Volume 1: Pickpocketing

by R. A. Consell

  The cries of his friend in agony drove Kuro back into action. He leapt at Dubois, fists flying. He pelted the older wizard with blows. Dubois was much bigger and stronger than Kuro, though, and kicked him off with ease. With a few angry words and a sweeping gesture from Dubois, parts of the church floor formed into chains, which began to entangle Kuro, but they fell away when Graeae leapt to Kuro’s defence.

  Dubois cursed as the feral cat latched onto him, digging her claws deep into his face and neck. He tore the mangy stray off and redirected his anger at the cat.

  Everything slowed to a crawl. Kuro felt his legs moving under him. He saw words forming in Dubois’s mouth, and a light flaring in his palm. The room went strangely quiet, though he could feel himself yelling something. The air erupted in an arcing burst of electricity that shot towards Graeae, but Kuro threw himself in the way.

  He felt it hit his chest like a battering ram. There was pain, then his body went stiff, and then there was only darkness.

  Five

  The Principal and the Hound

  Kuro was lost in nightmares. They were all of the usual ones—the night of the Hound raid, the death of Helena, a string of punishments each more painful than the last—but something was different in them this time. In each, Talen Dubois was standing in the background with a cold, grim expression, watching Kuro suffer. Also, he couldn’t wake up.

  Normally one nightmare would shake him from his sleep, but this time he just drifted from one terrible memory to another, unable to wake. Kuro wondered if he had died, if this was the hell that Father John had warned him about. He would be trapped reliving the worst parts of his life over and over, with Talen Dubois as his personal devil.

  Memories of the chase with Dubois and the fight in his church invaded his dreams, and the recollection of the shock he’d received woke him with a start.

  He immediately regretted waking. His chest felt as though it had a stake driven through it, and every muscle in his body cried out at the idea of moving. He lay still for a long time, silently ranking the aftereffects of electrocution against his other miseries. He decided it ranked close to hot oil burns in things to never experience again.

  After much deliberation as to whether he wanted to see where he was, he decided to force his eyes open. As he did, the pitch blackness in the unfamiliar room around him slowly brightened with a dull flat light, which seemed to emanate from everywhere and nowhere all at once.

  He climbed stiffly from the cot on which he had been left, and it sank into stone floor. Graeae, who was there also and had not finished sleeping, hissed at the floor for swallowing her mattress.

  Kuro scanned the room for hiding places or exits but found none. The room was entirely empty, with no doors or windows. The granite slabs that made up the walls were so neatly carved that he could barely see the seams between them. He was trapped. There was no place to run and no place to hide. His shoes were gone, his pockets emptied. This was undoubtedly a cell in Niflheim Prison. This empty stone box was probably where Kuro would spend the rest of his life. He started to panic, but a voice from behind him turned that panic into anger.

  “Good morning,” it said cheerfully. “You all right?”

  Kuro spun around to face the owner of the voice. It was Dubois, smiling patronizingly down at him. He had entered through a gap that had opened in one wall and was sealing itself again behind him.

  “Can I get you anything?” he offered. “Are you hungry?”

  Kuro said nothing; he just stared at the ground. He had heard about this sort of thing from Phineas. Hounds would sometimes pretend to be friendly. They would try to earn your trust so that you would tell them things that you shouldn’t. Kuro was not going to fall for it.

  Dubois sighed. “Well, I’m starving. I had a long night, you see: trip to the hospital, mountains of paperwork, had to write a formal apology to the Undead Ecclesiastical Society, some kid knocked me through a roof, and a cat bit me in the face. My wife is going to kill me.” He laughed and winced a little. He wore bandages on his face and hand. Kuro couldn’t help but feel a little bit satisfied that the Hound hadn’t made it out unscathed. “You know, you gave me quite the chase. You’re harder to catch than a pixie in a hurricane.”

  When Kuro was unmoved by Dubois’s attempt at a compliment, he changed tack. “I ended up missing the match last night. I’m told it was a good one. Do you follow lacrosse?”

  Kuro considered for a long time if he should answer Dubois at all. Saying nothing would surely make Kuro look guilty, but it kept him from saying anything that might expose Phineas. If he pretended to cooperate, however, he might be let go. Besides, all his orders were meant to keep Phineas from being found. He had already failed in that regard. In all likelihood, Kuro’s master was in a cell like this right next to him.

  “I don’t know who that is,” Kuro said honestly after a long pause, though he would have said the same even if he did know this Lacrosse person. “I don’t follow people.”

  “What?” Dubois replied as his face contorted in confusion. “No, lacrosse. Lacrosse,” he repeated as though the name would suddenly start to mean something to Kuro. “Have you seriously never heard of lacrosse?”

  Kuro had rattled the Hound. He considered it a victory. Likely his last, so he savoured it. Dubois scowled and ordered Kuro to sit down.

  Kuro was confused for a moment at the instruction to sit. The room was devoid of furnishing. When he turned to where Dubois was gesturing, however, he found that two wooden chairs with green leather seats had appeared, along with a large heavy well-worn desk. The Hound sat behind the desk and motioned for Kuro to sit opposite him.

  Dubois pulled a steaming cup of coffee from one of the drawers and took a long slow slurp while he waited for Kuro to get settled. Kuro tried very hard to find the chair rigid and unyielding, but it was unrelentingly comfortable. He assumed it was enchanted, probably forcing him to be comfortable so he would let down his guard. Graeae didn’t help the situation. Having noticed a warm lap on which to sleep, she’d immediately leapt onto Kuro and curled up, making it impossible for him to shift into a less comfortable position.

  “Let’s start again,” Dubois said warmly. “Do you know who I am?”

  “You’re the Dread Wolf, Loup-Garrot,” replied Kuro, trying to keep his voice from quivering in fear.

  Some of the false friendliness drained from Dubois. He seemed unfond of the titles. “I’ve been called that by some, yes,” he said, looking quizzically at Kuro, as if trying to read his mind. “I’m Talen Dubois, knight commander in the Royal Guard. And you are?”

  Silence.

  “Look.” Dubois changed strategies transparently, and his stern expression turned to one of sympathy. “I’d like to help you here, but I don’t know how unless you tell me. Just give me something to work with. Where do you live?”

  Kuro just stared at the floor.

  “Where are your parents? Can I at least tell them you’re all right?”

  Kuro kept his mouth sealed.

  Dubois slumped, defeated. “Okay, I didn’t want to do this, but you’ve forced my hand.” He opened a shallow drawer and pulled out an overstuffed manila folder and slammed it on the desk. He flipped it open and tossed Kuro a small scrap of paper from the top of the stack.

  “IOU one silver crown and three nickels.”

  Kuro broke out in a sweat, although the room was quite cool. He felt his face flush.

  Dubois leaned in and looked very sternly at Kuro. “There are nearly fifty reports in here of minor thefts in the Bytown Market, all with the same calling card: an IOU with a picture of a winking weasel.”

  Kuro almost corrected him but managed to keep quiet.

  Dubois started flipping through the seemingly endless file. “The same card seems to appear in a dozen other places around the realm, from Saguenay up in Alfheim to Camelot down in Tirnanog.”

  Talen continued to sort through the pile of notes. “There were some
found outside the veil, too. From a cake shop in Vancouver and a pizzeria in Halifax. What kind of thief steals sandwiches and candlesticks and leaves apologies?”

  Kuro felt very small in front of the looming Hound and his pile of evidence.

  “Do you want to know what my staff have put together?” Dubois dug out a typed report from the pile and began to read. “Ahem. . . . The trivial nature of the crimes indicates an individual stealing for fun or practice. The distribution of incidents indicates a resident or frequent visitor to Bytown but capable of rapid travel, likely owns a high-performance broom or carpet. The frequency of crimes indicates a pathological need for theft or mischief, and the sophistication necessary to carry them out indicates a wizard with a deep mastery of charms and illusions, particularly those related to deception and beguilement as evidenced by the inconsistent witness accounts. Combined with the above evidence and given the mustelid nature of the signature, current primary suspect—” Dubois paused for effect and to survey his captive. “Sir Randolph Martin, minstrel and consort to the Spring queen.”

  Kuro exploded with laughter. He knew he had given himself away, but he couldn’t help it. He was both flattered and delighted by the idea of his crimes being pinned on some famous nobleman.

  Dubois was not laughing though. He tossed the papers aside. “Some very clever people came up with that. They’re quite convinced that one would have to be a very skilled sorcerer indeed to rob so many witches and wizards without getting caught. I almost believed it, but Randolph is more likely to put something unexpected into your pocket than take something out.” Anyway, that’s why I was there in the market last night. I was there to buy Randolph a round at the pub and ask him about it. But then I found you.” Dubois’s gold, predatory eyes seemed to see right into Kuro’s mind. “A skinny little street rat, quick as lightning, quiet as a mouse, knows all the secret places of Detritus Lane, seems to be quite protective of one of the only two shops in the Bytown Market that haven’t filed a complaint . . . and was wearing these.”

  Talen retrieved a pair of sneakers from his desk and slid them towards Kuro.

  “Those are mine,” snapped Kuro, furious that they had been taken from him. He was shocked at his own outburst, that those shoes were worth shouting at a Hound over.

  “I know,” Dubois replied.

  “I didn’t steal them,” said Kuro, grabbing them off the table and clutching them to his chest. “They were a gift.”

  “I believe you.” Dubois seemed genuine. “Who gave them to you?”

  “Mr. Schumacher,” Kuro mumbled.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Is that why you stopped the burglars?” Dubois had clearly put all the pieces together before the conversation had even started.

  Kuro nodded.

  Dubois’s warm smile returned but seemed more genuine than before. “Mr. Schumacher was proud as punch when I told him what you’d done, including the part where you tackled me out of the air. He insists that you’re a fine boy, not a criminal bone in your body. Father John, too, screams the same. I’m inclined to believe them. I’m happy to let my people continue to monitor Sir Martin, even if they do come back glowing purple, or inflated, or desperately infatuated with an umbrella. But”—Dubois paused, and his look turned menacing again—“I could look a little closer at these reports, and you might end up in front of a formal tribunal and on your way for an extended stay somewhere unpleasant. Do you understand?”

  “So, if I tell you.” Kuro shrank down into his chair and pulled Graeae closer to him. “Then I won’t have to stay in Niflheim?”

  Dubois looked horrified at the suggestion. “Niflheim? No, not Niflheim. Never Niflheim. That’s for real monsters, murderers and the like. Not petty thieves and street rats . . . or weasels.”

  “But,” Kuro started, looking around at the polished stone walls. “Aren’t we in Niflheim now?”

  Dubois laughed mockingly. “Of course not. This is my office in the Granite Citadel.” With a wave of his hand, a window carved itself into one wall and a door into the opposite. Paintings melted out of the wall, and a bookshelf slid up through the floor. Dubois stood and hung his heavy long green uniform coat on a rack that appeared for the purpose. “I just hid everything away while you were sleeping in case your cat decided to make a mess of things, or you thought a sixty-story fall out my window sounded like a good idea.”

  Kuro dared a look out the window. He definitely wasn’t on a frozen island prison in the far north. He was still in Bytown. The Granite Citadel, home of the Royal Guard, sat on a hill at the centre of the city, a towering stone obelisk of black and grey that could be seen from any part of town. If Kuro craned his neck, he could see the Bytown Market, a tiny circle in the distance, the people so small as to look like motes of dust floating through it.

  Not being in Niflheim was a relief, but the citadel was hardly much better. One wrong word and he’d never see the light of day again. That is, if his fate hadn’t already been decided and this was just a play for more information.

  “So what do you say?” asked Dubois, as he relaxed back into his chair and slurped at his coffee. “Can you be honest with me?”

  Kuro thought hard for a moment. He considered how honest the Hound might be. He might still be lying. But then again, the Hounds had much more effective methods of getting information if they wanted to.

  “It’s a cat,” Kuro said at last.

  Dubois looked at one of Kuro’s notes and squinted a little. Kuro held up Graeae for comparison, and Dubois grinned broadly in understanding. “No. It’s definitely a weasel.” He winked as he said it and shoved the whole massive file back into its drawer. “Can we start again?”

  Kuro nodded.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Kuro.”

  “Last name.”

  “I don’t have any other names.”

  “Where are your parents?”

  “Don’t have any.”

  “So you’re an orphan? Or a stray?” Dubois asked in a sad and sympathetic tone.

  “No,” replied Kuro. “I don’t have any parents.”

  The Hound scrutinized Kuro. “Who raised you, then?”

  Kuro almost spoke, but his jaw slammed shut on his tongue as he nearly said his master’s name. He was not permitted to even think it, let alone speak it. He had very nearly disobeyed an order.

  “What are you doing?” he demanded.

  Kuro pried his jaw open, his tongue throbbing. “Nothing,” he said.

  “Good grief, you’re bleeding. Why did you do that?”

  It seemed odd that Dubois would need to ask that. Surely he’d seen someone try to disobey their master in his line of work. He probably just didn’t know what Kuro’s offence had been. Of course, Kuro couldn’t explain, as that would be a much worse offence than he’d just committed. “I had to” was all Kuro offered in explanation.

  Dubois’s brow furrowed, and he examined Kuro as if he were reading a complicated document. He rummaged in one of the drawers of his desk, which was clearly much larger than it appeared from the outside. He nearly had to crawl inside it to find what he was looking for. He emerged holding a small bottle of red liquid. He pulled the stopper and moved around his desk to Kuro. “Hold out your hand,” he instructed.

  Kuro hesitantly stretched out his arm for the Hound, who allowed a single drop of the potion drip from the bottle onto Kuro’s hand. The moment it touched his skin it burst violently into a puff of black smoke, leaving behind a small sooty mark.

  “Curious,” Dubois said to himself. He seemed to have forgotten that Kuro was listening. “Very odd.”

  Dubois wandered back to his chair, deep in thought. After staring at his steepled fingers for a few moments, he looked up and noticed that Kuro was still in the room. “Wait here for a moment,” he said, as if Kuro had a choice. He walked out of the room, and it sealed itself behind him. The window and door closed over aga
in with stone, and all the furnishings other than Kuro’s chair retreated into the floor.

  For several minutes Kuro sat in confused and frightened silence. The only sound was the gentle purring of Graeae, who had slept through the entire exchange.

  Graeae did not sleep through what happened next. A loud clattering noise behind him made Kuro jump from his seat, sending Graeae flying. Kuro spun and tried to hide behind the chair but found it had already gone.

  An ancient-looking wizard in white robes and a stained leather apron was shuffling in through a new door in the other wall, leaning heavily on a gnarled old staff. A cart full of magical implements wheeled itself along behind him. He was so old and withered that his wrinkles had their own wrinkles, and his jowls and earlobes drooped down to nearly meet his collar. On his cart were strangely curled special-use wands, gruesome-looking metal tools inlaid with runes and crystals, and dozens of small potions that smoked and bubbled in their poorly sealed bottles. The old wizard fixed one eye on Kuro, while the other seemed to be more intent on keeping the contents of the cart in check. “Up on the examining table, if you please,” the wizard wheezed, as he indicated a long, high padded table that had wandered in while Kuro wasn’t looking in its direction.

  Kuro did not please. He dove under the table, trying to keep its legs between him and the wizard with the cart full of torture tools.

  “Oh, for goodness sake, Talen, I haven’t time for this. Please restrain your prisoner,” said the ancient wizard.

  “He’s not my prisoner.” Dubois appeared behind Kuro and grabbed him by the shoulders before he had a chance to react. “He is my guest.”

  Dubois wasn’t a burly man, but he was surprisingly strong. Kuro struggled fruitlessly in his grip as he was lifted from under the table and plonked unceremoniously on top of it.

  “If I’m your guest,” Kuro begged, “then I’d like to leave.”