A Tailor's Son (Valadfar) (11 page)

Harold had barely been awake a matter of hours before
Frances came to collect him and his mind was still fuzzy from the time
he had lost. The opening of the market stalls ensured Harold had
plenty of witnesses for his lowest moment. Harold assumed he was
their prime suspect for the fire as it was blatantly obvious that his story
of a dead man burning the pub was not being believed. In the back of
the carriage inspector Fraser’s eyes turned on him as if he was trying to
assess him.

“Something is bugging me, lad. Why did you do it?”
He asked, trying
to drop the formal edge he carried the first time they met.
“Look, I didn’t do it.”
Harold replied, frustrated. In the silence
that followed Harold watched as a young girl that seemed to be being
followed around by an old woman tried peddling matches to some
noble in a suede black top hat.
“Right, yes I forgot.
” Fraser looked at a grubby old notepad that
he had filled with illiterate scribbling of the case before finally settling
on his notes from their first meeting before continuing.
“It was William
Bailey that started the fire. You do know they found him dead over a week ago and
buried him at Saint Paul’s? I even watched his funeral procession myself. Now tell
me, before you went to work the night in question, had you been chased by the dragon,
perhaps?”
Frances asked flatly. To start with Harold did not realise what
the inspector meant and it took some moments of silence before
Harold remembered reading about a new fad in the city called being
chased by the dragon. It was a form of opium abuse that had been
coming in with the influx of Drow since the end of the war. It had
taken its name as it was mainly - at first - ex soldiers that used the drug
to try and block out the images of the many men they had witnessed
screaming, burning to death, during the last recurrence of dragons.
“I have never used opium.”
Harold replied seemingly onto deaf
ears. It was true. Harold wasn’t even that hard of a drinker and stuck
only to ale as a way to avoid the foul tasting water that was drawn up
from the well close to their home. It was becoming common to try
fancy spirits that were being shipped in from across the sea that had the
power to blister wood and bleach clothing, but Harold rarely touched
the stuff.
“
Then how else do you explain a dead man walking into a bar? It sounds
like the setup to a bad joke. Then you claim he set fire to it and walked away down
the street. Now, I’ve been in this job for twenty five years and this is the best story I’ve
ever heard.”
Francis said as he sat looking at Harold expectantly. Harold
knew what he had seen even if it did not make sense. He was sure he
was right and the more Harold thought of it the more convinced he
was that it had been William Bailey. It was not unheard of for mages to
dabble in necromancy. It was banned even by the Tower itself and no
one would dare openly use magic in the city anymore, but that did not
mean that there were not little pockets of resistance to the imposed
laws.
“I don’t know, perhaps he had a brother. Maybe it wasn’t him but it
looked like him, maybe it was a renegade mage.”
Harold refuted, trying to
convince himself as much as the inspector.
“Now, that could be the case but-”
The inspector was interrupted
as the cart hit something in the road jolting it forward. Harold smashed
his already sore head against the painted black pine interior and the
force of the impact sent Francis flying to his side of the carriage. He
bounced from the wall knocking hard against the floor with a
crunching sound that could only be breaking bone.
“What the hell’s going on out there?
” The inspector bellowed from
his slumped position on the floor, his voice sounded forced and his
nose was bloodied.
“Someone jumped out in front of the horses. We hit the curb trying to dodge
the imbecile.”
A muffled voice called back. Suddenly, Harold could hear
screaming and the sound of running footsteps receding into the
distance.
Shortly after, there followed a second smaller judder to the
carriage and a commotion which sounded like the two specials
grappling with someone outside. Fraser, who was still watching
through the hatch, suddenly bent double. His face paling as he covered
his mouth. The vomit escaped from around the edges of his fingers as
he slammed the door open and fell out into the street. Staring in
amazement at the scene before his eyes, Harold saw William ram Fraser
against the side of the coach, the attack had come so swiftly Frances
hadn’t even had time to call out. William bit down hard into the
inspector’s neck and as he came up, his face coated in blood. William
looked straight at Harold. What madness would drive a man to do such
a thing? Harold did not have time to consider before he was out of the
coach and running. Harold had not gone far before he wanted to look
back to see if he was being chased, but he was too scared of what he
might see. His fear kept him going over his aches and pains. His vision
was blurry from his head wound so he almost didn’t see the girl who
stood by the side alley. She grabbed him, almost spinning him off his
feet as Harold passed her. He froze in front of her and could see she
shared his fear. She beckoned him to follow her and they ran together
down another side street.
Pale brown walls overhung above their heads. The street had
a gully running down its centre and debris seemed to clutter every inch
of the road. Washing lines ran between the buildings and the hanging
gray linen slapped at them as they ran past. They fled down side streets
after side roads and along main roads, dodging past market stalls and
barely missing a child playing with their hoop. Kicking the wooden ring
from his legs, they finally darted into another alley, Harold felt like his
lungs would give out at any moment. Suddenly the girl stopped while
she fumbled with some keys. Spinning around Harold gazed up the
alleyway back onto the main street where there was still no sign of
William, thank God. Feeling a tug on his arm, Harold followed the girl
into the house where she quickly slammed the door shut and bolted it
behind him. Harold slid down the wall until he sat on the floor,
panting.
“Thank you.”
Harold said instinctively, the girl had helped him,
a convict, to escape. After a moment of catching his breath he
continued. “
Why did you help me?”
Harold asked sounding ungrateful, but
he was more in shock as to why she risked her life after what William
did than questioning the ethics behind it.
“You don’t recognise me, do you?”
She asked “
The other night, not far
from the docks, you gave me money and told me to head home.”
She said and even
without the slurring it came to him. She was the prostitute Harold had
seen before in what felt like another lifetime. With the bruising gone,
Harold realised she was much older than he’d first thought. She had
aged well for a working girl and Harold wondered not for the first time
what her story was. She had to be closer to his age but she had kept a
youthful gleam to her skin that was not common of the local tarts.
“I do, but that doesn’t explain why you waited for me.
” Harold said in
a half-truth. He felt a slight pang of guilt, as Harold knew if the tables
had been reversed, he would not have waited for her. After he had
given her the money Harold had not even spared a second thought for
the young girl or young woman as she had turned out to be. Without
the bruising she looked almost sweet and innocent and Harold found
himself intrigued by her, almost forgetting the horrors he had just
witnessed. He did not believe in love at first sight but he could not deny
his heart fluttered and not just through the exhaustion of the escape.
He brushed the feeling off under the pretence that she had just saved
his life but that did not mean that his heart slowed any as they rested
from the run back to her home on the Knoll.
“I saw you that night, could tell you didn’t have bad in those eyes.
Whatever the guard had you for was wrong. Anyway, I couldn’t just let that mad man
get you. I have seen a few things in my time, but never anyone that bloody barking.
Let’s leave it to the city guards now, eh?”
She said showing strength of
character Harold had never imagined her tiny frame could have held.
“I
meant to ask you but you ran off so quickly. Why did you give me that money the other
night? That was many a coin to cough up without turning a trick for you.”
“If I am to be truly honest with you, I thought you were little more than a
child.”
Harold answered, too tired to think of an excuse other than the
truth. His mind was spinning with what had just happened.
“Ah, so you just wanted to get a youngling off the street for a night. Well,
bless your cottons. Aye, I do look young. Plenty a man that pays more for me just for
that reason, they like the little ones you see. Sick bastards the lot of them, but it puts
food on my table and shoes on my feet.”
She replied seemingly impressed at
Harold’s generosity.
“Thank you for saving me.”
Harold offered by way of changing
the subject. He paused before asking. “
What is your name?”
Right there
and then she was the only person who either did not think Harold was
a murderer or want to kill him and, as one of the many gods as his
witness, Harold needed someone to consol himself with and whoever
this girl was she had a strength that drew Harold in like a moth to a
flame.
“Muriel Smith, if you must know. But to most people I will be whoever
they pay me to be. That is, if they even bother to want a name some men prefer not to
even think of us working girls as people, like stray dogs don’t give us names. You are
an odd one. What do I call you then odd one? What’s your name and why were you
arrested?”
She asked with a smile.
“
My name is Harold Spinks. The reason I was arrested is they blame me
for the fire at the Queens last night. No, it may have even been the night before.”
Harold said realising he had no idea how long he had actually been in
the hospital.
“Try three nights back and you might be closer. So, you do it?”
She
asked so bluntly it forced Harold to smile.
“No.”
That was all that Harold could answer, not wanting to
go into the details again. She was one person who did not want him
locked up and Harold wanted to keep it that way.
“Didn’t think so, you don’t seem the type. It was that other guy right, the
one that attacked you? Makes sense that no one goes after the specials like that
without reason. I saw it all. There was something not right about him. The cart hit
him square on, should have damn near killed him but he just got up and attacked
those city guards. You were lucky, you know that?”
The dry huskiness had
fallen from her voice without the drink in her belly. Harold knew he
was lucky all right. He was getting used to nearly dying and longed for
his boring life back where the worst he faced was a pricked thumb, bad
back or the odd headache.
“Yeah, lucky I guess
.” Harold replied.
“
Let’
s
get you cleaned up a bit shall we? Make yourself at home while I
get a brew on. Nip of tea and then you can wash some of that blood off before you ruin
my rug
.” Muriel said before slipping off into the kitchen. Harold actually
shook his head in disbelief. This girl had just watched three men killed
and it did not seem to have traumatised her in the slightest, maybe it
would sink in later but for now she seemed unaffected by it all. Harold
slowly pulled himself up from in front of the door. If William was
coming this way then he would have been there by now. It was a
strange feeling to be in her home, modest as it was. There was nothing
but a few scattered and worn rugs on the otherwise bare floor. A table
in its middle with a bed sheet rested over its top serving, Harold
suspected, more than one purpose. A small set of shoddily crafted
wooden stairs led up from beside the kitchen door and Harold
wondered if her bedroom up there was a place of comfort and security,
or if she worked from there too. His mind lingered on the thought of
her bedroom longer than was proper, confusing even himself. His
feelings towards unfortunates had always been the same; one of pity
and disgust, but now Harold started to wonder if his opinions were
wrong. After all, this girl had saved his life.

Thankful as Harold was that William did not follow him, he
was still too scared to leave Muriel’s and she seemed more than content
to let him stay. They spent most of the day talking about what had
happened. Harold felt he may have been too open with Muriel but even
then, in the first few moments of being with her, Harold knew there
was something about her that just made him feel at ease. He told her
almost everything he knew about what was going on. It was almost like
he was unable to hold anything back. Harold wasn’t sure if it was just
because he was so tired that his mouth was running away with him or if
it was because Muriel was pleasing to the eye. Her red hair, washed
since the first time Harold saw her, now flowed loosely down over her
shoulders. She was petite and slender and for a woman of her trade
moved very elegantly. It hinted that Harold’s suspicions of a hidden
past were more plausible than he had given to first believe.

Maybe it was the escape from custody or William and the
horrors Harold had seen, but Harold felt close to Muriel. He wasn’t the
type who normally made swift bonds of friendship, there are some who
meet someone for the first time and swear to be friends forever. Harold
couldn’t think of anyone he really called a friend but for some reason
he could see potential in Muriel that should have taken weeks or even
months to develop. A shiver flew through his spine every time she
spoke, each time he caught her gaze he turned away worried she would
see his intentions hidden behind his eyes. Even after the many long
hours that passed and with all the tea Harold had drunk he still had not
told Muriel that a dead man was responsible for the fire. He’d been so
open with everything even telling her about his job at the tailor’s and
the Queen’s’, but couldn’t find a way to tell her it was the deceased
William who had attacked the carriage. It seemed like madness to him
but any doubt Harold had when he first saw him at the Queens had
faded during the attack on the guard cart. The man at the scene of his
escape was without any doubt the banker Harold had seen in the paper.
His wounds had been all but gone, leaving no question in Harold’s
mind that he must have used magic. He must have some tie to the
Tower. Necromancy or some other spell to bring him back from the
dead, whatever it was he was dangerous and a stone cold killer.