Empire of Shadows

9.

His shoes had disappeared at some point, but Jameson was thankful to have his life. He smelled of sewage and rot and limped noticeably. The open sores on his feet gathered dirt, but it was fine as his feet were numb with cold. He wiped a hand over his face as his thoughts turned back toward Samson.

It was his fault that he was dead. If he hadn't been such a coward and turned the attention on himself, the guards would have found him instead. He would be the dead one, not the innocent man. A small sob escaped his lips at the thought. He was so lonely now.

Not that he was alone now. The small city had stood as a beacon of light to welcome his exhausted body to rest. But he hadn't thought of the people.

There were people on the dimly lit city streets, but not the kind Jameson wanted any association with. At night there were only a few select brands of people awake on the streets, ladies of the night, philanderers, petty criminals, and insomniacs. All of which brought their own brand of dangers.

A woman in a tight fitting green dress called to him, adjusting her black stockings. Red hair fell over her shoulders and thin pink lips grinned back at him. The women pressed fabric against his skin, rich satins and lace—even silk. For a moment all Jameson wanted was to fall into their embrace and sleep. He didn't have a kip to his name, no idea of what the year was, or how old he was. But he had his body and his life for now and that was worth some sort of money. To him and those who knew what he was.

A hand grabbed his arm and a woman with kohl painted eyes smiled, the smell of burning incense filled the night air. She was beautiful, her dark hair trailing down her back in a braid the color of a raven's feathers. For a moment he was captured in her eyes, the sound of her voice, like velvet. What was she saying? His head couldn't wrap around the words. She wasn't speaking English, that's what it was. She was speaking the old language—Rajsend. And she was still calling to him in her silken tones, dragging him deeper into the light behind her.

She didn't know that his pockets didn't contain a single kip and that on his back he bore the mark of a Greenwater criminal. But inside looked safe and warm, it probably even had a warm meal. His feet ached to lie down and rest, his stomach gnawed on his backbone at the possibility of food. The woman was closer to the light and he could see that her face was covered in a blue shimmer, hiding the thick makeup that caked her face and hid the scars from disease. Jameson shook his head a little, eyes widening. 

What was he doing here?

Jameson jerked away, stumbling further into the streets as the women called out to him in various languages and accents. No. No more blood. No more death. He ignored the calls of the blue lady as he walked down the cobblestone streets.

What criminals! What absolute w—

For a moment he forgot that he was a criminal too—a murderer of all things.

He abandoned his judgment and pressed forward, always glancing behind him to the women. They had turned their attention to a new mark, a man twice his elder who held up a few glittering kips.

Jameson fell to his knees in the streets as his knees gave out. He hit the cobblestones hard, the air jarring from his lungs. He took a breath, bowing until his head hit the ground. How long had he been walking? It was night now, which meant he'd been walking in the sewers for over a day. When he'd emerged from the dark sewers into a river, it was dusk. His feet were covered in open sores and he'd walked perhaps a mile upstream in the freezing water so that his scent wasn't traceable by the dogs. He'd stolen clothes from an empty house and buried the dead guard's uniform. A dog went after him before he had time to eat anything stolen from the house. But at least he was in new clothes, regardless of how ill-fitting they were. At least he was somewhat warm.