Skate the Thief

by Jeff Ayers

  When she had all of her food down, Skate watched the blue flames for a few minutes more before rising and beginning her work for the day. She could hardly believe her luck. Belamy’s message indicated that they would be returning soon, so she did not have much time. If she could pull her heist now, she would not have to worry about stealing any more books for Belamy. She would not be able to learn to read either, but that seemed unimportant in the adrenaline of opportunity.

  Besides, if she worked hard enough for the Ink, she might one day become one of the lieutenants, who had to learn to read as part of their responsibilities; running an organization like the Ink was a complicated affair, so all the Bosses and their assistants had to be able to read and write to keep the work going smoothly.

  Skate moved over to Belamy’s desk. There was a drawer attached to the underside, which she tried to open but found locked. She pulled her pin from her hair and began trying to pick the small lock embedded in the desk, then stopped when she remembered the locked door downstairs. She bolted to the bookcase and began pulling books. When she found the right one, the secret passage opened up, and she made her way down.

  The lights were on as they had left them, and the smell was as acrid as it had been before. Skate blew out of her nose and moved to the door, kneeling down to try to figure out the lock mechanism. She prodded the frame around the handle and tried the door several times to see if she could pinpoint where the lock was engaged. It seemed to be equally focused all along the side of the door near the handle. She scanned the jamb and noticed small markings all up and down the space where the door rested against the wall.

  Skate swore under her breath. She recognized the marks as a magical lock. Twitch knew how to get past these things, but Skate had not figured them out yet. She knew that she needed two small metal bars, but she didn’t know what to do with them.

  As she was trying to figure out what she was supposed to do, a resounding banging noise echoed down the stone steps. She jerked around and bounded up the steps two at a time, slamming the bookcase back into place behind her. She spun to put the bookcase behind her as she looked at the front door, from where the banging continued to issue throughout the room.

  “Barrison!” a feminine voice called, and Skate recognized the voice of Laribel Ossertine. “Barrison, are you all right? Have you fallen down? Barrison!” She was obviously concerned, and Skate was worried that she might break the door down in her zeal to help her friend.

  “Mr. Belamy isn’t here right now!” Skate called, moving toward the door to make sure she was heard. “He’ll be back soon!”

  Ossertine was silent for a moment, then responded in more even tones. She sounded dangerous in her sudden serenity. “To whom am I speaking?”

  “I’m Skate. Mr. Belamy’s letting me stay here.”

  Another tense pause. “You stay here.” Ossertine stated it as somewhere between a declaration and a question. “And you are called Skate.” Not fully trusting of these facts, the woman said, “Unlock the door, Skate. I would like to come in.”

  Skate bit her lip. She did not know if she had Belamy’s permission to let someone in, but she knew that Ossertine and Belamy were at least acquaintances. She did not want to be rude, but she did not want to let someone in whom Belamy did not want inside. Especially considering that Belamy had her stolen property upstairs, likely open where he had last left off. “I don’t know if I’m supposed to let anyone in,” she said finally, deciding rudeness was better than the possibility of her finding out about the theft.

  “Skate, listen very carefully.” The threat was even clearer in Ossertine’s low voice. “I don’t know you. I don’t know where my friend is. For all I know, you’ve murdered him and are standing over his cooling body as you speak to me. If you don’t let me in, I will come in anyway by breaking down Barrison’s very sturdy and expensive door. If he’s alive, it will be your responsibility to repay him for any damages that result. Will you let me in, or will I have to come in on my own?”

  Skate looked at the door. It was finely made and would be costly to replace, and it would be her fault if Ossertine thought she had to break it down to help a hypothetically dying Belamy. “Okay, okay, hold on,” she said, disengaging the latch on the door and swinging it open to allow Ossertine free passage in. “There,” she said, looking her full in the face and huffing, “I’m telling you, he’s gone, but he said he’d be back soon.”

  Ossertine was standing with arms crossed over her chest. A woman in her late thirties, Skate guessed. Ossertine was thin of face and body, much as Haman was; but where Haman had eyes that could vary in expression from cold and calculating to warm and sympathetic, Skate only saw the former in Ossertine’s catlike gaze.

  Ossertine was dressed in warm furs, snowflakes getting caught in the delicate animal hairs as she stood on Belamy’s old stone stoop. Her auburn hair, obviously quite long, was tied up into a tight bun on top of her head and draped in a light scarf that trailed behind her in the soft wind. She was very pale, but the chill of the air had brought a pink to her cheeks. Skate thought she had a pretty face, though it looked cruel at the moment.

  “We shall see whether he’s gone or not,” Ossertine said, delicately lifting the hem of her furs off her feet as she crossed the threshold into Belamy’s home. The haughty timbre that Skate had first heard when she had been hiding in the kitchen was in full force, and Skate had to deliberately push down the anger she felt at the imperious woman.

  Ossertine surveyed the room, looking for any sign of foul play. Not finding Belamy’s body anywhere in the main room, she focused in on details she could see. Her eyes lingered on the used plate on the floor, on the crackling blue fire, on Skate’s dingy clothing. The woman appeared, with much effort, to suppress a sneer as she broke into a venomously polite smile. “Krykyull dur angatak Morshkinok?”

  Based on her expectant expression, Skate assumed it was something she was supposed to respond to. She had no idea what Ossertine had just said to her, but it sounded like the language that Belamy had called the language of the dwarves. Not knowing what else to do, she said one of the two phrases she had been taught: “Gerunk haktha.”

  When the blue flame flashed away, Ossertine smiled a bit wider, and her face softened. “Very well. You can’t speak the language, but you know how to operate the fireplace. I doubt very much that you learned how to do that from anyone other than Barrison, so I believe you. You must be his guest. Fetch me a chair. I wish to warm myself by the fire. And clean your plate; you’re a guest in this house, and so must be expected to do your small part to keep it clean.” She was no longer looking at Skate but appeared lost in thought while staring into the flames, drawing her furs closer for increased warmth now that she was safely out of the cold.

  Skate, frowning, picked up one of Belamy’s chairs along the wall and set it down harder than was strictly necessary behind the woman. Carrying the poufy chair had been somewhat awkward for her, and she had taken no care at all when setting it down. She then picked up her plate and walked into the kitchen, where she dumped it into the water that Rattle had left in the basin.

  When Skate walked into the main room again, Ossertine had taken her seat, upon which she had draped her fine coat. She was using it as extra cushioning as she enjoyed the heat from the crackling fire. Without looking away, she said, “You did not wash that plate, dear.”

  Skate did not move, but said, “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Rattle will do it.”

  “Rattle is not here.” Ossertine’s tone had become harsh in addition to haughty. “And it is incredibly rude of you to assign it extra work in its absence. Clean your plate.” She had never taken her eyes from the flames as she talked, and now she returned to her silent contemplation.

  Skate, for her part, had not moved yet since the woman began talking. Now, however, she deliberately and slowly walked past the sitting woman. She felt the anger burning in her chest, forcing her to refuse the woman’s demands for
no other reason than because she did not want to do what she was told by someone she knew not at all.

  Skate went straight to the stairs, formulating several biting retorts in her head to anything the woman might say to her, but Ossertine was unconcerned with Skate’s obstinance, staring into the fire as she had been for the last few minutes. Skate moved up the stairs, satisfied that she had won that confrontation; by not obeying the command, she had proved she was not to be commanded. Years in the Ink had taught her not to instinctively heed commands given by adults, a tendency that had to be trained out of the younger members of the group. After all, a burglar who actually listened to the Guards’ shouted demands to halt, stop, and wait was only good as bait to let others escape.

  When she got to the top of the stairs, Skate turned toward her door, then paused. There was not much to do in her provided living space except stare at furniture, so she released her hold on the handle and turned instead toward the upstairs library, which she found unlocked, as Belamy had told her it would always be on that first morning here.

  Skate closed the door behind her, figuring that Belamy could deal with his new guest when he got back. She had seen the room earlier this morning and several other mornings beside, but had paid little attention to it. Now, though, she canvassed it for anything valuable. Her first scan of her surroundings revealed Belamy had far too many books, and the two objects that Skate thought were likely to be his most valuable possessions were not in here. The fact that the jewelry box and the statuette remained hidden only further convinced her they would probably be the items she needed to look for when she finally made it out of the house for good.

  Her targeted goods being absent, Skate continued peering around the room, which was packed floor to ceiling with texts. Being dead must be an incredibly dull affair, she thought as she considered the fact that the old man had probably read and reread everything in here at least twice. That explained why he was so desperate for new reading material. Finding something unread must be a rare event indeed for the man.

  There were several trinkets on the shelves in this room, as there were in the main room downstairs, and some glass spheres and metal gizmos. Most of them appeared to her as rather dull, however detailed, stone trinkets and paperweights.

  Tiny gargoyles and little lions, diminutive dragons and small dogs, beasts of every description stood in silent watch over the books that towered behind them. Skate picked one off the shelf. It was a life-size representation of a toad, squat and grumpy-looking as its blank stone eyes stared off into nothing at either side of its triangular head. She wondered where Belamy had gotten all of these; for the most part, they were of the same make and style, even seeming to be of the same material, despite being images of very different animals. She placed the toad back on the shelf, but almost dropped it when she heard a whisper in her ear.

  “Ungor.”

  Skate spun around in a panic—a panic even more profound than what she’d felt earlier in the basement. She did not know the voice; it was male, but she could not decipher more than that from the very quiet message. She could not find any source for it. “Hello?” she said quietly to the empty room, hoping to draw out the source of the unwelcome intrusion. Nothing greeted her in response.

  A few minutes passed in utter silence. Did I imagine it? She definitely thought she had heard something. However, the continuing silence was doing an excellent job of convincing her otherwise. She waved her hand in the air, guessing that she had felt a breeze under the door and ascribed a word to its whistle. She returned her attention to the little toad and readjusted it, fixing its position, which she had ruined in her worried shock.

  “The toad’s name is Ungor.”

  Skate spun around again. She still saw no one, but there was something different about the room. A glass bauble near the single window of the room, which had been clear before, was full of gray smoke. The smoke churned before her eyes, neither excited nor languid.

  Skate swallowed hard and took a step toward the bauble. “Are you talking?”

  There wasn’t an immediate answer, but a few moments later, she heard unmistakably another whisper from the direction of the ball. “Yes.”

  She moved closer and asked, “How?”

  Another pause. “I’m in the glass ball.”

  Skate got within inches of the ball and looked into its depths. She saw no one within. Indeed, she saw nothing but the churning gray fog. “I don’t see you.”

  Another pause. “Pick up the ball.”

  Skate thought this an odd request but did as she was asked. As she took hold of the sphere, the fog began to thin ever so slightly. The color within took on a blue tone as something moved closer to the surface. She saw a pair of eyes, wide-set and deep, under a dark brown brow. Nothing else appeared to her, not even the rest of the face.

  “That’s much better, thank you.” The voice was no longer whispering but talking in a calm and friendly tone. The eyes were expressive—or perhaps Skate was simply ascribing that to them, because she had nothing else to work with. “As I was saying, the toad’s name is Ungor. If you were curious.”

  Skate regarded the eyes with suspicion. “How could you tell I was looking at the toad?” she asked, looking back at where she had been standing. “How could you see anything?”

  “I can see out of this even when you can’t see me,” the half-face said, drawing back into the blue-gray fog of the sphere. “You see? I can see that arched eyebrow you’re shooting my way, even though you can’t see my handsome face.”

  He moved back into her vision, parting clouds as he came, still revealing only eyes and the bridge of his nose. He looked how some of the burglars dressed when doing a job, though she’d never seen someone dress that way using smoke before. “Anyway, I know it’s strange to talk to someone you can’t see, so I wanted to make it easier for you.” Judging by the slight lift of the skin under the eyes, the man was smiling as he spoke.

  “That’s not what’s strange about this conversation.”

  The man laughed. “No! No, I suppose it isn’t, is it?” He laughed again, a rather nervous sound, and cast his eyes around the room. “Tell me, are you here because Belamy told you to be in here?”

  “No,” she said hesitantly, “but he didn’t say I couldn’t be in here.” The eyes in the globe gave an encouraging nod, and she continued, “He has a guest waiting for him downstairs, and I don’t like her, so I came up here.”

  “I see, I see.” The eyes bounced again as their strange owner nodded some more through the blue smoke. “So you are also a guest of Barrison Belamy, yes?”

  “Yeah; he’s letting me stay in the empty bedroom up here.”

  “I see,” the voice repeated, interested and encouraging. “That’s wonderful. Do you know why he’s doing that? I’ve never known him to have guests stay more than a few hours at a time.”

  Skate did not answer immediately. “I guess I’m more…hired than just a guest.”

  “Oh? Mr. Belamy doesn’t have much need for a housecleaner, so I guess you’re a gopher?”

  “A what?”

  “Oh, you know,” the eyes said, narrowing and rolling in mock exasperation, “a gopher. An errand girl. He tells you to go for something, and you go get it; that sort of thing.”

  “Yeah, something like that.” Skate did not feel the need to go into detail about the nature of the things she was sent for.

  “That makes sense. He wouldn’t want to be going here and there for what little materials and supplies he needs when he could be reading instead. Though, that does raise the question: If you’re his errand girl, where’s he gone?” The eyes were quizzical now, one arched high while the other dipped in low toward the unseen nose.

  “Gone?”

  “You said his guest was waiting for him.”

  Skate realized she had said exactly that. This person was a good listener, and a quick thinker besides. Such a person was dangerous to someone like her, who was trying to maintain a secret. “He didn�
�t say what he was going for. He just said he was going and would be back soon.”

  “I see, I see.” The man in the glass ball seemed to use the phrase as the verbal equivalent of a nod. “That’s not like him, you know. He almost never leaves. He spends almost all of his time reading in here. I’ve noticed the past few days, though, he hasn’t been in this room. Do you have anything to do with that?”

  “Some of it, sure.” She affected a more relaxed posture, worried that she may have put the man in the glass on his guard by her body language. “He’s spent some time showing me around the house and stuff.”

  “Yes, I saw you when he showed you his wonderful little library,” the man said, darting his eyes about the room as he talked.

  “What are you?”

  “A friend.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “It’s true! Or at least, it might be. But listen, since Belamy clearly hasn’t directly introduced you to me, it might be better not to mention finding me, hmm? At least until I’ve had a chance to talk to him?” The man looked rather worried at the prospect that she would not agree, so much so that Skate found herself agreeing before she had time to consider. “Good, good. Now, before you put me down, what were you planning to do when you came in here, anyway?”

  “I was looking at…the books.”

  “You can read?” He looked skeptical at the suggestion.

  “No, not yet. But Mr. Belamy has agreed to teach me.”

  “That’s wonderful!” The eyes went wide, and though they were quick to hide it, Skate detected not excitement but genuine shock at the pronouncement. “It’s good to know how to read, especially if you’re working for such a ravenous reader as Belamy.” The man within the glass seemed to consider something, and then spoke again. “Listen, there’s something I feel you should know. Barrison Belamy is…well, he’s different, er, health-wise.”

  “I know he’s really old,” Skate said, though she guessed that this conversation was heading in a darker direction.

  “Yes, he is that. But I mean he’s—well, I suppose if he hasn’t told you, I shouldn’t be the one to explain it. No, no, I shouldn’t.” He suddenly looked worried again. “Forget I said anything, that’s a good girl. In fact, go ahead and put me down, nice and gently, back by the window.”