We pass a man supporting himself on a cart. A vicious leer like a demon hissing reveals rotten teeth. From somewhere inside a derelict house a baby wails.
“It used to be better. It’s only gotten worse. Dad was a fisherman. We lived over there, Battersea,” he says, pointing vaguely to the area beyond the Docks. “That’s the breakwater and what’s left of the pier.” Two parallel structures, one manmade and one naturally formed jut into the ocean.
“Your father was a fisherman?”
He nods. “One of the best.”
“He’s not a fisherman anymore?” I ask gently.
“No, he was sick. When it was obvious he wasn’t going to recover and there was no medicine and the healers were too afraid of the silver king to do anything, he asked me to do the merciful thing and bring him to the water. He sailed away on a raft at midnight. I’ll never forgive myself, but he was happiest out there and I guess there’s a chance he made it to the Westlands.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, forcing away tears at my own recent loss. It feels so raw. So unreal. “My mom is gone too. I never knew my dad.” I knot my emotions deep inside.
A woman with milky eyes reaches for me, pawing at my jacket.
“Don’t be sorry,” he says. “It’s what Dad wanted. The alternatives, the slow waste that you see around here—” He shakes his head dismally.
Despite the grime and dirt, glass and mirrored surfaces are everywhere. As the sun rises higher, it features the same blemish as in New York. Twin peaks mark the entrance to the Distijllery and act like two giant mirrors, reflecting the ugly city back on itself. I catch a glimpse of my eyes, shining and damp, as I pass a shop. My hand brushes beneath them. Where did that glitter come from? It looks like I was out at the clubs with Tiffany. I can’t get it off. A chill swells under my skin like reverse goosebumps.
The scent of want in the air instead of breakfast cooking like the pancakes my mom made for me on my birthday. Was that just a couple of days ago?
Mud and waste line the streets and narrow alleys suggest secrets and danger. The briny scent of the sea presses against the chilly air as he continues toward the water. I shiver even though it can’t be as cold as it was when I was on the ice.
A kid with dark hair and ruddy skin bumps into me. Before I regain my footing, the Viking dude’s strong arms pin the kid against a brick wall with one hand while he pats him down with the other. He pulls out a thin copper necklace. “This yours?” he asks me.
I shake my head no.
He frowns at the kid, swinging the necklace inches from his face. “I recommend you return this to the rightful owner.”
He digs into the kid’s other pocket and pulls out the rope that appeared in my hand while I was on the ice.
I nod. “That’s mine.”
The dark-haired kid spits at us. He has lavender eyes like my mother.
“That’s rude.” The Viking thrusts the kid harder against the wall, wipes his arm and pulls a slim glass bottle from the boy’s pocket, and says, “Lay off the stijl, you’re too young to stink of uselessness.”
He lets the kid down and with a thin arm, the kid punches him in the gut. The Viking doesn’t even flinch. “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asks, towering over the thief and holding him steady with one hand.
The kid wriggles loose and scampers off, yelling obscenities when he’s safely away.
“Forgot to mention, in Raven’s Landing, watch your pockets. Lots of young thieves. They look innocent enough but are brutal. We call them tealeaf skimmers or just skimmers for short.”
“Were you one of them?” I ask with a wry smile.
“Most would argue that I still am,” he answers darkly. “Though perhaps to different ends.”
Figures a Peace Officer would align with a common criminal. Then again, according to him, the king is the felon. I don’t know who to trust and will have to find out for myself.
My mother commended me for being resourceful and determined, capable and clever. She also said I was stubborn and loyal. If any of that could help me out now, I’d be thankful. Another hairline fracture slices through my heart at the thought of losing her. I press my fists into my eyes as I race to match the Viking's stride. We duck down narrow lanes, taking a wide arc around the castle.
“Where are we going?” I ask as vendors open their stalls, placing everything from well-used household items on display to finely crafted pieces of jewelry, leather pouches, and hand-thrown cups and bowls.
He lifts a plank in front of a vacant weather-beaten stall and produces a long fishing rod with a line attached to it. If the fish here are anything like the people and buildings, we might remain hungry.
“The silver king never comes down to the market or Docks otherwise he’d have everything you see here thrown into the ashpit. All that hard work. Poof,” he says, ballooning his hands. “Leith doesn’t appreciate enterprise unless it directly benefits him. Ow.” He flinches and then mumbles, “The price for running my mouth.” He draws a deep breath and then goes on, “The patrol let the shopkeepers and merchants get away with it because, well, they were all like us once.”
“If the silver king is
