The Pale Locksmith

CHAPTER 35: THE JOURNEY HOME

Rance leant further forward, in order to get closer to the dull mirror. Staring at the reflection of his eyebrow, he confirmed what he had seen; a single white hair among its darker brothers. He tugged it out then blew it off his hand. It was one of the mysteries of life as to why the hair on his head was still as black as when he was young, but all his other facial hair was determined to turn white. He had taken to shaving daily, keeping his salt and pepper beard hidden away. He stepped back from the mirror, his task complete. He preferred this mirror to the one at home, which was clean enough for all his flaws to be clearly visible. Here in the dim light, he could not see the thinning hair, the crow's feet, the scarred forehead, the bags under the eyes. Meanwhile, Mullia never seemed to age. Rance was sure that soon she would be able to pass for his daughter.

His eyebrows now perfectly black again, he returned to his seat. He should be heading home soon; there were no guests in the room for him to tend to, no more death notes to write. The weather was horrible, but he knew he could not avoid the rain forever. He had spent much of the day thinking about the Locksmith - again. He remembered when the man had first moved to the square all that time ago. There had been whispers and rumours, all based on his accent and his apparent education.

Over the last few weeks, Rance had tried - as casually as he could - to talk to everyone who lived around the market. Each time, the Locksmith had just happened to crop up in conversation. In truth, he had not been sure it was worth the effort. Nobody had said anything he did not already know. Some had thought the fact the man read books was most peculiar, but Rance could hardly use literacy as evidence of evil. After all, he himself read news-sheets daily. The man had a lot of experience in handling money, from the way he counted coins. Again, this was nothing to raise Rance's suspicions.

But perhaps that was the key – the lack of anything of interest. Rance had begun to realise why such a man would live in the square. It was somewhere quiet, out the way, in a corner of a crime-ridden city. A perfect cover for unpleasant deeds. The man never had any visitors, nobody knew if he had a family. All alone, no complication to his life such as friends. Or a wife, Rance had thought ruefully. He had decided that to learn more, the next step would be to follow him whenever he left his shop. Rance had never done anything like this before, and part of him was childishly excited to be doing so.

Now it really was dark, and Rance knew he should have already left for home. As he hurried along the familiar roads, he worried about the Locksmith not being the only one of his kind. Perhaps there was a whole society of Bloodbane around the Islands, working together somehow to avoid detection, killing the innocent. If so, they had to be stopped. And undoubtedly Rance was the one to do it, the one to rid the Islands of this evil. Into the quiet market he strode, feeling more confident than usual. Soon, one way or another, he would have good news to give Mullia. And as a little bonus, it had finally stopped raining.

As he opened the front door, he could smell dinner. Dinner smelt good. Up the stairs, he could see some light. As he made his way up, he recognised the smell. Mullia was cooking her speciality. This was unusual, and it made Rance pause. His wife rarely put in so much effort. It was not his birthday... dread began to chill Rance's blood. He recalled what Adiniah had said to him as he had left that morning.

"You do know what day it is today, don't you Dad?"

At the time he had been slightly put out by the question. Of course he knew what day it was – it was Thursday. But now he realised what exactly she had been asking. For today was not just a Thursday, it was also the anniversary of their wedding.

Salathan tradition dictated that he would present her with a gift to commemorate the day. Antolund tradition dictated that he would present her with a gift to commemorate the day. Rance's tradition was to forget the day, then plead for forgiveness and promise not to do the same the same the following year. But he had managed it yet again. As carefully as he could, he began to make his way back downstairs, planning to head back out into the night to somehow find a gift. But by the time he had reached the bottom of the stairs, he knew it would be no good; there would be no shops open. Anyway, even when being careful the stairs had creaked, announcing his presence. Resigned to his fate, he headed back up. Now he could hear his wife singing to herself. He recognised the song, and the memory of it took him took him straight back to their wedding day, exactly twenty-three years ago.