WHAT IF DEATH IS JUST ANOTHER
PAIR OF HANDCUFFS
PAIR OF HANDCUFFS
It’s a long walk, up from the docks to the city of night, and for a moment Sterling almost—almost—feels a flicker of doubt. He is half a world away from everyone and everything he knows, his debts a swift, grasping shadow at his heels. He has never had to run from anything before. He has never had to question his sense of certainty, of purpose.
Can he really start over? Can he really reinvent himself, and become someone new?
But the evening is warm, the night full of possibility. The moon gleams like a silver coin overhead, and Sterling is seized by a sudden impulse to pluck it out of the sky.
Of course he can. He shakes himself, feeling coltish in the midsummer air, and his hesitation slips away like so much spray on the ocean breeze. Up ahead, he can see the bonfires and fairy lights of Denocte’s markets, dancing cheerfully against the deep blue darkness. The shale of the seaside path turns to cobblestones beneath his hooves, and all at once he is swept up in the smoke, the music, the freedom of it.
Sterling’s mouth eases into a grin. He strolls along the streets and alleys of the market, his flanks flashing black and white through the crowd.
A pretty gray mare with yellow roses in her mane cajoles him into buying a horn of ale, and he sips gladly from it as he walks, the amber liquid rolling thick and malty on his tongue. Sterling has been to market towns the world over, from the snowed-in vodka caverns of the Barapha Range to the dizzyingly colorful silk bazaars of the great Austellan Desert—but he knows that these, the Night Markets of Denocte, are the jewel to crown them all.
But he is not here to indulge, not really. Reluctantly, Sterling turns away from a pearl-encrusted dagger sheath (as if he needs one; he has never bothered to carry a blade) which had caught his eye, and casts about instead for the woodworkers’ stalls. He had met a cabinetmaker, on the passage over from Austellus, who had offered him work selling wares, and it had seemed as good a job as any for his fresh start.
But the cabinetmaker is nowhere to be found, tonight. Perhaps he is still settling his affairs down at the docks; perhaps he has decided to take the night off, and enjoy the pleasures of the markets for a change. Sterling could hardly blame him. Up ahead, a small square is beginning to fill with dancers, and he finds himself drawing closer, the music whispering along his veins.
Then he sees the girl, and his grin widens. She moves as if she were a part of the night itself, the moonlight gliding like silk over her dark curves, glimmering off the prongs of her antlers and the little jewels nestled in her extravagant fuchsia hair.
The dance ends, and Sterling waits until she’s brushing past him, an anonymous body in the crowd. “Not bad,” he murmurs, falling into step beside her. “Though, between you and me, I think you lost the tempo for a bit there, during the second movement.”
Can he really start over? Can he really reinvent himself, and become someone new?
But the evening is warm, the night full of possibility. The moon gleams like a silver coin overhead, and Sterling is seized by a sudden impulse to pluck it out of the sky.
Of course he can. He shakes himself, feeling coltish in the midsummer air, and his hesitation slips away like so much spray on the ocean breeze. Up ahead, he can see the bonfires and fairy lights of Denocte’s markets, dancing cheerfully against the deep blue darkness. The shale of the seaside path turns to cobblestones beneath his hooves, and all at once he is swept up in the smoke, the music, the freedom of it.
Sterling’s mouth eases into a grin. He strolls along the streets and alleys of the market, his flanks flashing black and white through the crowd.
A pretty gray mare with yellow roses in her mane cajoles him into buying a horn of ale, and he sips gladly from it as he walks, the amber liquid rolling thick and malty on his tongue. Sterling has been to market towns the world over, from the snowed-in vodka caverns of the Barapha Range to the dizzyingly colorful silk bazaars of the great Austellan Desert—but he knows that these, the Night Markets of Denocte, are the jewel to crown them all.
But he is not here to indulge, not really. Reluctantly, Sterling turns away from a pearl-encrusted dagger sheath (as if he needs one; he has never bothered to carry a blade) which had caught his eye, and casts about instead for the woodworkers’ stalls. He had met a cabinetmaker, on the passage over from Austellus, who had offered him work selling wares, and it had seemed as good a job as any for his fresh start.
But the cabinetmaker is nowhere to be found, tonight. Perhaps he is still settling his affairs down at the docks; perhaps he has decided to take the night off, and enjoy the pleasures of the markets for a change. Sterling could hardly blame him. Up ahead, a small square is beginning to fill with dancers, and he finds himself drawing closer, the music whispering along his veins.
Then he sees the girl, and his grin widens. She moves as if she were a part of the night itself, the moonlight gliding like silk over her dark curves, glimmering off the prongs of her antlers and the little jewels nestled in her extravagant fuchsia hair.
The dance ends, and Sterling waits until she’s brushing past him, an anonymous body in the crowd. “Not bad,” he murmurs, falling into step beside her. “Though, between you and me, I think you lost the tempo for a bit there, during the second movement.”
AND MAYBE GOD IS JUST A COP
THAT WE CAN FAST TALK
THAT WE CAN FAST TALK
@
