An Angel in Citadel
I've had a few ideas rumbling around in my head about DEMON for a little while now. I'm still working on WAR STORIES, but there's definately a few stories I'd like to tell that don't fit so neatly into the timeline. This is one of them. I've been fooling around mentally for a while with the concept of a story that involves Argen and a theater, and at the same time, for a story titled "An Angel in Citadel." Naturally, they turned out to be one and the same.
This is just the start of this story, really; there's a good chance I'll make it novella or novel length, or at least attempt it. This is also part of an effort to make Citadel more realistic than it's currently being depicted in DEMON; while I don't think the setting is bad, it does need some fleshing out. That's partly what this will do.
Hope you enjoy it,
-E
"An Angel in Citadel"
by Eric Scott
-Echoes- -Checkmate- -Law and Order- -War Stories- -Wake Up Screaming- -"No Good Deed..."- -Reptiles- -Asp-
-Desert at Night--A Noble Savage --Demons and Angels I: Shrieker--Demons and Angels II: Lost Redemption-
-An Angel in Citadel-
Citadel has songs, like anywhere else. Even in a place populated by such ruined folk as the Northern Gate, music persists, because music taps into the wellspring of humanity like nothing else. No painting, no poem, no dance has ever encapsulated the sheer triumph and torture of existence like the pattern of notes and harmonies, and so the convicts sing: drinking songs, fighting songs, songs of their long lost loves and homelands. They tend to be rougher, as most of Citadel's population is from the lower classes, and they tend to be simple and unpretentious, songs appropriate to a city where most of the inhabitants have lost everything and been made to rebuild their lives from almost nothing.
So yes, there are songs in Citadel. But none of them had ever sounded like Isabella's.
Her father said she had been kissed by the angels at birth, and anyone could understand that boast if they heard her sing. She never had formal training; unlike most children of her time, she never attended school, for she was born into a family of traveling actors and entertainers, and they were never in one place long enough for her to have that stability. But what she lacked in training, she more than made up for in raw beauty; her voice sounded like Grace itself. There were even a few members of her father's troupe who claimed that it was worth it to be in Auggie's Outfit, despite the long hours and haphazard pay, just to hear his little girl sing.
She gave them hope.
Isabella stood in the balcony, seventeen years old, thin and fair, her long black hair braided into tails that draped onto her shoulders. Heaven poured from her lips, filling the dusty theater full of men at work. She was singing something she once heard while they were in Conquin's Deep, a melodic song about a lost soldier in a cold northern land, unable to find his way home. It was sad, but it was also sung in the language of Old Arnos, so none of the working men knew what she was singing about. To them, it sounded cheerful. To her father, it sounded like laziness.
"I swear, that girl..." Auggie put down the crate of costumes he was carrying and craned his head up towards the balcony. "Hey! Izzy! Why don't you come down here and help me and Jesse with the boxes, huh? We got a lot to unload!" Auggie ignored the general sigh from the men.
Isabella opened her eyes, lovely, almond shaped and brandy brown, and her song drifted off into silence. Then, in the sudden quiet, she replied softly. "Yes, father." She turned towards the stairs and made her way down.
Her father, August Reilly, was moving crates into the back of the theater. "Here, Izzy, you can help put some of this stuff into the wardrobes back there. I gotta keep gettin' stuff out of the wagons." He carried the crate of costumes back into the dressing room, and she followed him. He sat it down in front of one of the company's wardrobes, of which there were three, and grinned, breathing just a touch heavily. August, or as he usually was known, Auggie, was in his mid-forties, and did not seem to realize that he was no longer twenty-five. His hair was thinning, and his beard was starting to go gray, and he was no longer nearly so fit as he once had been, but you could see it in his smile: he still thought he was as young and hale as ever.
Without a word, Isabella started unloading the costumes, hanging them in the wardrobe. She expected that her father would turn to unload more, but instead, he stood with his hands on his hips, half-smiling at the dressing room.
"Something wrong, dad?" asked Isabella as she lifted a green dress from the crate. She recalled that it was the dress the Queen wore in a history play they had produced two or three years previous.
"Nothing at all, dear." He took in a deep breath and exhaled, exuding satisfaction. "Just... I don't know. This place. It's a dream come true, ain't it?"
Isabella glanced around as she put the dress away. The room smelled faintly of mold, and the walls desperately needed some paint; as it was, they were threadbare and weather-stained. If this was a dream come true, the fantasy was somewhat mediocre.
"Our own theater. Y'know, a lotta troupes would practically kill for somethin' like this." He shifted his gaze to his daughter. "What a find, huh?"
"Yeah," she said. "I guess so."
"Oh, what?" Her father's face scrunched up, and his voice reflected a hint of frustration. "What's wrong now, kiddo?"
"Nothing, dad."
"Nothin', huh? Then why don't you look happy? I mean... This is all we ever wanted, huh? Our own place... Don't have to listen to any ignorant patrons who wouldn't know good art if it bit them in the ass. Don't have to worry about having to wander from town to town, lookin' for our next meal, worryin' that we'll get shorted on our payment by some greedy playhouse owner. We get to put on whatever shows we want, whenever we feel like it." He put his hand on her shoulder, the reaffirming hand that she had felt since she was a little girl. "What's not to like?"
Isabella smirked as she pulled out a charcoal black tunic: used by the disgraced mayor, same play. "The whole 'surrounded by criminals' part sounds a little off. I mean, seriously, dad, Citadel?"
"Hey, hey, whoa there. It's not like these guys were real bad..."
"They don't hang people for kidnapping or arson, dad..."
Auggie paused at that. Sometimes he wished his little girl weren't so clever. "Still. We got this theater for 500 crowns. Same thing in Conquin's Deep would have cost us five times that much. More, up in Kingston. We could never have afforded it. And here, well, you don't know. There's not a whole lot to keep a body entertained in Citadel besides liquor and the occasional barfight. I'd imagine they're starving for stuff to do."
"So you think they'll just flock in to see the plays?"
Auggie scratched his head and sighed. "You don't think this is going to work?"
"Dad, I..." Isabella looked up at him and smiled, nodding her head just slightly to the side. "I'm sure it'll work. Really. We're a good troupe. It's just that this place is so dreary, is all. You know what I mean? Who's really happy in this town?"
Auggie smiled. "Dunno, darlin'. But maybe we can make a few more of 'em satisfied." He turned around and started walking back towards the stage, where there were undoubtedly already a pile of crates waiting to be carried back. "An actor's gotta be able to dream, huh?"
She reached in and took out a black cloak, long and somber: never used. Her father mentioned something about using it for the lead in a play he wrote for their last patron, Lord Daeli, which never got performed. Lord Daeli did not seem to enjoy the subject matter overmuch; then again, the play was supposed to be contemporary commentary, and it might have reminded their patron of an incident he had not wished to remember. She shrugged and put it away.
As soon as her father disappeared from the dressing room, Isabella took a glance up at the old ceiling boards and the cracking plaster, and shook her head softly. The whole thing was nonsense, in her opinion, but it was her father's nonsense and she would not gainsay him. And, after all, maybe the old goat was right; with a little care, perhaps Citadel could have a pretty decent playhouse.
She reached back into the crate and took out a white dress, long and lacy. It had been her mother's, worn at her wedding. Isabella looked at it with pursed lips, and set it aside. She saw no reason to keep a dead woman's dress in with the rest of the costumes.
Isabella opened her thin, red lips, and a stream of song flowed from them. She had made this one up herself; it was a companion to the piece from before, the story of an imagined woman waiting for the soldier's return.
Auggie's ears perked up as he heard her voice, and he briefly considered scolding her. However, he reasoned, she was doing her part in moving into the new theater, and besides, with a voice like hers, he couldn't blame her for singing.
"Kissed by the angels, I swear," said Auggie, and he went out to the street for another crate.
* * *
Isabella woke up before the sun rose the next morning. She was cold, despite the wool blanket that her father must have draped over her after she drifted away in a chair in the back of the theater. They had not purchased a house in the Freeman's Quarter yet, and Auggie claimed it made as much sense to sleep in the playhouse as it did to stay in one of the inns. As with most things he said these days, Isabella found faults in the argument. For one, there was no kind of heat in the playhouse, and it was very cold. She shivered and considered whether or not she should just lay wrapped in her blanket for another few hours, hoping to fall asleep again.
Outside, she heard church bells; they rang four times. Four bells... Too early to wake up, too late to go back to bed. An hour in either direction would have helped.
Her father was snoring nearby, laying on a cot with one armed draped over the side. She couldn't help but smile at him. She often thought he was an old fool, but he was her father, and as old fools went, he was a pretty good one. She knew he only wanted the best for her... She just disagreed on the definition of "best."
Isabella grumbled and slid out from underneath the blanket. She was still wearing her clothes from the night before. That suited her fine; she had no particular need for a fresh dress, and besides, she only had two sets of clothes anyway. She glanced over at the costume wardrobes, now packed with clothes tailored to all manner of character and times, and smiled. Only two pairs of clothes that she could wear in public, anyway.
A stack of playbills lay on a table near her father. She picked one up and looked it over; it was rather attractive, brown lettering on the tan paper, with the masks of comedy and tragedy in the center.
THE AUGUST REILLY PLAYERS
present
THE GRAND OPENING OF
THE CITADEL PLAYHOUSE
16 NOVEMBER
She thought it might have been prudent for Auggie to have waited until the troupe actually picked a play before they printed up the bills, but she supposed it didn't matter. They had always been mostly a repertory group, anyway; they could be ready for a production of one of the standards given two weeks notice. She knew her father had his hopes set on the play he wrote for Lord Daeli, though she felt that was probably not the best choice for an opener. A comedy, maybe, or one of the more bloody tragedies: that seemed like more the proper work for Citadel. A play about contemporary figures in Kingston was just a bit of a stretch for the crowd.
She grabbed a dozen or so of the bills, a hammer, and a handfull of nails and walked to the door of the theater. Outside, it was still very much night, with perhaps just the faintest sign that the sun would rise in a few hours. It was raining, too, a cold and steady rain that seemed to fall from nowhere at all. She grabbed a cloak from the rack in the entryway and hid her bills under it and walked out.
The playhouse was located in an area of the city called the Market Quarter, and the reasoning for that was obvious: less than two blocks away from the theater was a huge open-air market, a memento of the city's happier days when it was still known to most as the Northern Gate. Isabella heard about that in a history book her father managed to get her when she was thirteen; originally, the Northern Gate was meant to be a trade hub. It was one of the four planned cities that the King ordered built to encourage trade with the surrounding nations. The other cities- the Southern Gate, Westgate, Eastgate, Freegate- all turned out well enough. They were perhaps a little underwhelming compared to what the Crown hoped for, but they facilitated trade with Deamlar and the Free League well enough.
The Northern Gate, though... The book devoted a whole chapter to examining the failure of the Northern Gate. It boiled down to one simple truth: there was nobody to trade with. Supposedly, it was meant to be a place to trade with and civilize the 'savages' that lived in the Great Northern Waste, but in practice, it never worked, and the only really economic stimulant the city ever had were occasional wars with the savages. In the end, they decided to largely abandon the idea of trade with the savages and decided to convert it over to a prison colony, somewhere to put the criminals whose crimes weren't enough to warrant a hanging but too much to suggest a fine.
It was a dark city, all things considered; even in the relatively cheery Market Quarter, the looming shadow of the Convict's Quarter remained, the tall cell buildings a constant reminder of the incarcerated inhabitants of Citadel. That was really why Isabella disliked it: it was a city of nothing but grays. Gray stone, gray roads, gray morals, gray lives.
She walked through the market, nailing bills to posts where it seemed alright to do so. There were a few other bills posted throughout the market, generally buying and selling ads, and most of them were old. Isabella pursed her lips as she put them up, hoping she was not supposed to pay a fee to post things in the market.
Isabella finished putting things up in the market, but the sun was not yet up and she did not feel tired again. She stood at the far entrance to the great wooden structure and considered, watching the rain fall. She looked around her; the Market Quarter was one of the more active sections of Citadel, boasting more shops and taverns than the rest of the city combined. It also contained, she noticed, the city's cathedral, an imposing structure of spires and rose windows. Despite its somber and somewhat unfriendly exterior, Isabella decided to go have a look. She always liked churches, though she had few chances to spend time in them as a girl. No priests would be awake this time of night, she was sure, but usually they left the doors open...
She shrugged and smiled, then walked towards the church with her cloaked wrapped tight against the rain. Her feet splashed in the cobblestone road's puddles as she walked, but she didn't mind; she rather enjoyed the rain. Somehow, the cold water felt refreshing, cleansing. Perhaps, she mused, this was the proper way to see Citadel: at night, in the rain. It made things so much clearer, so much less monotonous and dull.
Eventually, she stopped at the cathedral's door. She looked up at the archway: it was massive, filled with all kinds of little sculptures and figures that nobody would ever be able to make out. She always found that fascinating about cathedrals: so much went on in their appearence, so many little scenes and characters that must have spent lifetimes to complete- and yet, nobody would ever be able to see them for what they were worth, up close. She would never get closer than forty or fifty feet from the imps and angels that danced about above her head.
She took the great brass doorhandle and pulled at it. At first, it seemed stuck, and Isabella thought they must have locked the doors tonight, but she took another heave the huge wooden door creaked open. It was very dark inside, but some light came in through the stained glass, and two large braziers burned up near the altar. She looked to the ceiling and her breath failed her; literally, the whole roof was covered in paintings and mosaics. Auggie was not what one might refer to as a particularly religious man, and so she knew only a few of the stories associated with the pictures, but it was still awe-inspiring.
She walked down the aisle, staring transfixed at the mosaics, running her hand along the tops of the pews. She had never been in a church like this one, so grandiose and beautiful. Auggie usually took her to smaller affairs, little churches run by unknown priests, and they were usually no more fancy than the typical village hut. This, however... Well, she could understand why people considered places like this to be houses of God.
Finally, she took a deep breath and forced herself away from the ceilings. She looked down, towards the altar, and realized that she was not alone in the cathedral at half past four bells.
A man stood in front of the altar, wearing a gray tunic and black breeches. His hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and he appeared to be staring somberly at the altar and the braziers, as though he were waiting for something to happen.
Isabella instinctively bit her lip; she could not believe she had not noticed him before. Immediately, she realized that, even in church, wandering around at four bells was likely not the smartest thing to do. If nothing else, there was likely a reason the man was praying so early in the morning, and she did not want to interrupt. She put a foot behind herself and began to walk backwards, slowly, towards the door.
"A little early to be out, isn't it?" said the man at the altar. His voice was hard, somehow; Isabella could not decide how to characterize it, exactly. It was deep, and perhaps a little cold, but it was not angry or annoyed. In fact, there was a slight undercurrent of sadness to it, the sound of a man who had lived a life he was not proud of.
"I... Well, yes, I suppose," she replied. "I woke up this morning and couldn't get back to sleep."
"Mmm. It happens." The man sighed and looked up; behind the altar was a large marble statue of a bearded man in flowing robes, reaching out his hand towards the pews. The man stared into its eyes and shook his head slightly. "Every Sunday morning, I come here... Just lookin' for whatever they see in him."
"Him?" asked Isabella.
"God," said the man.
She watched him, fascinated. The firelight played on his form, dancing lines of orange against his silhouette. There were little things about him that she found compelling; his posture, for one. He looked like he was carrying a heavy pack, even though he was standing up straight. He never fidgeted. And even though his hair was clearly gray, for some reason, she could not help but suspect that was not natural; he was younger than he looked. Perhaps it was just an illusion, however, brought on by her perception of his voice.
"What do you mean? It's... Well, God. What isn't there to see in him?"
"The ways they describe him... The priests. Hear them talk about him, he's this great, all knowing, all powerful, all loving being... A protector. A father." He swallowed. "A redeemer."
"Yes?"
He said nothing for a long time, and then turned away from the statue, his face pointed towards the ground. He had a beard, and his face was full of worry lines; however, she noted that he did seem to in remarkably good shape. He apparently took pretty decent care of his body, but Isabella was unsure about his mind. He walked over to the pews and slumped into the front one. Hesitantly, Isabella walked forward, coming closer to the stranger.
"Used to be friends with some monks, a few years back," said the man. "Good men. Did a lot of fine things... Fed the hungry, clothed the naked, all the things they say God likes 'em to do. And I can believe in that. I've known a few churchmen who were bastards, but by and large, most of them are pretty decent. Can't say anything against people who help the needy, y'know.
"But it's one thing to believe that some people are good, that some institutions are good. One thing to think that genuinely good things exist in this world. It's another thing entirely to believe that the thing that created it all is the same way."
"Why do you think that?" asked Isabella.
"Heh. Answer to that is as simple as it gets... There's bad people too. Can't have it both ways. Can't have a good God and a bad world. Least, not to my way of thinkin'." He paused. "Don't suppose you really care to hear me talking about that, though, since you're probably here to pray to the guy."
"Not... Well, I wasn't necessarily planning on it. I wasn't even sure the church was open this early."
"Well, if you want to, go ahead. Don't mind me... Even I hope I'm wrong in the long run about him." The man stood up, lifting a cloak off the bench as he rose. He undid the clasp and wrapped it around his shoulders. The cloak was long and brown, and it masked his figure well. He turned back slightly to face her as he raised his hood; in the orange glow, she saw a small black mark on his left cheek. He raised his hood and started walking toward the side aisle. "Have a good night, kid."
She watched him walk away. As he neared the door, she called out. "And you have a good morning!"
He paused, and briefly, she imagined he smiled beneath his hood, his bearded face shifting into an unfamiliar contour. "Yeah," he said. "I'll try." Then he left, stepping out into the rain.
Isabella turned back towards the altar. Nothing stood on it at the moment; the priests kept all of the ritual tools locked away most of the time, taking them out only at the appointed times. She ran her hand atop it, feeling the smooth, cold marble, and then looked back at the statue. Just like the rest of the church, it was like nothing she had seen before.
The lines of the beard, the waves in his hair, the flow of the robes, the lines of his face... The statue could have been a real man, frozen in that eternal gesture of invitation. Most churches had some representation of him, but nothing so grandiose as this, nothing so fully realized. It was very nearly perfect.
Perhaps that was why, she reflected, it did not interest her nearly as much as the man who just left the cathedral.
Isabella considered saying a prayer, but she had no idea what to pray for; it seemed shallow to simply ask God for a successful production, and yet that was honestly the only thing anybody she cared for needed right now. If Auggie's first run was a flop, it would ruin him, both financially and spiritually; he would blame himself for bringing his daughter to this city and then failing to provide for her. He might even start drinking again.
"Lord," whispered Isabella, "I know you probably have more important things to do, but if you could... Well, it would help dad alot if you would make this theater work out. I know it's not the kind of thing the church usually talks about- I mean, they don't even like actors- but this means more than anything to him. So, just..." She sighed. "Just let it work out, for both our sakes." She reached into her belt pouch and took out a tarnished brass coin, then tossed it in the nearby poor box. "Amen."
Isabella turned and walked away from the altar. She glanced upward at the ceiling again, but it did not hold her attraction in quite the same way it had before. Still, she planned to come again sometime when it was light; the clerestory windows at the top would undoubtedly provide magnificent illumination for the art, in a way that the spotty firelight could only hint at. She opened the door and stepped back out into the night, which was a little brighter than it had been a moment before.
She walked quickly; her father would be up soon, and she did not feel like having to explain where she'd been at four in the morning, even if she honestly spent that time in church. Instead of cutting through the market, she decided to go around it, passing through the center plaza of the Market Quarter. Once upon a time, she supposed, it must have been lovely: the fountain in the middle, in particular, was dazzling, showing a chorus of angels facing outward, encircling a spray of water that flowed over their heads and into the basin below. Time had not been kind, however, and the white stone had long ago turned to a dirty brown. Still, with a little care...
They only arrived in the city two days before, but Isabella spent a fair amount of that first day wandering around the Quarter to get a feel for it; that's how she knew there were places to post bills in the marketplace. If she remembered correctly, the alley across the street from the fountain cut through to the street the theater was on...
Citadel's quarters all had distinctive architecture, Isabella mused; she noticed it as they rode the wagons in, passing through most of the sections of the city. The Freeman's Quarter was full of nice homes, architecture that had at least been fashionable at one time, while the Tradesman's Quarter was mostly squat little workshops. The Convict's Quarter, of course, had its tall cell buildings. The Market Quarter, in turn, was mostly two story buildings, stone on the bottom story and framed plaster* on the upper stories. Overall, it seemed to be the friendliest of the Quarters, which made sense: this was where the Crown hoped his trade city was going to make most of its money.
Isabella frowned and looked around the alleyway. On second thought, this did not seem as familar as she thought it would have. Maybe it was another alleyway?
"Hey, little girl," said a voice from behind. "Little late for you to be out walkin' around, ain't it?"
Isabella turned around slowly. Behind her were three men, and the smallest of them was taller than her by a foot. They leered at her, flashing smiles that deserved to be in Citadel. The leader held a curved knife in his hand, and he played the tip of it against his finger. Isabella was no judge of metalwork, but she was pretty sure it was sharp.
"Ain'tcha gonna say nothin', sweetheart?"
Isabella stepped backward slowly, and they advanced, one step at a time. She almost wished they would rush at her; at least that would break the tension. "I'm just going home, mister."
"Were you now?" The leader smirked at the man to his right. "Odd alley to take, if you ask me. No way out, y'know?"
Isabella's back hit the brick wall of the alley, and the hammer she posted the bills with bounced against her hip. Nowhere else to run to... "Look, I don't have any money, sir, so I don't think-"
"Sir?" said the one to the left. "Y'hear that? Called you sir, Stripes. Right prim and proper, this one is."
The leader, who was apparently named "Stripes," sniggered. "I like them the best. Anyhow, no matter if you don't have any cash..." His grin widened, revealing rows of teeth that were far too perfectly white. "I wasn't really interested in your money, anyway."
The three men stopped, and Isabella stared at them, wide-eyed, rain-water running down her cheeks. Her lips fell apart, and her words were only whispers. "Oh, God."
The leader took another step towards her, while the others stayed back to cover him. "Don't scream now, darlin'."
Isabella did not listen. "Help!"
Stripes sneered. "Not even five bells yet, little girl. Nobody's comin', no matter how much you yell." He came closer, and his blade looked like ivory in the night.
He was probably right. Even if someone heard, they probably could not reach her in time... And that only left one choice. Isabella grabbed the hammer and yanked it from her belt. Stripes didn't register that she even had a weapon until it was already crashing into his nose, an overhand swing fueled by Isabella's fear and desperation. She heard his nose crack sickly under the weight of the hammer.
"Oh, you stupid little bitch!" Stripes swung wild with his knife-gripping right hand, plowing into the girl's forehead. Isabella groaned and fell to the ground, slowly. The sensation was perplexing; time slowed down, and she felt every curve and sway of her body as she fell away from his hand. And then, suddenly, she felt her head crack into the rocky earth. It hurt, but it was far away, something that ached just enough that she could not ignore it. She felt everything starting to go dark. She felt the rain splash down onto her body as Stripes came closer, blood streaming from his nose. She felt her eyes close...
Just before she was gone, she thought she saw something like a great shadow descend onto Stripes, but she could not be sure what it was. Her eyes were already shut before the shadow was full upon him.
* * *
Isabella's first thought was how much her head hurt. The right side, especially, was excruciating, which she thought was odd. She remembered being hit on the left. Her head also felt compacted, somehow, like something was pushing in on it, holding it together through sheer force. That part did not hurt so much, though it did feel quite unnatural.
She opened her eyes slowly, and winced at the bright light of a window. She opened her eyes all the way and found herself staring at a lonely gray building through a square window, the sun appearing only as a harsh glare on the smeared glass. The sky was somewhere between gray and gold, a blanket of clouds promising more cold rain, or perhaps snow.
Isabella took a sluggish look around. She was lying on a cot in a room as barren and gray as the building outside; a wool blanket covered her, and her head rested on a feather pillow, which was a rare enough luxury out in the rest of the world, much less in Citadel. She reached up and touched the right side of her head; it had been bound with cloth. She twitched when she touched the wound, but she reasoned that if she was still able to twitch, the injury could not have been too serious.
She was confused; how had she gotten to this place? The last thing she could remember was falling down in the alley... And some faint impression of a shadow falling over her. She passed out before she could get a good look, however. Someone must have taken her after she fell.
Isabella heard the sound of rustling paper behind her. Though her body cursed her for doing it, she sat up and twisted around; sitting on a stool, his back to the wall, was a man in a black shirt and gray pants. He was holding a book and reading it intently. Isabella scanned the title: The Life and Times of Taroven. His hair was gray with a few streaks of lingering black, and he had a well-developed beard and mustache. Below his left cheek was a strange mark, two curves joined by a vertical line. She narrowed her eyes at that; the mark seemed familiar, but she could not place where she had seen it before. The man, however, was quite familiar to her.
"...The man from the church?" she said, weakly.
He looked up and saw her, and put his book down on the floor next to him. She noted that he seemed to be lacking in furniture; the cot and the stool appeared to be everything he had. Even his clothes were scattered on the floor, rather than put away into a chest.
Suddenly, she came to a grisly realization: if she was attacked by those men just after seeing this man, and now she was suddenly in his cell after being unconcious for who knows how long... She did not want to reach for further conclusions.
"Evenin'," said the man, in the same almost-toneless baritone voice from the night before. "Good to see that you're awake. I was afraid those punks had hurt you pretty badly."
"My head hurts pretty bad, I have to admit... But..." She hesitated, and shifted her body again so that she could face him more comfortable. "How did I get here?"
"I heard you hollering," said the man. "Decided it wouldn't be proper for me not to investigate... I managed to chase those guys off before they could do anything too bad to you. I didn't know where you lived, so I took you back here, bandaged you up some, let you sleep it off." He smiled and stood up. "You're pretty tough, kid. That guy, Stripes, he's got a mean right hook, especially when he's got a knife to back up his knuckles. I've known lots of guys who might not have been able to walk for a while after one of those."
Isabella considered her words carefully. "So... So, you just found me?"
The man nodded. "Yeah, more or less. Good thing I was in the neighborhood."
"And they weren't your... Your friends, or anything?"
"Stripes and company? Hell no. No wonder they're in Citadel... Low-lifes. I hope Marina gives 'em what they deserve."
"Who's Marina?"
"Captain of the City Watch. You new around here, kid?"
Isabella nodded. "Yeah, my dad and I just moved into town... We bought the old playhouse. That's where I was headed, but I guess I took a wrong turn somewhere and ended up pinned in that alley. I thought there was a shortcut." She paused, and he said nothing; for a moment, there was silence. The bells outside began to ring: once, twice, three times. Isabella said nothing after the bells rang, but a minute later, her eyes sprang wide open.
"It's three bells past noon?"
"Yeah, just about. You were out for a while."
"God... My father doesn't know where I am. He's probably worried..." She motioned to get up, but the man moved over and put his hand on her shoulder and gently pushed her back onto the bed.
"Take it easy, kid. You had a rough night. You said you live... What, in the playhouse?" Isabella nodded. The man continued. "Alright. I'll have my friend get you a rickshaw over to the Market Quarter. There's some water in a pitcher in the other room," he said, gesturing towards a door in the left wall, "and a chamberpot under the cot, if you feel the need. I'll be back in a few minutes."
"Uh, well, okay... Thanks," said Isabella. The man walked over to brown cloak on the floor and, in one swift motion, swirled it around his shoulders and over his head. His face, and the mark, were almost totally concealed, just like the night before. He turned towards the door, but she stopped him. "Hey, mister?"
He paused and looked at her. "What?"
"Just a few things..." He said nothing, then motioned for her to continue. "Well, first... Thanks, you know. For saving me from those guys, and letting me stay here." He nodded. "Second... Can I see that book you were reading?"
He walked over and picked the volume off the floor and handed it to her. "Taroven. Fascinating guy. Ever heard of him?"
"No, I don't think so."
"He was a composer, back maybe seventy years ago or so. Wrote some beautiful things... One of the first tunes I ever remember hearing was my father playing one of his songs on our old violin. 'Piece of Moonlight,' it was called. Beautiful." He paused, and for the first time, Isabella thought she heard something like nostalgia in his voice. "Wish I still had that old violin. Long gone now, I suppose.
"And the guy himself was interesting too," he continued. "Came from the little colony that they turned into Eastgate a couple decades after he was born, ran away from home to join a band of musicians bound for Kingston... Taught himself music, pretty much by ear."
"That's pretty interesting," said Isabella, and she did think that it was. However, the interest in the man's voice was strange to her; for some reason, she had it in her head that this man could not honestly have anything that he loved, something he could feel passionate about. Her image of his stone-like, stoic appearence did not easily reconcile with a man who seemed to love music the way he did.
He turned to leave again, and she stopped him once more. "Uh, one last thing, mister..."
He looked at her over his shoulder. "Yeah?"
"What's your name?"
"My name's Argen. And yours?"
She paused, and then told the lie swiftly and confidently: "Justina."
"Well then, Justina... Hold on for a minute. I'll be back soon with a ride home." He opened the door and left.
She sat on the bed, her hands folded around a book about some composer she had never heard of, and wondered what to do. On the one hand, the man seemed genuine enough... He never attempted to hurt her, and his words carried no malice. On the other hand, though, she thought it suspicious that after talking to him, she was attacked by thugs, knocked out, and then mysteriously found in his cell. She found it pretty unlikely that Stripes and his friends just abandoned her after she hit her head, and she doubted a fairly small guy like Argen could take on three big men like that.
That, and there was just something about the mark on his cheek...
She shrugged and stood up. Her clothes appeared to be fine, and she felt alright, if aching. She knew how to get to the Market Quarter from the Convict's Quarter, and that was probably safer than waiting for Argen and his "friend" to show up with a rickshaw. Isabella slipped out the door of the cell and made for home.
Argen watched her from the top of the building, having never intended to get her a rickshaw, nor believing for a moment that her name was Justina. He kept an eye on her as she made her way home, but he was not worried; he told the truth when he said she was tough, after all.
This is just the start of this story, really; there's a good chance I'll make it novella or novel length, or at least attempt it. This is also part of an effort to make Citadel more realistic than it's currently being depicted in DEMON; while I don't think the setting is bad, it does need some fleshing out. That's partly what this will do.
Hope you enjoy it,
-E
"An Angel in Citadel"
by Eric Scott
-Echoes- -Checkmate- -Law and Order- -War Stories- -Wake Up Screaming- -"No Good Deed..."- -Reptiles- -Asp-
-Desert at Night--A Noble Savage --Demons and Angels I: Shrieker--Demons and Angels II: Lost Redemption-
-An Angel in Citadel-
Citadel has songs, like anywhere else. Even in a place populated by such ruined folk as the Northern Gate, music persists, because music taps into the wellspring of humanity like nothing else. No painting, no poem, no dance has ever encapsulated the sheer triumph and torture of existence like the pattern of notes and harmonies, and so the convicts sing: drinking songs, fighting songs, songs of their long lost loves and homelands. They tend to be rougher, as most of Citadel's population is from the lower classes, and they tend to be simple and unpretentious, songs appropriate to a city where most of the inhabitants have lost everything and been made to rebuild their lives from almost nothing.
So yes, there are songs in Citadel. But none of them had ever sounded like Isabella's.
Her father said she had been kissed by the angels at birth, and anyone could understand that boast if they heard her sing. She never had formal training; unlike most children of her time, she never attended school, for she was born into a family of traveling actors and entertainers, and they were never in one place long enough for her to have that stability. But what she lacked in training, she more than made up for in raw beauty; her voice sounded like Grace itself. There were even a few members of her father's troupe who claimed that it was worth it to be in Auggie's Outfit, despite the long hours and haphazard pay, just to hear his little girl sing.
She gave them hope.
Isabella stood in the balcony, seventeen years old, thin and fair, her long black hair braided into tails that draped onto her shoulders. Heaven poured from her lips, filling the dusty theater full of men at work. She was singing something she once heard while they were in Conquin's Deep, a melodic song about a lost soldier in a cold northern land, unable to find his way home. It was sad, but it was also sung in the language of Old Arnos, so none of the working men knew what she was singing about. To them, it sounded cheerful. To her father, it sounded like laziness.
"I swear, that girl..." Auggie put down the crate of costumes he was carrying and craned his head up towards the balcony. "Hey! Izzy! Why don't you come down here and help me and Jesse with the boxes, huh? We got a lot to unload!" Auggie ignored the general sigh from the men.
Isabella opened her eyes, lovely, almond shaped and brandy brown, and her song drifted off into silence. Then, in the sudden quiet, she replied softly. "Yes, father." She turned towards the stairs and made her way down.
Her father, August Reilly, was moving crates into the back of the theater. "Here, Izzy, you can help put some of this stuff into the wardrobes back there. I gotta keep gettin' stuff out of the wagons." He carried the crate of costumes back into the dressing room, and she followed him. He sat it down in front of one of the company's wardrobes, of which there were three, and grinned, breathing just a touch heavily. August, or as he usually was known, Auggie, was in his mid-forties, and did not seem to realize that he was no longer twenty-five. His hair was thinning, and his beard was starting to go gray, and he was no longer nearly so fit as he once had been, but you could see it in his smile: he still thought he was as young and hale as ever.
Without a word, Isabella started unloading the costumes, hanging them in the wardrobe. She expected that her father would turn to unload more, but instead, he stood with his hands on his hips, half-smiling at the dressing room.
"Something wrong, dad?" asked Isabella as she lifted a green dress from the crate. She recalled that it was the dress the Queen wore in a history play they had produced two or three years previous.
"Nothing at all, dear." He took in a deep breath and exhaled, exuding satisfaction. "Just... I don't know. This place. It's a dream come true, ain't it?"
Isabella glanced around as she put the dress away. The room smelled faintly of mold, and the walls desperately needed some paint; as it was, they were threadbare and weather-stained. If this was a dream come true, the fantasy was somewhat mediocre.
"Our own theater. Y'know, a lotta troupes would practically kill for somethin' like this." He shifted his gaze to his daughter. "What a find, huh?"
"Yeah," she said. "I guess so."
"Oh, what?" Her father's face scrunched up, and his voice reflected a hint of frustration. "What's wrong now, kiddo?"
"Nothing, dad."
"Nothin', huh? Then why don't you look happy? I mean... This is all we ever wanted, huh? Our own place... Don't have to listen to any ignorant patrons who wouldn't know good art if it bit them in the ass. Don't have to worry about having to wander from town to town, lookin' for our next meal, worryin' that we'll get shorted on our payment by some greedy playhouse owner. We get to put on whatever shows we want, whenever we feel like it." He put his hand on her shoulder, the reaffirming hand that she had felt since she was a little girl. "What's not to like?"
Isabella smirked as she pulled out a charcoal black tunic: used by the disgraced mayor, same play. "The whole 'surrounded by criminals' part sounds a little off. I mean, seriously, dad, Citadel?"
"Hey, hey, whoa there. It's not like these guys were real bad..."
"They don't hang people for kidnapping or arson, dad..."
Auggie paused at that. Sometimes he wished his little girl weren't so clever. "Still. We got this theater for 500 crowns. Same thing in Conquin's Deep would have cost us five times that much. More, up in Kingston. We could never have afforded it. And here, well, you don't know. There's not a whole lot to keep a body entertained in Citadel besides liquor and the occasional barfight. I'd imagine they're starving for stuff to do."
"So you think they'll just flock in to see the plays?"
Auggie scratched his head and sighed. "You don't think this is going to work?"
"Dad, I..." Isabella looked up at him and smiled, nodding her head just slightly to the side. "I'm sure it'll work. Really. We're a good troupe. It's just that this place is so dreary, is all. You know what I mean? Who's really happy in this town?"
Auggie smiled. "Dunno, darlin'. But maybe we can make a few more of 'em satisfied." He turned around and started walking back towards the stage, where there were undoubtedly already a pile of crates waiting to be carried back. "An actor's gotta be able to dream, huh?"
She reached in and took out a black cloak, long and somber: never used. Her father mentioned something about using it for the lead in a play he wrote for their last patron, Lord Daeli, which never got performed. Lord Daeli did not seem to enjoy the subject matter overmuch; then again, the play was supposed to be contemporary commentary, and it might have reminded their patron of an incident he had not wished to remember. She shrugged and put it away.
As soon as her father disappeared from the dressing room, Isabella took a glance up at the old ceiling boards and the cracking plaster, and shook her head softly. The whole thing was nonsense, in her opinion, but it was her father's nonsense and she would not gainsay him. And, after all, maybe the old goat was right; with a little care, perhaps Citadel could have a pretty decent playhouse.
She reached back into the crate and took out a white dress, long and lacy. It had been her mother's, worn at her wedding. Isabella looked at it with pursed lips, and set it aside. She saw no reason to keep a dead woman's dress in with the rest of the costumes.
Isabella opened her thin, red lips, and a stream of song flowed from them. She had made this one up herself; it was a companion to the piece from before, the story of an imagined woman waiting for the soldier's return.
Auggie's ears perked up as he heard her voice, and he briefly considered scolding her. However, he reasoned, she was doing her part in moving into the new theater, and besides, with a voice like hers, he couldn't blame her for singing.
"Kissed by the angels, I swear," said Auggie, and he went out to the street for another crate.
* * *
Isabella woke up before the sun rose the next morning. She was cold, despite the wool blanket that her father must have draped over her after she drifted away in a chair in the back of the theater. They had not purchased a house in the Freeman's Quarter yet, and Auggie claimed it made as much sense to sleep in the playhouse as it did to stay in one of the inns. As with most things he said these days, Isabella found faults in the argument. For one, there was no kind of heat in the playhouse, and it was very cold. She shivered and considered whether or not she should just lay wrapped in her blanket for another few hours, hoping to fall asleep again.
Outside, she heard church bells; they rang four times. Four bells... Too early to wake up, too late to go back to bed. An hour in either direction would have helped.
Her father was snoring nearby, laying on a cot with one armed draped over the side. She couldn't help but smile at him. She often thought he was an old fool, but he was her father, and as old fools went, he was a pretty good one. She knew he only wanted the best for her... She just disagreed on the definition of "best."
Isabella grumbled and slid out from underneath the blanket. She was still wearing her clothes from the night before. That suited her fine; she had no particular need for a fresh dress, and besides, she only had two sets of clothes anyway. She glanced over at the costume wardrobes, now packed with clothes tailored to all manner of character and times, and smiled. Only two pairs of clothes that she could wear in public, anyway.
A stack of playbills lay on a table near her father. She picked one up and looked it over; it was rather attractive, brown lettering on the tan paper, with the masks of comedy and tragedy in the center.
THE AUGUST REILLY PLAYERS
present
THE GRAND OPENING OF
THE CITADEL PLAYHOUSE
16 NOVEMBER
She thought it might have been prudent for Auggie to have waited until the troupe actually picked a play before they printed up the bills, but she supposed it didn't matter. They had always been mostly a repertory group, anyway; they could be ready for a production of one of the standards given two weeks notice. She knew her father had his hopes set on the play he wrote for Lord Daeli, though she felt that was probably not the best choice for an opener. A comedy, maybe, or one of the more bloody tragedies: that seemed like more the proper work for Citadel. A play about contemporary figures in Kingston was just a bit of a stretch for the crowd.
She grabbed a dozen or so of the bills, a hammer, and a handfull of nails and walked to the door of the theater. Outside, it was still very much night, with perhaps just the faintest sign that the sun would rise in a few hours. It was raining, too, a cold and steady rain that seemed to fall from nowhere at all. She grabbed a cloak from the rack in the entryway and hid her bills under it and walked out.
The playhouse was located in an area of the city called the Market Quarter, and the reasoning for that was obvious: less than two blocks away from the theater was a huge open-air market, a memento of the city's happier days when it was still known to most as the Northern Gate. Isabella heard about that in a history book her father managed to get her when she was thirteen; originally, the Northern Gate was meant to be a trade hub. It was one of the four planned cities that the King ordered built to encourage trade with the surrounding nations. The other cities- the Southern Gate, Westgate, Eastgate, Freegate- all turned out well enough. They were perhaps a little underwhelming compared to what the Crown hoped for, but they facilitated trade with Deamlar and the Free League well enough.
The Northern Gate, though... The book devoted a whole chapter to examining the failure of the Northern Gate. It boiled down to one simple truth: there was nobody to trade with. Supposedly, it was meant to be a place to trade with and civilize the 'savages' that lived in the Great Northern Waste, but in practice, it never worked, and the only really economic stimulant the city ever had were occasional wars with the savages. In the end, they decided to largely abandon the idea of trade with the savages and decided to convert it over to a prison colony, somewhere to put the criminals whose crimes weren't enough to warrant a hanging but too much to suggest a fine.
It was a dark city, all things considered; even in the relatively cheery Market Quarter, the looming shadow of the Convict's Quarter remained, the tall cell buildings a constant reminder of the incarcerated inhabitants of Citadel. That was really why Isabella disliked it: it was a city of nothing but grays. Gray stone, gray roads, gray morals, gray lives.
She walked through the market, nailing bills to posts where it seemed alright to do so. There were a few other bills posted throughout the market, generally buying and selling ads, and most of them were old. Isabella pursed her lips as she put them up, hoping she was not supposed to pay a fee to post things in the market.
Isabella finished putting things up in the market, but the sun was not yet up and she did not feel tired again. She stood at the far entrance to the great wooden structure and considered, watching the rain fall. She looked around her; the Market Quarter was one of the more active sections of Citadel, boasting more shops and taverns than the rest of the city combined. It also contained, she noticed, the city's cathedral, an imposing structure of spires and rose windows. Despite its somber and somewhat unfriendly exterior, Isabella decided to go have a look. She always liked churches, though she had few chances to spend time in them as a girl. No priests would be awake this time of night, she was sure, but usually they left the doors open...
She shrugged and smiled, then walked towards the church with her cloaked wrapped tight against the rain. Her feet splashed in the cobblestone road's puddles as she walked, but she didn't mind; she rather enjoyed the rain. Somehow, the cold water felt refreshing, cleansing. Perhaps, she mused, this was the proper way to see Citadel: at night, in the rain. It made things so much clearer, so much less monotonous and dull.
Eventually, she stopped at the cathedral's door. She looked up at the archway: it was massive, filled with all kinds of little sculptures and figures that nobody would ever be able to make out. She always found that fascinating about cathedrals: so much went on in their appearence, so many little scenes and characters that must have spent lifetimes to complete- and yet, nobody would ever be able to see them for what they were worth, up close. She would never get closer than forty or fifty feet from the imps and angels that danced about above her head.
She took the great brass doorhandle and pulled at it. At first, it seemed stuck, and Isabella thought they must have locked the doors tonight, but she took another heave the huge wooden door creaked open. It was very dark inside, but some light came in through the stained glass, and two large braziers burned up near the altar. She looked to the ceiling and her breath failed her; literally, the whole roof was covered in paintings and mosaics. Auggie was not what one might refer to as a particularly religious man, and so she knew only a few of the stories associated with the pictures, but it was still awe-inspiring.
She walked down the aisle, staring transfixed at the mosaics, running her hand along the tops of the pews. She had never been in a church like this one, so grandiose and beautiful. Auggie usually took her to smaller affairs, little churches run by unknown priests, and they were usually no more fancy than the typical village hut. This, however... Well, she could understand why people considered places like this to be houses of God.
Finally, she took a deep breath and forced herself away from the ceilings. She looked down, towards the altar, and realized that she was not alone in the cathedral at half past four bells.
A man stood in front of the altar, wearing a gray tunic and black breeches. His hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and he appeared to be staring somberly at the altar and the braziers, as though he were waiting for something to happen.
Isabella instinctively bit her lip; she could not believe she had not noticed him before. Immediately, she realized that, even in church, wandering around at four bells was likely not the smartest thing to do. If nothing else, there was likely a reason the man was praying so early in the morning, and she did not want to interrupt. She put a foot behind herself and began to walk backwards, slowly, towards the door.
"A little early to be out, isn't it?" said the man at the altar. His voice was hard, somehow; Isabella could not decide how to characterize it, exactly. It was deep, and perhaps a little cold, but it was not angry or annoyed. In fact, there was a slight undercurrent of sadness to it, the sound of a man who had lived a life he was not proud of.
"I... Well, yes, I suppose," she replied. "I woke up this morning and couldn't get back to sleep."
"Mmm. It happens." The man sighed and looked up; behind the altar was a large marble statue of a bearded man in flowing robes, reaching out his hand towards the pews. The man stared into its eyes and shook his head slightly. "Every Sunday morning, I come here... Just lookin' for whatever they see in him."
"Him?" asked Isabella.
"God," said the man.
She watched him, fascinated. The firelight played on his form, dancing lines of orange against his silhouette. There were little things about him that she found compelling; his posture, for one. He looked like he was carrying a heavy pack, even though he was standing up straight. He never fidgeted. And even though his hair was clearly gray, for some reason, she could not help but suspect that was not natural; he was younger than he looked. Perhaps it was just an illusion, however, brought on by her perception of his voice.
"What do you mean? It's... Well, God. What isn't there to see in him?"
"The ways they describe him... The priests. Hear them talk about him, he's this great, all knowing, all powerful, all loving being... A protector. A father." He swallowed. "A redeemer."
"Yes?"
He said nothing for a long time, and then turned away from the statue, his face pointed towards the ground. He had a beard, and his face was full of worry lines; however, she noted that he did seem to in remarkably good shape. He apparently took pretty decent care of his body, but Isabella was unsure about his mind. He walked over to the pews and slumped into the front one. Hesitantly, Isabella walked forward, coming closer to the stranger.
"Used to be friends with some monks, a few years back," said the man. "Good men. Did a lot of fine things... Fed the hungry, clothed the naked, all the things they say God likes 'em to do. And I can believe in that. I've known a few churchmen who were bastards, but by and large, most of them are pretty decent. Can't say anything against people who help the needy, y'know.
"But it's one thing to believe that some people are good, that some institutions are good. One thing to think that genuinely good things exist in this world. It's another thing entirely to believe that the thing that created it all is the same way."
"Why do you think that?" asked Isabella.
"Heh. Answer to that is as simple as it gets... There's bad people too. Can't have it both ways. Can't have a good God and a bad world. Least, not to my way of thinkin'." He paused. "Don't suppose you really care to hear me talking about that, though, since you're probably here to pray to the guy."
"Not... Well, I wasn't necessarily planning on it. I wasn't even sure the church was open this early."
"Well, if you want to, go ahead. Don't mind me... Even I hope I'm wrong in the long run about him." The man stood up, lifting a cloak off the bench as he rose. He undid the clasp and wrapped it around his shoulders. The cloak was long and brown, and it masked his figure well. He turned back slightly to face her as he raised his hood; in the orange glow, she saw a small black mark on his left cheek. He raised his hood and started walking toward the side aisle. "Have a good night, kid."
She watched him walk away. As he neared the door, she called out. "And you have a good morning!"
He paused, and briefly, she imagined he smiled beneath his hood, his bearded face shifting into an unfamiliar contour. "Yeah," he said. "I'll try." Then he left, stepping out into the rain.
Isabella turned back towards the altar. Nothing stood on it at the moment; the priests kept all of the ritual tools locked away most of the time, taking them out only at the appointed times. She ran her hand atop it, feeling the smooth, cold marble, and then looked back at the statue. Just like the rest of the church, it was like nothing she had seen before.
The lines of the beard, the waves in his hair, the flow of the robes, the lines of his face... The statue could have been a real man, frozen in that eternal gesture of invitation. Most churches had some representation of him, but nothing so grandiose as this, nothing so fully realized. It was very nearly perfect.
Perhaps that was why, she reflected, it did not interest her nearly as much as the man who just left the cathedral.
Isabella considered saying a prayer, but she had no idea what to pray for; it seemed shallow to simply ask God for a successful production, and yet that was honestly the only thing anybody she cared for needed right now. If Auggie's first run was a flop, it would ruin him, both financially and spiritually; he would blame himself for bringing his daughter to this city and then failing to provide for her. He might even start drinking again.
"Lord," whispered Isabella, "I know you probably have more important things to do, but if you could... Well, it would help dad alot if you would make this theater work out. I know it's not the kind of thing the church usually talks about- I mean, they don't even like actors- but this means more than anything to him. So, just..." She sighed. "Just let it work out, for both our sakes." She reached into her belt pouch and took out a tarnished brass coin, then tossed it in the nearby poor box. "Amen."
Isabella turned and walked away from the altar. She glanced upward at the ceiling again, but it did not hold her attraction in quite the same way it had before. Still, she planned to come again sometime when it was light; the clerestory windows at the top would undoubtedly provide magnificent illumination for the art, in a way that the spotty firelight could only hint at. She opened the door and stepped back out into the night, which was a little brighter than it had been a moment before.
She walked quickly; her father would be up soon, and she did not feel like having to explain where she'd been at four in the morning, even if she honestly spent that time in church. Instead of cutting through the market, she decided to go around it, passing through the center plaza of the Market Quarter. Once upon a time, she supposed, it must have been lovely: the fountain in the middle, in particular, was dazzling, showing a chorus of angels facing outward, encircling a spray of water that flowed over their heads and into the basin below. Time had not been kind, however, and the white stone had long ago turned to a dirty brown. Still, with a little care...
They only arrived in the city two days before, but Isabella spent a fair amount of that first day wandering around the Quarter to get a feel for it; that's how she knew there were places to post bills in the marketplace. If she remembered correctly, the alley across the street from the fountain cut through to the street the theater was on...
Citadel's quarters all had distinctive architecture, Isabella mused; she noticed it as they rode the wagons in, passing through most of the sections of the city. The Freeman's Quarter was full of nice homes, architecture that had at least been fashionable at one time, while the Tradesman's Quarter was mostly squat little workshops. The Convict's Quarter, of course, had its tall cell buildings. The Market Quarter, in turn, was mostly two story buildings, stone on the bottom story and framed plaster* on the upper stories. Overall, it seemed to be the friendliest of the Quarters, which made sense: this was where the Crown hoped his trade city was going to make most of its money.
Isabella frowned and looked around the alleyway. On second thought, this did not seem as familar as she thought it would have. Maybe it was another alleyway?
"Hey, little girl," said a voice from behind. "Little late for you to be out walkin' around, ain't it?"
Isabella turned around slowly. Behind her were three men, and the smallest of them was taller than her by a foot. They leered at her, flashing smiles that deserved to be in Citadel. The leader held a curved knife in his hand, and he played the tip of it against his finger. Isabella was no judge of metalwork, but she was pretty sure it was sharp.
"Ain'tcha gonna say nothin', sweetheart?"
Isabella stepped backward slowly, and they advanced, one step at a time. She almost wished they would rush at her; at least that would break the tension. "I'm just going home, mister."
"Were you now?" The leader smirked at the man to his right. "Odd alley to take, if you ask me. No way out, y'know?"
Isabella's back hit the brick wall of the alley, and the hammer she posted the bills with bounced against her hip. Nowhere else to run to... "Look, I don't have any money, sir, so I don't think-"
"Sir?" said the one to the left. "Y'hear that? Called you sir, Stripes. Right prim and proper, this one is."
The leader, who was apparently named "Stripes," sniggered. "I like them the best. Anyhow, no matter if you don't have any cash..." His grin widened, revealing rows of teeth that were far too perfectly white. "I wasn't really interested in your money, anyway."
The three men stopped, and Isabella stared at them, wide-eyed, rain-water running down her cheeks. Her lips fell apart, and her words were only whispers. "Oh, God."
The leader took another step towards her, while the others stayed back to cover him. "Don't scream now, darlin'."
Isabella did not listen. "Help!"
Stripes sneered. "Not even five bells yet, little girl. Nobody's comin', no matter how much you yell." He came closer, and his blade looked like ivory in the night.
He was probably right. Even if someone heard, they probably could not reach her in time... And that only left one choice. Isabella grabbed the hammer and yanked it from her belt. Stripes didn't register that she even had a weapon until it was already crashing into his nose, an overhand swing fueled by Isabella's fear and desperation. She heard his nose crack sickly under the weight of the hammer.
"Oh, you stupid little bitch!" Stripes swung wild with his knife-gripping right hand, plowing into the girl's forehead. Isabella groaned and fell to the ground, slowly. The sensation was perplexing; time slowed down, and she felt every curve and sway of her body as she fell away from his hand. And then, suddenly, she felt her head crack into the rocky earth. It hurt, but it was far away, something that ached just enough that she could not ignore it. She felt everything starting to go dark. She felt the rain splash down onto her body as Stripes came closer, blood streaming from his nose. She felt her eyes close...
Just before she was gone, she thought she saw something like a great shadow descend onto Stripes, but she could not be sure what it was. Her eyes were already shut before the shadow was full upon him.
* * *
Isabella's first thought was how much her head hurt. The right side, especially, was excruciating, which she thought was odd. She remembered being hit on the left. Her head also felt compacted, somehow, like something was pushing in on it, holding it together through sheer force. That part did not hurt so much, though it did feel quite unnatural.
She opened her eyes slowly, and winced at the bright light of a window. She opened her eyes all the way and found herself staring at a lonely gray building through a square window, the sun appearing only as a harsh glare on the smeared glass. The sky was somewhere between gray and gold, a blanket of clouds promising more cold rain, or perhaps snow.
Isabella took a sluggish look around. She was lying on a cot in a room as barren and gray as the building outside; a wool blanket covered her, and her head rested on a feather pillow, which was a rare enough luxury out in the rest of the world, much less in Citadel. She reached up and touched the right side of her head; it had been bound with cloth. She twitched when she touched the wound, but she reasoned that if she was still able to twitch, the injury could not have been too serious.
She was confused; how had she gotten to this place? The last thing she could remember was falling down in the alley... And some faint impression of a shadow falling over her. She passed out before she could get a good look, however. Someone must have taken her after she fell.
Isabella heard the sound of rustling paper behind her. Though her body cursed her for doing it, she sat up and twisted around; sitting on a stool, his back to the wall, was a man in a black shirt and gray pants. He was holding a book and reading it intently. Isabella scanned the title: The Life and Times of Taroven. His hair was gray with a few streaks of lingering black, and he had a well-developed beard and mustache. Below his left cheek was a strange mark, two curves joined by a vertical line. She narrowed her eyes at that; the mark seemed familiar, but she could not place where she had seen it before. The man, however, was quite familiar to her.
"...The man from the church?" she said, weakly.
He looked up and saw her, and put his book down on the floor next to him. She noted that he seemed to be lacking in furniture; the cot and the stool appeared to be everything he had. Even his clothes were scattered on the floor, rather than put away into a chest.
Suddenly, she came to a grisly realization: if she was attacked by those men just after seeing this man, and now she was suddenly in his cell after being unconcious for who knows how long... She did not want to reach for further conclusions.
"Evenin'," said the man, in the same almost-toneless baritone voice from the night before. "Good to see that you're awake. I was afraid those punks had hurt you pretty badly."
"My head hurts pretty bad, I have to admit... But..." She hesitated, and shifted her body again so that she could face him more comfortable. "How did I get here?"
"I heard you hollering," said the man. "Decided it wouldn't be proper for me not to investigate... I managed to chase those guys off before they could do anything too bad to you. I didn't know where you lived, so I took you back here, bandaged you up some, let you sleep it off." He smiled and stood up. "You're pretty tough, kid. That guy, Stripes, he's got a mean right hook, especially when he's got a knife to back up his knuckles. I've known lots of guys who might not have been able to walk for a while after one of those."
Isabella considered her words carefully. "So... So, you just found me?"
The man nodded. "Yeah, more or less. Good thing I was in the neighborhood."
"And they weren't your... Your friends, or anything?"
"Stripes and company? Hell no. No wonder they're in Citadel... Low-lifes. I hope Marina gives 'em what they deserve."
"Who's Marina?"
"Captain of the City Watch. You new around here, kid?"
Isabella nodded. "Yeah, my dad and I just moved into town... We bought the old playhouse. That's where I was headed, but I guess I took a wrong turn somewhere and ended up pinned in that alley. I thought there was a shortcut." She paused, and he said nothing; for a moment, there was silence. The bells outside began to ring: once, twice, three times. Isabella said nothing after the bells rang, but a minute later, her eyes sprang wide open.
"It's three bells past noon?"
"Yeah, just about. You were out for a while."
"God... My father doesn't know where I am. He's probably worried..." She motioned to get up, but the man moved over and put his hand on her shoulder and gently pushed her back onto the bed.
"Take it easy, kid. You had a rough night. You said you live... What, in the playhouse?" Isabella nodded. The man continued. "Alright. I'll have my friend get you a rickshaw over to the Market Quarter. There's some water in a pitcher in the other room," he said, gesturing towards a door in the left wall, "and a chamberpot under the cot, if you feel the need. I'll be back in a few minutes."
"Uh, well, okay... Thanks," said Isabella. The man walked over to brown cloak on the floor and, in one swift motion, swirled it around his shoulders and over his head. His face, and the mark, were almost totally concealed, just like the night before. He turned towards the door, but she stopped him. "Hey, mister?"
He paused and looked at her. "What?"
"Just a few things..." He said nothing, then motioned for her to continue. "Well, first... Thanks, you know. For saving me from those guys, and letting me stay here." He nodded. "Second... Can I see that book you were reading?"
He walked over and picked the volume off the floor and handed it to her. "Taroven. Fascinating guy. Ever heard of him?"
"No, I don't think so."
"He was a composer, back maybe seventy years ago or so. Wrote some beautiful things... One of the first tunes I ever remember hearing was my father playing one of his songs on our old violin. 'Piece of Moonlight,' it was called. Beautiful." He paused, and for the first time, Isabella thought she heard something like nostalgia in his voice. "Wish I still had that old violin. Long gone now, I suppose.
"And the guy himself was interesting too," he continued. "Came from the little colony that they turned into Eastgate a couple decades after he was born, ran away from home to join a band of musicians bound for Kingston... Taught himself music, pretty much by ear."
"That's pretty interesting," said Isabella, and she did think that it was. However, the interest in the man's voice was strange to her; for some reason, she had it in her head that this man could not honestly have anything that he loved, something he could feel passionate about. Her image of his stone-like, stoic appearence did not easily reconcile with a man who seemed to love music the way he did.
He turned to leave again, and she stopped him once more. "Uh, one last thing, mister..."
He looked at her over his shoulder. "Yeah?"
"What's your name?"
"My name's Argen. And yours?"
She paused, and then told the lie swiftly and confidently: "Justina."
"Well then, Justina... Hold on for a minute. I'll be back soon with a ride home." He opened the door and left.
She sat on the bed, her hands folded around a book about some composer she had never heard of, and wondered what to do. On the one hand, the man seemed genuine enough... He never attempted to hurt her, and his words carried no malice. On the other hand, though, she thought it suspicious that after talking to him, she was attacked by thugs, knocked out, and then mysteriously found in his cell. She found it pretty unlikely that Stripes and his friends just abandoned her after she hit her head, and she doubted a fairly small guy like Argen could take on three big men like that.
That, and there was just something about the mark on his cheek...
She shrugged and stood up. Her clothes appeared to be fine, and she felt alright, if aching. She knew how to get to the Market Quarter from the Convict's Quarter, and that was probably safer than waiting for Argen and his "friend" to show up with a rickshaw. Isabella slipped out the door of the cell and made for home.
Argen watched her from the top of the building, having never intended to get her a rickshaw, nor believing for a moment that her name was Justina. He kept an eye on her as she made her way home, but he was not worried; he told the truth when he said she was tough, after all.