Snowtear Read online

  Riken didn’t want to look over his shoulder. The day had been long enough already and it wasn’t even suppertime. He wasn’t in the mood for this shit.

  “Snowtear,” a voice like booming thunder bellowed.

  “Wha…?” he started to ask, but, for the second time in less than five hours, he was knocked to the ground.

  The familiar sensation of being jerked upward ensued. He opened his eyes, and Merton Coldfeather’s repulsive visage came into view amid a swarm of black dots. A thick, brown beard covered a pockmarked face that looked a few mugs shy of happy at the moment. At least the man had chosen to grip him by the collar; his neck still hurt from his last altercation.

  “Good afternoon, Merton,” Riken said, staring past the man at the four cohorts flanking him, each a hair larger than the last. “What can I do for you this fine day?”

  “I oughta rip that throat from your slimy neck,” Merton said through black, clenched teeth.

  “I’ll have you know I bathed just last week. Dirty, perchance. Slimy, hardly.”

  The remark won him a hard slap across the cheek.

  “Don’t open that vile mouth again.”

  “Then however will I talk you out of throttling me.”

  Another slap rocked his jawbone.

  “Fine, not another word,” Riken said, garnering a third, harder slap.

  Merton’s four friends brayed like simpering morons behind him. The rest of the tavern was all ears, prime for a good tussle to break the monotony. Even the whores halted business to view the one-sided controversy.

  “My lil’ sis told me what you did to her,” Merton said, his grip tightening. “Well, say something.”

  “You told me not to.”

  “You want me to grind your ugly face into the floorboards, Snowtear?”

  Riken remained silent.

  “Speak.”

  “My thanks,” Riken said. “Now, what was your question? Ah, right, the floorboards. Well, nay, I suppose not. Maybe later, though, if I have time.”

  “You smarmy little ass,” Merton said, drawing back his fist as a large shadow fell over his face.

  “Why are you cross with me, Merton? I didn’t lure myself into her bedroom, now did I? And really, I hardly believe I’ve been the only one in the last week to visit that little slice of Haven.”

  “That’s it.”

  “Uther, for fuck’s sake,” Riken said, “get this cretin off me?”

  Before Merton knew what was going on, his ear was on the receiving end of Uther Penet’s massive fist. Riken fell like a bag of rocks to the floor, but counted himself luckier than poor Merton, who’d flown over the bar and crashed into a shelf of wooden mugs. The enraged man bounded up, fire on his face. It snuffed out when he locked eyes with Uther and noticed his four allies had already taken seats at the opposite end of the room.

  Uther offered a hand to Riken, then pulled him up.

  “My thanks,” Riken said, smoothing the new wrinkles in his shirt.

  Uther continued staring at the confounded man, who wouldn’t be hearing quite well for at least a week, but Merton had amazingly found something beneath the bar to direct his attention toward. By the man’s expression and the way he wholly averted his eyes from Uther, Riken was sure Merton had discovered a naked lady at his feet.

  After he’d dusted himself off, Riken returned to his stool. The old barmaid, long ago immunized to the excitement of a good bar fight, had gone back to spit-shining the faded countertop.

  “Jatta Marllig?” Riken asked again.

  “He a friend of yours?” she asked Uther, who nodded silently.

  “Lives with her mumma up the road. Little house with a blue door. Last on this block.”

  “My thanks, Min.”

  “Gonna drink those?” she asked, motioning to the two full mugs he hadn’t had time to drink.

  “Nay,” Riken said, then tossed another brown coin on the counter. “Send those and two more over to Merton’s boys with my regards.”

  Exiting the tavern, walking a little less sturdily than when he’d come in, Riken turned to Uther. “Want a job?”

  “Got any coin?”

  “Sure.”

  “Then, sure.”

  Only the chipped, blue door stayed Jatta Marllig’s house from fading into the background.

  Riken felt relatively safe stepping on to the tremulous porch, but when Uther followed him up, he was sure they’d both crash through any moment. When they didn’t, Riken tapped on the blue door. No answer came. He knocked a bit harder, though carefully. It looked like a moderate wind could collapse it.

  “Looks like no one’s home,” Riken said over his shoulder.

  “They’re here,” Uther said, bored.

  “I’d let you knock, but...”

  The door creaking open saved Uther the exertion of formulating a snide comeback.

  “Who calls?” a woman in a flimsy nightgown asked. Her face was heavy with pruned wrinkles, and her chin boarded a couple long hairs.

  “My name is Riken Snowtear. I’m looking for Jatta.”

  “She’s abed. Go away.”

  “My business with your daughter will only take a moment, Min.”

  “Get,” the woman said, then started to slam the door.

  Uther caught it mid-swing.

  “Man just wants to ask her a few questions, Min. We mean her no harm, I assure you.”

  “You Molly Penet’s boy?” the woman asked, cocking her eye.

  “I am,” Uther said.

  “She didn’t teach you it’s impolite to manhandle old women?”

  “Actually he’s manhandling your door, Min,” Riken said.

  She continued staring at Uther, letting the comment die in the breeze.

  “Well?” she asked.

  “A moment’s time, Min,” Uther said, “then we’ll go. You have my word.”

  “Oh well, why didn’t you just say so? The word of an overgrown tree and his runt twig friend. By all means.”

  She tried to push the door shut again, realized the futility with an exasperated grunt, then stepped aside.

  “Don’t track any mud on my floors. Wipe those boots. Some of us in Sorrow do keep a clean home, no matter what you may hear.”

  “You have a lovely home, Min,” Riken said, using the outside wall to kick the dirty snow off his boots.

  She scowled at him, eyeing his boots as he came in.

  The comfy feel of the interior surprised Riken. It wasn’t what anyone with half a brain would call luxurious, but the care taken in small details was apparent. A large, bearskin rug covered freshly cleaned floors in a small alcove that must act as the den. The furniture was cheap wicker, but in good condition. A few paintings hung over the mantle of the blackened fireplace. Candles provided most of the light, since there were only a couple windows.

  “I’ll see if she wants to come down,” the woman said, her bony arm resting on the banister of a narrow staircase leading to the second story. “If not, you go.”

  “My thanks, Min,” Riken said.

  Riken was quite positive that, had he known how, he could’ve knitted a quilt in the time it took the old woman to tackle the staircase, but she eventually made it, with only one break to catch her breath.

  He heard her call the absent servant girl’s name, then her head popped around the corner.

  “Says she’ll be right down,” she said, agitated.

  “She’ll be right down,” Riken told Uther, who sighed.

  The first thing he noticed about Jatta Marllig was her puffy eyes, like she’d been crying for an extended period of time. The sorrow flowed all the way down to her dirt-stained feet; she wore it like a shroud. She was dressed in a plain, linen dress of faded brown. There was a slight rip in one of the shoulders, and at least two more spots had been patched with differing shades of fabric.

  “Still feeling ill?” Riken asked when Jatta reached the first level, her mother hovering like a protective hen.

  “What?” ask
ed a small squeaky voice.

  “Sefen said you were out sick today.”

  “Oh. Aye, a spot of cold, I guess.”

  “Would you like to sit?” Riken asked.

  Jatta nodded passively, then trudged into the den and sat on the couch. Riken and Uther took the two wicker chairs opposite. Jatta’s mother continued hovering.

  Since it didn’t seem as if an offer of drinks would be forthcoming, Riken began. “You work as a cleaning lady for the Ullimars?”

  “Aye, one of them.”

  “How long?”

  “I only started a few months ago, after…”

  “After?”

  A single tear blinked from Jatta’s eye, and she bowed her head, sucking in a deep breath. Calloused hands trembled slightly in her lap.

  “Min?” Riken asked.

  “Does anyone care for a drink?” Jatta’s mother asked, suddenly very cordial. “I’ve some apple wine in the cupboard.”

  “Nay, but my thanks,” Riken said. “You were saying, Min?”

  “How ‘bout you, big fellow? Apple wine? I might even have a few pieces of honey bread left.”

  Uther shook his head, then went back to staring at an old painting of some ocean over the fireplace.

  On the couch, Jatta looked as if she might faint. Her curly, blonde hair had fallen into her face. She made no attempt to remove it. Riken almost felt bad about pushing her, like tormenting a wounded bird, but he had a job to do.

  “What did you do for work before the Ullimars?”

  “I…didn’t work.”

  “How did you eat?”

  “I made enough seamstressing for all of us…”

  Jatta’s eyes widened as her mother spoke, breaking off in mid-sentence.

  “I’ve had enough of this,” she said, not so cordial anymore. “This’s my home, and I want to two of you out of here. Now.”

  “Only a few more questions, I beg, Min,” Riken said.

  “You’re upsetting my daughter. I won’t have it.”

  “Very well.”

  Riken rose and Uther followed suit. Ushered on by the old woman, he came to the doorway and stopped, turning back to the crying girl.

  “Why did you lie to me, Jatta?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “Sefen didn’t say you were sick.”

  “I…he…”

  “He didn’t tell me anything about you. Why do you think that is?”

  “I’m sure she hasn’t the slightest notion. Go,” Jatta’s mother said in a growl as she slammed the door.

  Walking down the muddy street, Riken side-stepped a pile of frozen horse manure and asked Uther, “What do you think ‘all of us’ meant?”

  Uther kept his eyes forward and shook his head. He wasn’t dim. He only acted such.

  “Such a bubbling cauldron of help you are,” Riken said, kicking a snow drift, and spraying Last Chance’s entryway. “Truly. Whatever would I do without you?”

  “Get beat up more?”

  “Simpleton.”

  “Twig,” Uther said.

  “Clever. Come up with that gem all by yourself?”

  Chapter Four

  Riken shot up in bed, sodden with sweat, momentarily lost in the darkness.

  The dream came in all manner of odious variations, but the climax had remained true for over fifty cycles - Amana lying face down, a dark pool oozing beneath her tiny frame, him turning her over. That horrible sight, in his waking hours, Riken forbid himself to remember, not an easy task with it forever seared into the back of his eyelids.

  Adjusting to his surroundings, he reached blindly for the bottle on the nightstand, gripped it by the neck, sucked back a healthy swallow. It burned going down. How he loved the burn. Groaning, he slumped out of bed and followed the faint, red glow to the fireplace. He took a twig from the wood stack, poked it in the coals, then used it to light a candle.

  Per his routine, he’d rented a room on Morning Gale Row. It was small but cozy, sparsely furnished with a bed, a nightstand, a wardrobe, a couple wooden chairs, and a small round table. Hardly the luxury suite at Wicked Delight, but Riken preferred such when he was on a job. Too many distractions otherwise, and he needed to focus. He’d even slowed down the drinking. Last night, he’d only finished a single bottle.

  The Game, he liked to call it. He both loved and hated it, in equal parts most of the time. For one, it kept him in coin, which in turn allowed him to live according to his self-styled custom – fine clothes, finer wine, the finest maids. By nature, though, it tended to keep him away from his preferred lifestyle, sometimes for weeks at a time.

  Despite its more distasteful components, he couldn’t deny the thrill of it. When presented with a task he felt on level with his lofty intelligence, it could be quite gratifying, a nice boost to the ego. Riken enjoyed being great at something, one of the very best in his field, all seven or eight of them. He liked the way certain people regarded him because of his successes and mild fame. Once or twice, it had come in rather handy with particularly chaste, proper, young debutantes.

  He took the candle from the nightstand and searched for his clothes. Jillian Dumay had come by the previous evening to pay him the next week’s coin in advance. He found the ratty clothes and put them on for the last time. Today, before he returned to Saura Row to try and rake up more information on Jatta Marllig, he planned on doing some long overdue shopping.

  “Mon Snowtear. It has been too long. What can I do for you this fine morning?”

  Fedro Pomitear was a practiced merchant. He greeted Riken like a long-lost son, full of smiles and hugs, never once looking crossways at the decrepit attire Riken wore, though it couldn’t have been far from his mind.

  “Grand to see you as well, Fedro,” Riken said, jingling his freshly-stocked coin purse to the greedy merchant’s delight. “I’ll be needing five shirts, five pairs of pants. You know what I like.”

  “Big lapels and cuffs, loose in the leg, dark dyes.”

  “Aye. Also, three undershirts, linen; two tunics, embroidered in gold; a knitted cap; a woolen cloak, hooded, please; and two scarves. When can you have them ready?”

  “For you, Mon Snowtear,” Fedro said, twirling his wiry mustache in contemplation, “no more than four days.”

  “Fine. I’ll need something to tide me over till then.”

  “Search the tables. I am sure I have something suitable for a man of your taste.”

  “My thanks,” Riken said.

  “Care for some wine while you look?”

  “You need ask?” By choice, as well as necessity, he made it a point to lower his stipend of drink while on a job, but he liked to ease into it.

  “Very good,” Fedro said, his pudgy cheeks wrinkling with a smile. He exited through the archway behind the counter, leaving Riken to peruse the selection in solitude. There were three round tables in Fedro’s showroom, each containing a few piles of expertly folded attire.

  He took his time, settling on his choices only after Fedro had refilled his glass twice. In the back room, he changed into a white undershirt, a woolen tunic with a fur inline, and a matching pair of cream trousers. He left the clothes he’d worn in for the merchant to dispose of.

  On the street, he stopped for a spell to extol his reflection in a shop window. A cold breeze bit at the tips of his ears. He needed a new hat and coat, as well.

  Bagenn’s leather store was one of his favorite establishments. He adored the musty smell of the place, and old Toma Bagenn’s daughter wasn’t too hard on the eyes. Whenever he had need of a leatherworker, there was no better place. It helped that he had a standing fifteen percent discount on all merchandise, due to a little bind Riken had helped the old man out of a few cycles back.

  A group of local miscreants had taken it upon themselves to rid Toma of his storefront windows. Each time he replaced them, the next morning he’d find a handful of fresh rocks and broken glass adorning his floors. After the third time, Toma had sent his daughter Prentice to call on R
iken. Somehow, he’d agreed to the job before even looking at the generous pile of lyn the girl had stacked on his table. Maybe it had been his overall compassionate nature. Or maybe the intoxicating sway of her ample bosoms heaving, like the coming and going of a great milky tide, had left him momentarily befuddled. Either way…

  Huddled in an alleyway, he’d staked out the shop for two nights, then watched as a pack of six youths toting bottles of wine and pockets of rocks laid waste to the cheap pane of glass he’d suggested Toma purchase and install. He’d expected the perpetrators to be from the one of the lower Rows, but judging from their attire, he’d doubted they’d ever stepped foot past Crafters Row, the recognized dividing line between Winter Moon’s wealthy and poor.

  The youths, none more than fifteen cycles, had executed their vandalism with unabashed relish – singing bawdy limericks, howling at the midnight moon, giving no thought to consequence.

  The next night, after Toma had installed yet another pane, Riken, with Uther in tow, had interrupted the youths’ merry shenanigans. After the second hurled rock had bounced off Uther’s stone wall of a chest, Riken had made all five strip and sit naked in the snow for an hour while he regaled them with tales of the palace dungeons. He’d given special emphasis to a group of prisoners that called themselves the Rampage. For some reason, the exploits of the Rampage hadn’t set well with the over privileged vandals. One had stained the snow around his crotch a decidedly unsophisticated yellow.

  Toma Bagenn’s windows had lived a long and happy life since.

  “Riken, my old friend,” the cheery shopkeeper said as Riken entered. “To what do I owe this great pleasure?”

  “A good morrow to you, Mon Bagenn. I seem to have misplaced the coat I purchased from you last cycle.”

  “A habit you seem hard-pressed to rid yourself of. Fortunate for me, though, I suppose.”

  “Aye, well, only eighty-five percent so.”

  “A well-spent loss,” Toma said, clapping Riken on the back. “What’ll it be? Leather? Bearskin?”

  “I was thinking sheep?”

  “A fine choice. Got a brutal winter coming this year, I fear.”