Vuk climbed down the rooftops and into the street. Instead of going back toward Bernwood he strode off in the other direction, hood down, enjoying the white clouds his breath made in the evening air.
Only a few streets over it was already apparent he was getting close to his destination. People passed shoulder to shoulder, carts bouncing on the cobblestones. Ponies wore head racks that allowed their owners to hang a lantern above them, the base swinging between their ears and casting rocking shadows across the crowded streets.
The city was never so busy during the day. Only the Death Market brought out crowds like this.
Vuk turned onto Winter Garden, one of the city's main streets. The market took up every inch of it. At dusk, vendors brought their wares and set up stalls. You could buy almost anything there, anything that had to do with death.
Skulls of animals, men, or children, candles, frankincense, charms, and prayers. Dolls that looked like deceased relatives, dice that could count the days until your own demise, and everything else related to the end of one’s soul.
Many thought the North worshiped death, but there was a fine line between worship and fear. The North fought death, every day, with every breath left to them they sought any means they could to push it back and keep it at bay.
Vuk had little interest in the trinkets of the vendors. He simply enjoyed the anonymity of a crowded market. Just a face in a crowd.
A chill went up Vuk’s spine and he made what he hoped was a casual glance over his shoulder. The street was a sea of people, everyone looking the same, here for the same reason, but Vuk’s mother had taught him how to discern if you were being followed, even in the confusion of a crowd.
Vuk didn’t recognize any of the people behind him but he still had the unsettling feeling of being tailed. A commotion behind him gave him a good excuse to turn and analyze the crowd more closely, but the tail made himself quite clear.
The disturbance had been a spooked pony and a toppled cart. Human eyes preserved inside hand blown glass orbs spilled from the cart and scattered over the cobblestones. The vendor apologized and got on his knees to scoop up his wares. Most of the crowd waited, or impatiently scooted around the scene, but one man walked right through, an orb crunching under his boot. The vendor hollered but the man just kept walking.
Vuk turned and tried to keep a steady pace, acting as though he hadn’t spotted the tail. He tried wracking his brain for some memory of the man but couldn’t recall having ever seen him before.
Vuk tucked quickly to the side, stooping low over a vendor's table. Flowers in deep reds and purples were arranged before him in small bushels tied with rosemary and cloves. The smell was strong, almost intoxicating. The vendor started talking to Vuk but Vuk ignored him and glanced to the side, waiting to see how the man would react when he noticed he’d lost his mark. But the man kept walking straight, emotionless and unphased by Vuk’s disappearance.
Vuk tossed the vendor a silver coin from his pocket and took one of the smaller bushels before following after the man.
He wasn’t much taller than Vuk, but twice as wide, with big shoulders and biceps that filled out his too tight cotton shirt. The top of his left ear was pierced with what looked to be a piece of bone. Other than that he was pale with light brown hair, not much of anything to distinguish him from the crowd.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
The people of the North had very little variety because no one ever came to the North, not to stay at least. Merchants, sailors, and traders occasionally docked on the other side of the Night Tides, but rarely ventured over, content to buy and sell at Zoion Port. The Northern people were all light skinned and light eyed, and Vuk more so than most. He’d been made fun of as a child for his pastel eyes and nearly white hair, though they weren’t all that uncommon traits. They weren’t stark enough to make him stand out in the Death Market crowd at least. It would take something much more startling to draw attention here.
Like a beautiful woman.
As Vuk looked ahead of the man he realized he hadn’t been his mark at all. A few steps ahead of him walked a slender woman in a long red dress, a matching cape, and a black fur around her shoulders. Dirty blond hair fell down her back in waves and long raven feathers dangled from her ears.
Vuk smiled and continued tailing the tail. He was willing to bet there was a copper hand pinned to that woman’s dress. No one in the North could afford or risk dressing like that unless they were in league, or in bed, with powerful people.
She continued through the market occasionally glancing at vendor stalls, giving Vuk a view of a rigid profile—straight jaw, sharp nose, and haunting, sunken eyes. She never stopped to inspect or buy anything. She walked all the way to the end of Winter Garden, only stopping when she reached the Pits.
The Pits were where Darkwell buried their dead. The massive, open graves were piled with bodies wrapped in layered strips of fabric. Those who could afford it were completely covered, head to toe in white linen. The less fortunate bore only a few strips: one for the eyes, the mouth, and the loins. Despite heavy perfumes the smell was wretched.
The woman pulled a red scarf up over her nose. Vuk followed suit, pulling across the band he’d sewn onto his hood to cover his mouth and nose, protecting him from the smell, and from snow in the winter.
He watched as the woman took a flower from her pocket, a winter daisy, and twirled it between her fingers. Then she pulled her scarf down briefly to lick the petals before tossing it into the Pits. She laid a hand on the Death Token that sat at the hollow of her throat, praying for the dead below.
Her tail came up beside her, took a flower from his own pocket and tossed it after hers. Then, he walked away.
Vuk frowned. The man could have easily picked her pocket. He had a perfect excuse to be standing so close to her and she was distracted by her prayers, head down, eyes closed. But Vuk had been there before, in a perfect position next to a mark, and then just lost his nerve. Sometimes he liked that feeling, knowing he could steal, right now, reach out a hand and deftly remove the contents of someone’s pocket without notice, but then he didn’t.
It was knowing he could that thrilled him.
Finders keepers, he thought and walked up to where the man had been.
Even beside the stench of the Pits Vuk could smell the woman’s sweet perfume.
Vuk shook his head. She should have known better than to dress so richly, to flaunt her wealth, even if she were a concubine of the Hand.
He took the bushel of flowers he’d bought from the vendor and brought them to his face, not bothering to pull down his mask, instead mumbling a prayer through the fabric. He waited for a breeze, for the wind to lift the woman’s cape from her side ever so slightly, before he slipped his fingers in her pocket. He touched cool silver.
Pain shot up his wrist.
Vuk gasped and turned. The tail had returned. Too late Vuk realized he wasn’t a tail at all, but a bodyguard, following the woman to protect her, not to rob her.
Fool, he cursed himself.
The man smiled as his grip on Vuk’s wrist tightened, the bones of his forearm shifting apart from the pressure.
Before Vuk could say a word the man shoved him, just enough to push him backwards over the edge of the Pits.
As he landed, he felt the crunch of bones that weren’t his, his senses overwhelmed with the scent of perfume and flowers and decay. Even with his mask the smell was so overwhelming he was reminded of a time Dem had started a small fire by mistake, burning some of Asamay’s herbs. The smell had been so strong he’d tried to come down and help, but when he opened the trap door the wave of fumes hit him and he’d passed out, tumbling to the floor below. He’d come-to to find Asamay kneeling over him with a cloth on his bleeding forehead.
He had a feeling, as the darkness took him, that it wouldn’t be her face he’d wake up to this time.
