This next section of my book was written about you. Yes, you.
Below, people moved hurriedly in small groups, spreading out and away from the constable’s office like children hunting for festival sweets. From this height Maritimus could still make out the face of the deputy and a few others she had seen in the crowd. If there were ever a time for them to notice a shadowy figure crouching atop the cathedral it would surely be now, while the countryside’s most wanted fugitive lurked somewhere nearby. The townsfolk never looked up though, choosing instead to keep their eyes earthward, or looking to each other for approval and safety. People like this were mindless – quick to wear the uniform. When the crowd told them to, they would act like deputies, or vigilantes, or like a pack of hungry and directionless wolves. They wore the uniform now as easily as they did at town gatherings and celebrations. They wore the uniform because it was dangerous not to, and if Maritiums was going to be the one to find Athra Jaims, she had to be able to think unlike them.
She concentrated on a group of men who walked in a tight bundle, each brandishing some oversized piece of farm-made weaponry. There were four men, and most seemed to defer to the largest of them, a fair-skinned man with heavy hands and an awkward gait. He had the sort of walk that told the rest of the world, “I just shit my pants, but I did it on purpose, dammit.” Anger prickled at Maritimus’s scalp, resenting a world where size alone could grant a man like this even a modicum of respect. Begrudgingly, she stood up to her full yet meager height, threw her shoulders back, and made to imitate the man’s posture. All the while she kept a hand held securely to the stone outcropping; there was no need to imitate him so fully that she died being idiotic.
“I’m a big dumb animal and I probably own a stupid hat,” she said, letting herself slip into the mindset of the man. That wasn’t helping. She breathed out slowly. “I’m dominated by fear and the need to prove to my friends that I’m something more than a frightened child.” She let her free hand drop to her side as she cuffed it into a clumsy fist. “I think of outlaws as being just like me, but dumber.” Now she was getting somewhere. Her jaw bobbed back and forth slowly with the man’s cocky stride. “I look for outlaws in the places where I would go, if I were an outlaw.” She watched as the four men picked their way through the streets, en route to the tavern. “Which of course is the last place an outlaw would hide.” Maritimus felt strangely at home here in the mind of a man she hated. In a way, she almost pitied him.
CLEEK CLEEK!!
The sound snapped Maritimus back from the mind of the oafish fellow below.
CLEEK CLEEK!
A lone magraven perched nearby, the sort her father had always called a “magpie.” It looked sidelong at Maritimus, considering her intrusion into the high places of the world. It turned its body to her, giving itself a better view of the interloper and affording Maritimus a look at the distinctive black-white-blue markings on its plumage. AHAHAHAH! It chattered at her noisily without moving.
Maritimus’s hand searched the wall of the cathedral, hoping for a loose stone or a broken shard to throw at the little bastard. AHAHAHAH! It leaped sideways to a nearby beam and kept its flank turned to her.
CLEEK!
Maritimus heard another magpie’s call at much the same time as she felt its beak nip at her neck. It hurt. Not enough to pose her any danger, and not enough to push her off her ledge. In fact the coordinated attack of the second bird, while the first had distracted her, hurt just enough to make her angry at herself. This in turn was enough to make her raise both hands to fend off the magpie, and that was enough to make her lose her balance.
AHAHAHAH! Maritimus’s foot slipped, pushing through some loose thatching before carrying her weight down with it. She caught herself with both hands, her body hanging beneath two large beams of the roof, but the birds now intensified their assault, taking turns dancing and calling while the other pecked at her.
“Someday, I’m going to kill every last one of you.” Maritimus gritted her teeth and endured the derision and attack of the magpies. It didn’t hurt enough to die over; hell, it didn’t even break the skin. With a deep breath, she lowered herself down until one of her feet found the ledge of a high window. She began picking out the stones and beams she would use to climb back down to the street, and for their part the birds seemed satisfied that Maritimus no longer threatened their sovereign borders. “Every. Fucking. Last. One.” She hissed through her teeth.
She had the entirety of her descent mapped when something caught her eye below. She turned her head, keeping the rest of her body still as she clung to the rocks. From over her shoulder she watched as the town constable, the one who’d given the speech, walked quickly away from the constabulary and toward the outskirts of town. Maritimus wasn’t sure why, but something prickled at her senses. The constable wasn’t with the rest of the mob, and aside from the holstered flintlock that Maritimus had seen laying on the floor earlier that morning, didn’t seem to be carrying any weapons at all. Of course, an elf with a firearm was no small thing, as the Atmeri Dynasty had famously learned a few hundred years prior. There was something in the way the constable walked however that made Maritimus take note. It was like he was … nervous.
With a short step, she threw herself into her climb and in less than a minute found herself back down on the dirt road. Maritimus moved carefully to where she had seen the constable in one of the southern streets, finding footsteps that were different from a man’s, and that bore down less heavily into the dirt. She padded after the tracks like a dog who’d caught the scent of supper, but made sure to scan the area back and forth with her eyes. “There,” she said to herself, stepping out of a muddy, shadowed alley. Ahead, the constable walked through the door of a small tack shop and disappeared.
Maritimus stepped back into the alleyway and gathered herself. She checked her knives once again, as well as the shank she kept in her left boot. She looked out slowly to the road. There were no signs of any pitchfork-wielding townsfolk. In fact this part of the town seemed to have missed the news of Athradian Jaims entirely. So then, why come here? Was the constable the sort of person who would offer a reward just to then go to great lengths to ensure that no one else actually got it? Maritimus lowered her brow, begrudgingly admitting to herself that the constable might be her favorite person in this entire goat-fuck of a village.
When she stepped back into the sunlight, Maritimus walked casually, keeping her eyes on the far side of the road and checking her empty hand as though she were reading directions. It was idiotic, but it was the simplest way to tell the world, “I’m supposed to be here and I’m not close to finding a wanted bandit.” As she neared the tack shop, she dropped the act and pushed silently through the door, being careful not to let the latch click behind her.
It was muggy inside and stunk of horse. The counter was unmanned, and to the right a door frame with no door led to a slightly larger enclosure that was shaded from the sun by only a thin canvas canopy. Maritimus peeked in, seeing the constable moving carefully with hand on holster, over to a dark-haired man whose head slumped on a long low table. Maritimus drew a knife and let it fall blade-up into her fingers as she took her place out of sight over the constable’s right shoulder. There was a quiver in the constable’s voice when he said, “Sit up slowly and show me your hands!”
When the man didn’t move, the constable prodded him on the shoulder carefully with the muzzle of his flintlock. The dark-haired man sat up stiffly, brushing stringy hair out of his face and mouth, accidentally knocking an empty flask from the table.
“Constable?” asked the dark-haired man hoarsely.
“Godsdamn,” said Ladrian with a sigh. “Brock Makormick, you scared the shit out of me!”
“Why?” asked the drunken dark-haired man. His blurry eyes looked to where Maritimus held a knife aloft but seemed to take in none of the imminent danger that came with it. “Did you get a new deputy?” he asked.
The constable turned, noting Maritimus’s presence in the tack shop for the first time. His eyes widened a bit before he could keep them from reacting. Was that alarm on the elf’s face? Surprise? Something else …
“Do me a favor and head home, Makormick,” said Ladrian in a way that was commanding but not quite terse. “There are better places to sleep off your liquor.”
The dark-haired man just nodded and rose carefully to his feet. He left the empty flask on the floor as he tottered out of the tack shop, leaving Maritimus and the constable to stare at one another in the quiet of the room.
“What are you doing here?” spoke Ladrian at last.
“Looking for a famous outlaw,” she shot back. The constable seemed on edge. “You?”
“The same, obviously. I had a tip that Athradian Jaims was here. Turns out it was just old Brock Makormick, crashed on a table after a night out.”
“GOT YOUR ORDER HERE, SIR!” The booming voice announced the presence of the shop owner before his heavy footfalls brought him into view. “I HAD JUST ABOUT EVERYTHING YOU NEEDED OUT BACK EXCEPT FOR BARLEY FEED. THERE’S BEEN A SHORTAGE COMING IN FROM THE COAST!” The shopkeep was a large man, with rounded features, a heavy mustache, and a look of simple single-mindedness. In his meaty arms he hefted a saddle and bridle and somehow managed to also lug a canvas bag in his closed fist. When he saw Maritimus he nodded dutifully and said in a loud voice, “I’LL BE WITH YOU ONCE I’M DONE HELPING THE CONSTABLE, MISS!”
“I’m just looking,” said Maritimus curtly. She kept her hand out of sight as she slid the knife back into its hidden sheath. “Don’t let me interrupt your business.” Her eyes remained locked on Ladrian.
“RIGHT!” the man nodded and spoke to the constable. “I HAVE A HORSE READY FOR YOU NOW, BUT IF YOU’D LIKE I CAN HAVE ALL THIS DELIVERED TO YOUR OFFICE. FOR ONLY A SMALL PRICE MORE I CAN ALSO THROW IN A PACK MULE TO HELP W–”
“This will be fine,” interrupted Ladrian. His eyes glanced nervously to Maritimus before darting back to the large merchant. “I’ll come pick it up from the stables … one of these days. No rush.” There was an uneasiness to his voice. “No rush at all.”
“BUT YOU SAID YOU NEEDED A HORSE TODAY!”
“I know what I said,” interrupted the constable evenly. From his pocket Ladrian produced some coins and placed them gingerly into the shopkeep’s hands with a kind smile. “You’ve been very helpful. Keep the change.”
The large man’s eyes widened in shock and gratitude. “THANK YOU, SIR!” he bellowed, as he turned to leave the room. “THESE ARE GARAMOND GOLD!” he announced, stopping to look back from the doorway. “I’VE NEVER SEEN ONE IN REAL LIFE!”
Ladrian winced. “Yes, a caravan from Tarbad brought them in last week. I was as surprised as you are.”
“BECAUSE ALL THE CARAVANS HAVE BEEN TOO AFRAID TO TRAVEL THIS WAY DUE TO THE BANDIT ACTIVITY ON THE ROADS?”
“That must have been it,” agreed the constable quietly. When the large merchant had finally disappeared from the doorway, Ladrian looked up at Maritimus with tired eyes.
“Going somewhere?” Mariitmus asked him suspiciously.
“There’s trouble near Exus. I need to leave immediately. Just got word that a group of brigands is terrorizing the local farmers. They think I might be able to identify one of them based on the time I spent there.”
“Things are tough all over.”
“We are children of a mischievous God,” nodded Ladrian.
“And you’re rushing off to Exus,” Maritimus picked her words carefully, “to help deal with outlaws,” she spoke very slowly, “despite reports that Athra Jaims, the most wanted man in Highland, is here in your town … currently.”
The constable didn’t respond. The two of them stared at one another beneath the canopy that blocked out the warm autumn sun. He was tall, the constable – low elves usually were, with the narrow frame and easy grace that was so natural to their kind. His face was smooth, free of any trace of whisker, or wrinkle, or the traditional marks of time. Like a woman who didn’t age.
“Where are you really going?” Maritimus said quietly.
“To Exus,” lied the constable. His left hand slid down precariously close to his holster. Maritimus felt a wash of anger, sharp and clean and invigorating as her own hand found the handle of her hidden knife. She kept her eyes locked on Ladrian’s but lived in her periphery, watching for even the smallest twitch of the constable’s fingers toward his flintlock. The world was silent except for the sound of a child laughing from somewhere outside. She loosened the knife from the sheath and held it tenderly, ready to throw.
Kill shots only.
“Excuse me.” Maritimus flinched, nearly dropping the knife. The constable jumped too, fumbling at his flintlock before pulling his hand away quickly to adjust the neck of his shirt. “I was hoping one of you could help me.”
A woman stood in the doorway. An impossible woman. With pale skin, and long red hair that fell from beneath a heavy hood, and eyes … as wide … and dark .. as ….
“I heard that Athradian Jaims, the notorious outlaw, was here in Rainsreach,” said the red-haired woman, smiling an expansive, white-toothed smile. She was tall, with delicate features, but she held herself with a certain strength and arrogance. “Is that true? Is he really here?”
Maritimus and Ladrian exchanged a glance before the constable spoke. “My apologies, miss. I didn’t catch your name.”
“You know me,” came her voice. “I’ve been your neighbor for years.”
“You’ve been my neighbor for years,” agreed Maritimus and Ladrian, nodding to one another as they spoke in unison.
“And I need your help.”
“And you need our help,” they agreed. They both spoke at once.
“Athradian Jaims was spotted in town by an overzealous deputy looking to make a name for himself.”
“Athra Jaims is here, but the constable is trying to skip town.”
“I wouldn’t take the reports overly seriously, and even if he is here I wouldn’t recommend that you go looking for him. He’s very dangerous.”
“There’s a reward, but I’m not sure the constable will honor it.”
Ladrian and Mariitmus broke off their words obediently at a smile from the woman. “The two of you have been … just lovely.” Her long cloak trailed out of the room behind her, billowing on a wind that never made its way into the tack shop, until it was gone, and she was gone. Ladrian and Maritimus stared at each other dumbstruck, smiling peacefully and nodding to one another. For how long, neither could say.
“I like your hat,” said Ladrian, waving his hand at his own bare head.
“Thanks,” said Maritimus gratefully, her hand raising up to touch the wide brim of her cap. Did the autumn weather always feel this pleasant? The sound of songbirds wafted in from outside, and the scratching of dry leaves blew lazily along the road. “I made it myself.”
Loud, urgent footsteps interrupted them. The shopkeeper came running from the back of the store, past the counter and the door with no door frame, before throwing open the front door and announcing to the entire town, “CONSTABLE, COME QUICK! THEY’VE CAUGHT ACCORDION JANES! BROCK BRISON JUST TOLD ME OUT BACK!”
Ladrian and Maritimus exchanged a final glance before the two of them broke into a run and left the tack shop.
The Mischief of Magpies is written in an obsolete vernacular. Please buy it in the Kindle Store
