Ninian agreed that yes, it was brisk, and they went on their way without delay.
The day was proving to be a rare clear one. The fog around their ankles dissipated as the sun shone through it, and though it certainly wasn’t any warmer, the light was a blessing in itself. It felt easier to breathe.
Laoise’s pace was quick, and that was all right with Ninian. “How often have you been in this part of the city?”
“Um.” Ninian looked around at the soot tagging the walls, the streets missing cobblestones, the alleys that ended in walls or staircases to nowhere. “Not often.”
“It’s not much,” Laoise conceded. “This is an older part. Everything grew out from the citadel, y’know.”
Ninian knew. His mother had been keen about history—their history. The citadel had once belonged to their family, after all, back in some golden era. It was funny how much nostalgia could accompany a time that Ninian had never lived.
Laoise was still chatting. “The closer you get to the old ruin, the older the neighborhood. Did you know that?”
Ninian nodded, and, unencouraged, Laoise eventually quieted.
They traveled through gray, graffitied streets for a long while, and it seemed to Ninian that each turn tunneled them deeper into the heart of the city. He thought that if they kept going for much longer, they would reach the Inner Maze.
After a period of the alleys getting narrower, the soot thicker, and the atmosphere of their surroundings honing its cracked, deadly edge, Ninian slowed to a stop. “Where are we going?”
Laoise smiled. “It’s not much farther. Just ahead, actually—see that house with the blue shingles?”
Ninian thought that perhaps he did, but much like Laoise’s ‘green’ door, the building to which she pointed was no more a house than a hut, and the dropping shingles were, at best, slate colored. “The hovel with straw over the window?” Ninian clarified.
“That’s the one!” Laoise looked quite pleased. “Come on, let’s get this done.”
Ninian took a step, but then stopped again. “What should I expect?”
Laoise rolled her eyes. “Relax, Ninian. What would I gain from hurtin’ you? You’re just here to fix up that debt.”
None of Ninian’s knuckles cracked when he pressed on them; he’d been doing it too frequently since they’d left Laoise’s building. No matter his uneasiness about his surroundings, he needed to rid himself of Máel Máedóc’s hold.
Needed to.
After a few moments, he took a deep breath, let it out sharply, and caught up to Laoise.
The hovel looked empty when they approached. The window, which held glass in the very corners and straw in the rest, had no light behind it. But Laoise walked confidently to the door and banged on it with the side of her fist. “Oi! You better not be sleeping!”
There was a grunt from inside and the sound of someone moving around, and Ninian checked himself before he could step backward.
The door, after a bit of jerking to unjam it from the frame, opened a crack. “Who’s there?”
Laoise pushed the door open with her elbow, and a figure cringed back from the light. “Let us in already. It’s cold out here.”
Ninian swallowed as a bleary-eyed young man poked his head out. “Who’s this?”
Pinching the bridge of her nose, Laoise pushed the man out of the doorway and shouldered her way past him into the building. “Come on in, Ninian. Ignore this amadán.”
The young man’s hand twitched uncertainly to his waist and, eyes following the movement, Ninian recoiled. Slowly, like he wasn’t sure he was supposed to, the young man drew a rusty blade from his belt. “I asked you a question. You’re Laoise, aren’t you?”
Laoise rolled her eyes. “I sent Ciara ahead to tell you salt-for-brains I was coming. Where’s Brígh?”
“Um…” The man fidgeted with his knife. “She’s downstairs.”
Downstairs? There had to be a cellar. Laoise stomped over to the corner, kicked aside a ratty blanket, and heaved open the wooden trapdoor beneath. “Oi!” she shouted into the darkness below. “It’s Laoise! Get up here!”
A groan of complaint answered her, but footsteps followed. Then a head popped up through the opening and smiled. “Hello, Laoise.” Clambering fully out of the cellar, the dark-haired woman skipped her gaze over Laoise and stopped it on Ninian. One eye was milky, a scar cutting over it from brow to lip, but the other was bright and sharp. “What’d you bring me?”
Ninian frowned faintly. The woman called Brígh seemed almost unsettlingly familiar with whatever was going on.
Laoise stepped back next to Ninian and dropped an elbow onto his shoulder, making him flinch. “This is Ninian.”
Brígh shifted her weight and crossed her arms, face expectant. She had broad shoulders and muscular arms but moved with a certain lithe grace that reminded Ninian of an eel. “He doesn’t look like much.” Her voice was heavy and smooth, and Ninian thought it ought to be rougher, to match the rest of her.
Ninian cracked his knuckles in fists by his sides but refused to let a hint of emotion cross his face. It was a skill in which he had practice, and he knew his expression remained aloof.
Laoise smirked. “Y’know, Ciara said the same thing.”
Ninian peeked at the man who’d answered the door. He’d retreated to a corner and had sunk against the wall, eyes sagging already in sleep. Ninian let out a little breath.
“Well,” Brígh said, starting toward Ninian with thoughtfulness in her eyes. “What’s he good for?”
In a motion quicker than Ninian had expected from the woman’s previously languid carriage, Brígh grabbed Ninian’s wrist and gave it a squeeze. Ninian jerked his hand back, but she didn’t release him.
“He’s skinny. Thieving?” She let Ninian’s hand fall, and Ninian, out of pride, refused the urge to hold it defensively to his chest. Brígh began to circle Ninian, eyes raking his dirty russet hair, his fair unfreckled face, his worn-out clothes. “Could always use another cutpurse—so long as he’s good.”
“Not thieving.” Laoise’s eyes were dancing, and Ninian knew she meant to make Brígh guess.
Brígh, evidently familiar with the game, pinched her lip between thumb and forefinger. As she circled Ninian, her eyes scanned up and down his body and made him feel like he was naked. He could only stand there, uncertain and uncomfortable.
When she made her way back in front of him, she bent over and stared at his face for a good, long while, as if she were trying to analyze the exact shade of his eyes. Quickly, she reached out—Ninian cringed back, almost growling, but Brígh grabbed the back of his neck hard with one hand, and with the other, roughly pulled back his lips. Ninian let out an exclamation of protest. Brígh didn’t pay him any mind, and Ninian felt the strong urge to bite her fingers as she examined his teeth, his stomach flopping in distress.
After a few moments, the woman released him, wiping her hand on her shirt. “Seems like he’s healthy.” She made another lap around him. “He’s quiet,” she said from somewhere behind him. “And pretty enough. A little too skinny for most tastes, but that could be fixed…”