World of Io

2. The Rescue

"Do you really think that his time is approaching?"

Qumo tried to keep his fingers from tapping on the dark lacquered desk. It was an old habit of his, surfacing when he was distressed. That didn't happen often nowadays, but yesterday's events had him on edge.

He wanted to wave the question away, but it was no use. The question had been on repeat since yesterday, and he still didn't know what to answer. Sinking down in his seat, he glanced out through his window, watching N'aians praying around the central tree. He wasn't sure if a little note should be allowed to stir their hopes for Io's return. He doubted if it would benefit their progress towards a safer world. His heart hoped, but his mind held him back. This question had been asked before, and each time he dared to hope -- when others dared to hope -- he had been forced to see his friends and allies sink even further into despair when Io didn't come.

He looked into Leiwen's expressive eyes. "Let us be patient," he replied, just as he had said to each and every one of the others. He saw how the tender spark of hope slowly died in her green orbs. None of them had wanted this answer; they wanted him to assure them...but he couldn't.

She left the room, left him alone to his thoughts.

-----

Milo navigated through the dark streets of Bankor, resisting the urge to glance over his shoulder now and then. His skin prickled, announcing the presence of someone watching. He hated this city. It was a nasty place, full of Magisters and miscreants: too many eyes.

Bankor was a young capital by any standards, reigning over the Southern Lands by using their position at the mouth river Embra to collect ridiculous tolls and taxes. It was a place that had grown too large, too fast. Houses popped up as weeds, badly constructed and poorly maintained. Outside of the city wall, the situation was even worse. He hated the slums and its dwellers, but foremost he hated the men and women who allowed them to exist. Even Humans deserved better than that.

He peered at a street sign and continued, grumbling under his breath at the presence behind him that refused to go away. It didn't matter very much, it wasn't a critical moment: he wasn't going to kill anyone just now, but it irked him.

He was headed towards the Singing Woman: a small tavern close to the bay. It was the sort of establishment he wouldn't enter unless forced to, but he had someone to find and therefore someone to meet. The Bloodhound was a vile man even by Milo's standards, but for a piece of coin the man would dig out information that no one else seemed to find. If anyone knew who Qumo was, and how to find him, it was him.

A putrid stench of rotten fish reached his nostrils, a sign that he was getting closer to the water. The only thing missing was the piercing sounds of seagulls. The night held them silent, silent like the streets around him. Actually, when he came to think of it, the whole city was too quiet for his taste. Too few traveled these parts at night, too few to become invisible in the crowd and too many to stay out of sight. The Magisters scared people away with their sharp swords and unreliable tempers, and if he never met with one again, he would die a happy man. Better yet, if he got an assignment to kill one of the bastards, he would make it slow and painful.

He looked up at yet another street sign latched onto a crumbling, two-story house, changed direction and slunk into a dark doorway. Glancing back at the intersection, he finally saw the lithe man that had tagged along for a while. He was pissed that he had allowed the man to catch him like this. It was a beginner's mistake. However, now was not the time, nor the place to be angry. He had to shake this stalker off, not throw a fit. The only problem was that he had tried to get the man off his trail, but in vain. He didn't like to hide, but the remaining option was confrontation, and he hoped it wouldn't come to that. A fight always drew attention, and he hated attention.