Snippet #770470

Degan Montclair had never been much for cool weather.

It was one reason (or else, he liked to think as much...really, Ríše was just most convenient. There was a castle which he was allowed to live in, for example) he preferred tropical areas. There was very little wind or rain of the cold variety, and absolutely none of that ridiculous atrocity he'd heard about in places where the ample precipitation became cold enough to freeze and coat the ground. It was enjoyable, to say the least, and if he ever wavered on this point, he need only remember back to a time when he'd been forced to visit some distant relative, of whom he knew no more than name and station. Peter...Peter...well, okay. He didn't know the name, either.

In any case, this distant and mysterious relative lived in one of these mythical frozen-water regions, and at nine years old, Degan had loathed the whole ordeal. Granted, the chilly white blanket which had hidden the earth for the better part of his stay did clump together nicely, making for ideal projectiles when fooling about with his brothers and sisters. And he had discovered that if you removed your gloves--made of animal skin and lined with wool for warmth--and further compressed the lumpy bullet, they became hard like ice and struck your siblings with all the more force.

But the...what was it called now? Hell? No, no, hail. That was it...though the former seemed a much more fitting name--the hail which had assailed them at their temperature was something Degan would never forget. Even with the hood of his thick woolen cap pulled up over his ears, a cap resting snugly beneath that, the walnut sized balls of eyes pounded his skull relentlessly to the point where he thought he'd collapse under their tireless drumming.

It was rather like that now. There was no snow, no ice, no cold, and no protection from the tiny fists beating him over the head. But the ancient vendor was just as relentless and just as unforgiving.

"Madam!" Degan shouted, half in frustration, half because he was sure the torture was making him deaf, "For the umpteenth time, I am sorry! The crowd, you see--I was following a friend, and--Oh, Praeterra help me, alright! If you will just cease this damned assault, I will pay for your stall and all its contents, just STOP!"

The wizened woman seemed quite pleased with this, at once abandoning all semblances of senility. It was everything Degan had in him not to deliver the woman a blow or two of his own, maybe loosen one of the three remaining yellowed teeth which leered at him now. In any case, by the time the whole ordeal was over, Degan had felt he'd wasted a good portion of the day. And, of course, Kaysen was nowhere to be found.

"I swear, the girl can't stay put for more than two minutes at a time," he grumbled to himself, starting off through the crowd in the direction she'd been so insistent on before.

He wasn't surprised she'd left--patience was not her strong suit, at least not to his knowledge. It was strange that she had returned by now, though. The girl was independent, he had that much to say about her. But she also had a tendency to get bored quickly, and if that were the case, she'd have come back to find him, and together they would have...found another way to pass the time. But she hadn't returned yet, and it had been several minutes.

Which meant her current task was either important...or dangerous.

Degan frowned. He liked the prospect of neither.

He had long since suspected Kay was hiding something from him. He was neither offended, nor concerned. After all, considering her time spent with him, she had at least a double life. But he'd never suspected it was anything serious. He'd even toyed with the idea of her seeing another man, though he quickly forgot that idea. Accurate or not, it was nothing he wanted to think about.

But the way she'd acted when he'd found her today...the way she'd taken off through the crowd, insisting he keep his head down...

Degan, while perhaps a tad clumsy and careless at times, was not a fool. Coming from his family, he could not afford to be. He was ashamed and frustrated it had taken him this long to figure it out: Kaysen had been tailing someone. Who or why, he could not say. But if she were not back yet, it was either because she'd found her mark...or they'd found her.

All at once, he quickened his pace, ignoring Kay's earlier warning, straightening to his full height. Instantly, he was transformed, and people began moving out of his way. He didn't miss the looks he'd got from a few of them--he was not the first of his rank to come through these parts. Who had Kay been tailing, then? His concerned doubled, and when he could not find her after several minutes, he stopped the first street rat he could find, pressing a silver into the boy's grubby hand.

"You there," he said gruffly, keeping his eyes on the ever shifting crowd. "Did you see a woman walk by here? Red hair? Green eyes?"

The boy considered for a moment, then looked squinted up at Degan, studying the house tattoos, before smiling wanly and holding out a hand. "I can't say, sir. Don't remember, see?"

Degan clenched his jaw, just barely keeping himself from throttling the boy. Instead, he lifted another silver piece from his pouch and dropped at the boy's feet. "And now?"

The boy grinned again, nodding in earnest. "Ah, right, sir. I remember now. Lady like that came by here not ten minutes ago."

Degan started. "Where? Which direction did she go?"

The boy pointed through the throngs of people, to the western exit from the bazaar. "That way, sir. But you ought to know she wasn't alone."

Degan frowned. "Who was she with?"

The boy held out his hands, indicating a size Degan hoped was hyperbole. "A man, sir. One of the underground folk, and a large bloke at that. Carried her right over his shoulder, he did. She looked like she would be 'sleep for another fortnight, with any luck."

The instant of panic Degan felt was covered up by grim determination as he straightened without a word and headed back toward his estate. The man who'd taken Kay would pay the price of whatever cavalry Degan Montclair could round up.