Meek

"Physically, he's unharmed," the Keep physician said. "In fact, he's in remarkably good condition. But mentally ...?"

Eli sat on his bunk in the clinic alcove, watching the physician and the courtier with dull eyes. A chained Angel figurine hung on the wall beside the alcove's slit of a window. The clinic overlooked the city from the Keep plateau, bringing the scent of harvest and cookfires and--occasionally--of the tens of thousands of humans packed into the lower city.

Though he'd arrived late the previous night, Eli had taken note of his surroundings, and had been surprised to find himself at a clinic within the outer Keep walls. Only the best for the returning wounded, apparently. Well, aside from wherever the nobles themselves got treated. Probably in their own opulent bedchambers.

The clinic was divided into a main room, treatment and supply rooms, and a dozen semi-private alcoves. Bundles of died herbs perfumed the air and tinkling of windchimes--modeled after the Angel's chains--made soothing music. Halo, the clinic even have its own cistern for water.

"Mentally he's still lost," the physician continued. "Must've been quite the ordeal."

The courtier who'd come to the clinic said, "For Dream's sake, man--shave him before the Marquis comes. He looks like a street dog."

"He won't let us. He growls like a street dog, too."

"So tie him down."

Eli kept watching dully while the physician didn't mention they'd tried to restrain him and Eli had bloodied one of the assistant's noses. If he let them shave him, the quartermaster would recognize him. The old woman had already peered at him far too closely, saying, "Aye, he looks familiar. Can't put a finger on a name with all that shrubbery. Could be a family likeness but ... looks familiar, he does."

Which was remarkable. She'd only seen Eli twice as a trainee militia guard, years earlier, for about forty seconds in total. Remarkable and frightening. If she realized he'd never joined the militia proper, they'd start to ask uncomfortable questions, probably from the other side of a sword.

"I'll see what I can do," the physician said. "When is his lordship thinking of stepping in?"

The courtier sniffed. "Presumptuous! As if the Marquis should consult you about his schedule!"

"I'm simply trying to plan ahead."

The courtier sniffed again. "The day after tomorrow, if that doesn't inconvenience you too much."

Day after tomorrow. Hm. That didn't give Eli much time to prepare. Still, this was far better than he'd expected. Instead of trying to hunt the Marquis, the Marquis would simply ... show up.

He needed a weapon.

He needed a weapon and an escape route.

After the physician and courtier left, Eli crossed the clinic's main room to a larger window. Beyond the open shutters, a handful of outbuildings scattered the grounds. Then the property ended at a plunging cliff: the edge of the plateau upon which the Keep stood.

And this side of the plateau, to Eli's relief, faced the slums. Well, first there was a strip of trees and shrubs at the base of the cliff, then a few streets of solidly respectable housing ... but then the slums. Apparently the Keep itself faced the upper town, the fancier neighborhoods. No reason to give recovering soldiers such an elegant view.

So that night, after last rounds, he followed his sparks from his alcove. It was easy to sneak when you could see around corners in the dark. He monitored the two assistants on duty as he crossed to the alcove of a soldier who'd broken his leg in the invasion of the troll warren. The physician had given the soldier herbs that made him sleep deeply, but Eli still held his breath as he rifled through the man's shelves for the breeches and tunic that his husband had brought him to wear after he recovered.

The clothes didn't fit Eli that well, but they didn't fit so badly that anyone would take notice.

Then he went out the window in the main room. Prowled through the shadows of the Keep grounds to the edge of the plateau. It would've been impossible for him climb down before he'd changed, but not anymore. Franky, it didn't look any harder than climbing along the wall in the clister caverns.

Still, it took a long time to descend, even with the sparks finding hand- and foot-holds. But eventually he picked his way to the base of the plateau. Shrubs and rockfall covered the steep incline before the cliff flattered into a hill that backed onto the rear lawns of respectable houses.

Eli checked for signs of life. When he didn't see any, he walked unhurriedly through the city streets. Just a regular fellow returning to his regular home after a regular night.

He needed a small weapon. Concealable in his bunk, maybe in his sleeve. He'd wait until the Marquis got within striking distance and finish him with a single blow.

Then he'd flee before the guards cut him down. And if there was a mage? Well, he'd die--but not before he killed the Marquis.

He needed to do this. Despite what he'd found in the troll pantry, he needed this. For Mist-Beneath, giving him life, for his 'siblings' and 'caveparents' giving him friendship, for housing and training and feeding him ...

Well! Setting 'feeding' aside, his heart still beat with troll blood. He was linked to them, he was one of them, like it or not.

And he also needed to do this for what he'd suffered. He needed to make someone pay. Vengeance might've been ugly, but it wasn't as ugly as what they'd done to him. He would make them pay.

So he'd stab and run. It wasn't exactly a sophisticated plan, but he suspected that was a good thing. At least for him.

When the streets turned rougher and narrower, he found what he was looking for: a handful of tough men hunched in the dying light of a lantern hanging outside a shop with no sign.

Eli reached inside his tunic, as if worried about his coin-purse, and hesitated. Trying to catch their interest. Trying to give them reason to chase him. Then he'd get one alone ...

"You lost?" one of the men snarled at him.

"No!" he said, pretending nervousness. "No, no. Er, well, maybe just a little."

The man stepped closer. "What're you looking for?"

"Ah, the--" Eli clutched his imaginary coin-purse again. "If you could point me to Jessup's Saddlery? I know the way from there."

A wiry man hitched up his breeches. "Do you now?"

"Y-yes?"

"In that case," the first man told Eli. "You wanna head about mile that-a-ways, keeping the hill to your left. If you reach the river, you gone too far."

"Oh," Eli said. "Thanks."

Then the men returned to their conversation and he ... wandered past. Safe and unthreatened. Well, so much for that plan. Talk about bad luck; he couldn't even get assaulted. He spent an hour wandering through the dark alleys and stepping over piss-reeking gutters and was, at worst, ignored. At best, people wished him a good evening.

So much for a convenient mugger.

Which meant he needed to work a little ... but he'd been gone from the clinic for too long. Though he'd arranged his blankets to look like a sleeping form, that wouldn't fool anything but the most cursory check. And climbing up the plateau would take a while, so he started circling around.

He passed crooked alleys where parents hushed fretful babies. He passed a market square, crowded with now-locked hand-carts, half of the owners sleeping on mats beneath them. Three dockworkers sang a comically-offensive song at a streetside tavern. Eating knives dangled from the belts of two of the dockworkers, but Eli needed something deadlier than a bread-cutter.

After getting lost for a few minutes in a neighborhood of stone arches and oval courtyards--a once-proud block of stone buildings, now reduced to tatters--Eli's farthest spark detected the murmur of a crowd. Music, chatter, the clink of dishes ...

He ambled closer. His spark peered over a wall at a parallel street, where three guards opened an iron gate for departing customers or guests. He eavesdropped through his spark.

Oh! It was a gambling hall. A popular one, too, and some of the guests looked fairly affluent despite the surroundings.

Hm. That might work.

But not right now. He'd run out of time. So he trotted away, and thirty minutes later slipped back into his alcove in the clinic. Well, as a first foray into criminal activity, that had been completely inadequate. He was planning to assassinate a Marquis and couldn't even steal a dagger.

Tomorrow night, he wouldn't hesitate. He wouldn't hope to salve his conscience by making himself look like a victim. He'd simply take what he needed.

The next morning, Eli lazed in bed, wondering if he'd been thinking about this wrong. Or not thinking enough. The act of killing the Marquis loomed so large that he couldn't see around it. He couldn't see beyond it. But he needed to plan his escape as well as his murder.

After he slid the blade home, he'd be surrounded by guards--maybe mages--and covered in blood. He needed to position himself close to the window first, before he struck. He needed to memorize the route down the plateau. He needed coin and clean clothes.

So he spent that day frustrating the physician's attempts to cut his hair and shave his beard, and that evening he 'borrowed' the other patient's clothes again.

He made his way to the bottom of the plateau more slowly, taking careful note of his route. Then instead of heading into the slum he headed uphill, toward a wealthier neighborhood.

He walked along the street, purposefully enough not to raise any suspicions, his gaze straight and uncurious ... while his sparks darted through the cracks of doorframes and open windows. Checking for guard dogs, for activity, for signs of the right kind of wealth.

He found four houses that looked good, then slowly ambled back and checked them more closely--and the second house was vacant. He was sure of it. A narrow, three-story timber-framed house with a slate roof, slightly recessed from the cobbled street. He'd detected a faint trace of dust on the table inside the front door, barely noticeable after a spark wormed through the keyhole.

Eli swept the street once more then vaulted the fence. He climbed the window-frames to the second floor while one spark followed him inside the house. The other kept watch. He paused there, searching the house without entering. He spotted a handful of knives in the kitchen, including a boning knife that looked good.

He called the spark to hover just inside the window. And over ten tense minutes he batted it repeatedly at the latch inside the shutters. It felt like trying to push a marble with just his breath.

Impossible, so eventually he just leaned on the shutter.

Harder, harder--then the latch tore from the shutter with a crack.

Eli froze, waiting, but there was no response.

He slipped inside and started toward the kitchen ... then paused at a spark-glimpse of the bedroom farther along the hallways. He headed there, instead. One spark slipped under the bed, but other hovered above the cabinet and--

"Ha," Eli said.

There was nothing under the bed except a bedpan and a box of candle stubs, but on top of the cabinet, covered by more dust, he spotted a broken lantern and a dagger in a sheath. A short triangular blade with a rondel handle: made for piercing.

Perfect.

Then he picked through the cabinet for clothes. Both halves of the couple who lived there dressed too brightly, like gaudy birds, so he spent a few minutes finding the least-eye-catching longshirts and leggings. They fit pretty well. The man's boots were too small but he found a workable pair of sandals. No coin, though.

He stuffed everything into a satchel he'd grabbed in the kitchen, then threw in the boning knife too, and a sachet of peppercorns--valuable enough to sell for a few coin--and returned to the broken window.

The sparks detected movement on the street.

Guards? The homeowners? Eli pulled the rondel dagger halfway from its sheath. Murmurs reached him--well, reached the nearest spark--but he couldn't make out the words.

Then the people moved on, and he breathed again. He slipped from the house, moving casually despite his pounding heart. He reached the plateau where he'd marked the best route, then checked one last time for witnesses. The sparks didn't see any, so he climbed ten yards up the cliffside before cramming the satchel into a crack in the stone, concealed by a tuft of weeds. He left everything there except the dagger, which he'd attached to a loop on his borrowed breeches.

He continued the climb. When he reached the top of the plateau, he waited for a militia patrol to walk past then darted into the clinic.

And to his shock ... nobody had noticed that he'd left. He secreted the dagger beneath his mattress and waited for sleep to take him. Tomorrow, he'd take the Marquis.