Wander West, in Shadow

Martimeos stood outside the White Queen inn, stamping his boots in the snow piled near its doorstep to warm his numbed feet. He kept his black-furred cloak wrapped tightly around him, warmed by the Art, and his red scarf pulled tightly against the lower half of his face. But the chill leeched the heat from him through the top of his head; he wondered whether he should invest in a hat before it got much colder. His cloak, scarf and leather tunic over thick wool did well to keep him warm, for now, but they were not yet in the depths of winter. Flit sat on his shoulder, ruffling his feathers and chirping irritably; he had told his familiar to come with him today, but Flit had grown used to the comforts of the fire-warmed inn and now grumbled his displeasure at having to actually do something besides sleep the day away in the rafters of Martim's room.

He found himself staring at the sign hanging by the inn; the painting on detailed wood of the White Queen, serene, beatific smile and ruby red lips, hair as white as clouds, silver crown stretching into the sky, peering over grey and snow-capped mountains. He found himself wondering, how many truly remembered her like this, wise and benevolent. And even if they did admire her, why cling to her memory, now that she was dead? What was a Queen, or a King, for that matter, but a puffed-up jackal wearing some jewelry on their head? Pike's Green had never known a monarch's touch, except as bloody ruin, and even before that Martim had never been impressed by the stories of Kings and Queens in traveler's tales and storybooks. Even the ones meant to be good rulers had seemed full of themselves, to him; demanding reverence they did not deserve. He had always wanted the heroes in those stories to reach out and crack those crowns, bring them down a notch or two.

The door to the inn swung open, and he glanced towards it as Kells strode out into the snow, ducking his head so it did not brush against the dripping icicles slowly descending from the inn's roof towards the street. The soldier wore his off-duty uniform, the smart black jacket that fit snugly to his lean frame, and flaring black pants tucked into knee-high boots made of a quality black leather. As a cobbler's son, Martim knew enough of shoemaking to admire those boots. For them to ride so high was the curious fashion in Twin Lamps - Martim's own boots rose only to mid-calf - but they were very finely made. The soldier carried no weapons on him - except what he may have hidden from plain sight - and his face was hidden both in a tightly-wound woolen scarf and the shadows of a wide-brimmed hat of black felt - a little like Elyse's, but more flat at the top than pointed, and much more lumpy and misshapen. He wore a cloak as well, but of wool rather than hide and fur. Only Kells' grey eyes were visible, if one looked closely into the shadows of that hat. It was a precaution; it may be that few enough in Twin Lamps thought him actually guilty for Roark's murder, but they did not want to have to deal with any trouble while traveling the streets if they could avoid it.

It was the third day since Bartuk had released Kells. They had not gone to The Middens yesterday, or the day before that. Two days ago Roark's funeral service had been held, in a densely-populated graveyard on the west side of town, the headstones so close together that they were nearly knocking against each other - it was a wonder they had found room for the man. It had been well attended by the town guard, and others - Madame Ro and Mayor Bartuk had gone, as well as other strangers that had known Roark well. Bartuk had given a fine eulogy, lifting the crowd's dark spirits with tales of Roark's gruff demeanour during meetings, and how the man had struggled to present his strong opinions in a more diplomatic manner to the mayor. Despite his gruffness and his temper, it seemed, Roark had been well-regarded by many.

Kells had wanted to attend, but the most the soldier could do was watch from a distance, not wanting to interrupt the service in case any there recognized him and still suspected him. Martimeos and Elyse had been there, for a time, as much as to hear the rumor among the guards and the townfolk as to pay respects. Wild theories abounded; though few thought Kells had done it, there were many who thought that the rider might be someone hiding in town. The guards tended to discount this - they knew that even as the rider struck within the town, he was still being spotted in the farmlands as well - many of them were of the opinion that the rider could be no normal man. And the folk seemed familiar enough with the Art that they did not suspect Martimeos and Elyse, as well - though Martim thought back to their encounter, earlier in Twin Lamps, and wondered how many of the farmfolk might lay the blame at their feet simply because they were a witch and a wizard. But Twin Lamps was a town of many merchants, many who had seen strange things in their travels; the consensus seemed to be much what Martimeos and Elyse themselves believed, that this rider was an Outsider - or something similarly unnatural - and that it was the rider that had killed Roark.

They had meant to make their way to The Middens the next day, but yesterday, a bitter blizzard - the first of the season - had struck the town. The streets had been full of howling winds, and biting snowfall so thick that you could not see more than a few feet in front of your face. They had taken the opportunity to discuss what they might do if they faced the rider again. They knew little of what he was capable of, but they were not defenseless. The false flame that Martimeos and Elyse had discovered would be useful in a fight; it could induce terrible pain, even if only temporarily. And they still had a potent poison, in the beak of the Mirrit they had faced in Silverfish. Martimeos wondered the best way to use this - if they could pierce the rider's skin with it, poison might do their work for them. But the last time they had fought him, he had watched the rider take a crossbow bolt square to the chest, only to bounce off, and he did not want the Mirrit's beak to be wasted simply shattering against the rider's armor and skin. Kells had suggested that perhaps the best way to fight the rider might be chains and nets, to tangle his feet and the feet of his horse and weigh him down - if he was captured, they could figure out the best way to kill him later. But it all largely depended on the rider not being able to take them unawares. And them not being frozen in terror by his presence.

And so with the blizzard piling snow upon the town for the better part of yesterday and last night, it was today finally that they planned to make their way to The Middens. The town was still covered in a thick, white blanket of snow, though today the sun was out and slowly melting it; water dripped from the icicles lining the roofs of the town, and the snow in the streets had already been packed down into a dirty slush beneath the tramping of many boots.

Elyse joined them, finally, and Martimeos was a bit surprised to see that even she had made some concessions to the cold. She still wore her too-thin dress of tatters, legs bare beneath it as the layered black rags shifted, and her pointed black hat. But now she also wore long black gloves that extended up her arms, a woolen scarf around her face, and even a thick woolen cloak pinned around her shoulders, dyed a dark blue. He noted, with some amusement, that she had done her hair up like Madame Ro's, with many blue ribbons woven into it, fluttering in the wind. Elyse had taken a shining to ribbons in her hair since he had met her, it seemed - he still remembered when he first met her in the forest, her hair had been unadorned and unkempt.

With a whisper, he warmed their cloaks for them with the Art, much as his was. Elyse drew her cloak about her, squinting against the harsh glare of the sunlight reflecting off the snow as she joined them. "Well," she said, "To The Middens, then. Though perhaps I should have brought some herbs to hold to our noses if we are to tramp about a part of town named for a garbage pit."

"'Tis not all a garbage pit," Kells replied, his voice muffled by his scarf. "Though part of it is. In the winter, the smell is not so bad, though. 'Tis during the summer that the stench truly becomes a problem."

They set out on their way, through the snow-covered and icy streets. Martimeos whistled to Flit, telling his familiar to fly through the air, following them, and keep an eye out for anyone with red hair - or any signs of the rider, whether it was the rider himself or hoofprints appearing in the snow from some invisible horse. Flit complained bitterly about the indignity of flying through the columns of chimneysmoke that rose from the buildings surrounding them, but did as he was told, a small red blur in the sky, darting from rooftop to rooftop.

Kells led them westward through town, through streets that seemed less busy than they had been - though plenty of townfolk were still out and about, it seemed that now barely any farmfolk walked the streets at all. The state of the farmers who had been forced to live in the streets, after the blizzard yesterday, must be dire indeed, Martimeos realized. He wondered how many, unsheltered in the bitter cold, might be taken by disease or hunger. Surely if this went on, the death toll from those would exceed even that of the rider. He would not be surprised if some of the farmfolk decided to take their chances and return to their homes.

As Kells led them on, Martimeos began to see why The Middens was considered such a good hiding place for thieves. It seemed odd that an entire part of town might be hidden out in the open, but it was - no large street, it seemed, connected The Middens to the rest of the town. Kells led them through alleyways, down stone steps; the streets wound and twisted around buildings with dark windows, so they could never see their path too far ahead, and as they walked, the number of townfolk in the streets became fewer and fewer. The buildings as they went on, became poorer and poorer as well, changing from stone and clay or wooden shingles to simpler, ramshackle buildings made of wooden slats, with thatched hay roofs that must leak terribly and mold beneath the snow.

Until finally, around one twisting corner, the streets opened up onto The Middens, and Martimeos gasped in shock that anyone might actually live like this.

The Middens were an impossible warren of wooden slat shacks of poor construction and rotted, broken wood, stacked and built haphazardly, leaning against each other, threadbare curtains hanging from glassless windows offering no protection against the chill, in the shadow of Twin Lamp's western wall. They crowded around a central patch of packed dirt that served as a sort of plaza, no cobblestone road here, the dirt now muddied and full of icy cold puddles from the melting snow. And like a scar in the ground, running into the plaza itself and cutting between some of the buildings, was a stone-lined canal set deep into the earth, with slippery stone steps covered in ice for access. Filling this canal, stacked along the sides, was all manner of garbage and filth - broken tables and doors, scraps of rusty warped metal, animal bones. sitting half-frozen in ice and disgusting water. The canal ran into a deep, dark tunnel set into Twin Lamps western wall itself, where an iron portcullis set into the outer side of the wall let this sludge trickle out into the countryside.

"Originally," Kells told them, as Martimeos and Elyse gawked at this, "The plan was to extend this canal to split off the creek that runs through the town, so that it might have a water source that would constantly flush out the filth. I still think they plan on it, some day, but for now it stands as it is. Much of the refuse of Twin Lamps comes here, and the poor scavenge from it." And indeed, even now, as they watched, they could see people in filthy rags, huddled over the trash heaped in the canal, sorting through the grime for anything of use.

But even more shocking than the clutter of shacks that looked as if they were about to collapse, even more than the trash-strewn canal, was simply how crowded The Middens was. This was where the most unfortunate of the farmfolk, those who lost their homes and could not find a place in town to stay, had gathered. Between the shacks - where there was space - hide and woolen blankets were stretched, meager blankets laying on the bare ground, wet now, to form some place to sleep; sullen-faced farmfolk huddled together here in bunches, grimy rags clutched around them, faces filthy, gaunt and drawn. Still others gathered around meager trash-fires burning in the plaza, getting what warmth they could from them, black, dirty smoke rising up from the fires to fill the plaza and drift into the sky. Among the farmfolk here, there seemed to be two kinds: those sullen, miserable and dejected, who looked out at the world with blank stares, or those whose faces were contorted with rage.

Martimeos could scarcely believe what he was seeing; in Pike's Green, even the poorest, with nearly nothing to their name, were afforded more dignity than this. He had been to other towns in his travels, and knew that the poor in a town often had a harder time of things than the poor in a small village might, but never anything on this scale. So many people sick, hungry, and driven either to listlessness or fury by their predicament. He could feel their eyes tracking him as he walked among the plaza, and was suddenly, intensely aware that though his leathers and cloak were hardly anything fancy, they were more than these folk had by far. He put his hand on the hilt of his sword, cautious of any who might approach.

There was one farmer there, though, who seemed as if he did not belong - his golden hair shining, his woolen tunic and hood still for the most part clean, bright blue eyes still full of light and hope. It was Vincent, the young farmer they had met on their way to the mayor's manor when they first came into Twin Lamps, and who they had seen about town here and there since. He bustled about the plaza, his arms full of long, thin loaves of bread, doling out hunks of it to the farmfolk there, along with kind words and encouragement; wherever he went, fury and depression changed to grim smiles, and even a little laughter, even if only temporarily. When he spotted the three of them crossing the plaza, his eyes went wide, and he hurried over to them, boots splashing through puddles, arms still full of bread. "Ho, you three," he called as he approached. "What are you doing here?"

"Do we need a reason?" Elyse asked, as Vincent paused in front of them, shifting the bread in his arms, a little out of breath. "Are we...not welcome, here?"

"Not welcome?" Vincent blinked at the witch, a confused frown on his handsome, tanned face. "No, I would not say that. Many of the folk here are angry, and rightly so, but I do my best to make sure their anger is pointed in the right direction. Still, I would be cautious."

Kells paused for a moment, peering at Vincent from beneath the shadows of his hat. "And where should their anger be pointed, do you think?"

"Why, at the rider, of course." Vincent shrugged, catching a loaf of bread before it dropped into the puddle at his feet. "The only one truly not welcome here is him. If he shows up here, these folk would tear him apart."

Martimeos looked around at the haggard farmfolk, desperate and thin, misery written on their faces, gathered around the central plaza of The Middens. "I don't know about that," he muttered. "The rider is fearsome in battle. And he has a way of inspiring terror in folk. I would not advise these farmers to go after him, should he appear."

Vincent gave the wizard a knowing wink. "Anger can overcome terror," he replied, "And you know what else can? Good company. Face the rider with just a few, and he might scare you - face him with a crowd, and I bet you a bag of gold he no longer seems so frightening. Why else do you suppose he skulks around as he does? Fearsome in battle, yet he prefers his prey cornered and scared witless. Now answer my question. Why are you here?"

Martimeos, Elyse and Kells glanced at each other. "It concerns the rider, actually," Kells said after a moment. "He searches for his kin; we think those he looks for may be hiding here."

Vincent studied them all for a moment, a small frown on his face. "And so - what? When you find his kin, what would you do - just give them over to him, as he asks?"

"What? Frog's balls, no," Elyse snapped, aghast. "We would speak with them. What kind of monsters do you take us for?"

"We know so little of the rider," Martimeos elaborated, as Vincent stared at Elyse. "We hope that his kin would at least be able to tell us more about him."

Vincent remained staring at Elyse for a moment, the witch growing uncomfortable under his piercing blue gaze. "Perhaps I misjudged you," he said softly. Turning to look at the three of them more generally, he nodded. "Fair enough. Who do you suppose his kin are?"

The three were quiet for a moment. There was always the possibility that there were those in town who worked for the rider - Martimeos thought back to the day that they had been followed by someone, all the way back to the White Queen inn; perhaps that was how the rider had known they were staying there. But there was just....something about Vincent, somehting in his manner that they could not quite put their fingers on, that told them he was trustworthy. "The Crosscraw," Kells said finally.

"The pretty red-haired ones?" Vincent gave a thoughtful look, eyes staring off into the distance, considering. "Don't think I know many of them, unfortunately - they do more hunting and foraging than farming, really. And don't they live up in the mountains, anyway? What would he be doing hunting through Twin Lamps for them?"

"That, we do not know," Kells answered. "Perhaps he looks for specific Crosscraw? Either way, we wonder whether some of them may be hiding here. The guard look for them as well."

Vincent shifted the bread in his arms once more. "Well, the guard have not been by yet, though I suppose they will be eventually. Perhaps some of the folk around here could tell you more. Here - take some of this bread, and pass it out. It will likely make people more talkative."

Vincent gave each of them a few of the long loaves of bread to hand out to the hungry farmfolk; they thanked him as he moved on to continue distributing it. Taking the loaves, they moved around The Middens, among the shacks and the makeshift tents between them, to hand out hunks of the bread to the farmers, and to the people who normally lived there besides, knocking at the doors to the shacks, revealing floors of bare dirt and dirty firepits and little else within.

The bread did make people more talkative, and it was not all they could do for the folk besides - Martimeos used the Art to warm their damp blankets and rags. It would wear off eventually, he knew, but in the meantime it would make them a little bit warmer, and help the rags dry out quicker. Elyse, meanwhile, could offer up a little healing to those who had nicks and scratches - nothing much, but enough to soothe cuts that may have otherwise become infected, patching up children's scraped knees and elbows. This, combined with the food, made them quite popular - sullen stares turned to smiles, and lips loosened when they approached, after word had gotten around about what they were offering.

Still, there was little enough that the folk could tell them. Many of the farmfolk had only come here since the rider arrived; they did not yet know who might be a stranger that they could pick out, and the townfolk who normally lived here, overwhelmed by the new arrivals, did not know either. Many of them said that they had seen suspicious sorts about - but that was not unusual in The Middens, and none of them could say that they had seen strangers with bright red hair - though there were plenty who went about with their hair covered up.

The three even descended, carefully along the icy stone steps, into the filth-flled canal, to talk to the folk scavenging there. They picked their way carefully among the animal bones and splintered wood and the filth. The cold, at least, suppressed the smell, but Elyse could tell that it would indeed be very bad in the heat of summer. They peered into the long, dark tunnel carved into the stone walls of the town that led out into th countryside, looking to see if they could find any nooks or hidden spots in there that people might hide, but there was nothing but smooth stone walls leading up to the iron portcullis.

Of course, the central plaza, ringed and crowded by the rotten, weatherworn shacks and farmfolk cramming the spaces between them, was not the extent of The Middens. Squeezing between the alleys revealed an extended maze of small paths between yet more shacks, a place of many confusing twists and turns that it was easy to get lost in if you did not live here - and would have been even more confusing had they not had the landmark of the stone wall looming over the shacks to guide them. Even with the walls, though, they found themselves getting lost among these narrow paths - "This is why the thieves come here," Kells muttered, the third time they found out they had traveled in a circle - and none of the inhabitants of these shacks had any leads for them either, as grateful as they were for the bread.

The sun had begun to sink low in the sky, and they had not yet covered the entirety of The Middens - indeed, it was difficult to tell exactly how much they had covered. They stopped to rest in one of these tiny paths, leaning up against the rough wooden walls of a shack, Martimeos feeding Flit the last bit of the bread crumbs he had carried from the bits still stuck to his gloves. Around them, the shadows lengthened as the sun sank, making the maze surrounding them begin to appear just a little more sinister.

"I think we ought to get back to the White Queen before night falls," Elyse said, removing her scarf and fanning her face - all that walking had somehow caused her to sweat, even in this chill. "A shame we have not really found anything today."

"True, but at least we fed and warmed some of these folk," Martimeos muttered. There was a sharp edge to his voice as he spoke that caused Elyse to glance at him. At her look, he gritted his teeth. "The way these people live - 'tis monstrous." He had felt a dull anger growing inside him all day as they had passed out food. He had never been a farmer himself, but he had grown up in a village amongst farmfolk, and had a fondness for them - and to see them reduced to this, sick, hungry, tired and homeless, the light in them slowly being suffocated - he had found a new rage for the rider that he did not know he had.

Kells shifted uncomfortably. "I know it's bad," he said. "The town does its best - they send the bread that feeds them."

"Does it?" Martimeos shook his head as Flit, finally plucking the last breadcrumb from his gloves, fluttered back to his shoulder, preening himself. "How many of these folk might at least have warmth and shelter if all the manors in town opened their doors to them, as Bartuk did with his?"

"I wish they did," Kells replied. "I know a few of them have. But not all of the wealthy here are as kind as Bartuk can be."

"Then make them," Martimeos replied darkly. "To the gallows with those who refuse." Then he blinked, as if surprised he had said this, and gave a grim chuckle as he took out his pipe. "I'm sure it would not need to go that far. Just give them a good scare, and they'll fall in line."

"'Tis a shame Twin Lamps does not have a witch in residence," Elyse said idly. "She could pox the ones who do not open their doors." She looked thoughtful as she said this, tapping her lips with a finger. "'Tis too bad I do not know how to do it myself. It could be fun."

Martimeos was raising his pipe to his lips, about to answer her, when there was a small, quiet thunk. And suddenly, he found himself stairng at the quivering shaft of an arrow embedded in the wood of the shack he leaned on, a scant few inches from his head.

"Ho!" Kells shouted, the first to react. He pointed down a the narrow path facing across from them. There stood a figure completely wrapped in rags, from head to toe, the only part of them visible a pair of fierce, glaring eyes. In their hands they held a shortbow carved from black wood. Even as they watched, the figure darted around a corner. "Hey! You!" Kells roared, leaping after them to give chase. "Come back!"

Flit took flight from Martim's shoulder, shooting into the sky, as Martimeos and Elyse followed quickly behind Kells. The archer, whoever they were, was quick. The three only ever caught fleeting glimpses of them as they darted around corners, always a step ahead, disappearing into darkness. Until one time, they turned a corner to find the archer waiting for them, perhaps ten feet away, another arrow nocked, letting loose with a twang as they appeared.

Kells, who was in the lead, ducked, but Martimeos cursed with pain as the arrow carved a neat furrow in his cheek - a few inches more, and it would have taken him square in the nose. Slapping a hand to the stinging cut, he narrowed his eyes and reached out with the Art.

He had learned to move earth from Zeke's book of sigils, and had been practicing with it to make the results more consistent - but he had not yet had cause to use it in earnest. Now he reached out to the earth beneath the archer's feet. Moving earth was not at all like working with fire; fire had a hunger all its own that grew as it fed, but earth stubbornly wanted to remain as unchanging as possible. To Martimeos, moving earth with the Art felt like forcing it to hum - a long, low hum from within the dirt and rock itself that would vibrate it and cause it to shift. Beneath the archer's feet, the muddied path they trod on shook and bubbled, and they let loose with a curse in a strange accent as they sank up to their calves in loose mud.

Kells dashed towards them, but the archer wrenched free their feet with a squelch, leaving behind a boot, and dashed away before Kells could grab them. With a snarl of rage, Kells leapt over the mud and continued pursuing them, and Martimeos was about to follow when he felt Elyse tugging at his arm. "Stop," she told him, pointing to the cut on his cheek. "You were struck."

"'Tis just a scratch," Martimeos muttered, wiping blood from his cheek. He strained his ears to hear the sounds of Kells' pursuit. His heart sank when he realized that already he could no longer hear the sound of boots pounding on the ground - just the sound of Kells cursing in frustration from somewhere in the warren of shacks that surrounded them. It did not sound as if the chase went well.

Elyse, though, did not seem to notice this. "Aye," the witch said, "And if the arrow were coated with the right poison, you could be dead in ten steps. And it would be just like an assassin to use poison, don't you think? And the three of us pursuing them are only going to get in each other's way in these narrow alleys anyway; Kells can run faster than us besides."

Martimeos grumbled, leaning against a shack, as Elyse walked down the alleyway to tug the arrow from a shack wall. It was fletched with what looked to be pheasant feathers, with a carved stone tip. Elyse sniffed this, then sighed. "I cannot smell any poison," she muttered, walking back to Martimeos. She handed him the arrow, and then took his face in her hands, examining the wound. "And the wound seems clean." She gave a small laugh as she touched her gloved hand to his cheek, and he felt the now-familiar warmth of her healing spread through the side of his face. "I am almost surprised. Wouldn't it be just your luck to be poisoned again?"

Martimeos pulled out the grass ring, with the bit of Cecil's fur looped through it; the ward Elyse had given him on the road to Twin Lamps. She had taught him a little about how it was made, though he found the Art for it strange, and was skeptical of the strength of something whose effects could not be immediate and verified. "You told me this was supposed to bring me good luck," he said, waving it in her face.

"Maybe that's why you just got a cut in your cheek, and not an arrow through the eye," she replied, giving him a small grin as she patted his cheek.

Martimeos gave a small 'hmph' and placed the ward back in his pocket. He walked over to the small mud pit he had created with the Art, already solidfying again, plucking the boot the archer had left behind from it.

He was brushing clumps of mud from it when Kells returned, cursing and shaking his head. "I lost them," he muttered, "This place is a damn labyrinth, and they clearly knew it better than I."

Flit returned, though, fluttering through the alleyways, singing into Martim's ear that he had been able to watch the archer from above, and had seen them disappear into one of the shacks. He led them down the alleyways, urging swiftness, but when they arrived at the shack he said he had seen the archer go into, they cautiously opened the door only to find it completely empty, nothing but bare dirt and four creaking, unsteady walls within, with a fire pit long dead and cold in the center. They sorted through the ashes, but could find nothing unusual amongst them.

"Well," Kells muttered, as he glanced out the small hole in the shack's wall to make note of the setting sun, "That was a waste. At least none of us is dead. It could be worse."

"Not a total waste," Martim replied, as Flit perched on his shoulder, the bird burbling small sounds of shame that he had lose the archer. He held the muddy boot in one hand, and the arrow in the other; this he waggled at Kells. "Can you make anything of this?"

Kells took the arrow from Martimeos, frowning at it. "Not much," he said eventually. "The guard uses iron arrowheads, but I do not think it would be unusual for the folk to make their own from stone for use in hunting." He ran a finger along the edge of the arrowhead. "Seems well-made, I reckon, but not much beyond that."

Elyse stood leaning against the wall of the shack, watching Martimeos puzzle over the boot he held in his hands. "I don't suppose you can tell us anything from what they wore on their feet," she murmured.

"I can, actually." Martimeos held the boot up to his face, furrowing his brow at it. It was small - it would not have come up much further past the wearer's ankle - and the leather was white and stiff. The laces of it seemed to be made from some sort of tightly corded plant fiber. He pointed towards Kells' knee-high, black leather boots. "I mean, I am no expert cobbler. But I know enough to tell the leather was made from a different tanning method than most boots I see made in Twin Lamps. You are lucky here; that is well-made leather."

Kells glanced down at his boots, grey eyes widening in surprise. "I had never thought of it, really," he said. "I had no idea you paid so much attention to what people wore on their feet."

Martimeos shrugged, looking a bit defensive as Elyse gave a quiet chuckle. "You have very fine boots here," he replied, frowning at the witch. "I may well buy a pair of my own before I go. If I can find some that are not knee-high, that is." He turned the boot over in his hands, staring at it a bit more. "Leather is not as fine, but the construction is still sound. They actually remind me a little of your boots, Elyse."

"Mine?" Elyse's eyes widened, and she lifted up her dress to reveal the bottom half of her legs. Her feet were clad in boots similar to the one Martim held, ones that did not come up much further past her ankles, though the leather of her boots was much more brown and tanned. "My mother would make these. She had a little skill, I suppose. She would let animal hides soak in the swamp. Though I preferred to go barefoot when I could." She let her dress drop, shrugging.

"It is also very small," Martimeos continued, squinting at the boot once more. "I think the archer was a woman." He shrugged, dropping his hands to his sides. "'Tis all I can say, though."

"I thought the archer was a bit short, as I chased them," Kells muttered. "So - what can we say? The archer was a woman, who wore boots made from somewhere out of town? 'Tis not much, is it, really?"

"You don't suppose," Elyse said quietly, "That it might have been the same woman who followed us one day in town?"

Silence followed as they considered this, no sound but that of the wind howling through the small alley outside the shack.

"I think we should head back," Kells said quietly, "I would not like to be caught out in the dark, and we should inform the guard that we were attacked. And who knows if the archer might return with friends. Perhaps this attack will be enough to convince the guard to do a house-to-house search of The Middens."

Martimeos' frowned at that, running a hand through his shaggy hair. His mind danced with visions of the town guard flooding The Middens, pulling people from their meager homes, rounding them up to check each one for the color of their hair. The folk here would certainly realize that the kind young wizard and witch who had gone around asking if anyone had seen someone with red hair were responsible. He sighed wearily, shaking his head.

They left the shack behind, cautious as they made their way back through the winding alleys, eyes ever watchful for dark figures that might be tracking them from the shadows cast by the dying light of day.