Mandestroy

by James Hockley

that moment, he was prince of the smithy world.

  ________

  He woke to chaos. He often woke to chaos, but this was different.

  “WHERE IS IT?”

  Usually it was the dull clang of steel on near molten steel that stirred him in the morning. That was the sound of his brothers starting their day. To be fair to the idiots, they did have a remarkable capacity for early schedules even despite late festivities, though it could hardly be called a virtue. But today was different. His father was shouting.

  “WHERE!”

  He did not have a big room out back in the smithy, and the one source of light was through the chimney of the small hearth. There was a blood red glow to the scant illumination, and that seemed foreboding. He stretched his shoulders, creasing the sleep ache out of his neck, and then threw his legs over the side of the bed. Damn he had slept well. It must have been the fire-liquor he’d shared with his father.

  “COME ON YOU BASTARDS, WHERE IS IT?”

  His eyes would barely open, such was his grog. He never felt like this. He was hardly the sprightliest morning creature, but he was no slug either. The constant threat of bullies drilled that into you. He tried to shake sense into himself, but he really was groggy this morning. The sound of his brother’s whimpering response only just registered. What had they done? He wanted to laugh at their pathetic display, but he was too tired to laugh. It turned into a yawn. No, the sleep-gremlin had him by the delicates for sure. He could barely function.

  And then his door crashed open and his father marched in. The fury was rampant on his face.

  “Still here, then?”

  The question was aimed at him, but he couldn’t work out for the Uncle what it meant. He tried to shake the weariness away, but from the shadows beyond his father he caught a whiff of something putrid. Jeb was smiling cruelly at him. It was the same ugly smile he’d worn last night. Now he was alert. He stood despite his giddiness.

  “Of course I’m still here. Why would I be anywhere else?”

  His father flicked his eyes, and he was drawn to a packed rucksack. It was his packed rucksack. The sour smile stretched in the shadows, and the cruel menace of the bullies jumped out of his past. His arse puckered. He had not been subject to that cruelty for three years, but that sense was returning. It was returning fast.

  “I don’t know what that’s doing there.”

  “Well then, let’s just have a look inside.”

  “No!” That was the worst thing that could happen, though he did not know why. His legs moved, but they were not in agreement with each other. He fell to his knees. There was a snigger from the bastards, and it was starting to make sense. They had drugged him. And his father was ripping the items from the bag, feeling about for something in particular. Looking for whatever he had lost.

  And then it was obvious, and his father found what he was looking for. Of course it was there, and the rising dread guided him to the reality. He could not survive this. His father would not allow it.

  So he ran.

  As he pushed between his sneering brothers, he turned back to see his father – the same man who may have actually loved him yesterday – with fury rampant on his face. He was slumped on his knees and held the jewelled dagger above his head.

  “After everything I did for you, Jossie. Why would you repay me like this?”

  He could not answer because his brothers had it planned. He would never be allowed in this place again.

  He raced through the living space, and only remembered that his book was still beneath his bed when he was exiting the smithy. He would miss those words, but he couldn’t go back. Not now. And besides, he still had Delfin’s philosophy etched in his memory. He would not forget that precious gift. It was all he had left of his childhood. He had nothing else to his name. Not even a place to sleep.

  Four | 13yrs ago

  It turned out that living on the streets was rough. Even compared to a life of misery, this was worse. Perhaps it was not worse than the abuse of his past, but it was not much better. And anyway, at least back then he’d had the friendship of Bulge. Now he was all alone. No-one was there to offer even a cool word of support.

  And worse than that, he had no outlet either. He had no way to quench his hunger for learning. Two years ago he had been on the cusp of a life with purpose, intent, substance, and perhaps even love. Now he had nothing. It was like being starved, then being given the very tiniest morsel, and then finally having it pulled mercilessly away. It drove one insane. But alas, such was the curse of his existence. In some ways misery suited him better. At least it was familiar.

  He’d left the smithy in such a hurry that he’d been entirely unprepared for a life of rough. But a child of his background is nothing if not resourceful. Within a cycle of Father Fortune, he had his routine down to a pinch. In time, he may even learn to flourish in the squalor. And if he knew Triosec well before, then he held her secrets in his pockets now. In many ways he had become the king of the damned city. Though in most ways, he was mere gutter scum.

  And yet he retained a sense of personal pride, refusing to be sucked into the vortex of self-deprecation that seemed to plague a majority of the city’s Lost. Actually, the Lost seemed entirely inappropriate when the unfortunate population were actually one of the more common sights in the city. They were visible, but they were not noticed, and this was why Kantal fitted in.

  His hair was long, scraped into a tight tail which hung from the base of his neck, secured with a hempen chord. He had patchy and wispy facial hair sprouting, young man of seventeen as he was, and he would dearly love to shave it off. But a clean-shaved face was noticeable, and invisibility was useful. The wafting beard gave him a perverse freedom, and so he stuck with it. Even if it did annoy him intensely.

  And if the freedom was good for anything, then it was good for fuelling his incessant hunger for learning. A life of purpose may have been fleeting, but it was profound, and it had taught him one thing: that there must always be something worth pursuing. And he wanted to live his name.

  That taste of creation had been so sweet that his dreams were now consumed by that experience. He dreamed of that weapon he had helped craft. He longed to replicate the satisfaction that he’d felt in those heady days, and he desperately sought his path back. But in his position, that was a challenge. Just staying clean was a problem beyond his capacity.

  True enough, there were small victories to be had on the streets: a meal forged from waste; clothes salvaged through charity; and privacy crafted by cunning. But each success was disappointingly temporary, and he found himself quickly twitchy once more. He had only one outlet for his curiosity, and it was the same sanctuary that saved his childhood. He sought out the library.

  The archives held some truly magnificent volumes on the art of the smith, and no small amount on the revered craft of weapon-lore. He consumed the text hungrily, but with each earned lesson, he found himself further from where he wanted to be. He had experienced perfection, and anything less would just not do. His frustration drove him on.

  He searched hungrily for the ways of the Mandari, to supplement what fragmented learning he had retained from his experience with his father. But the trouble with Mandari art was that it wasn’t well known outside of Mandaria. He craved that weapon that his hands had made, but the King had paid dearly for it. He could never own such a thing. All he had to do was look at his reflection to recognise that truth. It was a weight on his optimism.

  But if Queen Delfin had taught him anything, then it was persistence. The library was vast, and he would search until every flaky page had been turned. He had nothing else to occupy his time.

  His unsolicited access to the building was through a window that seemed to remain permanently unlocked about the upper gallery. It was still early morning, but he clawed his way closer to the top of the wall even despite his sweaty hands. He looked back down to the st
reet with a trembling lip. It was filling up nicely, the day’s tradesmen emerging for business. More eyes to spy his approach. Damn.

  He shook the idea from his head, revelling in the challenge of the climb. As a slap of wind unsettled him, his moist palm threatened to give, but a forceful extension of his knees projected him the final distance. He gulped and hauled himself onto the roof. Phew.

  Of course, he would much rather have climbed earlier in the day, before the threat of city life was rife. But he’d run into trouble. It turned out that the baker he’d stolen from last night was not one to let a financial loss lie, and he’d been hunted most of the night. As he was emerging into the barely-light to make his way to his beloved temple, the City Guard had descended upon him with the baker screaming for his head. It took all of his wit, and no small amount of his pocket aggression, to get out of that one. But by the time he’d shaken his tail, the early chance was gone.

  It would probably be sensible to lay low a few days. And where better to lay low than the library? No-one would think to look there.

  He eased the creaking window open, its filthy glazing barely reflecting the bright daylight. The silence in the building always offered danger with the noise of any movement, but he had to take the chance. And besides, once inside, he could conceal himself from anyone. Bulge had taught