Chapter 018 - The Magic of Being Forgotten

  Dawn leaned against the cold stone wall of the Militia Garrison, the early morning sun doing little to warm her. The air tasted of coal smoke and damp cobblestone, flavors she had come to hate. She preferred the clean, sharp scent of pine and snow, the taste of the wind on the high ridges. But the high ridges weren't offering what she needed, not today at least. The garrison's coin was always good, even if the jobs were often a waste of her time.

  Today's job, however, was shaping up to be a new standard in pointlessness.

  “It’s a simple observation task, Dawn,” Sergeant Valentine had said, his voice betraying that it was anything but simple. He was a gruff, no-nonsense man whose Heart of the Foreman made him better at organizing work crews than dealing with scouts. Solitude was a concept foreign to him, and he didn't appear to care how that mattered to others. “Orders came down from someone closer to one of the Guildmasters. They need eyes on the newcomer. The one you dragged back to town that looked closer to a corpse.”

  Dawn’s jaw tightened in recognition. The man from the forest. The strange, soft excuse of a man that Taz had found half-dead by the creek. She had done her part and it had cost her the target of their hunt. They had found him, assessed the laughable threat he posed, and handed him over to the medics. Her involvement had ended there, and was more than happy with that.

  “Why me?” she asked, her tone flat. “There are a dozen guards whose job is to watch people in the crowd, actually their job.”

  The Sergeant had the decency to look uncomfortable. “They’re needed for patrol rotations. And… well, the truth is, nobody else wants it. There is potential for political fallout. The man’s ended up living on Silver-Vein Terrace, supposedly with the blessing of an Oracle. The high-and-mighty are twitchy. They want to know what he’s doing, who he’s talking to. But no one wants their name attached to it if it goes sour.” He gave her a hard look. “You’re one of the best scouts we have, and you’re not attached to any of the big families. No offense, but it won’t impact anyone if it goes wrong with you. That and this wasn’t a request.”

  So that was it, a babysitting job for the Guildmasters, handed to her because she had no one important to stand in for her, or to fall with her if it went south. She pushed herself off the wall, the enchanted and worn leather of her armor creaking softly. “Fine. What are the parameters?”

  “Watch him. Report his movements. Do not engage. And for the love of the Founder, keep that beast of yours out of sight.”

  Now, perched on a rooftop overlooking the prestigious street, she let out a slow, frustrated breath. Below, Taz shifted silently beside her, a ripple of silvery-white fur in the shadows. His cold blue eyes were fixed on the door of the house as if he understood the tedious nature of their task.

  This was a fool's errand, her skills as a hunter were wasted in the geometric prison of a town. Patience was a virtue in the wild, a tool used to outwit clever prey. Here, it was just a cage. She closed her eyes for a moment, reaching for the familiar, steady presence of her Heart of the Huntress.

  She shaped her mana, not for tracking for what would be the point, but to become un-noticing. It was a subtle, difficult weave of magic, a trick she’d perfected over years of stalking prey that could sense a hunter's gaze from miles away. She pushed the magic outward, a thin, shimmering veil that clung to her and Taz like an invisible second skin. It wasn't invisibility, very few had attained such abilities, hers was a quiet suggestion to the world. ‘Look elsewhere’. ‘We are not important’. ‘We are just a shadow, a trick of the light’. The people walking the street below would see her if they looked directly, but their eyes would instinctively slide away, their minds dismissing her as part of the scenery. It was the magic of being forgotten. With the glamour in place, she settled in to watch, a predator forced into the role of a city guard, her frustration solidifying as a cold, hard knot in her gut.

  The first few hours of the watch were mind-numbingly dull. The man, apparently named Mark, didn't emerge. Dawn maintained her position, her hunter's patience warring with her profound boredom. She could have tracked a Stonehide Boar halfway to Rhea in the time she'd spent staring at a single, unmoving door. Taz was doing no better, while his gaze was intense and unmoving from the doors, the air around him was dancing with almost invisible motes of ice, his impatience manifesting as an extension of his icy affinity.

  After what felt like an age, the door opened. Their target, Mark, stepped out and Dawn's senses immediately sharpened. She noted the fine, dark blue tunic, probably some level of enchantments given the apparent and clear sign of wealth or favor, the absence of a guild marking was more obvious than even its potential value. He stood on the doorstep for a long moment, gawking at the mountains and the sky like a newborn fawn. Then his gaze fixed on the distant shape of the Great Cog railway as a train made its slow ascent. He stared at it for a full minute, his expression one of open-mouthed wonder. Dawn nearly rolled her eyes. Was this a child who’d never seen a train before? Every part of his posture screamed that he was a soft, clueless man-child, reinforcing her belief that this assignment was a complete waste of her talents.

  She and Taz shadowed him from the rooftops and through the back alleys, their movements silent and unseen. He was slow, probably still stiff from his injuries, which made the task both easy and excruciatingly tedious. He followed the main thoroughfare toward the market, and she watched, curious, as he bypassed the chaotic energy of the open-air stalls. Instead, he made an almost direct line for Deirdre’s shop, the main outpost for the Provisioners’ Guild.

  Interesting. A calculated move, or random choice? Deirdre was the town's primary gossip, unashamed to admit as much, but also a key figure in her Guild. Had the Provisioners already made a play for him? The Sergeant’s words about a “political mess” started to haunt the back of her mind. Maybe there was more to this man than the bewildered idiot he appeared to be, didn’t one of the healers say he may have been amnesic?

  She watched him for a long time through the shop's large glass window, but the distance and angle made it impossible to see anything more than a simple transaction. When he finally emerged, basket in hand, she noticed a change in his posture. He seemed fractionally more confident, practically pleased with himself as if something monumental had occurred. But as he started walking, she saw him scan the crowd, his shoulders tense. He was acting like he'd noticed something or someone.

  Dawn instinctively held her breath, mentally reviewing her technique, was it her? The glamour was holding steady, a low, constant drain on her Mana. Taz was a shadow at her side, perfectly still. No, it couldn't be them. The idea that this man could detect a Garnet Huntress under a perfected stealth ward was absurd. He was probably just spooked by the unfamiliar crowds, a loaner unused to the sheer number of people in such a dense market area. She dismissed it as being overcareful and continued to follow, melting into the flow of people as he turned onto a quieter, scenic path.

  He made a brief stop outside a stall selling miniature trains, a strange fascination for a grown man, before finally heading toward the east side of the square. Dawn’s eyes narrowed as she saw his destination. Hemlock’s tea stall. This would be interesting.

  The sight of the neat, orderly stall reminded her that her own supply of the Silver Lilly brew, a delicate white tea Hemlock sourced from the high peaks, was running low. She made a mental note to stop by later, trying to recall the specific name of the other one she’d liked, something with ‘moon’ in the title. A hunter’s life was hard on the body, but that didn’t mean one couldn’t appreciate a few simple comforts.

  She found a perch near the smithy, leaning against the wall in a way that looked casual to anyone who might happen to notice her, and watched the encounter unfold. She knew Hemlock well, the man was miserable, taking pleasure in tormenting every customer as a personal affront to his superior knowledge. She expected the newcomer, Mark, to be utterly steamrolled, emerging minutes later with an overpriced bag of a floral concoction and a wounded expression.

  To her surprise, it didn’t happen.

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  She was too far away to hear the exact words, but the body language was easy to read. Hemlock began with his usual dismissive posture, gesturing with contempt at his wares. Mark stood his ground, his posture calm, his words measured and precise. He didn't appear to be intimidated at all, it almost looked like he was enjoying the encounter. Was he negotiating? After a few minutes, she saw the impossible, the potential of a flicker of what looked like grudging respect on Hemlock’s sour face. He turned, selected a few jars, and even allowed Mark to smell the leaves, a concession she’d never witnessed before.

  The final exchange was the most amusing part. She saw Mark haggle, a quiet and very animated back-and-forth that ended with Hemlock grumbling as he weighed out the tea. The stranger had actually won. He had faced down the crankiest merchant in Enceladus and walked away with probably exactly what he wanted, and likely at a fair price. It was amusing, but not particularly noteworthy for the report. A bit of stubbornness wasn't a survival skill, it just meant the babysitting job was slightly less predictable.

  She followed him as he left the main square, his heavy basket forcing him into a slow, lumbering pace, without magic or any training he was struggling somewhat. He had taken a strange detour through one of the residential areas, pausing for a long time near a children's playground. Dawn watched from the shadows of one of the houses, her eyes narrowed. Was he meeting someone? A pre-arranged contact? She scanned every window, every doorway, every person who passed, but no one approached him, or even gave him a second glance. After a moment, he just shook his head and moved on. A failed rendezvous, perhaps. Or maybe he was just an aimless wanderer after all.

  It was as he neared the main thoroughfare again that his posture again shifted. The easy, triumphant stride had faded, replaced by a tense, hurried walk. He was keeping his head down, his shoulders hunched, and she saw his eyes flicking nervously from side to side. He knew? Her? Or was there another following him, someone less capable than herself?

  Dawn felt a jolt of genuine concern, the cold knot tightening in her stomach. If her, then how? She scanned the crowds herself, the rooftops, the shadows, and no one… How could he possibly know? Her glamour was flawless, her movements honed by a lifetime tracking wild prey whose every instinct was to find hunters. She had practiced with other Garnet warriors, they hadn’t detected her until she wished to be seen. Yet this man, with no apparent magic, had somehow sensed her. Was he more perceptive than he should be? This changed things. The assignment wasn't just tedious anymore, it had become a challenge, one with consequences she wasn’t aware of…

  He quickened his pace, plunging into the densest parts of the crowd, blending with the other market customers as cover. A smart, practiced move. Her orders were not to engage, but they were also not to lose him. What was the "political fallout" Valentine had been so worried about? Gritting her teeth, she pushed off from the wall, ready to merge into the flow and close the distance.

  She crashed to a halt, frozen in place as her world slowed.

  The space beside her, where Taz had been a silent, steady presence, was empty. Her eyes shot toward the street, her heart seizing in her chest. A hunter's apprehension, a predator's focused intent. Taz was her bonded companion, her frustrations, her concerns, her intense focus on the target… Taz had sensed it all. And he had taken action on his own.

  It was the worst possible outcome. There, in the middle of the street, was a blur of white and blue as Taz erupted from the crowd, landing silently in the man's path. She saw the crowd recoil, heard the first shouts of fear, then anger. She saw the wicker basket fall free from the man's numb fingers, his face washed with pure terror as he stumbled back against a wall. Her simple, pointless assignment had just exploded into a very public, and probably very political incident.

  Time seemed to warp and stretch. The shouts of the crowd, the clatter of dropped tools, the sudden, oppressive silence, it all faded into a distant roar in his ears. His entire world was the creature. The cold, intelligent blue eyes stared directly into his, and in their depths, he felt the primal, absolute certainty of a prey animal that has been successfully cornered. This was it. This was how it ended, not in a hospital bed or a car crash, but torn apart on a cobblestone street in a world that wasn't his.

  Then, through the haze of his terror, a figure broke from the edge of the crowd. It was her, the woman that had been stalking him, her face pure frustration. She didn't look at him, her angry gaze was locked on the leopard.

  “Taz, away!” she barked, her voice a sharp, commanding crack in the stunned silence. “Now!”

  To his utter amazement, the creature responded instantly. It gave him one last, unblinking stare, then coiled its powerful muscles and sprang. It didn't just jump to a rooftop, it leaped into the air and faded into what appeared to be an icy haze before being gone. One moment a solid, terrifying predator, the next, nothing but empty space and a lingering chill.

  The woman slowly approached him, her hands held up in a placating gesture. The crowd remained at a distance, a circle of wary spectators.

  “You may be a favorite for us at times, but you’re a menace, Dawn!” a burly shopkeeper shouted from nearby, a large butcher's knife still clutched in his white-knuckled hand. “That thing has no place in a public square! Least not stalking customers like deer on the mountain!”

  She ignored him, her sharp, perceptive eyes focused entirely on Mark. She stopped a few feet away, her expression a strange mix of apology and profound annoyance.

  “My name is Dawn,” she said, her voice low and even. She winced slightly. “I get the feeling this second meeting is going even worse than our first.” She took another cautious step forward and offered a gloved hand. “Here. Let me help you up.”

  Mark’s mind struggled to catch up with the impossible speed of events. The monster was gone, but his world still seemed small, his status as frail and weak blinding his chain of thought. Now his stalker stood in its place, her hand outstretched. He registered her name, Dawn, and her dry, understated apology, but the words felt distant, muffled by the lingering adrenaline. He ignored her offered hand, not out of pride or dismissal, she just didn't register at that moment. He planted his own firmly against the rough stone of the shop wall and pushed himself to his feet. His legs felt shaky, and his gaze fell to the pathetic, scattered remains of his shopping. The wicker basket was split, and a yellow-orange pool of broken, blue-shelled eggs was slowly spreading across the cobblestones.

  Dawn retracted her hand, her expression unreadable. "Look," she started, her voice low and urgent, clearly aware of the dozens of eyes now fixed on them. "We should probably talk. Somewhere not in the middle of the street. We could get some tea, or—"

  Mark cut her off with a short, humorless laugh, she was obviously not good at this kind of thing. He gestured with a trembling hand at the ruin of his groceries and the new tea he’d been so proud of moments ago, now lying as wreckage. "Considering this," he said, his voice dripping with a weariness that went bone-deep, "I think 'a little later' is the best I can offer."

  "She's a menace, but she won't bring you any real harm, I’ll promise you that," the burly shopkeeper, still holding the knife, grumbled. He hadn't lowered his weapon, but he now held it with an air of grudging resignation rather than aggression. He jerked his head toward a building across the way, a cozy-looking shop with steam-fogged windows and a sign shaped like a pastry. "Go on. The Sweet-Tooth over there is quiet this time of day. Get your talk over with so the rest of us can get back to an honest day's work."

  Mark looked from the shopkeeper's impatient face to Dawn's expectant one, and then at the quiet cake shop. He was trapped. Not by the predator anymore, but by a web of social pressure and his own desperate need to leave. He let out a long, controlled breath, the fight draining out of him, replaced by an exhausted resolve. He gave a single, curt nod.

  He let out another long, weary sigh and knelt, completely ignoring Dawn's presence. The wicker basket was a lost cause, one side completely split open. He carefully began collecting what he could salvage from the mess on the cobblestones. The wrapped packages of meat and the sack of flour seemed intact. His precious bags of tea were, thankfully, unharmed. But the eggs were a complete loss, a sticky, blue-shelled tragedy, and several of the more delicate vegetables had been crushed.

  He glanced up and saw Dawn wince at the sight of the ruined groceries, a flicker of guilt crossing her face. For a moment, it looked like she might offer to help, but she remained frozen in place, her hands clenched at her sides. She was a hunter or something, he realized, not a helper, and such basic courtesy were apparently and obviously below her.

  Mark didn't bother to say anything. There was nothing to say that wouldn't be colored by frustration, the potential to make the situation worse the only thought holding him back. He bundled the salvaged items into the tattered remains of the basket, stood up, and without a word started walking toward the cake shop. He paused as he passed the burly shopkeeper, who was still standing guard by his stall. Mark met the man's gaze and gave a small, tired nod.

  "Thank you," he said quietly. "I appreciate the advice."

  The shopkeeper just grunted, a flicker of what might have been approval in his eyes, before returning back to his work.

  Mark pushed open the door to The Sweet-Tooth, a wave of warm air smelling of sugar and baked bread washing over him unappreciated. He stepped inside, and a moment later, heard the door open and close behind him. It was Dawn. She followed him in quickly, her movements stiff and awkward. He caught a glimpse of her face as she passed, and saw a clear, uncomfortable mixture of guilt and profound embarrassment. For all her unnerving professionalism in the street, she was completely out of her element now.