A Mischief in the Woodwork - By Harper Alexander Page 0,32
ahead, and I hugged the wall to take it, cautious, but around the bend lay only what I had come there looking for.
Johnny's lanky silhouette was cast at the end of this new length, waiting for me. With more confidence, I treaded toward him, business on my mind.
I was also glad to see him well after watching him disappear into the ill-tasting gloom following my warning of the day-savvy wardog.
“Johnny,” I greeted as I came to his side.
He stood with his shoulders raised and hunched against his turned-up collar, hands in his pockets. But he had a way of making the cold look casual. He always had.
Then I realized it wasn't very cold, especially nestled here in the alley.
He nodded. “Vant.”
“The usual renewal,” I said as I reached into my pack and withdrew his sack of goods.
He slipped it discreetly into his own pack, until a cough sent his hand quickly to his mouth and the rest of the sack spilled to the bottom of the larger one.
A twinge of concern arched through me.
“It'll be by,” he assured me by way of sealing the deal, but I felt odd about simply turning and leaving him just like that, signs of instability ignored in my wake.
“Are you ill?” I asked, taking in his form again.
“It's nothing,” he dismissed, but I could see the dark circles under his secretive eyes now. And, even though he didn't move, he seemed to shrink deeper into his coat. Perhaps he only looked smaller.
“Pollution runs wild out there,” I warned, as if he didn't know that.
“It's just the elements,” he insisted.
I gave a whisper of a shrug, not buying. “The elements are cruel.”
He sniffed. “The paper doesn't stop for the elements, Monvay.” Then quieter, but more firmly; “The paper doesn't stop.”
I hesitated a moment, but nodded in understanding. He was like a knight delivering a message for his king, he was. A devoted messenger. And the paper was like the wheel of our world. He had taken it upon himself to turn it, and turn it he would. He would not let the people down. He was the voice that they clung to.
A little resignedly, I reached into my pack and withdrew the papers I had brought to return. I handed them to him for re-use, letting respect glint in my eyes.
“I'll be seeing you, then,” he said.
“Take care of that,” I bade regarding his condition, and at his guarded nod I turned to leave. Lingering wouldn't do either of us any good. Johnny was made of stubborn stuff just like the rest of us were. I could only trust he knew how to take care of himself out there.
Out here.
I paused, and looked back over my shoulder. He raised a quizzical brow.
“Have you seen it?” I asked. “The wardog?”
“Not a sniff,” he replied.
I breathed in relief, but it only tasted sour as it settled in my gut. For there was something to be said about the discomfort of not knowing such a status, rather than the dread of confirmation.
*
After the task of threading my way back out of the great maze I had immersed myself in, I found a surprise waiting for me at the gates of the city.
Tanen.
What did he want?
There was something in his hands, I saw as I came closer. It looked a bit like a corset, but gray – or silver? What on earth was he doing clutching a corset in his fool hands?
Wearily, I treaded up. I didn't speak my questioning thoughts, but rather let my idle stance press him for an explanation.
“I found the candles. Thank you,” he said.
I nodded.
“And this, for you.” He thrust the garment contraption at me.
“What is it?” I asked warily, unable to tell even now that it was before me.
“An...undergarment,” he identified with a bit of his own bemusement, twirling it delicately as if admitting its nature made him unsure of how to handle it. “Reinforced for protection.” And with that, purpose returned to his face, and his grasp on the entity was sure again.
And then I could see it – the makeshift chainmail wired over the fabric that looked like it might have come from one of the curtain-oriented fireplace screens I had seen in my time, and the extra boning, an array of metal pieces, that lined the outside.
“Armor?” I asked in disbelief – skepticism? – as I identified it.
“So you won't be caught ill-prepared again.”
I considered it, dangling from his patient hand. “You just...found this?”