#jackal pack

“How are we all feeling?”

Ayers and Rahman blinked at Gwendolyne, the Jackals’ handler, as she swept into their room. It had been ten days since Chalce died. Ayers couldn’t speak for the others, but she didn’t care for the question, or the cheery tone in which Gwendolyne offered it. She couldn’t complain, though; Chalce had already demonstrated the consequences of contradicting one’s superiors in the Web.

Anaster reacted with more aplomb, fortunately, so Ayers didn’t have to force out a response. “We’re still reeling a bit, but we’re ready to serve.”

Gwendolyne nodded, assuming an attitude of sympathy. “We’ve been trying to give you three a bit of a break after that unpleasant business, but it’s time to move on now. Fortunately, I’ve brought someone with me to help you do that. Come on in, Swift.”

Not long after Gwendolyne left, Swift looked at the old bloodstain on the floor, then at her fellow Jackals. She wasn’t particularly good at reading others’ emotions, but even she could tell that the bogsneak simmered with anger and resentment, and she thought she should probably deal with that before it became an issue. Unfortunately, her way of dealing with that was to lay a hand on Ayers’ shoulder and cheerfully pipe, “Is something wrong?” Ayers glared at her. “Yes, something is wrong. Something has been wrong.” “Ayers, we already went over this,” said the tundra, pushing his hair out of his face. Judging by the hair’s sheer mass, this was an eternal task. “There’s nothing further we can do for Chalce -- even mourning him too much puts us in danger. And his death isn’t Swift’s fault. She doesn’t deserve for you to take it out on her.” Ayers’s eyes narrowed, but she didn’t disagree. Meanwhile, Swift parsed Anaster’s words and found one she didn’t understand. “Who’s Chalce?”

   “We’re going to die,” Ayers said calmly.

   Anaster gave her a somewhat sympathetic look, but his words weren’t exactly comforting: “Everyone dies eventually.”

   “Not everyone dies like that,” Ayers snapped, gesturing at the rather dingy rug that Jackal Pack’s landlord had thrown over the stubborn bloodstain that wouldn’t come out of the floorboards. “It’s not just the threats; I was fine with those. Well, not fine, but I understood them. Territory is territory, power is power. Break the rules and the rules break you. But that?” Another gesture at the bloodstain. “That’s different. Chalce didn’t die because he did something wrong; he died because Talise was on a power trip. And I don’t want to die to inflate someone’s ego.”

   “He and his sister attacked Talise,” Rahman rumbled. “You don’t think Talise had the right to strike back?”

   “Talise shouldn’t have even been here!” Ayers said. “We could have handled Filmarya; no one had to die -- ”

   “Careful,” Anaster said quietly. “I don’t think you want to question Talise’s actions too loudly.”

   “Why, are you a nark?” Ayers demanded.

TW: violence, murder, decapitation

Most business in Ravenbarrow happened at night; its inhabitants tended to sleep late. At least, that was what Ayers snapped out when Rahman and Anaster got up early and started making noise while she remained in bed. But soon after, as Chalce was putting his boots on, an urgent knock came at their door.

Ayers grumbled and sat up as Anaster opened the door -- and then a young pearlcatcher pushed past him, calling, “Chalce? Chalce?”

Chalce dropped his second boot. “Filmarya?”

The other pearlcatcher ran to him and threw her arms around his neck; for a second Rahman thought she was trying to strangle him before he recognized a tight hug. In the second before she buried her face in Chalce’s shoulder Rahman registered how disheveled and wild-eyed she was.

After a moment she pulled away, her furious expression at odds with her previous embrace. “How could you?”

“Um, what?” Chalce blinked, stared, and seemed to gather himself. “What are you doing here? How did you find me?”

“I’m not stupid, Chalce. I knew the money wasn’t legal, but I didn’t think you’d do something like this.” Filmarya might have been small for a pearlcatcher, and wearing a pink dress with little flowers embroidered on the hem, but she had a very intimidating glare. “You can’t just move to Ravenbarrow! Do you know how dangerous -- if the law catches you -- and Mother would just die of shame -- ”

“I’m doing this for you,” Chalce said, helplessly.

“And I’m telling you to come home!”

Chalce came from a dirt-poor family in Cabbage Park. He never considered himself anything special, but his sister? She was bright, she was smart, she was perfect. She deserved a better life than their financial situation could support, so Chalce started stealing, his unlawful gains getting her into better and better schools. But he couldn't steal solo forever -- his skills attracted attention from Ravenbarrow, and among all the thieves' guilds and criminal consortiums there, the Whisperweb got to him first. Insecure about his origins, Chalce tries to present a sophisticated front, but his facade still needs a lot of work. His accent alone gives him away as a Cabbage Parker; he's doing his best to drop it, to speak like a middle- or even high-class Siderian, but it especially slips when he's upset.

Rahman knew, logically, that he must have gotten his land legs by now; he’d been off his ship for days. But that didn’t stop his stomach from lurching, knees weak, as he moved through the world -- a world suddenly altered, torn apart and badly re-assembled from the bloody scraps.

He’d visited Ravenbarrow before this, but not often, and never at night. He peered out a dirty window into the street, spotting furtive movements in the many shadows below.

“You shouldn’t do that,” said a bogsneak voice behind him. He turned to see one of his new partners. What was her name again? Ayers. “People around here don’t like being watched. Any business conducted on the streets of Ravenbarrow at night doesn’t bear looking into.”

“Isn’t that what we’re supposed to do?” Rahman asked. “Dig up people’s dirty secrets? Steal the skeletons from their closets?”

Ayers shrugged with an unpleasant little laugh. “If you can learn anything valuable from up here, you belong much higher in the ranks. Remember me on your way up, yeah?”

“So, how’d you end up here?” Chalce said, almost wincing as he finished, because he could hear how different he sounded from everyone around him -- it was in the way he pronounced his vowels, the slow way his voice meandered from syllable to syllable. It was how everyone sounded back in Cabbage Park, which was the worst part. That bogsneak, Ayers -- she’d heard two words out of his mouth and said, “Cabbage Park,” smirking as if she’d won some kind of game Chalce hadn’t known they were playing. “Is that what we’re doing?” Anaster was shorter than Chalce, yet somehow still managed to give the impression that he was looking down at him. “Swapping stories? This is the Whisperweb: information isn’t free.” “Sorry,” Chalce muttered, turning away -- and turning over the sounds of Anaster’s voice in his mind. He couldn’t place the tundra’s accent; Anaster didn’t seem to have one. Could Chalce speak like he did? Swapping stories, Chalce mouthed to himself, trying to imitate how Anaster had said it. “No, wait,” Anaster said, his voice softening. Chalce turned back to see him wearing a conciliatory smile. It had the opposite effect, though: put Chalce’s guard up. No one else in Ravenbarrow had been nice; why should Anaster? “We should get to know each other. I just … don’t like talking about myself. Why don’t you tell me about you instead?” “Information isn’t free,” Chalce retorted, trying to make his accent sound like Anaster’s. He was afraid it just sounded weird. “What are you offering?”