by Jeff Ayers
Ossertine’s home was part of a set of houses connected to one another. They look like books on a shelf, she thought; the thin faces of the homes jutted out like a row of book spines. Most of the street block was effectively one wide, squat structure divided up into smaller living spaces. There was some variation—one house might have an awning while the next did not, and some of the houses rose to a third or even a fourth landing—but these minor instances of individualization did little to set any particular house apart from another. The overall effect was rather the opposite: the small fluctuations in cosmetic choice served to highlight their similarities.
Skate sighed at Ossertine’s place. Although there were no lights on within it, nothing else she saw of the house made her think the job of breaking in without attracting attention would be an easy one.
There was, as far as she could tell, one door to the place. There was only one window at the ground floor, and it was blocked by a large piece of furniture on the inside. She would have to go in through the front door, or else climb up to the roof and try to break in through the second-story window. The first option was terrible, since there were people milling around, one of whom was bound to spot her and give a description to the Guard. But clambering into a second-story window was just as likely to attract unwanted attention.
Skate knew the area somewhat, and she thought that there were more houses behind this row, facing the other direction—which meant there would be no back door.
She had never been atop the buildings. There could be some sort of roof access. She muttered over her shoulder, “I’m going to try to get to the roof to see if there’s a way in.”
“Bully for you,” a soft, reedy voice responded. She whipped around to see Kite standing there, using his knife to clean his fingernails. He was not looking at her as he worked. He leaned against the alleyway wall with contemptuous ease. “Why you trying to get in, love?”
She tried to stay calm, but her nervousness projected as petulance. “None of your business, Kite.”
“The Ink’s business is my business. Is this Ink’s business?” His voice was disinterested, and he still wasn’t looking at her, but she could sense an icy chill in his words. Violence danced just underneath the surface with Kite, always.
Skate grimaced at him. “Yeah, Kite, but you’re not a Boss or a lieutenant. I don’t have to tell you anything.” She turned away from him and moved toward one of the houses that had a ladder up against it.
Kite was a nuisance. He probably thought Skate was on the trail of a big score and was attempting to horn in on the haul. She wasn’t going to let him get to her, though. Her mother had taught her that bullies feed off the misery of others, so she’d starve him.
To Skate’s annoyance, when she looked back, she saw him occupying the space she had vacated, watching her. He fancies himself a detective, she thought, sticking her tongue out at him and beginning to climb up the ladder.
The flat roofs that greeted her were not particularly promising—nothing but straw thatching. She moved over to Ossertine’s roof and was pleasantly surprised. There was a wooden trapdoor under some loose straw. It was latched but unlocked. She pulled at it, and the creak was painfully loud. She tried and failed to keep the door from crashing as it opened. It was heavier than she’d expected.
Skate swore as the rumble from the door rolled under her feet. She almost bounded through the hole in the roof due to sheer nerves, but she paused when she saw something dangerous on the lip of the frame.
It was small, and by design very easy to miss: a glyph painted onto the lip. Twitch had taught her to look for such things when entering unfamiliar nice houses, and her wariness had saved her. If she had crossed the boundary made by the trapdoor’s frame without first speaking the proper password, the symbol would have released whatever murderous energy it contained. Some such runes would trigger if even seen, though this one wasn’t blasting her with any arcane energies. It was probably activated by passing through without a password.
Skate wondered whether Ossertine was capable of making such a trap herself, or if she had hired someone to create the magical deterrent.
Regardless, Twitch had taught Skate how to disarm it. She pulled a metal wire from her clothes. There were two points that she had to touch with perfect accuracy and at precisely the same time. Success would mean the magic within would fizzle out, and she would be able to pass without harm. Failure would trigger it.
Wire in hand, Skate stood up and began to jog in place. Neighbors might hear her, but that bang from the door had dispensed with that concern.
Rattle clicked indignantly in the backpack.
“Shush,” she said between heavy breaths. “I need…to get…warmer.” Rattle clicked twice within, and then fell to silence, apparently ready to wait and be jostled by her aerobics.
When she felt confident in the warmth she had started to radiate, Skate lay near the wooden frame of the door and bent the wire into position. She took a deep breath, and let it out. She took another, and let it out too. She took several more, steadying her nerves for the task at hand. She took a final deep breath, and she released it. When her lungs were empty, she double-checked the positioning of her hands and pushed both forward to their respective targets. When she felt the wire make contact, she closed her eyes.
Feeling that she was still alive and unhurt, Skate opened them again. She saw only the ward placed on the wood, her bent wire making contact exactly where it should. As she watched, a trickle of energy trailed across the surface of the defeated trap and dissolved into nothing. With a satisfied grin, she dropped down into the house.
Skate landed wrong and had to tumble into a roll to avoid hurting herself or Rattle. She struggled to her feet, the backpack adding difficulty to the process.
Rattle clicked again. Skate ignored it and took stock of her surroundings. She had landed in a bedroom. The late afternoon sun cast a slightly orange glow on everything, making it look warm and sleepy. There were dressers and end tables, and a privacy screen in the corner. The bed was feminine in its decoration, but not distractingly so. Everything in the room had an air that suggested it was relatively new and well-kept. It was very unlike Belamy’s home that way; everything in his home had carried a trail of dust from months of neglect—the location of everything unchanging and unmoving, inviolate even as it was forgotten. The only things in his house that did not bear that sense of abandonment were the books. They alone saw care and use, and they enjoyed a hallowed status.
It did not appear that Ossertine held her own books in quite such high regard, because Skate saw no sign of any books in the room, which seemed to occupy most of the second floor.
“Do you know where her books are?” she asked her back in hushed tones; a rooftop thump might have perked up ears, but a strange voice afterward would raise true suspicion, and that was attention she could ill afford.
Rattle avoided clicking but shifted around in the pack and pushed downward with just enough force that her head and shoulders jerked backward a bit. “Okay, I got it,” she said, taking the bent staircase down to the ground floor.
This room looked much more promising—like Belamy’s study, though smaller. While the upper floor was entirely directed toward accommodating a comfortable bedroom, the ground floor divided its space into two sections. One, which Skate saw through an open door, was an unstaffed kitchen. The study she was in functioned as a den or living room. Rows upon rows of books covered the room’s walls, the line of spines broken only twice: once where a comfortable sofa and table with a shaded lamp were positioned, behind which was a small square landscape painting, and again across from it where there hung a huge painting of an unfamiliar figure engaged in battle.
“Okay, eyeball,” Skate said over her shoulder, “pick one.” She unslung the bag and held it in front of her, afraid that mishandling it might get her stabbed or clawed. She could feel Rattle positioning itself inside the bag, and the heavy cloth of the bag shifted as the bat-winged eyeball spider peeked out to
begin its survey.
Its eye roved hungrily over the titles, and if a book lacked one, Rattle stuck a trio of spindly legs out to open it. If it looked familiar (as the first several did), the book would be replaced on the shelf.
Skate walked with Rattle across the shelves that lined almost every inch of wall in the room, eventually standing on tiptoe to let it read the highest shelf, then bending at the waist to let it read the bottom. The sun moved further down while they scanned every book in the room. As they neared the last of the library, Rattle clicked its legs in irritation, and Skate couldn’t help but let out a heavy sigh. Belamy had said that there were books here he didn’t have. Where were they?
Her arms were getting tired. After Rattle had pulled and replaced the last of the books and devolved into a clicking frenzy, Skate set the bag down. The sought-after books were not here.
For the first time, Skate let her mind wander from the job. Not having anything else to do while Rattle stewed in its irritation, she found the only thing in the room worth looking at other than the books. The small square painting—the one that she could take out of the room if she wanted to—was dark and foreboding, though not masterfully done. The amateurish brushstrokes created a somewhat blurred image of a small island in a lake, all ground areas lush with various flora. It was evening in the painting, just as it was quickly becoming outside. The island in the middle had the only building in the whole picture: a thin tower with a single light peeking through a window in the top floor. Habit made Skate begin to examine the frame to see if it might be valuable.
Her initial appraisal was not promising. It looked like gold, but a gentle touch revealed wood under paint rather than precious metal. It did reveal something much more interesting, though: the painting would shift very easily from its place, despite its size and weight. She pushed it to the right and caught a glimpse of bare wood behind the frame. Curious, Skate tried to remove the entire painting and found that it dislodged easily. It was also heavy, and she struggled to set the thing down gently. When she had placed it safely on the floor, she saw with surprise that there was a small door the size of a window suspended in the wall. She pulled the heavy iron ring that served as the handle.
It was only as the door began to swing open that Skate thought of how foolish an act that had been; if this oddly placed door opened into the neighboring house’s wall, as it must do, she risked being spotted for a thief. Before she could admonish herself for her curiosity, she took in the sight in front of her:
This was not the neighbor’s house but a spacious room lined floor to ceiling with books, just like the room she was standing in—except the ceiling was higher, and the room considerably larger. A pair of comfortable-looking chairs and a fireplace interrupted the flow of the books across the room. Skate briefly thought about how dangerous it was to have a fireplace around this many books as she climbed through the door.
An ear-splitting screech rent the air. Panicked, Skate looked at the doorframe and spotted the culprit: another rune, this one designed to alarm rather than hurt. Presumably, Ossertine had not wanted to risk damaging her prized collection, but the noise was sure to attract a huge amount of unwanted attention. “Rattle!” Skate shouted, trying to be heard over the din. “Get out here and find a book! Quick!”
Before she had finished the command, Rattle had darted past her, flapping its dark wings happily as it roved the titles. The thing took less than ten seconds to pick one and clicked happily as it bobbed haphazardly toward the backpack with its prize in tow.
The screeching continued as Skate bolted out of the strange room. She slammed the hidden door shut, hoping that it would smother the noise, but to no avail. She pulled the neck of her ragged tunic over her nose to hide her face, and tied a rag from a pocket across her brow. Then she picked up the backpack, heavier with both the book and Rattle within, and bolted out the door.
Ten feet out the door, she heard a voice cry out for her to stop. She fought the urge to look for the source, since it would be no one she wanted to talk to: the best-case scenario was that it was a neighbor or other witness, and turning would only give them a description.
Skate darted down an alleyway, and heavy footfalls in the snow behind her told her she was being followed. She knew how to lose a tail, and set to work on randomizing her path; if she had a destination in mind, she would make for it eventually, even if she were not consciously trying to. She knew to avoid the house of Barrison Belamy, and so pushed it out of her mind. She took note of which way she turned and varied it at each opportunity: left, left, straight, right, straight again.
As she ran, Skate found a building with outdoor stairs leading to the roof. She bounded up them, still not looking back to see who was chasing her.
While taking the steps three at a time, Skate caught a glimpse of the blue-trimmed tabards of the Guard blowing past and below her. In the fading light, they managed not to see her ascent.
Skate crested the landing and found herself facing a family sitting under an awning. The father of the group shouted “Hey!” and Skate knew she couldn’t stay still. She leapt to a neighbor’s roof, and then the next neighbor’s roof as well.
Skate was on the roof of a fourth house when she heard a Guardsman call out for her to stop again. She spared a glance backward, which proved a mistake: she missed her footing on the slanted roof and went tumbling. As she neared the ground, Skate tried to roll with the fall, but couldn’t manage it. She landed wrong on her hand and cried out in pain.
Rattle clicked behind her. It did not sound like its laughter, but she was engrossed in the pain and could not register what Rattle was trying to tell her.
Skate found herself standing somehow, leaning against the building from which she had fallen. Her wrist was either sprained or broken, neither of which was good news. Taking a deep breath, she took off into the night.
Twitch had been the one to teach her how to throw off a pursuer. “You’re going to end up r-running in a straight line unless you try not to, you know?” he had said, explaining the purpose of the constant changing, “Nothing’s easier to catch than somebody r-running straight ahead.”
As she was taught, so did she put into practice. It took but a few minutes after hurting her arm to throw the Guards completely off.
Skate was not completely sure where she ended up. She was not near the docks, since the smell of fish was very distant—only detectable whenever the wind blew north. It was possible she was still in the Old Town, but she had no idea where in that district she might be. If she could get to a roof, she would be able to find landmarks among the sleepy old buildings. However, the prospect of getting that high with one arm led Skate to decide that was not going to happen. She was not sure she could even climb one-handed, much less from street level to the top of a building. Her only hope was to walk the streets at dusk and try to determine where her soon-to-be-satisfied patron’s house was.
Skate’s arm shook with barely contained torment at each step. She focused on the street and its occupants to take her mind off of the incredible discomfort. She saw no vagrants or Guards. That told her she was neither in the slums nor in the Baron’s district. Certain areas tended to attract certain occupants, and the absence of these two groups was enough to tell her that she was likely still in the Old Town.
The Old Town had one major avenue, and it was the only part of this section of the city that was consistently visible throughout the night. The lampposts had been lit well before the onset of the evening, the lampmen wanting to be done with their work before the cold became unbearable. It was approaching that point now for Skate as she made her way toward the orange lamps; her skin felt like it was on fire every time a piece of threadbare clothing moved across it, and her feet were numb. “Rattle,” Skate whispered behind her, “do you know where we are?”
Before she reached the street, Skate grunted as she was yanked into a crevice between two buildings. The space could not rightly be called an alley; a person may have been able to co
mfortably walk between the sturdy wooden walls if he were not terribly large, but that was all the space available.
Skate was currently pinned against one of these walls, her feet suspended about two feet from the ground, her dropped bag on the ground. She stared into the cruel lean face of one of the last people she had wanted to see again that day: Kite, who held her against the rough wood with one of his forearms across her chest. His other arm was bent as his hand rested jauntily on his hip. His blades were out of sight. “Evening, girlie,” he said with a sneer.
When Skate didn’t respond, he contorted his sharp face into a mockery of pain and continued, “Aw, now don’t be that way. I’s just trying to help, kenit? You was doing pretty good running from the Guards, but that fall looked pretty nasty.” He pointed his free hand toward the dropped bag.
He knows the tricks, Skate realized. He was able to follow me.
“Wassin there?”
Skate gave him no answer but a forward-jutting jaw and a look that she hoped could curdle milk.
Kite smiled his vicious smile. “I toldja not to be that way once already, didn’t I? Come on, girlie, and tell me wassin the bag. If it’s Ink business, I got a right to know.”
“Not a lieutenant,” she muttered, finding it harder to breathe as he increased the pressure on her. “Don’t gotta tell you nothing.”
Kite still smiled. “I’ll make ya tell me, you little snot,” he said as he leaned into her. She gasped and coughed; he had brought his free hand straight into her stomach, and hard. Between the pain in her arm and not being able to breathe, she was worried she might lose consciousness. Stay awake. Stay awake. She repeated that to herself as her swimming vision came to rest on the singularly unpleasant image of Kite sneering at her.
His face no longer smiled; it was twisted in hate. “What’s in the bag, girlie?” His voice was low and dangerous, and she knew he’d continue to hurt her—but never actually draw any blood from her or kill her; even Kite was not that stupid—until she let him in on what she was doing. He had done it to Twitch before, and she knew he had done it to everyone he had ever worked around who was smaller and weaker than he was.