Take Your Skin Off

[Victor Lark]

88 Fall, 506

There was a kitchen knife between Victor’s teeth and a dead rat in his hand, but only a searching eye would catch a glimpse of him between the shadows of the alley. Occasionally, the flash of a silver glare darted between the street and the second-story window that faced it, impatient for the right moment. The woman whose bed stood behind that window probably did not deserve the present he had prepared for her: the rodent was bloated and stinky, dripping like his sleeve with the canal water from which he had retrieved it.

Yvette Mordeco was just as vain as her sister, but far more stubborn. Both had tongues of silver and an eye for expensive jewels, but where Alessa’s charming smile came just as easily as her false tears, Yvette would never dare make a fool of herself to get her way. She was irritable, but she was direct. When he had wronged her, Victor knew immediately. In front of his mother and cousins, Yvette had scolded her nephew’s childish games, made cruel judgment on his mental competence, and (he was pretty sure) given doubt to the certainty of his manhood, in a single breath.

So he had excused himself for more than a piss, to his cousin Edgar’s amusement and Mrs. Mordeco’s utter disdain. He had escaped the sour marjoram and bitter insults and taken immediately to the street.

Victor had no idea how long he had waited for the street to clear. He thought the sun had dipped a little lower and that his crouching knees would ache forever from the strain. (In reality, any sign of eyes had passed within twenty minutes.) Breathing in a deep whiff of the adjacent canal’s rot, he ducked the window beside the door and considered the wall. Conveniently, it was the fashion of the season to dress the house in vines; these grew securely over a strong but thin iron grate. He gripped it with his hands and pulled up, squishing the rat against the soft green blanket as he tested his weight on the bars.

It held. Victor exhaled. He climbed without one hand for the most part, but still managed to use his fingertips when his other grips faltered. By the time his toes had tipped over the door frame, the wooden knife handle was slick with his saliva. He took it in his other hand, wiped it on the leaves, then replaced it in the same movement as he hopped to the window above him. With all the strength in his skinny arms, he hoisted himself onto the window ledge and pulled up on the pane.

It would not budge.

Of course she had locked it. It faced the street, and this city was not without its thieves. He frowned at it, adjusted his footing, and twisted precariously so that he could take the knife to the bottom of the window and reach the latch. But he fumbled it before it left his mouth; terrified reflexes refused to let the thing touch his face, so it fell. It tripped against the ledge and, before he could catch it, tumbled onto the porch below.

“Petch.”

[Murmur]

Deven abhorred playing messenger. Perhaps even moreso than patrols, except that a stroll through a winding alley could yield extra practice with a blade and even some coin in it for the trouble. Delivering parcels and letters were a different matter, important, perhaps, but tedious. There was no room for distractions or sidetracking, no offchance that the young apprentice could scurry off into the depths of Ravok's shadier corners to practice a little morphing. Disobedience in these matters resulted in discipline in the form of cruel whips, and he had just about enough of the shyke. The better part of the day was spent traveling to and from the Vitrax and the outer rings of the city. He passed stooped, hooded fingers along the cobblestone streets, beggars in their filthy rags and grime encrusted fingers splayed for any crumb of food that might fall from unwary hands, strutting young noblewomen in their gilded gowns of silk and jewels, the large and the sickly, slaves and whores. This city was the epitome of extremes. He passed beneath the shadow of a looming building somewhere in the noble quarter, but it was the clatter of a knife that drew his attention, not the sight of the boy that hung precariously from the edge of a window. As Deven glanced up, he paused. What the petch? "Is that a street rat I see, scurrying for some ladies' poor goods?" He called, grinning. This shyke is guards' work. Deven approached the porch, bending to pick up the knife. "Now this looks suspicious."

[Victor Lark]

The chill of a startled heart sucked the air from Victor’s lungs, but he was careful not to make a sound even as he realized that he had already been seen. Focused on the window, his face settled into a tight glare before he dared to look down at the voice that had filled the street; if he recognized the ebon-clad man for what he was, the noble boy did not seem to care. He hopped from the ledge, holding tight onto the trappings between the leaves with his free hand. “I am not,” he replied indignantly, a child’s pout on his voice. “But this is.”

He chucked his stinky wet rat at the stranger, giving one last squeeze so that it might be ripe for bursting upon impact. He did not look and see where it landed, instead proceeded to drop down the wall. Clinging to soft leaves and painful bars as briefly as possible, he descended too quickly. When his feet hit the hard stone, they were not expecting the shock of pain that met them there; with a breathy cry of surprise, he fell and held his knee.

He should have run. It did not hurt so bad, and the kitchen door was probably still unlocked, in the alley. But then he rolled over and looked up at that man, that incredulous, sarcastic grin, and he felt contemptuous. He wanted to turn it into a frown. He scrambled to his feet and leaned against the plush wall. “My name is Victor Lark,” he announced. That always made them leave him alone, and maybe it would make him apologize for calling him street rat. He decided to add a hasty explanation, though he could not bear to tell the whole truth. “Mrs. Mordeco lives here. She’s my aunt. I was locked out, and I was trying to get in again. That knife’s not yours. You should give it back.”

[Murmur]

He should have expected something devious from a deviant. A nimble hand lifted instinctively to catch the thing aimed for his face, but when he glanced down and noticed the oozing, stinking rat in his palm, Deven grimaced. It dropped in a wet slop on the cobblestone. The boy's name, however, sparked in him a memory from a time when he accompanied Jartu to a dinner gathering, exuding the typical flamboyant splendor and melodramatic, pompous characters Deven invested too much time to avoid. "Curious, I never took a Lark to behave like common vermin." Deven replied patiently, toying with the handle of the knife. "I don't much care if she's your aunt, nor where she lives, nor who she might be petching. In fact, I have something far more interesting in mind for you." He approached the boy, grasping him by the back of the neck. Fingers clenched, he dragged him where he dropped the rotting rodent. "I believe this is your mess. Be a good sport to the Ebonstryfe, why don't you? Eat your snack, loitering is frowned upon." The knife was perched dangerously near his throat, even as Deven shoved the younger boy's face down, inches from the festering prize.

[Victor Lark]

“Hey! Ah!” His protests did nothing to dissuade the painful grip on his neck, so he tossed his hands over his shoulders and tried to pry it away himself. Whatever leverage he might have gained instantly dissipated with the shining edge of his own stupid knife. Victor lowered his hands, but not in surrender; his fingers twitched where they held the cold, moist ground, eyes searching shamelessly for a way out.

A belated gasp, almost like apprehension, hissed automatically into his lungs. He regretted the noise as soon as he made it; he was not afraid. He had never tasted rat before, and while the thought of a rotting raw one was not exactly appetizing, he could not think of any harm in it. Anyway, he would not give this soldier the satisfaction of scaring him. As Victor dropped to the comfort of his knees and took the dead rodent in his hands, the petty command became the gravest of dares.

He could not turn down a dare.

Careful around the threat on his throat, he lifted it to his mouth and wrapped his teeth around its bloated middle. When he could not quite tear the flesh, water and blood and some other mystery refuse leaked from every orifice, and an unexpected gag rocked on his shoulders. As if it were some act of defiance, he bit down even harder. From his incisors sprouted a foul-tasting fluid which he could not think to name; instead of retching from the mouthful, he turned suddenly to the black guard and spat it all at his lapel.

Victor might have laughed if he was not so concerned with getting away, hoping the distraction was enough, trusting he had a sense of humor. His snack dripped from its new wound as he raised it again and ripped a chunk from what he had already torn. Water-thinned blood painted his chin he skipped backwards and mumbled over the fur and fat and flesh that danced between his teeth, “Delicious! Have a bite, Ebonshyke!”

He tossed it at him again, and the gesture treaded warily between a reciprocal dare and impudent rebellion. Fluids and innards sprayed the cobblestones beneath the arc of the rat’s flight and Victor tried to chew, but the raw meat was too tough and the hairs were too spiny. Another involuntary heave pulled him forward a step, until he was forced to spit out his prize and pick the fur from his spittle. However his body betrayed him, Victor’s eyes remained locked expectantly on Deven as he wiped his chin with the back of his hand.

[Murmur]

The rank stench penetrated his nostrils. The vapors from the poor dead rat was almost as bad as a putrefying wound, but that was besides the point. The boy was eating it, just as he'd commanded. An obedient little scoundrel whose eyes still shone with that devious spark that Deven knew he'd never dispel. This boy was a rebel, just as he was. The thought made him smile involuntarily, and for the moment, his intimidating facade melted away. "Disgusting," He spat, his nose wrinkled in disdain. But there he was, the noble Lark gnawing on the corpse of a decomposing rodent, whose innards exploded between white teeth and pink tongue. And then the rat was flying through the air once again, and instead of catching it, it splattered against his cheek, spraying drops of reeking fluid down his chin and jaw. There was a pause, then a burst of laughter from his lips. "You've got balls, Lark." Then a fist collided with the boy's face, while a gloved hand clenched his dark hair and pulled his head back forcefully. "I enjoy being a rebellious little bastard as much as the next kid. That house," He jerked with his thumb, "Anything valuable? Something we could use to incite delicious rage?"

[Victor Lark]

The boy grinned, raising one eyebrow in what was supposed to be a look of pride, but turned out something much more peculiar. He turned his head to try and spit out the last of the dead rat’s hairs, and was subsequently rocked in another sudden assault; if not for the strength of Deven’s hold, Victor might have fallen off his feet. Only when the tender blood began throbbing beside his eye did he realize that he had been hit, and he winced.

“Yeah, sure,” he laughed, refusing the satisfaction of tears or anger. “Plenty.”

It took the strength of his whole body to tug away from the man’s grip, leaving Victor to clutch the back of his neck as he attempted to remember his own enthusiasm for the very thing the stupid Ebonstryfe suggested. It was his idea first, but he was not about to say as much. He stood straight again, almost tipping to his toes in an attempt to compensate for the disparity between their heads.

Eyeing the knife with more jealousy than wariness, he suggested, “Front door’s locked; so’s the window.” He nodded at his aunt’s room, above. “But the kitchen’s open. I’d ask if you were any good at sneaking, but you don’t even need it. One sight of you, and they’d let you pass.” Clearly he did not know the meaning of rank, but it was nonetheless a challenge. Before he could be grabbed again, Victor darted into the alley beside the house and ran to the dark door at the end.

He twisted the knob and opened it only a sliver, peering in. As dinner wound down, the servants huddled in a leaning mess around the hearth and pot, catching a warm breath before the cleaning began. There was a clear shot through the length of the room behind a cluttered island of preparation tables, but the gaps between it and the two doors were trouble. Before he took the chance, he glanced back. “I bet they’ll see you.”

[Murmur]

Deven was hardly paying the kid any attention. He allowed him his moment of glory after he managed to wrench himself free from his grip, but his sights were on the building, sizing it up, molding it down into what he decided wasn't as luxurious as some other homes he'd intruded upon. The look he gave Victor was incredulous. With lips curled into a crooked grin, he gestured toward the front door with a nudge of his head, "Let them see, I do have a fantastic face, after all." Then he left the boy to his devices, sauntering toward the front entrance as if he was the Ebonlord himself. He rapped the door and awaited whoever might have had the patience to open it, most like a servant, and gave them a flashing white smile. "Greetings, my name is Deven Rosier. I come from the Vitrax on an assignment from my commanding officer. If you would be so kind as to allow me entrance, I would like to get it done as quickly and efficiently as possible, which means little to no interference." There was a pause in his words, as he allowed the recipient of his message to soak it in, "I've been instructed to investigate this lovely household on charges of a street rat taking refuge within these very walls. We've reason to assume he is committing treason against our Lord Rhysol and all that he stands for. Suffice it to say, he might be working as a little bird for enemies of Ravok." With an innocent glint in his eye, he extended his hand, "Shall I begin?"