The Whispering of Dragons (Salient Dreams Book 1)

The next day was EndWeek and would be even longer. The day after that was HolyDay. On EndWeek, the last of each ten-day cycle, the girls would work a long shift, and on HolyDay, not at all. That meant twice as much prep, for twice as much would be sold. Theresa was later than normal, and with the harried pace the way it was, there was no time for teasing or whispers. Megan may not have noticed in any case, though her hands worked with all the speed she could muster, her mind was mulling over the ideas she had absorbed the night before.

She had some slim idea of infusing some of Balthus' goods with herbs, selling medicinal breads to the people. It had merit, and she would bring it up the moment she had more of the idea worked out. Today was not the time for it, and she let that be the excuse that let the idea flit from her head like a songbird. She did not recapture it. Not even after the day's labors were done, or after the daily pay meted out, and she exited onto the relative coolness of the evening street, the idea was less certain and less shiny.

She felt an odd sense of loss as she set out toward home. She always had these ideas, sometimes for new recipes, other times for odd contraptions, or even new clothes, or new ways of doing things. She had once spent a summer, when she was eleven, trying to not only imagine the great sewers of the dwarven stronghold of Dalih Dakelz, but devise a system of how the mud streets of Kilian could be dug up, the sewers installed, pipes run to every house ꟷ making the dangers of chamber pots emptied from windows a thing of the past ꟷ and for them to be cleaned through rain water collected from the streets and… It was a run-on thought that even now enchanted her in a distant way, but had died behind her eyes like all the others. Nobody seemed to care about sewers or towers, curative bread or new types of steel. At least not if it came from a girl.

It was well after dark by the time she made her way toward home. Her head was still full beyond measure, ideas she knew she would never bring to fruition bouncing behind her eyes. Her feet found each raised stone on the side of the street without being told much what to do.

Then she heard the startled cry.

In Kilian it was unavoidable. You heard cries all the time. People less fortunate, less fast, less wise than oneself caught in some dark alley or another. What was important was to never, ever give into the urge to go looking. Looking for trouble only succeeded in finding trouble. And sometimes the helpless maiden was a boy, or a gelding, or a woman with long knives, and friends with knives. And they wanted what you had. In this case, Megan had a day's pay, and she was not going to risk it ꟷ

“To hell with you, braggart!”

That was Theresa.

Megan left the stone path and leapt into the alley before she really had time to consider it. The alley had little traffic from the street, so the buildup of offal and mud was only ankle high. Still, she slipped and slid before she got both feet firmly beneath her. Then it came crashing down upon her: she was in an alley, in Kilian, acting like a hero. Heroes, or heroines for that matter, wound up dead in Kilian.

“Let me go!”

But that was definitely Theresa, and before she could even form the basics of a plan, she was stumbling and running down the alley. It became easier the deeper she went and the further from the street she was, but then the mud began to build again as she rounded a bend in the alley and saw the beautiful, golden angel of Theresa overshadowed by two looming thugs.

One was hulking, bald, and was missing one eye in a ruined mess of red flesh. The other was tall, thin, with cruel eyes, a pointed face, and teeth like a split open bag of rusty nails. Dressed in ill fitting, probably stolen, clothes, the thin one circled Theresa, while the big one gathered the girl into a powerful hug from the side, his free hand caressing Theresa's flushing chin.

“C'mon, love. Let us 'ave it. What's one day more coin or less?”

“Yeah,” agreed the thin one, greasily, “and a kiss?”

“Oi!” laughed the hulk. “And a kiss, right? A kiss for our time there, lassie.”

They both smiled. They were expressions that children saw in the dark once the candles were blown out. They were scurrying, sly smiles. They were the smiles of rats that knew if they just nipped you, you would climb so high they could have all the bread and milk to themselves.

These thoughts became a seed, a single song. It built inside of Megan, a wave of sound that crashed against her belly. It grew, it coiled, it twisted, it crouched. It pushed through her lungs and up her neck, it exited her mouth as a bark, an order, a crash of rolling thunder.

“NO!”

The word rattled bones and bricks in every direction. The scavengers started and turned in unison. They saw Megan, but their worlds were small, and they saw only what was there, not what was hidden. They smiled like drawn knives and the tall one split to walk over to Megan.

“Well, well, well. Looks like we have another pretty bird here, all done up in white frills and black linen. One all to myself, yeah? Are you a holy woman, love? You look to me like a gift from the gods.”

Suddenly, the mood of the two became dangerous. And this was as far as instinct could take Megan. She had reaped seventeen dull years by avoiding places like this, people like these. One woman they would taunt and rob, but go no further for they did not want to fight over her. Two, and they had no need to share, nor show restraint. Theresa's eyes went wide with fright as she realized much the same thing, and though held in the iron embrace of the brute, she looked anywhere for escape. Megan had a clear road back, but was sure she could not outrun the thin man in her uniform, and certainly could not leave Theresa to her fate. Megan reached back for the only protection she had, the thick bladed knife her brother had bought her.

Her hand closed on empty air, for, like most days, she had neglected to bring it with her.

The thin man came forward. He smelled like rancid sweat, roasted corn flower, and rotten feet. Megan half-remembered passages from a treatise on gnomish fisticuffs. She raised her fists in front of her face, placing them far from her mouth to avoid having them pushed into her nose, and curled her wrists back toward her.

The thin man chuckled. “Look at this one, will ya?”

The hulk laughed deeply, but the thin one was already turning around and lashing out with one whip like arm. His spiderlike fingers closed around Megan's wrist like an iron cuff.

“Gotcha,” he whispered.

“NO!” Megan screamed, and pulled.

The laughing stopped.

Megan blinked, unsure of the thin man's error, but it was clear that she had pulled him, and he had slipped on the thin layer of goo on the alley floor. He had flailed, but only with the hand free from Megan. His single limb had proved insufficient to prevent having his face smash into the brick of one building with some force. As he slid to the mud, he left smears of blood and shards of black teeth in the masonry.

Theresa made a wordless sound, but too late. Megan was swept up into the massive arms of the hulk, who squeezed her like a terrier with a rat as he stared into her eyes with his one, bloodshot orb. His breath was a mix of old rum and decay as he hollered, “What did you do to Bollard?”

Megan twisted and wrenched, but never believing that she could get free of the tree trunk arms of the brute. So, without further recourse, she aimed one, prettily pointed boot into the place women had always used against grabby men.

Her reward was a face of foul exhalation as a “WOOF!” expelled all his air and he went to one knee. He let go of her and grabbed himself as he kneeled and made a noise that continued to rise in tone.

Righteous anger flooded her as Megan made a fist, drew it back to her ear, and planted it on the wide chin of the brute. Pain blossomed and blotted out the world as she cradled her fist. Megan gripped her hand and cursed like a dwarf at a card came, dancing for a moment before Theresa came to her and examined the wounded hand.

“You put your thumb inside the fist. Doesn't look broken, though,” she said.

Megan started to grouse, but then she saw the brute, laid out as if crowned with a hammer. Theresa looked back and smiled. “Big guy, but a jaw of glass. You did all right, sister.” And Theresa gathered Megan into her arms and hugged her without reservation. “You saved me. Thank you.”

And Megan, normally so quiet and cut off from the rest of the world, took a moment before she hugged Theresa back. They had known each other for years, but now Theresa's eyes held honest warmth without reservation. Megan smiled. “It wasn't anything. The first one tripped.”

Theresa shook her head. “No. Even if we had both been beaten and robbed, it wouldn't have mattered. You still stood up to them. You refused to run. You're very brave little librarina.”

Megan felt her face flush. “Why were you down here, anyway? THERESA!”

Theresa had let go of Megan's hand and began sifting through the thugs' clothing for anything of interest. “What? It's better to leave anything they have with them? Anyway, I didn't come down here, the thin one chased me into the alley where the big one was waiting.”

She picked out no less than five purses out of the clothing of the thieves. She hefted them and grinned impishly. “Have you ever been to the Dog and Pony on Heit Street?”

Megan cradled her hurt hand close to her chest, and cast a wary eye at the unconscious thugs. “Of course, I have. You took me.”

“No.” Theresa clarified by jingling the bags. “Have you ever been to the Dog and Pony on Heit Street… with someone else's money?”