A Clatter of Chains

by A Van Wyck

  Mostly he whiled the time away by trying to work out the identity of his pursuers. He was pretty sure they hadn’t been after him because he was the long lost heir to some forgotten princedom, his dubious parentage notwithstanding. He’d toyed briefly with the idea that they were after vengeance – which seemed a more romantic notion – but he’d always taken care never to knife anyone of import. Leaving dead bodies in your wake was a disqualifier if you were aiming for the title of best thief in all the desert, which had been his aspiration since he was five. And of course, the question “where is it?” tended to be specific, though not as specific as he would like.

  Where is it?

  As far as he knew, he’d never stolen any magical swords or enchanted jewels or scrolls that contained the meaning of life. Not because the resale value wouldn’t be a kick but because resale was practically impossible unless you already had a buyer lined up. The way that worked, people with a hankering for someone else’s property came to you with an offer. He’d had his fair share of those. Admittedly, the first one had been an attempt to see him killed in the effort. Not only had he stubbornly refused to die, he’d also stolen the mark out from under the noses of palace full of forewarned guards. That one had earned him an instant reputation. And a nickname. How he regretted the first words that had slipped from his tongue as he placed that ancestral jar on prince Rahik’s table…

  Surprise.

  Could it have been the jar? Why would someone be trying to retrieve the stolen ashes of some potentate’s dead grandfather, stolen by a minor prince on nothing more than a whim?

  He frowned, thinking. This was usually where his speculation hit a dead end. How could you guess what significance a specific item held for someone? And what they’d do to get it back? The cause of his recent troubles could be anything. That diamond circlet last year, for one. Or that sixth century dagger. Or the Braghangla tapestry – that thing had been a bitch to carry… Plus, there had been some unknown items. He could read – after a fashion. A skill he hid from his peers for fear of being ostracized. Or stoned. But he didn’t read old Purli, so he couldn’t guess the significance of that tablet he’d stolen, or who he’d stolen it for. Some of his patrons could be quite discreet. And, of course, he didn’t know what had been in that case he’d stolen for Madam Faffali. Not because of any professional integrity on his part but because he hadn’t had time to pick the lock before her agents had caught up to him. Knowing her, it was probably some unfaithful lover’s desiccated genitals.

  And those were only the jobs he could remember.

  He sighed, no closer to unraveling the mystery.

  Before he’d left Oaragh he’d made a house call to Hammer-ham Nan, the old matron of the Mule street orphanage where he’d grown up. The fate of its orphans wasn’t exactly a high priority for the city rulers. Their priorities tended to lie more in the direction of remaining the city’s rulers.

  So Nan took in all the destitute young ones and runaways and churned out some of the best thieves, swindlers, pick-pockets and prostitutes in the city. And so the orphanage survived. She was possibly the only live person he trusted. And she heard things.

  He’d gone in quietly, swinging through her office window. She’d had her back to him, pouring herself something at the drinks cabinet.

  “You’re getting better,” she’d greeted in her rough voice before he’d announced himself. That had made him smile. He still couldn’t sneak up on her.

  “Drink?” she’d offered, sloshing a bottle of green fig brandy above her shoulder.

  “No thanks, Nan.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  She’d poured herself a stiff measure, moving to sit behind her rickety desk, easing her solid frame into the creaking chair. He’d climbed down to lean against the wall with his arms crossed. She hadn’t seemed surprised to see him, raking him up and down with careful eyes.

  “See you’ve heard,” she’d commented wryly, taking a large swallow of the tart liquor. “It’s good to see you still alive, Jim.”

  “What can you tell me, Nan?”

  “Not much,” she’d admitted. “About a week ago word started coming down someone was looking for you. Not by name but they had that soon enough. The description they gave was fairly accurate. So.”

  So, he’d thought, they’d already known what he looked like but hadn’t had his name. Strange.

  “Who are they?” he’d mused out loud.

  “Not sure. Whoever they are, they’ve been careful not to show their eyes. They’re not local, that’s for sure. But as for who they are or where they came from,” she’d waved a hand negligently, “you can search me.”

  “How bad?” he’d asked, bracing himself for the worst.

  “Bad.” Nan’s mouth had twisted around the word. “It’s a big contract, Jim. Too big for me to run a message to you. I’ve got a lot of good kids here but the type of coin they’re offering… that much gold can turn even the best kid’s head. I couldn’t risk it. I had to hope you’d come find me before it was too late.”

  “How much?”

  “Too much for your sorry hide,” she’d scowled, making it clear she wasn’t about to tell him.

  That much, he remembered thinking. Ouch.

  “There’s some good news,” Nan had added, seeing his face. “They want you alive.”

  “Didn’t look like it,” he’d growled.

  “Play rough, do they?”

  He’d nodded. “Couple of them chased me through and then over and then under Blossom Palace yesterday.”

  “That was you?” she’d commented, considering, “Persistent,” she’d judged at last.

  “You have no idea,” he’d mused, remembering. “Any clues as to why they’re so hot for me?”

  Nan’s face hadn’t changed but she’d widened her eyes at him, making clear in a single expression that she didn’t know, didn’t want to know and was surprised he didn’t know.

  That was just like Nan – in his corner no matter what.

  But he’d been disappointed. Nan had had fewer answers than he’d hoped. There was always another option though…

  “Where are they holed up?”

  “No.”

  “No, what?”

  “No, I don’t know. No, I wouldn’t tell you if I did and no, I forbid you to go there.” She’d frowned. It was an expression he’d seen often enough, growing up. It was the kind of thing that left its mark on you. He had one or two that had scarred nicely.

  “You stay away from them, Jim,” she’d warned, poking the dreaded finger of retribution at him, “I mean it. You see them, you run the other way, you got me?”

  “Yes, khashjit.”

  Some old habits refused to die.

  With that avenue blocked, he’d fallen back to his original plan.

  “I need to get disappeared,” he’d whispered.

  “Need any money?” Nan had offered brusquely. That had brought a smile too. He’d walked over and put a small purse on the desk instead. The orphanage could always use more help.

  “Thanks, Nan.”

  “Be careful”, she’d admonished, “alive don’t mean with all your bits intact, you hear me?” She’d flicked his ear, where the previous day’s thrown blade had not missed him altogether, with a callous finger. Old Paroke was good but couldn’t regrow arms or legs or, apparently, earlobes.

  He’d left her to finish her brandy.

  Brandy.

  Oh, what he wouldn’t give for some brandy. Eyeing the dried meat and infested rusks in his arms, he snuck back to his hiding place. Something skittered, off in the darkness. He was no stranger to rats. He’d tried to whittle the barrels he’d breached to look like rat’s teeth had done the breaching. He didn’t know if it would fool anyone but it was worth a try.

  Safely back amid the crates and bales, he chewed unenthusiastically, turning the problem over in his head again as he turned the tough meat over and over in his mouth…

  He woke with a start.

 
; His mouth tasted awful. The frown formed slowly on his face. He lay still, listening for what had woken him. He couldn’t hear anyone rummaging in the cargo hold. That had happened once before, when someone had come down, tugging on ropes and kicking at crates, presumably checking that everything was tied down properly. He’d spent tense moments in his little hideaway but had avoided discovery. Due more to the searcher’s lazy inspection than any grand talent of his at camouflage.

  He turned his head this way and that, trying to hear.

  This was something else. Bare feet thumped on the deck far above in a rushed tattoo and there was a definite air of panic about the sound. He could hear faint shouting but there were two whole levels between him and the upper deck and the thick planking between them made it impossible to distinguish any words.

  Now what?

  Listening carefully to make sure there was no one in the hold with him, he eased himself out of his cramped space. He stood, ignoring the ache in his lower back. This better vantage did not make any noticeable difference to the sound quality. He hesitated, torn between caution and curiosity. The smart thing to do would be to climb back in his hole and wait it out, whatever it was.

  What if the ship is sinking?

  He didn’t want to be trapped below decks if that happened did he? Wait, he was being stupid. Below decks would be the first place to notice if the ship was sinking, surely? Dammit, he wished he knew more about ships. A sudden panicked vision, of his arriving up on deck to find the ship deserted and the skiffs gone, flashed before his desert born sensibilities.

  He eyed the faint corona of light at the other end of the hold. Two narrow flights of awfully exposed stairs between him and the deck. He ground his teeth as he made his way forward. He was going to feel so stupid when it turned out the ship wasn’t sinking…

  Careful not to make a sound, he crept to the entrance and snuck up the stairs. He crouched when he came to the landing, poking his head out slowly and peering around. The thumping and shouting was slightly clearer now, still raging furiously overhead. The rest of the ship seemed strangely deserted, though.

  He knew something was wrong when he passed close to the galley and couldn’t hear the cook banging around inside. What could have drawn everyone up to the deck in such a hurry? An approaching storm? He tried to feel the motion of the ship in the planks beneath him but they weren’t swaying any more than usual. Didn’t that mean calm seas?

  He set foot on the last landing. Skittish as a fat cat in a famine, he approached the bright sunlight that tumbled down the stairs from the deck. It brought new sounds with it. He froze in shock as he heard the unmistakable clash of weapons. Indecision held him. His hiding place beckoned. Cursing himself for a fool, he dashed up the stairs.

  He burst into blinding sunlight and chaos. The deck was awash with roiling figures, mercilessly hacking at each other. The scent of blood and pitch lay thickly over the swarming planks. Shading his pained eyes, he saw another ship’s masts peeking above the rail. The spar was festooned with biting grapnels, ropes trailing down to the sleek interloper. As he watched, more rough looking men, redolent with weapons and scars, swung themselves over the rail and onto the deck.

  Pirates.

  A long reel of choice curses rattled from his tongue.

  Seriously? Pirates?

  Trust him to choose the one ship on the whole ocean that would attract pirates! There weren’t supposed to be pirates here! They stuck to the Summer archipelago and avoided the dangerous waters patrolled by Heli frigates.

  He was desert-born but he knew that much.

  Great. A bunch of lost pirates.

  His survival instincts drove him a step back toward the darkness of the hold. The smart thing to do would be to find someplace to sit out the worst of the fighting, see which way it played out and join the winning side. He was sure he could spin a story that the pirates would belie–

  He jerked away reflexively.

  The huge, two handed axe narrowly missed his head as he sat down heavily on the deck. A bull of a man, tangled beard quivering around a roaring battle cry, brought the axe down again.

  A gasp arrested halfway up his throat, he kicked away awkwardly with his heels, managing to put a pace and a half of desperate space between him and the descending axe head. It buried itself in the deck in the fork of his legs, a finger’s width from his crotch. Splinters of plank fountained to land in his lap. He stared as the hunk of whoresteel was wrenched from the ruined deck, rising for an encore. The mere thought galvanized him and he left the deck as if he’d been bounced. He flew at the axe man, a knife appearing in his hand as if by magic. Not magic-magic, the normal magic of adrenaline, rank panic and old reflex. The blade went under the man’s short ribs, angled to find his liver.

  “What! About! My! Children!” he demanded – a little shrilly – as he worked the knife in and out. True, he wasn’t planning on having any but that was beside the point.

  The axe man’s eyes unfocussed. The heavy weapon, raised high for another strike, keeled over backward and took its wielder with it.

  Jiminy stood, breath whistling out his nose, his left hand clutching at the front of his britches. He raked his eyes over the deadly brawl raging around him, glancing briefly down at the axe man’s corpse. Wide, lifeless eyes echoed the face’s frozen expression of surprise.

  “I have that effect on people,” he told the dead man, taking in the dockside tattoos and the brands of half a dozen portside gaols puckered on the forearms.

  Pirate, he identified.

  Now that his mind had been made up for him, there was no choice but to throw in his lot with the crew. He sighed and drew another knife from beneath his hip jacket. Doubly armed, he waded into the fray, only to be brought up short – literally, by a midget swinging a morning star – as he realized there was no way to tell the crew from the pirates. He ducked out of the way, allowing the ululating dynamo to barrel past on stubby legs. Sailors just looked like sailors and the crew didn’t wear any kind of uniform. He didn’t know their faces. He could easily kill a crewman by mistake. On the other hand, the crew didn’t know his face either, so they’d assume he was a pirate and try to kill him. The same held true for the pirates who’d assume he was part of the crew. And him unable to tell his chosen enemies from his belligerent allies. He grimaced, hesitating.

  A chance glance up at the rear of the ship gave him heart. The ship captain was clearly visible, his captain’s hat towering above a horde of attackers. It went flying even as Jiminy watched, the captain summarily cutting down the culprit. The burly sailor fighting at the man’s back must be his first mate. More pirates were pushing past the sailors trying to block the stairs that led to the raised deck and their captain. It was easily the hairiest fight on board and no place to be sticking your nose... but it was the only place he was going to know for sure who was who.

  He sprinted across the deck, dodging the swinging swords, axes and clubs that surfaced from out of the chaos to reach after him. The stairs were choked with churning bodies and slick with blood so he leapt onto the thick handrail. The pirates pressing up the stairs only saw him once he’d already blown past and the sailors who saw him coming were too hard pressed to do anything about it. Still, only fancy footwork saved him from losing toes to wildly hacking blades as he sprinted upwards. A mean looking cutlass only just missed chopping the back off his heel, biting into the hard wood instead. He paid it no mind. Reaching the top, he leapt at the back of the nearest of the pirates encircling the captain and his first mate. Changing to a stabbing grip on the fly, he buried his knives in the hollows on either side of the of the pirate’s neck. Jerking his lead knife free, he used the other to propel the collapsing body under the feet of the attacker on that side, whirling to rush the pirate on the other. The man was slow in turning, jerking away in fright as Jiminy slashed at his eyes. The man overbalanced and stumbled away. Jiminy used the opportunity while the captain’s sword was stuck in the pirate who’s footing he’d fouled to
insert himself back to back with the captain and his first mate.

  “What in blazes?” the first mate exclaimed when he saw an unfamiliar face standing shoulder to shoulder with him. Luckily, there was no time for questions. The sailors on the stairs had been overrun and pirates came boiling up.

  His knives had a much shorter reach than the assortment of swords, maces and hatchets that came swarming up the stairs. Normally that wouldn’t be a problem, since his accustomed fighting style relied on speed and guile. If it were just him, it would have been easy. But he couldn’t very well duck and dodge if it meant the weapon that missed him hit the captain or first mate.

  Steeling himself, he met the first attack, feeling the rush of contact threaten his grip. He riposted, slicing tendons and stabbing at groin. The attacker fell away, replaced by another eagerly howling pirate.

  A full armed swing from a heavier weapon could knock the knife right out of his hand if he wasn’t careful. He did what he could to catch the incoming blows as close as possible to the axis of their swings, before they could build much momentum. He left in his wake bleeding arms and knuckles sliced to the bone. He let as many blows slip by as he dared, holding his lead knife slightly extended to act as bait for wild swings. Even so, he was forced to meet certain unavoidable assaults, doing his best to block with his lighter weapons.

  Knives weren’t made for stand-up fights like this and it was no time at all before his hands were a shredded mess. The unaccustomed effort had him laboring for breath. He’d taken a blow from a club to the ribs and that wasn’t helping matters. There was a long gash down his arm and a pirate he’d thought was already down had gotten in a lucky hit to his ankle. Now the weakened limb threatened his every step.

  His small cache of hidden knives was gone, flung at close range to stick in throats and legs. He held the last two in his aching hands, taking full advantage of the captain and first mate, dancing into openings they created with their longer reaching weapons and carving a bloody swathe before retreating out of harm’s way. They weren’t stupid. The three of them quickly fell into a fluid pattern, trading opponents to create a more even match, the captain and first mate intercepting blows meant for him and he sweeping in with his greater speed to wound and cripple. Some of the pirates who fell sported wounds from all three of them. They worked well together, keeping each other alive. Even so, he felt his strength reaching its limit.