The Sapphire: Homeward III Read online

  Homeward:

  The Sapphire

  Barb Hendee

  Tales from the world of

  the Noble Dead Saga

  Colophon/Copyright

  Barb and J.C. Hendee / NobleDead.org

  First Edition, May 2012

  Copyright 2012 by Barb and J.C. Hendee.

  ALL RIGHTS RESEVED.

  Design, layout, and cover art by J.C. Hendee.

  ISBN-10: 0-9855616-3-7

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9855616-3-5

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior contractual or written permission of the copyright owner of this work.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to persons, living or deceased, businesses establishments, events, or locales is entirely incidental.

  Further information about the authors and works in progress are available at NobleDead.org and BarbHendee.org along with a range of news feed options for varied preferences. You can also follow them via FaceBook under the page references of “TheNobleDeadSaga” and “BarbHendee.org.”

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Colophon/Copyright

  Table of Contents

  The Sapphire

  Other Works

  The Noble Dead Saga

  Tales from the world of the Noble Dead Saga

  The Vampire Memories Series

  The Sapphire

  Ratboy opened his eyes to see the faded ceiling of his room at a shabby inn, and for the second night in a row, it took him a moment to realize where he was and how he’d gotten there.

  He was alone in the king’s city of Bela, after having fled the port town of Miiska, which had been his home. He’d left behind his only two companions in the world to face their deaths at the hands of a vampire hunter.

  Reality washed over him as he remembered.

  It wasn’t as if he’d wanted to leave Rashed and Teesha behind, well, at least not Teesha. But they’d refused to come with him, and the hunter had been closing in. Ratboy’s sense of self-preservation had over-ridden all other drives or loyalties… and he’d run.

  Deciding not to risk seeking passage on a ship, he’d made his way north up the coastal road, killing two travelers along the way, robbing both and feeding on one. He’d arrived on the outskirts of Bela with enough money for a room and then vanished into hiding as he tried to figure out what to do next. He couldn’t remember ever having been alone in the world —completely alone—and he knew no one in this city. But moments after waking on this second evening, an unexpected sensation washed through him.

  At first, he didn’t recognize or understand it: a sense of freedom.

  For all the protection Rashed had offered, he was judgmental, overbearing, and so tall and impressive that Ratboy had hated even standing next to him. Of course Ratboy missed Teesha. She’d been pretty, kind, and skilled at turning almost any space into a home. But perhaps the loss of her was worth freedom from Rashed.

  Ratboy climbed off the bed and stood up, coming to a decision. He couldn’t just lie about moping and worrying for the rest of his nights—and he was certain the hunter had no idea where he was.

  He was going to go out and explore his new city.

  Outside the inn, he paused in the dark street and briefly closed his eyes, sensing the life pulsing all around him. This area of the city had developed in a kind sprawl, with aging stables, flop houses, small shops, and hovels spreading out all around. But thousands of people lived here, and without Rashed, Ratboy had no rules and no restrictions.

  As he’d taken a room in the first inn he’d found, he was currently in the outer ring of the city.

  Bela was laid out in a pattern of three ringed walls, with the king’s castle at its center, which rested high up on the domed ridge along the peninsula. From there, the city spread in all directions and down to the western bay and its vast port. In the scant time he’d been here, Ratboy had already ascertained that the outer ring was where the dregs of society tended to live, and that the inner ring housed the wealthy.

  Tonight, he didn’t feel like remaining in the outer ring, so he slipped quickly through the streets, keeping to the shadows, and passing through the second wall into the merchant’s ring. As with all large cities, change in quality of dress and quality of shops or dwellings was gradual. He tried to remain out of sight for the most part, keeping to the alleys when possible, but he soon found himself looking out the mouth of an alley into a street lined with polished shops and freshly painted signage… and just across the way, was a tailor’s shop.

  Something about it pulled at him.

  Glancing both ways, he darted across the street to stand before the shop, looking at a fine suit of clothes displayed in a window, and then he looked into a large, oval mirror that was also standing in the window.

  What he saw in the mirror depressed him.

  He looked about seventeen years old, though small for his age, and everything about him appeared faded brown but for his skin. Even that had a slight tan cast, not from the sun but from years of old filth. Plain brown hair stuck to his narrow, pinched head above plain brown eyes. His clothes, tattered and tan in color, were beyond dirty.

  His entire appearance had been fostered for survival. He played the part of a street urchin so well that the persona had become part of him, stained into his very skin. But he’d also stubbornly held onto the guise because even scrubbed, combed, and dressed in a wool cloak, he’d always looked ridiculous standing beside Rashed, like a boy playing dress-up.

  No, it had been better to go on playing the street urchin, for at least that persona had been his own. But what about now that he was no longer in Rashed’s shadow?

  He could be anything without fear of looking absurd in comparison.

  And somewhere in the shop, a lamp glowed.

  The tailor must still be inside, perhaps folding cloth or picking up after the day’s business. Any moment he might close up for the night and leave.

  Ratboy’s first instinct was to enter, kill the tailor, and take some of those fine clothes, but he rejected that idea quickly. Most tailors had subtle trademarks in their designs, and the clothes themselves might be linked to a murder or disappearance.

  Besides, Ratboy wanted to be properly fitted.

  Leaving the shop behind, he headed deeper into the city. It was nearly suppertime for most mortals. In the upper class districts, people were out on their evening affairs, though fewer street hawkers and peddlers wandered about. Most shops here served the whims and fancies of the privileged. Next to a clothier selling coats and wraps of rare furs stood a wine house built of dark timbers and white plastered walls.

  He finally stopped outside a lavish looking inn, with a sign that read THE ROWANWOOD.

  This place looked perfect for his needs, and he dashed from the shadows of the buildings into a nearby alley to wait. He knew what to look for, and as he waited, his hunting persona washed over and through him: Ratboy the street urchin, who was never remembered as more than that and would simply disappear.

  Although he had begun to despise that part of himself, the strength of it came to him effortlessly. He messed up his hair and slouched his shoulders, looking poverty-stricken and harmless. He let a number of patrons coming or going around the inn pass by him, and none gave him more than a quick glance.

  Then, a richly dressed merchant, all in dark blue velvet, wobbled and weaved slightly
as he came out of the inn’s front doors. A fat pouch dangled from his belt.

  Ratboy tensed and then backed into an alley between two closed shops as he willed the man to walk in his direction.

  The man did.

  As the drunken merchant passed by, Ratboy stepped out and dropped the small pouch of coins he carried. He’d used this trick countless times—because it always worked. But the wobbling, weaving merchant didn’t turn at the chink of the pouch upon the cobblestones.

  “Sir,” Ratboy called, bending his knees to make himself look even smaller. “You dropped your purse.”

  The man halted and turned at once, as if alarmed by a voice calling from behind him. Perhaps he wasn’t as drunk as he’d looked, but at the sight of a thin, dusty-brown beggar boy, he relaxed.

  Ratboy picked up the fallen pouch and held it out. “I think you dropped this.”

  The man looked down, and at finding his own purse still on his belt, he answered, “Not me, lad, I have mine.”

  “Are you sure? I saw it fall as you passed.”

  Curiosity crossed the man’s features, and Ratboy could almost read his thoughts. Had he dropped a purse? As he came closer, Ratboy took a step back, as if cautious of the approach, causing the man to move directly in front the alley’s mouth.

  Looking down at the pouch, the man said, “It’s kind of you to stop me, but that isn’t—

  Ratboy sprang at him, clamping one hand over the man’s mouth and wrapping an arm around his throat. Before the merchant could even struggle, Ratboy wrenched him sideways into the alley and dragged him further into the darkness.

  The unfortunate merchant would never come out.

  · · · · ·

  As quickly as possible, Ratboy hurried back though the night to the tailor’s shop, hoping the owner had not closed up for the evening. The fat pouch in his hand had proven better than he’d hoped—filled mainly with silver but also two gold marks of the realm. Arriving at the shop’s door, he pressed the latch and stepped in without hesitation to find the tailor pulling on a long coat. He was a tall, boney man with a fussy moustache that curled up on both ends.

  “Forgive me,” the man said, half turning upon hearing the bell ring, “I was just about to…”

  At the sight of Ratboy standing there, he trailed off in mid sentence, and his mouth fell open. Ratboy ignored the tailor’s stunned expression… as he was already well aware that being polite wasn’t going to serve him here.

  “I wouldn’t close up shop just yet,” he said, pouring coins into his hand. “I need to order clothes, a lot of clothes, and if you don’t help me tonight, I’ll go someplace else.”

  The man stood there, caught in indecision. He probably feared Ratboy would get his tape measure dirty, not to mention the scandal if one of his regular customers walked in and saw him fitting some filthy urchin, but his eyes were on the money.

  There was a good deal of money in Ratboy’s palm.

  “Please come in… sir,” the man said. “I am Master Hart. How can I help you?” His voice was effeminate, and he enunciated each word carefully.

  Ratboy didn’t like him, but that didn’t matter.

  “I need proper clothing,” he said, “breeches, tunics, stockings, and a cloak. I want to have some made for me, but if you have a ready-made set that might fit, I’d like to take one tonight.”

  Master Hart looked Ratboy over with frowning scrutiny and finished at his scuffed, old boots.

  “I have an associate who is a cobbler,” he said. “Would you like me to arrange for footwear as well?”

  That part hadn’t even occurred to Ratboy. “Yes, a pair of boots,” he agreed. “Like those worn by gentleman.”

  Looking mildly uncomfortable, Master Hart took his coat off and suggested, “Perhaps with a bit of extra heel?”

  Ratboy blinked and then understood. A higher heel would make him appear taller, and he warmed a tad toward Master Hart.

  “Yes, good.”

  And so it began.

  Having accepted the task, Master Hart became surprisingly helpful and attentive, taking careful measurements and making more suggestions.

  “I think dark colors would suit you best for tunics, but not brown or black. Forest green or burgundy or perhaps a dark shade of ruby. For breeches, black and brown, as suited to other attire.”

  Master Hart stayed well past suppertime, and in the end, Ratboy had ordered three new sets of clothing and a pair of new boots. The tailor quickly hemmed a pair of ready-made breeches and found a midnight blue tunic that fit well enough, along with a charcoal gray cloak. He also packaged up a comb and a vial of musky scent.

  Ratboy paid without haggling. Again, he experienced an emotion he couldn’t quite name, though he thought it might be gratitude. He was grateful. No matter how much money he’d stolen, he couldn’t have done this on his own. As yet, he hadn’t donned his new clothes and held them in his arms like a treasure, all wrapped up in fine millet paper.

  “I need a bath,” he said bluntly. “Can you recommend a place?”

  “Yes,” Master Hart answered, wrinkling his nose, and at first, Ratboy thought he might be simply agreeing with the need for a bath, and then, “Two blocks up the street, you’ll see an inn called the White Whistle. For a price, the proprietor there will set a tub in a private room and have it filled. Tell him I sent you.”

  “Thanks,” Ratboy said with a nod, and then he paused. “I mean it. Thank you.”

  He didn’t know why he’d added the last part, and he hurried out with his new clothing. Sure enough, two blocks up the street he saw a sign that read THE WHITE WHISTLE. The building appeared fairly new, was two stories in height—and had been painted bright white.

  But when he stepped through the front door, a stocky man with thinning hair looked up from the front desk and his jowly face filled with alarm.

  “No beggars,” the man barked. “Get out.”

  Bristling, Ratboy shifted his wrapped package of clothing and held out a silver coin. “Master Hart sent me. He told me you could set up a hot bath in a private room.”

  The proprietor fixed on the silver coin. “Master Hart?”

  “I need a room and a bath.”

  The man still hesitated, taking in Ratboy’s smudged face and tattered clothes, but he eyed the silver coin most of all. Finally, he came around the desk with a jangling ring of keys in hand.

  “This way.”

  Not long after, Ratboy was alternately soaking and scrubbing himself in a tall bathtub filled with bucket after bucket of hot water. He’d never experienced anything quite like this. He washed his hair three times and remained in the tub until the water went cold. Only then did he climb out.

  After drying himself with a thick towel, he donned his new breeches, shirt, and tunic, and then combed all of his hair back away from his face. Finally, he pulled on the cloak and looked at himself in the mirror that hung on the room’s rear wall.

  He barely recognized himself, and he stared for so long that his hair was already drying. It was a lighter shade of brown than he realized. Master Hart had been right that the dark tunic made his face appear naturally pale as opposed to washed out. He might not look like Rashed, but no inn proprietor or tailor in Bela would turn their nose up at him now. He could hardly wait for the new boots.

  And then maybe a sword—didn’t all gentlemen wear swords?

  Though he had no idea what to do next, a strange, almost excited feeling came over him. He’d only taken the first step in his new transformation.

  · · · · ·

  Eight nights later, at the height of the moon, Ratboy strolled again into the merchant district. He no longer kept to the shadows or bothered to hide at all. He’d been back to see Master Hart twice and now wore a burgundy tunic and his new boots—with extra heel. Shopkeepers and tavern proprietors all nodded politely to him now—and he enjoyed this.

  He’d arranged for a larger room at the White Whistle on an indefinite basis, but tonight he was restless, po
ssibly lonely, and at a loss for what to do with himself. Back in Miiska, Teesha had always found something to occupy him on a restless night, but she was gone. He kept walking until he heard feminine laughter ahead, and without thinking, he followed the sound.

  Up ahead, he saw a colorful building—painted purple, cream, and yellow—with a full front porch. Two young women stood on the porch dressed in satin, low-cut gowns. A sign above the door read, The Siren’s song.

  A brothel. He always knew one when he saw it.

  His interest piqued, he walked closer, though he decided to keep to the shadows of an adjoining building so he wouldn’t be seen. One woman had blond curls in ringlets and a yellow dress while the other had dark hair piled on top her head and wore lavender. A man stood between them, seemingly enjoying their politely tense exchange.

  “Oh, that’s all right, Lilac,” the blond woman said, her voice straining to keep a high pitch. “You’ve already done enough work tonight. Probably more than any of us could manage. I’ll take the viscount inside.”

  The dark-haired one smiled sweetly. “I wouldn’t think of it, Vera. You’ve hardly done any work all week. I’m sure Madam Gilford would prefer that I see to his comfort.”

  “Ladies,” the viscount interrupted with a soft smile. “I would be honored to escort you both inside.”

  The blond tilted her head, and her high voice lowered with more than a hint of a gutter accent seeping in. “And pay for both us?”

  Ratboy preferred the sound of her natural voice. Something about it made him comfortable, though the viscount flinched slightly at the change.

  The viscount eyed her closely and then extended his elbow to the dark-haired woman. “Well, perhaps just Miss Lilac this evening.”

  They both vanished inside, and the blond, Vera, hissed the moment the door closed. She whirled to grab the porch’s front rail with both hands.

  Staring through the darkness, Ratboy wondered about luring her into an alley and feeding on her. But then she leaned harder on the railing, exposing herself more to the dim light of a street lantern up the way.