Free The Barrow by Mark Smylie Page A

baths, leaving Erim to turn onto Cobble Street to make her way toward her rooms above Fuller Cort’s Laundries. His gaze scanned the morning crowd of laborers and artisans heading to work or the markets. He listened to the wind, heard the cries of shop clerks and heralds, the rattle and clang of industry, the call of gull and cormorant. He sniffed the air, smelt horse offal and human piss, baking bread and wafting perfume, hearth fires and the salty brine of the bay. It’s not home, but at least it smells clean , he thought. He looked up and saw vultures circling in the air, high above the city.
    â€œI wasn’t kidding; if you’re followed, run,” called out Stjepan.
    â€œI wasn’t kidding either; fuck you, Black-Heart,” Erim called back in response.
    She watched him angle off down the narrow Way. She was always amazed at how Stjepan could look both completely at ease almost everywhere he went and yet not seem to be a part of the place he was in. He seemed at ease roughing it in the wilderness, with not a soul around for miles, and at ease moving through the busiest parts of the city, as though he was comfortable being in his own skin, and she was a bit envious of that. But at the same time there was always something different about him, and it wasn’t just that he was an Athairi in the middle of an Aurian city, or that he was wood-born in the Erid Wold but had a University education. It’s the look in his eyes , she decided. That look of judgment, as though he’s not one of you; half the world sees that look and wants to get away from him. The other half instantly wants his approval. She watched him disappear down the street, then turned away.
    Though she was city-born, Erim felt like she could hold her own in the country—at least Stjepan had felt she could, which was good enough for her. She might not have Stjepan’s knack for sights and sounds, or know the name of the bird making a lovely song, or which leaves from what plant could make a poultice for an infected cut. But she didn’t have to have a roof over her head, or a bed under her, to fall asleep at night, though admittedly she preferred it. She liked to look up and count the stars, and see if she could guess which one was a great hero and which wasn’t. She didn’t fall behind, or complain, or step on the wrong twig at the wrong moment like some city folk might.
    But she always felt like she risked doing something wrong, of not seeing the danger signs when they were coming. The country often made her feel lonely, and small. The general lack of human contact, of human structure, of the man - made , left her at a loss. She didn’t understand its rituals and behaviors, the languages and signs of animals and birds and trees, of hunters and farmers, its codes and rules. The deeper she went into the countryside, the more tenuous became the rule of the Middle Kingdoms; so tenuous, so risky, that deviance from its considered norms could bring ruin and disaster. Where Stjepan found freedom and open air to breathe, she found constriction and confusion. In the country, amongst either Danians or Aurians, a woman dressed as a man wouldn’t want to be discovered, for in her experience country folk tended to be more fixed in their ways than city folk, and looked askance at anything different. Except the Athairi, perhaps, but they were different than just about everyone else anyway, thanks to their varied ancestries, their fae blood and Düréan blood, the touch of magic that sparked within them.
    Or unless, as amongst the hill folk of the Manon Mole, or maybe the savage clans that filled the Highlands of Daradja and the Mael Kingdoms of the west, that a traveler was so far outside of civilization that the rules of culture no longer applied, and a descent into barbarism was the inevitable result. But someone like her could hardly think of such wild places, amongst outlaws and brigands and barbarians, as