Ranaie, her husband of long, hard-suffering years. They had met as children, grew up close by, drifted apart and then found each other again before Bilain had joined the army. Ranaie had remained at her side through those years, fathering two children that survived, two that did not. He had said nothing as she returned to her soldierly duties after the births and had said nothing when she had joined the Watch. He was a good man. A good father. A good husband and she loved him deeply.

The child had awoken, staring up at Bilain as she dragged on her clothing, ready to depart across the street to the Watch House to begin her day. Half-dressed, Bilain crouched beside the cot and tucked Amaini's growing hair from her forehead. Paying for a wet-nurse for the child had stretched them, but it was yet another duty that Bilain could not shirk. Things had eased on the money front since Amaini had started to eat solid food.

Not six months ago, the child's mother, Bilain's daughter, Alaien, had died from an outbreak of typhus. She had died alone, her husband having disappeared one day, no-one knowing whether he had died or run away. Bilain, of course, had had her duties with the Watch keeping her busy. Ranaie, the tavern. Only a kindly neighbour had saved the baby, too, hearing her cries in the night. Bilain had never expected to lose a daughter at this late age, nor of becoming a parent again, but, sometimes, expectations rarely tied with the realities of life.

Amaini didn't appear about to cry and wail and, if she did, Ranaie would stir himself from bed and see to their granddaughter. A good man. Bilain leaned in to the cot, kissing Amaini's forehead before looking out the window. Still dark, the first fingers of sunlight a good few hours away, the city could almost look peaceful. That, as she knew, was an illusion.

Out there, while people slept, others continued with their nocturnal lives. Thieves would ply their trade, prostitutes would still search for that one last punter before they turned in for the day, sleeping while others awoke. Bakers would have started their day at an even earlier time. Dung collectors would wheel their carts down to the riverside, there to drop the waste into the waters that would carry it far away, only for more to await collection before the day had dawned.

Bilain had slept little. Tossing and turning, getting up to drink a finger or two of Yürzlend rum, hoping it take her to sleep and stop her mind from wandering back to the events of the previous day. She fastened her boots, sitting upon a rough wooden chair, and paused as her husband stirred, turning in his sleep, hand reaching out to the side of the bed she had left. She resisted the urge to kiss his forehead, also, not wishing to disturb him any more than she had.

Even at this hour, people milled about in the streets. Many of these people had no jobs, a number of them no homes. They moved from one end of The Sprawl to the other for no other reason than they needed to keep moving. To keep warm, to work muscles that threatened to collapse beneath them through want of food, or from illness. It wasn't Bilain's job to care for the vagrant population, but it burned not to. She had little money of her own, let alone to give to the many hands that needed it.

Inside the Watch House, no-one would know it still night outside. Candles blazed, people passed from room to room, sat around the small hearth, heating up hands and bodies before returning to patrols, or home after long shifts. The cells were full, as usual, but would empty as each of the occupants sobered up enough to wend their ways home, or to wander the streets awaiting the moment they could enter their local again, ready to start the process of drinking to excess, only to end up here, in the cells, once again.