The Long List Anthology Volume 4

by David Steffen

  Vaughn snorted and laid a pattern on the inside of a sheet of pure white kidskin. The brownie was from Faerie. There was always the potential for harm, even in just the asking.

  To make up for being tardy, Vaughn worked well past his usual time. It was full dark by the time he left the shop, locking the door behind himself. His eyes blurred when he tried to look in the distance so the candles in the windows turned into dancing globes like will-o-the-wisps come to the city. He had the pieces for another set of gloves folded in paper in his pocket and had snuck the little shears out of the shop.

  Sarah would be worried about him, but she knew well enough that the master had say over his time. Tucking his hands in the sleeves of his overgown, Vaughn hurried for home. If he was lucky, the pie shop would still have something otherwise it was yesterday’s bread for dinner.

  Before he even got out of the alley, a hand clamped down on his shoulder with the weight of iron. Vaughn gasped and tried to wrench free, but the man’s fingers dug in, unnaturally strong. His vision went white and red. He dropped to his knees, grabbing by instinct at the source of the pain and touched leather. A glove of smooth oxskin, embroidered at the knuckles with fool’s knots and chains.

  Strength gloves.

  “I’ve got nothing.” Vaughn stopped struggling, but the scoundrel’s grip on his shoulder didn’t lighten. Lord. They’d break his shoulder at this rate. At least it was his left. He could still stitch if they didn’t hurt his right.

  What a stupid thing to worry about when he might not live through the night. Vaughn knelt on the cold cobblestones, with one knee in a puddle of something.

  “Don’t try anything.”

  “I won’t.” Who had made the man’s gloves? Vaughn kept his head down as the fellow released him. Partly this was so he didn’t look like a threat, but also so he could see the gloves.

  Bright red oxskin with the requisite fool’s knots and chains stitched at the knuckles. The man yanked his pocket off his belt, likely harder than the man had intended, and the cloth split down the seams. Green thread marched up the sides of the gloves in flames that looked like it had come out of Master O’Connell’s shop. Not that it mattered. Like as not they were stolen.

  Sumptuary laws being what they were, someone of their station couldn’t afford a pair of gloves, much less flaunt them. Heavens no, if they wore something so fine, someone might mistake them for nobility.

  “Ha!” The thief dug through the shredded pocket and found Vaughn’s meager purse. Thank heavens he hadn’t been paid yet this week, but there went any chance of buying Sarah a pie for dinner.

  When the thief drew out the leather for the gloves, Vaughn groaned. “Please— those aren’t ensorcelled yet. It’s just leather and—”

  The thief threw the kidskin on the ground, right in the puddle Vaughn knelt in. Bollocks. Even if the liquid were by some miraculous chance pure water, the leather would warp and stiffen. Master Martin would take it out of his wages.

  The man found the little silver shears, and tucked them away. Small though they were, a pair of silver shears were worth more than Vaughn would make this month. Thank God he’d already hocked his father’s snuff box, or that would be gone as well.

  “That’s it?” The thief grabbed him by the collar.

  “I’m a journeyman.”

  “You don’t dress like one.”

  “My master wants us to look smart for his customers.” He’d near beggared himself meeting the requirements for the journeyman contract, but it was the only way to advance in the guild. If he were wearing a cotte, as he had most of his life, the thief wouldn’t have looked at him twice. “If you thought I was a nobleman, I am sorry to have wasted your time.”

  “Guess I’ll take your overgown and hat for my troubles.” He snatched the hat off Vaughn’s head.

  “Please—I’ll lose my place if I’m not—”

  “Your place or your life. Either way, they’re mine, ain’t they.” The thief clapped his hands together and the threads glimmered with the spellwork caught in them. “Off with your overgown.”

  What choice did Vaughn have? He shrugged off the overgown, and though it was tempting to throw it in the puddle same as the leather, he wasn’t a fool. He handed it over, jaw clenched to keep from crying as the thief threw the overgown across his arm. It wasn’t fair. He’d worked so hard to get here, to make something of himself and—

  The thief’s free hand drew back, curling into a fist. If that connected, Vaughn was a dead man. He threw himself back. The blow whistled past his face, just brushing his cheek. Even that fleeting contact lit the night sky for a moment. Then his head smacked against the cobbled street, and everything went dark.

  There were no bells to tell him the time. All Vaughn knew as he dragged himself up the stairs of their garrett was that he stank. The bastard had robbed him of his shoes and the buttons off his jerkin while he lay there. He was lucky to still have his doublet and netherhose, but his feet ached from walking home in nothing but his stockings.

  When he reached the top of the stairs, a light flickered under their door. He winced. It had been too much to hope that Sarah would have gone to bed. Before he’d even reached for the latch, a chair scraped on wood and Sarah’s footsteps hurried toward the door.

  “Vaughn?” She yanked the door open, a shawl over her nightgown. “Oh my lord. What happened?”

  He tried to grin, but his cheek hurt too much. At least his jaw wasn’t broken. “Robbed coming home. But I’m fine.”

  “You are not fine!” She put an arm around his waist, as if he hadn’t just walked home all by himself. “Come and sit. Oh— your face.”

  “Bad, eh?” Probably for the best they didn’t own a mirror. He patted her shoulder and slipped out of his sister’s grasp. “Let me get out of these clothes first.”

  “I’ll heat some water to clean your cheek.” She hurried over to their small hearth, one of the few perks of the garret, and put another log on the fire.

  “I’m fine. Really. Look worse than I feel.” That might have been a lie, but he couldn’t stand to see her worried on his account. Vaughn limped over to the curtain they’d hung in the corner to give some modesty for bathing. “How was your day?”

  He’d pulled off the stinking jerkin — at least he didn’t have to unbutton it —then his doublet, which was also sans buttons, and tugged up his shirt. The movement made the bruises on his left shoulder catch, dragging his breath out with a hiss. He couldn’t lift his arm higher than his waist.

  He bit back a half dozen curses as he tried to wriggle out of the shirt, and then realized that Sarah hadn’t answered. “Sarah?”

  Certain that his sister would be on the floor, Vaughn came around the curtain in just his shirt and netherhose. But she knelt in front of the fire, setting the kettle on the grate.

  His heart slowed a little. “Is something wrong?”

  “No.” Sarah shook her head. “I was just thinking about how to answer.”

  “That sounds like something is wrong.” He stepped back behind the curtain to splash a little cold water over his face. His cheek stung and the water in the basin turned pink. He probed the side of his face and winced as he found the raw edges where his skin had split over his cheekbone. Vaughn shucked out of his netherhose, managed to pull his shirt off, and then dragged a nightshirt on, carefully.

  What the hell was he going to wear to work tomorrow?

  Carrying the basin of dirty water, Vaughn limped over to their single, high window and reached up to open the casement. He grunted as the bruises on his left shoulder caught. “Sarah… I’m sorry. Could you?”

  “Of course!” She hurried over to take the basin from him. “Go sit by the fire now.”

  “I’m fin—”

  “Now.” And all of a sudden, her voice snapped like Gran’s.

  Vaughn went. As she opened the small window and dumped the waste water on the street below, he dragged their other chair next to the fire and settled into it with a groan.
He might never stand again.

  Sarah hurried back over to him, firelight warming the room around her and catching in the honey gold of her hair. It also caught on a new cut on her lip.

  Vaughn straightened, taking his sister’s hand as she sat. “Did you have another fit? After I left?”

  She pressed her lips together as if that would hide the cut. With a shrug, she turned to the fire. “What if I did?”

  “Sarah… You’re supposed to tell me.”

  She set the empty basin on the floor by the fire. “Why? There’s nothing to be done about it.”

  But there was. It was just that tonight’s mishap put it even further from his grasp.

  Dressed in his workboots, second-best hose, doublet, and jerkin, Vaughn hunched over the bench. His shoulder had stiffened overnight and all it was really good for was holding down the leather while he traced. His eye had swollen up enough that he had to tilt his head to the side to see the leather clearly. But his right hand was steady and he gave thanks for that.

  The shop bell jangled at the front as Master Martin arrived. As the glover whistled his way into the back of the shop, Vaughn laid his pencil down and prepared to make his case. He turned on his stool and Master Martin jumped, taking a step backward. Sitting on his shoulder, Littleberry had to clutch his collar to stay seated.

  “Good lord!” Swiping his hat off his head, Master Martin’s astonishment turned into a scowl. “I’ve got no patience with brawlers.”

  “I—” Brawling? He’d been working for the man for three years and had never so much as raised his voice. “I was robbed, sir. Sorry for my appearance, sir.”

  “Robbed? Here?” Master Martin swung around as if someone might be lurking in the shadows.

  Littleberry used the motion to jump down onto the workbench, his nose wrinkled in sympathy. At least someone felt sorry for Vaughn.

  “No, sir. On my way home.” Vaughn bit his lower lip. “I had the leather for the Lady Flannery commission, I’m afraid.”

  “The royal blue! Do you know how dear that shade of blue is?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m very sorry, sir.”

  “It’ll have to come out of your pay.” Master Martin set his hat on the rack next to the door. “Anything else?”

  If he could have hidden it, he would have, but at some point Master Martin would notice that the little silver shears were missing. “I’m afraid I had inadvertently left the small shears in my pocket.”

  “Those were not to leave the shop! Ye think I can just run willy-nilly over to Faerie anytime I need enchanted silver?”

  “I’m very sorry, sir. Of course, I will pay for them.” Before Master Martin had time to get redder in the face, Vaughn drove forward. “The brigand also took my overgown and shoes. I have nothing else appropriate to wear. Would it be possible—”

  “An advance? After all this, ye have the nerve to ask for an advance?”

  Vaughn had actually planned to ask if he might be excused from wearing an overgown until he could afford to buy a new one. He wouldn’t be allowed in the front of the shop anyway until the bruises faded. But, in for a penny, in for a pound. He was going to be paying for this for the next year anyway. “I’m sorry, sir. I know you take pride in the neatness of your shop and I want to be a credit to you.”

  Master Martin scowled. “I’ll think on it. For the time being though, ye stay here in the back. I don’t want one of the customers catch sight of ye.”

  “Of course, sir.” The pencil rolled off the workbench, and Vaughn reached to catch it. The movement sent a lance through his left shoulder and he couldn’t hold back a cry.

  “I think the lad is really hurt, aren’t you?” Littleberry’s voice piped like an ancient bird, as his head cocked with curiosity.

  “It’s nothing.” He moved more cautiously, keeping his arm close to his side. The last thing he needed was for Master Martin to decide that the injury meant he couldn’t work.

  “Is that the truth?” the brownie asked.

  “It’s just bruises. He had strength gloves and I reckon didn’t realize how hard he was grabbing me.”

  Master Martin straightened, blinking owlishly. “Strength gloves. Are ye sure?” His professional assessment suddenly came to the front and this was why Vaughn put up with his peevishness, because the man knew his stitching.

  “Red oxskin. Fool’s knots and chains on the knuckles.” Vaughn hesitated for a moment, but training would out. “Green flamestitching up the side that had the peaks distinctive of Master O’Connell’s work.”

  Master Martin slapped his handkerchief down on the workbench. “That gad-about. He’ll ruin the guild’s reputation, selling to any old person. Let me see.”

  “Sir?”

  “The bruises.” He beckoned with one hand. “Let me see the bruises.”

  “Yes, sir.” Vaughn unbuttoned his doublet, which came off easily enough. He undid the string that held the collar of his shirt closed. Any hope that he might be in better shape today vanished when he tried to pull his shirt off. He closed his eyes, and took a careful breath before trying again..

  “Here, lad.” Master Martin’s hands were unexpectedly gentle as he helped Vaughn get the shirt off. His fingers were soft from the oil he worked into them every day. “Ach. Oh… That’s strength gloves for certain.”

  Of course it was. Vaughn wasn’t an idiot. If not for this, he’d be only a year away from doing his journeyman project and applying to be a Master at the guild. He nodded, lips pressed together around the words he couldn’t say. “Yes, sir.”

  “I want Littleberry to take a look at this…”

  “Sir?”

  Master Martin waved a hand. “See if it was done with unlicensed goods. I’ve had a suspicion that O’Connell has been doing that. Keep your shirt off a moment.”

  Skin standing all over gooseflesh, Vaughn tried not to shiver. Even standing on the workbench, the brownie barely came up to his shoulder. He cocked his head to the side, studying Vaughn as if he were a pair of gloves. “Hm. Sit, would you?”

  Vaughn slid onto the tall stool next to the workbench. The brownie’s cool, dry fingers danced over his skin, marking each of the four livid bruises on the front of his shoulder. Wetting his lips, Vaughn stared steadily ahead at the windows.

  He was looking past the glass, and only when Master Martin moved did he realize that there was a reflection there. For the first time since the robbery, he saw his own face and it was no wonder Master Martin had jumped. His cheek was swollen and purple, with a nasty cut that was nearly black in the reflection. The bruises stood out clear as anything in livid purple splotches against his winter white shoulder.

  “Aye. ’Tis the work of Mossthicket.” Littleberry stepped back, sighing. “The marks are all over it.”

  “So they’re unlicensed.” Master Martin rubbed the back of his neck. “Ye said ye recognized the stitching as O’Connell?”

  “Yes, sir.” Vaughn swallowed. “His flame stitching has a distinctive point and—”

  “Any chance ye’re wrong.”

  Of course there was a chance he was wrong. It wasn’t as if he’d been able to pull them off and look at the maker’s mark. “It was dark, sir.”

  Master Martin grunted. After a moment, he handed Vaughn his shirt. “Let’s get ye dressed again, lad.”

  “Thank you, sir.” A half-dozen questions pestered his tongue for voicing, but Vaughn knew his place. The master helped him get the shirt back on and even with assistance, Vaughn felt queasy all the way to his knees. He breathed through gritted teeth, waiting for the pain in his shoulder to pass enough that he could pull the doublet on.

  “I’ll tell her majesty when I cross the border, but like as not she’ll do nothing.” Littleberry tugged on one of his ears. “Not without the actual gloves.”

  Master Martin nodded. “The guild will have the same problems. Still. I’ll report it to the warden and see if anything comes of it. Unlicensed gloves… The devil take O’Connell.”

 
For the second night running, Vaughn had to stop on the landing to catch his breath. The bruises on his shoulder hurt with every inhalation and he wasn’t entirely sure he’d make it to the top of the stairs. At least tonight he had shoes.

  No candlelight under the door tonight. He sighed with relief that his sister had been smart enough to go to bed. Vaughn pushed the door open.

  The stench of vomit and urine smacked him in the face.

  “No…” He fumbled for the candle that sat by the door. The fire had burned out and the room was as dark as the stairs. “Sarah?”

  Heart stepping up its pace with every beat, he knocked the candle to the floor. “Damnit. Sarah!”

  Dropping to his knees, Vaughn fumbled in the dark, until he laid hands on the candle. Forcing himself to slow down, he found the tinderbox. Struck it. Lit the candle. Lifting it high, with his good arm, he turned.

  Sarah lay in a jumble on her side next to the bed. A puddle of vomit soaked her hair. A litany of fear filled his head as he scrambled across the floor to her. Please don’t be dead. Please. Please. Vaughn set the candlestick on the floor. “Sarah?”

  Her cheeks were pale, but—thank God—her pulse beat visibly in her throat. Vaughn slid his hands under her neck and knees to lift her. This was going to hurt and he goddamn didn’t care. He ground his teeth together, braced, and lifted.

  Something in his shoulder popped.

  White and red and black explosions peppered his vision. Screaming, tumbling forward, he dropped Sarah. His left arm cushioned her head, only because he couldn’t move it out of the way. They both landed in the pool of vomit.

  Sarah’s head flopped back and she moaned. She didn’t wake up. Please, God. Please, let her wake up. Vaughn pressed his good hand against his upper arm, biting the inside of his cheek so hard that he tasted the copper of blood. Waves of iron hot and steel cold pulsed in sickening waves.

  Gasping around the pain, he tried to pull himself out of it. Sarah. Sarah needed him. Think, Vaughn. Think.

  He couldn’t lift her onto the bed. A pallet on the floor then.

  Wrapping his left arm around his waist, he buried his fingers between the buttons of his jerkin to keep from jostling it too much. With his good hand, he tugged Sarah’s shift down around her calves and twisted it to get a better grip. Sliding back on his knees and haunches, Vaughn dragged Sarah away from the mess by the bed. Where she’d been lying, the floorboards were stained dark with piss. Which meant her shift needed to be changed.