2 - A Stranger And An Offer
For an hour, Maira searched the streets of London, asking anyone still awake if they might have seen some sign of the carriage, her brother, or any commotion at all. No one had witnessed a thing. It was as if the city had swallowed Farhan, the carriage, and the peddler whole. She asked at the hospitals. No boy matching Farhan's description had been brought to them. After a time, she was so worn out she began to stumble on the cobbles. Reluctantly, she decided it was time to go home and face Father with the news.
It began to rain as she trudged home. Maira turned her face up to it, letting it stream down her cheeks. Normally, she loved the way the rain washed the streets clean, but tonight, the cool shower brought no comfort. It only added to the tears already tracking down her cheeks.
She had to pass the street where the accident had happened on her way home. With little hope, she surveyed the scene. Nothing.
Wait, not nothing. The shiny thing lay in the street, the object Farhan had picked up. Rinsed by the rain, it gleamed from a crevice in the cobbles.
Cautious now, Maira trotted into the road to retrieve it. She scooped it up, letting the rain wash the rest of the mud from it, then examined the item in her palm in the weak lamplight spilling this far into the street.
A ruby. An enormous, gleaming ruby set in gold. A veritable fortune in her palm.
Maira held her breath and looked around. Someone must be missing such a priceless thing. If she were caught with it, a girl with her lowly station, she'd surely be taken for a thief.
Could it belong to the peddler? He, too, was absent from the street as if he'd never been, but the jewel's setting looked much like the bracelet she'd seen on the strange man.
And what of that business about switching and summoning? Why would he say such an odd … thing …
Voices reached her ears, raised in argument. They spilled from the alley that had been behind the peddler's cart. It had been empty when she met the peddler. Not so now.
"Is 'e one o' them soldiers for the king, d'you think, Robbins?" The words were slurred. Soused as a pickled hog's foot, Maira realized.
"He ain't got one o' them fancy hats," responded Robbins, just as slurred. "No hat at all, see? Look how he slights our new George. No hat, an' lyin' in the rubbish without so much as a by-yer-leave." Cackling followed, echoed by Robbins's companion. "Wake up, you disrespe'ful dog!"
There was the sound of a boot thumping something soft, then a grunt, then a metallic clatter.
"Back off!" shouted a new voice. A chill ran down Maira's back at the ferocious authority in his tone.
The two inebriated men gave wordless shouts of protest. "A'right, then, man, no harm meant," said Robbins, now with an oily, solicitious note. "We only wanted to check you'd make it home afore the king finds you missin'."
"I suggest you worry less about me," said the new voice, now sounding breathless, "and make yourselves scarce."
Robbins and his companion scuttled out of the alley so fast, Maira barely had time to rush into the shadows thrown by a nearby fishmonger's shop. They hurried away, tottering, down the street.
She drew a trembling breath and mentally measured the distance from here to home. Not far, just a few streets over, but she'd have to pass that alley to get there unless she wanted to go far out of her way.
Well, she thought, drawing herself upright, she'd never been called a coward, and she'd learned a little about defending herself from her sailor father. Three men might have presented a problem, but she was fast, and could certainly outrun one. She crept along the street, using the overhang of the buildings as cover. When she reached the alley, she made to rush past it.
A groan issued from the alley. The man sounded as if he were in agony.
She paused. Could he, too, have been a victim of the carriage accident? "Hello?" she called.
No one answered.
For a moment, Maira stood in the mouth of the alley, contemplating her options. She could ignore it. Most residents of London would—at least those with so dubious an objective as to be out this late on the roads. But what if he were a soldier to the king, and he were truly hurt? What if this man knew something of Farhan's fate?
She crept into the alley, being sure to stay well back in case of attack.
Sitting against the crumbling brick of the baker's shop, holding his belly, was a man in a mail shirt and gleaming pauldrons. The weakening rain pattered against the metal with tiny pings. His leggings and boots were black, well-made, and expensive. The cobbler for whom she and Farhan worked had never sold any boots so fine. Certainly fine enough for a royal guard, perhaps too fine. But he wore nothing like the attire of King George's guards.
He looked up when her footsteps echoed in the alley. His hair was pale and neatly short, but she couldn't see his eyes well in such shadows. Seeing her, he struggled to his feet, holding his belly with one hand and reaching toward his belt with the other.
A scabbard, she noted, and loaded with a sword.
She dodged back a step. "I mean no harm," she said quickly.
"Neither did they," the man panted, watching her with a wary posture.
She wanted to ask about Farhan, but seeing the man hunch over, she paused. "Are you injured?"
"Nothing a drink and a rest won't cure," he said, then lifted his hand from his belly to rub at his forehead. "Perhaps two drinks." He scanned the alley. "What is this place?"
"Leeside Street," she responded. "You're quite a way from the palace for a soldier."
He squinted at her clothing, then took another look at his surroundings. "What palace?"
"Why, Buckingham, of course," she said.
He scowled at her. "Is this London?"
Was he mad? Had the carriage hit him, after all, and addled his brain? She took another step back, eyes on his sword hand, which hadn't moved from the weapon's grip. "Yes," she said.
The man cursed, loud enough to make her blush, then shook his head. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't speak so coarsely in front of a … well." He looked her up and down.
Maira nearly choked in offense. In tatty men's pants and one of her father's old work shirts, she could hardly be taken for a lady, but she was no ruffian, either. "Do you need help to get back to your quarters, or should I leave you here in the heels of bread?" she demanded, indicating the leavings the baker had tossed out with the night's refuse. The memory of Farhan pricked her, and she fell instantly silent again. Little Farhan, missing, possibly dead, and she still had to break the news to her father …
The stranger seemed to notice the change in her demeanor. Perhaps something in her face gave it away, though the alley was so dim she could hardly understand how he'd have seen. He straightened, still holding his belly. "Is something wrong, miss?"
With her? she wondered, watching how he clamped his arm over his midsection. No, not with her. With this stranger, perhaps, injured from recent assault. Certainly with Farhan, bright, curious Farhan, who was lost and probably dead and whom she might never see again. Her throat tightened. "I must … I should …" She backed away, tears now pooling in the corners of her eyes so that she could see even less of this strangely dressed man.
"Wait," he called, holding out his hand as if in supplication. "Please … I don't know London. I don't know … how to get home." He panted a little, then touched a hand to his head. "I don't even know how I got here."
Prickles danced across the back of Maira's neck, and she pictured the peddler in her mind. She tucked the ruby surreptitiously into a pocket of her pants.
Rubbish, indeed. This was simply a soldier who'd drunk too much and wandered away from his barracks. More than six miles from his barracks.
He didn't sound drunk. He sounded in pain.
She canted her head. "What is the matter with you?"
"My head. It aches … like I've been struck with a mallet." He groaned, then reached his hand out once more. "I swear to you, I mean no harm. Please, you must help me find a man named Digory Kirke … if he even exists now. He's the only one who can get me home."
Maira narrowed her eyes. "You aren't from London, are you?" she asked suspiciously.
"No," he admitted. "Why?"
"London is a city of millions," she said, quoting an oft-repeated fact from her father. "Finding one person would take a miracle."
He drew a breath and straightened, wincing and making a motion as if to protect his belly again. "Then it's Aslan to whom I must appeal."
The name intrigued her, but it gave her no more clues than did this Digory Kirke. She shook her head. "I must go," she said.
"Please," he said again. "Just"—he clutched at his head—"guide me to a drink of water, and I'll never bother you again."
She stared at the man—at what little she could see of him. "Were you injured? In an accident, or just the fight with those men?"
"Neither," he said.
Not the carriage, then, she realized. "All right," she said at last. "A drink of water, and then I really must go. My brother … is missing." The words pained her, not quite a lie, but not the total truth.
The man straightened, his attention now completely on her. Even in the dim light spilling from the street, she felt that laser stare, but somehow, it wasn't at all frightening. Not like the peddler. He gave her a bow, very much as if she were a lady, and she felt a blush creep into her cheeks. "If you'll do me the honor of a drink," he said, "I promise help you search for him."
Definitely not from London. Possibly not even from this time, she decided, eyeing his attire and considering his formal speech. He followed her back out to the street.
"My name is Maira," she said, carefully pronouncing it for him—My-ee-ra—then turning back as they reached the cobbled walk out front of the baker's.
His eyes were blue, as blue as the ocean, even in the gaslamps. She'd never seen a man carry himself with such confidence, never seen such a lovely face except in paintings. Maira caught her breath.
"My name," he told her, bowing again, "is Aedan. Well met, Miss Maira." He said her name perfectly, then held out his hand.
She slid her hand into his, and his warm fingers closed gently around hers. He gave her hand a gentle shake.
She managed a nod, then whirled around, her stomach in knots. She thought frantically of the ruby in her pocket, then the peddler, then decided the faster she got this Aedan his drink and bade him goodbye, the better. He might have promised his help in the search for Farhan, but she very much doubted their introduction could be termed well met.