The damp stairs creaked beneath Petrov's feet as he jogged up the narrow shaft. Above him at the top of the staircase, a shaft of soft light peaked through the slit of the door. Petrov knew from the light that the fog outside had burned up a little since he stepped inside only minutes before. Damn it to Hell, he cursed to himself. The Shavice will start their rounds soon. He had hoped that the fog would give them a bit more time to conduct business. No matter. He could cut his words today. The only task he really wanted to accomplish that couldn't wait was to retrieve news from Chenia.
Petrov reached the top. He shoved the door open halfway before it hit a snag. Petrov stopped for a moment, puzzled, before the door swung open all the way. Another Chenian man stood in front of him, glaring into his soul, as if looking for an enemy that did not appear. Petrov knew this fellow based on his previous visits. Petrov strained to remember who he was. What was his name? Agmin? Agmar? In any case, this fellow should recognize me as much as I do him.
Familiar or not, the Chenian who stood in his way did not change his demeanor. He searched Petrov for any reason to deny him entrance. Petrov, knowing he had not violated any code of sort, stepped up to the man. He nodded. The man clenched his fist, a gesture that did not go unnoticed by Petrov.
"Let him through," a voice said.
The Chenian stood aside. Petrov strode past him onto the rooftop, thankful that his day, however harsh it would be, did not start out in violence.
What little was on the rooftop hardly had any value worth protecting. A few cages wrapped in chicken wire housed a dozen carrier pigeons along with two falcons. Outside the coop, in rows of pots, grew rows of sweet angelino plants that had yet to ripen. While not illegal, angelinos were considered to have medicinal properties and as such were often confiscated by the Shavice in their raids before finding their way to Maricanian shops and markets. For their efforts to suppress untaxed contraband on the Chenian black market, the Shavice themselves were often richly compensated by the syndicates to whom they would sell the angelinos. Although the Shavice valued the angelinos for their potential income, they had no desire to grow the fruits themselves, knowing it was far easier to steal from Chenians under the guise of upholding the law. So for the time being the plants were safe.
Empty crates also lined the rooftop, where a group of four Chenian men sat playing cards. Every now and then they would look up to watch the younger set, six anxious men in their mid-twenties, as they moved around practicing fencing with dull sabers.
Petrov could not personally vouch for each swordsman. But based on the way they moved, with all the passion of enthusiastic amateurs, he knew that they had never fought before. Perhaps the occasional street fight or two had made them bold enough to face their partners in sparring. But sloppy footwork, unbalanced sabers and overall lack of discipline in how they practiced hinted that they had not experienced a real sword fight.
Petrov marched up to the men seated around the crate. Only one, a gruff man in his early thirties, bothered to break his concentration to address Petrov.
"Petrov."
"Boris."
"You came to teach these idiots a thing or two."
"Not today."
"Too bad Nicolai didn't start coming with you. If you and him could band together to lead this shitty bunch, then we'd start having more joyous conversations."
"Yeah. Maybe."
"Speaking of conversations." Boris reached into his coat pocket to retrieve a small bundle of papers and envelopes. "News from Chenia. They only sent a few dozen newspapers from Sagemark, so I had to twist a few extra arms to get that."
"Thank you."
"Do not lose that. I promised it to my cousin after you're done with it."
"I won't."
"There's a letter in there too. From Osley, I think."
"Osley? You sure?"
Petrov's inquiry was interrupted by the ringing of temple bells. The casual demeanor of the rooftop turned to sudden concern as everybody stopped. The pause gave way to hurried movement as the Chenians rushed to hide their actions. The fencers gathered their sabers and moved to the coop, where one of them lifted a floorboard to reveal a secret compartment. They threw their sabers inside before closing it up. The others, who had been playing cards, scattered their crates in all directions. They stuffed their goods into their coats before breaking off.
As the bells rang, Petrov searched the fog-covered rooftops. Through the thickness he could make out no one or nothing. It served as the perfect cover for the Shavice to descend on the Chenians from any direction.
"Move," Boris yelled. "What are you waiting for?"
Petrov looked as the others scattered in all directions.
"Where they going?" Petrov asked. "They don't know where they are. They could run right into them."
"Well we can't wait here for them, now can we?"
In the distance, beyond their line of sight, a young man screamed. A few quick thuds, not unlike those of a club hitting flesh, followed.
Petrov grabbed Boris' arm. He led him to the stairs.
"They're on the roof already. Take the stairs."
Petrov closed the door behind Boris. Boris held it open at the last second.
"Aren't you coming?"
"No, we can't both go. They'll catch up."
"Petrov . . ."
"Go!"
Petrov slammed the door behind Boris. He held it closed with the full weight of his body before hearing the footsteps descending the stairs. Boris was safe. For the time being.
Petrov searched the rooftop. The fog had burned off a little more so that he was able to see adjacent buildings. All of them bordered the rooftop he stood on, at about the same height, so that anyone could easily hop from one to the other with ease. The question was, from which rooftop would the Shavice come?
Petrov knew he couldn't wait too long. He stepped away from the doorway, into the center of the roof and listened. Voices bounced from all directions. Most were murmurs that could have been from anybody. The tenants in the lofts below were just waking up, which made distinguishing the conversations all the more difficult.
Petrov knew there was one way he could escape the Shavice no matter what direction they came from, but he did not like it. Still, he preferred it to their random interrogations.
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From a neighboring rooftop, Mesca could make out the outline of a young man as he threw himself against the rooftop door. He watched the man stand there, still, as if waiting.
Mesca knew their kind well. They were the same men who roamed the streets after dark, vandalizing any Maricanian business where they suspected they could make a buck. They were so brazen that they even trained with blades in the random event that they could sneak one out of the Red Zone and wreak havoc on the general populace. Conspirators, Mesca mused. Enemies of the state. Every last one of them.
The young man Mesca was watching suddenly slipped to the north end of the rooftop before disappearing further in the fog. Mesca, startled that his prey could disappear so fast, rose to his feet. He tapped his partner, Evan, on the shoulder. Together, the two men hopped onto the roof, searching for the one they had seen only moments before.
Other than the angelino plants and the coop, there was nothing more on the roof. Mesca jogged around the perimeter with his club in hand. He was ready for a fight. But despite his eagerness, he did not find one.172Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ6C9EaZ3BBH
"This one's empty," Evan said. "Are you sure someone was here?"
Mesca grinded his teeth. He hit his club against the rooftop door.
"Let's go."
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Just beneath the edge of the rooftop, clutching to the rain gutter, was Petrov. The balls of his feet clung to the edge of a window sill. Thankfully, the sleeping tenants had left it cracked open the night before, so that he was able to slip his toes under the window for more support. Otherwise, Petrov's attempt at escape would have been futile, probably ended by the strike of a club. Petrov knew he was lucky. For once. 172Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡVka84Q9XyC
