Chapter 18. The Streets

  Jeremiah was starving. He was sure he was actually starving. His stomach was twisted up in a knot, and the fatigue of being underfed while training kept his thoughts sluggish and his body aching. He now walked with Bruno in the hours where the sky took on the navy blue of upcoming sunrise. Or it would, if Elminia wasn’t belching smoke at all times day or night.

  “Remember the ground rules,” Bruno was saying. “You’re just Jay, like a million other Jays out there. You’re a second-story man coming in from Shabad after a job went bad. Stay out of the Pit until you’ve got a crew to protect you. And don’t let anyone see you cast magic, it draws way too much attention.”

  “I know all this, you’ve told me a hundred times already.” Jeremiah flinched at a moving shadow cast by a tree in the wind. His nerves were getting the better of him.

  “You know where to find us, but only come by as a last resort,” said Bruno. “Or, you know, when you’re finally ready to call it. Here we are.”

  With a twist of his body and kick of the wall, Bruno scaled a wrought-iron fence with spikes protruding from the top to prevent that very thing. Jeremiah leapt to follow, jumping to grab the top rail. He managed to wedge his feet against the wall and scramble over the fence without sustaining any serious injury.

  “What is this place?” asked Jeremiah. It looked like a factory and reeked of fish and rancid oil. No one was around at this hour, but the workers’ tools had been haphazardly discarded, all caked with congealed fat.”

  “Otto’s Picklery, and the stage of your grand entry into Elminia,” said Bruno. “It was a money laundering front that became a legitimate business because Otto was too good at his job. This city burns a lot of oil, and there’s good odds it’s Otto’s oil,” said Bruno. He patted one of the large, empty barrels lying and stopped to take a sniff. “Damn, I love that smell.”

  An imperceptible noise caught Bruno’s attention. He signaled Jeremiah, and they darted to a dark corner of the factory. Jeremiah lay still, keeping his breathing shallow. Finally, he heard the footsteps, and the glow of a lamp entered the courtyard. The light swung a few times, failed to illuminate their hiding spot, then departed.

  “Ah, so Jimbo’s working tonight,” said Bruno. “Must be feeling better.” He led Jeremiah to a mountain of barrels, reeking and propped up on one another like a pile of drunks. He selected the most putrid one, and rolled it to the front. “In you get!”

  Jeremiah stepped into the barrel, cringing as the white cakey substance squished beneath his shoes. He gingerly lowered himself, arms tucked, trying to not touch the sides any more than was necessary.

  “Ready?” asked Bruno, poised to place the lid on the barrel.

  “What’s going to happen after I’m discovered?” Jeremiah asked.

  “Likely you’ll come to your senses and return home,” said Bruno. “We’ll have a nice breakfast waiting.”

  “Just put the damn lid on,” said Jeremiah. Nothing could make that happen. Jeremiah would not give that little smirk of Bruno’s the satisfaction.

  Bruno forced the lid down on the barrel, pounding it into place. Then the barrel suddenly tilted and Jeremiah fell against its oily wall. It rolled, and Jeremiah rolled with it until not one single part of him was free of the stinking oily residue.

  The barrel righted itself. Jeremiah was stuck head down, neck contorting awkwardly, as chunks of rancid white fat rained onto his face.

  “See ya, Jay,” said Bruno. “Try not to die.”

  Jeremiah grew to despise the workers of Otto’s Picklery. They were lazy and slow, wasting valuable working time with idle gossip. Effie in particular needed a talking to, as every time they were about to start working, she had just one more dirty story to rile up and distract her coworkers. It wasn’t until Dodric came along, gods bless him, to whip them into action that they actually started moving barrels.

  The top of Jeremiah’s barrel exploded with light. ”Ooh, a fish!” said a scratchy voice.

  Jeremiah squinted as the backlit shape formed the face of a goblin, its long pointed ears twisting as it screeched with delight. “Man-fish, man-fish! It’s been a while.”

  Jeremiah started to brace himself to sit up, but the lid slammed back down.

  “Man-fish! Man-fish! Man-fish!” All of the workers were chanting now.

  "Roast him or free him?"

  "We did a fish fry on the last one, let's free this one!"

  They cheered.

  Given the two options, Jeremiah was relieved. Then the barrel started rolling. Over and over he tumbled in darkness, the voices outside chanting and cheering.

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  The barrel tipped, the cover came away, and Jeremiah clung to its inside surface as a view of the canal greeted him below. The fish-slick wood offered no purchase, and soon he tumbled into the oily, foamy water.

  The shock of the cold water stunned his cramped muscles. He reached for daylight above him, but his legs had forgotten how to work. There were shapes in the water around him, some small, and some as large as he was. The canal, he realized as he sank, was deep, far deeper than he’d thought.

  “ Don’t panic ,” thought Jeremiah, “ don’t panic! ”

  He kicked his feet hard, and achingly slowly began to rise back towards the sunlight. His head broke through the surface and he filled his lungs with blessed air.

  “Aw, he can swim,” said one of the workers. The crowd lamented Jeremiah’s survival, and dispersed back to work.

  Jeremiah hauled himself out of the canal and sprawled on the bank to catch his breath. “Well, buddy, that wasn’t a great start. But we’re okay. Let’s get to work, huh?” Gus wriggled in his pocket, happy to be wet.

  Jeremiah stepped out into the streets of Elminia, a new and unknown man. Elminia took no notice.

  His first order of business was food. Now that there was no Bruno preventing him from eating, he was free to get a real meal. Once he had something in his belly, he reasoned, he’d be able to think straight and figure out a plan to start learning about the cult. Needing food meant needing money, and needing money meant needing work.

  The first place Jeremiah checked work was a squat, dingy inn called The Palm Frond. Jeremiah was greeted by the proprietor not two steps inside the door. "Absolutely not, get out!" shouted a gnomish woman, laden with plates of steaming food.

  "Apologies ma'am, I'm just looking for—"

  "What you're looking for isn't here!” the woman said. “No jobs, no food, no beds, no nothing. Move along!” The men at the table she was serving eyed Jeremiah threateningly.

  Jeremiah and retreated back outside. "No problem, the day’s just beginning. Onto the next one.”

  The middle and end of Jeremiah's first day as a new man in Elminia followed a similar pattern. He was shooed, shouted, and shunned from every establishment he entered with varying levels of force. As the sun set, he dodged out of the crowds and into a side alley, where he perched on a stoop to rest his throbbing feet and gather his thoughts.

  “Alright, so no luck so far. But maybe I—”

  “Move along,” came a voice from a window above Jeremiah’s head. “I’ll not have you dirtying my steps!”

  Jeremiah sighed and moved along, winding his way through sparser and sparser passageways until he found a spot to sit. Receded into the shadows of the buildings with just a little effort to clear away the refuse, he was no longer in anyone's way. He could finally rest.

  “Don’t worry, buddy, I’m sure we’ll have better luck tomorrow,” said Jeremiah. He caught a whiff of his clothing and gagged on the stench of river and fish fat. “That definitely doesn’t help! Tomorrow we’ll clean up. I guess I’ll find a spot along the river. Just need to grab some soap…” There was a sudden block in Jeremiah’s plan. He needed soap to clean up. But soap costs money. He needed a job to get the soap to get a job.

  Gus pawed at him from his pocket.

  “I know, I know. Here, go find a snack,” Jeremiah put Gus down near some trash. Gus pawed through it until he revealed a blackened heel of bread with no shortage of wriggling maggots. The toad croaked happily and began snapping them up. Jeremiah felt a touch jealous. After eating his fill, Gus returned to Jeremiah’s lap nestled in to sleep. Jeremiah leaned his head against the wall and let his eyes close too. He was tired and very hungry. A moment’s rest would—

  “Oi! On your feet! Move!”

  A sharp kick to Jeremiah’s ribs lurched him out of sleep. A pair of people loomed over him in the dark. They wore leather breastplates and metal helms, and each had a shortsword and wooden club at their hip. City guards.

  Jeremiah rubbed his eyes. His limbs felt dumb and clumsy and his ribs ached, but he clambered to his feet. “What’s that?”

  “You can’t sleep here,” said one of the guards.

  “Why not? Where can I go?” asked Jeremiah.

  “Not our problem. Move!”

  Jeremiah turned out onto the streets. The crowds of Elminia thinned after dark, but became much meaner. He gave the people as wide a berth as he could, stumbling between alleyways. He felt much colder than he thought he should. After a few blocks, he turned down a promising new alley and curled up in a corner, tucking his arms tight against his body to ward off the cold. Tired, cold, and hungry, he slept.

  “Oi! On your feet! Move!”

  “Come on, leave me alone,” mumbled Jeremiah.

  Two guards. The same two guards. “No sleeping here. Keep moving,” said the guard. It was only now that Jeremiah heard the boredom in the guard’s voice, and saw the lazy disinterest in her partner’s eyes. It was rote, verbal paperwork. Jeremiah wasn’t having it.

  “No, I’m not causing a problem. I’m not bothering anyone. I have as much right to…” Jeremiah trailed off as the guard drew her wooden baton. “Alright, alright, nevermind.”

  Jeremiah had taken just a few steps when a deep, painful shock drove him to his knees. He clutched his side and retched, his vision swimming. The blow had landed right in his liver.

  “You get two next time we find you,” said the guard, just as bored as before. They stepped over Jeremiah and continued on their patrol. As tired as Jeremiah was, as much as he was hurt, he was confused. It was still the middle of the night, where was he supposed to go?

  Another bout of wandering and Jeremiah found himself curled up on the stoop of a closed shop. He was just beginning to nod off when he heard familiar footsteps. The ache in his side throbbed, and he staggered to his feet again. All night long, he listened even as he drifted, lest he miss the footsteps that carried a warning he dared not ignore.