The Natural Order of Things

Finch watched the traveller go, cloak fluttering. Their hands felt numb. Slowly, they turned back to their kiosk, the stacked boxes and neatly sorted crates feeling a little duller, but a little more safe.

The Boardwalk was so well defended, even at night, that most of its vendors were near-permanent residents. Finch was one of those. With a last glance across the way, they lowered the shades on the outside of the kiosk and dug a box of matches from the pocket of their trousers, lighting the candles on the countertop with reverent hands. Each candle was a reminder, of something Finch could not survive losing. The inside of their little stall cosily lit with oily yellow, they removed their hat and hung it on the corner of a box, running a hand through unruly blond curls, more of a habit than anything.

When they had changed and set up their bed, they smothered the candles and sat with a thump on the thick fabrics, the warm smell of wax and wool and brine dense in the air. They were tired, eyes burning, but sleep would not come.

So they laid back, stretched diagonally across the floor, and stared blindly up at the ceiling, hands crossed over their stomach. They couldn't help but feel that they had missed out on something, that a chance to change everything had slipped past right under their eyes.

That wasn't a particularly pleasant feeling, so they switched their thoughts to the Pendrin storyteller. Ferre. The name had rung a bell, but only faintly — Finch imagined that the man had made his way into at least one Haladic lullaby, if he was as well-known as he had said. Something less kindly had bubbled just beneath his cheery facade, and while Finch wasn't afraid of him, they didn't particularly trust him, either.

Though, he had been kind, if a little blunt. He had the air of a man constantly preoccupied, someone unaccustomed to structure and order and yet someone who needed them. And he had seemed almost afraid.

What could someone like that have to fear? Finch turned over, trying to force the thought from their mind.

Slowly they drifted to sleep, but the peace would not last.

There was a thunderous crash from somewhere up the Boardwalk, closer to the city. Finch jolted up, chest heaving with shock, and hurried to button a long coat over their nightclothes. They had no weapon. Usually, there was no need for one.

So they improvised, yanking a lengthy femur from one of the open boxes. The rest of the skeleton rattled as though in complaint, but Finch was already gone, bare-footed and unprotected, sprinting across the aged logs as fast as they could move.

In the darkness, pierced only dimly by a few weak streetlamps high above, something was moving, and moving fast — as Finch stumbled to a halt at the first intersection, it shot over their head with inhuman power. They heard it make contact with a building, a thud of boots on concrete.

Finch yelped and ducked behind one of the massive supports, clutching the makeshift club in one hand and their mouth in the other. It was not a something. It was a someone, and they were not alone.

The source of the crash, Finch observed with a glance towards the intersection, had been the shattering of the causeway. The planks drifted idly on the water below. With a feeling of dread, Finch realised that they had been completely crushed, splinters sticking up from the snapped wood. A hole several meters across gaped in the middle of the causeway.

Boots struck the ground behind Finch.

Their heart dropped past their stomach. Before they could lift their club, a powerful hand shot out and grabbed the back of their coat. The club clattered to the ground, then slipped over the edge into the depths.

A pair of slitted eyes the color of liquid steel glared from deep sockets, set with raw anger.

And then the man's expression changed to one of pure shock. "Oh," he said, releasing Finch's coat as though he'd been stung. "Oh, rot."

He lurched back, eyes wide. "I'm so sorry," he whispered, then turned on his heel and took off towards the heart of the city.

Finch watched him disappear into the velvety dark, mouth agape. A second, slightly taller figure leapt from above, sailing through the yellow streetlamp haze to land in a crouch, then sprinted after him; the pair was gone in seconds, the only hint that anyone had been there the massive hole in the causeway.

Shaking, Finch stood. Their legs were numb.

That was Ferre.

There was no way they could return to their shelter now. They had to find him. People were beginning to come out of their homes, several dozen balconies alight with weak candles or bedroom lamps, to see what the commotion had been — Finch leaned precariously over the edge of the Boardwalk, fished their bone club out of the water, and started in the general direction that Ferre and his companion had gone.