Chapter 2

Light spilled from the Cattery, laughter and bawdy shouts resonating through the dark canal on Ragman's Harbor. Whores could be heard whistling from their evening perches, hanging out their windows, luring wandering foreigners from below, tempting them to part with their precious gold pieces for a night of undeniable pleasures. Stray cats cried desperately for some spare food by the brothel's back door, their tails swishing in and out of the shadows.

Slipping the token around her neck back into the folds of her robe, the girl shoved herself off the alley wall and made her way down the dark canal into the dregs of Drowned Town. The lanterns came nearer as she sauntered down the walk, their reflections winking in the dark water only to be disrupted by the girl's shadow as she crept beside the water's edge. Her bare feet made not a sound against the stone pathways as she tracked her process through backbends, leaping over fences and barrels, darting across bridges and planks that loomed above the waterway. The slender sword at her belt brushed the pant leg of her silk trousers and the girl was reminded of someone who used to carry such a sword. Brushing the thought away, she shook her head, strands of hair tickling her cheeks, flickering against her jawline.

She did not have the luxury of remembrance, not in the service of Him of Many Faces. A dead girl could not remember what it felt like to live, neither could a faceless one. She must forget everything if she wanted to serve.

Slinking across a depleted dock, the girl stopped, sniffing the air, her nose upturned to the breeze. Drowned Town was a scarce corner of Braavos. Its buildings had sunken into the lagoon the city was built upon, fractured from the rest of the city. Being detached meant being ignored. Being ignored meant being free to do as one pleased. Half consumed by the water, half consumed by swaggering bravos, Drowned Town spawned the center for night vivacity among eccentric scum of all varieties. They dwelled in filthy cellars, drinking, whoring, betting on eel fights. But Drowned Town contained a much choicer location for capable swordsmen.

Notorious for duels among audacious bravos, Moon Pool awakened only at night, lanterns splaying brilliant colors along brothels and taverns, exposing crowds of young Braavosi eager to prove their prowess with a blade.

The girl crept through the forest of disremembered docks with vigilance and followed the light that mirrored itself in the water. Guided by the lanterns, she soon found herself on the fringes of Moon Pool. The area was large, surrounded by lesser establishments on all sides, all roads intersecting at the center of Moon Pool's main event. Capable of withholding many duels at once, each individual fight had the possibility of attracting respectable crowds.

The girl came to crouch atop a roof where she surveyed the water dancers at their craft. She rubbed the head of a scrawny black cat as it twisted itself around her ankles.

The duels were held in circles hallowed out by the clearing of the crowd. Observers weren't allowed to interfere with the match, but their voices didn't heed the rule and the harsh hissing and barking of insults were quite audible from her perch.

She remembered a man. Syrio.

Memory ruptured a crack in her facade.

They were inevitable, these fractures of composition, moments where she let the other girl slip inside her unwillingly. Glimpses from her past life would bleed through the fabric she'd so meticulously woven, and remembrance became a dull ache beneath her ribs where her heart rotted under her skin. The pain dwelled there constantly like an old wound being struck and reopened. The nameless girl's curiosity overpowered her and the need to feel the dead girl's memories… the desire to taste the flavors of her past was incendiary. The nameless girl sucked in a shaky breath and her bones shifted in anticipation when she finally allowed herself a moment to flesh out the dead girl's conscience.

A man who taught her to dance with a sword. He had been from Braavos, told her so long ago during one of their lessons. The First-Sword of Braavos. Is he here now? She wondered, briefly hoped.

Shut up, stupid, she chided herself. He's dead and gone and so are you.

Standing, the girl ducked from the roof, swinging nimbly to the ground from a broken stairwell. Rolling to her feet, she slipped into the swelling crowd, hidden amidst the flashy silk robes and dyed beards. Inhaling the thick perfumes, the girl shifted her way between men of all shapes, their cloying scents clinging to her attire.

The girl watched the dancers and their thin blades slashing with fascination.

A hand pressed against the scruff of her neck, fisting her robes and yanking her back. She did not fight her aggressor, the Kindly Man had told her it would not be wise. He had told her Izembaro would seek her out in the crowd, that she was not to search for him herself.

She could not see his face, the man she was to meet, only the shadow he cast behind her. She felt the warmth of his body and could taste the lagoon's stench on his robes.

"Tell me, child. At what hour does the Swift Sailor arrive at the docks next moon?" He spoke to her in the Common Tongue, voice low in her ear. His mustachio ticked her cheek.

"A quarter past sun down, depending on the tides." The Kindly Man had told her she would be asked questions, and that she would provide the correct answers so he would know it was truly her.

"Saquer the Wailing lost a bet this morning. To whom?"

"Yareh of Stone Arch. Eight of Saquer's champion eels were his prize." The girl could feel his lips tilting against her cheek. The back of her neck stung unpleasantly from the man's grip, still he did not relent.

"Clever girl," the hand tightened on her robe, his breath on her neck. "What's this one's name?"

She steeled herself.

"I am no one."

"Hmm. Does this clever one speak true?" She gritted her teeth, toes digging into the dirt. The crowd cheered around them, lanterns splaying the men around her bright red. "Very well, child. But I have just one more to ask," the stranger grasped her shoulder, fingers biting into the soft skin beneath her robe. He shifted silently through the bodies, marshy lagoon air sticky and hot. Sweat clung to her brow, pasting the thin cloth to her skin. The crowd wavered for them as they came to the edge of the circle. The fighting pit fleshed out before them like a wound, the break in the audience like a gash. The girl's eyes widened in wonder. She'd never seen the pits up close and felt exhilaration pump through her guts. She could smell the sweat and hear the rough grunts and breaths passing between the fighters.

The bravos danced quick and fierce, blades colliding gracefully in the center of the clearing.

The taller of the two swordsmen fared better than his opponent, who bleed furiously from his side, bright blood staining his orange vest. Dirt clouded underneath their fast moving feet. The taller man slashed his sword quick and certain through the air, at first a seemly useless move, but then the girl realized the weeping cut along the other man's neck, hot blood draining from the red smile, pouring onto his flurry collar and frivolous vest. Red ran thick in the sand as he collapsed forward. The man's life's blood poured from his body like a punctured fruit weeping its juice. The scent of death focused the girl's senses acutely, and she felt the stranger's calloused hand on her neck even more pronouncedly.

The lanterns above shifted in the breeze on their lines and various colors bespattered the night sky and crowd below. The onlookers shouted in many tongues for the next fight, fists pumping brazenly at the victorious bravo to choose his contestant. Coin pouches rustled with the bets. The other man's body was dragged away from the scene, although the pit was stained with his remains.

"Tell me child. How must you serve Him of Many Faces?" Izembaro inquired softly.

"By giving the gift."

"Aye, this is true, little girl." He release the fabric of her robe. "So, you must give it now. Remember, child: valar dohaeris."

The girl fingered for the hilt of her blade as Izembaro's rough shove sent her stumbling into the open sand pit. The crowd bustled and she felt eyes searching every inch that she consisted of. The bravo turned- eyed her as a cat eyes a canal rat and stroked his mustachio, pursing his lips as the crowd shouted and laughter swelled through the masses. The nameless girl slipped her toes into the sand and balanced herself amongst the uneven surface, hissing at the man facing her with a smirk stripped of any humor. The girl let the other one's memories of water dancing penetrate her mind. Stealing into the dead girl was a familiar sensation, and she wore her like a second skin. But she was the first skin, and you're just a pretender. You're not like them. You used to be someone, a provoking voice uttered somewhere inside her head.

No, you're no one. You are only here to serve Him and now you must give the gift.

A/N: don't look at me like that, I know I suck