Chương 29: Chapter 28 – A Kind of Stain

Five days passed without so much as a harsh word or mean look thrown their way. No goons busted through the door in the dead of night. No Stained crashed through the walls or burned the building down around them. Slowly, Passage and the others relaxed. They uncoiled from around their fears, slept easier at night, and stopped flinching towards the door every time they heard boots on the floorboards outside.

By the end of the fifth day, the room had begun to feel more prison than refuge, and all of them were ready to climb the walls. At last, Edrin sent word that they could leave. Rumours had been seeded and normalcy returned. Patrick's Hollow was still roaming the canals, but there was nothing any of them could do about that. The creature had been sighted a few more times, apparently, prowling the sunken district. He helped sell the lie, an accidental boon to the fools who had failed to save him.

Passage thanked him in his mind. Edrin's message instructed them to stay one more night and think of an excuse to tell their families on their return. It was not so uncommon for each of them to go missing for a night or two. But after almost an entire week, there would be questions and it would be best if they all returned home with the same answers. The last thing any of them needed was extra attention just then. Passage dreaded facing Harrow, still unsure exactly how he would apologise.

The bell's destruction was a violation, not just of the temple, but of the trust Harrow had always shown him. To use it in pursuit of selfish gain, and then shatter it in violence, went against everything his father had ever tried to teach him. And yet he was certain Harrow would forgive him, regardless of how little Passage deserved it. The preacher would be worried by now, and so glad to see him home that all else would be forgotten.

With that in mind, staying hidden so long began to feel like an act of manipulation. His thoughts winding in the same miserable circle for the hundredth time that day, Passage welcomed the distraction when Sable and Torvin shoved open the door. It had been their turn to fetch food, and the pair had been gone longer than they should've been. They stood together in the doorway smirking, neither carrying an ounce of food and both seeming altogether too proud. Passage sat up, immediately suspicious.

"You've been gone over an hour," Ressa reprimanded before either one of the delinquents could speak. If she normally played the older sister of the group, cautious and caring, then five days in close confinement had turned her into a stressed single mother with four idiot children.

"And for that, we apologise," Sable offered, still smiling.

"But good things take time," Torvin added, pushing the door closed.

"You robbed someone," Ressa said flatly. It wasn't an accusation, just a statement of fact. Passage and Bracken nodded their agreement; it was a fair assumption to make. Sable and Torvin only smiled like that when they had money in their pockets.

"I'd say fleeced," said Torvin, smiling wider.

"Conned, perhaps. Sharked, even."

"Sharked," Sable agreed, a stray cat with a saucer full of cream.

"That's the word."

"What did you do?" Bracken asked, not annoyed in the least. He was probably just upset he missed out on the action himself.

"Some cards, some dice, some batting of Sable's lovely lashes. Don't worry yourself on the details. Point is, we go home tomorrow. We have one more night on the hill and we still haven't celebrated appropriately," said Torvin.

"Of course we haven't celebrated, we're in hiding for Silk's sake!" said Ressa, more exasperated than angry.

"No, we were in hiding. But that ends tomorrow – tonight, if we want it to. We did it. We survived. We, mere mortals, tangled with a Caller and his half-Forged beast and we won!" Torvin's eyes were bright, at least some of the coin having already filled his cup, or his lungs. Still, his excitement was infectious, and Sable was just as giddy.

"Which is why, before we head back home and have to keep our heads down for long and weary weeks until Bracken can find a buyer for the books, we're going out. All of us. We'll do a victory lap of the finest bars on Glasshill and end at a parlour to ink our victory mark into our skin," Sable announced to Torvin's applause. Whatever he'd taken, they'd shared.

"Aldaryn above, how much money did you make?" Passage asked.

Not much, was the answer. At least, not by Glasshill standards. Enough silver for them each to have a drink of something cheap and buy five small and simple tattoos from the sort of shop even the guards would avoid. Passage winced in the chair, a needle mechanically whirring as the ink was pressed into his arm. A burly man with a beard that covered half his chest traced the same image into Passage's bicep as he'd done for the other four. He had not given them his name, nor asked theirs in turn.

Even on Glasshill, there were places where questions and insults were treated much the same, they just tended to look a little nicer. Bracken had his shirt off, standing in front of a mirror, admiring the wyrm staining his skin in black ink. Mouth open, body snaking back and forth. It was a simple design, but perfect. Sable had drawn it for the man and negotiated the price. Passage was the last to have it done.

It stung, but only a little, and the work went far faster with a mechanical needle than the stick and poke kind you'd likely get in the Gutters with a bit of sharpened bone. It was easy to forget how casually Implements were used in the city proper. Not all were relics from the Planes, capable of granting powers to their wielder. Most were just mundane goods enchanted to a purpose by the magic of a Stained.

When the last drop of ink was imparted and the artist wiped away the beads of blood, Bracken turned to face him. His eyes danced, brighter than even Torvin's, though there was nothing chemical to his joy.

"That makes it official," he said. Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

"Suppose it does," Passage agreed, looking at the identical mark on his own arm. It might have been the wine in his belly, but he felt warm. Sentimental. It was a small and insignificant thing, but the others had been right. They were due a celebration. Afterwards, the five of them gathered in the alleyway outside. Sable handed them each a mug of mulled wine she'd purchased with the last of their evening's profit while waiting for Passage's tattoo.

"To the Wyrms," she said.

"Wyrms," they chorused, raising their mugs and drinking deep. Even Ressa smiled over her cup, her mood much improved since escaping the room. Passage was warm in a way that had nothing to do with the wine as they ambled back towards the Last Step. Bracken, Ressa and Sable walked three abreast a few steps behind. Bracken was already talking about his grand plans for a dozen more tattoos and preening like a peacock at Sable's approval of the idea.

Passage and Torvin walked out front, the pair enjoying a companionable quiet. They kept away from the main roads, walking down back streets and narrow alleys. None of them had forgotten they were meant to be keeping out of sight, but the suffocating pressure, the sense of waiting for disaster, was finally fading. Passage nudged Torvin in the side, catching the man's attention. Their eyes met and Passage gave him a quiet nod of thanks.

They had needed a chance to breathe, and while Torvin pretended to be dense, Passage was sure he'd known what he was doing. Torvin rolled his eyes, utterly allergic to sincerity, but his grin widened all the same.

"Been meaning to ask," Torvin said, voice low, "How exactly is Bracken planning on getting us all Stains anyway?" Passage squinted at the question. Torvin had gone along with the entire plan despite having no idea how it was meant to actually pay off in the end. He blinked. Of course he had, he was Torvin. Passage shrugged, supposing his own understanding of the process was academic at best.

"The way dad explains it, it's about resonating with a Plane. Artefacts, Implements, and the elements help draw the Planes close, thin the veil. Then, you need to align yourself with the Plane, feel the way the magic likes to feel. The guilds have pills and potions that can force the process, though I've no idea how Bracken plans to buy them. There are laws against selling that sort of thing on the open market."

"Right, right. So, then, just so we're on the same page. If this doesn't work out, and Bracken doesn't manage to buy whatever magic shit he needs to buy us, then plan B is to dunk him in the canal and call him names until he forms a Stain the hard way?" Torvin looked conspiratorially over his shoulder, smiling evilly. Passage chuckled.

"Don't think he wants Seldun. Maybe if we get him drunk, hang him from a clothesline and tickle him with feathers for a few hours, he might find a way to touch on Aerwyn."

"Can't hurt to try, at least," Torvin winked.

"In fact, I reckon we give it a go anyway, see if we can't save ourselves a little gold and spend that book money on a nice little apartment up here instead."

"Can't hurt to try," Passage smiled back. It could, of course. Plenty died each year in the Gutters trying and failing to force a Stain, but Passage kept that thought to himself. The sound of boots on stone further up the street caught Passage's attention and he glanced back towards the source. Two men swaggered along, side by side, a dozen feet behind Bracken and the girls, laughing quietly with one another. Companionable sounds, not cruel.

Still, Passage eyed them warily for a moment, feet moving forward all the while.

"Hey, don't go getting all high strung again," Torvin nudged him, speaking quietly. Bracken noticed him staring as well and gave Passage a questioning look. Passage shook his head not to worry. The men weren't even paying them any attention, just fellow nomads of the night.

"No one's messin' with us up here, man," Torvin assured him, a hand on his shoulder.

"And even if they tried, we're the fuckin' Wyrms, mate. They wouldn't stand a chance, eh?"

"Not a chance," Passage agreed, forcing his shoulders to relax. There'd be time enough to stress tomorrow when they went back down the hill, and he refused to let fear poison their night of triumph. They reached an intersection, their narrow street crossing with another in the maze of Glasshill's pleasure district. A smiling man with a round face and pot belly stood on the corner smoking. Passage hesitated beside him, straining to read the sign across the street and remember the way back to the Last Step.

He didn't know the roads up there as well as Bracken. The sound of whistling caught Passage's attention, and he glanced towards his left. Two more men were wandering down the road, both whistling a sailor's tune. Another man, one with a forked black beard, emerged from the shadows of the alleyway across the street and Passage's skin turned cold. Bracken and the girls stopped close behind him and Torvin, the three finally pausing in their laughter and conversation.

"What's wrong?" Ressa asked.

"You lost, son?" The smiling smoker interrupted before Passage could respond. He sounded as friendly as he looked. Passage did his best to smile back, fighting the urge to glare as worry churned his gut.

"Maybe a little," he said.

"Well, not to worry. Reckon we can show you the way down the hill," The smoker replied.

"I'm sorry?" The words were halfway out of Passage's mouth when the man's fist took him in the nose. Light, white and painful, burst in Passage's eyes. Passage swung right back, fist moving faster than thought, sinking into the old bastard's eye. Torvin was on the man in the same instant, flying past Passage's shoulder, fists leading the charge. The man raised his arms to shield his face, but he wasn't the target for long. The goon from across the street crashed into Torvin's side.

The pair of them slammed up against the brickwork, both snarling, fists thudding into one another. Bracken swore, Ressa screamed, Sable hissed in anger as the two men following behind fell upon them. Passage glanced away from his own opponent at the whistlers, no longer whistling, running straight towards him. Neither one looked like they meant to offer him a helping hand. The distraction cost him, another punch taking him in the side of the jaw.

He reeled, head spinning, legs wobbling and caught himself against the wall. He blinked hard. His mouth tasted like blood. The pain snapped him into terrible clarity, knocked all the troublesome thoughts from his head. The promise of a fight was raw meat tempting the hound that was his rage. He snarled and made to shove off from the wall, only to freeze. Something cold and keen pressed into his stomach. He looked down. The smoker had pressed one hand against his chest.

The other held a blade pressed against his belly. A tiny red stain spread across his shirt, a sharp prick where skin met steel. The smoker whistled sharply. Around them, the fighting paused. Torvin was the closest to Passage and still too far away to help, held in a messy grapple with a larger man. They were surrounded. Six men total. And no magic bell to make them brave or calm or strong.

"On your knees, kids. Easy now, less you want to see young Passage here spilled across the street." He looked about, eyebrows raised, knife hand surgeon-steady. Passage's nostrils flared, his eye twitched. The knife scratched a little deeper and he grimaced, dropping his fists to his sides. The others glared but did not fight back as the men crowded round, a few more producing truncheons and blades in silent threat. The five of them were a pack of stray dogs snarling.

Their fear and their anger looked much the same, but all were smart enough to know when to show their bellies. Bracken held up his hands in bloody nosed surrender and the others followed suit.

"Wonderful. Now, if you'd be so kind as to join us, Tallow wants a word."