by Jeff Ayers
“Yes, it does.” The third voice came from their left, from one of a myriad thin alleyways between buildings. Kite stepped into the light, looking as vicious and arrogant as ever. “Too dangerous for the likes of you, brat.” He spat into the snow. His arms were crossed over his chest, which put his hands within easy reach of a pair of knives strapped under his arms. These were new.
“What do you want, Kite?”
“Nothin’, girl. But what you’re jawing about sounds too good to ignore. I got no idea why the Boss thinks this is worth wasting any more time on, but I guess he figures you wouldn’t be doing much of anything else useful, huh?” He smirked, then relaxed a little as he leaned back against one of the sturdy buildings he’d been loitering around. “So, you’re supposed to be helping the Boss catch some old monster, are ya?”
“None of your business, Kite.”
“Listen, spit,” he growled, coming off the wall with surprising speed, “anything’s my business if I want it to be, got it? So what’s he doing with the old man? Why’s he want him for the Ink?”
“Why do you care?” Her instinct was to step back from him, but she knew any sign of fear would only encourage him. “What the Boss wants, the Boss wants.”
He bent down so that he was just above eye level with her. “Let’s just say the Boss ain’t the only Boss, is he?”
Skate frowned. “What, you’re spying for another Boss now? Is that it?”
Kite straightened and rolled his eyes. “Think of it as ‘insuring co-operation across complex organizational structures.’ That’s how Boss Shade put it.” The mention of the cruel Boss in charge of the Ink’s wet work put ice in her spine. Kite must have sensed this, because he smiled that predatory, joyless smile and continued. “He’s got an interest in Boss Marshall’s dealings. And he ain’t the only one, is he? Some of the other Bosses are concerned about Marshall’s state of mind; he’s been acting jumpy at meetings and such. Word is the Big Boss ain’t happy with him. And ain’t no one can have the Big Boss mad at them for long, is it?”
“You s-saying Boss Marshall ain’t the Boss for m-much longer?” Twitch had his hands balled into fists, and his chin was pointing out; as idiotic as the proposition was, he looked ready for a fight.
“I’m saying I don’t give a rip what Marshall is, because he ain’t my problem anymore.” The dropping of the title of “Boss” before the man’s name upset Skate more than she’d have expected. “Alls I wanna know is: what’s he up to? What’s he planning?” Kite crossed his arms again, once more putting his knives within easy reach. “My new Boss sure would like to know.”
“Your n-new Boss can ask him hisself,” Twitch said, spitting on the ground in the same place Kite had earlier. “That’s what Bosses do, ain’t it? There’s s-supposed to be talk, giving h-help where it’s needed. That’s how the Ink runs.”
“Maybe that’s how it used to run, but the Bosses—even the Big Boss—might be reaching their limit with Marshall. He’s been falling behind on promises, kids; and if the other Bosses can’t stand something, it’s broken promises. Now, you gonna tell me what I wanna know, or is this gonna get ugly?”
“Can’t be any uglier than you.” Skate saw Kite for what he was, and so wasn’t afraid. She might have been afraid if she’d stopped to think about what his defection might mean, or that insulting a man with weapons while she was unarmed might be a bad idea, but disgust overthrew her good thinking. “You coward.”
Kite tensed up, his hands becoming clawlike as he edged them closer to the blades. “What wazzat, spit?” His face hardened into the unmoving mask of indifference he took on before he hurt people. The only indication of his rage was the dancing hate in his eyes. “What did ya say to me?”
“I’ll say whatever I want, coward.” She moved closer to the dangerous young man, her eyes not dropping or blinking, despite the water she felt in her stomach. “You can’t use those nasty knives of yours. We’re still in the Ink. Boss Marshall’s still a Boss in the Ink. Keep your stupid threats behind your jagged teeth, because they don’t mean nothing.”
The hate remained behind his eyes, but it settled somewhat and became colder. “Oh, she’s smart, isn’t she. Clever little spit, dolled up in clothes that ain’t hers, telling me what I can and can’t do. So, so clever.” He uncrossed his arms and cracked his knuckles. “You’re right that I can’t use weapons in fights with Inkers. Did you forget that I’m two feet taller than you and four stone heavier?” He lunged for her, and several things happened at once.
Skate, who’d been banking on him charging straight at her, charged right back at him. His eyes widened when she dove right under his grasping hands and connected her shoulder with all her might right into his groin. His hands did manage to find her then, but he could only feebly push her away as he bent over in pain.
Meanwhile, Twitch had backed up a few steps. Seeing Kite doubled over, he took a running start and kicked both feet out to the side at Kite’s head. The older boy had enough sense to try to bring up a hand to stop Twitch’s attack, but it was no use: his feet shot over the weakly raised arm and connected solidly with Kite’s mouth and temple at once.
The blow floored him, and Twitch immediately ran over and began kicking Kite wherever he could find an opening in the flailing in the snow. Kite was trying to get up and keep from getting hit at the same time, spewing invectives from a bloodied mouth. “You spits, you worthless spits, you—”
One of Twitch’s kicks connected with the head again, and Kite stopped his bellowing. He was thoroughly dazed, and could only mutter and groggily bring his arms in front of his face. Twitch reared back for another kick, but Skate ran up and pushed him back. “Come on, he’s done, let’s go.”
Twitch looked at the other boy, who was half a decade his senior, and shook his head. “What a…” Whether because of his stutter, or just a lack of vocabulary to accurately describe what exactly Kite was, Twitch left the thought unfinished. He jerked, then nodded at Skate, and the pair left the older boy to recover his sense in the snow and debris of the alleyway.
Chapter 14
In which an unknown pub is patronized, a prisoner is visited, and a spinning trinket is stopped.
Skate took a seat at the bar of the pub. The sign outside had an image of a snake crawling out of a pile of pillows and barrels, so she guessed the name of the place was “The Sleepy Drunken Serpent,” or something like that. It was in the Old Town, several blocks away from Belamy’s house; and it was off the main avenues, settled comfortably in the back alleys where one could find a place to eat and sleep without worry of large crowds or patrolling guards.
She ordered some of the soup and coffee, throwing a square silver coin (bearing the familiar image of the helm of the Old King) onto the bar. Twitch had left her about an hour ago, citing a need to find some pickings before the end of the week. “Look out for the s-skinny idiot,” he’d said, referring to the battered Kite. She’d assured him she would, and he’d gone off into the city to make his fortune. Skate, for her part, had bumped into a passing courier and relieved him of a loose-hanging purse that ended up containing several copper blades and a few silver coins like the one she’d just made use of. Next time, he’ll keep his purse closer to him. Somehow, the usual rationalization wasn’t making her feel better about the sleight of hand. She never did like pickpocketing; something about having to look at the person she was stealing from always bothered her. That was the main reason she’d taken to burglary instead.
The barman brought her food and dark drink, scooped the helm off the table, and counted out seven copper blades in change. Skate slid all but one toward herself and flicked the other toward the man, who picked it up with a wink. Be open with your gifts. That was one of the most important lessons of the ethos of the Ink. Stinginess rarely opened doors, and a budding thief never knew where or when a piece of information might be found—and an easy lie told to the Guards as a distraction might be expected if she only had the foresight to be kind with her coins. One of Boss Mar
shall’s favorite stories to tell was of how, as a young man, he’d ducked into a familiar diner while running from the Guard only for the owner to tell the pursuers “That little thief just ran out the back!” The Guardsmen had run right past the bar that Boss (then, only “thief”) Marshall had been hiding behind. The owner had never brought it up again and the Boss frequented his shop to this day, even though it was the owner’s son running it now.
Skate slurped the soup off her spoon and winced at the heat. If what Kite had said was true, then Boss Marshall was in trouble. If he was in trouble, then his whole crew was in trouble. Boss Marshall might be relying very heavily on Skate’s job to get back into the Big Boss’s good graces. Especially now that the job had changed from “steal the most valuable thing Belamy owns so it can be hocked for money” to “steal the object Belamy stores his soul in so we can control him for our own ends.”
The soup wasn’t bad, once it cooled down. Skate continued slurping, wondering why this new prospect bothered her so much. Because you’re not just stealing anymore, the voice in her head explained. If you do the job like the Boss wants, you’re selling Belamy into slavery. The idea put a knot into her stomach that had nothing to do with hunger or the soup. It was a sensation she did not feel often, but she was familiar enough with it to name it: guilt. The idea of selling Belamy into slavery filled her with guilt.
“Stupid,” she muttered to herself as she brought the warm, blackish drink to her lips. Why should she feel guilt about it? If he’s stupid enough to let me do the thing, then it falls on him to deal with the results. That’s the way it works.
Running over these truths of the world did not help the unwelcome sensation go away; the knot tightened. “He’s a mark,” she muttered to herself out loud.
He’s your teacher.
She downed the rest of the coffee and stepped out of the Snaky Barrel Pillows or whatever the owner called his place. The cold was bracing, but her coat kept it from being as painful as it would have been in her old rags, and the boots were doing their job as well. Boots and coat bought by your teacher. She shook her head and started walking aimlessly through the streets, frowning and fretting.
“He’s a monster.” The knot loosened not a whit.
He’s not. He might have been, but he chose not to be.
She turned a corner as a patrol crossed the intersection ahead of her, and hitched a ride on the back of a passing carriage. She was light enough and skilled enough that her boarding went unnoticed. The rhythmic clopping of the hooves helped as a focusing point to get her thoughts in order.
You don’t know he’s not a monster. He could be lying. The knot loosened a small bit. She took the train of thought further. Why’s he got a man trapped in a ball? He says the guy committed murder, but how do you know that’s true? What if he’s got him trapped so he can eat his soul or something?
The idea that Belamy was lying to her about important matters alleviated almost all of the guilt she’d been experiencing. Almost all. She still found the idea of forced service too gross to accept. The knot wasn’t gone completely. If he’s keeping someone trapped against his will, doesn’t he deserve it himself?
Maybe.
Skate left her perch on the back of the carriage and almost fell as she landed on the packed ice of the road. She caught her balance quickly and looked around, trying to find her bearings after paying no attention to where she’d been going. She thought she might still be in the Old Town, but there was nothing immediate or obvious to confirm or deny the idea. She started walking, knowing she would figure it out eventually.
She wasn’t in the slums; the buildings were too well-kept for that. The smell of the sea was distant and faint enough that she had to search for it, so she probably wasn’t in the docks. That left either the Old Town or the Baron’s Quarter. Lack of patrols probably meant the former.
She finally came across a familiar sight: the main avenue near Belamy’s house. She kept to the side of the street, barely noticing the passage of horses, buggies, wagons, carriages, and trolleys. Despite the ice, business carried on. Men and women in uniforms of gray and black, members of the City Keepers, had been doing their best to keep the streets clean. She passed one of the Keepers on the way to the old man’s house. They moved around the city, almost unseen, taking care of what needed care. Of course, they mostly restricted their activity to the Baron’s and the Old Town, working only at the edge of the docks and then through the busiest streets therein. They avoided the slums altogether.
The Keepers had been the current Baron’s father’s idea; Caribol had begun to grow by leaps and bounds toward the end of his life, and the streets were becoming filthier and filthier with the accumulated waste as thousands turned into tens of thousands in a few short years. So the old Baron had, with the help and blessings of the city’s new wealthy elite, devised a system to keep it clean: hire citizens to work directly for the betterment of the city itself. The Keepers had been the city’s custodians and functionaries for the last three decades, according to Boss Marshall. If a street was in dire need of cleaning, they did it. They lit the night lanterns, cleaned up spills, helped put out fires, and on and on. The only major duty they didn’t seem to have any part in was the policing done by the City Guard.
They had been busy throughout the morning; Belamy’s avenue was clear enough that wagons could pass each other with space to spare. Of course, the snow had to go somewhere, and the Keepers had piled it on the edges of the streets where pedestrians usually held sway; Skate had to stomp up and down surprisingly solid hills of the piled-up stuff to get to the front door. When she arrived, she entered without knocking or announcing herself.
Belamy was in his customary seat at his desk at the far end of the room, but he did not have any book open in front of him. Instead, he was alternating between staring into a ball of glass and staring into some spinning yellow thing, both of which were set in the middle of his desk. There did not seem to be anything interesting about the ball of glass, though it was set on a delicately made and ornate wire frame. The yellow device caught light as it seemed to spin in every direction at once, flashing first one way, then another. The old man did not acknowledge her entry, so Skate took a moment to take off her snow-covered coat and boots. With that done, she walked over to where he was seated, stopping on the way to toss another log into the low-burning fire.
The yellow thing continued to spin, and getting closer revealed that it was a golden light flashing every second or so, not just yellow. Recognition hit her suddenly: this was the delicate yellow hoop she’d tried to steal that first night in Belamy’s home. How Belamy was getting it to spin at such speed without touching it was a mystery. She assumed the answer was magic.
The old unliving wizard did not look up from whatever he was trying to do, even though there was no way he had not noticed her. Guessing that he did not want to be disturbed, Skate walked upstairs to the library. Rattle was there, flapping over an open book on one of the small tables. It looked at her and clicked once as a greeting, then returned to its perusal of the tome.
“Do you know what he’s doing down there?”
Rattle gave the motion that might have been a shrug in response, and did not turn from the book.
“Would he care if I talked to Petre?” she asked, pointing to the cloudy blue ball by the window. When she mentioned his name, she could see the smoke within the glass stir with more energy than before.
Rattle turned this time. It looked first at Skate, then at the blue ball. It shrugged again, but with a stiffness that had not been evident before.
“You’re concerned, though, aren’t you?”
Rattle waited, then clicked once.
“I’ll take responsibility for it. He hasn’t told me not to talk to him.”
It clicked once again and turned reluctantly to the book. Skate moved over to the window and gently picked up Petre’s globe. The blue fog parted almost immediately to reveal the quizzical, nervous eyes.
The e
yes of a murderer, she reminded herself.
A murderer who can’t hurt you or anyone, she added to her own description.
“Good afternoon, Petre.”
“And to you as well, young Skate, the girl who would be a thief.” The appellation carried no accusation, but there was a playful mockery in his eyes as he spoke. “To what do I owe this wonderful pleasure, hm?”
“Do you know what Belamy is doing downstairs?”
“I don’t know anything other than what’s going on in this room. However, I’ve spent enough time around the old fellow to tell you what he’s probably up to if you describe what you saw.”
She told him about the glass ball and the spinning golden instrument, and he was nodding before she’d finished. “Oh, yes, I know what that is. He’s trying to spy on someone.”
“Spy on them? How?”
“Magic, of course. With the glass, he can see anyone he’s ever met or heard of or has a good description of or has any other tenuous connection to. If he’s got the amplifier going, he must be having a hard time of it.”
“Oh.” Haman had been right to put up his protections, it seemed; the Boss and his lieutenant were successfully evading the wizard’s prying eyes. “Do you know who he’s looking for?”
“I’m afraid I haven’t the, uh, foggiest idea.” Petre offered an apologetic chuckle at the pun, and even sent the smoke in the glass over his eyes to make sure she didn’t miss it.
Skate smiled—it was a little funny—and he looked pleased. “I think I do,” she said. “If I’m right, he’s trying to find someone in order to protect his friend.”
“Yes, that sounds like him. He’s fiercely loyal to people he takes a shine to. Always has been, as a matter of fact.”
“Is he? What I mean is, is he truly loyal to them? On the one hand, he’s got me stealing from his friends. On the other, he’s spending his time trying to track down dangerous people in order to protect those same friends.”