Farlander

'Yes?' she insisted and, before he could say no, she had shuffled off into another room, the suddenly open door releasing a cloud of steam that carried in it the humid whiff of cabbage. He heard her shoo something out of the way, and then the clinking of cups.

A mechanical clock was ticking somewhere in the parlour, though he could not see it amid all the mess and clutter crowded about the walls. The chair was uncomfortable, as though he was sitting on gravel, so he rose, and brushed a scattering of rat droppings to the floor. He sat down again gingerly. He was about to place his hands on the armrests, but changed his mind and settled them in his lap instead.

The old woman emerged precariously bearing a tray with a pot of steaming chee and two cups of white porcelain. 'Let me help with that,' Nico said, as he rose and took the tray from her, carrying it back to set on a small side table. She smiled and settled herself with care in the chair opposite him, remaining stooped even as she sat, her hand still resting on her stick. She watched him clearly as he poured the chee.

'Thank you,' Nico said, with a tight smile, and sat back with his own cup – though he did not drink from it. The old woman nodded, still studying him deeply. He wondered what it was that she saw.

'Tell me,' she said. 'Do you dream much?'

He thought for a moment. 'A little too much, of late,' he confessed.

'Some dream more than others, you know. Some see more than others, too. I can tell that you are one of those. You are fortunate. My husband, he is the same.'

Nico stared down into the cup in his hands. The chee looked pleasant enough, and the porcelain was clean. He glanced up and smiled and then looked elsewhere, and saw the clock at last standing on a pedestal against the far wall, next to a coat-stand, where a single flap-coat hung alongside a black top hat. He felt uncomfortable under her gaze, and the smell of the steam still pouring through the open doorway was starting to make him feel ill.

Nico forced himself to look at the old woman. She was the colour of burnt stove grease. He met her soapy eyes and saw something vulnerable within them, a sensitivity scarred by old wounds. He saw boredom too, in the guise of her present attentiveness.

She nodded as though he had just returned to her. 'That is why he is a sharti you know. My husband, he is very powerful in the old ways. Many people still come to him – the poor, the desperate. Many call on his services.'

'You are not Mannians, then?'

'Eh? Mannians? No boy. The Mannians would seize us for slaves, or worse, if they knew what we were. We practise the old ways here, the first ways. Heretics they call us. We and the poor are who they despise most of all.'

She paused to lift her cup from the table and drew it to her puckered lips. She slurped noisily, twice, then returned the cup to the table.

'You do not know what I speak of… the old ways?'

Nico considered the question. He thought of his mother making the sign of protection each time she saw a single pica bird, a habit she had infected even him with. He thought too of how she always left a burning candle on an open windowsill every night of the winter solstice.

'Perhaps.' He shrugged. 'These old ways, they are still practised elsewhere?'

'Oh, they are practised everywhere, but only in the shadows. In traditions long hidden from meaning. By those old enough to remember our lives before Mann, mm? Only in the High Pash will you find the old ways lived by all and still with meaning. And further a-reach than that even – in the Isles of Sky, even there. That is how they live forever, you know. When they die, they use the old knowledge to return them to life. Yes, these are the things the Mannians would have us forget.'

Nico listened to her words with a glaze of apparent interest fixed to his face. He fought the urge to scratch at his ankles, where he could feel the fleas leaping and biting. He glanced at the closed door and wondered how long Master Ash was going to be. What were they doing in there, for mercy's sake?

The woman inhaled and wobbled the top of the stick from side to side in her withered hand. 'You are a kind boy,' she said. 'You listen to an old woman when you would rather be anywhere but here. Now then, I believe they are finished with their business.'

Nico set the chee down the instant he heard the door being tugged open. He was on his feet even as Ash emerged, with the other man following behind.

'… closer to the time then,' Ash was saying.

The farlander glanced at the cup of chee sitting on the table and stopped to pick it up. He took a large gulp, then smiled at the old woman as he set down the empty cup. He jerked his head for Nico to follow as he strode to the stairs.

'Thank you for the chee,' Nico said quickly, and followed after him.

*

They caught a tram back to the district of the east docks, sitting in one of the seats at the back. For a time, Ash sat looking behind him through the rear window.

'You think we are being followed?'

Ash faced forwards once more. 'Hard to say,' he muttered. He did not seem very concerned.

The tram was clattering past a great square fronted on three sides by buildings of white marble, filled in its entirety with milling figures in red robes, thousands upon thousands of them.

'Pilgrims,' said Ash before his apprentice could ask.

'I had another question in mind,' Nico said, loud enough to be heard over the noise of the crowds. 'Back at that house, did you get what you went there for?'

'I hope so.'

'And you're not going to tell me any more than that?'

'Not yet, no.'

Nico exhaled in exasperation. 'This is a great way to teach your apprentice. Tell him as little as possible, even when he asks.'

'In the field, it is always best if you work things out for yourself.'

Nico snorted. 'A convenient theory, in that it saves you having to answer any questions.'

'There is that, too.'

A bump in the road shook the windows of the tram. Ash twisted to look behind again. Once he straightened, he sat stroking a thumb against a forefinger in contemplation.

A few moments later he stood up, grasping for the luggage rack overhead for balance. 'Go back and wait for me in our room. Stay inside until I return.'

Without waiting for a response, he moved to the open exit and hopped down into the street, walking off quickly even as the tram passed him by, oblivious to Nico's face pressed against the glass of the window.

Some time later the tram entered the district of the east docks, and Nico began to recognize where he was at last. He gazed out the window at the passing streets, their vague familiarity an equally vague comfort to him. On the pavement a girl strode past. He caught sight of her dark hair.

Nico jumped up, made his way to the exit, and stepped out.

'Serese!' he shouted, but the girl was too far away to hear him.

He lost sight of her on reaching the end of the next block. It had been her, he was sure of it. Nico kept walking in the same direction, looking one way and then the other. The streets were busy with late-afternoon traffic. Pedestrians hurried along the pavements, trams and carts trundled along the roadway. A nearby temple rang out the hour, two bells and then silence.

He headed along a street of identical buildings, the windows tall and standing open to the city air, leaking sounds of industry from within. He stopped at one of the ground-floor windows to chance a look inside. It looked like a workshop, though a massive one, spacious and dusty. Hundreds of people, mostly women and young children, sat on rows of mats on the floor and worked at simple repetitive tasks that made no immediate sense to his eyes. Other children swept loose debris from the floor and the few grown men sweated as they pushed handcarts filled with material along the aisles. Those sitting on the mats tossed finished items into the carts as they passed by, while others grabbed things out. A few supervisors stalked between the workers, shouting at one every so often. After a minute, Nico passed on, seeing no sign of Serese. He had clearly lost her.

For a moment he considered returning to the hostalio, but the mere thought of sitting there all on his own, dwelling on what he had done last night, was a depressing one. He might as well take a stroll, even if the city streets were barely more welcoming than his room.