Unfortunately, as his violet eyes swept the expanse of the seaside, all he found were swells breaking against the rocky beach, sliding down ropes of black algae with a low-tide stench.
A salty wind blew Ninian’s hair back and made his cloak snap as he neared the shore, and he squinted through the tears it drew to his eyes. The coast was black and craggy rock, and the Red Sea hissed as it ran back and forth between the jagged stones.
Whichever gang was in charge of this region had arranged torches on spindly poles along the coast, probably to guide the boats toward land—the only decent thing they ever did, Ninian’s father had always said. Ninian suspected the gangs cared less about the fishers’ safety and more about luring them in to take some of their catch, but nobody had lit the torches anyway.
The sun was sinking behind the buildings to the west, dropping over the faraway cliffs that separated the Maze from the mainland. Ninian imagined for a moment the city that sat out of sight atop those stony bluffs, doubtlessly bathed in the last warmth of the day; the sun’s light would cast the White City’s buildings into shades of gold. There, people would be settling in for a hot meal before turning in to sleep in downy beds. His mother had told him stories of the White City, and thinking of them never failed to spark jealousy at a life of such fabled luxury.
Ninian shook his head hard. There probably aren’t even people left up there. All he had were old legends; he could not afford to indulge them. The way to the White City had been lost. Ninian lived in the Maze. It was the way of things.
His stomach growled, and he sat heavily on one of the rocks to avoid falling when his head spun.
Catching movement in the corner of his eye, he turned to see a cormorant preening on a spur of basalt.
Perking up, Ninian bit his lip.
It was a large bird, sooty black, and it cocked its head this way and that as it ruffled its feathers. “Hmm,” Ninian mused under his breath. “It’s too early for you to have a nest, right?” He’d never gotten his hands onto eggs any sooner than early spring, and it was still wintertime. The bird seemed to shake its head, shifting its weight on broad webbed feet. Slowly, so it would not see him, Ninian slid from his seat. Without taking his eyes off the cormorant, his searching hands found a rock the right size for throwing.
Aside from rats, gulls, and crows, there were very few animals in the Maze. To the west of the city, farmers raised cows, hogs, and sheep, and far off the coast, where the iron-red water became a healthy blue, Ninian knew there were fish. But in the city itself, and all along the coast, the only creatures that survived were those that could hide or fly away from hungry human hands. Storm petrels came to land sometimes in the autumn, when tempests churned over the Red Sea, and loons visited often in winter, but they were good at evading capture.
This cormorant, though, was Ninian’s.
He weighed the rock carefully in his palm. He needed to hit the bird’s head, or else it would simply fly off, affronted. Slowly, he crept nearer. When the cormorant was only a few arm-lengths away, Ninian squatted behind a jagged rock and took a deep breath.
With as much precision as he could, he hurled his stone at the seabird.
It struck the cormorant in the back, and the bird let out a grating screech and tumbled, surprised, off of its perch. It landed awkwardly on its feathered chest just as a wave plumed up the coast, and Ninian vaulted over his rock and ran across the shore. Water soaked up to Ninian’s knees as he lunged for the flapping cormorant, but the wave was retreating, and the bird was getting its bearings. Just as Ninian reached it, its wings beat in a frenzy, and it skidded off across the surface of the water. It settled on the waves about ten yards out, making coughing sounds in wounded disapproval.
Now wet, freezing, and still hungry, Ninian yelled at the cormorant until he was hoarse.
✽ ✽ ✽
It had started to rain. Ninian miserably pulled his hood up, his eyes fixed on the puddles gathering between the cobblestones and trudged through the emptying streets.
There was a spot he often went to when it was wet, a nook behind Orrin’s Alehouse. It wasn’t warm, but it was dry enough, and sometimes if bread got burned to the point of inedibility, or if it went uneaten long enough to grow an excess of mold, Orrin tossed it into the alley. Ninian had eaten plenty of bad bread from the waste of Orrin’s Alehouse.
Suddenly, Ninian perked up his head, and his hood fell back.
Breaking into a trot, he followed a faint, enticing sound, darting through a crooked alley until it opened into a tiny, sunken courtyard.
Ninian’s jaw dropped. “In ainm dé.”
The rain was flowing in rivulets down the gutter of the alley. It pooled in the middle of the courtyard at least as deep as a forearm.
And in the middle of the pool, there was a duck.
Cormorants and loons were one thing. They were quick birds, ocean birds, birds designed to survive through their speed. Ducks, on the other hand… “How has nobody eaten you yet?” Ninian asked it, aghast. Carefully, he unclasped his cloak for maximum maneuverability.
And he dove at the duck.
Frigid water soaked his clothes, and the duck let out a squawking racket, flapping across the pool. Ninian lunged for it, his hair plastered to his face, and the duck fought ferociously. Ninian rolled onto his back in the puddle, clutching the duck to his chest as it pecked at his hands and arms. He wrestled his hands up to its neck, and the bird thrashed desperately, quacking in terror.
He pinned it under his knee, catching his breath. If he were in one of his mother’s stories—which would be only slightly less shocking than Ninian catching a duck to eat all on his own—this would be the part where some wicked fae trickster across the veil released the madness it had sown in Ninian’s mind, revealing the duck to be a rabid rat or a hunk of driftwood. Ninian laughed exhaustedly, watching the duck struggle with fear. “Hope not.”
Crack.
Panting, Ninian pushed himself to a seat in the puddle, holding the broken-necked duck. He sat there for a moment in awe, staring at his prize: it was a lovely thing, light brown with reddish streaks on its back and a precious round head.
Ninian’s mouth watered.
Hurriedly, he splashed out of the puddle with the duck under his arm and quickly bundled it into his cloak. He couldn’t let anyone steal it. He’d have to pluck the soft down away, and then sneak an ember out of Orrin’s hearth. The alehouse kept firewood in a shed behind it, and Ninian didn’t think anyone would notice if he took a bit.
Today was becoming a good day.
Full of excitement, he broke into a run toward what, for at least that night, was home.
CHAPTER TWO
Over a smoky fire of damp wood, Ninian’s duck roasted on a stick. The light of the little blaze set the dead end of the alley into flickering shadow, sparks twitching into the sky, and the breeze caused the smoke to spiral around itself.
A noise came sharply from the alley’s side, and Ninian looked up, instantly on guard. “Orrin,” he said, identifying the source of the sound. The man had opened the tavern’s back door and leaned into the night. Ninian edged away warily. “What do you want?”
The alehouse-owner shrugged. “Ain’t I allowed to step outside my own tavern?” He sniffed, his rawboned face shifting into a grin. “’Specially when it smells like this out here.”