I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain - back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.

I have been one acquainted with the night.
- Acquainted with the Night - Robert Frost

~Chapter Nine~

~Crumbling~

They talked about fishing until Murtagh got back.

Fabiola couldn't quite believe it herself, but then again, boys will be boys, she supposed. Fishing, and the ports of Teirm. Eragon, she imagined, had harboured the wish that every farm boy and houseboy and young lord or noble did – to take the seas, and shrug off every responsibility he would grow up to have and pile it all on his family's doorstep. Tasting the tang of salt and freedom in the air, hear the strong shouts of orders and the firm slap of waves on wooden hulls.

'I was going to take a ship to Teirm from Surda,' she told Eragon, conversationally, as she prodded a dying part of the fire. 'Go on one of those smaller merchant ships. I don't remember why we couldn't,' she said, not entirely truthfully. But it was okay; it hadn't been a direct question, so it didn't count. She could remember fairly well. She wasn't meant for the sea. Her polluted blood couldn't stand the rocking of the hull; she broke into a sweat when the thought crossed her mind – one fevered night below the cabin, vomiting incessantly to the panic of Ambry and the distress of the ship's crew. Among the Varden, she was a name, if not a real person. To have it writ down that Fabiola, daughter of Arphenion, son of Vrael had died on their ship of a sickness of the sea was inconceivable. They made port after one night and she was released onto land. She had rarely had the healthy colour of other children, ensconced as she had been in the prison of Tronjheim. A few days on the solid ground, though, her nurse noticed something miraculous. She became alive in the wind and sun. Rain delighted her. She chased breezes and the solemn eyes sparkled with something akin to true youth. There was a rosy tint to her cheeks.

'I liked Teirm. I would have liked to stay there,' Eragon said, wistfully, picking up a stick to prod the fire, like her.

'It's a nice place,' she agreed, her voice becoming eager. 'Got some very kind people there, and some beautiful buildings. Did you see the library?'

Eragon shook his head. 'I thought I'd been all over the town … but I never saw it.'

'I suppose it's easy to miss,' she said, suddenly dismissive. 'All underground and hidden away. Gem of the city, though.'

'Did you go there often?'

'N- not as often as I would have liked,' she said, carefully.

'There was a girl in the sewing workshop who had a lover there, though,' she grinned. 'I was – well. Something of an errand girl, I suppose. When I wasn't doing all of the tedious work no one else wanted to do, I was running through that town delivering messages, receipts, badgering for money, collecting supplies – exchanging love letters,' she shook her head as if at the folly of youth.

'It sounds exciting,' Eragon smiled, looking as though he wouldn't have minded a stint himself. She was about to nay say it all and make him understand what a pain it had been, but something in his face made her stop, and reconsider.

'I suppose it was – maybe not as a job though. Maybe for a day or two it would have been novel, but it was tiring. Not a huge town but running from Gerod to Izza and back to Petrona before noon wasn't a piece of cake.'

'Just because you were the youngest?'

'Oh, I wasn't the youngest. But I was the fastest. And the most independent. The most trouble, I suppose,' she said, ruefully, rubbing her neck. Eragon couldn't help but trace the sharp lines of her body from elbow to neck; clean and neat in the firelight.

'Why were you troublesome?'

'Do you ever do anything except ask questions? The words blurted out in exasperation, but she didn't wish she had recalled them. He grinned sheepishly.

'Brom seemed to think not.'

'I think he was a far wiser man than they give credit for,' she smiled, shaking her head.

The two were quiet for a moment. Fabiola was about to start talking about how yes, she had been incredibly troublesome, when Eragon's words slipped out almost against his will, it seemed.

'Did you know Brom?'

'Didn't I already tell you I didn't?' she answered, comfortably, though oaths screamed in her ears again, stronger than before, and she knew she wouldn't be able to deny them, again.

'Yes … but – I –'

She toyed for a moment with what to tell him, adjusting the boots a little too large for her, and tucking her brother's cloak straighter around her shoulder.

'No, I didn't,' she admitted at last. 'Though apparently he knew my father. Years ago, twenty or thirty or more.'

'Were they friends?'

'I don't know,' she told him, as softly as him. 'My father was a quiet man, they tell me. But then again, Brom was known for making unusual friends,' she said, the words tinged with just a drop of darkness. Both shivered as a wind blew, and Eragon scooted closer to Saphira, who was dozing beside him.

'I didn't know my father,' Eragon admitted, in almost a whisper, staring into the amber flames. The way he said it made her feel almost on edge. She didn't think this was common knowledge. Why did he trust her with it? Why did everyone trust her with their secrets?

'If it makes you feel any better,' she ventured, 'Neither did I.'

A tiny smile raised the corners of his mouth.

'My mother gave me to the keeping on my uncle, soon as I was born,' he whispered to her, as if he needed her to know. 'She was a rich lady, he said. Wore a net of pearls in her hair.'

There was an uncertain pride in his voice. She wanted to show him his pride was correct. She nodded firmly.

'Sounds like a high-class lady.'

'I don't know …' The boy trailed off, before meeting her eyes, the uncertainty more pronounced. 'She wouldn't tell anyone – even my uncle, who the father was. Who my father was.'

He was angrier now.

'It's unfair. I would like to know, if she did,' he said. And she understood. There was a huge stigma attached with not knowing the identity of your pater, even more so, she presumed, when you were a Rider into the bargain. Still though, she wanted to tell him, knowing wasn't that great, if there was a story involved. There was no fun in being someone's daughter if that someone was the son of someone who had failed the cause.

'It's a tricky situation,' Fabiola agreed reluctantly. She put herself in Eragon's noble mother's shoes for a moment.

'Still. Did you have a good life with your uncle?'

'Yes, I did. He raised me as a son, a brother to his own,' Eragon said, pride burning in his voice. She half-smiled.

'A door closed when your mother put you in care, but a window opened elsewhere. I'm sure she had a good reason for handing you over. A mother's love makes the best decisions,' she said, wisely, sounding a thousand years old. She smiled lopsidedly as she thought of it. Her own mother had had all of the best intentions, but they didn't last too long when you were dying of childbed fever and grief.

He smiled at her, she opened his mouth to ask a question when she and Saphira turned at the same time. A figure was racing from Gil'ead, bent so low over his horse, it was impossible to tell who or what he was. Eragon and Fabiola scrambled to their feet, and mounted steeds, ready to flee at once should the rider prove a foe.

oOo

It wasn't as if he wanted to impress upon them how frightening the situation was, but he had to make them understand this was no casual or childhood acquaintance.

He hated this city, and it was his first time there. Smoke flooded his nostrils, and the alleys were slimy with refuse, vibrating with shrieks. He subtly pulled his cloak tighter to better disguise his cloak better and hide his traitor's face. He shouldered neatly between two men and slipped down the crooked walls between two blocks of building. The alley widened and women washed, filthy children played among puddles. He was grateful he had denied Fabiola's request to come with him, as soon as the girls in the doorways began reaching out their almost skeletal figures and croon to him. He shook them roughly off. He had lived in Uru'baen for a while, after all. Cities were all the same. He had visited Dras Leona too, and it had been worse there. All the girls looked the same, gaunt and pale with big fishy eyes and not enough clothes. Rouged lips and rents in their skirts. Fabiola didn't need to see that. He had been right in his choice.

Though he would have liked the company.

'Help me,' groaned a girl, probably younger even than Eragon from her patch curled beside the wall. And he did feel pity for that one, with her sad eyes, tangled hair, bare feet and baby, cradled in her lap. Her face spoke volumes to him, it was achingly open with desperation. He knew – just knew – that she'd offer him anything for a scrap of bronze. He pulled a coin from his pocket – half a silver sou and held it out to her.

'Where would I find Dormnad?'

She looked lost for a moment, and terrified.

'I don't know, sir,' she said, in a breathy voice, before turning her eyes to her sisters from their poses in the shadow.

'Maria, Goethe … Who's Dormnad?'

They exchanged hurried conversations before a redhead from across the street threw a hip in their direction.

'Isn't he that drunkard who lives over the Weeping Well?'

Murtagh glanced quickly between them, looking confused and pitifully young. He nodded his thanks and tried not to look back at the little girl and her child on the ground at his feet, even when she whispered, 'Thank you, sir …'

The Weeping Well was somehow just where everyone would expect a fellow who looked as suspicious as Murtagh did to spend all of his time. But in truth, he hated taverns. Beer was bitter, and when there were so many voices, how could you pick out the one death-threatening you? With that much movement, you'd need supersonic hearing to detect the whisper of fabric as someone moved to stab you in the heart … Those were the odds Murtagh had had to deal with. And that was that.

He had no idea who he was looking for. He shrunk within himself, a silent yowl of distress at the possibilities. The tavern was packed to the rafters. And really, what were the chances of the man being here? Would he not have gotten bored of waiting around here every night in case he should be called on? Murtagh slipped to the bar and gruffly ordered the local beer. He pulled the pint towards himself, content to nurse it until he was satisfied to go in for the verbal kill.

He presumed he'd be looking for a man something like himself; one alone and huddled over a drink, a wariness for life unspoken but understood in his orbs.

A hand slapped his back.

'You new here, lad? Looking for someone, eh?'

Murtagh drew himself up stiffly. The patronizing man had small, piggish eyes, and a fuzzy reddy-brown beard. He took a generous gulp of his beer and raised a beefy arm to swipe the foam from the coarse hair on his face. He blinked expectantly, and Murtagh resisted letting his lip twitch with displeasure. Surely he could see that Murtagh was one of those imposing men children the world over were warned not to upset? Why could everyone who mattered only see his father's face, and everyone else see nothing at all?

'No, thank you,' he replied frostily, but politely. The man raised an eyebrow disbelievingly.

'You sure, son? I don't mind putting a query about, if you need a hand.'

Was he hoping for some monetary reward? Murtagh wondered idly. That was why he had been approached, was it not? Ah. He felt the hand twitch his cloak aside with the gentleness of a lover. A thief to his other side, accomplice of the friendly looking man offering his assistance. Murtagh thought that a man with a little more ale in him mightn't have even noticed, a man who hadn't always been on guard. The thief to his right was experienced, but not with Murtagh's type. They were a rare breed.

'Well, actually sir,' Murtagh began, casually, unnoticeably palming a knife from his belt, and sliding it to where it needed to be, 'There is one are of help I may require …'

'Yes?' answered the red-haired man, eagerly, his focus directed onto Murtagh intently. Murtagh snatched the hand with the grace and speed of a viper, sliding his knife to brush it gently, and shifting his cloak so that his hand and a half sword was clearly visible on his hip. The ginger man gasped, and blinked; finally seeing the cold fury in Murtagh's eyes. Trying not to make a scene or draw any more attention, he stood, twisting the arm neatly, fear pounding in his head. No tunnel vision affected Murtagh. His mind was an open plain, scanning for dangers and flickers of movement. The thief wasn't old, ferrety looking, with a twitching nose and pale, pale blue eyes like his father's had been. He gave another vicious twist for this, and the ferrety man squeaked.

'Both of you, leave. Leave!' he hissed, pushing the man away and stalking to the other side of the room, his heart pounding slowly, but frenetically. Yet another attempt on his life.

What would Eragon have done?

He focussed on the wood-grain and gouge marks on the table before him, sequestered as he was in a dank corner, and tried to be reasonable – after all, it was something he was good at. The two men had left, in a frightful hurry, as he'd expected. Where did he go from here?

For a moment, he felt a stab of grief over Tornac. His tutor; a tough, weathered, wiry man would have a thousand ideas, but only voice the wisest. Murtagh yearned for his measured pauses, for the silences in conversations when he would narrow his eyes and think quietly for what could seem an unutterably long time – in those days before Murtagh learned patience. Tornac would advise him in a low voice, shadowing him at his shoulder, but letting Murtagh lead the way – after all, it was Murtagh who was his master, in the formal sense of the word.

But Tornac was dead.

Murtagh twisted from the turn in his thoughts instead, thinking logically on what to do, and plotting how to execute his plan. Two hours later, far from his false lead, he was knocking on a door in a wealthier part of this town, feeling snobbishly more at home. (That was a lie, he was feeling as awkward as ever – there was nowhere Murtagh felt at home. But at least this area recalled clearly where and how he had been raised.)

A young woman answered, with corn-silk hair and eyes as blue as the sky. She cocked her head as she took him in, from his dark hair and broad shoulders to his boots and cloak. She was a pretty girl, and she knew it too, as she cocked a hip and twitched a beguiling smile; a pale and infinitely more wholesome echo of the girls in the alleys. But the connection was made in his mind; and Murtagh could only feel ill and uncomfortable. He looked past her.

'Be this the house of Dormnad?' he asked, adopting a more countrified tone than his distinctive city speech. The girl didn't look discouraged.

'Aye, Master ….?' She paused luxuriously, waiting for a name, as he remained stonily quiet. She wilted a little.

'Who should I tell him is asking?' she barked, crisply, folding her arms. He looked her full-whack in the eyes and said, 'Tell him it's one who would have him answer his call.'

She nodded and shut the door rudely, flouncing away in her pale blue gown. Murtagh wondered idly if she'd tell anyone or just leave him on the doorstep. He had to be honest, he thought, scuffing his feet against the cold, if there was one thing he hated, it was the complexity of the Varden situation. All of that messing about with code words and half truths and meaningful phrases – and of course, in Fabiola's case, those double tattoos. He despised it; all of it. It was as though they were playing at war.

The man who opened the door confirmed the suspicions that Murtagh had been cultivating since he had been directed away from the criminal heartland at the town's centre. He was an older man, grey where his hair had once been blonde; it seemed, with owlish blue eyes, paler even than his daughter's. Tall, thin, and dressed in a fine outfit which still spoke of humility, everything that needed to be said about him was said as he stood before Murtagh – with a baby boy on his hip.

xXx

A/N: I hope this isn't too boring ... the beatings will be soon, I misjudged my timing. ;) Thanks to Restrained Freedom for the continuing lovely reviews - I'm starting to think you're the only one out there, love! D:

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- Wraithy