by Jeff Ayers
Under the warm blankets in the pitch darkness, it did not take her long to fall asleep.
The next morning, Skate saw that her tub and bucket had been taken away. The fact that she had not awoken during what she assumed must have been Rattle’s visit impressed her. She had been trained through several years of company exclusively among thieves to wake at the lightest sound. Whatever Rattle was, it could be very quiet when it needed to be.
Skate’s clothes were folded neatly on the foot of the bed. Her washing had done little to improve the state of them; they had gone from a dark brown grunge to a dark gray splotch. But they didn’t smell as bad as they had before, so she felt fine as she put them back on. She jumped as a voice growled from the vent at the floor. She couldn’t make out what was being said, so she moved closer.
“Hello?” Skate asked, peering into the dark. She could feel more warmth emanating from within but saw nothing but darkness.
“Skate,” the voice said, and she could recognize Belamy’s voice as it bounced through the metal tube to her room.
“Yeah?”
“Are you awake?”
“Are you making a joke?”
She thought she could hear the smile in his voice when he said, “It was an attempt, yes. Rattle is ready to make breakfast. Do you like pancakes?”
“I don’t know.”
She heard Belamy talking, but could make nothing out until his voice became clear again with, “…before. Skate, you’ll love them. Come down whenever you’re ready.”
No more metal-warped words came toward her, so Skate got off the floor and walked down the stairs. Pots and pans were banging around behind the kitchen door. Belamy himself was seated at his desk, apparently entirely stationary through the night. The book in front of him was more than one-third read, and he didn’t show any signs of pausing as Skate made her way toward the fire, which was crackling merrily. The supply of firewood looked as full as ever, though the fire was crackling hotter than it had when she had retired.
“Did you sleep at all last night?” she asked, warming the backs of her legs near the fire.
“I don’t sleep during the night,” he replied without taking his eyes off the page. “Did you enjoy your rest?”
“Yeah, thanks,” she said, turning back toward the flame and warming her hands. “It made me glad I made the deal.”
“Happy to hear it,” he muttered, tapping his finger lightly on a word on the page. “I don’t know who this is.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know who this person is. She just appears in the story without any explanation. She’s not in the story before this point, and I don’t recognize her from other histories on the topic. I don’t know who she is,” Belamy repeated, pulling a smaller open book toward him. He dipped his quill into the inkwell and made some marks in the smaller book before tapping excess ink back into the well and laying down the quill to dry. “Very strange.”
Skate wanted to ask more questions but was interrupted by the kitchen door banging open as Rattle announced breakfast with a clatter of clicks. It brought Skate a plate with flat brown things on top. “Pancakes?” she asked, picking one up before the piece she was holding tore off, dropping the rest of it on the floor. Rattle clicked in irritation at the wasted food and moved to retrieve it. “Sorry,” she muttered after it as it disappeared back into the kitchen.
“Pancakes,” Belamy confirmed, “and they’re very soft, as you can see. If you like them, Rattle will make as many as you please.”
Skate gingerly picked another up, making sure to hold it flat in her hand. As soon as her tongue touched the sweet bread-like food, her eyes went wide. She did like pancakes. She reflected that she was glad to get a nicer place to stay as she took another fluffy bite.
Chapter 6
In which a history lesson is given, an identity is questioned, and a bag of coins is measured.
At the conclusion of breakfast, Rattle flapped in and took Skate’s plate away. She heard it bang into the other dishes as the door shut behind the flying eyeball. Belamy had no plate to take.
“Did you already eat?”
He gave a noncommittal grunt as he continued reading and taking notes. Because he clearly wanted the matter dropped, she persisted.
“If you don’t sleep at night, when do you sleep?”
He gave no answer but continued reading silently. Skate thought she saw a hint of irritation on his wrinkly face despite his best efforts to remain impassive. Rattle began to live even more up to its name as it moved the pans and plates around in a cleaning frenzy behind the shut door.
“You don’t really eat at all, do you?”
“No.”
The frank admission threw her off, but only for a moment. “Same for sleep, right?”
“Right.”
“How? Magic again?”
“The same as before,” he said as he looked up and made a gesture toward where he had been wounded the night before last. “The magic I’ve done keeps me from needing things like sleep or food or even breath.”
Why? she thought but did not ask. Belamy spoke as if she had asked the question aloud anyway.
“Time,” he said, taking a thin wooden slat and placing it between the page of the book. “I did it for the sake of time. Think of how much of it you have to waste each day worrying about food and drink and sleep and exhaustion and soreness. Think of how vulnerable you are right now to a thousand thousand random occurrences.” He waved his hand as he began to list examples: “The air could be sucked out of the room—or it could be flooded—or filled with deadly gas, filling your lungs. The fire might go out and not be able to be lit again. You will get hungry again, and tired and sick. You might get a cough; you might get cold; you might get uncomfortable and need to move around. You could get something in your eye or have to scratch an itch. Think of how much these things must occupy your time and attention. And it only grows worse with age: the body aches, the eyes become cloudy, the hearing fades, and the simplest of tasks become challenges to complete. I could not afford these distractions, so I did away with them.”
“You did this so you could read more?” Skate asked in disbelief. “That’s why you magicked away hunger and sleep and all that?”
Belamy’s expression shifted from thoughtful to amused. “No, that’s not why. I needed full use of my time, and then when my task was done, I needed to fill my time. The books became a useful occupation. Now they are how I pass my time, with Rattle and any other guests.” As if on cue, Rattle banged another pot, and a splash could be heard through the door.
“What did you need all that time for? What was so important?”
Belamy grew stony-faced; though he kept his smile, it hardened somewhat. “I had my reasons. There’s no need to say more than that.”
Skate shifted weight back and forth on her feet. She could feel the discomfort settling in the room like a wet blanket in the summer heat, stifling and smothering. More to change the subject than out of curiosity, she asked, “What’s that about?”
Belamy saw that she was pointing to the open book on his desk. “Ah. It’s a history generally known as Bereziah’s Chronicles, from the first line of the text: ‘Here follow the chronicles of Bereziah, servant and protector of King Mehu of Agonia.’ That’s a translation, of course; the Agonianites didn’t speak or write in our language.”
“Those are funny names,” Skate said, looking at the text. It looped and swirled, like it was all written without taking the quill from the surface of the page.
“I’m sure they’d have something to say about ‘Skate’ and ‘Barrison’ in return,” Belamy said with a chuckle. “But yes, the names seem strange to us. Much of what the elves left for us to ponder seems strange.”
“Elves?” Skate repeated, her voice and face revealing her disbelief. “There’s no such thing as elves; they’re just stories made up to scare kids and stuff.”
“No, not at all! They’re very real. Or they were real, rathe
r. They left ruins behind, and books,” Belamy said, tapping the page in front of him, “and tools, too. Yes, they did really walk among us at some point in the distant past. It is believed that everything we know of magic either came from the elves or was developed from what they left us. Their records are real, and that means they must have been real, too.”
“Did you ever see one?” Skate asked. She wasn’t fully convinced, but the mention of the elves sparked wonder, and she was curious despite her misgivings.
“Oh, no,” he said, chuckling, “no, I never have seen one; nor has anyone in living memory. Even when I was a boy, a century ago, they were the stuff of ancient legend. Scholars like me are divided on just how long ago they were around; it could be as recently as the past five hundred years, but I’m of the opinion that they disappeared well over a thousand years ago. Most mentions of them after that point smack of invention rather than recollection, details added to stories to make them more interesting.”
“What happened to them? Where’d they go?”
“We don’t know. It’s one of the great mysteries of those who study elven histories. No contemporary records exist explaining where the elves might have gone, and there are no writings that warn of some dire impending doom that only made the elves disappear. King Mehu,” he said, motioning to the book in front of him, “was not the last of the Agonianite line, since this account lists several offspring and potential heirs to the throne. But this is the last known record of that kingdom’s goings-on. I haven’t read to the end, but I know there won’t be a direct explanation for any forthcoming ‘end of the elves’; I’ve talked to other scholars who have read it, and they’ve told me as much.”
“So…they just disappeared?”
“They did. We don’t know if they all packed up and traveled or were destroyed or something else entirely. We’ve never seen any of their physical remains, which deepens the mystery further, since we’ve had access for centuries to burial sites they built to stand the test of time. The structures themselves are relatively intact and resistant to the forces of nature and ravages of the centuries, and many treasures have been found within, but no bodies. This, despite the placement of receptacles for corpses being present. The old bodies are just gone. As I said, it’s one of the great mysteries to those who study history.”
“You said they invented magic?”
“Yes! Well, I’d say they discovered it more than invented it, but it comes out to the same thing.” Belamy gestured toward one of his shelves, causing a book to float his way. “This,” he said, spinning the green book slowly in the air, as if it were suspended on an invisible string, “is one of the most basic texts aspiring wizards are almost universally required to read as part of their education. It details what magic is and how to capture it for useful purposes, and it even lists specific spells for beginning wizards to learn. It’s a translation from Elvish. The anonymous author of the book is largely responsible for magic as we know it for at least the past thousand years.”
Skate gingerly took the book from the air. There were letters on the front of the book and on the side. “Just reading this can teach someone magic?”
“If the reader grasps what she’s reading, yes, she will gain enough knowledge to enter into a larger world of energies and forces most people only whisper about.” Belamy looked at Skate with a knowing smile.
Skate put the book down on the desk a little harder than she meant to in her rush to separate herself from what suddenly felt very dangerous. “What’s happening in that story?” she asked, feeling herself blush as she rapidly changed the subject back to the other book.
Belamy’s smile widened somewhat. “The company of Bereziah is on a quest to stop a war with a rival elven nation. Bereziah seems to believe that this other nation, the Kemelite nation, has misunderstood some action of King Mehu and is preparing for war because of it. They’re currently crossing a mountain range and have lost some of their number. The author is taking note of available food stocks, and is expressing concerns about their ability to cross the mountains.”
Skate thought for a moment about the events described. “Sounds kinda boring.”
Belamy chuckled. “I suppose it probably would be for someone with no interest in the topic. But do you know what I’ve found?” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “If you attempt to become interested in things, they become more interesting. And,” he added, pointing an accusatory finger Skate’s way, his face suddenly stern, “people who have interests in things are themselves more interesting. Have you ever met someone who thinks everything is dull? They’re miserable to be around!” He threw his hands up in exasperation. “Don’t let your hesitancy or disinterest linger, young lady. People who do that become unbearable and find no joy in anything.” He settled into a more relaxed position again. “I’ve known people like this, Skate. I’d hate to see you get that way. It would be an absolute waste of your potential.”
Skate found herself frowning. She didn’t like being scolded. “It sounds like you just don’t like your dumb book being made fun of.” Before Belamy could respond, she turned and bolted out the door. It slammed shut behind her as she stepped into the cold winter street.
Skate was fuming. “Tell me what to do,” she muttered, kicking a lingering snowdrift to splatter onto the street. She began stomping away in no particular direction. Rattle’s food was in her belly, so she wasn’t hungry. She didn’t feel much of anything except anger, and the chill of the out-of-doors.
After a few minutes, her anger had cooled. She didn’t know whether it was simply that time had passed, that she was beginning to feel guilty about her outburst, or that the cold kept her from staying angry, but she began to think about what to do next instead.
“Young lady…” she mocked, turning toward the docks.
Skate entered the main room of the docks hideout. Boss Marshall was sure to be in this time, and she wanted to make a report about what she’d learned about Belamy and what he might have in his home. Haman was in the nearly deserted common area. Bleary-Eyes Bart was off duty, and so had given himself completely to the bottle; he was passed out on a table in the corner. A pair of burglars Skate knew by sight but not name were chatting over a large piece of parchment. Skate saw that it was a map of a building, and guessed that they were planning a heist. No one else was in the main room.
She approached Haman’s table, where he had several stacks of papers around him like a half-built wall. He was busy writing on a scroll, his dexterous hand scraping across its width as he left trails of looping marks in its wake. His handwriting was thin; he wrote so much on each line that by the time he started back at the beginning, the ink of the previous line had dried. His hands were almost entirely clear of black smudges.
Haman finished his current page and glanced up over the top of the glasses resting at the end of his thin nose as he waited for the final line to dry. “Good morning, Skate,” he said, pulling a blank page from one of his stacks. He settled it in front of him, next to the finished page. “Trouble with your mark?”
“Nothing I can’t handle.” She hoped she sounded more confident than she felt; she was not sure Belamy would even let her back in the house after her outburst. “I wanted to fill the Boss in on stuff I’ve learned about the old man.”
“Great, I’ll go in with you,” Haman said, taking the finished page off the table. “I’m interested in this wizard of yours, Skate. I have…well, let’s say I have some suspicions about who he really is.”
Haman moved to the Boss’s door and gave the particular series of knocks worked out by lieutenants and Bosses each week. Skate heard the Boss say something, and Haman opened the door. He waved her in first.
The room looked just as it had the day before, with the exception of who was sitting behind the fine desk. Boss Marshall filled out the chair much more than Haman had; his sides brushed against the arms as he leaned backward languorously, bringing a pudgy hand to the side of his bearded face. He looked suspiciously at Skate,
but his countenance softened when he saw Haman closing the door behind her and taking a seat in front of the desk.
Boss Marshall’s eyes narrowed until they disappeared as he smiled a trusting grin Haman’s way. When he spoke, it was soft, deep, and strained, like heavy stones pushed slowly across metal.
“To what do I owe the pleasure, Skate?” he asked, turning his grin from his lieutenant to his underling. His grin shrank to a more manageable size, though he was obviously still in good spirits. “I’m told you’ve got a big job set up, huh?”
“Yeah, Boss. He’s got loads of stuff, and he’s letting me stay in his place. I guess he trusts me,” Skate concluded with a shrug.
The Boss’s smile widened again. “His mistake, eh?” He laughed a hearty laugh that quickly became a hacking cough. His belly and arms shook from the effort. After two or three bouts, he gathered control of himself again, and his quaking ceased. “Well, what’re you here for? Shouldn’t you be scoping the place out?”
“I wanted to tell you some stuff I’ve found out. Don’t worry,” she added quickly, seeing concern creep into the Boss’s face; “he don’t know I’m here, or that I’m in the Ink.”
“Good, good,” Boss Marshall said, his pudgy face relaxing considerably. “It wouldn’t do for him to learn of that, would it? Well then.” He leaned back into the chair, resting his face in his open palm. “Report away.”
“He keeps a lot of his stuff out in the open, and it looks like most of it would fetch a nice price with our fences. He’s gone and put weird locks on all the windows, but that won’t matter to me none, seeing as how he’s letting me in the front door. He’s got books for days, and it’s all he cares about, I think,” she said, feeling the note of bitterness in her voice and immediately quashing it. She smiled to hide it and went on. “I know those are worth a lot, but they’re heavy. I could maybe make it out with two or three of them when I do decide to cut and run; more if I get guys on the street. I’ve been thinking, I could toss books out the window upstairs if there’s someone below to catch them. We’d get a better haul of them that way.”