Ketch

R.F. McCaughey

Rain.

Clouds of heavy gray color above, blotting out the heavens, and completely in concert with the rain falling and skipping on the gray cobblestone streets. The tapping of a thousand wet hammers on the hard earthen stones was a soft comfort to his ears. He watched the yellow lights of the inn. Somewhere above, the sun had not yet set. Ketch knew it without real thought. But in the port of Bamford, under the storm, it was as dark as an hour past twilight already. The darkness gave him leave to arrive early in town. He took the luxury of it, and had studied the town in parts, as well as he now watched the Patched Sail Inn.

Not much of a town, though a busy enough place. And like many ports, it ran a dark current of power through its attics and sewers. High and low. Ketch heard the soft sighs of that power under the hammering rain. The rain blurred all noise but its own. But nothing could hide what the dark boggle blood magicks from Ketch's nose. The stringy fey taste in his senses told him just how much magick might have moved here in the past. Not so much, but enough for tonight's work. He watched the Shadows carefully.

So he saw her.

She walked down the center of the town street with quick strides. Her cloak was dark green and not wet enough for this downpour. She had traveled far, yet he knew she had not been on the street a moment before. He sniffed at the wet air. He could tell nothing from where he stood, he'd have to move closer, which wasn't needful unless she turned into the Patched Sail.

She did.

She did not even stop, but made right for the door. She was getting wet now, her wool cloak was shedding rain as fast as it might, but its natural protection was overwhelmed. Because of the wet, she had started to bend her head and hold her shoulders like a burden was accumulating on her back. Then the inn's door was open, firelight spilling across the street in a skewed slash. The rain stood in gray lines for a nonce in that light, then vanished back into murk with the shutting of the door.

He licked his lips. Who was she walking out of Shadows and into his affairs? He blew on his hands, and ignored the familiar sweet smell of the dark on his breath. He stepped away from the building corner and crossed the street. Stopping in front of the inn's door, he listened ahead through the wall of the inn, as well as behind himself, in the town.

Behind him, many footsteps in a range from light to firm beyond distant walls, children running zigzagged mischief games two blocks away, the gasp of a woman burning her hands on a mismanaged pot, a nicked blade being drawn from a leather sheathe, all too far away to matter to him.

Ahead, inside, few voices, the faint rumble of things being moved in the cellar, a chair creaking with living weight, two ghosts stirring slightly in their daysleep, a woman's voice asking for the man, Bolton Marsh. He grimaced. So, his luck was both good and bad. The powers were aiding him in the here and now, but this woman out of Shadow was seeking after Marsh. Odds and chance skittered around in his thoughts, and he felt the tension across his shoulders. Someone was bending things. Was it this woman? He stood quietly in front the door. The rain danced on the cobblestones beneath him. A single thought and he let the rain touch him on its fall to the ground. If he was going to walk inside, he should be wet from the storm.

He smiled as the cold drops drove into his cloak causing a slow shiver to dance along his back. For the cloak was he, as he was the cloak. He closed his awful eyes. . . didn't want the distraction now. . . and just listened to the people and things inside the inn. He moved his hearing closer to the woman.

* * *

The barkeep's voice was strained with half-truth, "Marsh? Bolton Marsh hardly ever drinks here."

True, smiled Ketch from the wet stoop outside, he drinks in places he hopes to own, not in ones that he owns already.

"And when does hardly ever become most likely?" said the woman softly. "Tonight perhaps?"

Fear drove the barkeep's words into a lower register, his voice became huskier, thready, "I wouldn't know. No one expects me to tell the future hereabouts."

"I see." she answered. And Ketch thought she really did. "Then you wouldn't care to try my gold in return for giving me a look at the future?"

Don't be daft, Jon Ketch mocked silently, eyes closed, water dripping off his chin.

"Don't be daft," growled Saul trying to become more angry than afraid.

Ketch heard the rustle of the hair on her shoulders as she nodded to acknowledge the closed response. Then he caught the scent of Marsh's hound out back, which told him that Bolton Marsh had arrived at the kitchen door, behind the Patched Sail. Jon lifted a wet gloved hand lightly to the door latch and waited. The lever was cold.

The barkeep watched the small redhead turn away from him and find a seat at the empty bench by the fireplace. He wiped his hands on his belt rag. So she wasn't buying and she wasn't leaving. The barman made a face that showed he knew this was trouble. He glanced at the hidden ax under the bar. Nervous, he brushed his hand against the stained smooth handle jutting upward out of the sheath.

So Saul, it is better the devil you know, eh? smiled Ketch. Even though you hate him.

The red haired sorceress heard the footfalls before the shapes emerged from the kitchen. Recognition crossed her face as Bolton Marsh emerged from the darkened kitchen doorway. She had come prepared with descriptions from beyond Bamford, then. No one had described his hound. Now she might see why.

The hound was a cursed thing. It dripped water from its ragged coat of sticks and moss. Its open maw had black broken fishbones in place of teeth. Its heavy tail seemed broken in a few places. Its legs powerful, but canted strangely. Visually, it was a study in pain and wretchedness. The sorceress concentrated, and her mage sight slipped in over her normal perception. She saw feeble green light clinging to the empty eye sockets of the canine shaped thing.

And intelligence recognized her scrutiny and returned it. The hound growled like a score of sickles churning mud. The hound strained at its leash, and leather tightened around Bolton's grip. He laughed. "Well, he's been jumpy for an hour. You must be the reason miss. I expect you think you have some quarrel with me." His voice was hearty and nearly warm. His pleasure at the unexpected meeting was plain.

Outside the inn, Ketch moved closer pressing his wet face against the boards of the door.

The woman stood and held her arms loose at her sides, ready for the battle. "Yes, Bolton Marsh. I've seen the towns and people you've used up and discarded. I've followed my anger and it has led me to you. This thing you've leashed is not your servant. It is your death."

"Yours, perhaps." the big man returned with a wide grin. The dog thing strained a single paw closer to the woman by the fire against Bolton's pull. "He suits me just fine. Like as not, something will kill us all in our own time. If he gets me, it will have been worth the trip. I've never had such a time in my forty years." Marsh studied the tight face under the red hair. This woman was so small and delicate. Pretty too, in an odd fashion. He smiled and made to dicker with her, "Now that you've seen what you're up against, maybe you'd like to deal for your life, miss?"

"I think not." she returned, voice like a stone, immovable.

He had done very well for himself. His turn of days was shining with the recent memories of his found beast and the power it had brought him. And Marsh had learned something from the thing, namely that at some point words had no more meaning. He knew the beast wanted her, and knew somehow that her words were final. He wanted to play with her a little, but something said this would not happen. This little bit of dangerous woman had provided all the entertainment he was likely to get. So he let the hound have her. No warning. No more talk. Still with a smile on his face, he swept free the catch of the leash.

The hound leapt from quivering restraint to airborne death. Its maw widened unnaturally and it howled. Bolton laughed then. The three other men in the inn lost control of their water and escaped past Marsh through the kitchen.

The hound fell upon her. She had time to complete a quick gesture. Arcane heat burned around her and flashed as she tumbled backward under the hound's wrath. The two bodies came to rest struggling each with teeth drawn and exposed. Bolton was plainly amazed. He gawked as she held the thing's throat in her hands. The beast pawed at her mid-section, and he heard tearing cloth as it struggled above her. But she had actually stopped it for a moment. Then the moment began to shorten. Her arms trembled and began to fail. Her body shimmered here and there with some sort of ward that was trying to protect her and harm the hound, but Bolton saw it wasn't really hurting the thing, though its flesh steamed and boiled. Others had tried magic flame, the hound had killed all of them easily. The thing didn't know hurt.

Bolton's eyes were touched by a strange sadness. She was the strongest one yet, but the thing would master her too. Why did his expression say it might have been different? Why did he care? He shook his head and grinned. His former air returned. . . he was master of the world with this hound at his call.

The inn door swung open and Ketch stepped inside with wet wind behind him. Water spilled from his figure to the floor. Black pools quickly gathered on the floor in patterns of prophetic mayhem. Bolton glimpsed a clean-shaven chin under the black hood. Pale skin. Since the hound was engaged, Marsh pulled his own long knife with his off hand.

Ketch spoke soothingly, "Eve's pleasure to you, Bolton Marsh. I have business with you."

Bolton raised an eyebrow. His expression said the timing of events seemed out of kilter. Plainly, Marsh thought the intruder an ally of the downed woman. Then why was he not moving to save her? The hound had the excitement of success in its horrible throaty voice now. He heard the woman choking on the thing's fetid breath. She was doomed. But something about this stranger was very wrong. Marsh wanted the dog back at his side. The woman was unimportant now, he could kill her later.

Marsh slapped his thigh with the leash. "Here!" And it was so. Turning and dashing to him, the hound took up guard at his feet. The red haired sorceress gagged and rolled over on her stomach curling around injuries to her abdomen, Marsh guessed.

He didn't take his eyes too far from the strange man standing still in the open doorframe.

"I am Bolton Marsh." he looked for something familiar about this fellow and found nothing. "What do you want with me?"

Ketch reached up slowly and pulled back his hood, revealing black wavy hair, sharp cheekbones, and strange eyes. Ketch smiled a private knowledge as icy sensations danced on the back of Bolton's neck.

Marsh's expression was a page to be read by Ketch, for the words had been written by a hundred different hands before Marsh. . . What was wrong with the stranger's eyes? Green, and throwing a feeble flicker back at Marsh from the fireplace flames.

"You have something that does not belong to you." answered Ketch. "I have come for it."

Sudden despair gripped him, and Marsh yelled, "You shall have it!" and pointed his leash hand at the stranger. The dog thing needed no other command.

Once more, the hound shot from quivering restraint to leaping death. Its howl defied the power of creation. Bolton was forced to laugh. Near the fireplace, the woman must have thought she was once again the target, for she thrust herself up from the floor, bloody, but with a silver blade in her hand.

The black cloaked stranger caught the thing full force upon himself and showed no reaction. Though slender of frame, he absorbed the beast as if he was a post driven into the floor of the inn. His black gloved hands seized the thing under its forelegs. A mistake, for the beast closed its jaws on the fellow's neck, quickly forcing back his head a bit.

"A fine animal, you are," whispered the black clad man despite the jaws on his neck. "I will remember you. Now I take from you, your name, Marsh's Hound."

The thing fell back releasing its attack, but Ketch gathered it closer in his arms. The monster shivered, and leaned towards the man who cradled it. Then Bolton watched the beast reach to gently nuzzle its head under the chin of the stranger. Ketch smiled and stroked the back of wet, dripping slime and mossy debris. Bolton couldn't believe what he was seeing.

"Give him back!" he blurted, unthinkingly brandishing the knife at the pale stranger.

The black clad man lifted his eyes from the dog in his arms to Marsh, and his soft smile became cold. The sorceress, ignored by the two men, saw his eyes flicker with green. She realized they were nearly similar to the dog's secret eyes, but worse somehow in a man's face. She quickly banished her mage sight. She did not want to see too much.

Ketch suddenly opened his arms and the dog melted into black fog and blew out the door.

"Your day is done," Ketch smiled, his voice was low, "You've had your fun. If you go now, I'll let you run."

Bolton felt the urge to run, but he was too full of despair to care, "Give him back, you bastard!" he yelled. He started towards the man.

The woman said a Word and Marsh stopped and folded up in mid-stride. She limped forward, putting away her blade. She did not look at the man unconscious on the floorboards. She watched Ketch, who she believed wasn't a man at all.

Ketch spoke quietly, "He won't thank you for saving his life."

"I'm not sure I should have." replied the woman. "I'm called BhangBadea. I came here to stop Marsh myself. Thank you for saving my life." She winced and leaned on the back of a chair.

Ketch inclined his head in a smiling salute, "I'm the Ketch. Jon Ketch. You were going about it all wrong."

She smiled, "So I was." She paused, " Jon Ketch. I would like. . . ."

The doorway was empty. He had stepped between, where he might study her a few moments more.

* * *

She had never seen anyone disappear that cleanly or that fast. She closed her mouth.

Jon Ketch, she thought musingly.

She looked at the killer on the floor at her feet. She tried to bend down, but it hurt too much. She got down slowly on her knees and moved closer to the felled man. Touching his head, she traced his hairline with her finger and paused, looking down at him. His anguish at losing the dog had been real. Was there something else to it besides the control of power? What the black stranger had done ran through her mind.

A stranger had just given her a life. She followed the circle by sparing Marsh's life, her hand on his head, she found his mind, "You knew your power. I will remember you. I take from you, your name, Bolton Marsh."