It was bitter cold up here on the roof, but Mags had the advantage of being pressed against the warm bricks of a chimney out of the wind while he waited for his quarry to show himself.
This was a set-up, a trap. Mags was going to catch himself a young thief. He’d made sure—by selling him the information himself!—that Gripper, the thief-master to these boys, had heard that the stone-carving owner of this house had gotten an unexpected bonus for finishing a job early, and had invested the money in a fine silver vase. This was the sort of thing Gripper’s “lads” were adept at stealing; small enough to carry away easily, large enough for a fine profit. Mags knew that it wouldn’t be long before the Gripper sent one of his boys to fetch it, and he’d been up here for three nights, waiting. Amily had been very patient about sleeping alone these three nights—but then, she’d had plenty to keep her occupied too.
Mags was listening very closely as well as keeping watch. He wasn’t certain which of the boys was going to be sent to snatch this particular prize, but whoever it was, he was not going to be good enough to get past Mags.
Even above the whistle of the wind among the chimneys, Mags picked up the sound of feet slipping a little on the tiles. A moment later, he caught sight of what he was watching for, a moving shadow edging along the roof-line, heading for the gable window. Then the shadow disappeared under the edge of the roof, and Mags heard the sound of the window being opened, bit by tiny bit. When the sounds ceased, there was a long pause, and then a faint thump.
Moving far more silently than his quarry could, Mags followed; he made his way down the slope of the roof, swung over the roof-edge and in through the still-open window before the boy had any idea he was even there.
And once inside, he slammed the interior shutters closed and dropped a bar over them, putting his back to them. “Now, boys!” he said aloud, and the two former actors who worked at the pawnshop each unhooded the lanterns they’d been holding, flooding the attic room with light.
Frozen about a length away from Mags was a skinny little lad with hair as black as soot, and ragged clothing to match. The look in his eyes was of absolute panic, when he realized that he was trapped.
Aha! Luck was with him. This was one Mags actually knew, although the boy didn’t know him. Even better. When he came out with the lad’s name, well, it would seem as if the man who’d trapped him here had supernatural powers.
“Don’ even twitch, Coot,” he growled. “You ain’t goin’ nowhere ’till we lets ye.”
With a moan of terror and despair, the boy collapsed into a quivering knot on the floor. This was perfect. Coot was not at all brave, and was about as likely to fly as he was to try and make a break for it now that he’d been caught.
Right now, the last thing in the lad’s mind was that he’d been ambushed. He more likely thought that Mags and his two accomplices were servants of the owner of the place.
“Don’ kill me!” the boy moaned through chattering teeth as Mags approached, slowly and deliberately, making sure each footfall was audible. “Don’ kill me!”
“Got no plan t’ kill ye, Coot,” Mags replied, squatting down on his heels next to his captive. “Got other plans, altogether. . . .”
—
The night was fading fast. It had taken some clever talking, and Coot was practically soiling himself with fear before it was over, but now Mags and the boy were strolling along a noisome street behind the tanner’s district. The street was not paved. The air stank from the tanning yards. Rent was the cheapest in all of Haven, and more than half the buildings were empty at any one time. No one lived here who had other options, and the buildings showed it. They were in such bad repair that they leaned to one side or the other—to the point where it looked very much as if that leaning into each other was the only thing keeping them from tumbling down. Mags would never, ever roof-run around here; he’d be taking his life in his hands if he tried.
Mags had endured worse smells—and tonight, there was no wind, so the worst of the stink was staying put and not wafting over this street. But it did say something about this district that not even starlings would nest in the ramshackle eaves.
Mags had one arm over the lad’s shoulders—outwardly friendly, but in reality as a precaution to keep him from running. Beneath his false camaraderie, he could feel Coot shaking as if he had a fever. “Now remember,” Mags repeated, for the twentieth time. “We go up t’ door. Ye tell ’em thet I’m here ’cause I got some business wi’ t’Gripper. Thet’s all ye need t’say. I’ll do the rest.”
Coot nodded frantically.
Mags squeezed his shoulder. Hard. Not so hard as to hurt him, but enough to make him feel how strong Mags was. “Jest do what I tol’ ye. Nothin’ more. Nothin’ less. Do thet, an’ ye’ll be glad. Don’t, an’ ye’ll be sorry, but not fer long.”
Coot’s trembling redoubled.
By this point they had reached the ramshackle building Coot had indicated was where the gang was quartered. It was nearly dawn, so all the members of the gang should be back by now, and Gripper was probably wondering where Coot was—or had already assumed Coot had been caught. If this had been Mags’ gang, there would have been someone keeping a watch out—but the Gripper was not nearly as clever as he thought he was, for he didn’t keep watches.
The more fool he.
Mags let go of Coot at the door, and the lad went up and knocked in a simple pattern. A section of the door slid aside, and a pair of eyes stared suspiciously at them. Mags came in for nothing more than a cursory glance. Coot got a full-on stare. Whoever Gripper had on door-watch was an idiot.
“Yer late,” said a muffled voice. “Gripper ain’t half mad.”
If this had been Mags’ gang . . . Mags would have assumed by now that Coot had been caught and was spilling his guts to the Guard. He’d have packed everyone up and moved them to another hideout. Evidently Gripper was no smarter than the boy he’d put on door-guard.
“I got . . . I got summun t’see Gripper,” Coot stammered, shaking all over. “’E says ’e gots somethin’—”
“Of int’rest,” Mags finished smoothly, stepping up to the door. “Ye knows Willy th’Weasel?”
“Aye . . .” the voice replied cautiously.
“I be Harkon. I got business w’ Gripper.” He grabbed Coot’s upper arm, and both pushed him aside and held onto him. “Ye gonna lemme in?”
Whatever the boy on the other side thought of what Mags had said, he was smart enough to figure out that the flimsy door was not going to protect him from “Harkon” if “Harkon” decided to come through it. And “Harkon” had more than a bit of a reputation as a tough. The boy opened it quickly. Mags shoved Coot inside, and followed, taking in his surroundings quickly.
That . . . was another new thing, since getting all those Sleepgiver memories from his cousin. He’d always been good at assessing things, what with Nikolas’ training and all, but now—
Now, he could take in everything in the space of a heartbeat or two.
Like the shop he’d set up for his new “gang,” this building was a single room, though whether it had always been that way, or whether it had been gutted, it was impossible to tell. Unlike the shop, the second floor—or attic—was gone, leaving only the rafters and a few boards here and there to show where it had been. Mags had no doubt that when it rained there were more leaks than solid roof. This place was as much a wreck on the inside as it was on the outside.
The floor was hard-packed dirt, so there was no cellar, which meant everything this gang owned was right here in this room. The fireplace at the far end—which had a number of missing bricks—let out as much smoke as it did heat and light. There was no hearthstone, no cranes for pots to hang over the fire, and not even a couple of pots by the fire. There was no sign of anything like a kitchen, but then, who among this lot would even know how to cook? Mags suspected they bought everything they ate at co
okshops, or stole it out of the trash. Maybe they “cooked” what they could steal or buy on sticks over the fire. He shuddered to think of what they were getting.
Light was provided by crude torches stuck in makeshift holders along the walls, and he was astonished that they hadn’t yet managed to set fire to the place.
Lounging next to the fire on a sort of throne made of boxes, ragged cushions and tattered blankets full of holes was Gripper. The rest of the boys were huddled on the piles of rags along the wall that probably served them as beds; some gaped at Mags with scraps of food clutched in their hands.
Gripper slowly sat up, glaring at the intruder, as Coot scuttled to one side.
Gripper wasn’t tall, but he was heavily muscled; if there had ever been any doubt in Mags’ mind that Gripper held his sway over his gang by use of his fists, that doubt was over now. Mags judged him to be no more than a couple years older than he himself was, but those years had been very hard on Gripper. His nose had been broken more than once, he had no more than half his teeth and the ones in front were jagged and broken. His long, greasy hair was scraped back into a matted tail tied with a piece of leather thong, impossible to tell what color it was. His clothing consisted of several layers of food-stained tunics, over leather trews. It didn’t look as if he had ever taken anything off, much less washed it. It was all held to his body with a thick leather belt that held two knives.
“’Allo, Gripper,” Mags said, easily, hooking both thumbs into his own belt, and taking a relaxed posture.
Gripper grunted, frowning. “Yer pretty free with m’name, seein’ as I don’ know ye. Ye tol’ Berk ye had business wif me, an’ I don’ remember no business wif the likes of yew.”
“Oh, I got business all right,” Mags replied, carelessly. “I’ll make it short, so ye unnerstand me. I’m takin’ yer gang.”
Gripper stared at him for a moment, as if he couldn’t understand what Mags had said. And then he burst out laughing.
“Yew!” Another howl of laughter emerged from that caricature of a mouth. “Yew! Why yew ain’t—”
And then Gripper wasn’t laughing anymore, he was gasping for breath. Using the techniques he had acquired and practiced of how the Sleepgivers fought—on the rare occasions that they actually fought someone openly, that is—Mags had crossed the space between them in two flips before Gripper had even been aware he was moving, ending by driving both feet into Gripper’s gut. Bouncing backward in another flip as Gripper fell back onto his improvised “throne,” Mags landed on his feet and charged forward again, delivering a flurry of hard blows to Gripper’s stomach and chest. Gripper wasn’t even able to fight back; he was too busy trying to get a breath. He couldn’t even gasp. Mags didn’t care.
Mags grabbed his greasy tunic, hauled the now purple-faced, pop-eyed gang leader to his feet, and spun both of them in a half-circle. Then he hauled back and punched Gripper in the chin so hard that the man lifted right up off his feet and measured his own length on the dirt floor.
And once down, he didn’t move.
There was a long moment of incredulous silence from the boys ranged along the walls. Then, with an hysterical yell, Coot charged in from the side and began raining blows with fists and feet on the prone Gripper. A heartbeat later, every boy in the building was kicking, hitting or pummeling the now unconscious “master” thief, letting out pent-up rage that had been held in for far too long.
Given the little that Mags had learned about the man, it seemed no more than a fraction of the punishment he’d earned.
Mags let them have their way. After what he had heard, he frankly did not care if they murdered the man. He sat on a box and let them wear themselves out.
When the last of them had delivered the last, weary kick to the pulped mess on the floor, he cleared his throat.
Eleven pairs of eyes were instantly riveted on him.
“No more beatin’s, no more gettin’ locked out by night. Real beds,” he said into the silence. “New clothes fer ev’rbody. Reg’lar meals, an’ no shit ’bout makin’ a quota afore ye et. No quotas, ’tall. New job. Once’t yer cleaned up an’ lookin’ right, yer messenger runners. On’y, ye keep yer eyes an’ ears open, an ye hear anythin’ innerestin’, ye come straight back an’ tell. If’n it’s good stuff, I pay ye. Elsewise, ye keep yer messenger penny. Who’s in?”
—
If there had been anyone out in the street to see the odd parade, Mags and his new gang would have made a strange sight, him leading the way and a tumble of eleven skinny ragamuffins trailing along behind him. However, he took care to take a path to Aunt Minda’s little home that was likely to be deserted. He didn’t mind a couple people seeing them, but he would rather that folks didn’t get too curious.
He also hadn’t let the boys bring anything from their previous “home” other than a couple of personal possessions. He’d left word with the Guard that they were to check Gripper’s hideout at dawn, and he wanted the Guard to find whatever the boys had stolen that night, plus whatever else Gripper had squirreled away from previous thefts. Gripper had still been breathing when they’d all left. Mags was no Healer, but he thought that Gripper was likely to survive the candlemark or so until the Guard found him. After that? It was not his problem.
Once at their destination, Mags unlocked the door and threw it wide. The boys at the front of the group gasped at the sight that met them. The rest crowded forward to see, until the whole mass tumbled inside.
Aunty Minda had stood up from her bed, a smile of welcome on her weathered old face, and her arms spread wide. “Ah, come to Aunty, my little chickens!” she called, and to Mags’ intense pleasure, as he closed and locked the door behind his new gang, not a boy hesitated to come closer. Some, the three or four youngest, actually burst into tears and flung themselves at Minda’s skirts. The others came forward shyly, or hesitantly, or with pretended boldness. But all of them responded positively to the old woman.
In almost no time at all, she had them all seated around her and digging into big bowls of cabbage stew with chunks of brown barley bread. She and Mags had conferred earnestly together on just what the boys’ first meals should be—he, with the experience of having starved, and she, with the experience of feeding the starving—and they had settled on this as least likely to harm them, most likely to fill their bellies in a satisfying manner.
And now, now that they were feasting themselves as they probably had not eaten in months, if not years, now that they were warm, now that they saw with their own eyes that what Mags had promised was true, he stood up and cleared his throat.
Once again, he was the center of attention for eleven boys.
“This’s how it’ll be,” he said, sternly. “Aunty Minda’s yer keeper. Ye don’t obey, yer out. Ye make her mad, yer out. Gods help ye if ye hurt her, ’cause I’ll beat ye bloody an’ then throw ye out. Ye bring trouble here, yer out. Ye bring the law here, yer out. Anybody cain’t hold with any of that?”
Eleven heads shook “no,” a couple of them violently.
“Tha’s good.” He nodded. “Now. I’m gonna leave ye with Aunty fer some days. She’s gonna turn ye inta summat people’ll trust t’carry messages, while I get it set up wi’ innkeepers an’ suchlike. Ye do what she tells. She tells ye t’scrub yer skin off, then off it comes. No arguments. While she gets ye fit, ye sleeps, eats, gets some meat on yer bones so ye’re fit t’run like the wind when yer told t’run. Ye all good with that?”
Eleven heads bobbed so hard he had to suppress a burst of laughter.
“Aunty?” He raised his eyes to meet Minda’s. “This still suit ye?”
“Oh aye,” she said, softly, from the middle of the crowd of somewhat noisome younglings. “Oh aye, Marster Harkon. It suits.”
He nodded brusquely. “Then I’ll be off. Be back when I’m back. An’ when I’m back, ye best be ready t’work.”
He turned
and headed for the door.
Only to be hit from behind by four of the boys, who plastered themselves to him, babbling incoherent thanks. One of them was even crying.
One of them was Coot.
He hardly knew what to do at that point . . . this was not something he had anticipated happening. It felt . . . good. But uncomfortable at the same time. He patted their filthy heads and shoulders awkwardly, until at last Aunty called “Time for seconds!” and began dishing out second helpings of bread and stew. Only then, they peeled themselves off him, and went back to their newly-refilled bowls.
He waved goodbye at the door, and hurried out, before the tears stinging his eyes could actually fall. After all, he was supposed to become their taskmaster. It wouldn’t do to show any weakness.
:Looks like we did better than we had thought, Chosen,: Dallen said thoughtfully, as he made his way as swiftly and silently as he could, heading for the inn where he could resume his Whites. :I expected more resistance or rebellion. I certainly expected to lose at least a third of them who wouldn’t be willing to serve another master.:
:Aye,: Mags replied, his jaw clenching. :All of which makes me think . . . Gripper was worse than we thought. I’m beginning to regret not killing him.:
He expected a rebuke from Dallen for that rather un-Heraldic thought. And he got one . . . sort of. :He’s not worth you getting his blood on your hands. And besides . . . :
There was a long pause.
:Besides what?:
:Under the circumstances . . . surviving this is going to be much, much worse for him. Prison is not going to be kind to him.:
That teased a ghost of a smile from him.
:Aye,: he replied. :You’re probably right.:
:Oh, aren’t I always?:
—
“Damn and blast,” said the King with irritation, as he tossed a letter aside. Amily immediately set aside the notes she had been taking on another missive. She was just as glad to; it was long, repetitive, and concerned a situation within Duke Perrin’s family that there was no way the King was going to interfere with. The Duke, however, seemed under the impression if he repeated himself enough, the King would cave in.
Closer to Home: Book One of Herald Spy Page 10