Chapter 2 (Friends III)

~1k words

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, canting from one side of it to the other while it moved beneath him. When he reached the head of the 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, it would have to be now. He waited until Maize was out of sight and then followed the path forward. He watched with avid curiosity as the walkway changed abruptly from soft willoweave to slats of hard 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 a blind man would be hard pressed not to notice. After hours of traversing the stilted and knock-kneed walkways of The Pitts, 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 had experienced often as a child, when returning from one of his frequent forays into the slum city. He summoned a bemused smile as it happened again, this time while he was 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 he focused 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.

His 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 filth and fiends below.

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, battered bastard with a notch cut out of his upper lip. He looked thin at a glance, but given the speed with which Bal had left his feet, he guessed the man must be quite strong. Then he noticed something else. Something that crashed loudly against his subconscious like broken pottery or a musician striking 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. 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 thick 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.