The Forlorn(3)

He slipped out of his reading-induced trance with a start. Surely it wasn't opening time already? Yes. Those were definitely footsteps on the staircase. Damn. No time for a last visit to the toilet. He'd just have to use the bloody jar again. Moving swiftly but quietly, he went across to the inverted V of an old-fashioned bookstand, which stood against the far wall. In the old days he'd had to lift it, but since then he'd managed to unscrew one of the boards, under the lowest shelf. It had taken him many nights of effort, but it was worth the extra speed it lent to getting into his rat hole. He slipped through the gap with some effort, and pulled the waiting board back into place, just as the two elderly and slightly out of breath librarians reached the top floor. He heard them clatter in the kitchen, as he settled into his nest.

He felt his scraped ribs. He was going to have to do something about that plank. Growing was creating all sorts of problems. Then, as he listened to the librarians discussing the street news, he realized he wasn't going to have to worry about the plank after all.

". . . a black magician!"

"There's no such thing, as you well know, Khabo! Only the ignorant lower classes believe in magic."

"Think what you like, Stannel. Gemme's cousin Shanda saw the dead aurochs herself. Killed seven people it did, before they speared it to death."

"Amazing! Shanda got off her back for long enough to see something outside of her own bedroom! I thought she was far too busy for that." Despite the catty comment Stannel was plainly impressed.

"She's thirty years younger than you, old man. If she'd accepted you, she'd have run off with some sailor by now."

"True. Now, instead, the sailors can come to her. So you say they're offering a reward for this so-called magician?"

"Yes! The Patrician himself has put up five hundred . . . in gold! The brave Guard-Captain who stopped the magician is leading the house-to-house search in person. The boy's to be killed on sight, before he can use his black powers!"

Forgetting his supposed disbelief in magic, Stannel interjected, "I thought they had to light black candles, draw pentacles and . . . you know . . . sacrifice babies and things to do their spells."

"Huh! This one did all that years ago! The Guard-Captain said that the magician was raping a baby girl when they caught him!"

"No! Monster! I hope they're going to make him die slowly."

"It's not safe, I tell you! He blasted his way though six buildings and a man to escape. His kind you kill the minute you see them, preferably before he sees you."

"Speak for yourself! If I see him, I'm going to run like hell. What's he look like?"

With a sinking heart Keilin listened to a surprisingly accurate description of himself. Why the hell couldn't Kemp have lied about that too?

"What I don't understand is how come he didn't just blast that Guard-Captain to ash too?"

"Guard-Captain Kemp's a deeply religious man. He believes God protected him against the bolts of the evil and unholy. . . ." The conversation faded off down the stairwell.

Keilin sat there in silence, hands over his face. Holy mother . . . the gangs were after him, the townspeople'd kill him on sight, Kemp was hunting house to house for him, and the whiners . . . and a reward from the Patrician. That one puzzled him though. The citizens of Port T. knew that that bastard never parted with the gold he extracted with infinite care from all his subjects, even the whores, beggars and thieves. And, by all reports, what happened in the cellars beneath the Patrician's palace would make the librarians' idea of black magic look like a Sunday School outing.

There were a few people out there who knew Keilin, but he'd never trusted anyone enough to reveal his hideout to them. He was safe enough here, but if he ventured out . . . well, there were always eyes in the alleys. Sooner or later someone would see him, and then the hunt would be on. He'd never make it back. In the old town alone there were at least a thousand men, and women too, for that matter, who'd slit his throat for a single gold piece, never mind five hundred.

He tried to concentrate on his book again, holding it up to the light coming through the holes he'd made. It was no use. He couldn't divert his mind from Kemp's plot. Hatred twisted at his gut. He'd never killed anyone before, but if he could get that man alone somewhere . . . Still, it was no use dreaming. He must get out, survive, then, one day he could come back and do a little quiet and nasty repayment.

Keilin knew little of the world outside the walls of the port. He'd come here, a fugitive from another dimly remembered city, when he was about seven. He remembered sneaking off the ship in the pale dawn, with his mother. He remembered watching, puzzled and uncomfortable, as his mother had "paid" the bosun for smuggling them off the ship. He remembered in the grim years that followed, as her addiction grew deeper, how his discomfort and resentment had given way to resignation and then acceptance. He stretched his mind back further to misty memories of the city they'd lived in before reaching Port Tinarana. He could remember the sergeant of the Caravan Guards, but not his face.