Legend of Ransera

Night.

He passed food stands and massage parlours, a "coffee shop" called Beautiful Girl, though its name was in some other language. The name came from the signage and from what else the shop sold. Oren stepped out of the way to let a black-clad man by. He had the look of someone who would find trouble in this neighborhood, though he only thought it an edgy neighborhood to slum around in. The man was local and should know better; this part of the city was full of foreigners off of the river. Groups of sailors up from the port, tense solitary people in what they thought was disguise as they sought pleasures that weren't on official menus, and a dozen different species of hustler, all dancing like a swarm of insects eager for commerce and sex. The man must have been too needy to seek to disguise himself or his intent.

The knife-thin ginger had heard any number of theories why the powers of Cathena City tolerated this enclave, but he rather believed that the more established underworld elements kept it as a reminder of its humble origins and a warning where the high and mighty might end up if they didn't end up dead — people like Oren, who had fucked up utterly but had been left alive because living hurt more. He also saw a certain sense to the notion that cities needed outlaw zones, that it wasn't there for its inhabitants, but so the rest of the city could be respectable and clean.

Was Jamila right, he wondered, looking up briefly to track the moon's slow progress? Would Dett kill him to make an example now that he wasn't protected by his father's aegis or his mother's? It didn't make much sense, but then Dett was dealing primarily in narcotics, and some said you had to be crazy to do that.

But Jamila said Dett wanted him dead. His primary insight into the street deal was that neither the buyer nor the seller really needed him. As a middleman, he thrived by making himself out to be a necessary evil, like the enclave itself. The dubious niche he had carved for himself had been woven with lies and betrayals. Now that he felt his comeback crumbling around him, it almost felt like the euphoria of the product

Just the past week, he had delayed a deal just so he could retail it for a bit more. Dett hadn't liked that and he was Oren's most reliable supplier. Somehow Dett had managed to secure a supply chain and was sitting pretty, men like Oren a necessary evil, perhaps, but mostly an annoyance. Did that deserve death, though? Did it matter, in the end, what was deserved? But the answers weren't to be found through this shop window. He found himself then wasting time in front of a stall selling cheap weapons. The star-shaped throwing daggers offered no astrology he could read.

"Time to see Edie," he murmured to himself.

Edain was old, or so it was said. He was one of those golden elves from Sol'Valen, or so it was said. Oren had no way of knowing except that elderly humans in the business had frequently said he had been there since they could remember. Even when Oren was sure of something, he held onto the possibility that it could be a lie. Or a half-truth. Or any other of the infinite shades of gray between Truth and Lie. Perhaps he went back to his homeland for new clothes every year because they weren't the sort being sold in Cathena. Though he was a he, there was something sexless and androgynous about him, as though his self-expression through clothes and interests had replaced carnal desires — which was fine; it was Edain. He was singular like that and Oren had ceased trying to understand him. They got on well enough and he was a private sort, despite how openly he lived.

Oren had never seen him in the same clothes twice, and they all looked like costumes. His spectacles aura glass and framed in the thinnest gold, beveled like mirrors.

His office was in a warehouse, part of which was decorated with foreign furniture. It was like he had intended it as a home at some point — or perhaps he did live here, married to his work. Oren knocked the passcode against the door, which unlocked it long enough for him to step into a vestibule. He felt the tingle of magic, and then the inner door opened on the Hytori.

"You seem to be clean, son," he said like he always did. Clean of what? Oren wasn't sure. "Come in."

The import-export service was legitimate or, at least, legitimate enough for most authorities. The elf sat at his desk, regarding Oren from a pool of light cast by an antique brass lamp shaded by painted glass. There were bits and pieces of clockwork on his desk like always, something he never seemed to get around to assembling.

"What brings you by, my boy?" He nudged a crystal candy dish forward. There were ginger confections and other things wrapped in wax paper. Today, the thought made his stomach roil. "Try one. They're the best."

"Edie, I hear Dett wants me dead," he said, cutting to the chase as he sprawled in a chair opposite the desk, fidgeting with the hem of his tunic.

"Ahh... and where did you hear this?"

"People."

"People." The elf selected a little bonbon for himself and sucked on it thoughtfully. "Friendly people?" After Oren nodded, he continued, "It can be difficult to know if friendly people are friends..."

"I do owe him money, Edie. But did he say anything to you?"

"We haven't been in touch lately," he said glibly. Then, after a sigh, "but if I did know, I might not be in a position to tell you. You understand. Things being the way they are."

"Things." Oren's voice was flat, not even a question.

"He is and important connection, Oren."

"Yeah," he replied, flat again. "Does he want me dead, Edie?"

"Not that I know of." The elf shrugged. They might still have been discussing his candies. "But if it turns out to be just a rumor, do come back in a week or so and I might have something for you to move."

Oren's sharp eyes narrowed. "Something out of—"

"Ah, ah, ah," he warned good-naturedly. "Loose lips."

"Yeah, all right," Oren said, deflating even as he stood up. "Maybe I'll see you in a week or so, then. I'll give your best to Dett." Edain's fingers came up to brush the perfect knot of the pale silk cravat at his neck. He smiled. It was unreadable. Edain liked Oren, but business was business. Honor among thieves and all that. But it wasn't until he was halfway down the block when it struck him, the hackle-raising awareness that someone was following him and close.

A low-key paranoia was something he took as right and necessary. The trick was not letting it get out of control, like so many things in life. But that could be quite a trick when other things were out of control, as well. He wanted one of the little tablets now. Fighting a rising tide in his blood, he composed his vulpine features into a mask of bored vacancy, letting the current of the crowd carry him, though he was poised to change course suddenly and without warning.

Pausing at a stall, he tried to feel all the tiny signals in the air that a mind would take and turn into intuition. He resumed his turn, lazily making a circle all told so he could continue moving. There. Behind a group of sailors — dark hair, dark clothing — and gone before he could identify them.

Then Oren was running, bent low, dodging between bodies.



The Low-City felt like home. He hadn't lived there for years, but when his mood was black and he remembered he was worthless, it was easy to find environs to match what was internal. But he wasn't in the doldrums now. Now he was hunting, though it was a long chase. He turned the corner and saw a familiar hooded figure. After a moment to gauge the effect, he hissed through his teeth. Though there was no indication in their carriage that he had been heard, a sibilant voice welcomed him.

"Sso, you sstill remember how to get around down here?" she asked in a throaty contralto. Then she began to walk, though, she might as well have been gliding. He hustled until he caught up with her.

"You're still short," he replied, "but the shoulder pads and all... You do look a bit more don't fuck with me than before."

The face under her hood could have been his sister's if his mother had fucked a snake. Knowing his mother, he wouldn't put it past her. She had certainly been cold-blooded.

"I don't sstart fightss," she protested, albeit without rancor. Her shoulder moved in a sinuous shrug.

"You finish them," Aurin finished.

Elwes Anizhe moved fairly quickly for being so short, but Aurin slowed his gait until they were both walking at a comfortable pace. In companionable silence, they turned a corner and ducked into a dive bar. She went to claim a dark corner probably most often used for dark deeds while he bought them a round of something palatable and a pickled hard-boiled egg on a skewer for her. Her serpentine smile was small, but it was clear she was still amused by how horrified he had been the first time he had seen her eat. Of course, it had been a live rat and he had been nearly desperate to do the same. Ah, nostalgia!

He sat across from her, his back to the door. It was a show of trust, that. But he knew she would be watching his back and that was enough. With one delicate motion, she ate the egg whole and then they settled in to discuss business over their beer.

"I infiltrated the addresss," she said. "Organized. Cartel, perhapss. Sscertainly ssusspiciouss..."

He chuckled. He couldn't help it when she purposefully used more sibilants than necessary. It tickled his ear. For a cold-hearted bitch, she had an interesting sense of humor.

"Foreign or domestic?" he pressed.

"Unclear. Ssome of the sstock was foreign, but everyone sspoke their Common like Kalzassi sscitizenss."

"Curiouser and curiouser." He sipped ruminatively, absently imagining Arry pretending to vomit after tasting it. The lad had really committed to his role. "So the managing director of a respectable business owes debts that are being paid by a cartel. I wonder why. And I wonder how much rope they will give her before she hangs herself."

"Do you want me to hang her?" Elwes asked without irony.

A short snort of laughter preceded a shake of his head. "I don't think that will be necessary. I'm just learning the rules of the game so I can bend them."

"Ever the foxss," she noted. "Sstill playing sstraight for your ssongbird?"

"I'm sure he'll be pleased if I can get him an expedited audition with the artistic director," he said, amused and not quite guarded. Elwes thought that Arry had made him soft, whereas he asserted that caring for Arry had kept him on the straight and narrow — at least compared to how fast and loose he used to fuck with life. "But this could be the key to bigger things like I've been telling you."

"Yess..." she acknowledged. It sounded like a sigh, but she was not averse to his plans. She just expressed herself differently from anyone he had ever met.

"I won't try to move you out of your territory," he promised, "but you could afford a more secure place. I could get you some enchanted baubles to get you out of tight situations."

"I have agreed to your termss," she said, cutting him off. It might have been rude from anyone else. She was merely pragmatic and saw no need to waste time rehashing things or being sentimental. "Your rissk is calculated, and I trusst you."

"Likewise," he replied with a fox fire smile. "Now, this is the next move..."

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