Ratty stepped into the streets once more, the afternoon light catching the rough edges of the heavy wool cloak he now wore. The dull brown garment hung heavily from his shoulders, its frayed hem nearly brushing the cobblestones. The deep hood shadowed his face, hiding his telltale silver teeth from casual observers. It was the sort of plain, practical covering that dozens of common folk wore daily—nothing worth a second glance.

  “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, whores are the kindest girls around. Even kinder than mothers, they care for you, feed you. When the guards try to find you, they give you heavy cloaks to hide, and, unlike mothers, you can fuck them.” Ratty said, securing his weapons under the cloak.

  “Well, there is mother Talnon and her son...” Ratty touched his lips in thought.

  “Anyway, time to move on.”

  He moved toward the western alley only to see a patrol of four guards march down the street fifty feet away.

  “Well, not that way.” Ratty quickly turned around to the east.

  Yet the roads in that direction also had guards running about.

  “I wonder maybe Talnon’s son has a nice cock like Draven and that's why she …” Ratty began muttering to himself as he turned to the south walking behind the brothel in hopes that the streets there were clear.

  He stopped his muttering as he saw a man pissing on the wall nearby, a thought forming.

  “The things I do.” He shook his head as he walked up to the man.

  “Coin if you piss on my cloak, not me, just the cloak.”

  The man stared at Ratty strangely, then shrugged as he turned his hips pissing on the bandit. After a moment, Ratty tossed the man a coin and continued down the street, bending down for a moment to grab a beer bottle from a drunken man and splashed some on himself, then shrugged and took a drink.

  A puddle of murky water nearby reflected his face. Kneeling, Ratty scooped handfuls of wet muck from beside a drainage channel and smeared it across his features, working it into his hairline and beard. The ruby-topped cane would have to disappear, too. He wrapped it in a discarded rag and tucked it within his belt against his back, letting his cloak conceal the distinctive shape.

  Minutes later, reeking and disheveled, Ratty stumbled from the alley with the near-empty bottle. He lurched dramatically, singing an off-key tavern song while sloshing imaginary drink from the bottle.

  A pair of guards appeared at the end of the street, walking toward the brothel. Ratty simply staggered directly toward them, weaving and hiccupping.

  “Mornin!” he slurred, getting close enough that one recoiled visibly from the stench. “Lovely night for a... for a patrol!”

  “By the gods,” the first guard gagged, stepping back. “Get away from us, you disgusting drunk.”

  The second guard held his nose. “Move along!”

  “As you w-wish!” Ratty slurred. He lurched past them, weaving toward the market square.

  Late afternoon commerce became his shield as merchants called bargains of the day drawing some commoners that Ratty could hide behind.

  “Hey do you smell something?” was a comment Ratty had heard many times as he used his living shields.

  Avoiding the shops being closed for the day, he focused his aim on the more crowded areas—sometimes making himself noticed by way of belching, causing those around him to step away and avoid him. Ratty held a grin as he measured his steps, making sure the direction of those around him was aligned as inconveniently as possible for the patrolling guards.

  Merchants and commoners hurried through the square—vendors slashing prices on produce that wouldn’t last till morning, apprentices hauling in signs and awnings, mothers bartering fiercely over the last loaves at the baker’s stall. Ratty stumbled through it all, using each cluster of shoppers as fleeting cover.

  A spice merchant’s display provided perfect opportunity. Ratty “accidentally” bumped the table, sending a cloud of peppery dust into the air. As customers and nearby guards sneezed and coughed, he slipped between two fabric stalls where a group of dyers with ink-stained hands provided excellent cover for his continued journey toward the docks. Their clothes already stained and reeking of vinegar, and, mordant salts, they barely noticed another foul odor joining their procession downhill.

  Ratty stumbled toward a fish stall where a vendor was clearing the day’s unsold catch. The merchant lifted slimy cod and bream from their damp reed mats, tossing them into a salt barrel for preservation. The remaining fish lay on beds of wet seaweed and damp cloth, a common method to keep them fresh throughout the day. Wooden slats that had displayed the morning’s offerings were being scrubbed down with vinegar water, while scales glittered across the worn countertop.

  “We are closed, come by tomorrow afternoon. I’ll have more up,” said a broad-shouldered man in his thirties. His muscular forearms rippled as he continued his work, the missing middle finger on his left hand making his movements slightly awkward as he secured the lid on the salt barrel.

  “Closed for an old friend, Huggy The Bear?” Ratty said, tilting his hood up slightly while flashing his silver teeth.

  “Ratty? Are you the reason these guards are running around like headless chickens?” Huggy The Bear laughed, glancing quickly at the street before lowering his voice. “The heck happened?”

  “Ah well, got betrayed by an informant. He said he had a job involving a diamond as big as my fist and to meet him in the guild place. You know the one I’m talking about. Well anyway, guards were there.” Ratty sighed while shaking his head.

  “Guy Draven had with me to finish up his training got cut down.”

  “Anyway, I need help getting to the riverside of the city. Don’t worry—any guards catch me with you and I’ll give you a little stab, make it look like I forced you.” Ratty grinned slightly, making sure his silver teeth didn’t shine out.

  “My son’s birthday and my anniversary with my wife is coming up. Pay for what I have planned for both and I’ll help.” Huggy the Bear said as he flipped the last of his display boards over, running a rag along the underside to remove the day’s accumulated slime and scales.

  “Deal!” Ratty winked.

  “Now let’s go,” Huggy said, tossing a damp cloth to his son. “Finish cleaning up. Then go home. I’ll be back later, if mommy asks, tell her I’m finishing up an order.”

  He grabbed a large basket of the day’s better catch, covering it with seaweed and damp cloths. A smaller basket followed, which he handed to Ratty.

  “Carry this and keep staggering,” he muttered. “You’re my drunk visiting cousin helping with deliveries. Too fond of the bottle, but family’s family.”

  Ratty clutched the basket, deliberately fumbling it slightly. “I’ll play my part.”

  “Hmm,” Huggy looked him up and down, then grabbed a fish and slapped Ratty’s cloak a few times.

  “There, gotta get that piss smell off to make you look less of a beggar, look now you got that fish smell.” The Bear nodded.

  As they moved through backstreets, Ratty asked, “so how’s retired bandit life treating you? Kids, wife a nice quiet life.”

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  To which Huggy responded with a smile, “Honestly it’s exhausting, and more stressful, back when I ran with the crew Draven did the thinking and planning, he made sure I was taken care of but now.”

  Huggy chuckled as he shook his head “Now I make the decisions for my kids, for my family, I can appreciate the boss more, my little friend.”

  Ratty stayed quiet in contemplation as he stared at Huggy’s contagious smile, trying his best not to show his own silver teeth. The two strode on, Huggy’s confident stride and Ratty’s exaggerated stumbling creating a picture that drew little attention. When they reached the main road leading to the docks, Huggy nodded toward two guards standing at the checkpoint.

  “Harbormaster’s men. They know me, but keep your head down.”

  As they approached, one guard raised a hand. “Evening, Willem. Late delivery?”

  “Captain Merrin’s order. Wouldn’t wait till morning.” Willem tilted his head toward Ratty. “Got stuck with this useless lump. Cousin, distant one. Promised I’d keep him working. Family, you know?”

  The guard chuckled. “Seems like he’s been drinking on the job.”

  “Keeps drinking whatever he can get his hands on. I advise you to hide any spirits you have,” Willem sighed.

  “By the way, what is with all the guards running around the city?” Willem asked.

  “Ah well they say Ratty The Magpie is roaming around, you know the bandits have been hitting kingdom caravans lately, and while Draven The Pragmatist may not be one of the biggest bandits around he is definitely high enough to know what the fuck is going on.” The guard answered.

  “So getting the rat so you can find the hawk?” Willem asked

  “The hawk?” the guard asked.

  “Draven has a hawk symbol, some people call him that out of respect, rarely though.” The second guard answered.

  “Though I'm surprised you know about that Willem,” the second guard continued as he gazed at Willem suspiciously.

  “The wife.” Willem shrugged.

  “Ah,” both guards nodded in response.

  “Yeah the ‘hawk’ does have a reputation with the women, my own sister asked me if I ever caught him to bring him to her bed chambers instead of the dungeons. If you can believe it,” the first guard sighed.

  “Oh trust me I do, things my wife says. Anyway, I would love to chat but got to finish this delivery and get back to the wife… before she goes looking for that hawk.” the guards laughed as Willem went through.

  The guard waved them through with barely a second glance, though Ratty felt the man’s eyes linger on his hunched form momentarily before turning to the next traveler.

  “Wait your real name is Willem?” Ratty asked.

  “You didn’t know my real name Ratty?”

  “I mean do you know my name?”

  “Fair point.”

  Ratty walked slower now as the cobblestones beneath their feet grew slick with fish guts and seawater, only growing more so as they descended the sloping street. The bandit had to catch his balance as he almost slipped a few times. Other times tilting and lifting up his boot as he felt a strange resistance in his step. Only to see the goo of fish at its bottom.

  The air changed too, salt and tar replacing the city’s usual stench. Gulls circled overhead, their cries growing louder as they approached the waterfront.

  The waterfront revealed itself as the street widened into the busy docks. Wooden wharves extended into the river like fingers, where ships of various sizes were moored against thick posts. Weathered buildings leaned against one another, their lower levels stained dark with years of high tides and flooding. Between them, narrow passages disappeared into shadows where Ratty knew a man could vanish in heartbeats. Dockworkers moved with practiced efficiency, muscles straining beneath sweat-soaked shirts as they unloaded the day’s final catches while sailors with sea legs stumbled from taverns.

  Ratty’s nose wrinkled at the assault of smells—the briny reek of fish guts piled in barrels, the sweet rot of river mud exposed by the receding tide, and the sharp tang of pine tar bubbling in iron pots where boat repairs continued despite the late hour.

  “We’ll skirt around it. I know a quieter way.” Willem muttered, nodding toward a squat building where guards checked manifests and inspected cargo.

  He led Ratty down a narrow passage between warehouses, emerging onto a smaller wharf where fishing boats rather than cargo vessels were moored. The security here was notably lighter—just a single bored guard who raised a hand in greeting to Huggy without leaving his post.

  “Almost there,” Willem said, guiding Ratty toward a weathered dock where several small boats bobbed in the current.

  “Great I can take these downriver, once I hit some land I’ll just walk through the forest back to camp,” Ratty whispered. “Just have to get out of this city.”

  Willem nodded, pointing to a small boat tied at the end of the pier. “Take that one. Won't be missed much and it is definitely sturdy enough to get you all the way, oars are inside.”

  A simple wooden vessel about twelve feet long with a single bench and enough space for fish baskets.

  “I owe you,” Ratty said, clasping Willem’s forearm.

  “Don’t forget about the price.” Willem winked. “Tell the boss I’m doing well. And that I miss the old days... sometimes.”

  With that, the fish merchant turned and began walking back, shoulders squared as he slipped back into his legitimate life.

  Ratty watched him go, then moved toward the boat. It was a twenty-pace dash across open pier to reach the boat—exposed, but quick enough if no one was looking his way. The dock was nearly deserted, just a few men securing their vessels for the night, none paying him any attention.

  He took a deep breath and started forward, keeping his staggering drunk act going despite the urgency. Just fifteen paces to go. Ten paces.

  From above, something launched itself through the air.

  A gray blur struck Ratty’s hooded head, accompanied by an unholy cry and the sudden dig of claws through the fabric. Weight and momentum nearly sent him sprawling as a dock cat—a massive battle-scarred tom—clung to his hood, hissing furiously.

  “Gah! Get off!” Ratty spun, trying to dislodge the creature. Its claws snagged deeper, tearing through the hood. “Now even cats are treating me like a rat, fuck!”

  He reached up to grab the animal, but it twisted with feline agility, claws raking across his hand. In their struggle, the hood fell back completely, exposing his face to the fading evening light. The cat gave one final contemptuous swipe before leaping away, disappearing between crates stacked nearby.

  “Hey! Silver teeth—and a golden cane, it’s him!”

  Ratty’s head snapped up. At the entrance to the pier, three city guards stood with weapons drawn, one already pointing in his direction. Behind them, he recognized the guards from the guild hall, their expressions hardening with recognition.

  “Shit!” Ratty abandoned all pretense of drunkenness, sprinting the final distance to the skiff. Arrows whistled past as he ran, one grazing his ear. He dove for the boat, sending it rocking dangerously as he landed inside. His fingers fumbled for the mooring rope as shouts, arrows and pounding footsteps grew closer.

  The rope came free. The boat began drifting away from the pier, caught by the river’s current. Ratty scrambled for the oar hidden beneath the seat.

  “Stop him!”

  An archer stepped to the edge of the pier, drawing his bow with practiced precision. Ratty ducked, but too late. White-hot pain exploded through his shoulder as the arrow struck, the impact spinning him against the side of the boat. Blood bloomed across his cloak as he gripped the shaft.

  “Fuck!” He yelled, gritting his teeth as he forced himself up. The pain sent black spots dancing across his vision, but the shouts from shore fueled his desperation.

  With his good arm, Ratty dug the oar into the water, pulling with every ounce of strength. The boat lurched forward, aided by the current. He managed three more powerful strokes, each sending fresh waves of agony through his wounded shoulder, before another volley of arrows splashed into the water around him.

  Only when the pier had shrunk in the distance and the sounds of pursuit faded did Ratty allow himself to slump against the boat’s side. Blood had soaked through his cloak, the arrow shaft protruding at an ugly angle.

  “Gotta... get this out,” he muttered, remembering how someone at camp had screamed for days when an arrowhead had festered inside him. With shaking fingers, he braced himself and yanked the shaft.

  Ratty bit down on his leather glove to keep from screaming as fresh warm blood poured from the wound, far faster than before. The arrow clattered to the boat floor, its head intact.

  “Huh, that doesn't look right.” Ratty blinked a few times, fighting off the dizziness before shaking his head and realizing what was happening.

  “Shit, shit, shit.” The blood wasn’t stopping. Serena’s words echoed in his mind: “Pressure first, then packing, then binding. That’s how you keep a man from bleeding out when there’s no healer around.”

  Ratty’s eyes darted around the small craft. In the stern, he spotted a wooden box of supplies the fisherman had kept on board. He dragged himself toward it, leaving a smear of crimson across the planks.

  Inside he found coarse salt and a small clay pot of fish oil. With trembling hands, he attempted to tear a strip from the bottom of his wool cloak, only to find his strength fading, he pulled a dagger from his belt and cut the piece he needed. Ratty proceeded to fold it into a thick pad, and press it hard against the wound, hissing through clenched teeth.

  “Serena... said salt...” he mumbled, vision blurring. He managed to sprinkle some onto the wool before pressing it firmly against the wound again.

  “Ah, fucking whore-hating fatherfucking, whoever shot that arrow!” his scream came out like the weak whimper of a wounded animal.

  Ratty fumbled with another strip torn from his cloak, trying to secure the makeshift bandage around his shoulder. His fingers felt thick and clumsy, refusing to tie a proper knot. The wool slipped from his grasp once, twice, as the edges of his vision darkened. He slumped into the boat, the thought of finishing his bandage fading from his mind, as well as all other conscious thoughts.

  QUILLTOME V

  END