89th of Winter, 511 AV
The sky rumbled. The lanes were drowning under muddy water, fat drops breaking on gray shingles and awnings, ropes of laundry hanging like lank, wet rags by the ranks of ceramic domes. The slog, the drips, they just faded beyond the layers of turf and bedrock, leaving only jaded curls of smoke that clung to the rafters. There wasn’t anything else. There was only the chamber, and the hiss of ember worms.
Ulric’s fingers traced over the plaster, dislodging tiny, crumbly wedges that tinkled on the floor. He stared at their descent, running a palm over his cheek as if he could share that veracity of feeling. Did this just happen? Did the crows utter only deceits? He was buoyant, if caught up by a dream, eyes raking over the spider’s web of charcoal, the sprawl of nets, infused by an insidiously uncanny sense of unreality.
Every clap of thunder was an intrusion. The world had shriveled around him, liquefying like cakes of salt, leaving only a residue. These timbers, these things, they were the dregs of his ambiguity. They were just paltry splinters of his past, down to the forlorn, cracked shards of clay. Here he was, the last revenant. There was grief, but also a surging of his spirit, as if the ice was cracking over a vast, turgid river. The skies, though gray and angry, couldn’t shackle his soul. Sometimes, he thought, casting a furtive glance over her striking, tawny beauty, You’ve got to lose everything before you find what you’re looking for.
Turning to her, he felt a playful grin playing over his face. “Naama, we’re leaving,” he croaked. That didn’t come out right, as he just found himself coughing, eyes watery. He reached for his mug, taking a swig of sour, vinegary wine to force down the frog in his throat. That was manly, he scowled. The mug, bearing a tiny chip in the rim, changed hands. “There you go, Squirt,” he grunted. There was a slosh of dregs, so he handed over the skin, too. The untidy runt, though unable to hold his liquor, would have to do his part this day. They’d other skins, and nearly half a cask of ale left, and he wasn’t leaving any of it for burglars.
“Now,” he glowered, sternly clasping hands in front of his jerkin, “This family of ours, we’re going to be leaving this city. That’s what I say, at least. There’d be debate of this if I hadn’t already made up my mind.” This was a perilous line he traced, for mate or no, he risked rapid, brutal injury for speaking so brashly. That was a gambit upon which he was eager to embark. There wasn’t any purpose in carrying on, through scads of cursed, rutting chimera, if there wasn’t any danger.
Ulric jerked his jaw at her, tarred faintly ludicrous by an abrupt, atypical frenzy of gesticulation. “Though we’re leaving, here’s your chance to speak your mind. That’s all I’ve got to say. There’s sisters that need rescuing, mothers that require flaying, and nothing’s going to tear us asunder. There’ll be a reckoning, my love. There’s-”
Biting his lip, he glared at the cask. “Too much booze.” The skin just under his eye gave a tug.
