Garrett crouched in the doorway, watching the stranger warily. Tall,
cloaked and hooded with black, he was almost part of another world. People
stared straight through him, moved aside to let him move past but never
looked at him. Just acted like he wasn't even there.
Builder, he was hungry. He hadn't eaten in three days. What if the Hammers caught him? The man was probably important from the way people avoided him. But important meant rich. Besides, something drew him to the stranger, a sense of...similarity, that was the only way he could put it. A connection. He'd have to risk it, or forever feel like he'd missed something. Eternally wonder about the man. Already, the chance was slipping through his fingers like sand. He merged into the shadows and became one with them. Close your eyes and disappear. Don't be afraid, they won't hurt you. Reaching out a slender hand, he closed his fingers round the purse and..."that's not for you." Not for you, not for you, not for you. The voice had strange harmonics that seemed to echo in his mind. A feeling of motion rocked him on his feet as he felt something change. Suddenly dizzy, he glanced round. He was watching a man he knew very well.
Keeper Orland leaned closer, "find the key". Garrett nodded, remembering. He was on a mission, tagging along behind his mentor. Not a starving, homeless pickpocket, still mourning the death of family. He was nameless, faceless, a shadow. A Keeper neophyte. He crept along the corridor, eyes darting round, ears pricked for the faintest sound. Leaning against a door, he prised a nail out of a torch bracket and twisted it in a lock. Slinking into a dark corner, he waited for the footsteps to recede. But they didn't. A shadow cast on the wall, a whistled tune. 'Half a pound of tupenny rice, half a pound of treacle'. It had been a part of his childhood. Night soil carters hummed it, girls sang in their games, his mother... no, he couldn't think about that, not now.
The guard's attention was focused upon another shadow, a small figure stealthily creeping past Garrett. Grinning like a tiger, the man fell in behind the thief, toying with him. The neophyte loosened his sword in its sheath. Should he intervene or shouldn't he? Another human, perhaps a year older than him, was about to die. But the Keepers never interfered. Drawing the blade, Garrett stared down at it. He hadn't killed anyone with it before. Hadn't seen its bright surface stained and corrupted. If he bloodied his sword now, would he feel guilty later? Would anyone wait for the guard to come home? Would anyone stare out of the window, desperately searching with their eyes for a figure in the gloom?
Would the Builder condemn him for such a cold act? Did the Builder even care? Garrett still clung to a hazy idea of religion and prayer, a nail to hang his convictions and hopes on as he stood over the void of mindless servitude, the demesne of most Keepers. Chaos and balance both sought to claim him as he watched the smooth, icy metal blade.
A cold brutality in the guard's face. Keeper concepts and laws. Compassion. Ambition. Mercy. Chaos, swirling in his mind and dominating his thoughts. Balance, what a sick joke. There was never balance in life. Something wrenched inside him, forced his hand. Blood. Red as a sunset, dark as the shadows, horrifying as the whispers in your ear, when you're all alone. The dying man's knife arced through the air, a ribbon of liquid silver that glittered like a thousand broken rainbows. A thin line of scarlet on his arm, a searing pain, sharp as a spear point in the sun.
Sheathing his sword, he wound the hem of his cloak around the wound and staggered out of the shadows. A flicker of white caught his eye, and he knelt to pick up a scrap of paper. Hill Street. Fenning. Jason. The words echoed mockingly in his mind as the ground beneath his feet blurred.
Builder, he was hungry. He hadn't eaten in three days. What if the Hammers caught him? The man was probably important from the way people avoided him. But important meant rich. Besides, something drew him to the stranger, a sense of...similarity, that was the only way he could put it. A connection. He'd have to risk it, or forever feel like he'd missed something. Eternally wonder about the man. Already, the chance was slipping through his fingers like sand. He merged into the shadows and became one with them. Close your eyes and disappear. Don't be afraid, they won't hurt you. Reaching out a slender hand, he closed his fingers round the purse and..."that's not for you." Not for you, not for you, not for you. The voice had strange harmonics that seemed to echo in his mind. A feeling of motion rocked him on his feet as he felt something change. Suddenly dizzy, he glanced round. He was watching a man he knew very well.
Keeper Orland leaned closer, "find the key". Garrett nodded, remembering. He was on a mission, tagging along behind his mentor. Not a starving, homeless pickpocket, still mourning the death of family. He was nameless, faceless, a shadow. A Keeper neophyte. He crept along the corridor, eyes darting round, ears pricked for the faintest sound. Leaning against a door, he prised a nail out of a torch bracket and twisted it in a lock. Slinking into a dark corner, he waited for the footsteps to recede. But they didn't. A shadow cast on the wall, a whistled tune. 'Half a pound of tupenny rice, half a pound of treacle'. It had been a part of his childhood. Night soil carters hummed it, girls sang in their games, his mother... no, he couldn't think about that, not now.
The guard's attention was focused upon another shadow, a small figure stealthily creeping past Garrett. Grinning like a tiger, the man fell in behind the thief, toying with him. The neophyte loosened his sword in its sheath. Should he intervene or shouldn't he? Another human, perhaps a year older than him, was about to die. But the Keepers never interfered. Drawing the blade, Garrett stared down at it. He hadn't killed anyone with it before. Hadn't seen its bright surface stained and corrupted. If he bloodied his sword now, would he feel guilty later? Would anyone wait for the guard to come home? Would anyone stare out of the window, desperately searching with their eyes for a figure in the gloom?
Would the Builder condemn him for such a cold act? Did the Builder even care? Garrett still clung to a hazy idea of religion and prayer, a nail to hang his convictions and hopes on as he stood over the void of mindless servitude, the demesne of most Keepers. Chaos and balance both sought to claim him as he watched the smooth, icy metal blade.
A cold brutality in the guard's face. Keeper concepts and laws. Compassion. Ambition. Mercy. Chaos, swirling in his mind and dominating his thoughts. Balance, what a sick joke. There was never balance in life. Something wrenched inside him, forced his hand. Blood. Red as a sunset, dark as the shadows, horrifying as the whispers in your ear, when you're all alone. The dying man's knife arced through the air, a ribbon of liquid silver that glittered like a thousand broken rainbows. A thin line of scarlet on his arm, a searing pain, sharp as a spear point in the sun.
Sheathing his sword, he wound the hem of his cloak around the wound and staggered out of the shadows. A flicker of white caught his eye, and he knelt to pick up a scrap of paper. Hill Street. Fenning. Jason. The words echoed mockingly in his mind as the ground beneath his feet blurred.