(no subject)
Jun. 3rd, 2009 08:55 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
spryngEnded up coming home early again today anyway. That's what I get for claiming I'm not sick anymore. Felt all woozy and fainty and just couldn't get anything done, and apparently was scaring the coworkers a little to boot. So home and more sleep and then baking in the apartment because it's over 80 out and we haven't got a fan let alone a/c. Let it rain please. Or at least give us some clouds.
Edited chapter two of Mili a bit. Still lacking in parts, but I suspect they'll find ways to be fleshed out after I've established more of the plot. Now that I'm not sick nor traveling far and distant places maybe I can get back to this writing thing and get a chapter a week done. That would be lovely.
Chapter Two
The front door of Flen's house is unlocked. Mili does not hesitate to open it, since she has rarely come across it locked. She steps over the threshold, calling Flen's name as she does. There are no lights lit in the dusky atrium, though, no illumination besides one unshuttered window. It smells musty, as if no one has opened a window for a few days. It reminds her of the winters she and the others spent in the house with Flen, when no one wanted to go out and get wood for the fire because in doing so they would have to open the door and let in the cold air. Mili shuts the door behind her, goes to the nearest window and heaves it open. Air wafts in and Mili, satisfied, pads through the atrium.
No one in the main hallway. No one in the kitchen. With such a small house, Mili only has the bedroom to check last. That and the basement, but Flen hates going down in the basement.
She pauses in the kitchen, the stillness and warmth of the house reminding her that she's still wearing two layers of clothes. Mili strips off her dress, then the prison clothes underneath. These she folds and places on the kitchen counter, disturbing the dust that had settled there. Mili waves the dust cloud away from her face, then leans forward and traces a finger through a nearby layer of dust, undisturbed by her actions. Flen is a meticulously clean man who wipes the flat spaces of his home daily. This, she judges, is over a week's worth of accumulation. She rubs the dust between her fingers, then pulls the dress back on, over her bare skin, the thought of surprising Flen without the garment on cast aside.
Mili leaves the kitchen and comes to the bedroom door. She places her palm against the smooth wood. “Flen?” she says and pushes open the door to his room. “You in there?”
There he is, sleeping in his bed. Mili smiles as she recognizes his form, curled up in a ball under the blankets. His head is bent into the pillow just as it always is when he sleeps, although he doesn't often take naps. The smile on her face falters. It's late in the day for a nap. Outside, the sun has gone down and the remaining light is fading fast. Something cold slithers down Mili's back and her chest prickles uneasily as she realizes that something is wrong. Dreadfully wrong.
Mili stills her body and holds her breath, watching for any movement from the figure. As moment by moment passes and she sees neither a heaving of the blankets from an in-drawn breath or a rustle of the sheets from a twitch, the chill on her neck gives way to nausea in her gut. Mili approaches the bed slowly, her pulse beating a quick tempo in her ears and drowning out all other sounds, her eyes trained on Flen, watching for any movement at all. Nothing, still nothing, and nothing even when her foot hits the floor unevenly, causing the wood to creak and a puff of dust to fill the air. Flen should have awoken at that; he was always a light sleeper.
Her fingers grip the edge of the blanket, twining into the fabric and not wanting to draw it back. Mili already knows what she will find underneath. She shuts her eyes and yanks the blanket away. Flen, exposed on the bed, lies with eyes open and glazed, one hand stiffly clenched to his chest as if a phantom pain still plagues him. Mili, expecting blood, expecting gore, expecting the signs of some sort of struggle, stares. She chokes back the bile rising in her throat and forces a shaking hand out to check for a pulse. When her fingers touch his skin and she feels how cold and stiff it is, she jerks her hand back with a shudder.
Mili clutches the edge of the sheet with a white hand, her nails digging through the fabric. With a conscious effort, she lets it drop and takes a few steps back. Flen. He was so young. How could he be dead? Is this the work of a poison, or just a heart attack? Nothing had been out of place in the room, nor in the house and there are no signs of an intruder. Even the closed windows supported the theory that Flen died a natural death and has lain here since, unnoticed. She'll have to go and tell the others, let them know, let Arjen know. Arjen will be the leader now. But first, she has to be certain. Flen was relatively young compared to the other senators, and relatively healthy. If this wasn't a natural death, she'll need to warn the others.
Mili turns. She'll go and check the windows again, check the door for any –
She stops mid-thought. Her heart skips the next few beats as her eyes meet those of the man who has likewise paused, standing in the doorway. Her eyes are drawn to the length of rope held nonchalantly at his side. Then her heart picks up again and she drops to the floor, out of the way of any possible thrown object. She rolls and gets to her feet, arms up to ward off further attack, but the man is still standing in the doorway. A bemused expression has filled his previously blank features.
The rope hangs between the man's hands now. Mili casts around for a weapon of her own , then remembers the dagger she has sheathed in her belt. She pulls it out and then jerks it up as the man lunges forward with the rope taunt between his fists. He side-steps the knife and uses the weight and momentum of his body to knock her backwards. Mili lets out her gathered breath as her back connects with the floor. She attempts to roll away, but in mid-roll the man grabs her wrists and pins them to the floor. She kicks out and hits his thigh, but the man only grimaces and uses the rest of his body to pin her legs down as well.
“Who are you? What do you want?” asks Mili, seeking for time more than answers. She has a fair idea as to the answers already.
The man says nothing. He attempts to pull her hands to one place so that he can hold them both with one hand, but does this awkwardly and Mili takes the chance to pull one hand free and smash it hard into his cheek. His head snaps back and so does his weight for a moment. Mili frees her other hand and grabs the handle of her knife, still unable to get out from underneath him. His weight shifts again as he resumes control and slaps her with the flat of his hand, grabbing her hand with the knife in her half second of surprise.
“You're not very good at this, are you?” asks Mili, cheek stinging from the slap.
He remains silent and tightens his grip on her hand. He bends her wrist, trying to make her drop the knife, she thinks, but then the blade is pointed towards her own throat and coming closer. She writhes and kicks while trying to counter his strength but the knife continues to inch forward. His teeth clench together with determination and his breath comes in shorter gasps than hers, filling her mouth with the smell of stale moss and something long dead. She wonders, briefly, when the man last bathed.
Mili feels her arm reaching the point where it will simply fold and render the man control over the knife and tries the first thing that comes to mind. She focuses behind him, wide-eyed, and lets the tension in her arm drop the slightest fraction. “Guards!”
He really is bad at this, she thinks, feeling the force leave his arm as the man, betraying surprise, half-looks behind him.
And it's mine! Mili cries silently, wrenching her hand free and the knife into his shoulder in one motion. The surprise is evident in his face and he rolls off of her, gripping at the wound. He pulls the knife from the wound, dribbling with thickened blood, and Mili jumps to her feet and runs. She slams her shoulder into the first door in her haste, but ignores the pain and keeps going. The front doors is wide open for her and she reaches the semi-darkness of the street without any sign of pursuit. She doesn't stop running and keeps going until her breath is short and ragged and her feet hurt and her legs feel as if they might cramp and betray her at any moment. And then Mili thinks of Flen and keeps running.
The stitch in her side grows worse and worse until it competes with each gasp for breath and Mili stumbles to a stop. She glances at the door next to her, then behind her, and is surprised to see no one visibly following. Not visibly, of course. The man is an assassin, after all, even if he is a bad one. She looks above the door and sees the sign for an inn. She'll need somewhere to rest at least, and if she's off the street she'll be harder to find. She goes inside.
The noise and bustle of a successful bread and wine business temporarily overwhelm Mili's senses, attuned to the quiet of Flen's house and the stillness of the night street. She moves through the crowd and the smells and the thick air towards a darker corner. Besides a few of the help, no one pays her any attention as she crosses the room. Then she is sitting in the corner at one of the larger tables, shared by a few men who willingly ignore her presence.
One of the help walks by, a young man with carefully curled hair. He pours wine into the cup of the man next to her, then sets down a cup for Mili and fills it unrequested. She takes a sip and makes a face – there is much more water in the mix than there should be, but at least it's warm. The man next to her shifts in his seat to turn and look at her, his tightly cropped hair only making his knobbly nose more prominent.
“What's a girl like you doing without her guardian?” asks the man with a grin.
Mili opens her mouth to make a smart remark, but then frowns and peers at the man's face. “Arjen?”
“Not too loud, little girl,” says Arjen, his grin never wavering but his eyes sweeping the room.
Mili lowers her voice. “Where's your beard? And your hair?” Last time Mili saw Arjen, he was much shaggier. He had often made fun of the city men and their preference for near baldness, in fact.
Arjen makes a gruff sound in the back of his throat as his dark eyes refocus on Mili. “Gone, gone, all gone.” He waves a hand. “But what about you? Flen told me you were in jail. We weren't exactly expecting to see you again. And really, where is Flen? You shouldn't be here alone. It's improper.”
“It's improper to go to jail, too,” says Mili with an indignant sniff. Then she looks at her hands, a thick knot forming in her throat and filling her chest. “And... Flen's dead.”
Arjen has his cup halfway to his mouth. It freezes there. “What?”
“Flen, he's dead.”
“What? How do you know? You only just got out!”
“I went there first. And,” her voice lowers, “someone was there. Waiting for me. They've sent an assassin after me.”
“Already?”
Mili gives a half shrug. “I was warned, I guess.”
“Yeah, well, you're the two most obvious targets. Flen, the leader, and you, the hand.” Arjen taps the table with his fingers. “So maybe they don't know about the rest of us. Or maybe they do.”
“When was the last time you heard from the others?”
Arjen looks at her, his face blank and his lips slightly parted. Then he hits his forehead, an action which draws the attention of the other men at their table. They give him a look but then go back to ignoring the world in favor of their wine.
“Shh, Arjen, shh,” whispers Mili, fighting the urge to see who else noticed them. Glancing around would be equally as conspicuous, if not more so. “It's not your fault. You didn't know Flen was...” Her voice fades out, unable to pronounce the last word as it catches in her throat. She swallows the word with a gulp of the watered down wine.
“Did he have any lists?” asks Arjen. He then immediately answers his own question. “No. No, that would be stupid. Did he have anyone picked as a second?”
Mili looks down and away and Arjen groans.
“No, no nono. You? But you're a woman! Ugh, Flen and his tail. I thought he was above letting that think for him.”
Mili turns red. “It wasn't that. Flen would never – look. At the time I was the least conspicuous, right? Who would think it? You'd be the proper leader, anyway.”
“At the time,” echoes Arjen. He takes a long drink from his cup, then waves over the help for another. “Now you're the most conspicuous. Everyone knows your face. What are we even doing here?”
Arjen stands up as the boy with the jug of wine reaches them and waves him off again. The boy, slightly annoyed at this treatment, turns to filling the cups of the patrons nearby. Mili grabs his arm and drags him back to the table.
“Stop that. I'm safe here.” Mili gestures at the crowd. “An assassin wouldn't risk something in front of all these people. They may want me dead, but they don't want to make a martyr out of me.”
“How can a woman take all this in stride?” asks Arjen gruffly. “Maybe I should have realized that when Flen saw something in you, there really was something there.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
Arjen makes an exaggerated gesture of respect to Mili, then smirks. “So, what are we going to do, Honored Leader Anrek? What did Flen want us to do next?”
“Don't call me that,” says Mili. “And... I don't know. I was told that the new emperor wouldn't take too kindly to having us types out and free. And I found someone willing to prove that to me within an hour of getting out. So we should take heed. Scatter, if we can. Go to the countryside and keep our heads low -”
“Listen to you!” Arjen hits the table with his fist. A couple of conversations in their vicinity pause, realize that it's the same man who has been acting out for the past few minutes, and commence again. “We can't hide! Flen wouldn't stand for it. We're here to protect -”
Mili kicks Arjen in the shin before he can finish his sentence. She glares at him and hisses, “Not here.” Then she smothers her face with her hands, hoping the few left staring aren't able to recognize her. “This is the absolute opposite of covert,” she mutters, more to herself than Arjen.
“Then let's go to the estate,” says Arjen. “Gather those we can find, brief them, come to a conclusion. Better than us debating this in a bar.”
Mili cannot help but stare at Arjen for a second. She's never stopped being amazed at Arjen's ability to switch between complete idiocy and logical thinking. “Yes. Yes, that would be good.”
Arjen stands up again and the other men at the table ignore him. He pulls his purse from his belt and drops a few small coins from it onto the table, next to his cup, before leading the way out of the wine bar and onto the dark street. Night, already creeping along when Mili entered the building, has fully devoured the city. Lights still burn along the main arteries and near open businesses, but for the most part it is overwhelmingly dark and Mili is glad to have Arjen accompanying her. No one gives them a passing glance as they traverse the streets, steadily making their way east.
A cart, pulled by two small, but well-built horses, rounds the corner just ahead of them, going at a rather fast clip. Arjen looks at Mili for a moment, then bounds ahead, waving and yelling, “Hey there! Hey driver!”
At first it seems as if the driver ignores him or simply cannot hear him, but then the little man on top of the cart turns his head and yanks on the reins, slowing his horses down. They bend their necks and throw their heads, annoyed at being pulled up short.
Mili catches up to Arjen as he, panting slightly, looks up at the driver, “Going east?”
“Out of the city, across the river Il,” says the driver. He scratches the cloth across his forehead, which is keeping the hair out of his eyes.
“Good,” says Arjen. “I've got seven cor for the girl and myself. To the river, right?”
“Get in.”
Arjen rounds to the other side of the cart and clambers in next to the driver, lending a hand to Mili. They squeeze together, there being just enough room for the two large men and the smaller, lithe Mili in the driver's seat. The driver gives the horses rein and they immediately take off trotting, jolting the cart into motion. The moist summer air blows through Mili's thin dress and she leans back, enjoying the ride. For a few moments the wind drives away the horrible image of Flen curled up on the bed which has been superimposed over her eyelids since she left his house. She will find the man who killed Flen, Mili resolves, and make him pay in kind. And then she will take vengeance on the man who ordered it. Even if she dies in the process, she will take Ejhiel down. She just really hopes it doesn’t come to that.
Edited chapter two of Mili a bit. Still lacking in parts, but I suspect they'll find ways to be fleshed out after I've established more of the plot. Now that I'm not sick nor traveling far and distant places maybe I can get back to this writing thing and get a chapter a week done. That would be lovely.
Chapter Two
The front door of Flen's house is unlocked. Mili does not hesitate to open it, since she has rarely come across it locked. She steps over the threshold, calling Flen's name as she does. There are no lights lit in the dusky atrium, though, no illumination besides one unshuttered window. It smells musty, as if no one has opened a window for a few days. It reminds her of the winters she and the others spent in the house with Flen, when no one wanted to go out and get wood for the fire because in doing so they would have to open the door and let in the cold air. Mili shuts the door behind her, goes to the nearest window and heaves it open. Air wafts in and Mili, satisfied, pads through the atrium.
No one in the main hallway. No one in the kitchen. With such a small house, Mili only has the bedroom to check last. That and the basement, but Flen hates going down in the basement.
She pauses in the kitchen, the stillness and warmth of the house reminding her that she's still wearing two layers of clothes. Mili strips off her dress, then the prison clothes underneath. These she folds and places on the kitchen counter, disturbing the dust that had settled there. Mili waves the dust cloud away from her face, then leans forward and traces a finger through a nearby layer of dust, undisturbed by her actions. Flen is a meticulously clean man who wipes the flat spaces of his home daily. This, she judges, is over a week's worth of accumulation. She rubs the dust between her fingers, then pulls the dress back on, over her bare skin, the thought of surprising Flen without the garment on cast aside.
Mili leaves the kitchen and comes to the bedroom door. She places her palm against the smooth wood. “Flen?” she says and pushes open the door to his room. “You in there?”
There he is, sleeping in his bed. Mili smiles as she recognizes his form, curled up in a ball under the blankets. His head is bent into the pillow just as it always is when he sleeps, although he doesn't often take naps. The smile on her face falters. It's late in the day for a nap. Outside, the sun has gone down and the remaining light is fading fast. Something cold slithers down Mili's back and her chest prickles uneasily as she realizes that something is wrong. Dreadfully wrong.
Mili stills her body and holds her breath, watching for any movement from the figure. As moment by moment passes and she sees neither a heaving of the blankets from an in-drawn breath or a rustle of the sheets from a twitch, the chill on her neck gives way to nausea in her gut. Mili approaches the bed slowly, her pulse beating a quick tempo in her ears and drowning out all other sounds, her eyes trained on Flen, watching for any movement at all. Nothing, still nothing, and nothing even when her foot hits the floor unevenly, causing the wood to creak and a puff of dust to fill the air. Flen should have awoken at that; he was always a light sleeper.
Her fingers grip the edge of the blanket, twining into the fabric and not wanting to draw it back. Mili already knows what she will find underneath. She shuts her eyes and yanks the blanket away. Flen, exposed on the bed, lies with eyes open and glazed, one hand stiffly clenched to his chest as if a phantom pain still plagues him. Mili, expecting blood, expecting gore, expecting the signs of some sort of struggle, stares. She chokes back the bile rising in her throat and forces a shaking hand out to check for a pulse. When her fingers touch his skin and she feels how cold and stiff it is, she jerks her hand back with a shudder.
Mili clutches the edge of the sheet with a white hand, her nails digging through the fabric. With a conscious effort, she lets it drop and takes a few steps back. Flen. He was so young. How could he be dead? Is this the work of a poison, or just a heart attack? Nothing had been out of place in the room, nor in the house and there are no signs of an intruder. Even the closed windows supported the theory that Flen died a natural death and has lain here since, unnoticed. She'll have to go and tell the others, let them know, let Arjen know. Arjen will be the leader now. But first, she has to be certain. Flen was relatively young compared to the other senators, and relatively healthy. If this wasn't a natural death, she'll need to warn the others.
Mili turns. She'll go and check the windows again, check the door for any –
She stops mid-thought. Her heart skips the next few beats as her eyes meet those of the man who has likewise paused, standing in the doorway. Her eyes are drawn to the length of rope held nonchalantly at his side. Then her heart picks up again and she drops to the floor, out of the way of any possible thrown object. She rolls and gets to her feet, arms up to ward off further attack, but the man is still standing in the doorway. A bemused expression has filled his previously blank features.
The rope hangs between the man's hands now. Mili casts around for a weapon of her own , then remembers the dagger she has sheathed in her belt. She pulls it out and then jerks it up as the man lunges forward with the rope taunt between his fists. He side-steps the knife and uses the weight and momentum of his body to knock her backwards. Mili lets out her gathered breath as her back connects with the floor. She attempts to roll away, but in mid-roll the man grabs her wrists and pins them to the floor. She kicks out and hits his thigh, but the man only grimaces and uses the rest of his body to pin her legs down as well.
“Who are you? What do you want?” asks Mili, seeking for time more than answers. She has a fair idea as to the answers already.
The man says nothing. He attempts to pull her hands to one place so that he can hold them both with one hand, but does this awkwardly and Mili takes the chance to pull one hand free and smash it hard into his cheek. His head snaps back and so does his weight for a moment. Mili frees her other hand and grabs the handle of her knife, still unable to get out from underneath him. His weight shifts again as he resumes control and slaps her with the flat of his hand, grabbing her hand with the knife in her half second of surprise.
“You're not very good at this, are you?” asks Mili, cheek stinging from the slap.
He remains silent and tightens his grip on her hand. He bends her wrist, trying to make her drop the knife, she thinks, but then the blade is pointed towards her own throat and coming closer. She writhes and kicks while trying to counter his strength but the knife continues to inch forward. His teeth clench together with determination and his breath comes in shorter gasps than hers, filling her mouth with the smell of stale moss and something long dead. She wonders, briefly, when the man last bathed.
Mili feels her arm reaching the point where it will simply fold and render the man control over the knife and tries the first thing that comes to mind. She focuses behind him, wide-eyed, and lets the tension in her arm drop the slightest fraction. “Guards!”
He really is bad at this, she thinks, feeling the force leave his arm as the man, betraying surprise, half-looks behind him.
And it's mine! Mili cries silently, wrenching her hand free and the knife into his shoulder in one motion. The surprise is evident in his face and he rolls off of her, gripping at the wound. He pulls the knife from the wound, dribbling with thickened blood, and Mili jumps to her feet and runs. She slams her shoulder into the first door in her haste, but ignores the pain and keeps going. The front doors is wide open for her and she reaches the semi-darkness of the street without any sign of pursuit. She doesn't stop running and keeps going until her breath is short and ragged and her feet hurt and her legs feel as if they might cramp and betray her at any moment. And then Mili thinks of Flen and keeps running.
The stitch in her side grows worse and worse until it competes with each gasp for breath and Mili stumbles to a stop. She glances at the door next to her, then behind her, and is surprised to see no one visibly following. Not visibly, of course. The man is an assassin, after all, even if he is a bad one. She looks above the door and sees the sign for an inn. She'll need somewhere to rest at least, and if she's off the street she'll be harder to find. She goes inside.
The noise and bustle of a successful bread and wine business temporarily overwhelm Mili's senses, attuned to the quiet of Flen's house and the stillness of the night street. She moves through the crowd and the smells and the thick air towards a darker corner. Besides a few of the help, no one pays her any attention as she crosses the room. Then she is sitting in the corner at one of the larger tables, shared by a few men who willingly ignore her presence.
One of the help walks by, a young man with carefully curled hair. He pours wine into the cup of the man next to her, then sets down a cup for Mili and fills it unrequested. She takes a sip and makes a face – there is much more water in the mix than there should be, but at least it's warm. The man next to her shifts in his seat to turn and look at her, his tightly cropped hair only making his knobbly nose more prominent.
“What's a girl like you doing without her guardian?” asks the man with a grin.
Mili opens her mouth to make a smart remark, but then frowns and peers at the man's face. “Arjen?”
“Not too loud, little girl,” says Arjen, his grin never wavering but his eyes sweeping the room.
Mili lowers her voice. “Where's your beard? And your hair?” Last time Mili saw Arjen, he was much shaggier. He had often made fun of the city men and their preference for near baldness, in fact.
Arjen makes a gruff sound in the back of his throat as his dark eyes refocus on Mili. “Gone, gone, all gone.” He waves a hand. “But what about you? Flen told me you were in jail. We weren't exactly expecting to see you again. And really, where is Flen? You shouldn't be here alone. It's improper.”
“It's improper to go to jail, too,” says Mili with an indignant sniff. Then she looks at her hands, a thick knot forming in her throat and filling her chest. “And... Flen's dead.”
Arjen has his cup halfway to his mouth. It freezes there. “What?”
“Flen, he's dead.”
“What? How do you know? You only just got out!”
“I went there first. And,” her voice lowers, “someone was there. Waiting for me. They've sent an assassin after me.”
“Already?”
Mili gives a half shrug. “I was warned, I guess.”
“Yeah, well, you're the two most obvious targets. Flen, the leader, and you, the hand.” Arjen taps the table with his fingers. “So maybe they don't know about the rest of us. Or maybe they do.”
“When was the last time you heard from the others?”
Arjen looks at her, his face blank and his lips slightly parted. Then he hits his forehead, an action which draws the attention of the other men at their table. They give him a look but then go back to ignoring the world in favor of their wine.
“Shh, Arjen, shh,” whispers Mili, fighting the urge to see who else noticed them. Glancing around would be equally as conspicuous, if not more so. “It's not your fault. You didn't know Flen was...” Her voice fades out, unable to pronounce the last word as it catches in her throat. She swallows the word with a gulp of the watered down wine.
“Did he have any lists?” asks Arjen. He then immediately answers his own question. “No. No, that would be stupid. Did he have anyone picked as a second?”
Mili looks down and away and Arjen groans.
“No, no nono. You? But you're a woman! Ugh, Flen and his tail. I thought he was above letting that think for him.”
Mili turns red. “It wasn't that. Flen would never – look. At the time I was the least conspicuous, right? Who would think it? You'd be the proper leader, anyway.”
“At the time,” echoes Arjen. He takes a long drink from his cup, then waves over the help for another. “Now you're the most conspicuous. Everyone knows your face. What are we even doing here?”
Arjen stands up as the boy with the jug of wine reaches them and waves him off again. The boy, slightly annoyed at this treatment, turns to filling the cups of the patrons nearby. Mili grabs his arm and drags him back to the table.
“Stop that. I'm safe here.” Mili gestures at the crowd. “An assassin wouldn't risk something in front of all these people. They may want me dead, but they don't want to make a martyr out of me.”
“How can a woman take all this in stride?” asks Arjen gruffly. “Maybe I should have realized that when Flen saw something in you, there really was something there.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
Arjen makes an exaggerated gesture of respect to Mili, then smirks. “So, what are we going to do, Honored Leader Anrek? What did Flen want us to do next?”
“Don't call me that,” says Mili. “And... I don't know. I was told that the new emperor wouldn't take too kindly to having us types out and free. And I found someone willing to prove that to me within an hour of getting out. So we should take heed. Scatter, if we can. Go to the countryside and keep our heads low -”
“Listen to you!” Arjen hits the table with his fist. A couple of conversations in their vicinity pause, realize that it's the same man who has been acting out for the past few minutes, and commence again. “We can't hide! Flen wouldn't stand for it. We're here to protect -”
Mili kicks Arjen in the shin before he can finish his sentence. She glares at him and hisses, “Not here.” Then she smothers her face with her hands, hoping the few left staring aren't able to recognize her. “This is the absolute opposite of covert,” she mutters, more to herself than Arjen.
“Then let's go to the estate,” says Arjen. “Gather those we can find, brief them, come to a conclusion. Better than us debating this in a bar.”
Mili cannot help but stare at Arjen for a second. She's never stopped being amazed at Arjen's ability to switch between complete idiocy and logical thinking. “Yes. Yes, that would be good.”
Arjen stands up again and the other men at the table ignore him. He pulls his purse from his belt and drops a few small coins from it onto the table, next to his cup, before leading the way out of the wine bar and onto the dark street. Night, already creeping along when Mili entered the building, has fully devoured the city. Lights still burn along the main arteries and near open businesses, but for the most part it is overwhelmingly dark and Mili is glad to have Arjen accompanying her. No one gives them a passing glance as they traverse the streets, steadily making their way east.
A cart, pulled by two small, but well-built horses, rounds the corner just ahead of them, going at a rather fast clip. Arjen looks at Mili for a moment, then bounds ahead, waving and yelling, “Hey there! Hey driver!”
At first it seems as if the driver ignores him or simply cannot hear him, but then the little man on top of the cart turns his head and yanks on the reins, slowing his horses down. They bend their necks and throw their heads, annoyed at being pulled up short.
Mili catches up to Arjen as he, panting slightly, looks up at the driver, “Going east?”
“Out of the city, across the river Il,” says the driver. He scratches the cloth across his forehead, which is keeping the hair out of his eyes.
“Good,” says Arjen. “I've got seven cor for the girl and myself. To the river, right?”
“Get in.”
Arjen rounds to the other side of the cart and clambers in next to the driver, lending a hand to Mili. They squeeze together, there being just enough room for the two large men and the smaller, lithe Mili in the driver's seat. The driver gives the horses rein and they immediately take off trotting, jolting the cart into motion. The moist summer air blows through Mili's thin dress and she leans back, enjoying the ride. For a few moments the wind drives away the horrible image of Flen curled up on the bed which has been superimposed over her eyelids since she left his house. She will find the man who killed Flen, Mili resolves, and make him pay in kind. And then she will take vengeance on the man who ordered it. Even if she dies in the process, she will take Ejhiel down. She just really hopes it doesn’t come to that.
