Chapter 1 (A Death in the Pitts II)

(~1.1k words)

Bal felt a tap at his shoulder and turned to see the bald man looking down on him with a toothless grin.

“Danger’s passed dirt-urchin, you can let go now.”

Looking down, Bal saw that his knuckles were white along the splintered wood. With great effort he forced himself to step away from the railing. Then he turned to the grinning man. “Nissonos in a garden, man,” he pressed. “What have you got to smile about?”

“Thought I was gonna be stuck taking the long way to the Cradle, but now…” The grinning man jumped on the thatched willows, indicating its continued presence. “Straight shot.” Laughing, the pittsman turned and picked his way across the walkway, stepping over braided nooses and gaps in the thatches with little trouble.

“Fucking place,” Bal muttered as he made his way to Ico.

This walkway, like every walkway in the Pitts, was littered with loops like the one which had dragged the young Pittsdweller to his death. Dangers from the untraveled world which had sprung out of the wastes below. Arms out to the side, Bal scanned the walkway carefully, his every step deliberate and slow and safely placed, even as the people of the Pitts flowed thoughtlessly around him. It didn’t matter. He wouldn’t risk his life to pretend he belonged here. Still, knowing he was right to exercise caution didn’t banish the image of Ico that loomed ahead; shirtless and mangy, two bone thin arms crossed below a too-gaunt face as the old Fox waited for the dirt-urchin to cross the cobbles.

“Do you think a tip-toe across the timbers will save you from joining that unfortunate boy should Rantha choose to claim you?”

“No,” said Bal mechanically, not risking a look up.

“Ahhh,” said the voice, affecting a sage tone. “Then you hope to creep past Rantha’s gaze on slippered feet, yes? Very wise.”

Bal frowned. “Rantha is no more real than Dragons or Riddleskins.” He didn’t like people joking about his calf-wrapped sandals. Other than the man himself, the sandals were all he had left of his father.

“Is that right?”

“It is.”

“And yet every time I see you, you’re shuffling towards me at half-speed, eyes darting this way and that as though death lurked in every corner. I say you believe in Rantha most of all, Bal, despite the lies you speak to the contrary.”

With a final relieved hop, Bal left the walkway behind him for the relative safety of the platform. “Oh, and was it Rantha who took that boy? And here I thought it was the Fiends down in the filth.”

Ico smirked and leaned in. “Rantha is the Fiends. He’s disease, starvation, old age, and whatever else culls the herd. He takes us all eventually and he’ll take you too, no matter how carefully you walk.”

“Well isn’t that convenient? Still, I don’t see why I should be in a hurry…” Bal waved at the air in front of him, as though he could banish the rank smell of decay that saturated the Pitts.

Scoffing, Ico stepped back. “You shouldn’t be thinking of him at all! You should be banging your fists at the bastard every day until he’s forced to collect you.”

“If I lived like that, I’d have died ages ago.”

“Bahh,” said Ico, and shook his head. “Death is a threshold all cross. It’s only you dirt-urchins who work so hard to forget it.”

“I don’t forget it, Ico. I simply don’t delight in it the way you Pittdwellers seem to. Here.” Bal dug a strip of folded parchment out from the leather wraps of his sandals, and held it out. “This dirt-urchin would prefer to get back on solid ground while the sun still touches the sky.”

Chuckling, Ico took the offered parchment and unfolded it.

Even with the platform’s relative stability, the world moved gently beneath them – a constant rocking cadence like a ship docked at harbor. Bal looked out at the walkway and its scored floor of thatched willows. Covered in moss and circles of braided hemp, it swayed more heavily, like a rope bridge across a chasm at the onset of a storm. Each noosed line ran down into the filth, crossing and sagging until they disappeared beneath the immutable haze that covered the pittfloor like a permanent atmosphere. It was quiet here. The vaporous cloud of brownish green giving the effect of a deep winter’s snow, muting the groaning paths and the laughing denizens who walked along them. Even the youth’s scream had been smothered. His memory snuffed away in less time than it too-

“HA!”

Bal jumped at the sound of Ico’s sharp laugh.

The old man had a sliver of charcoal between his fingers and was on the verge of setting it to the parchment when he stopped and palmed them both. “No,” said Ico, and pointed at Bal. “You tell that dumpy fuck he can waddle his fat ass across the sticks if he’s got something to say to me.”

“Somehow I don’t see that happening…” said Bal, looking at the folded parchment and wondering at its contents.

“You think?” Ico shook his head, and looked away.

“…so did you want to write that down, or…”

“You got a mouth don’t you?” snapped Ico. “Want to earn your rai, yea?”

“Sure.”

“Then I’ll keep the parchment and you’ll take the message.”

“So, to confirm, it was ‘tell that dumpy fuck to waddle his ass across the sticks if he’s got something to say.’ Did I get that right?”

Ico grinned, the lines on his face deepening in shadow. “Perfect.”

Grinning back, Bal shook his head. The contents of the message didn’t matter to him. He would send it along, pocket his rai, and call it a day. Though he imagined Dalbo would be less than pleased to receive it…

Closed fist out in front of him, the shirtless Ico beckoned Bal over.

“Yea?”

Ico grabbed Bal’s wrist and dropped a handful stone into his palm. “That’s for you.”

Nodding his thanks for the rai, Bal turned to go.

“There’s more.” Ico pulled Bal close, suddenly serious. “Tell Dalbo that no self-respecting pittdweller is going to sell themselves for a few chits. Tell him he’ll need a dirt-urchin to get what he wants. And tell him that even should Kareus gallop down from the heavens to bless such an endeavor with luck, still Dalbo’s attempt would fail.” Ico released him and stepped back. “Will you remember all that or do I have to waste this scrap of parchment on you after all?”

“I’ll remember.”

“Good. Get out of here then, you’ve got company.”

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