by Jeff Ayers
Skate cursed; the Bosses of the Ink were required to meet with the Big Boss once a month to give a report of dealings, income, losses, recruits, imprisonments, and any other notable developments within their respective crews and disciplines. Boss Marshall wouldn’t likely be returning today.
“’Course, if you’d been here, you’d know that. Wasn’t you lot s’posed to be robbing a place somewhere in the Old Town?”
Several people nearby had stopped their activities and were watching the conversation. The room at large was uninterested. When neither Skate nor Twitch answered, Kite’s deep brown eyes focused on Twitch. “So where’s your haul?”
Twitch jerked his head to the side, grimaced, and responded, “We’ll t-tell the Boss a-all about it, Kite.”
“I bet,” he said, taking the knife out of the table and smiling without a trace of humor. “And I bet there won’t be no lies in it, neither. Am I right about that?” He put one of his grimy fingernails on the blunted side of the knife and flicked some gunk away. He continued doing the same to his other fingers.
“We don’t lie to the B-Boss, Kite.”
“Oh, I know you don’t, kid,” he said, jabbing the knife in Twitch’s direction, “but your friend there has trouble telling the truth, don’t she?” He still wore his snake’s smile. He turned his gaze toward Skate, and she did not blink. “She lied to him before, remember? Got her in some hot water, if I remember right. And I do. I always do.” He wiped his blade on his trousers. “Whatcha say, girlie? Gonna tell the truth, or what?”
Skate felt the heat rising from her neck to the top of her head. She could ignore jabs about getting in trouble, but the intentional reference to “hot” had started her off. She heard roaring flames in her ears, and whenever she blinked, she saw fire. It was the fire that had changed her life, the fire that had put her here in the first place. She heard her voice begin talking, not even sure what she was saying. “I’ll tell you something you can do with that—”
“Skate, don’t. H-he’s a waste.”
“A waste, huh?” Kite still smiled, but it was a strained thing now. His voice became thinner. “I could show you lot what a waste looks like.” The nasal voice was low and threatening. He held the knife delicately between his two index fingers, looking at the blond boy over the top of it. “I’ve left people as one of those before, ain’t I?”
Thieves who went with Kite on jobs had a nasty habit of sustaining injuries during burglaries, and Boss Marshall wasn’t happy with that, but Kite was mostly unconcerned about Boss Marshall’s displeasure. He had made it no secret that he planned to join Boss Shade’s crew, the crew that handled all the Ink’s wet work: assassinations and petty contract killings. It was known, even among the rank and file, that Boss Shade hadn’t ruled out the possibility of Kite’s defection.
“Enough,” a voice called out from the Boss’s rooms. The sound carried across the room, because Kite’s threats had caught several tables’ attention; even the game of darts had ceased.
Kite’s smile vanished. “Sure, Haman,” he said, dropping the knife into the table once more, “sure. We was just joking around. No harm done, yeah?”
“See that it stays that way. Spilled ink flows both ways.”
That was one of the axioms of the gang, warning that blood spilled against a member of the gang would be paid back. The Bosses didn’t condone infighting.
Kite dropped his gaze to the knife in the table. Haman turned his attention to the children. “You two. Come see me. Now.” He left the door open as he returned to the office. There were a few seconds of silence, and then some chuckles as the room resumed its clinking and thudding and chattering. Kite’s eyes followed Skate and Twitch as they moved. The resumed thumping of the knife in the table remained audible until Skate pulled the Boss’s door shut.
Haman Vaerion was sitting in Boss Marshall’s chair behind Boss Marshall’s desk. The lieutenant had put on his spectacles and was examining several pages while taking notes in a book of his own. In the Boss’s absence, he alone was responsible for keeping track of everyone’s hauls and making sure the Ink got its full share. Recordkeeping was an indispensable part of running any complex enterprise, Boss Marshall was fond of saying, and Haman was skilled at finding “errors” that the various thieves under him “missed.” Boss Marshall regularly delegated this activity to his lieutenant even when he was present to run things, simply because the younger man had a better head for numbers. If Haman minded this extra unpaid responsibility, he never let on.
“Take a seat, and I’ll begin working on your reports in a moment,” Haman said without looking up, waving toward two empty stools across from him. He made a few marks on the page and, apparently satisfied with the end result, nodded and removed his glasses. Skate could not help but feel a twinge of jealousy as he worked. Reading and writing is power, she thought while he took a delicate-looking cloth from the breast pocket of his smooth gray-and-red vest and wiped the ink from his fingers, though there was little; the man was very careful with his work.
No one had ever told Skate about the semi-mystical status of being able to understand the written word; no one had ever sat her down and pointed out that it was something the powerful and the wise could do, and that it helped them to stay powerful and wise. It was an obvious fact to anyone who bothered to look at the world. The children of the Ink were all aware of literacy’s elevating force; those who could read were above, while everyone else was below.
Once he had cleaned his hands to his satisfaction, Haman placed the papers into a tray on the far end of the desk. “Now, then. You were working on the old man in Old Town, yes?” Not waiting for a response, he pulled a blank sheet of parchment paper toward him. “Let’s begin, then,” he said, dipping his quill into the inkwell.
“Haman, wait,” Skate said, not wanting him to get too far before knowing what had happened.
He raised his head slightly. The angle made his forehead look enormous. “Yes?”
“We didn’t st-steal anything,” Twitch explained. His voice squeaked a bit at the end; whether this was from nerves or part of the change that boys went through with age, Skate didn’t know. Maybe it was both.
“I see.” Haman replaced the quill in its holder after tapping the excess ink back into the well. The paper had only a few indecipherable marks at the top. “Why is that?”
Skate tried to read his hawk-like face; he was more curious than angry. Haman had always been a thoughtful man, not prone to outbursts or rash actions. It must have had something to do with the magic he had studied, she decided. Haman was a noteworthy wizard whose skills made him indispensable to Boss Marshall. Word was that he was not only a passable lock-picker in the traditional sense, but that he also had magic to unlock doors, chests, and windows without even touching them. It was his magic and dutiful attention to detail that had made him Boss Marshall’s number two, and he had managed to hold that position despite numerous thieves vying for it.
“We were p-planning to—”
“I’m aware of the plan; the Boss’s notes were, as always, quite clear. The question at hand is why you didn’t steal anything.”
“Right,” Skate jumped in, seeing Twitch jerk in his seat as he valiantly tried to respond. “That’s me, Haman. I got in and had a few things gathered, but the owner walked in on me.” She relayed the rest of the story, embellishing only the accident of his wounds; she wanted to seem dangerous, so in her retelling she made it deliberate. She also omitted the bargain she’d made for housing.
Haman seemed interested that the old man had a command of magic, and he became even more so when Skate explained that he had not fallen into a heap upon being stabbed. When she finished the story, Haman rubbed his temples.
“Why did you not leave during the night?” he asked.
“He didn’t want me to. He would have prevented it.”
“Hmm. And what occurred when you did finally stir from sleep?”
“I…” She paused and looked to Twitch,
but Twitch was transparently trying to avoid eye contact. She plowed ahead anyway. “I agreed to steal books for him in exchange for room and board.”
The proclamation sat heavily in the room. For what felt like minutes, no one said a word. Twitch coughed. Haman leaned forward, looking even more like some sleek and dangerous bird of prey in a nest of paperwork. He pierced Skate with his gaze and asked, “You took a bargain for stealing without checking with either your Boss or his lieutenant?” When she nodded, he settled back into his seat, leaned on the arm of the chair, and rested his palm on the side of his face. “Why?” he asked, in a tone that suggested she had taken leave of her senses. “You could be blacklisted for this, or killed outright. It is bad enough to show back up empty-handed, but that’s just a mistake—jobs go bad sometimes, of course, but—”
“Haman, I ain’t gonna steal any books for him. It’s a con, a way for me to get inside and keep track of all of his stuff so I can pick the best before leaving.”
Haman’s eyes narrowed, and he pursed his lips slightly. “Did he see your mark?”
“No,” she said instantly, though she couldn’t be sure; she had flailed about enough that the old man could have seen the gang’s tattoo between her shoulder blades. Apparently, her answer had been too quick. Under the wizard’s gaze, she backtracked. “I don’t think so.”
“If he did, then he may now be under the impression that he has hired the Ink for an official, contracted job. If he didn’t, then he’s not to know whom you’re associated with. It’s quite possible the man doesn’t even know of the existence of our organization. Probable, even.” Haman was drumming on the other arm of his chair with his fingers. “This might end up working. If he doesn’t know who you are, then he’s still a target instead of a client. We need clarification on this before we decide what to do with you—with both of you,” he added with a glance at Twitch, “regarding your decision to hire out without the Boss’s approval.
“The Boss will have to make that call when he gets back, but I have to tell you: he doesn’t like it when you house-runners take up clients for yourselves without getting his approval first. You can see why,” he said, nodding to the wall behind the kids. The familiar map was there, to the right of the door. It was the entire city, with each district clearly defined and labeled. Different color pins were tacked in at different points: green pins for safe houses, yellow pins for guard towers, and red pins for protected clients. “Don’t write where you eat” was another of the Ink’s mottos. It was forbidden to steal from someone who either had an open contract with the Ink or was paying monthly dues to the organization for protection. There were many red pins in the map, particularly in the docks district where they were now hiding.
“You steal from the wrong person,” Haman went on, “and the Ink’s broken a contract. Clients with broken contracts don’t like to come to us for business and might get the idea that they can go ahead and rat us out to the Guard. Unhappy clients are bad news. Disorder is bad news.”
Haman stood up and replaced his spectacles on his nose, running a hand through his straight black hair and sighing. “You’ve got to figure out what the man knows, Skate. Twitch, you’re on thin ice for failing to get anything out of this last mark. I need ten helms by the end of the week,” he said, referring to the square silver coins that bore the image of Old King Rajian’s war helmet, “or we’ll have to have a very unpleasant conversation about your continued employment and safety. Well, either we will, or you and the Boss will. Understood?” At Twitch’s emphatic nodding, Haman dismissed the boy with, “Better get to work then. Not you,” he added, putting a hand out to stop Skate from leaving. “Close the door on your way out, Twitch.”
The boy looked with discomfort at Skate but did as he was told. When the door clicked shut, Haman leaned forward across the desk. “You need to be careful. Those of us who practice the art of magic are not known to be particularly easy to trick or steal from. I’m not even sure what kind of magic he could have employed to prevent the blade you used from hurting him. Did his skin look strange?”
Skate shook her head. “No different than anyone else’s. Wrinkly, I guess, and he had some spots on him, but all old people get those things.”
Haman looked even more intrigued than before. “I’d be very interested…” he muttered to himself, apparently lost in thought. “Never mind,” he said, turning to the bookshelf beside him. He considered the collection for a moment before pulling a medium-sized tome from the shelf and handing it to her. “There. Your first stolen book for the old man.” He took another off and set it on his desk.
“How do you know if this is one he doesn’t already have? He told me he didn’t want copies of things he already has.”
“I don’t. But you don’t either. It’s a stalling tactic,” Haman explained, taking his seat again, “so you can find out what he knows. If he knows you’re Ink, then get back here immediately or try to skip town and disappear forever, because that means you’ve messed up. If he doesn’t, then you can worry about stealing what he wants to give you time to size the place up properly.”
Haman noticed that she winced when he mentioned failure. “Skate, listen to me,” he said, pulling his paperwork and the other book back toward him. “This could be a big break for you if you haven’t screwed everything up already. And for whatever it’s worth, I really hope you haven’t. I think you’re going to do well here, but we have rules. Order. Without rules, there’s no organization. No organization, no business. Do what you need to survive, but stay in the box. Got it?”
Skate stood and nodded. “I don’t think he knows.” She risked a glance at the cover of the tome. It told her nothing.
“I hope you’re right. We’ll be in the Old Town next, if you don’t get back here before the move. Close the door on your way out.”
She did so. While she was leaving, she might have seen a rather satisfied smile play across his lips as he opened his book.
Chapter 3
In which a book is delivered, a secret is revealed, and a backpack is brought downstairs.
Skate climbed up into the glare of cold sunlight. Book in hand, she turned down the street toward Belamy’s house and crinkled her nose at the fresh stench of the streets.
The walk felt longer on her own; Twitch was out getting Haman’s money. The rhythmic thumping of Kite’s knife had also been absent when she’d left, and that worried Skate more than a little. He wasn’t stupid enough to spill another Ink member’s blood, but he could hurt Twitch in other ways. She had told herself that it was a coincidence and hurried out of the room.
None of the eyes of the other thieves had followed her passing. Bart had only given her a cursory glance as he’d brought his bottle to his lips.
Skate wound her way through familiar back alleys, taking pains to avoid the few Guard patrols. She’d had run-ins with them before, especially during her pick-pocketing days a few years earlier, but she had never been caught—not yet. She was out of the docks when a familiar voice called out to her.
“Skate!”
She turned to look and smiled. It was Delly.
Skate waited for the younger girl to reach her. “Hey!” she said, wrapping her arms around her. “How’s pickings?”
“Bad,” Delly said, rolling her eyes. “None of these rubes keep anything worth having on them. All the rich ones are in the other districts, where the Guards are always walking around. I managed a few blades, though.” She reached into her pocket to reveal a handful of brown coins emblazoned with a pair of crossed swords. “So at least I’m not going back empty.”
“I had to,” Skate replied. She told the other girl the story as they walked. They passed an apple cart, and Delly nicked a couple of sour green ones.
“Y’know,” Delly said around a mouthful of half-chewed fruit after Skate had told the whole story, “that’s not a bad job, getting a roof and food for stealing a book. Who’d you take that from?” she asked, pointing to the tome in Skate’s hands.
Delly perked up at the mention of the Ink wizard. “You talked with Haman?”
Skate smiled; Delly had long been enamored of Boss Marshall’s second-in-command.
“How is he? Did he mention transferring me?”
“No, you didn’t come up, and I didn’t wanna swerve the conversation your way, since I was trying to stay out of trouble and all. Did you really want your name brought up while we were talking about ‘dire consequences’ and ‘questions about future employment’?”
Delly looked disappointed. “No, I guess not.” They had reached the house. Delly looked it over. “Kinda old, huh?”
“Yeah. Listen, you better scram.”
“Yeah, okay. Good luck, Skate.” With that, Delly was off to find another crowd or a sleepy-looking mark with a coin purse hanging too loosely.
Skate took a deep breath and moved toward the door. Remember: He’s a wizard. He’s dangerous. He’s not easy to trick. She reminded herself of these truths over and over as she approached the door, putting her mind in the right place to deal with Barrison Belamy. She lifted the large brass ring on the door and knocked twice.
The door swung wide, and there stood Belamy, alert and robed. “What is it?” he said harshly. When he looked down and saw Skate carrying her prize, his eyes widened. “Already? Good, good, come in.” The room was as warm as it had been this morning; a couple of logs were still smoldering. Everything looked the same as before, with a few key differences. The blanket was gone, as was the small statue above the fireplace. There was also something on each of the three large windows around the long room: little brown boxes that twisted in place occasionally.
Belamy saw her stare and brightened up considerably, his face splitting into a wide grin. “Curious?” She nodded, and he approached the nearest one, beckoning her closer. “They’re locks. After your…intrusion, I determined it a good idea to keep these windows from opening to any old fool with a lockpick handy. They move, see?” He pointed at the twitching metallic brown lock. “The innards, the mechanisms—they move around, so that even if someone does manage to bring the right set of tools, they’ll have a devil of a time getting the window to unlock. They’re magic of course; just made them this morning. Pretty clever, eh?”