The fat, the weak and the tide

The sound of a city being drowned by rain filled a cobbled square below. It came from the night sky, spawned by inky clouds that hung heavy over houses and smothered the stars, and fell with such speed that everywhere slate roof tiles rang with applause. In each corner of the square, water cascaded down walls, rushing through storm channels and pooling in places where it could find respite. It was loud and suffocating and it brought out the city’s beauty like none other.

A few street lanterns dotted the space, their whale oil and hemp wicks casting yellow light on the wet flagstones and scrolling patterns that etched themselves on the facades that faced the square. The light landed on ridges and contours, and left the rest in shadow, creating beautiful lines of gold that shimmered as the water washed over them.

The city’s fish market, which backed onto the square, sprouted gargoyles, their shapes resembling the many varieties of fish sold in its halls. They all sang with the sound of water. It was a strong addition to the cacophony of sharp noises that both overwhelmed the sense and comforted the mind. So much noise and beauty in a time when the Sun had taken its long leave. It would not return for some time, not till the rainy season was over. And so during these endless days of night and dampness, few ventured forth alone to brave the shadows, for within its folds hid those who sought its cover.

Perched upon the lower roof of the Market’s side aisles, was a man. He hid in the shadows of the upper roof which curled over his spot and kept it free of rain, though it cascaded in sheets in front of him. Light flickered muddily through the waterfall.

Movement.

He stuck out a finger into the sheet and watched it cut a crack in its glassy surface. A few patrons were leaving an establishment opposite.

Not the right person. He removed his finger. It must have been a few hours since he had been holed up in this position, waiting for his mark to leave the establishment. The tip he had received had told him he was here, but there had been no sight of him yet. The Thief hoped his informant had been right, he had paid well for what the man had known. And known something he had, for so delectable was it that—if his information were correct—would mean the Thief would have a handsome payout.

Though, if true, this would mean he would likely not be the only one waiting. If there were more biding their time, none had so far made themselves seen. Regardless, the Thief was sure he was not the only bird, even if he were the earliest.

More movement.

He created a gap again. A surge of excitement coursed through him. His patience had paid off. This time it was his mark.

Falleil. He had heard of the man but had never met him. An undercity scavenger who sought the wealth of the past. Apparently today he had found something of great value. Though its worth would quickly matter little to the man. The Thief would simply dispossess Falleil of his trophy, and each would go their separate ways. He would take good care of it for him.

As Falleil left the drinking hole and the Thief’s eyes darted about the square, eyeing oddly shaped contours and attempting to pierce the veil of rain and night that permeated every space. It would be easy to hide in a storm such as this, yet the only movement he found was that of the rain as it slipped over roofs and down drains.

The Thief left the seclusion of his spot, his seaweed clothing immediately soaking under the onslaught of water. He stepped up onto a gargoyle cut of stone, crudely sculpted to a scaly fish. It gurgled and spluttered, vomiting forth water from its between its lips.

His eyes darted back to Falleil’s movement. The man walked worse than a fish on land, wavering and tripping towards a staircase that led away from the Thief.

Fermented fish and seaweed liquor, mused the Thief fondly. You let slip all sorts of things under sway of the bottle.

He left the cover of shadows and picked his way carefully down the stone façade as quickly as he could. A toe on a slippery ledge, a hand on a rough sill of one of the market’s window, a jump to a buttress and a calculated fall landed him with a splash on the ground. The staircase Falleil disappeared down called to him, pulling the Thief across the square, the man deftly avoiding the many lakes.

So much water. Few places were dry and the air was oppressively damp. It was as if the city was a ship sinking. The Thief wondered if the Augurs had been wrong in their prediction, that this constellation cycle would be remembered as a Great Downpour. He knew no Augur, but a man could make a mistake—could he not? Definitely. Though, they were hardly simple men and he had never known their foresights to stray. It would be a first.

Reaching the staircase, he paused only a few steps down. Falleil was not there. He strained to hear but the rushing of rainwater in the storm channels blotted out any sounds. How was it he was gone? Looking down the length of its descent he saw several side passages. There was no way he would lose this prize.

He took the staircase quicker than before, nearly tripping on a slippery broken step. As the Thief descended away from the square, the roar of the gale winds and rainstorm quieted to the intimate splash of droplets echoing off the narrow walls that climbed with every step he took. Here the buildings rose not because they grew in height, but because the ground fell. He was heading into the Ravines. Falleil must be returning home.

As he descended, the Thief found himself being greeted by the graveyard of the past. It lurked at the base of the city, forever crushed under the weight of the new, but ever growing. The Sea was always angry, and with its ire it sought to wash away the collection of houses upon the spit, and so it rose—its waters threatening to drown everyone. It was normal, a common occurrence, yet it necessitated raising the city up away from the water, and so her Great Seawalls, both a prison and a barrier against tsunamis, soared higher; and her buildings with their ornate patterns and carefully carved walls meant to direct rainwater, were crushed and leveled—made into mounds where new buildings could rise atop, supported by the Tanalithi Mine. It was a desperation with which they destroyed, yet the ruined buildings of the past lay like bodies in a mass grave that stretched the entire city, their skeletons poking out at uneven and odd angles. Sometimes it was a doorway caught in the air, or a window filled in with sea stone, it was even a pattern emerging from the surface, its design lost and its beauty ugly. It was a lurid place, a reminder that death was coming for them all. A place fit only for the truly poor.

Each few steps the Thief took, a side passage was revealed, its narrow halls bathed in blue darkness—and despite the meager yellowness of the burning whale oil lanterns—no persons. With every passing moment that no one was availed, his hope despaired—yet now was no time to give up, not when he was so close.

He reached the glassy wet landing—rain channels on either side speaking in tongues— and kicked something.

It was a shoe. Next to it was a smashed bottle of liquor, the intoxicating smell of fermented seaweed burning his nostrils. The Thief looked back up to the step he had slipped on and then down to the accident.

Falleil had fallen down the stairs. The Thief smirked, No wonder he was so far ahead.

He looked up for a sign of his mark, hopefully resting in some corner broken and tired. Yet as he swung his gaze about the square, he saw nothing but the skeletons of the past turned into beautiful patterns. Deep grooves travelled in long curves, merging and separating from each other until they met in the middle where a hole lay. Around the opening were tiny ripples in the stone like a raindrop would cause. It was here to mark the importance of the forest of columns that supported the empty space beneath the Thief’s feet. A cistern. Without them Tanalith would be doomed to death during the dry sunny season.

Here water collected from nearby neighbourhoods, carried by descent, and through engineered channels, into this square nestled deeply in one of the ravines of the city. In the middle the hole hungrily gobbled up the rainwater that rushed into its maw, singing a deep tune that ebbed and flowed like water.

Frustration poisoned the Thief’s mind. Where was he?!

There was no shape nor form in any corner or cranny in the square. The Thief kicked the bottle into a wall and watched as its glass glittered as it broke into tiny pieces. He set on the exit to his left, for it was the closest, yet revealed none of its secrets. He cupped an ear to its passage but could hear nothing over the rush of the water funnelling into the square. Impatiently he whipped around to regard the passage opposite. Nothing but purples and blues shaded its depths.

It was then when he heard something. It was not loud, nor was it sharp. It was dull. A whisper just above the din of the rainy night. Where had it come from? The Thief stilled, beckoning his ears forward to hear. Rain pattered on the hard stone for a few long moments, and just when he was about to shake it off as noise of the night, it came again—this time a little louder.

It sounded like a shout. It was only ever so slightly louder than the hubbub and where the rain was constant and sharp, it was uneven and hard, mixing like whale oil and water.

Where was it? Where had it come from? He jumped about the square, pausing to strain his senses at every exit he reached.

Again! It came again. Yet it was quieter this time. Why? His eyes widened, It had come from the first corridor.

Dashing across the square and over the cistern’s collection hole the Thief went, disappearing into an alleyway that rose slowly as if it were climbing a soft hill. A louder shout echoed down the thin street, and he pressed himself quicker, the ruins of the dead blurring past him.

All of a sudden, he burst into a wider square. The bright light of a roaring fire set in the middle bathed the stones in oranges. The fire was as large as a child, and it sizzled and spluttered, its angry flames snapping at the rain as it fell. It was one of the few kindled by the Augurs that dotted Tanalith and drove back the bleakness of the Long Night.

Fallen next to it was Falleil, his face contorted in frothy drunken fervour, and standing over him was another man, his face turned away from the Thief. Glinting gold in the firelight like the Eternal Beacon above, was a miniature statue of a lady. She was gripped on either side by both men.

“NO!” snarled Falleil, “IT BELONGS TO ME! I FOUND IT!”

“I said to quiet yourself.” The other man snapped in a hush voice. “You’ll bring everyone down on me.”

There were cuts on Falleil’s face and something was horribly wrong about his off hand. It was kept close to his chest and a violent dark bruise was forming around the wrist. Falleil had taken more than a tumble.

“PISS OFF! YOU CAN STICK IT UP YOUR BACKSIDE AND HAVE IT!” Falleil slurred. Only several nights of sleep was going to rid him of all that he had consumed.

The other man stepped closer and made to backhand his mark across the face but was cut short as Falleil used his shoeless foot and rammed it into his quad.

The upright man yelped loudly and let go of the golden statue.

Falleil took his moment of freedom to spring onto his feet, which rapidly resulted in him loosing balance and landing with a hard thud on his chest. He screamed as his ruined wrist broke the fall.

The other man hissed and with a flourish, bringing a hand above his head. The grinding of stone penetrated the thunder of rain. He stepped forward, body poised to strike—hand above head. There was something clutched within it. Creeping closer, feeling the air thicken, the Thief caught sight of a twinkle. Silhouetted and ringed in the light of the red fire was an opal dagger, its body shimmering with violet colours.

Falleil saw it too. “NOO!” There was a hard look on the other’ face. “You can have it! Here!” The scavenger proffered his trophy to the brute, but the brute took little heed of it—the flames of the fire dancing in his eyes.

He watched the crippled form of Falleil begging for his life on the ground, his pleas falling on uncaring ears, and felt the cold of the rain seep into his bones. A shiver ran up his spine.

The Thief had done many things in his life. He had robbed, hurt, lied and broken—and he was alright with that. It was a rough world they lived in and he had to do what he needed to do to survive. It was either this or a life out on the sea battling the storms for fish or in the sticky depths of the Tanalithi Mine, choaking on dust. He had done many things to not live that life, but never had he murdered. Sure there had been many opportunities, and they would have made situations simpler, but he never had been able to—even as a child he had cared for the broken birds that rousted in the ruined homes, before the world had beaten that kindness out of him. Yet a person’s light he had never extinguished. A killer he was not.

As the opal dagger came down with deadly speed, a body knocked into the thug with such force that him, along with the new man, tumbled away and towards the fire. The brute made a grunt as they fell over.

The Thief got up, ensuring his face covering still hid his features and turned to meet Falleil’s attacker—a shark-bone cudgel in his hand.

The man did not move. A ploy. Not wanting to spring the other’s trap, he waited, his muscles tense with anticipation, waiting for the moment that other would try to catch him off guard. Yet it did not come.

“What? Hurt yourself already?” taunted the Thief.

Still, the man did not budge. He scanned every inch of the prone man, breath coming low and quick, yet he saw not a muscle twitch, nor a finger move. Surely he would not leave himself open for an attack this long? An oddness descended over the Thief’s mind. The thug on the ground lay very still on the cold wet flagstones. He licked his lips, tasting dryness in them.

“Enough—get up.” he called.

Nothing.

Nearby, Falleil moaned in pain. With slow deliberate steps, the Thief approached the unmoving man, heart pounding. His eyes lay fixed on the crumpled form’s many shadowed contours as if they held a terrible secret he could not live without.

The Thief kicked the stiff body. No noise nor reaction. It was as if he were asleep.

With a hand, he watched as grabbed the man by the shoulder, turning him over. He felt the cold of the night pierce his bloody heart.

Raindrops landed on unblinking eyes as they stared glassily into the night sky. The thug’s mouth was ajar, as if caught in surprise. And protruding from the man’s chest was a long dark handle.

A sudden nausea bubbled in the Thief’s stomach, and he rolled over just as acidic sickness burst forth from his mouth and painted the flagstones, and for several unending moments it was all that he could do.

It ceased, and the Thief lay there, prone, watching the puddle of his own vomit be slowly washed away by the rain, refusing to look up. The sudden appearance of scarlet streaks began to discolour his sickness. The Thief brought his head up.

The man still lay there, unmoving—dead, and by his own hand.

The sound of a groan broke his solitude.

Falleil was whimpering and clutching his broken wrist—the statue at his side, its yellow pallour glowing softly.

The Thief stumbled to his feet—his balance a fish’s—and snatched the idol off the ground. It was cold and slimy to his fingers, its weight heavy.

Falleil cowered, whimpering and reaching an uninjured arm to ward him off. “Don’t hurt me.”

The fire burnt hot and bright, uncontrollable was its flames within him and he felt them crawl over his skin—their burning sensation licking his ugly skin. The Thief kicked Falleil hard in his side and spat. The man cried out in pain.

“Damn your drunkenness!”

Gritting his teeth, he brought a hand down upon the pathetic shape in front of him. A resounding slap echoed sharply in the square. The crippled man moaned in pain.

He raised his hand again. “P-please.” Falleil croaked meekly.

Gritting his teeth, he made to bring a hand down upon the pathetic shape in front of him, but instead he hesitated.

“P-please.” The crippled man croaked meekly.

Suddenly he no longer heard only the crackle of the fire in the square but also the rain as it sung throughout the drowning city. It was numbing and sobering, and it snaked its way into every space in his body, filling him with cold. Falleil huddled away from beneath his raised hand.

The Thief stumbled backwards. Above the wind howled and the rain turned to sleet as it pelted sideways.

“Find Gamied. He’s a collector in the undercity. Tell him Rafal sent you. Tell him I told him to look after you.” With that the Thief rushed away, leaving Falleil to his snivelling and the body to its eternal slumber.

Down a winding corridor he went, the ruins of old leering like phantom faces. Turning and twisting, the alley carved its way between two mounts, their slopes made from centuries of human habitation. Long had the light from the fire or the lanterns disappeared, but only did he stop when the sounds of the storm above dimmed and a hushed quietness blossomed in its place. It was then that he could no longer run away. A divot in the contour of the ravine offered shelter from sight and so he let its darkness swallow him whole.

Water sliding down the walls slipped into his neck and onto his back as he pressed himself against its cover, letting the cold rain shock his mind. The hardness of the statue rested tightly against his heaving bosom as he listened for sounds of footsteps. His eyes itched to slide up and down its length, consuming its gold in one ravenous bite, yet years of thieving kept him from his base desires.

Waiting and thoughts became his two companions as he listened.

He was a killer now. True, it had not been his intent, yet by his own action someone was dead. He could blame Falleil for inviting trouble, yet was he not trouble? Why not the brute, sure it was his fault for unsheathing the dagger? The man was about to kill Falleil. Had he not also just saved a life? That ought to count for something? The thought did little to comfort the surprised expression he saw when the Thief closed his eyes.

“Pitter-patter, pitter-patter.” went the rain as it eased up. He relaxed against the wall. There was no one but the sound of the rain. Suddenly, he felt the hardness pushed against his chest.

The Thief’s eyes sunk like stones in the ocean, and at its bottom gold welcomed him. It was resplendent. The form was of a supple young woman, her face serene—a calm smile beckoning him—and her curves rolled like waves on the water. In one hand she gripped scales and in the other she offered a skull. Oh how he wished the woman on this rock of a city looked like this. She was beautiful—and she would fetch a fortune.

The craftsmanship was unlike anything the Thief had seen before. So delicate was the touch of the artist, so precise was her form, that her beauty caused him to forget that she was a just a statue. A work like this would be hard to sell. The Thief could melt it down for its raw mineral value, yet looking at it, he felt a wonder he had scarcely known. Gamied would know best—he was the expert on antiques—yet gazing at its fine form, lifelike look and unblemished body, The Thief felt like it was from a different age, a gentler time—a time when one could dedicate their life to art and have a never-ending well of knowledge to draw upon. An age that was not borne to harsh weather. A world where periods of deep lasting darkness, or waves so high they threatened to annihilate the last living people, did not exist. Her face was innocent. So too must have been the person who had crafted her.

It could not be. But what else could it be?

Nothing he had stolen nor seen in all of the collectors’ shops had looked anything like this. The Thief felt a nervousness spread from his fingers to his stomach.

An artefact from before the flood. From a world where the land had not yet been swallowed by the sea—afore they had brought the ire of the gods down upon them.

Its worth would measure far more than the gold that made up its body. It would offer him a lifetime of comfort, and a lifetime for his children—and their children.

He needed to get it to Gamied before he joined Falleil… or worse. An object like this would be fought over by the rich and powerful. Without looking or waiting, he shed his cover and turned towards a direction that would lead to the undercity.

Something hit his back with such force that he stumbled forwards. Immediately he felt an odd soreness that tightened the muscles around it. He could not move his right arm. Panic erupted in him as he recognised the feeling.

The Thief brought his other hand behind him and felt the solid handle of a stone throwing knife embedded in his back.

He whipped around to see a black body peel itself from the deeper shadows of one of the walls. Another force slammed into him, this time in his chest.

The Thief looked down to see another hilt protruding from his right breast. A thought occurred to him, an odd and horrifying one.

He was going to die.

The edges of his vision began to blacken as he felt the far away feeling of a third force hit him in the middle of his chest.

Rafal thought of his children as darkness engulfed him, hoping they would not let this world take too much from them.