Chương 8: Chapter 7 – Blessing of the Drowned

Passage ran his hands through his hair, visions playing out in his mind of Bracken floating face down in a canal. He loved the man like a brother, but the fool thought he was invincible. Passage took a deep breath and winced, the pain in his chest a sharp reminder of his own hypocrisy.

"He probably just ran away when he saw them coming," Maria counselled.

"Bracken's too stupid to just run away," said Passage, worry mingling with affection for the fool.

"It's a small miracle he didn't charge them with a bread knife."

"Says the boy who nearly went after a Caller with a rolling pin," Maria clicked her tongue.

"You should've swung for the bastard. Or I should've, the second he came in the door. Prick," Jasper spat, face whiter than the flour dusting his knuckles and shaking with pain.

"Where the fuck does Tallow get off, coming for our boy? We pay our protection dues, on time, every month! We're good honest people and my son's no thug. He's no place in that black business. Varr take every last one of the fuckers!"

"Hush, Jasper. The last thing we need is someone to hear you making threats like some hot-headed teenager. It's a damn good thing that neither of you took a swing or we'd all be burnt blacker than a loaf forgotten in the oven."

"I could take him," Patrick said darkly. He stood in the doorway, carrying a bucket of water between his hands. Mist swirled around his ankles, as if drawn along in his wake, dragged behind him into the bakery. Passage had grown up hearing as many stories of Planetouched heroes and villains as the next boy – more even, given who his father was – but he didn't pretend to be an expert on the matter in any way that counted.

Callers were meant to be more powerful than mere Touched, but Wodfyr's power was a distant thing in the Gutters. Seldun's power, however, flowed through the canals, soaking into every inch of wood and stone in the lower city. If it did come to a fight, Cinder would need to call forth his power from his distant Plane and channel it through his soul to manifest it. Patrick would be surrounded by his element in easy reach. It might just even the odds.

At the very least, he'd stand a better chance than the Wyrms without a spark of magic between them.

"Boys!" Maria scoffed.

"I swear Varr touches you all in the head before you're even born. Every last one of you, so eager to shed blood! No. I won't have it, I won't hear of it. You'll keep your head down, Patrick. Besides, the Fisher's blessing is meant for nourishing, not for fighting. You're a kind boy, Patrick. S'why you were marked by a kind power, a gentle power." Maria kept lecturing while Patrick brushed past her, bringing the water and the mist towards Passage.

It was unsettling, the feeling of being so close to a Stained actively channelling. He'd been around them before, even been healed once by a marked of Caleth on Glasshill when an infection had nearly taken him as a boy. They weren't really all that uncommon. Still, to be focused on by one, especially one whose Stain was so pronounced, was uncomfortable.

"Hold still," Patrick instructed quietly, looking to Passage for permission. He nodded, swallowing his nerves. Maria was still fussing over Jasper, lecturing endlessly though no one was listening. Passage doubted she even heard much of her own diatribe. People did that sometimes, after a bad shock. They just kept talking without saying much of anything. Patrick placed the bucket on the floor between them, dipping one hand into the water and placing the other over Passage's burned chest.

His fingers were icy, soothing and stinging the wound in equal measure.

"Have you done this before?" Passage asked, trying not to sound nervous and not entirely succeeding.

"It's not so hard. The power's more instinct than skill, I reckon. Just need to open yourself to it, feel for the right… I don't know… vibe of the Plane. They, um, shift? Change? It's hard to explain if you haven't felt it," Patrick said, eyes closed, biting his lip in concentration between sentences. Passage watched mistrustfully as water began to stream up Patrick's arm, flowing across his skin in defiance of gravity.

It traversed his arm, across his chest beneath his shirt, scarcely dampening the fabric as if reluctant to leave a single drop of itself behind. Finally, it reached Passage's chest and began to spread across his wound, a frigid numbness immediately setting in, a balm to his pain. Slowly, the excess pooled around Patrick's hand as if clothing it in a translucent glove.

Passage stared at it, watching as blood drifted in lazy streamers from the wound, carrying with it tiny sparks and clouds of ash that stained the water.

"I'm umm, purging," Patrick cocked his head as if unsure of his word choice.

"Purging the Fera left in there. It'll help you heal faster, I think. Stop it scarring." Passage nodded, though Patrick couldn't see it with his eyes closed and brow furrowed. Then, slowly, the wound began to heal. Not perfectly. The skin did not reseal where it had blistered and burst, but the burn faded from angry red to the pink of a few days' healing, and finally back to the typical olive hue natural to Passage. At last, Patrick opened his eyes.

The pools of blackness danced at the edges of the whites, like seaweed teased by an underwater current. He shuddered and the water splashed to the ground, the darkness growing still.

"Thank you," Passage mumbled, tracing the almost-healed wound. It would still scab and hurt for a few days, but it was as if he'd suffered a minor cut or blister instead of a serious burn.

"When did you…" He stopped himself before he could finish asking the question, unsure if it was rude and not wanting to seem ungrateful. The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

"When was I Stained?" Patrick finished for him.

"A month ago on Thulday." That was only two days away. Again, Passage was unsure if he should be unsettled or impressed by the young man's use of his power. Perhaps he had it easier, Seldun being so close to the Gutters as it was. Still, it was a marvel that he could use the Stain with such skill and confidence so quickly. Most people, Passage had heard, were anxious about touching their power in the early days, at least when Staining was an accident.

Patrick guessed the next question, seeing it in Passage's eyes before he could work up the courage to voice it.

"I drowned," he volunteered, more casually than the words deserved.

"Oh," Passage said.

"Sorry."

"Don't be," Patrick glared a hole in the floor as he coaxed the spilled water back into the bucket.

"I was drunk. Fell off a bridge. Mate of mine fished me out and got the water out of my lungs before I'd been under for too long. Just means I know exactly how bad it's going to feel for those two when I get a hold of them." Passage shuddered, suddenly grateful not to have the other man's icy hands on him. He and Bracken had made enough similar comments of their own, but hearing the words from someone with real power made them sound different. Heavier, somehow.

They made Patrick's Stain look that bit more monstrous. Passage knew it made him a hypocrite twice over, but he hoped Patrick had the good sense to listen to his mother and stay home, stay safe, become a baker and live a normal life. Best that foolish dreams be left to foolish men. He only hoped the biggest fool he knew wasn't getting himself into too much trouble.

Bracken was glad he'd worn a cloak with a hood. Not that Cinder or Pike ever bothered to check over their shoulders. Still, he was grateful for the added anonymity as he darted between alleyways, ducked behind corners, and lurked in the shadows out of sight. He was almost disappointed by how easy the pair were to follow, but then again, predators are rarely inclined to think like prey. Guilt and indecision slithered through his stomach like eels through mud. He hadn't shown himself. Hadn't intervened.

Even when Passage was standing toe to toe with Cinder, or when Pike had broken an innocent man's arm and things seemed to be teetering on the edge of getting much worse. Bracken had just crouched behind the door, watching from the shadows like some low-Stained coward. He'd had his reason, he reminded himself. It had made more sense to stay hidden. His getting involved would have just made things worse. He'd needed to be ready to follow them unnoticed the moment they left, as he was now doing.

The excuses felt hollow, no matter whether they were true. Passage, no matter how often he pretended to be the reasonable, level-headed one, had stood his ground. When the moment presented itself, Passage had been the one to act the hero. Bracken rolled his eyes at himself, annoyed by his own melodrama and ashamed of the jealous, insecure voice in his head. He swallowed another bite of his stolen sweet roll and tossed the rest into the canal, unable to enjoy the damn thing.

Shaking himself from his dour mood, he focused instead on gathering intelligence. He watched his quarry, looking for signs of hesitation or deliberation in their route. Where did they pause to discuss their next turn? Did they have a schedule? Fixed habits? He needed something to exploit, some way of levelling the playing field against them. The pair passed through a market still setting up for the day. They stopped by a handful of stalls, though the stops were based on impulse as best Bracken could tell.

Each time, they leaned against the stall or stood over the shopkeeper until they were bribed with some trifle to leave the poor merchants alone. The pair seemed to make a game of it, laughing and elbowing one another, only to grow menacing and cold the second anyone else paid them any attention. The pair continued their slow journey towards the southside of the Gutters, further away from Glasshill and the limited protection the guard extended to the lower city.

Bracken quickened his pace, taking a risk to get within earshot in case they said anything of value to one another or to any of the people they paused to torment. The pair stopped beside a stall where a Maeruki man had set out exotic looking wares. The Maeruki was nearly seven feet tall though he stood with a heavy hunch, neck and shoulders bent like an upside-down fishing hook. He wore a scaled vest and baggy canvas pants, the pale blue flesh of his chest and arms exposed.

Like many of his kind, his limbs and torso were inhumanly thin. His joints were thickly padded with knots of muscle, and his nose was scarcely more than a bump with two slits in the centre of his face. He welcomed the pair with a shark toothed smile. Bracken forced himself to keep moving at the same pace, casually walking over to the stall across and inspecting a fisherman's catch while he strained to hear what was said.

"No, sir. Still nothing suitable for your needs, I'm afraid. But a friend of mine, he is bringing me a new shipment this week. He promises many exciting goods in it. Implements and spiritual treasures! Fruits harvested from the Planes themselves. Materials taken from powerful Hollows. There will be something, I think, to help with your soul." The Maeruki's voice carried in it a wincing apology. He sounded like half the bad faith merchants Bracken had ever listened in on his father negotiating with.

"That's what you said last month, Tevaro," Cinder growled his frustration, sounding more like a whining child than a hardened thug.

"And Tevaro spoke true! Look here, I have perfumes made from the flowers of Aerwyn. A single whiff and your lover will be dancing with joy, her inhibitions forgotten. Or his?" Bracken stifled a snort, imagining the look on Cinder's face, the Maeruki looking between him and Pike. It must have been a dark look, because he continued quickly.

"Or a piercing, made from metal mined in Caleth! With this Implement, you will be able to smell lies on the breath of your enemies."

"I don't want your fuckin' overpriced baubles or your lies. I want resources from Wodfyr. You said you could get them. So, hurry up, and get them, or I'll have you help Pike here settle a bet for me. He and I were just wondering the other day whether Maeruki can drown."

"Of course, sirs, of course. Four days, my shipment comes in four days! Come see me on Durnday, I will have what you want."

"Best hope you do, Tovaro. I'm not a patient man." Bracken smirked. Four days. That was a timeline he could work with.