aearwen | Light Fingers 4 - Gains and Losses (Reply)

Not everything goes according to plan.

“Five.”

“Three, and not a single bit more.”

“Four.” Ivoreth pushed the candleholder closer to the old man. “It’s good metal – worth a lot.”

A gnarled hand reached out and snagged candle and candleholder alike. “Done.”

“Hey!” Ivoreth grabbed for the candle and missed. “That wasn’t part of the deal!”

“I take the candle too, or you can take your wares elsewhere.” Ice-blue eyes gazed with cold calculation at her, putting both holder and candle back down on his ragged blanket well within her reach. “Take it or leave it, girl – your choice.”

Ivoreth sighed. “Take,” she agreed reluctantly, and then held out her hand for the four precious coins that would feed her and her siblings for the next few days. The old man counted them into her palm cautiously, looking as if parting with each of them was a huge disappointment.

“Go on with ye, then,” he waved his hand in an imperious dismissal. “And get yerself some decent togs. Folks are going to be thinking the wrong things, you wandering about in sleep clothes.” His eyes narrowed. “From the looks of yer face, you look like an escapee from the Healing Houses.”

Ivoreth sighed and turned away, the precious coin clutched tightly in her good hand. As much as it bothered her to have to depend on anyone but herself, she was going to have to enlist Daren’s help in getting more decently clothed. The old man was right – the sleeping gown she was still wearing could cause the kinds of questions she didn’t want to answer. As much as she hated to go anywhere near the place, the trash heap behind the nearest orphanage often held clothing that still had a little bit of service in them yet. Daren, being smaller and already wearing clothing that would blend into the trash heap, could do the scrounging. He was good at such things.

But that could wait a day or so – today she would visit the apothecary – and two of her precious coins would go for the herbs that would make Raini better. Then she’d go to the bakery nearest the newly repaired City Gate, which sold bread for a single coin per loaf. It would be a relief to have food without having to steal it for a change. Her Nan would never have tolerated…

I won’t think of Nan. I do what I have to.

She looked both ways as she prepared to dart across the street for the deep shadow that would hide her as much as possible between here and the City Gate. It was, after all, late afternoon – and the street was filled with horses, carts and people jostling their way through on the way to their destinations. She gathered the long skirt up into her bad hand, as much to give her bad arm something to do to keep it from moving much as to keep the linen out of the dust and prevent tripping, and set out.

The apothecary shop was in a small lane that stretched away from the main street, not much more than a doorway and a shop only barely wide enough for two people to pass by each other in front of the long counter. The interior of the shop was dark, and bunches of drying herbs dangled high over Ivoreth’s head. The entire wall behind the counter was a set of small drawers, each with a small, yellowing tag with writing on it. The scent of plants of every possible use filled her nose with a heady and almost intoxicating effect. Ivoreth breathed in deeply and then pushed herself up to the counter to wait for the old woman’s attention to fall on her.

“Ye wanting a salve for them bruises then?” The tall, thin woman bent over the counter to get a better look at her face. “Yer Da do that – or…”

“My sister is sick,” Ivoreth interrupted, not wanting to dwell on why her face probably contained colors better suited to sunsets or tapestries, like Nan used to say. “I need medicine for her.”

Steel grey brows lowered in the thin, pale face. “What’s wrong with her?”

“She coughs, and she has a fever.”

“How long now?” Already the woman was on the move, pulling out a number of small drawers from the wall behind her and extracting a pinch of the contents of each to place in a small fabric bag.

“A week, maybe…” Ivoreth shook her head. “It’s been getting worse.”

The woman continued to move surely from one drawer to the next, muttering to herself as the little bag of herbs slowly filled. Finally she slammed the last drawer shut and whirled to face Ivoreth. “You have a way to boil water?”

Ivoreth’s heart sank. Fuel for a fire was hard to come by – even harder than food in some ways. Woodpiles were more often than not indoors, where they could be watched over and protected. What was more, any container capable of holding water so it could boil would be a treasure – something that wouldn’t last long before it had been stolen to trade for coin by one of the others.

Finally, the last thing any of the homeless within the City walls needed was for a whiff of smoke to go up the well and alert those above to the fact that folks were living in the cistern. Such an event would cost all of them their shelter – and most likely wouldn’t be allowed.

I can’t tell her that.

Instead, she just nodded.

I’ll figure it out later. Get the medicine first.

The old woman’s face told Ivoreth very plainly that her answer wasn’t entirely believable, but the woman sighed and nodded as she began to work the thin fabric bag between strong-looking fingers. “Very well. Take a pinch of this mixture into boiling water three times a day, just before eating. No more than a pinch. And keep your sister warm – any chills could make her much worse before the herbs have a chance to do their job.” She began to hand over the bag, and then withdrew it and stuck out her empty hand. “Two coins please.”

Ivoreth opened her fist and placed two of the precious coins on the counter, and then closed her fingers over the rest of her treasure and grabbed at the bag when it finally was offered within reach.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t want a salve for your bruises? Only one coin…”

Ivoreth whirled and dashed out of the shop, the little bag of medicine just as precious as the two coins in her other hand. She didn’t hesitate, but scampered across the street, ducking to avoid being stepped on by heavy-hooved cart horses and veering so as not to run into – or annoy – any of the merchants or craftsmen who filled the street. She saw one Guard give her a second look and skittered away under a slow-moving cart to duck into the first dark hole she could spot before he could decide to follow.

She waited as long as she dared, and then stuck her head out to see if the way was once again clear between her little refuge and the entrance to the drains. Ivoreth blinked in confusion as she discovered the street denizens contentedly cleared away from the center cobblestones and lined along the edges. A hail of horse hooves on cobblestone and a whisper of “The King comes!” that flew through the crowd brought her more out into the open to stare up the street with the rest. Curious, she pushed through the legs of those taller than she was until she stood on the very edge of the crowd.

I want to see too!

Ivoreth had never seen horses like the three walking down the middle of the street from above – they were dark, massive, powerful, proud beasts that had been groomed until their coats shimmered in the sunlight. None of them were controlled with reins; their silver-studded halters were there for obvious decoration and perhaps protection. And yet the three abreast stepped high at an equal pace with their fellows, as if knowing exactly what their riders wanted.

She held her breath as the trio came closer, and then Ivoreth’s mouth dropped open slightly as her eyes moved from the awe-inspiring mounts to the men who rode. The King was as magnificent as all the stories about him had said; easily as tall as his companions, with shoulder-length dark hair only barely threaded with silver flowing freely about his shoulders from beneath a narrow circlet. His bearded face was stern and yet oddly kind as he smiled at the people along the street who cheered his name as he passed: “Elessar!”

So this is what a King looks like!

At each side of the King were two who were so much alike that it would be difficult, if not impossible, to tell them apart. Long ebony hair flowed down their backs to almost their waists, except for the way two braids on each side kept the locks controlled about the face. All three of the riders wore embroidered clothing, black boots that shined almost as brightly as the polished metal of their sword hilts, and rich cloaks that spread across the rumps of their mounts like blankets.

Ivoreth froze and felt her breath catch in recognition when she took a careful look at the proud and pale faces at the King’s side. There was no question in her mind; one of these two riders was the Lord Elladan who had sat near her bed in the Healing Houses – the one who had decided she needed to go to the orphanage.

I can’t let him see me!

But it was already too late. Grey-blue eyes, which had been mildly scanning the crowd, focused in on her sharply; and Ivoreth saw him lean toward the King and speak, pointing in her direction. The King then turned his head and pinned her for a long, breathless moment with a questioning grey stare. The third man – the one so like Lord Elladan – gazed at his companions for a second in confusion; and all the while, the gait of the horses slowed to almost a stop.

Finally Ivoreth’s panic broke through her shock, and she pulled herself back behind the taller adults around her. Her eyes darted from one side to the other – she was on the wrong side of the street to flee into the storm drains! Desperate, she retreated to the narrow lane from which she had just come, hoping beyond hope that there would be one of the child-sized channels cut into the stone that normally helped direct the flow of rainwater toward the larger main storm drains. She could escape into a matching lane on the other side of the building through there. She’d done this before.

There! Ivoreth pushed herself into the tiny, dark space and scrabbled forward on hands and knees, caring only to make certain the little fabric bag and coins didn’t get dropped in the process. At the midway point of the damp and narrow channel, there was a widening and a vertical gutter of sorts, where the water from the roofs above could find the channel leading to the main drains as well. With a frantic burst of energy, she pressed her back into the extra space left for the running water from above, and then dragged at the long skirt of her sleeping gown, pulling it in behind her and out of the sight of anybody looking down the little channel.

What does he want with me? Is he angry because I took the candle and holder? I should have stayed in the shadows! The Guards from… Those Guards said they put arrows through thieves after they catch them and throw them in prison. Please don’t let them find me…

She worked at remaining motionless in the gutter until her legs were trembling from the strain of keeping herself pushed tightly against stone. Her ears strained for the slightest sound that would tell her that the Guards were just beyond the drain, searching for her – but she could hear nothing other than the whistle of the breeze high above her. At last her legs just couldn’t hold her into the narrow space any longer, and Ivoreth let herself step out of her refuge with a sigh of defeat.

She dropped to her knees and looked madly back and forth between the two entrances to the drain, ready to scramble in the direction away from any one stationed to keep watch, but there was no sign of a single Guard. Taking no chances, however, she headed down the passage to the second lane and peeked out of the opening very cautiously. This entrance was partly protected by a stack of wooden crates, and she slowly crawled out of the channel and straightened again once she was certain it was safe.

Convinced at last from the lack of excitement or people pressing in that she had once more eluded capture, Ivoreth crept down the lane and peeked out into the main street. In the rapidly dimming sunlight, she could see that the throng that had stopped and gathered had since dispersed – and the amount of traffic in the street itself was already beginning to thin as darkness approached. A clear path to the storm drain opening beckoned, and after another cautious glance both up and down the street, Ivoreth dashed toward her refuge as fast as her legs would carry her.

She relaxed back against the curved wall of the drain entrance and let go a long breath of relief – and then lifted her hands to make certain her treasures were still safe. The coins were perfectly safe, although a little damp and grimed from her scrabble to hide. But she could hardly restrain a moan of desperation to find that the thin fabric of the little bag from the apothecary hadn’t weathered the abuse she’d dealt it. The bag itself was damp and grimy, and the seam at the bottom had been torn open. The herbs were gone – lost in her flight from the King’s Men.

It would cost the rest of her precious coin to replace them.

Ivoreth sank into a despondent crouch in the cool shadows of the drain, put her good arm over her head and cried.