splatted with blood.
An old dockworker’s instinct made Arden snatch the knife out of the cobbles and toss the blade away before either man could retrieve it. Then the demonic face was gone and the brawl was back up again, this time a thankful distance away. Arden picked herself up, chest cavity twanging with pulled ligaments and crushed organs, the fine leather sleeve of her only coat torn to shreds, the skin on her elbow pebbled with rash. The men continued to heave bloody-fisted blows at each other.
How could you have missed a bar fight? Arden scolded herself as she brushed away stringy intestines and grey pebbles. She should have known that dance in three acts all too well; the gust of hot, hop-heavy wind from the flung-open tavern doors, the roil of spilled bodies and flailed fists, and the denouement where someone came close to joining the lamentable list of tavern-deceased.
The younger of the combatants had clearly grown weary of this entertainment, taking only two more hard punches to the torso before turning the fight to his advantage. An upward thrust of hip, and he upended the bearish man onto the cobblestones.
Without a word to yield or surrender, the victor took to pummelling the snarling face of the conquered until a flap of skin sheared clean off the eye socket. Blood across the stones. Blood thundering through Arden’s arteries, for suddenly she could feel …
Sanguis? No, it was impossible. The talent was gone from here. It must be her panic, making her sense power where there was none.
Something small and wooden escaped the tangle. Not a weapon this time. A turned black mangrove-wood handle with a screw thread of brass, such as would prime the oil in a ship’s pilot-light.
The handle rolled several feet before bumping against the toe of Arden’s now woefully scuffed patent leather shoe. She was loath to touch it, for the handle’s owner was upright now, a demon-faced man, taller and more brutish than she had thought him at first, his pale chest working like bellows as the blood runnelled from the broken skin of his knuckles. She could not even tell the colour of his hair, for blood from his forehead now coated his scalp with a wave of sheeny black.
How quick the fight had been, how expedient, how unnaturally silent.
In Lyonne, police or militia would have crowded around the scene in an instant. Strangers would have pulled the two apart. Shrieks and screams. Accusals might have been shouted and another fight start elsewhere, for in the big city such emotions were as infectious as a plague.
And she would not have been left to stand there unassisted in a state of fish-and-cobble-tumbled mess.
The street took on the hush of a sermon. The priest of this hard message spat blood from his mouth and indifferently wiped gore from his beard. He glared about at his witnesses, challenging the other equally bestial fellows ashine in their waxed canvas and fishmongers’ overalls to step forward and make their claim.
Nobody spoke. They averted their eyes from him, and went back to what they were doing in the dreary marketplace before the necessary interruption that passed as a trade discussion in this place. A few adjusted the coin they were charging for their bloodied sacks of produce, scrawling higher prices on the slates before facing them outwards again.
Arden sighed at her own hesitations, then with a groan of effort picked up the screw-thread handle, and held it out to its owner.
‘I presume yours?’
His attention was upon Arden for less than a second, only long enough for them to acknowledge to each other that she was insignificant and he was grotesque. Despite the muck, she noticed his bearing at once. He was different enough from the locals that she understood why he might attract the ire of fellows naturally suspicious of differences. His body was raw-boned and spare, hewn by necessity. His bloodied beard was a lighter brown than was usual on these shores, and in danger of gingering. There was no sign of the pelt of full-torso hair which appeared to grow abundantly on the Fiction men as if in response to the bitter climate, or the barrel chest built to tackle a fully laden net of monkfish. Though his arms were unmarked, under the tatters of his clothes she spied tattoos blooming across his back and flanks, a pattern of blue fish-scale chevrons, as if he were a selkie interrupted mid-transformation, and had decided to stay on land rather than the sea.
Stayed on land for love, she thought ridiculously, then immediately berated herself, for who could love such a terrifying creature enough that he should return it in kind?
She had thought his eyes dark, but they were Fiction-blue. A common shade. Eyes that averted as he took the handle out of Arden’s hands, shoved it back into his belt and returned to the tavern to resume whatever conversations had perpetuated such a disagreement.
Not even a thank-you. His victim lay bleeding on the street, forgotten.
The fight might have been silent, but that did not mean it had gone unnoticed. Mere minutes later the person Arden had been trying to avoid before the fight made his unwelcome reappearance.
He slid in behind her, exhaling a loud indignant rasp of breath in her ear. His voice followed, both sulky and wheedling. ‘You saw the fight? It is the way things are settled here in Fiction, in blood and violence. The ignoble creatures of the Darkling Coast do not bargain with words, if they consent to bargain at all.’
Then there it was, the male body pressing insistently against her back, pretending support, but hoping for the other thing too. A sharp stab of irritation made Arden grimace. She pulled away from him and affected a smile of bewildered relief, as if his appearance baffled her utterly.
‘Coastmaster Justinian, I’d wondered where you’d gotten to.’
‘What happened? I said explicitly for you to remain close.’
‘I’d thought you were following me, when I said I was going to look at the market. Then I was lost in the crowd. I didn’t realize you were only instructing the old man, and not exactly helping him.’
His eyes narrowed. Peacock he might have been, but Mr Justinian was not stupid. There was hardly a crowd on a Vigil market day. Arden had evaded him. No mere accident had made her slip away while his back was turned.
‘You do understand you may call me Vernon, now? We are not strangers to each other.’
His hand slithered about her waist. The flinch was instinctive. Handsome he might have been, with his coif of pomaded hair and smooth chin, his height six foot by the old measure, grey eyes the colour of an institutional slate, perhaps some hint of a tan to his skin that a distant and more noble ancestor had begrudgingly gifted.
But something in the Coastmaster’s features was small and bitter. Snivelling. As if the world owed him more than the sizable portion he’d been given, and he resented any other soul who merely received a fraction of his advantages.
For a woman newly arrived at this town under the employ of the powerful Seamaster’s Guild, Coastmaster Justinian was the only thing close to an equal associate she had. Even though she was sanguis and he was not, they were both of them isolated aristocrats in a way, graduated from Northern technical academies, degree-holders beholden to the great service Guilds that linked the two countries into one fraternal parliament. It made a sort of sense that they should cultivate a professional partnership.
The man’s constant touching, well, that was merely a Fiction trait, was it not? Certainly, the cold weather made even bare acquaintances huddle.
‘… now you have made a fool of yourself by running off unaccompanied.’ Mr Justinian continued to scold Arden while steering her towards the row of trestles that made up the last of the marketplace stalls. ‘Fortunately you must only contend with appearing slovenly in public.’
She held the sharp tongue in her head that would have corrected him, I have seen more and bloodier dock fights than this one, and I’d prefer a hundred of them rather than one more day with you.
These things she would have said, if her position in Vigil was not so dreadfully fraught and insecure. Though she had taken her orders dutifully,