Once Called Thief

by Lexel J Green

Shit. Ember struggled against his bonds. Who was this woman?

  “Nothing to say, Lokke? That makes a pleasant change. You were always so high and mighty when you led the Old Hundredth. Not so much now it seems. Look how far you’ve fallen. Shamed, banished and forced to hide out with the Ocosconans. Our oppressed brothers. Can’t say I’m surprised. You and Lord Su-Zo were always so close.”

  “Cobb?” Roon-Kotke strained to look over. “What is he talking about?”

  “Oh, that’s right.” The Yafai laughed. “They don't know who you really are do they? You haven’t told them? Ha! This is a day full of surprises, isn’t it? This, Roon-Kotke Khundhan of the Fuerzi-Kri, is Caster-Colonel Lokke de Calvas, formerly of the Old Hundredth, friend to the Sentinel, once called the Hero of Zegoma Beach.” Their captor leaned forward and winked. “Although you’re not quite the hero everybody believes you to be, are you?”

  Roon-Kotke looked shocked. “De Calvas? Is this true?”

  First Han’s betrayal, now his. “I’m sorry,” mumbled Ember. Or should he now revert to calling himself Lokke? “I couldn’t tell you…”

  Roon-Kotke hung his head. He looked a beaten man.

  “No, he couldn’t tell you.” The Yafai reached down and lifted up Ember’s chin with the butt of her lance. “After all, De Calvas here is on the run, wanted across the length and breadth of his rotten Empire. The man he tried to murder…”

  Ember stared into the woman’s green eyes. “I did no such thing!”

  “If you’ll let me finish… The man he tried to murder has put a generous bounty upon his head. Twenty-five thousand crowns, I believe. A sum we will, of course, be claiming. For the cause, you understand.”

  The Yafai let his chin go. Ember sagged in his seat.

  “I fear our poor Colonel is overwhelmed by it all.”

  “I can’t believe this,” muttered Roon-Kotke.

  “What’s happening?” Lor-Qui’s voice.

  Ember ignored him. “So who are you?” he asked. “You haven’t said.”

  “You can call me Mila. Do you not recognise me?” Ember shook his head. “Because I know you. I fought against you in Tut. Killed some of your friends at Caldora… And see this?” The Yafai turned and pulled down the collar of her coat, revealing an ugly scar on the back of her neck. “You gave me this in Fora Dezier. Barely escaped with my life. You and I have matched wits right across the Empire. I have enjoyed our enmity. Such a shame it must end here, of all places. But I am glad we have had this chance to finally meet.”

  “Where is here?” asked Ember.

  “You don’t know that either, do you? You Imperials fling yourselves through these old portals without knowing where you’ll end up or what you’ll be facing. It’s brave. But also stupid… Know what? It doesn’t matter where ‘here’ is. It’s a gods-awful place, ain’t it? No fun. Too much sun. I'm glad to be leaving. For we have now reached the end of a long and complicated project, the particulars of which I’m afraid I cannot share with you. But I think you’re going to impressed. I can safely say the Empire won’t have seen anything like it.”

  “Something to do with those creatures, I take it?

  “The gromes?” Mila smiled. “That would be telling.”

  Gromes. Was that what those things were? They’re supposed to be extinct. Nobody has seen a grome in hundreds of years. Not since the Breaking when the clans fought them at the battle of Lanridge. Mulai, Yafai, Ocoscona, Karonne and many other clans, standing shoulder to shoulder against a rogue Kajjon and its bio-magical armies. The Lord Su-Zo Zozadhan had a tapestry depicting the battle in his Gordi Woods office.

  “In the meantime…” The Yafai stepped back to address them all. “A member of your squad still eludes us. Lad by the name of Junn-Kri apparently. Let’s go and find him shall we? Persuade him to give up. Best for everyone. He can’t escape. From what Hannar-Ghan says, he ain’t got the smarts to rescue you either. After all, what can one boy do against six squads of Yafai casters?”

  ***

  One of those squads of Yafai casters charged into what Lokke now knew as the ‘Surgery’. The woman who called herself Mila followed close after, flanked by two of her terrorist lackeys. One, a tatty-looking legionnaire with a braided beard and a permanent scowl, dragged Lokke behind him.

  “What have you done with the others?” Lokke asked, staggering as the Yafai bundled him through the door. Difficult to keep his balance with both hands shackled tight behind his back.

  “They are locked up safe and sound,” Mila called back. “It’s your safety you should be worried about.”

  “Why?” Lokke scowled as his Yafai captor strong-armed him into the room. “The Watcher wants me alive, doesn’t he? If you crave that bounty, you won’t kill me. You can’t. It’s in your interests to keep me breathing.”

  “Aye, Colonel. But not necessarily intact. Besides, losing twenty-five grand for the chance to kill you myself might just be worth it.” Mila fixed him with a hard stare. “I haven’t decided.”

  Apart from the heavily-armed Yafai casters, the Surgery was just as they'd left it. Stank just as bad. Lokke had expected to see the kid waiting with his hands in the air, pleading for his life. He couldn’t hope to fight off an entire squad of casters. Hells, even the Hero of Zegoma Beach would find those odds a struggle.

  But Junn-Kri was nowhere to be seen.

  Lokke couldn’t help but smile. Good for him.

  Responding to a wave of Mila’s hand, the five grey-clad casters fanned out, walking slowly down the aisles, looking under the tables, checking the racks, opening the cupboards, prodding the crates. Lokke watched two of them keep their distance as they passed the dead bird, perhaps fearing that it might somehow come back to life and set upon them. Lokke was equally disappointed and relieved when it didn’t. He wouldn’t want to face one under normal circumstances, let alone with his wrists manacled.

  With a vice-like grip upon his arm, the Yafai guard dragged Lokke forward, trailing the casters as they searched the blood-spattered room. When the grey-clad ghosts reached the end of the long tables, each one dropped to one knee. Lokke recognised the signal. He’d used it himself in the Old Hundredth to indicate the area was clear.

  Mila turned, scowling. “Where is he?”

  “I'm as surprised as you that we haven't found him,” said Lokke. “Really.”

  Ahead, two of the Yafai casters peered into the next room. They waited for a few moments, then darted inside.

  The Yafai commander strode forward. She grabbed a lance from Lokke’s guard. “Your boy must be here somewhere. Call out to him!”

  “Why? He's obviously gone.”

  “Stone says the kid looks up to you. He’ll listen to you.”

  “Who’s Stone?”

  “Just do it.” Mila snapped, pointing the lance at Lokke’s head. “Now.”

  Lokke sighed. He didn’t have much of a choice. Considering the history he and Mila apparently shared, the Yafai might forgo a pay-day in favour of payback. And if anybody knew the power that revenge could hold over a soul, it was him.

  “Junn!” he called out, with as little enthusiasm as he could muster. “If you can hear me... If you're still here... They want you to give yourself up. So come out, kid. There's apparently nowhere to run...” He turned to the Yafai. “How was that?”

  “Half-hearted. But I don’t know why I expected any different.” Mila lowered the lance and smirked. “One room left. Your young caster is running out of time and running out of room. If he causes me trouble, we will not hesitate to burn the—”

  “Captain!” A shout from the next room. “Here!”

  “No matter.” Mila’s smile widened. “We appear to have found our missing caster. That didn't take long did it? Now move.” The Yafai guard pushed Lokke towards the far door. “Lucky for you that we're finished here. Your interference is an annoyance, nothing more.”

  “What do you plan to do with those gromes?”

  “Something extraordinary. That's all yo
u're getting.”

  They walked into the stone passageway, past the holding cells where the huge beasts still snarled, all the way to the thick metal door that led to the air bridge. It stood open, letting in a shaft of sunlight. Remembering what Lor-Qui had told him, Lokke looked up, checking the shadows for danger. He spied the walkway above. But it was empty.

  No Varinocks.

  No Junn-Kri.

  Mila let out a disappointed sigh. “I thought you had him?”

  “He’s gone, Captain. Look.” One of the Yafai casters pointed at a length of rope, one end tied to the door handle, the other trailing out of the open doorway and over the edge. “Looks like he climbed down.”

  “More fool him," said Mila coldly, turning away. “He won't last long in the forest. Bring the prisoner. Put him with his friends.”

  31. BACK TO THE MUD

  THE NEW DAY DAWNED BRIGHT and cold. Stone was quick to the mud, hoping to beat the other scrappers to raking it.

  He trudged the length of river bank to Eddo’s Wharf and back again, black mud slurping and sucking at his legs, sapping his strength. To compound his misery, the heavens opened and it began to rain. Cold. Stinging. Yet he forced himself on. He worked with a new urgency, hoping to leave himself enough time to root around in the sewer outlet for valuables. He'd brought his dented longlamp along to venture further inside.

  Most scrappers kept to the sewer gate and didn't crawl into the dark. There were stories that a young girl had got lost in its maze of pipes and never returned. They said her spirit haunted the sewer, rattling the pipes to warn others away. But Stone wanted to maximise his haul, so he needed to take a few more risks. He didn't wander too far from the light, his boldness only partly rewarded with a brass ring, three handfuls of fat, a short-length of rope and a couple of bones. No more than a few crowns-worth. But every penny counted.

  He soldiered on, retreating as the tide came in, annoyed that he had to stop. He rinsed himself off at the Rey Street pump and made a beeline for Two-Four-Three, where he sold the ring and the bones to Lif-Mar for a crown and seven pennies. His toy soldier too. That fetched a half-crown more. On then to the marine store, whose proprietor took the fat scrapings and the rope for eight pennies. Not as much as he expected, but it all added to the total.

  Heading back to his hidey hole, he had time for a quick change before taking the two lances to the Rook, wrapping them in a blanket from his bed so as not to draw attention to them. The skull-painted fencer was his usual dignified self, while Dak played the usual arsehole. Stone sat and listened as the Rook pitched the advantages of his employ and the bully lobbed snide remarks — “he's too weak”, “what's that disgusting smell?”, “back to the shit with you, mummy’s boy.” He was too weary to respond. Too distracted.

  The Rook bought everything and if he was surprised by the lances, he didn't show it. Stone took the seventy-eight crowns he offered and left, Dak’s laughter ringing in his ears. Outside the Firebird Rising, Stone counted his money. He was now eighty-one crowns and three pennies closer to those all-important entries on his list:

  Settle the debt.

  Free his mother.

  Repay Mistress Yali for her kindness.

  Kill the warden.

  Buy the biggest sugar-dusted, lemon cream-filled chocolate roll he could afford.

  Punch Dak-Trur in the face (repeatedly) and get his money back, all eighteen crowns, one half-crown and four pennies of it.

  How he longed to check that last one off.

  But there would be plenty of time for that later. His mother came first. Couldn’t work the river again ‘til the tide went back out, so he headed towards Ash House, checking between the cobbles and in the gutters for dropped pennies. He didn’t find any. Tell the truth, his efforts were half-hearted. He dreaded telling his mother that his plans had fallen through; that he didn’t have enough money to set her free. He knew she wouldn’t be disappointed in him. But he still felt like a failure, so caught up with his own sense of honour, he’d lost sight of what was truly important.

  Should have said ‘yes’ to the Yafai.

  Should have said ‘yes’ to the Rook.

  Should have stopped his father from leaving somehow.

  Should have done more to help.

  This was all his fault. He was embarrassed to think of the boy he’d been seven months ago. Selfish. Ungrateful. Naive. A boy who wouldn’t go to sleep without a toy soldier in his hand; a boy who whined whenever they had to move to stay ahead of the bailiffs. As Stone wandered the streets, he resolved to tell his mother he was sorry. For everything. From now on, he would promise to spend his life trying to make hers better. It was yet another debt, but one he was more than glad to pay.

  Ash House seemed bigger somehow as he approached it, darker and more imposing. He knocked at the huge gates like he always did and waited for one of the warders to show him inside. Pale faces watched him from behind a barred window and Stone wondered whether his mother’s face was amongst them. She’d told him not to return, but how could he stay away? He clutched two crowns in his fist for his mother to help her make it through the coming days. It would set his overall total back, but he desperately wanted her to be safe.

  When the gates swung open, Stone gave his name to the warder at the front desk and waited to be shown to the Shed. He leant against the wooden counter, unsure how he was going to tell his mother about Mila’s disappearance. Opposite, a sobbing man banged on the door of the room they called the Pound. His mother had told him it was a holding cell. New inmates were kept there until they could be processed and found a permanent room. Stone had asked her what being ‘processed’ entailed, but she’d refused to tell him. He hadn’t asked again.

  Whatever had happened to his mother in Ash House, she kept it to herself. But Stone knew that Fowley was at the centre of it. It’s why the Warden was on his list. He’d get even with the big, fat, cheating, son-of-a—

  “Mister Hannar?”

  A young boy called out to him from behind the front desk. The lad was barely older than he was, hair shaved to a thin fuzz, clad in mud-brown shorts and a dirty shirt that might once have been white.

  “Yes?” Stone said.

  “This way, please.” The boy gestured towards the door behind him.

  Stone hesitated. That door didn’t lead to the Shed.

  The boy sniffed. “Warden wants a word. Regarding your account.” He beckoned Stone forward. “Come on. He says your ma is waiting.”

  Stone sighed and walked towards the door. As if today wasn’t difficult enough, he had a bad feeling that his mother had already told Fowley about the money. No doubt he would levy a charge for the inconvenience when Stone revealed he didn’t actually have it. Two crowns for wasting the Warden’s time. Two more for the paperwork that would go unsigned. Perhaps he could offer to pay off half the debt? A down payment. A show of good faith. After all, together with the two crowns in his hand, he had seventy-nine in his pockets and one hundred and five back in at the stables.

  He followed the boy up a flight of wooden stairs, along a short corridor and towards a green-painted door with a metal handle. The boy knocked on the door and scampered back the way they’d just come.

  “Enter,” said a pompous voice from inside.

  Stone took a deep breath and turned the handle.

  I’m sorry, mother. I…

  While the inmates were crammed into tiny rooms in the prison below, the Warden’s office was large and spacious, cherry wood-panelled, dominated by a polished wooden desk. Behind it, Warden Fowley sat in a grand padded chair, flanked by a bailiff, grey coat wrapped in chains like some macabre sash, a short lance in his hand. Behind them, three large windows looked out over the Eene. Two smaller chairs, plain with blue cushions, stood in front of the desk. His mother wasn’t sat in either of them.

  Stone looked around the room, confused. Where was she?

  “You are Hannar-Ghan Hrardhan?” The Warden stood, his face grim.

  Stone
nodded.

  “I’m afraid I have some terrible news about your mother...”

  Stone didn't hear the rest. His head suddenly felt numb, heart beating loud as a drum. The world around him dimmed, drained of all its colour. The two crowns he’d brought for his mother slipped from his fingers to bounce upon the dark planks of the floor.

  “…Suffering from an infection in her lungs,” the Warden said as Stone’s attention swam back into focus. “Despite the valiant attempts of our surgeon, she could not be revived. I am sorry for your loss.”

  Dead? No. That’s not… She couldn’t be.

  “We shall, of course, require a small fee for her burial. That two crowns you have there will suffice. The cost will be two more if you require a coffin. Another crown should you wish a simple marker…”

  He had only visited her yesterday. She had been so happy. Tired, certainly. But full of life.

  “In the meantime, there is the matter of the Hannar debt, which remains outstanding. An initial sum of one hundred and sixty crowns owed to the Crick…”

  I displeased the warden… That’s what his mother had said. That’s where the cuts and bruises had come from, the extra fees and fines. This was Fowley’s fault.

  “… Plus miscellaneous costs accrued by your mother during her stay with us. It’s all detailed here…” Fowley held up a piece of paper. “Should you care to view it for yourself.”

  Fowley must have killed her.

  “As you may be aware, the law states that responsibility for these debts now falls to another suitably able family member. I have the paperwork here, signed by the courts, to take you into custody this day, until such time as you can pay what is owed to your creditors and this institution. Do you understand, Mister Hannar?”

  Stone took a step back, almost tripping over a thick metal ring set into a block of stone in the floor.

  Fowley killed her.

  “Where is she? I want to see her.”

  “That can be arranged. For a small administration fee. Her body still lies in the infirmary, I believe.” The warden nodded to the man in grey. “Submit to the bailiff here and we'll get you settled.”