As he zigzagged through streets and alleys and up crumbling steps, he climbed higher and higher away from the port. Finally, just as the second bell of Eventoll rang out, he passed under a pointed arch formed by the crossing of two large hammers and entered the large central square of Anvil. Tall buildings towered on all four sides. To the left was the Crown Mynt, where coins of the realm were forged and protected behind walls of iron and steel. Directly ahead was Judgement Hall, which was the bailiwick of Anvil’s sheriffdom. Flags hung to either side of its doorways, one emblazoned with the Guld’guhlian crossed hammers and the other with the crown and sun of the Kingdom of Hálendii.
Rhaif kept his face even lower as he skirted to the right, keeping to the milling throngs as shifts changed from day to night. He also hunkered lower, with a hunched back and a slight bend to his knees. He didn’t want his above normal height—due to his mixed blood—to make him stand out among the squat Guld’guhlians around him.
Still, he swore he could feel the piggish eyes of Archsheriff Laach peering down from his high office at those gathered below, searching for a certain thief in the city.
Just your imagination, Rhaif. Quit your shivering already.
He reminded himself that he had escaped discovery for nearly a fortnight after the train from the mines of Chalk had finally ground to a halt in Anvil’s yards. During the chaos of its unloading, he had stolen away, hurrying along the length of wagons, passing the two giant sandcrabs who steamed amidst the chaos of the yards as their armored carapaces were washed down to cool their heat. Their driver calmed them further with the soothing melodies of bridle-song, each gentle note winding its control down to the knot of brain beneath all that armor and muscle.
It had been a sad, plaintive melody, fitting for Rhaif’s return to Anvil. He had even paused to listen, to eavesdrop, recognizing the loneliness etched in the driver’s refrain. It had momentarily captured him, as surely as it had the pair of giant crabs. While such a talent was rare and well compensated, the bearers of such a skill were often shunned by others. As cities spread and lands were consumed, such a gentle connection to nature, to the wild corners of the world, was something to be scorned, a remnant from another era, when men struggled against tooth and claw, against ice and fire.
After a time, under the cover of steam and song, Rhaif had slipped off and vanished into the smoky shroud of Anvil. Of course, he had not arrived alone. The mystery that was the bronze woman had followed his steps, sticking to him like lodestone to iron.
She continued to remain as much of a riddle as ever. It didn’t help that he had to keep her locked in his room at a whorehouse near the port, where few questions were asked and no one bothered to look too closely at one another. She had also grown strangely sluggish, not speaking a word, barely moving, the glow in her eyes ebbing to a dim shimmer. He suspected it had to do with the smoky pall blanketing the city, shielding the sun’s blaze. As far as he could tell, the Father Above fueled her in some arcane way, and with His face mostly hidden here, she had faded like a Klashean rose in winter.
Her state was worrisome, but not as concerning as the threat of their recapture. He had considered simply abandoning her. It would have been far easier for him to escape Guld’guhl without that bronze anchor dragging behind him. But he could not. He would not be free now without her aid back in Chalk. He pictured what would have happened if he’d been caught: his impaled body staked outside the mine, being burrowed through by vermin and pecked at by carrion birds.
I owe her my life.
Still, that was not the only reason. Even when she was sluggish and dull, he caught her staring at him many times, studying him with unblinking eyes, as if continually evaluating him. But it was not a cold inspection. In the subtle pinch of brow and downturned lips, he recognized a deep sadness. He knew that look. When he was a boy, still an apprentice at the guild, he came across a bony dog that had been half-trampled by an ore cart. It was still alive, but near unto death. Still, he took it to his room in the Guildhall, bundling it up, using a soaked rag to ease its panting thirst. He could not say why he did that, and certainly Llyra, the guildmaster, questioned him, insisting there was nothing he could do. She was proven right a day later. The little cur died in his lap, nose tucked under an arm, but those amber eyes had never looked away from his face, even as the life faded from them. He knew his expression then was not dissimilar to the bronze woman’s now as she contemplated him, some mix of grief and worry rising from a well of tenderness.
So, how could I abandon her?
At times, he even wondered if she was silently emanating some version of bridle-song, entrapping and binding him to her. Or maybe he was romanticizing it all just to cover up the real reason: his own greed. She was undoubtedly of great value and could likely be ransomed for her weight in gold.
Ultimately, no matter the reason, he refused to leave her behind. It was why he had crossed the breadth of Anvil to reach the central square. He lifted his scarfed face to study the windowless towers to the right of the Judgement Hall. It was the city’s main gaol and dungeons.
He headed toward the steps leading to its arched doorway. An iron portcullis stood presently open, its bottom edge lined by sharp spikes, like the fangs of a great beast. He gulped at the sight, unnerved, fearful of being swallowed once again by that monster. Two years ago, he had languished in a hot cell for nearly an entire moon as he was tried and eventually sentenced to the mines of Chalk.
Still, he continued toward the steps.
Can’t be helped.
As he passed behind a soot-blackened statue of the chained god Yyrl, he shed his light-cloak and let it drop behind him. He continued back into view of the square, regaled now in black breeches and tunic, including a matching half-cloak that bore the crossed gold hammers of Anvil. It was the habiliment of a prison gaoler. It had not been hard to acquire. He had simply followed a turnkey into one of the portside’s many whorehouses. Rhaif had waited until the man was grunting in rented passion, then slipped into the room and took what he needed. Not even the bored woman on her hands and knees, skirt around her waist, had heard his soft-footed entrance into the room. Luckily, the years in Chalk had not tarnished his skills to move unseen and unheard.
Still, more skill was needed from here.
Rhaif reached the steps and climbed toward the open portcullis. He finally shed his scarf, knowing faces could not be masked in the gaol. Shortly after arriving in Anvil, he had dyed his hair to a straw-blond, and during the past fortnight, he had grown a crust of beard, presently oiled and also dyed.
Still, as he crossed under the spears of the portcullis, he fought down a shiver, recognizing the irony of his trespass.
After escaping one prison, here I am breaking into another.
* * *
STANDING AT THE bars, Rhaif took in the sight of the gaunt figure inside the cell. It was as if a shadow had been given form, a sculpture of polished ebonwood. The man, who had to be several years younger than his own thirty years, stood with his back to the cell door. He had been stripped naked, except for the collar of iron forged around his neck. His black skin, from buttock to shoulder, bore a map of white scars from the bite of whips. His head was darkly stubbled. He was plainly not allowed to keep his head shaven here, which was typical of the Chaaen, both men and women.