Nightfire | The Whispering Wall #1 - Chapter 16: Chapter 16

Killian's grip on him on was painfully tight, as if he thought Jordan might bolt if he let go. Jordan might have found that idea faintly ridiculous if his mind hadn't gone blank with panic.
The view from behind the wagon was limited at best, but he didn't need to see anything to know that whatever was happening wasn't good. There were screams and crashes, and amongst it all a ceaseless chanting in a language Jordan didn't recognise, interspersed with sharp cracking noises.
The Unspoken in brown had joined them where they hid, though Jordan couldn't remember when. He only noticed they were there at all by the sudden presence of crackling magic at his shoulder, and he wasn't sure his cold sweat was because of fear or the proximity. The headache that had been nudging at his temples all morning grew more persistent by the minute, but Killian's bulk blocked him from edging away.
"Cosy down here, isn't it?" the Unspoken said, revealing themselves to be a man who sounded much younger than Jordan had expected. "Hap sent me back here. I can handle myself, though," he added quickly, even though Jordan had said nothing, "He just thinks I'm rash. Can't think why."
He chuckled as if to some private joke. Jordan blinked.
"Would someone like to tell me what's going on?" he whispered, once his thoughts cleared enough for him to speak. He paused as a loud crash echoed over the square as if a table had been overturned.
"It's a demonstration," Killian said. "Representatives from House Nict making us all out to be thieves and sinners, no doubt."
"We're the thieves, by the way," the Unspoken next to Jordan said, "Us Gifted."
"What do they think you stole?"
"Magic, believe it or not," the man replied, and then to an exclamation of surprise nobody had made he added, "I know, it's ludicrous."
"What's that noise?" Jordan asked. "The snapping?"
"Have a look," the Unspoken said, pressing himself against a crate to let Jordan squeeze through. "It's alright, Hap and Nika are in front of the wagon so no one'll see you."
Hesitant, Jordan shuffled forward to poke his head around the side of the cart. Nika turned but didn't acknowledge him. Hap was leaning on his stick, silent.
Jordan peered between them. At first he couldn't make sense of what he was seeing, but then Nika stepped aside to allow him a better view and he gasped. A large group had taken over the market, having cleared aside crowds and stalls alike, and were assembling in haphazard rows. They were all naked save for dark grey loincloths, and they all carried whips. Jordan's insides curdled at the thought that they had been using them to get people to move, but then one man stepped out of the group and turned his back, and he saw that the skin there was severely lacerated.
"Yeah, the Nicts are very dedicated," the Unspoken in brown whispered, crouched right behind Jordan.
Jordan squinted. All the near-naked people in the square were similarly bloodied. The cobbles were spattered with it.
"Harun noch an ahktan Nict!" the man at the front yelled, his voice echoing. "Harun noch an tirktan Nict!"
"Tirkta Nict!" his following echoed.
"What language is that?" Jordan said, unable to tear his eyes away. He sorely regretted it when, as one, the congregation lifted their whips and administered a lash to their backs. On only a few did he spot any sign of discomfort; the others were stoic and focused on the man in front of them.
"It's a language Nict made up for themselves, supposedly," the Unspoken muttered in reply, "Though it's really just a bastard version of Tochk."
The man was still yelling, but it was no longer possible to discern individual words. Jordan, who didn't even know what the Unspoken meant by Tochk, gave up trying very quickly.
"I would strongly advise you to get back behind the wagon." Nika suddenly dropped to a crouch in front of him. Between the two Unspoken, the headache in Jordan's temples tightened until his eyeballs felt like they were being squeezed. "They've moved onto passionate ravings about foreigners and I believe you qualify as one."
Jordan didn't need telling twice. He almost pushed the Unspoken in brown over in his desperation to back up, settling with a pounding heart next to Killian. For the shortest moment, he had felt something hot kindle itself behind his eyes before going out, but not before he had experienced a flash of terror at the crackle that had run over his skin. He told himself it was from brushing past the Unspoken, but his head throbbed worse than ever and his hands and feet were hot with pins and needles.
"Killian," he hissed after a minute, unable to push it from his mind. The giant fidgeted in acknowledgement but didn't turn his gaze from his viewing point around the edge of the wagon. "When will they leave?"
"It won't be long before a patrol comes along to disperse them," Killian muttered. "Harkenn doesn't tolerate religious demonstrations interfering with city trade."
Jordan strained his hearing for the sound of armour, but as yet he couldn't make any out. All he could hear was fanatical yelling and the rush of blood pounding in his ears.
"Killian," he said again, putting his hands against the cold ground to try and cool them off. "I don't feel too good."
Killian finally looked around and grimaced. "You do look terrible. They'll be gone soon, though, try and calm down, eh?"
Jordan nodded, unable to bring himself to elaborate because he already knew what Killian might say. It wasn't that he thought Killian saying it would make something happen, but it would force him to entertain the possibility.
It wasn't long after that that he heard clanking armour coming towards the market square. The shouting fell silent. Following Killian's lead, Jordan got to his feet.
A small group of guards were facing the Nict protesters, who for the first time seemed prepared to use the whips as weapons.
"You know the rules, Marcus," the guard at the front of the patrol said loudly, unperturbed by the ugly glares he was receiving. "No disruptions allowed on market day. I suggest you take it elsewhere before we're forced to arrest you."
Marcus spat. His hand twitched on the handle of his whip, but then he hooked the weapon in the top of his loincloth, dragging it alarmingly low on his waist. He put both hands up and turned, and as he did so, Jordan caught his eye across the square. With alarm Jordan realised his cap must have come off while he was scrambling about behind the cart, because Marcus's eyes travelled up to his hair and then down to his face again.
"Get down," Killian hissed, and Jordan ducked as Marcus pointed an imperious finger in his direction.
"Muul!" he cried.
"Oh, really," Hap said in low tones from somewhere nearby. "There's no need for that at all."
Marcus sounded further away when he next spoke, again crying that word. What he could see of Killian's expression was disdainful, and guessed he was being insulted.
"What does that mean?" he asked. When Killian didn't stop him, he stood up again. His face felt warm and he was horribly aware that everyone in the market now knew he was there, but he was determined not to indulge the staring. Rogue sparks and tingling ran over his skin, but he ignored that too, and tried to find some comfort in the fact that his headache had lessened the moment the Unspoken had moved away.
"It's a derogatory term for outsiders," Killian said. "You don't need to know the direct translation and I'm certainly not repeating it."
He seemed unperturbed by the scene that had unfolded once the demonstrators were gone. Despite the curiosity at Jordan's presence, no one else seemed to harbour any lasting fear or anger over the attack, either; all around the square people were righting their tables and picking up spilled produce as if it was all a normal, mildly irritating occurrence. Killian began assembling his produce on his stall front, which had mercifully escaped the rampaging. Jordan watched him line glass bottles of dark amber ale in neat rows with disbelief.
"I'm Koen."
Jordan turned to find the Unspoken in brown behind him with his hand outstretched.
"Jordan," he muttered. Having his elbow grasped by way of greeting was no less weird the second time.
"Hap's my tutor," Koen continued, though Jordan hadn't asked. "Almost two years now."
Jordan ignored his flash of apprehension. "That's a long time."
"Apprenticeships are typically three years," Koen said seriously, and it perturbed Jordan that the man seemed to think it important that he knew this. "One or two if you're a prodigy. Five if you're shit."
"Koen," Hap said, a warning in his voice. "Don't talk like that. Five is a perfectly reasonable time frame."
"It means you're shit," Koen stage-whispered to Jordan when Hap turned his back. The old man looked over his shoulder. Koen gave a cheery wave. Hap made a motion to suggest he had rolled his eyes, but returned to his conversation with Nika.
Jordan smirked despite himself, which Koen seemed to take as an encouraging sign. Jordan, aware of a number of people on the edge of his field of view looking very much like they wanted to corner him for questions and blessings, didn't object. The presence of the Unspoken was the only thing keeping him from further harassment.
"Say, Killian," Koen said, "How much do you need Jordan to help with today?"
Killian turned from his conversation with a short, pinched-looking woman standing at his stall and held up a finger to wait a moment. Jordan frowned, but Koen only rocked eagerly back and forth on his heels and waited for Killian to finish. Jordan allowed himself a quick scan of the market square, but everything had returned to how it was before. It was as if the demonstration hadn't even happened, and yet a tight knot of fear still lingered in the pit of his stomach. That one glance Marcus had given him – whatever that word he had shouted meant – the hatred in the man's eyes had been both alarming and hard to mistake for anything else. Every time he blinked he saw that ugly expression flash behind his eyelids; the cry of Muul!; the instant attention of every person in the square.
There was nothing he wanted more than to have never left the Demon's Brew that morning. He would have given a limb to be safely secured in that upstairs bedroom with Laurel, still trying to figure out their alphabets and pretending that his life hadn't completely fallen apart.
"That'll be three Shil, ma'am," Killian was saying. He was trying to get the customer to take hold of the vegetables she was purchasing, but her pale eyes were on Jordan. Jordan's heart dropped into his bowels.
Whatever expression was on Killian's face seemed to convince her not to press the point, handing over the money with a sullen face and shuffling away.
"That's the third customer who came over for a look at you," Killian muttered, looking disgruntled. "If you're going to suggest taking him somewhere quiet, Koen, then I think that might be best. Unless you don't mind it," he added to Jordan, without any conviction.
Jordan shook his head. "I don't want to be anywhere near those crazies with the whips."
"Don't say that too loud," Koen said, quite cheerfully, "Not all Nicts are that devout but they still won't take kindly to being called crazies."
Jordan cast a hunted look over the crowd. Many in the crowd returned his look with avid curiosity. "How many are there?"
Koen shrugged. "Most of them look normal."
Jordan swallowed, throat suddenly tight, and nodded again. "I'd really like to get out of here."
"Oi, Hap," Koen said, "Can Jordan have a drink with us?"
"Of course." Hap turned and hobbled over to Jordan with his hand outstretched. They clasped elbows. For the apparent frailty of the man, his grip was surprisingly strong. "Don't worry Killian, we'll bring him back before the market packs up."
Nika said nothing and made no move to acknowledge Jordan, but his gaze was heavy from the darkness of his cowl. Jordan pretended it wasn't anything to do with Nika and he felt uncomfortable because he was on edge, but there was something about the man that wasn't right.
"Thanks Hap," Killian said, and then turned to Jordan with an apologetic look on his face. "Sorry, Jordan, I didn't they would pitch up today. They only demonstrated last week."
"Are you okay by yourself?" Jordan asked awkwardly, aware that Hap and Nika had just left and Koen was clearly two steps short of dragging him away after them.
"I usually do it alone," Killian said with a broad smile, "Pa just thought you could do with seeing more of the city. I'll be fine, you go."
Koen grabbed Jordan's arm and began pulling him away. Jordan just had enough time to grab his cap where it had fallen on a crate and ram it on his head. As he caught up to Koen, who was practically bouncing along, he was struck by doubt and almost turned around. He was about to walk away with three Unspoken, magic users whose proximity made him feel strange and whose faces he'd never seen. Killian trusted them; but how much did he really know Killian, either?
He had a burning urge to talk to Grace, to have some reassurance and familiarity. He caught glimpses of the castle turrets over the roofs of the next street and wondered if she was looking out of one of the windows and feeling the same sense of loss and bewilderment that he did. He didn't know, though, when he would next see her, or if it would be soon, and it was with resignation that he tuned back into Koen's endless babbling. He couldn't recall that the man had stopped talking since they'd left the market square.
"Here's the place. The Powder Keg," Koen was saying, and Jordan saw the hem of Nika's cloak whip through a door ahead of them. He looked up. Illuminated by a hanging bracket with a flame burning inside, a wooden sign spelled out what Jordan assumed was the name of the place. The pub was set further back in the street than the shops on either side. While the window displays of those shops glowed with soft candlelight, displaying clothing on one side and paper and ink on the other, the pub was gloomy. Grimy windows blocked most of the light coming from inside, and the dark-leaved vines winding all over the frontage cast a deep shadow over the door. The air on the threshold was tainted with smoke, growing stronger as they entered the room beyond. It reminded Jordan of Yddris's pipe smoke.
"Not the nicest one," Koen said. Jordan was thankful that the Unspoken had not strayed from his side. "But there are only a few where it's safe for us to go."
"What do you mean, safe?" Jordan squeaked, as a huge man built like a tree and with a face like a pale slab of ham swivelled on a bar stool to stare them down as they passed. "Safe as in other places are dangerous?"
"Not for you," Koen said. "For us, I mean. Unspoken."
Jordan's innards curdled, a chill running through his whole body. He dimly recalled Yddris mentioning that Unspoken weren't popular, but Jordan had thought he was exaggerating; judging by the looks the Unspoken were receiving from around the room in this 'safe' pub, he was beginning to realise that he might not have been.
He hated being asked to give blessings around every corner, but he'd take it over a lynching.
He resolved to ask about it while in the presence of Unspoken less cryptic and more talkative than Yddris, but he was apprehensive. He had a feeling he wouldn't like the answers.
"So," he said, drawing closer to Koen and taking a seat beside him at their table. He realised too late he'd picked the seat opposite Nika. Swallowing, he continued. "Why don't people, like...like you? Aside from the..." he gestured vaguely, "crackling thing."
"Varying reasons," Nika said softly before Koen could answer. "Some think us thieves of magic, like many of House Nict, and that somehow we are keeping this valuable tool to ourselves out of greed. Others think us cursed with it, cursed to protect the innocent from demons because we committed unspeakable crimes. That we have been somehow blighted by the gods. For most, though, it is simple-minded jealousy under the veil of righteousness."
"Well..." Jordan struggled for a minute, "I guess that makes sense. But... wouldn't it make it harder to stand out so much if you didn't wear those cloaks?"
"On the contrary," Nika said. He sounded as though he was smiling. "Magic leaves marks. Its use and the protection it affords us doesn't come without a price."
A lump rose in his throat. "M-marks? Like scars or something?"
Nika laid his forearm on the table and hitched up his sleeve. The skin there was white, and all over it was a lacing of pale brown marks like half-mixed paint. Some marks resembled symbols, and others simply twisted around each other. Others ended abruptly at scars.
Jordan realised that he was leaning in closer than could be called polite, brought back to himself as Hap put a pint of pale gold liquid in front of him. Jordan sniffed it. It smelled like honey.
"So," he said, as Nika shook his sleeve back down and clasped his gloved hands on the table, "You all have those?"
"Yep," Koen butted in. He had already thrown down half of his drink, which prompted Jordan to take a hasty sip of his own and mutter a quick thanks to Hap. It was warming and sweet, calming some of the chills still rocking his body. He knew he shouldn't ask more questions; it was becoming more and more apparent why Yddris had been so careful with what he told him, but Jordan's curiosity was overwhelming.
"Like...everywhere?"
If Jordan had been able to see Koen's face he imagined the look on it would be wry. "Everywhere."
"Even..."
Weighted silence spread over the table. Blood rose to Jordan's face as fast as the tide of regret. "Oh."
"Not straight away," Koen said, stifling a laugh and clapping Jordan on the shoulder, "But yeah. Something to look forward to, eh?"
"Koen," Hap said warningly. "There's no guarantee anything will happen. Don't wind him up."
Koen fired something back, but Jordan didn't hear it through the buzzing in his ears. No guarantees – and yet everyone was treating him like a time bomb. He hadn't reckoned on disfigurement, either. How was he supposed to go home covered in those markings? Would it guarantee that he couldn't? What would Grace say?
"Jordan."
Jordan blinked and jumped; Nika had moved and was leaning over him with a hand on his shoulder. He took in a sharp breath. The other men had gone quiet and were watching him. Expecting something, again.
"I'm..." he muttered, and stuck on the word 'fine'. "I'm going to throw up. 'Scuse me."
He got to his feet and bolted for the door. He didn't slow as he pelted through it into the street.
Then he ran.