The room I'm in is small, not even really a room. It's a loft in a dilapidated house on the south end of Arabel. Neither the loft nor the rickety old house belong to me, but I have an arrangement with the owner that lets me lay up here when I need to. The only illumination in the small space is the fading light pouring through the dusted-over window near the bed. The sun is setting. Dusk is my dawn, and that fading light is the signal that it's time to start my day.
It doesn't take me long to make my way up to the Market. The sun is all but gone now, and lamps are being lit throughout the area, but trade continues. It always continues in Arabel. The streets are still busy, the merchant stalls are still full, and the sounds and smells of active commerce are everywhere. I stroll past it all, no real destination in mind, no business to complete. I'm just out tonight, rolling with the vibe, watching it all flow past. I hear a loud, raucous laugh to my left. It grabs my attention for a split second, long enough for me to see that the source dresses as loudly as he laughs. Rich merchant toff, I think. The guy clearly has money if he can afford such ridiculous-looking clothes. An instant later, I see that I'm not the only one that's come to that conclusion.
The man is being followed...shadowed, really, by a kid who couldn't be more than twelve or so, dressed in the rags of a street urchin. No one is paying attention to him. I don't recognize him, but one look at his eyes, and I know this isn't just some poor hungry street kid. His eyes move like mine...constantly, quickly, and calculating. I could stop him. It would risk pissing off whatever gang he was running with, but that doesn't bother me. But the Laughing Man seems like he can spare a few coins, and maybe he'll learn to dress a little less obvious, and that would just be doing a favor for everybody. So I watch as the kid makes a pass on the guy. There'd been a fat coin purse hanging from the man's belt a moment ago, but now there's nothing. The kid is nowhere to be seen, and the man is oblivious to all of it. The kid was good.
I continue to slip through the crowd of people going about their business, and eventually find my way to my 'destination', even though I hadn't really been thinking about ending up here. It's an out-of-the-way food stall that, despite being on the far edge of the market, still manages to attract a fair crowd of buyers. The owner's name is Aiken. He is a middle-aged portly fellow with thinning dark hair and a near constant sheen of sweat marking his brow. At least, that's how I always see him, because I always see him working the stone oven that he keeps constantly hot behind his stall. His wife Bella almost never talks, but she is right alongside him, preparing the meat pies that will eventually make their way into his oven.
I'm here for 'breakfast'. Aiken's meat pies are great, and while I don't always have the coin to come here every day, I like Aiken almost as much as I like his pies. He's a jovial guy who always has a kind word or two to spare for his regular customers. The line of people ahead of me dissipates quickly. Aiken only sells one thing, and he works constantly to keep his product flowing, hot and fresh. I'm at the front in just a few minutes.
"H-hi Jax," Bonnie, Aiken's daughter, looks at me from behind a few strands of curly dark hair that have escaped from the band she's using to hold it back. It's threatening to fall into her eyes, but she pushes it distractedly away as she smiles nervously at me. "Usual order?"
"Yeah, same thing," I say, flashing a smile at her. Bonnie is pretty, in a quiet, unassuming way. She has great eyes, and a pale, freckled face that, at the moment has gone a little pink. We grew up together, in a way. She's a little younger than me and a bit older than my sister...or, older than my sister would be. She's known me forever, but the blushing fits are a recent thing.
Bonnie turns away for a moment, then comes back with two hot pies, wrapped in some kind of waxy paper. She hands them to me, and I pass her the silver coins to pay for them. As she takes the money, I press another coin into her hand "For your dad," I say, followed by another coin, "...and for you." There is something else in Bonnie's eyes as I do this...a flicker of doubt or...defiance, I'm not sure.
Despite the relative success of his little business, Aiken and his family are as poor as just about anyone else from my neighborhood. I'm not exactly swimming in money by comparison...but I've been lucky. If I have it to spare, I always tip well. I know Bonnie is a little sensitive about it, but that's not going to stop me from helping.
"I'll see you later, Bonnie," I say, smiling at her again. The nervous smile returns, and she waves at me as I slip back into the crowd.
I've demolished one of the pies, and I'm halfway through the second before I reach the northern edge of the market and leave it behind. From this vantage point I can see the looming Citadel, and my feet turn almost instinctively to avoid it. With food concerns out of the way, I'm not quite sure where I'm headed now, but I have a vague idea that I might go see my friend Jimmy. He may be at any one of several pubs or inns along the northwestern side of the city, so I start in that direction as I finish the last of my remaining pie.
Part of my route is a long, dark and narrow street that isn't quite an alley, but closely packed buildings and overhanging eaves give it a claustrophobic feel. I don't really mind the darkness or the closeness, but after I take a half-dozen steps down the road, I'm hit with the nagging sensation that something isn't right. I stop in my tracks and step sideways into the shadows, listening carefully for any hint as to what has tripped my instincts. I learned a long time ago to listen to them when they give me warnings like this.
I stand in silence for several seconds, but no out-of-place sounds reach me. Even the air isn't stirring, but there is still something wrong. A small voice in the back of my head whispers, you need to move. I listen to the voice and take a couple of cautious steps forward, my hands moving towards my waist where I keep a rapier and a dagger. I haven't been fighting with both weapons for long, but I'm getting more comfortable.
As I continue making my way carefully forward, the little voice in my head keeps repeating it's warning, over and over, you need to move...you need to move...you need to...MOVE!. I feel the attack rather than seeing it. It is just a disturbance in the air in front of my face, but it is enough. I duck, and feel the air ruffle my hair as something misses me by an inch. I fall into a tumble and as I spring to my feet and turn, I draw my weapons, searching frantically for my attacker.
There is a man, his outline slightly darker than the shadows he's standing in, and he is bearing down on me. He steps out of the shadows, which means that I can make out his figure and the glint of the daggers he's holding, one in each hand. But his face is well concealed under a hood and behind a mask. I take in those details quickly, then focus on the things that matter.
He lashes out again, but this time I see the strike from the beginning. I dodge, but he anticipates my movement and reverses his weapon to try to catch me. He misses my ribcage by a scant inch, and I take two cautious, shuffling steps backward to give myself some space. If I trip, I know it's game over. He comes on again, and this time I knock aside his dagger with the pommel of my sword. I follow the defensive maneuver with a counter-strike that only misses as the man goes flailing backwards.
I know in that moment that my attacker has almost no training. He's a thug who is hoping to get lucky. Well, it isn't going to happen for him tonight. He pauses a moment, and holds his weapons out in front of him, in a showy imitation of a knife-fighter. I'd almost had him, and now he's trying to intimidate me to gain back some of his bravado.
His lead hand flashes forward as he aims a blow for my neck. I register the movement, but I take a gamble, waiting a split second to move as I glance at his feet. They are planted. He is trying to feint high, which means he is going low...
The man abruptly shifts directions, lunges forward and brings his off-hand dagger around in a vicious strike. I hadn't bitten on his feint, but he is so focused on executing his attack that he hasn't noticed. I step hard into him, catching his arm as he tries to bury the blade in my stomach. The momentum from my lunge forward drives my dagger into his chest.
He stumbles backward, an expression of shock and confusion etched across his features. I hate that look. The expression people get when they realize far too late that they've made a grave mistake. I don't want to look at it longer than I have to. As the man staggers back and falls onto the street, I walk briskly past him.
"Bad luck, friend..." I say as I continue on my way into the night.