Northgate
73rd Winter 217
Sergeant Deren Lake is waiting at the edge of an alley, across the street from the Majestic. He stands, straight-backed at first, then leans against the wall, unsure which position is more fitting of an officer—serious professionalism or the nonchalance that comes with power. He straightens, crosses his arms, unfolds them, and then decides to rest one hand on the pommel of his shortsword. He shifts his weight to his back foot, then looks down the street, slightly, toward the brothel.
Deren hadn’t been nervous this morning, when another of the guardsmen had japed about the return of the Sergeant’s Savage—the Jorungun girl Deren had been so pleased to see again. Deren had challenged the man to say it again, and then, for his insubordination, assigned him to cover his evening shift.
That had been satisfying. And it meant he’d have more time with Vanja.
Deren sweeps his hand up over the back of his neck, where his hair is shorn close to the scalp. He’s sweating, a little, even in the winter chill. He pulls his tabard down, sharply, and admires—not for the first time—the way the new golden insignia catches the light.
There’s the sound of women’s voices, a peal of laughter, and the soft thud of a closing door. Deren looks up, at the Majestic, again. Caoth, the part-orc bouncer nodding to a trio of girls stepping into the snow. Deren watches as one of the girls reaches up to the scaffolding still attached to the side of the building, and knocks an icicle to the ground. The girls are bundled for the weather, but even at this distance he can tell none are Vanja. They didn’t move in that forward-leaning way she did.
Maybe she wasn’t coming. Maybe he’d been a fool. Said something wrong, last night, offended her.
But then she’s there—arriving from the opposite direction as he expected, pink-cheeked and slightly breathless.
“Hei, Swan Deren,” she says, smiling up at him.
By the Harvest, she looks well, he thinks. Vanja’s in blue, her kirtle a shade darker than that too-short cloak she favored. Her hood is down, her hair windswept. As she moves, one of her braids falls over her shoulder. Deren reaches out, pushing the braid back, his fingers brushing over her collarbone. The dress is cut in the Isendelian style, and Deren notices where Vanja’s freckles fade before the edge of the wide square neckline. He swallows, hard, and pulls his hand away.
Vanja laughs a little, then seems to catch herself, and stops. She looks up at him, her head cocked, staring at him, those blue eyes seeming to look right through him.
“It’s been a long time,” he says, finally, “It’s good to see you.”
“Not so long,” she says, “We saw one another last night.”
Deren laughs, “That’s true, I mean properly, though.” He shifts, awkwardly, “Not staying at the Majestic, then?”
“No,” says Vanja, “I imagine they’ve replaced me, by now.” She looks across the street, and Deren watches the expression on her face shift, smiling for a moment before her brows knit, and she lets out a sharp, little ‘pah’ sound. She shrugs, “I’m staying with friends, right now.”
“The friends who you’re going South with?”
“Yes,” says Vanja. She’s still turned, slightly away, watching the door of the brothel.
As they watch, a pair of shorter men—halflings, maybe—attempt to enter. Caoth stops them. Her low voice carries across the street as she turns them away. Not halflings, then. Human boys.
Deren hesitates. He doesn’t want to pry, to push into Vanja’s personal life, but he can tell something is distracting her, bothering her. Before she’d gone, they’d had an easy, uncomplicated courtship. Then, she’d been quick with a joke, laughing easily, teasing him for skipping shifts to see a girl he’d met at a brothel. Easy to read, too, he’d thought. Direct. Unafraid to take control and show her…affection, sometimes with a little force, which Deren quite liked. Then, though, they’d been lucky to catch a few hours between his shifts at the White Ward and her irregular physician’s schedule.
And that’s all different now, he thinks, firmly. He could afford his own place, maybe even in the Farrow, he wouldn’t be obligated to stay at the barracks every night, and he had more control over his schedule, too, and she—
Deren looks over at Vanja. She’s still staring across the street. Deren reaches out, touches her shoulder, and she jumps, stepping back, away from him, digging her heel into the gray snow at the edge of the street. Deren can see her chest rising and falling, quick with panic.
“Whoa!” he says. Deren steps toward her, catching her arm. “Vanja, are you alright?” He has her by the hand, now, and his other hand is against her cheek, turning her face toward his. The look on her face is unsettling. He’s seen this sort of expression on soldiers, before, after brutal battles, but Vanja was no soldier.
“Hey,” he says, “Did something…happen? When you…when you were away? With your family, or…” he trails off.
Vanja blinks, and seems to register him clearly. Then, she furrows her brows, and Deren can feel the muscles in her jaw clenching under his hand. If Deren didn’t know better, he’d think she was more than just upset—that she was looking at him with sudden hate.
It only lasts a moment, though, then her expression softens, and Deren can feel her shivering from the cold. No, not shivering. Trembling. He catches her other arm, holding her shoulders now, worried she’ll faint.
Vanja takes a deep breath.
“My brothers are dead,” she says. Her voice is quiet, but he hears her.
“Oh,” says Deren. He pulls her in, close, tight, wrapping his arms around her, “Vanja, I’m so sorry…” She lays her head on his chest, her hand a fist at the edge of his tabard, where the mail is peeking out through the gambeson.
For a moment, Deren breathes her in, stroking her hair, taking in the familiar scent of pine and citrus. Deren presses his lips against her forehead. At this, Vanja turns her face up to his. She has a handful of his tabard as she pulls him down to kiss her properly. For a moment, Deren is caught up, kissing her back, but he stops, catching himself. “Vanja, I—”
She steps back from him, sharp, clear eyes searching his face. She offers him a weak smile, “It’s alright,” she says, “a bad turn in the River.”
Deren nods, but he’s never understood Vanja’s Northern aphorisms.
“Is that why you’re leaving?” Deren asks, “Because of the river? Some…something you can’t control?”
“No.”
Deren steels himself. He’s already told her that she didn’t need to explain why she had to leave, that it wasn’t important…But he was a Painted Swan—he’d seen battle, been decorated for his initiative—If he didn’t ask again, if he let her go so easily…
“Then stay,” he says.
Vanja is quiet for another moment. “My little brother wasn’t with the others,” she says, at last, “I have to find him.” She falls quiet again.
Another group of people entering the Majestic. Sounds of laughter, and a peal of music. Deren notices Caoth the bouncer turn a little. Where she had been scanning the street, now she’s looking steadily toward the alley where he and Vanja are loitering.
Vanja seems to notice it, too. She takes Deren’s hand. “We should go,” she says.
“Oh…yeah, of course. Where did you want…not the Majestic—”
“No,” says Vanja, “not the Majestic.”
“I didn’t mean…not that I wouldn’t…”
by Kate Quimby
Vanja laughs a little, at Deren’s discomfort, and he pulls her close to him again, his arm around her shoulders. Deren can tell she’s still not quite herself—and after that kind of news, he’s not surprised. He knows she and her brothers were close—but he thinks the laughter is a good sign.
“There’s a place in the Farrow I was thinking of,” he says, “A tavern, and I’ve heard good things about the food, if you still want to?”
“Of course I want to. I’m here, now. With you. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to be.” Vanja checks her hip into his leg, and smiles up at him, “and in any case, you still have to tell me all about your…um…promotion.” She stumbles on the word, says it slowly, as if she’s unfamiliar with it.
Deren grins, buoyed up by Vanja’s interest.
As they walk, he tells her about how there’d been reports of bandit activity near Northgate. The bandits had been attacking merchant caravans, raiding supplies, killing people. Deren explains how Captain Kelwin had taken a particular interest, and how then information had come in from House Silverun——some of their Guardsmen had encountered Red Bandanas—and witches, too—to the southeast of the city.
At this, Deren feels Vanja’s shoulders tense, and he pulls her closer, “I didn’t see any witches, though—only bandits. Captain Kelwin took it seriously, though. He sent the Field Marshal.”
“Who’s that?” asks Vanja.
“He’s in charge of all of the military activity around here. I don’t know that you would have seen him around the city, but the locals call him the Wolf.”
“Oh,” says Vanja, “I’ve heard of the Wolf.”
Deren shrugs, and continues his story. He tells Vanja how the Swans had surrounded the bandit camp, pinning them in, but that the bandits had tried to scatter. Only a small group stood their ground, staying to fight.
Vanja gasps.
“Ah, don’t worry,” says Deren, “It wasn’t much of a fight, really. They’re bandits, not soldiers. We had some trouble with that orc leader of theirs, and another one of them, a tall one, with a pole axe, pulled a few of the riders from their horses.” He squeezes her arm, chuckles, “But we’re Painted Swans.”
“Did you have to fight?” Vanja asks. Her voice is soft, almost breathless.
Deren leans in, in response, shifting his arm over Vanja’s shoulder, pulling her even closer as they continue to walk. His lips are at her ear now, and he allows himself a brief kiss to her temple before he continues his story. He keeps voice low, almost conspiratorial, unable to resist the chance to tell the story of his own heroism in detail.
“Yes,” he says. “So, while most of us were focused on the bandits who had stayed to fight, I realized there was a group heading into the woods—trying to run. And I saw what I had to do—I rallied a group, a half-dozen men from the vanguard, and redirected them. We had to move quickly, but I had the thought to take one of the abandoned horses. I led my men around to flank the runners, to cut off the escape. And I heard one of the bandits yelling directions, something in Dwarven, or Jorungun, you know. I rode up on him, right alongside—and he was this brute, face full of freckles, a big flat nose, I was that close, I could see the sweat on him. And as I rode up, he drew his longsword, and I struck down—”
Deren hears Vanja’s breath catch, and a small sound like a sob. Deren stops his story, stops walking, and looks at Vanja. Her face is pale, freckles vibrant on her cheeks.
By the Harvest… he thinks. I’m a fool… talking about risking my life fighting bandits. She’s scared to lose me, too.
Even so, Deren feels a warm swell of pride in his chest. He puts both arms around Vanja, shielding her from the cold, wrapping them both in the folds of his cloak.
“Hey, I didn’t mean…I’m okay, really. I’m safe. You don’t have to worry about me,” Deren says, trying to reassure her, “I barely got hurt.”
“But what about the…brute? The swordsman?”
Deren smiles a little, the side of his mouth quirking up slightly. He takes a moment to push back the sleeve of his gambeson, exposing his forearm and the newly-earned scar across it. The bandit’s sword had been sharp, so the wound had been deep but healed cleanly. Vanja takes his hand in both of hers, tracing the scar with her fingers. Her touch is warm.
“A souvenir,” Deren says, “and the swordsman was worse.”
“Did you…” Vanja hesitates, and Deren notices her lips trembling. “Did you kill him?”
“Ah. No. He was rounded up like the others to see the Baroness’ justice in the square. Executed, then, though. You don’t have to worry about him. He’s long gone.”
Vanja is quiet at this, as they resume walking. It’s some time before she speaks again. “I’m glad you’re safe,” she says, at last.
Deren changes the subject. Filling the silence by talking instead about things Vanja may have missed while she had been away from Northgate. The new troupes of players. The beasts brought to fight in the Grand Theater. There’s a moment of confusion, and Deren laughs, explaining that player troupes usually didn’t perform alongside monsters—two different types of theatres. He comments about how little of the city Vanja has really seen, and Vanja agrees it’s a shame.
At the tavern door, Vanja catches Deren’s hand, and stops him.
Deren steps away from the door, but he and Vanja have blocked the entrance, slightly. A small group of patrons push past them, into the tavern. One of the men bumps Vanja and grunts a comment, something about Jorunguns in this part of town, and Deren stands taller. At the sight of the mulberry tabard, at the insignia of office, the man pales, stumbles over himself with apology, and moves quickly from the tavern entrance.
“I don’t know that I want to sit and eat,” Vanja says.
“No one will bother you if I’m with you,” Deren responds, “But we can go somewhere else, if you like.”
Vanja shakes her head, “I’m not hungry, really.” She hesitates for a moment, before looking back up at Deren, eyes bright. She lifts herself on tiptoe, and kisses him. “I just want to be with you.”
The next morning, when Deren wakes up, Vanja is no longer in bed.
She’d fallen asleep the night before, curled next to him, her head on his chest. He’d stayed awake a while longer, though, running his fingers through her hair, his hand over her back, tracing shapes to connect her freckles and the small marks in her skin that, if Deren didn’t know better, he’d think were arrow wounds.
He’d noticed other old injuries, too, earlier in the night. A puckered indent at Vanja’s hip—thrown in relief by the room’s flickering lamp. A line of white across her stomach—she had winced when he’d touched it, and when he’d asked, Vanja had told him she was fine. It was just the memory of an injury. Deren had expressed concern—and Vanja had kissed him, reassured him, reminded him she was a physician, and chastised him for worrying over her. He’d become…distracted and hadn’t asked again.
Now, Deren sits up slowly, looking around the rented tavern room. He’s expecting to see Vanja dressing, or at the washbasin. He would ask her to come back to bed, spend the morning with him, too, and if she was still set on leaving, he’d at least insist on walking her back to wherever it was she was staying. She had told him she’d be in the city a few days more, so maybe…
But Vanja’s not there. Her things, too, are gone. Deren’s own clothes—abandoned on the floor in his earlier haste and enthusiasm—are in a neatly folded pile on the chest at the foot of the bed.
On top of the clothes is a lock of red hair, braided in the intricate Jorungun style, the ends tied together with a thin piece of leather cord. Beneath the braid—contrasted nearly white against the dark mulberry of his tabard—is a piece of paper, folded in half.
Deren takes the loop of braid in his hand and brings it to his face. It smells pleasantly of her. Of pine and citrus. He fidgets with it, weaving the braid between his fingers as he opens the note.
The letter has been started several times, the charcoal rubbed out, erasing all lines but the last. The imprints are visible, though, and he can make out some of it as he holds the letter to the window.
*I have toI~~’ll write to*~~
I’m sorry and
If things had been different, then
*You don’t know what IIf I’d told you, then maybe you*
It’s not safe for
Then, printed clearly, below the fold:
Deren
I wish I could stay.
Don’t wait for me.
- Vanja
Deren blinks, furrows his brow. Reads the note again. A third time. It was no different than he’d expected, really. Still, he’d thought that maybe—after last night—it meant Vanja might have changed her mind.
Deren wraps the braid around his wrist, and reads the note again. He feels a lump in his throat and swallows, hard. He shakes his head, trying to set aside his disappointment.
He would push through. He has to.
He is, after all, a Painted Swan.
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