Vivargent slithered through the slits, where a hole sat between rotten wooden slats. He stared at the narrow space beneath the wall, trying to psyche himself up. The sun wasn't due for hours, and the tavern was empty. Most taverns in the city had compacted dirt floors, but this part of the Ordure had been built over marshland, and not even drunks wanted to drink standing ankle-deep in mud, so the tavern had been raised a few inches on stilts and floored with stout bamboo poles.
Coins sometimes dropped through the gaps in the bamboo floors, and the crawlspace was too small for most people to go after them. The Circle's Bigs were too big and the Littles were too scared to squeeze into the suffocating darkness shared alongside spiders, cockroaches, rats and God knows what. Even worse was the pressure of some random patron as they walked above you, the bamboo flooring pushing you into the mud. It had been Vivargent's favorite spot for a year, but he wasn't as small as he used to be. Last time, he got stuck and spent hours panicking until it rained and the ground softened beneath him enough that he could dig himself out.
It was muddy now, no patron in sight, and Vivargent had seen no other dangers around. It should be fine. Besides, Fist was collecting the Circle's taxes tomorrow, and Vivargent didn't have four coppers. He didn't even have one, so there wasn't much choice. Fist definitely wasn't understanding, and he didn't know his own strength. Littles had died from his beatings.
Swimming breaststroke through mud, Vivargent plodded through while trying to stay silent. The dank earth soaked his thin, filthy tunic instantly. He'd have to work fast. He was skinny, and if he caught a chill, the odds of getting better weren't good.
Plodding through the darkness, he began searching for the telltale metallic gleam. A couple of lamps were still burning in the tavern, so light filtered through the gaps, illuminating the mud and standing water in strange rectangles. Heavy marsh mist climbed the shafts of light only to fall over and over again. Spider webs draped across Vivargent's face and broke, and he felt a tingle on the back of his neck.
He froze. No, it was his imagination. He slowly exhaled his pent up fright. Something glimmered and he grabbed his first copper. He slithered to the unfinished pine beam he had gotten stuck under last time and shoveled mud away until water filled the depression. The gap was still so narrow that he had to turn his head sideways to squeeze underneath it. Holding his breath and pushing his face into the slimy water, he began the slow crawl.
His head and shoulders made it through, but then a stub of a branch caught the back of his tunic, tearing the cloth and jabbing his back. He almost cried out and was instantly glad he hadn't. Through a wide space between bamboo poles, Vivargent saw a man seated at the bar, still drinking. In the Ordure, you had to judge people quickly. Even if you had quick hands like Vivargent did, when you stole every day, you were bound to get caught eventually. All merchants hit the children who stole from them. If they wanted to have any goods left to sell, they had to. The trick was picking the ones who'd smack you so you didn't try their booth next time; there were others who'd beat you so badly you never had a next time. Vivargent thought he saw something kind yet sad and lonely in this lanky figure. He was perhaps thirty, with a scraggled blonde beard and an extremely long katana stuck through the floor. It was strange as it was just a straight sword with no guard, completely silver without a single blemish. Either he kept it in pristine condition, or it was a magical artifact.
"How could you abandon me?" the man whispered so quietly Vivargent could barely distinguish the words. He held a wineskin in his left hand and cradled something Vivargent couldn't see in his right. "After all the years I've served you, how could you abandon me now? Is it because of her?"
There was an itch on Vivargent's calf. He ignored it. It was just his imagination again. He reached behind his back to free his tunic. He needed to find his coins and get out of here.
Something heavy dropped onto the floor above Vivargent and slammed his face into the water, driving the breath from his lungs. He gasped and nearly inhaled water.
"Why Imros Clint, you never fail to surprise," the weight above Vivargent said. Nothing was visible of the man through the gaps except a drawn dagger. He must have dropped from the rafters. "Hey, I'm all for calling a bluff, but you should have seen Ariela when she figured out you weren't going to save her. Made me damn near bawl my eyes out."
The tall lanky man turned. He spoke in a slow, broken voice that made you want to pity him. "I killed twelve men tonight, are you sure you want to make it thirteen? Quite the inauspicious number, don't you think?"
Vivargent slowly caught up with what they'd been saying. The lanky man was THE shadowblade Imros Clint. A shadowblade is something like an assassin - in the way a dragon is like a snake. Among shadowblades, Imros Clint was indisputably the best. Or, as the head of Vivargent's Circle said, at least the disputes didn't last long. And I thought Imros Clint looked pitiable?
The itch on Vivargent's calf itched again, and this time it wasn't his imagination. He could feel something crawling up the inside of his trousers. It felt big, but not as big as a cockroach. Vivargent's fear identified the weight: a Black Death spider. Its poison would cause your flesh to gangrene, and it would spread in a circle from the bite wound. If it bit, even with a healer the best an adult could hope for was to lose a limb. An orphan wouldn't be so lucky.
"Clint, you'll be lucky if you don't cut your head off after all you've been drinking. Just in the time I've been watching, you've had—"
"Eight skins. And I had four before that."
Vivargent didn't move. If he jerked his legs together to kill the spider, the water would splash and the men would know he was there. Even if Imros Clint had looked kind, that was a damn long sword, and Vivargent knew better than to trust anyone bigger than he was.
"You're bluffing," the man said, but there was fear in his voice.
"I don't bluff," Clint replied. "Why don't you invite your friends in?"
The spider crawled up to Vivargent's inner thigh. Trembling, he pulled his tunic up in back and stretched the waist of his trousers, making a gap and praying the spider would crawl for it.
Above him, the large man reached two fingers up to his lips and whistled. Vivargent didn't see Imros move, but the whistle ended in a gurgle and a moment later, the man's body thumped onto the floor. There were yells as the front and back doors burst open. The boards flexed and jumped.
Concentrating on not jostling the spider, Vivargent didn't move, even when another dropping body pushed his face briefly under water.
The spider crawled across Vivargent's butt and then onto his thumb. Slowly, Vivargent drew his hand around so he could see it. His fears were right. It was a Black Death spider, its legs as long as Vivargent's thumb. He flung it away convulsively and rubbed his fingers, making sure he hadn't been bitten.
He reached for the splintered branch holding his tunic and broke it off. The sound was magnified in the sudden silence above. Vivargent couldn't see anyone through the gaps. A few feet away, something was dripping from the boards into a puddle. It was too dark to see what it was, but it didn't take much imagination to guess.
The silence was eerie, and the air smelled of iron. If any of the men walked across the floor, groaning boards and flexing bamboo would have announced it. The entire fight had lasted maybe ten seconds, and Vivargent was sure no one had left the tavern. Had they all killed each other?
He was chilled to the bone, and not just from the water. Death was no stranger in the Ordure, but Vivargent had never seen so many people die so quickly and so easily.
Even taking extra care to look out for the spider, in a few minutes, Vivargent had gathered six coppers. If he were braver, he would have looted the bodies in the tavern, but Vivargent couldn't believe Imros Clint was dead. Maybe he was a demon, like the other children said. Maybe he was standing outside, waiting to kill Vivargent for spying on him.
Chest tight with fear, Vivargent turned and scooted back towards the hole. Six coppers is good enough. Dues were only four, so he could buy bread tomorrow to share with Duke and Bella.
He was a foot from the opening when something bright flashed in front of his nose. It was so close, it took a moment to come into focus. It was Imros Clint's huge sword, and it was stuck through the floor all the way into the mud, barring Vivargent's escape.
Just above Vivargent on the other side of the floor, Imros Clint leaned down and whispered, "Never speak of this. Understand? I've done worse than kill children."
The sword disappeared, and Vivargent scrambled out into the night. He didn't stop running for miles.