~3.3k words

Bal looked up from his wrapped leather shoes and stared through the gap between railing and walkway, his brown hair sticking to his sweat-damp face. He liked to tie it into a razortail like Lynceus, but evidently it had come undone.

Before being forbidden all but the briefest trips into the Pitts, Bal and his late friends had been playing aimlessly on a walkway when he’d caught his one and only glimpse of the creatures. The immutably thick haze that covered the pittfloor like a permanent atmosphere had cleared, framing a fallen walkway submerged in muddy brown sludge. Largely decomposed, it had been fortified by piles of discarded garbage that had pushed up around the small island like sea foam at high tide. A muck stood there. Larger than a forest bear and covered in mold and open sores, the ponderous things acted as bells on fishing line, only coming alive when they felt a tug on their noosed ropes. The Muck had moved little, its vacant expression suggesting only the vaguest notion of its place in the world and the things that went on in it. Then a second fiend had appeared. One moment the filth covered floor of The Pitts had been an unbroken surface of floating moss, and in the next, an injured Rake had crawled out from the putrid swamp, dragging bits of moss, and the dead weight of it’s lower half behind it. Lithe and agile next to its hulking cousin, the Rake had mounted the small island, probing it’s depths with one abnormally long arm before tearing through the piled refuse with a spastic zeal. The resulting cascade of detritus had flown into the unflinching face of the muck in its wake, before the haze had thickened and Bal and his friends had seen no more.

Any other time, and Bal would have searched the pittfloor for another glimpse at the fiends.

But not today.

Bal squeezed his eyes shut until spots of color bloomed behind his eyelids, then waited for his vision to clear.

He was still waiting, when someone shoved him roughly to the side.

“Forty feet at least!” said a stout young man with red hair. He wore a tan tunic and a green cape, the latter of which draped off of his shoulder as the redhead grabbed the railing and looked over. “And Rantha claims another! Gods Bal, but those fiends work fast, can’t see a damn thing through the soup though.”

The walkway swayed lightly, and Bal had to spread his feet to stop from losing his balance.

“Maize?”

“You think they killed her yet?” said the newcomer.

“What are you doing here?”

“Where else would I be?” The redhead paced the railing like a hungry Dinac, his messy hair bobbing as he walked. “Did you know these things can think? I mean they throw their loops all over the walkway and what not, but they can talk too. I watched them toy with this old drunk guy Tibol last Frostfalls. The Mucks were pullin’em apart by the arms, while a couple Rakes took turns bobbin his head under the filth. They were talking to each other I swear! It was like this weird, gurgling laugh. Although in hindsight, that might have just been the sound of Tibol drowning.”

“Maize,” said Bal.

The red haired youth stepped away from the railing and walked towards Bal, hands raised, a look of wounded innocence on his pale face. Maize was shorter than Bal by less than a hands-width, but broader and stronger by far. Next to Maize, Bal felt like one of the willowood poles they used to prop up the walkways.

“What? I didn’t kill the old drunk.”

Bal left the railing, ushered away by Maize’s guiding hand.

“Doesn’t mean you need to make a joke out of it,” said Bal.

“Bal,” said Maize, his voice sweet and heavy with sarcasm. “You spend so much time in the Bloat these days, you forget what it’s like out here on the sticks. When we were kids you flew through this place like a swallow with the wind at it’s back. Now…” Stepping back, Maize gestured up and down the length of Bal’s body, scowling. “I mean, Aeras breath man, what have you been doing? A runner for Dalbo? The man trails lesser nobles like a mangy sheep dog looking for scraps and has the audacity to call himself clever.” Maize paused and looked sidelong at Bal, as if considering something. “I see you sometimes you know? When I pass through Beggars Square. Always at the Market, bowing and scraping, making nice, playing it safe. You give empty smiles given to ignoble people in pursuit of a dream that couldn’t possibly be yours, and for what? The possibility of eventually taking over for The Great Dalbo?” Maize voiced the mans name with gusto, hand stretched up to the cloudy sky.

“Whereupon you will become the purveyor of goods thrice picked over, and information I could acquire from a deaf dirt-urchin. These vast riches in hand Bal, you would soon discover that you were in the exact same place you’ve always been. A rai-less bastard anchored to the useless weight of his family,” said Maize with a wicked smile.

“Piss off, you motherless shit,” said Bal.

“Ahhh, the two of us don’t miss a note do we? Me, one of Aerodins ten thousand motherless shits, and youuu,” said Maize, drawing out the last syllable. “Perhaps the only boy not pissing in his breeches who still has a mother to see that it stays that way.”

Bal snorted a laugh and the two of them embraced.

“Aeras forgive me, it’s been a long time,” said Maize. He swatted Bal on the chest with the back of his hand. “C’mon, I gotta show you something.”

Bal was due back at Dalbo’s before the sun fell below the rim, but Maize had already dashed off before he could protest. Bal frowned as his old friend carelessly navigated the circled loops that lay strewn about the walkways, each one of them capable of bringing with it the same fate that had befallen the little girl, and countless others besides. As he scanned the loops, the walkway lurched again. He caught his balance and shook his head.

“Fucking place.”

#

As Maize dove deeper into The Pitts, Bal struggled to keep up. Twenty minutes of dodging loops, leaping gaps, toeing carefully around rotten walkways, and generally holding his breath was proving more difficult than he remembered.

Finally Maize slowed to a stop.

Surreal chaos enveloped the world around them. Canted beams, and huts of thatched reeds spread around them on walkways beyond count, all of them decorated with thrown loops that ran down into the swamp-like world below. It smelled worse out here. The cloying rot that pervaded the dank slum compounded as they left the Bloat further behind. Some of what Bal saw, he recognized immediately; pathways like old fox trails that hadn’t grown over. It surprised him that he could distinguish old from new among the veritable forest of criss-crossing wood and fallen structures, doubly so given how quickly those new builds imbued that same mossy green hue that came from constant exposure to the elements. It was only the inordinate amount of time that Bal had spent here as a child that allowed him to pick out the small changes that had occurred in his absence. Changes of pattern and texture, a feeling of off-ness that was difficult to put into words. Changes in the Pitts were to be expected, even big ones, but changes were easier to digest when they happened incrementally, and in this case, Bal was not given that luxury.

In the middle of a sea of faded yellows, muddy browns, and mottled greens was a sprawling building of black ironwood, pressed tight against the sheer cliff-side that made up the base of Nero’s Thumb. A dark, pillared splendor with wide walkways that spun out from its center in ordered lines that made the rest of the Pitts look all the more shambolic by comparison. A single breath whistled out through Bal’s lips. The ironwood building stretched imperiously against the base of Nero’s thumb, a blooded noble surrounded by its conscripted servant. Turrets crawled up the side of the cliff as though they were built into the stone itself. Turrets, Bal marveled, like a damned castle or something! He turned back to Maize, questions piling on top of each other like grains in a freshly turned sandglass. The walkway took a lurching swing beneath them, and too distracted to account for it’s movement, Bal lost his balance and staggered sideways into Maize.

“Hey now. Keep moving like that, and you’re gonna end up hanging out with Tibol,” said Maize. He had both hands on Bal to steady him, but didn’t look pleased about it.

“I’m still on my feet,” said Bal.

“Dumb luck,” said Maize, and pushed Bal away.

“How… How did they do this?”

“Crazy right?”

Bal nodded.

“They finished right before last Downing,” said Maize. “Good timing too, it’s bad enough trying to build anything in this Pitthole. Can’t imagine trying to do it in the rain.”

“So… what is it?” Bal drifted forward on light feet, his arms out to the side like a child on a balance beam, as the walkway continued to move beneath him. The swaying had gotten worse the deeper into The Pitts they’d gone.

“I’m still trying to work that out, but I’m getting closer. Been working their since they finished, but I only really see one guy and he’s real cagey about it. Kind of an asshole truth be told.” Maize crossed his arms.

“What kind of work is it?” Bal was finding it difficult to look away.

Maize shrugged. “This and that. They pay pretty good, so I’m sticking with it for now.”

“You’re not working with that Fox anymore, that guy you told me about last time… uh…” Bal’s fingers danced, as though the name he sought might land in his palm if properly summoned.

“Thrish? Eh, kind of. He’s the reason I’m in there at all.”

“Nice.”

“Yea, I guess so.”

“You don’t sound that happy about it.”

“It’s alright.” Maize shrugged. “Different.”

“Well I already blew off Dalbo, so let’s go in. You can show me around.”

Maize grimaced. “Yeaaa. They’re, uh, kinda particular about that.”

“I mean… Why? What’s in there? Is it a market or something?”

“I dunno,” said Maize, crossing his arms and turning away. “It’s a building I guess. I told you, they’re pretty quiet about it.”

“Fair enough,” said Bal, relenting.

They stood for a moment in the shadow of mountain and castle. Bal wondered what Dalbo might pay for this information, but soon dismissed the question entirely as just the thought of haggling made him feel tired.

“Listen Bal, I gotta head inside. I’m pushing it as it is.”

“You sure I can’t come with you and check it out?”

“With me? No. I don’t need that on my head. But hey, if you wanna try and get in on your own, knock yourself out. Just keep my name out of it.”

“You think it’ll be difficult?” asked Bal, perking up.

“Nah.” Maize smiled. “Just ask nicely.” Maize swatted Bal on the chest with the back of his hand. “Alright brother I gotta go.”

“Yea yea, I’ll see you later.”

Maize trotted off down the walkway, swerving from one side of it to the other while it moved beneath him. When he reached the head of an ironwood path, he stopped and turned back.

“When you’re ready to ditch Dalbo, come find me and I’ll try and work something out!”

“Find you where?” Bal called back.

“In the Pitts,” said Maize as though the answer were obvious. “You could use a little more time out here you soft ass dirt-urchin.” Maize raised both hands into the air, closed them into fists and banged them together, one on top of the other.

Bal shook his head and smiled. Yea, fuck you too, he thought, raising his fists and returning the gesture.

Maize walked along the ironwood until it bottlenecked into a narrow path headed by two men. The redhead lifted a casual hand in greeting, then moved past the men and in towards castle.

High above, the sun neared the mountains rim and the world around him began to grow dim. If he wanted to see more of this place he would have to do it now. He waited until Maize was out of sight and then followed the path forward, watching with avid curiosity as the walkway changed abruptly from weaved willoswitch, to slats of ironwood. He’d seen the transition coming of course, you would have to be blind to miss the change from faded and splintered yellow to deep, glossy brown. But even being blind wouldn’t have stopped him from figuring it out. After hours of traversing the Pitt’s stilted and knock-kneed walkways, you adapted to their constant languid swaying, each flawed path taking on a different lilt or cadence which you naturally countered. When you finally returned to solid ground, you were like a sailor newly returned from a long trip at sea, jelly legged and clumsy; accounting for motions that were no longer there. It was a feeling Bal was familiar with as he had experienced it often as a child when returning from one of his frequent forays into the Pitts. He summoned a bemused smile as the world suddenly leveled off, and for the first time in his life, was given the experience while still deep within the Pitts.

Aeras Breath, thought Bal. How had nobody heard of this place?

Keeping a brisk pace, Bal approached the men Maize had passed and nodded an idle greeting while focusing his eyes on a distant point near the base of the castle. Walk with purpose and people assumed you had one. It was a simple enough trick that had helped Bal often over the years. The kind of people who guarded doors were often the kind of people who would happily trade one door for another if it meant more money or less work, and that usually meant they knew little of what they guarded, or who they guarded against. If they meant to stop him, they would prompt him first, and he would simply work from there.

They prompted him alright.

The first guards calloused hand wrapped around his neck, while the second guard lifted him off his feet by the bunched up fabric of his wool shirt.

“Uhhk” Bal croaked.

Bal’s hip rested on the ironwood railing which was good, as ironwoods innate strength meant the railing was in no danger of breaking. Unfortunately, his hip was now the joint on which he turned, and -like most people- Bal was rather top heavy. The moment the guards decided to release their collective hold, he would tumble over the side and down to his death.

He heard Maize in his head.

Just ask nicely.

Bal conjured an innocent smile, raised his open hands in front of him, and hoped it would be enough to keep him alive. It wasn’t as though he could fight his way free from a position like this anyhow. In the pause that followed, Bal looked the men up and down. From his current perspective that meant mostly down. The man with his hand around Bal’s throat was a tall and battered bastard with a notch cut out of his upper lip. He looked thin at a glance, but given the veins pulsing away in his arms and the speed with which Bal had left his feet, he guessed the man must be quite strong. Bal noticed something else. Something that crashed loudly against his subconscious like broken pottery or a musician playing a discordant note. The man who held him was donned in extraordinarily fine clothing. Finer -and cleaner- by far than the man who wore them. Bal thought that a pair of Barill’s old shoes would probably fit the man’s outfit well.

The other man was different in build but similar in dress. Shorter, and with thicker arms, he held much of Bal’s shirt balled up in his meaty fists, still, despite the man’s white knuckles and inherent menace, it was the clothing Bal found himself looking at. The man was as grubby and ill kept as his cohort, but dressed in finery that Bal was used to seeing on the Kingsway in Mid-City. Capes, necklaces, bangles, rings, silk shirts, thick linen shoes, and fine if utilitarian cotton pants.
Finally the pause was given life. The guards shared a look, and set him back on solid ground.

“Ooo the fuck are you?” said the squat one.

“Where you think your goin?” said the lanky one at the same time.

“Where do you think I’m going?” Bal pointed beyond the two guards. Maize had long since gone out of sight so Bal singled out a shadow at the castles front. “I’m following him.” Bal turned back to the guards and found them smiling. He frowned.

“Following who now?” Asked the squat one.

“Chresos,” said Bal choosing something common. “The guy with the ponytail and the…” He mimed the wearing of a cape.

“A cape?” Offered the tall one, arms crossed.

Bal could not help but notice that neither of them bothered looking for the man Bal had pointed too.

“Come on,” Bal pleaded, “he’s right there.”

“Nah, I think he meant a cloak,” said the squat one.

Bal threw his hands up.

“Did you mean a cape or cloak?” Asked the tall one.

“Either? Both? Does it matter?”

“Mmmh. Musta missed em. Bout you Vigil?” Asked the squat one.

“No idea,” said Vigil, leaning in. “What kind of puffed up twat wears a cape anyway?” Vigil’s split lip curled as he spoke.

“But you’re wearing a cape,” said Bal. It was all he could do not to tell the two guards that their ridiculous clothing made them look like every puffed up twat that Bal had ever encountered.

“Cloak,” said Vigil as he lifted the hanging cloth.

Bal opened his mouth, but Vigil stopped him.

“Back up,” said Vigil. “Your friend… Chresos was it?”

“Yea.” Bal took an unconscious step backwards.

Vigil leaned in, arms folded. “If this Chresos meant for you to join him, you’d think he’d be here right now pressing it with you,” Vigil cast a hand out to the side. “And yet…”

“Yes bu-” Bal began.

“And seeing,” the squat one interjected. “As nobody said fuck all to either of us, it might just be time for you to piss off and crawl back to whatever hole you call home before we provide you with a shortcut.”

Resigned, Bal offered the slightest of bows then went back the way he had come. He sagged a bit at having to retreat, but told himself that he was alive and on his way home with a trove of valuable information. He could explain his absence to Dalbo in the morning, and wheedle a not insignificant amount of rai from him in the process. The thought brought a smile to his lips that died as quickly as it had been summoned.
The days light was fading as fast as his energy, and he was as deep in the Pitts as he’d ever been in his life. Seasons removed from being familiar with it’s swaying, labyrinth-like paths, Bal was going to have to navigate the most dangerous city in the Aerodin Empire during the middle of the night. What’s more, without the guidance of Maize, he was most assuredly lost.

He looked out through the misty contours and geometric lines of the Pitts, and sighed.

“Shit.”