Chương 4: Chapter 3 – Worms

Word was already spreading about Cinder's visit to the church. Gossip travelled fast in the Gutters, especially when it involved Stained. Bracken did his best to keep his eyes forward, to keep walking, Passage at his side, but the covert stares and whispers shared behind cupped hands nipped at him like biting insects. The pair of them had stayed a while to help clean up but Harrow had dismissed them before long.

Bracken suspected that no matter how calm the man appeared, even the preacher's pride could be wounded and he needed time alone. The bell's alien calm had faded quickly to Bracken's relief. That slow endurance, the steadiness it imparted, felt utterly wrong. The physical power was welcome, but the way it tranquilised his mind and soul felt like a betrayal. He didn't need calm just then; he needed a plan.

He thought again of Harrow quietly tidying the temple, stacking the largest bits of ruined pews for use as firewood, and quickened his pace. Let the preacher turn the other cheek. Bracken would get even on his behalf. The pair of them walked alongside one of the winding canals that the Gutters were known for, headed towards the Drowned Maid. The others would be waiting for them there, drinking the watery vinegar Lesh passed off as wine.

He had nicer stuff, Bracken was sure, but he refused to serve it to a pack of seventeen-year-olds with barely a handful of coppers between them. The sky was overcast, a light drizzle cutting through the fog that forever ghosted over the waters. The cobbled streets were damp and slick with moss this close to the water. It wasn't uncommon for the tide to rise and breach the canals. Most of the buildings along the waters' edge had staircases leading up to their front doors for that exact reason.

The Gutters were already the wrong side of town, and the Maid languished on a side uglier still, not far from the outermost rings to the south. Bracken kept a wary eye on the alleyways as they walked. Not much to fear in broad daylight, but desperate people often did desperate things, and the Gutters were known for both. They passed the shadow of a man who had likely known that better than most, an eyeless body swinging from a lamp post, the crude outline of a rat burned into his chest.

Bracken averted his gaze and held his breath until they passed. Hard to guess if the man had crossed Tallow or just another gang, but the message was no less clear. That was the problem with the Gutters, men like Tallow ruled with violence and with fear, and the only people who ever tried to make a difference went about it by trying to be worse.

"I know what you're thinking, and we can't," Passage said from a few steps behind. Despite his longer stride, Passage rarely seemed to move with any urgency. That was ever the way with him, thinking about where to put his foot instead of just taking the step forward. Until he got angry, that was, then he stopped thinking much at all. Bracken loved the big lug like a brother, but he spent so much time agonising over whether he should do something, that he rarely did anything at all.

His temper was already cooling, his momentum weighed down by a lifetime spent listening to Harrow preach about the virtues of steadiness and order.

"What is it I'm thinking?" Bracken asked, slowing down so that Passage drew even with him. He looked up at his friend, feigning a look of innocence. Passage scowled back. The pair held their staring contest for a few seconds before both broke into grins. Of course, Passage knew what he was thinking. And of course he'd protest. At first. But when it came down to it, he'd be right there beside Bracken, ready to throw the second punch.

"You're thinking about going to war with Tallow himself. You're imagining charging off to start a fight with Cinder. You've probably pictured a dozen ways you can bust into some bar and smack him across the face with a chair. Reckon you've thought about how, when he throws fire at you, you'll just dive behind a table, do a backflip, and then say something witty before you cut him down with his own blade like you're Ashwind Sam himself." Bracken tongued the inside of his cheek, trying to look affronted and failing.

He laughed and shook his head.

"Close. In my version, I nail him between the eyes with a bottle I throw right in the middle of the flip, and then I choke him unconscious with a wet dishrag around his throat. You'll be happy to know, you beat Pike senseless almost entirely without my help."

"You're mad," Passage snorted as they arrived at the tavern and Bracken held open the door. There were precious few people within. Even in the Gutters, the Drowned Maid was considered a shitty establishment. Bracken loved it. The place felt like a clubhouse for the gang, a private den in which they could drink and conspire, and a fitting scene for stories of their legend to begin. The five of them were, after all, going to be heroes. Each one of them would have a name with just as much weight as Ashwind or Redwake.

"Well, if it isn't Passive and Broken," A sneering voice called from a table by the door. Simon, one of the local drunks, sat on his own with a flagon of rum in front of him and no doubt a half dozen more inside of him. A low-Stained held in thrall to the vices of his Plane.

"It true what they're saying then? Cinder and Pike come round and beat your dad till he pissed himself?" Passage stiffened at Bracken's side. His shoulders bunched, fists clenched. Even without turning to look, Bracken could imagine the dark look on Passage's face, lip curled and nostrils flaring. That was a wound too fresh for poking.

"Best you just keep on drinking quietly, Simon. Lesh has few enough chairs worth sitting in as it is. We get into a scrap and break some, then where would we all sit to listen to your moaning and get drunk on the fumes?" Ressa called without heat from a table further in. A heart-shaped face and curly brown hair, skin with the same honeyed Tyrathi hue as Passage. Sable and Torvin sat alongside her, halfway out of their seats and ready to jump into action if things did escalate.

Simon glared blearily at the Ressa, trying to puzzle out if he'd just been insulted and having a hard time of it. Lesh glared quietly from behind the bar, polishing a mug slowly but not yet intervening. Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

"I'm jush – hiccup – just makin' conversation," Simon burped. His tongue bore the evidence of his Stain. Forked and black as pitch, it snaked out to taste the air and he rose from his seat, staggering over to Bracken and Passage. It was a minor miracle the man had retained any gossip he'd heard that afternoon. The stench of him was enough to make Bracken's eyes water when Simon leaned down to smile crookedly in his face. Bracken sneered back, unimpressed and unintimidated.

He was only six years older than them but looked closer to twice their age. Rumour had it his wife had been Seldun-Stained. She'd failed to ascend to Caller and wound up a Hollow. The guards put her down and Simon hadn't been sober since. He'd ended up Stained by Thulmor somewhere along the way. Such was the danger of the Planes. They were drawn to appetites and humours as much as the elements themselves, but once Stained, a person often found themselves drawn to the stuff of their Plane in kind.

Thulmor, a low-Plane, was notorious for corruption and for vice. Simon turned to Passage, smile widening at the naked anger he saw in the young man's expression.

"So, ish it true? You jush shtood there and watched your daddy get beaten, Passive?" Bracken was just about to swing. It wouldn't take much. One good clean jab to the gut and then a knee to the jaw when Simon bent over. Passage clamped a hand down on his shoulder. There was tension in his arm, but more sense than anger in his head and he was wise to what Bracken was thinking. Bracken stilled, trying not to roll his eyes at how closely Passage seemed to mirror his father sometimes.

"We're not going to lay hands on you just so you can threaten to call the guard and extort us for drinking money, Simon. Try it on someone else." Bloody Passage. Always so sensible. Bracken exhaled heavily, reluctantly grateful for the big man's restraint. Simon made a habit of pulling that exact scam on the regular. It was bound to get him killed someday. Simon glared, eyes twitching as he tried and failed to come up with something suitably vile to say back. He failed, spitting on the floor with a scowl.

"Bloody Passive. You're nothing and no one," he turned to glare at the other three as well.

"All five of you, just worms in the muck. Reckon you're smart, reckon you're special but you're just… just worms." Passage clapped him on the back as he stumbled out into the street, door swinging shut behind him.

"That bastard didn't pay his tab," Lesh called out, finally rounding the bar to chase after Simon.

"That is actually a fantastic name for a gang," Bracken grinned as he headed towards the table, the others rising to clasp hands in greeting. He and Passage took their seats while Sable pushed them each a mug of wine.

"Worms?" Torvin asked, sceptical. While Passage was a veritable giant, Torvin was wiry and lean. Smiling eyes and a crooked nose, with hair the colour of burnt copper. He had the look of a stray dog, hungry and reckless but always amused.

"Wyrms, with a 'Y'," Bracken quaffed half his drink in one long draw. It tasted about as awful as usual.

"You know, like dragons."

"You can't keep changing the gang name every week. What happened to the Fifth Street Five?" Sable asked. Ebon black hair and almond shaped eyes, Sable was a rare beauty in the Gutters. No doubt someday she'd find a rich husband on Glasshill, but for now she was content to slum it with their number, putting her looks to work as the face for many of their scams. She had a point, the gang's name changed often. The week before it had been the Gutter Rats. The week before that, the Drowned Lords.

Bracken felt it important to find the right fit.

"We don't all live on Fifth Street, and it's too long of a name anyway. We'd just end up being called the Five. It's trite," Bracken answered.

"The Wyrms, though. It has poetry to it. That's the kind of name people remember."

"It's too grand, we'd sound like fools," said Ressa.

"It's grandly ironic," Bracken fired back.

"Which makes it even better. Let everyone know we are as clever as we are mighty! That we laugh with our detractors even as we prove them wrong!"

"I don't think the name matters so much as the doing of something worth remembering," said Ressa. Ever reasonable, ever sensible. It was a miracle she hung out with the rest of them when she was clearly wise enough to know them all for fools. Bracken liked to think she stuck around because she really believed they'd one day make something of themselves, and not just because she'd been making moon eyes at Passage since they were kids, even if the big man himself was oblivious.

"Well, I think I have a solution to that problem," Bracken took another slow sip of watery wine, drawing out the pause and doing his best to look mysterious. Passage narrowed his eyes in concern while the others looked on expectantly.

"Bracken," Passage said in warning, no doubt suspecting where this was headed. Bracken patted him on the arm, feeling better about the idea with each passing moment. He'd mostly been joking before about getting even with Cinder by taking the fight to him. They could embarrass him maybe, sneak into a kitchen and spit in his food, spread rumours about his lust for barnyard animals. Small, petty things. Or they could go big. Take a chance.

"It's true, at least in part, what people are saying. Cinder and Pike came by the temple after you left. They hit Harrow, broke a few benches. Nothing too major, and Harrow didn't want us escalating, so we let it slide."

"Let it slide, like you could do a damn thing to a Caller," Ressa scoffed.

"Ah, but it's not the Caller who posed the greatest threat, my cautious friend. It was Pike. Some fool has given the man a Durnheim-Stained Implement. Stone knuckles that let him break apart sturdy wooden benches like kindling. They must have given him the strength of ten men or more."

"Oh good, so now Pike's dumb, mean, ungodly strong. So, you'll just be being murdered by him then and leaving Cinder out of it?" Sable asked, her tone drily amused. She was often sarcastic but never cruel. Not to the four of them, at least.

"Oh hoho, so short sighted, all of you. Those knuckles made Pike hit like a Forged. That kind of power is as dangerous as it is useful. That kind of power could do more than just open doors for us, it could blow the doors off their Planes-damned hinges." The others were following along, expressions ranging from dubious to amused as Bracken worked himself up, standing on his chair and placing a foot on the table. Passage continued to look concerned, though he seemed to be fighting off a grin.

They all still thought he was joking.

"No, I've no intention of being murdered by Pike, or even fighting the man. I plan on robbing him."