Tarn to reach the industrial sector known locally as East Tar, adding yet another layer of grey to the smog-filled skyline. The forges lay cold and dormant in the midst of the city’s celebrations, but little evidence of the festivities had permeated this part of Shadowport. East Tar was a dreary, moribund place; for Tarn, it was home.
He cursed his bad leg as it sent a fierce stab of pain down into his knee. The sudden jolt caused him to stumble forwards into a suspicious damp patch on the ground.
A boy’s laughter reached his ears. ‘See that, Tomaz? Fat bastard nearly flopped face down into your piss!’
‘He’s probably drunk again.’
Tarn’s fists balled, the anger surging within him. There were six of them, local lads. An ugly bunch.
One of the youths swaggered right up to him and sniffed. ‘He’s not drunk.’
‘For once. Guess his wife is safe tonight. You saw those bruises he gave her?’
‘Yeah. Her face was all yellow and brown, like a dog turd.’ The speaker, now safely back among his fellows, gave Tarn a sly look. ‘Still, put a bag over her head and it’d make no difference, know what I mean?’ The youth thrust his hips forwards and made grunting noises, much to the delight of the rest of the gang.
Tarn began to shake. He stepped towards them, his face bulging in rage. In an instant the youths’ casual amusement switched to deadly seriousness, their feral eyes locked on him, hands straying to their belts. Tarn knew the odds weren’t in his favour. He didn’t care. He just wanted to hurt them.
At that moment the first patter of rain began to fall. With it came something intangible and unseen, a convergence of vast energies that all present sensed but could not articulate.
‘Huh,’ said one of the gang, and looked around at his fellows.
‘Best get back,’ Tomaz said. ‘I have to let Tyro in. He don’t like the rain.’
The others nodded, murderous thoughts replaced by concern for their friend’s dog. They melted away into the gathering rain, shooting Tarn baleful glares but saying nothing.
Tarn bowed his head against the acidic rain as he made his unsteady way through the slippery streets. He needed to get home: Sara would be waiting for him. The wind had picked up, gusting cold water into his face. He blinked it away. Night had settled over the city like a blanket.
He hated what he’d become, but what could he do? The drink had broken him – broken him as completely as the falling cargo had shattered his leg. All the coin he had put aside for the last ten years, a full ten gold spires, gone on a physician who had saved the limb but left him crippled and broke. Sara deserved better.
He was almost home. What if she’d left before he had the chance to apologize? She was younger than him, a woman in her prime. She hadn’t been able to provide him with any children, but there were apothecaries in the city that might have helped with that. Shadowport’s recent advances in the sciences had been the talk of the Trine before the war.
There was no chance of hiring an apothecary now, not with his pockets near empty.
He approached the door to his modest home. There was no light from within. All was silent apart from the steady patter of rain rolling off the slate roof and down the red-brick walls to splash on the cobbles below. Tarn felt a moment of panic.
A light suddenly flickered on and the door opened. Sara stood there before him, the candle in her hand illuminating the fading bruises on her face. Without a word, she turned and moved into the kitchen. He followed her.
The small dining table was set with two bowls. He took his seat as Sara placed the candle down and walked over to the iron stove. She returned with the battered old stew pot and ladled a generous portion of the warm casserole into his dish and a smaller portion into her own, and placed two wooden spoons on the table. Then she sat down opposite him.
A half-bell passed. Sara barely glanced at him. She hardly touched her food. The dull ache in his skull was returning. He sat back and searched for the words he’d been waiting to say.
‘Sara… I never meant to touch you. You know that. I’m a bloody fool. A useless, crippled fool. I’m so—’
The bowl flew past his head, missing it by scarcely an inch. Sara’s