1        Soul Bound 1.3      Making a Splash 1.3.3    An Unrequited Love 1.3.3.13 Scarrow

9:30 am, Sunday June 11th, 2045

3 bells of the dog watch

Morday full, 17th day of the month of KrevinBelember, A2F1600

The Scarrow parish, part of the Ghetto area of Torello's Basso District

Quest Status Report "The road less travelled" Minutes left : 150 Initial total : 300 Current total : 260 Required total : 100 Current effective : 176 Current dependant : 84 Current other : 40 Total Alpha Beta Gamma Delta (All groups) (Elderly) (Scouts) (Workers) (Children) E D x E D x E D x E D x E D x 176 84 40 8 33 9 6 1 3 148 1 10 14 48 18 -11 +1 +10 -11 +1 +10

As soon as they left the brick buildings of the open street for the shanty shacks of the Scarrow parish, Kafana found herself assaulted by a bad smell. No, not a 'bad smell' - that was a pitifully inadequate way to describe such an eye-watering stench. It distorted the fading light as it coiled up from the liquid covering the surface of the muddy path with every step Tomsk and Bulgaria took, like a disturbed snake, and then settled back down into pools; so dense it could probably be poured into a bowl like some dark and oily soup. Or perhaps not. Who'd eat a soup that reeked of rotten meat and ammonia? It would probably dissolve the bowl. In her mind, she gave it a name of its own, capitalised like a person.

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It was the Reek.

The mud grew deeper and the light grew worse as the path sloped downwards. Bulgaria did his best to keep up the pace, trying to avoid the worst puddles by ducking under the edge of huts half built on stilts or using the occasional wooden board that had fallen off the side of one of them and now lay flat and sodden in the mire, but in under a minute he'd lost sight of the professional bearers carrying Pierrot ahead of them. Kafana could feel hostile eyes watching them. Hadn't they'd been warned this morning they'd be safe in the Ghetto, just as long as they stayed out of the Scarrow? She gulped, as she caught a sudden movement out of the corner of her eye.

A nearby shack had a piece of thin muslin nailed over a window opening, but it had been torn and she could clearly see the small bespectacled figure inside, hunched over a barrel end that was the room's only piece of furniture, using it as a table to support an elaborate wig while he worked on grooming it for nits. The deer antler comb he'd been using had a sharp point on the handle, or so she guessed from the way it pierced the far wall, still quivering from the force with which the wigmaker had flung it. He walked over to retrieve it and the rat he'd skewered, biting off the tail and dropping the rest into a cooking pot.

She took hold of herself firmly. Was she a child, to be frightened by the new and unknown? She turned to Wellington, who had pulled open the sedan chair's curtains and was examining the ropes and wire stretched between buildings ahead, absently moving his fingers between combinations of positions as he attempted to model something in his mind. He was always hard to read, but that seemed to be a good sign.

Kafana: "Are we safe now?"

Tomsk: "From immediate attack by guards? Yes, I think so. I wouldn't like to try riding a horse down here, and without them they lose their advantage in mobility. People living in the Scarrow had a reputation for resenting anyone who tries telling them what to do, and no guard enjoys having stuff flung at them from the shadows. They don't stick their noses in here unless they have numbers and a really compelling reason to."

Wellington disagreed: "At best this is like an earthen bunker, of the sort High Mage Camillo showed us how to make. A temporary fortification you can ensconce yourself in for a brief rest - good for hiding from random dangers, but poor protection against a serious enemy who is targeting you in particular."

Tomsk: "The mages Pazzi is using to track us are a problem, true, but he's not the only one who can make plans. I've asked Bungo to pick up a few things for me, and we can afford to wait here until he can get to rendezvous. If we can find the damn Muster."

He muttered the last bit as a board wobbled under his feet, making the carrying pole sway alarmingly. She looked down to discover that the surface liquid had now become a real stream, which flowed down the middle of the path forcing travellers to zig-zag along a series of narrow timbers that acted as bridges over the mire. The sky above them was no longer visible because the huts on either side, built higher and higher upon the remains of previous crumpled ones as the slope steepened, now overhung the lower stories so much they formed a tunnel, reminding Kafana of an occasion when a group of young tourists had gotten so drunk she'd refused to serve them anything but coffee and they'd only managed to stagger out of her establishment by leaning against each other for support.

They pushed on until the gloom made it hard to see each other, let alone pick out a safe path. Bulgaria raised his hand to signal Tomsk he was halting, then put two fingers in his mouth and let out a long warbling whistle. A minute later a thin girl appeared with a long stained fragment of timber bound to her back by strips of cloth, curving forwards above her head and ending in a rusted iron cage containing a brick of dried horse dung. Sail canvas trousers were held about her bony hips by strands of tar-stained rope and something about her scaly skin and fast jerky movements reminded her of Jolanda, jealous mistress of the Fiorio gambling den in the Arsenal district.

Lucille: "Need a link-girl, guv? Only ten osella a bell."

Bulgaria: "Five."

He paused a moment, watching her face closely and probably using a skill, then added "and an extra fifteen if you get us safely to the Muster. We're a bit ragged."

Her face lit up with a grin.

Lucille: "Deal and seal. I'm Lucille."

She spat on her hand then held it out. Was that normal, or a test which would reveal outsider stooges by their revulsion or hesitation? It was a moot question, because Bulgaria immediately matched her, making it seem like the most natural and obvious thing in the world. The two shook on their deal, and he whispered something to her while he passed her the first instalment of bronze coins.

Lucille: "Of course, guv, already forgotten. Everyone knows I'm as blind as a cavern quail and no good at names."

And that was Bulgaria for you. Even when harried by conflict and in the least promising of places, he would still take a moment to build bridges; to focus on a new person as an individual, to see what they had in common and make them feel like they mattered. Was gaining allies really that important?

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