Mastiff Fanfiction- After all this time: You've Got It All Wrong

After All This Time- Chapter One: You've Got It All Wrong

And I said, "No. Oh, you've got it all wrong." -Bluebird, Christina Perri

Clara Goodwin sat behind her desk. Jane Street was quiet, and she stared unseeingly at the stony wall across from her.

"Why?" The question seemed to whisper through the kennel. "Why, Mattes?" Her voice rose and her chin trembled. "You aren't going to make me cry. You sarden, cracknobbed looby! Scutty, mumping barbarian!" Her vision went blurry, and tears spilled over. She furiously dashed them away.

Anger overcame her and she slammed the cork into her ink jar, spattering her reports. Not bothering to knock, she ripped open the Watch Commander's door.

"Goodwin-"

"Sir Acton, may I be excused to go patrol?" She pretended as though her face was as cool as slate, not blotchy and red. She didn't cry prettily. It wasn't a skill she needed.

The man stared at her a moment more, then nodded. "Can you take someone with-"

"They're all out on patrol, sir. And I don't want to bother Cooper."

"Yes," he paused. "Find someone to patrol with you. Someone decent. Not some cracknob. Jewel can cover for you." His eyes softened, and he added, "Take as long as you need, Goodwin."

"Thank you, sir." She saluted, shut the door, and walked calmly to her gear locker. A gorget, arm guards, cuirass, baton, several knives, helm. Clary shut the locker with icy control, then walked slowly out of the kennel, before making a mad dash down the street.

It was a hot night, and sweat quickly soaked her. It's for the best. No one can tell tears from sweat. She turned off Jane Street, down Honor Street. The road was as quiet as a grave. Goodwin shuddered at the thought, then skidded to a stop, nearly missing the house she wanted.

It was dark, the cheerful yellow paint shining silver in the moonlight. The tiny roses were closed up and the whole building looked rather forlorn.

Goodwin stepped up to the door and rapped on it. There was no answer after a second knock, so Goodwin circled to the side of the house. A window swung open on the second story. After a quick glance around, Goodwin drew two long daggers and slid them into the wood, between the clapboards where no one would notice holes. She struggled up the wall, and eventually reached the window. She swung into the room, sheathing her daggers.

A cool blade slid across the top of her neck, just above the gorget. Goodwin froze.

"What are you doing in my house?" a raspy mot's voice asked. It sounded like she had been crying. "I won't have thieves wandering about."

"It's Clary Goodwin, Sabine. I couldn't get in the front door."

Sabine of Macayhill glanced at Goodwin's face in recognition. "There's a reason people lock their doors, Clary. It's to keep other people out."

Goodwin tried to laugh, and failed, hiccuping slightly. "There's a reason I learned to break into houses." She followed the lady to a set of chairs next to the cold hearth. "I'm out on patrol tonight, and I wanted to know if you'd join me."

Sabine hardly blinked. "Certainly. I need something to do." She stood, and vanished into another room, presumably to gather her gear.

Goodwin picked at the thread hemming her uniform. It was sewn tightly, so she picked at invisible bits of dirt on her tunic. It was soaked through with sweat, and reeked terribly. When was the last time she'd washed it?

Sabine came out a moment later. Goodwin was relieved to see she had donned minimal armor and covered it with a black tunic and breeches. The lady pulled a battered helm out of a trunk near the window and slid it on to match Goodwin.

"How shall I arm myself?"

Goodwin reached along her belt, behind her water-skin, before the dagger, and pulled out a spare baton. "Use this and a few daggers."

Sabine caught the baton easily and slipped it into her belt. "Let's go out the front door this time, shall we?" Sabine led the way down to the front door, then carefully relocked it with her key. "Where are we going?"

Goodwin thought about it. There were usually tavern brawls all along Mulberry Way. Illegal slave trading at the Market of Sorrows. Theft on Festive Way. A mixture of everything at the Nightmarket, and occasionally a riot. "Nightmarket." She took of at a quick trot, not looking to see if the lady knight followed.

The dark pressed around her, and she took a shuddering breath. Can't act like a gixie lost in the dark. People don't respect weak Dogs. 

She turned on to Holderman Street, which led to the Nightmarket, when there was a loud crash, and a motley set of coves tumbled onto the road. The door to the pub slammed open again as a mot ran out. Goodwin caught a glimpse inside and grinned in anticipation.

"A proper tussle, at last."

She and Sabine burst into the room, batons swinging. A cove lunged at Goodwin. She slammed her sap into his elbow and he squealed as she moved on. She moved deeper into the fight, lost sight of Sabine, and let the exercise wipe her mind clear of everything.

Something slammed into the back of her cuirass, and she spun around, leg out to trip someone. It was a tattooed mot, missing a tooth. She fell to the ground, but managed to seize Goodwin's tunic. Goodwin turned as she fell, landing square on the mot's nose. The woman let go, and Goodwin leaped up. There were only two coves left in the room, so she ran at the one with the long dagger. He turned, and threw the knife at her. She turned to the side, but a streak of fiery pain darted across the bridge of her nose. She jumped on the cove, and they fell to the ground again. She battered at him with her fists, her baton long gone. He wasn't as well with his fists as the knives, but he managed to hit her hard on her cheekbone. She fell backwards, dazed. He reached for her again, then dropped to the ground.

Goodwin looked up. Sabine stood over the man, baton in hand.

"Your nap-tap is rather handy. 'Tis a pity you can't do it with a sword." She handed Goodwin her baton. "You dropped it when you went after that mot."

Goodwin nodded slowly, checking for loose teeth. "Let's get this lot of sarden loobies to the cart, then we can head out. The barmen don't usually appreciate our business on occasions like this." Sure enough, a rather annoyed looking man was stepping out of the kitchen. Goodwin shot him a glare, then began to tie up the brawlers.

It wasn't much longer before they were walking along the street again. Sabine glanced at the blood across Goodwin's face. "Are you sure you're all right to be doing this?"

"It's only a scratch. I'm fine. That's nearly the lightest I've gotten off in a tavern brawl." She snorted, then added, "The worst time, I broke my arm and two of my fingers. It was just after I got my silver Dog badge. First night out with it, and I had to go to a healer. Gods, the embarrassment. I couldn't show my face at the kennel for a week without getting laughed at."

Sabine laughed, a real laugh this time. "A month after I was knighted, I was going to joust at the King's tournament. Show all the men how a woman can fight, and I fell off my horse before I even got to the field. Talk about feeling like a looby."

Goodwin smiled crookedly. "I've another story to tell you. Mayhaps you can tell one tomorrow, that is, if you'd like to keep doing this for a bit."

Sabine looked surprised. "I'd love it. Thank you, Clary. I think," she paused. "I think he'd approve, wherever he is."

Already the Best, Last Night part 11

Rosethorn never went to bed that night; she saw no real point. Instead she had spent the dark hours before midnight coaxing oils from the lothlóre flowers that she had found growing behind her well. Shortly before midnight, she changed into her clean habit and left for the Hub.

When she arrived, she eased the door open and slipped in. Glimmering shadows from the banked coals of the kitchen fire cast the room in a demonic glow. Rosethorn shook off a feeling of unease and padded across the tiles. There was a whisper of fabric behind her, and then a rather large dedicate stood at her side. Rosethorn gasped and thumped into the side of the oven.

Dedicate Gorse caught her arm and pulled her back. "My dear duck, why didn't you go through the Heartfire doors?" he rumbled.

"I don't know, I just. . . didn't feel like it, I suppose."

Gorse smiled knowingly. "Eventually, everything that has happened will come together in a great pattern. You'll see the sense of it someday, just not today." He pushed her towards the door to the inside of the Hub. "If you come back after your rounds, I'll have something for you."

Rosethorn smiled tiredly and slipped into the Heartfire room. Several other dedicates were already there, so Rosethorn quietly lit her candle and knelt on the dirt floor near the fire. She took a deep breath for seven counts, held it, breathed out, and began her meditation. Her magic flared around her in a bright starburst, then swirled into her core.

Across the room, Crane watched her carefully. The whole thing was quite idiotic. Arguing about people in the Mire. Of course she was right, I see it now. She's always right. Too proud to accept any apology, though. She can't forgive me even if she wanted to. Sadness pinched his face. She's a beautiful creature, but she can't see herself. Always seeking to be better, stronger, quicker, more generous, more clever. She can't see that she's already the best.