Rest
Emryn Marner’s address leads to a narrow, three-story house in the University quarter. The first level is red brick, stained with soot, while the upper two are panels of gray plaster between wooden beams. Someone, not too long ago based on the degree of grime, had painted the door red in a spasm of artistic fervor. Upon closer inspection, its original wood color shows through between brush strokes.
It’s early afternoon, and the street is quiet, its occupants away at their classes. From what Berend can see from below, this house is empty as well. He knocks anyway, one fist on the poorly-painted door, and waits.
Isabel hasn’t said a word since they left the temple. He considers asking her about the ghost of the murderer, and what evils he’s whispering in her ear, but he’d rather not know, now that he thinks of it. He’ll find some way to make Hybrook Belisia face justice first, and then he’ll fix Bessa Kyne and Mikhail, and after that, he’ll figure out how to get rid of Arden Geray for good.
It sounds so simple when he puts it that way. On second thought, he’ll start with a bath and a change of clothes, and maybe a few hours’ sleep.
He knocks again, louder this time, and he glances over his shoulder to make sure he’s not attracting attention. They must look like quite the pair, he and Isabel, in his red cloak and her layers of black. No wonder the Belisia boy had found him.
Just as Berend is about to knock for a third time, and then give up and look for shelter elsewhere, the door opens. A bleary-eyed young man stands on the other side, dressed in wrinkled shirtsleeves and trousers and wearing one garishly striped woolen sock. The state of his ginger hair suggests he’s just rolled out of bed.
He blinks twice, squints, and runs a hand over his head. “Yes? Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for Herard Belisia,” Berend says.
The young man’s eyes flick back and forth, looking up and down the street. “He’s not here. I can tell him you were looking for him, next I see him.”
He’s deflecting—giving the appearance of cooperation while not offering any actual information. Berend has done it himself a number of times. It looks like the Belisias are out looking for their wayward son as well.
“I’m not here on behalf of his family.” Berend pulls out the card again. “Are you Emryn Marner? Herard gave me your address. My friend and I need to lie low for a while, and I need to talk to Herard. I hope you can help me.”
“Yes, I’m Emryn Marner.” He takes the card and unfolds it, and then folds it again and puts it into the pocket of his rumpled trousers. “You were in the hospital, right? Herard told me he was going to talk to you.”
With one last glance at the street, he continues, “I guess you’d better come in.”
He leads them up a narrow wooden staircase, lined at the corners with dust, all the way to the third floor. The door at the top of the stairs opens onto a dim sitting room strewn with books, the curtains drawn and last night’s plates stacked precariously on top of a leaning sheaf of paper.
Emryn goes in first, opening the curtains and gathering up the dishes. “I wasn’t really expecting anyone,” he says.
“Have you seen Herard?” asks Berend. He’d rather not impose on this stranger’s hospitality if he doesn’t have to, and Herard owes him money. Berend is under contract, after all, as vague and loose as that contract might be.
“Not since yesterday.” Emryn takes his plates into the next room, and judging by the sound, drops them unceremoniously into a basin. “His brother’s been about.”
Isabel goes to the window. “I don’t think we can stay here long,” she says, low enough that her voice won’t carry to the kitchen. “I’m bringing a ghost with me, remember?”
Berend couldn’t forget if he tried. “Tell him to behave himself.”
She turns around and gives him a helpless shrug.
You’ve been in worse circumstances, Berend reminds himself, though it’s a cold comfort. He can only hope he hasn’t been followed. The presence of another assassin, and an unfortunate innocent in the way, would not improve things.
Maybe, if he were to die and wander the earth as a spirit, he could beat Arden Geray to a ghostly pulp. It would almost be worth it. He’ll have to ask Isabel, later, if ghosts can hurt one another.
Emryn reemerges from the kitchen and begins stacking up books. “Herard will probably be back today. Or maybe tomorrow. I’m not sure. How long do you want to wait?”
“Not long,” Berend says. “Overnight, at most. I don’t want to bring you any more trouble.”
A resigned half-smile crosses Emryn’s tired face. “Don’t worry. Trouble has been here. I can manage.” He places his stack of books in a corner by the faded sofa, and they immediately lean against it. The titles on their spines suggest that Emryn is a student of mathematics. “I should leave for my lecture soon. Keeping a normal routine to avoid suspicion, and all that. Is there anything you need?”
“A bath, a change of clothes, and some food,” says Berend. “Any one of those things, really. You’re more than generous.”
Emryn rubs at his eyes and looks down, his expression suggesting that he has just now realized he’s only wearing one sock. “Sure. I don’t know if anything will fit you, but I have a few extra things. There’s a pump in the garden, and a stove in the kitchen. I’ll find some dinner on my way back.”
“We’re in your debt.”
While Emryn finds his other sock and maybe even his shoes, Berend sinks down onto the sofa. It smells faintly of pipe smoke and sinks under his weight, but things could certainly be worse. He’s had worse in the last week. He wonders how much a place like this might cost, as though he’d ever be in a position to find out. His family had only ever had enough money to send one of their sons to university, and not in Mondirra, and he isn’t exactly better off than his father at the moment.
His seat is growing more comfortable by the minute. He’ll fall asleep if stays here.
Once Emryn has fully dressed, selected three of his stack of books, and left them with a key and the instructions to look through his wardrobe, Berend gets up to do just that. The bedroom is small, barely big enough to fit an unmade single bed and a writing desk as well as said wardrobe, and the clothing and additional books strewn about do the space no favors. He’s accustomed to owning only his weapons and two sets of clothing, and keeping his quarters to the Sons of Galaser’s standards no matter where he might be hanging his hat, and the state of Emryn’s rooms makes his skin itch.
He’s broader than Emryn, and not quite as tall, but the young man favors a loose fit. He finds two shirts that look clean and have only spent one or two days on the floor, and two pairs of trousers.
He comes back out to the sitting room and places half his bounty on the sofa beside Isabel. “Here,” he says. “Clean clothes for you. Mostly clean, anyway. I’ll get some water.”
“I can fetch it myself.” She sounds distant, half-asleep, maybe. Maybe listening to Geray saying things Berend can’t hear. He could do without that, if given the choice, but he wishes he could see the murderer’s ghost, just to know where he is.
“Nonsense,” says Berend. “I may be desperate and in hiding, but I’m still a gentleman. I’m not about to make a lady carry her own bathwater. I suppose you could light the stove, if you wanted.”
Her brows contort into an expression of confusion and suspicion, but she gets up and goes into the kitchen without saying anything. The sound of an iron hinge complaining and firewood knocking together is her only response.
With Isabel occupied, Berend changes into his borrowed clothing, folding up his own with his hat carefully balanced on top. Emryn’s clothes are soft against his skin, and probably just as expensive as his nicest things, but they’re not his. It’s a fair disguise, Berend has to admit, though he is far too old to pass for a student. He puts his own boots back on and leaves the apartment, locking the door behind him.
A brick wall shields the garden from the street, and the vines covering it have turned a deep red with the changing season. A path of the same bricks leads from the back door to the water pump, with grass and weeds pushing their way up between them. The lawn is overgrown, the residents having neither the time nor the inclination to care for it, but in the afternoon sun it’s a lovely place. Not as nice as Lady Breckenridge’s garden, but lovely.
Berend fills two wood-and-tin buckets and hauls them back up the stairs, stopping once by the door to see if anyone is watching him. Only the distant conversation of two young men, too far away to discern the topic at hand from where Berend stands, indicates that he shares the entire block of houses with anyone not sleeping off last night’s drink and studies. He would never have guessed that the university was the best place to hide in the middle of the day.
His knees complain by the time he reaches the third floor, a dull ache through the back of both legs and a series of pinpricks under his kneecaps. You’re getting old, Horst. He’s still a couple years shy of forty, but he’d expected to be out of the mercenary business after Braeden Hill. As it turned out, he didn’t have a hand for farming, even though the parcel of land given to him as a survivor of the Sons of Galaser was green enough. He picked up his saber again the year after.
And now here he is, hiding out in a student’s apartment, having angered one of the most powerful families in Mondirra, while the dead threaten to outnumber the living. At least he can’t see them. It makes it easier not to panic.
He sets the buckets inside and locks the door. Isabel is still in the kitchen, feeding more wood into the stout little stove from a stack beside the doorway. She’s found a tub, a dusty metal basin not much bigger than the one Emryn has stacked his dirty dishes in. There’s barely enough room left in the kitchen to walk.
“Where do you want the water?” Berend asks. He stretches his arms and rolls his shoulders, thankful for the reprieve. He’ll have to carry it back down, as well, since he’s not about to give anyone in the street any reason to look up into the windows.
Isabel looks up. The fire and its heat have turned her cheeks ruddy, and a strand of brown hair clings to her forehead. “By the door is fine. I don’t think Mr. Marner cooks here very often, but I’ve found a kettle that should work.”
Said kettle sits on top of the stove. Only a few flakes of pale enamel cling to its dull iron surface. It’s a heavy, ancient thing, probably given to Emryn by a grandparent. Dust clings to the lid and the handle, enough that Isabel’s handprint shows each one of her fingers.
As instructed, Berend takes the buckets one at a time and places them by the stack of wood. “Do you need help with the kettle?” he asks. “Otherwise, I’ll leave you to it.”
Isabel closes the stove and stands up, brushing soot from her clothes. “No, I’m all right.”
He gives her an exaggerated bow, and his back twinges. He tries not to scowl—Isabel doesn’t need to know that he’s not feeling quite up to the task at hand. Everyone else she relied on has been worse than unhelpful.
“Would you stay?” she says.
The question hits Berend like a stone thrown from a window. Surely she doesn’t mean for him to bathe with her. Nothing about her demeanor or their very brief relationship would suggest anything of the sort.
Before he can ask—it’s taking him quite a while to come up with a question that doesn’t sound overtly suggestive—she adds, “Just outside the door. I’d rather not be alone.”
“Of course,” says Berend. “Let me know if you need more water.”
It was time for a quiet chapter. Thanks for reading!
Space Whales Press 
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