by Katy Moran
“Elflight promises to be just as fair as you, my dear,” Lady Dassalena used to say to my mother, smirking. “It is so fortunate that your daughter shall grow up surrounded by the benefits of civilization.”
My parents’ beauty saved them from the slum quarters and cast them straight into the courtyard of the Great Palace, but it didn’t stop the fine ladies laughing at my mother because she speaks with a strange accent and could not read till she was a grown woman.
I am going to enjoy burgling the home of Lady Dassalena.
Little does Solon know where I’m bound. Him and his friends have got girls with them, girls with their faces veiled and their hair covered. Not market wenches they have hooked in the street, then. These must be girls of their own kind – rich ones – smuggled out of the house. I don’t blame them: if I was a female and had to spend my days all cloistered up like that, I should break out as well. I wonder what they’ve got in their little clutchy-bags, ready for the taking?
Solon shoves past the gaggle of people waiting at Fat Aikaterina’s stall and goes right to the front.
“There’s folk waiting, you know!” says a woman with a couple of little brats hanging off her skirts.
Solon – I’m sure it’s him – turns and says, “Oh be quiet, you whore,” and the fools with him laugh – all except one, who turns away as if she is ashamed. There’s something about her that’s so familiar: the proud way she holds her head. Solon casts a shower of silver coin at Aikaterina, saying, “Don’t bother about the difference,” and walks back to his table bearing steaming parcels of fish wrapped in flatbread. My stomach growls – time to eat and be away from here.
Moments later I’m leaning against the stone table, reaching past Solon and his heedless friends, my fingers closing around a parcel of fish, smoking hot and griddle-charred. They cannot see me. I want to laugh. It’s so easy to do this in a crowd, it amazes me anyone wonders at it, but why else do they call me the Ghost? All I do is think of nothing, allow my mind to clear, and no one can see me.
The girl who did not laugh suddenly turns. She’s looking right at me with a pair of clear, grey eyes. I’d know them anywhere. It’s Elflight: my sister, my twin.
Oh, for the love of God. What is she doing here?
I run.
You’re a brainless fool, Elfla, I think, clawing one-handed up a wall and dropping down into a dank, winding alley that stinks of piss and rotting food, still holding my stolen supper. If she’s found outside without a chaperone she’ll end her days in the whorehouse or the nunnery. I sprint down to the little church at the far end of the alley where it reeks less and there’s a fountain dribbling greenish water over a mossy statue of a woman with no arms. Sitting in the dust outside Our Lady of the Saviour, I cram the hot fish into my mouth without even tasting it. She’s got muck for brains, my sister, God curse her eyes. And then I laugh, sitting there in the shadow of Our Lady.
If I were Elflight I’d do just the same. And I am hardly at home playing the dutiful son and mopping the fevered brow of my sick mother. But I’m not a girl, and if Elflight loses her good name, what else has she got? A mother who will not move, will not speak, cannot stop bloody weeping, and a father in the middle of the desert. She is not even betrothed to anyone, because Father said she should have a husband of her own choosing. Not much use, our mother and father, to Elflight and me. I will have to do something about this – but later. The night is ever deepening, and before anything else, there is the house of Achaicus Dassalena to visit.
Towards the great looming bulk of the Palace I run, slipping along these twisty alleys like a snake. Here’s where all the high and mighty ones gather, close about the Emperor as if nestling up by his gates means some of his power might seep into their own homes.
But no one is safe from the Ghost. I can go anywhere.
I’ve done it, I’ve done it. I sprint along the roof of the silk merchant’s warehouse, my heart bursting with glee. I run so fast I scarcely feel the warmness of the tiles beneath my bare feet. The alley below throngs with folk returning home from the races; the stink of hot wine, charring meat and boiling sausages roils up from stalls jammed against the crumbling walls, overshadowed by ancient, crabbed apricot trees heavy with fruit. I have you now, Achaicus Dassalena.
I hadn’t thought it would be so easy. I reach the edge of the roof and leap across the width of the alley, right above the heads of the fools below me, landing neat on the domed roof of an old bath-house. I can stop now. I’m safe. I edge light and quick around the bulk of the dome, the old brick rough beneath my feet, crumbly, sandy to the touch. I crouch in the shadows and reach into my tunic.
Inside, there’s just the roll of vellum, soft and leathery. In the light of the moon I unroll it, and here we are: a list of names. It’s a letter to Callias, unsent, signed at the bottom by seven, eight, nine, ten men. I want to whistle out loud when I read the names again. Achaicus must have kept it to ensure none of the others betrayed him. Wily old fox – but Chance has turned her face from him now.
On this day of our Lord, we the undersigned, do solemnly declare our belief that Constans son of Constantine is no longer fit to bear the ruling of our most glorious Empire, caught as he is in the grip of a cruel obsession with the Arab threat, paying no heed to the pressures brought to bear on us by the Slavs, or the sorrowful consequence of these high taxes on every man, woman and child in the Empire—
I have the devil’s own luck.
It was surprisingly easy to find, hidden in a locked chest in Achaicus’s own chamber. But then, he was not thinking anyone would come looking for this wee treasure. Achaicus is an arrogant fool.
My lord is going to love me even more when I take it to him. And take it I must. I wouldn’t want to be Achaicus when he sees it’s missing. I put the scroll safe inside my tunic again, lying against my belly. I know I should go straight back to my lord with it but there’s something I must do first.
I’m afraid if I don’t do it now I never shall.
I’m on the Palace wall, stepping over trailing ivy, running east, swift as a lark. I hate coming here. Bad feelings swirl around in my guts. But if I do not tell her, who will? Sucking in my breath, I leap – this jump always thrills me and frights me at the same time, but I make it; I’ve never failed, though I’d be lying if I said I had not nearly missed a handful of times. I crouch on the roof for a moment, catching my breath. The tiles are still warm after the day’s heat.
This was once our stable. Elflight and I thought we might let the space to some workman or artisan, but as far as I know it’s empty yet. Our house is not the only one pinched by this desert war. I recall the day we sold our horses. We did it down at the market, and I’ll not forget the way Ares looked at us as the silk-merchant’s slave led the pair of them away. Zeus went more easily, but he was ever that way, trusting and easy.
A cat steps out of the shadows, sending my heart up my throat. She watches me for a moment, her eyes all glassy in the darkness, then slinks off and I’m alone again.
I’m outside Maria’s window, sitting in the branches of the olive tree. The twisty old bark’s rough against my legs and back. Both shutters are tight closed, which sends an odd, chilly shudder down my neck. This isn’t right. Maria always leaves her window open – that’s half why I chose this way in, as well as that nothing shocks Maria and she shan’t make a fuss at the sight of me.
Slinging one arm around the tree-trunk, I lean forward, peering in through the gap between the shutters. There’s not a chink of light, not even one lamp lit. Where is she?
Curses – I’ll have to take the hard way. I edge out along the branch till I reach the window next to Maria’s. The knotted bark digs even harder into my legs. One of the shutters is ajar and flickery lamplight shines through.
It’s Ma’s room. I hear voices within. I edge closer. Who can be with her? By leaning forward far enough to grip the window-ledge, I get near enough to peer in through the crack between the shutters. I see a wedge of Ma
’s chamber: the edge of her bed, the heavy drapes drawn back, lamp shadows leaping. I can’t see Ma, but I can see a woman sitting on her bed, back to the window. She’s dressed in a heavy cloak, hood tossed back to reveal a mass of shining dark hair with a thin veil thrown over it. The veil’s dotted with flinders of gemstone that catch the lamplight whenever she moves.
Fausta.
Oh, Mother, you may be useless and bedridden but you do have friends in high spots, do you not? How many can claim sick-bed visits from the Empress herself? It’s not every barbarian wench who finds herself a place at court in the Great Palace. Only the ones who are so shocking fair of face that folk swear they’ve been blessed by God. But what use is your fairness now, Mother dear?
“You must have hope,” Fausta is saying, in a low, urgent tone. “Now more than ever, Lark. How else can you live?”
She may talk till hell freezes over and it shan’t change anything. I do not even know why Fausta bothers coming. Ma will not move from that bed till the day she dies.
I cannot stand to hear any more of this. Soundless, I climb higher up the tree till I reach the window above Ma’s. The branches are thinner here, whippy, and I must move like a cat, light and quick. Again, the shutters are open. I reach out and draw them wider – and then I’m in, perching on the window-ledge.
Here they are: two girls sitting on a bed, talking in low voices. Asha is combing my sister’s hair. Elflight looks up first. She jumps – and then her face softens when she sees it’s me. “Damn your eyes, what are you doing here?”
Asha drops the comb, whispering what must be a prayer in her own desert-tongue. The comb clatters to the floor.
“A fine welcome for your dear and only brother,” I say, swinging my legs.
Asha’s covering her mouth with both hands. Her hair’s grown since I saw her last; it hangs over her shoulder in a shiny black plait.
“Where’s Maria?” I ask.
Asha and Elflight share a quick, hunted look. “We had to sell her,” Elflight says, a hard, defiant edge to her voice.
“What?” How could she? Maria has always been here. “But she’s an old woman—”
“What was I meant to do?” Tears start trailing down Elflight’s face. Oh, God – I never know what to do with weeping girls. “We’ve not seen any of Tasik’s pay since long before Easter – what was I to do? Keep Maria here for all of us to starve and shudder in the winter?”
Jesu. I untie the bag of coin from my belt and let it fall with a shuddery clink. Asha and Elflight both stare at it as though it’s a burning ember that might char a hole right through the floor. The red rug’s gone – has she sold that, too? She should have sent word to me.
Elflight snatches up the bag and steps towards me. “What do you want?” She stops, leaving a gap between us. “For God’s sake! When did you last wash? What do you think you’re doing, playing this game of thieves? Why can’t you just—”
“If you don’t like it,” I say, “don’t take the coin. Anyhow, what fool’s game were you playing, out with Solon Dassalena and his brainless friends, and no chaperone?”
Elflight laughs. “Oh, come on now,” she says. “My runaway little brother, head of the family all of a sudden? I never thought to hear this!”
Elflight is my elder by just a handful of sand through an hourglass – we shared our mother’s womb, growing together inside her – but you would think there were twenty years between my sister and me, the way she does go on.
Now Asha speaks. “Ought I to tell your mother?” she whispers.
I could kill her. “Make another sound and you’ll be sorry,” I say.
Asha stares at the floor.
“You’ve no right to speak to her like that!” Elflight hisses. “Just go.” She turns to Asha. “Don’t – it’ll only upset Ma again. It makes me ill to think of the time I’ve wasted trying to keep him here, and all for nothing.”
“All right,” I say. “It’s not me who’ll finish in the whorehouse, pleasing fat old men for coin.”
“How dare you?” Elflight reaches out to slap me, but she’s too slow. Always was, the daft heifer. I’m back in the olive tree before she can even get close.
“Asha,” I call. “Look after her. If she must run about the streets, let it be with you.”
And then I’m gone before either of them can answer.
Down in the alley, a shadow steps out of the side gate. It’s Asha, breathing hard. She must have run like a hare, but she is not fast enough to catch me. “Don’t go,” she says, and I stop.
I have not stopped for anyone in years.
I remember my mother bringing home a girl from the market with hair all black and glossy like the skin of a plum. I remember sitting in the fountain with Asha when we were small, shrieking and splashing each other with bright beads of water. I remember Asha talking softly to my mother till she took a little sup of milk, the first thing to pass her lips since we had buried Tecca. I thought my mother would die, too, till Asha had her drink the milk.
I would stop for no one else.
“Why do you not come back?” Asha says. “You only make it worse by staying away—”
“I can’t.” There’s no use in trying to make her see – the Guild of Thieves is my family now. I feel the scroll resting against my chest, safe inside my tunic. Safe for the moment. I’m sure it’s getting hotter, as if it is burning a shadow of itself into my skin. “I must get back to my lord. I have my orders.”
Asha shrugs. “But are you not just a kind of prisoner, then?”
“No more than you are.”
“I had my freedom and my family taken from me,” Asha says quietly. “You have given yours away.” Turning, she slips back through the side gate, and I hear the bolt drawn home behind her.
I run silently away down the alley.
After all, where is the profit in staying?
The Fleet
ONE OF the striplings comes up to me as I warm my bones by the cook-pot fire with Iskendar and Niko. The brat gets down on his knees, just as he should, and bows his head before us. “If it please you,” he says to me, “but you’re wanted by Master again.”
“Well enough,” I say. “And how went your morning up on the Mese, Mouser?”
Mouser ducks his ratty-brown little head again. He’s fast and small, almost as good a pickpocket as me. “I slit fourteen purses with my knife and I took all to Master, just as you said.”
“Well done, then.” I wonder what our lord wants of me this time? “You’d best spend the afternoon down by the docks. There’s always some trader in his cups with too much coin in his purse and not enough sense.”
Mouser scuttles off along one of the rope walkways where the other young ones are sitting, boasting of their day’s thieving. I’m proud of them. A good morning’s work by all.
“Go on, then,” Iskendar says, leaning back against the wall. “Tell us. Everyone’s speaking of it.”
“You know I can’t say.” I grin at him, stirring the fire with a stick. Bright splashes of flame float up into the gloom; some land, hissing, in the water. The blind white fish stop circling and dart away.
“You want to be careful what you get tangled up in.” Niko’s staring at the water, his thin face all pinched with worry. “There’s thieving and then there’s just foolery.”
Iskendar nods. He’s been all morning at the silver market and he’s got a set of knives spread out before him, and a heap of bracelets all bound together with a leather string. “Niko’s right. Look at this – the honest end to a hard morning’s work. You should stick to what you know. You ought not to get bound up in Master’s plots. They’re not for the likes of us. But I suppose you think you’re different.” He pauses then, and looks away.
There’s an unspoken pact among the Children of the Underworld never to ask about someone’s life before they came to this. Some tell anyway – Iskendar was cursed with fifteen siblings and a stepfather. Niko lived with his grandmother till she died. The Emperor of
Thieves turns no child away. But I’ve not spoken a word about my past, and I never shall.
“What would you have me do?” I say. “Tell our master that he may go hang the next time he summons me?” There’s a hard edge to my voice. “We all know he owns us down to the nails at our fingertips. We’re his to do with as he likes, so you may as well end this half-witted talk.”
I don’t really believe this any more, about our every sliver of skin, blood and bone belonging to the Emperor of Thieves. It might be true for Iskendar, Niko, Thales and the others, for Black Elias who betrayed our lord and died at his order. But it isn’t so for me. I delivered Achaicus Dassalena to my lord when I gave him that vellum scroll, and now he owes me, the Ghost. He cannot live for ever – the Good Lord gathers every man to his fold, and the devil takes the rest. One day, I will be Emperor of Thieves myself. I will rule the dark side of Constantinople, and no one can stop me.
“You should watch yourself, that’s all.” Iskendar stares at the dark water.
“Is that a threat?” I say. My voice is soft and quiet. Is he envious? Surely not.
“Of course it isn’t, you mutton-head,” mutters Niko. “We’re just feared for you. All this sneaking and secrets.”
Iskendar nods. “If I were you, I’d give up this game you play – whatever it is,” he says, and I wonder then how much he knows about me, how much I’m not telling. Thales knows. You and your witch-father, he said. Some long-nosed fool’s been digging around – Thales or someone else who wants to see the back of me. There must be a few among the Thief Children who do. Thales said my father had turned traitor but I know he would never, not with all his barbarian notions of honour and fealty. Much I care about him anyhow.
I stir the fire again, and I speak so soft you couldn’t ever know how close I am to driving my fist into Iskendar’s face. “Would you lead the Ghost Legion, then, instead of me?”
“That’s not what he’s meaning,” Niko says.
“Well enough, then.” I spring to my feet and, making myself unseen, I am gone. I hear their voices fading as I scale the wall, leaving the same way I did when Thales was here.