Once Called Thief

by Lexel J Green

  But without Roon-Kotke, he wouldn’t be standing here either. Wouldn’t be at odds with his Yafai self. After all, his dream was never to be a Yafai caster, wearing shades of grey, hiding in the shadows. It was to fight in the light, wearing the sky blue of Ocoscona, helping people, making the world a little better than he found it. Six years he’d known the Corporal, longer than he’d lived with the Yafai. He’d stuck by him, saved his life more than once and had his saved in return. He, Roon-Kotke, Lor-Qui, Yuanu-Zoza (the gods rest his soul), even Junn, they had become like family to him. He owed them.

  Could he let them die?

  Maybe if he’d known their fate, he wouldn’t have betrayed them. Might have tried to speak to Roon-Kotke instead. Explained it all somehow. After all, he’d been a kid when he’d gone with the Yafai. His mother had died. He wasn’t thinking straight. He saw a way to become a caster. Didn’t consider the consequences.

  Too late for that now.

  All around him, Yafai were busy packing unknown equipment into crates, all wires and copper tubes. He rubbed his hands over his face, as if that might somehow clear his head and give him the answer he sought. Turn back? Or go on? Obey or disobey? Whichever path he took, the consequences would be grim. Couldn’t take back his actions. The deed was done. Mila was right, he was a part of a much larger war. He needed to be strong. Hard as stone.

  He had just reached the bottom of the stairs when he heard the sound of screams, shouts and lances buzzing.

  ***

  “What’s that?” said Lor-Qui.

  “The sound of the Yafai coming to kill us, I expect,” Roon-Kotke grumbled.

  “No. Quiet. Listen.”

  Lokke moved towards the door and listened. “I don’t hear anything…” he said. “You must have…” Was that a shout? “Wait a moment…” Then a distant thump. “That sounds like lances being fired.” He pressed his face to the small grille in the door, looking out into the stone passageway beyond. “What’s going on?”

  “Do you think it’s Junn?”

  “Ain’t nobody coming to rescue us,” said Roon Kotke. “Least of all, the kid.”

  “They obviously haven’t found him,” Lokke pointed out. “Else he’d be banged up in here with us.”

  “Or they’ve killed him. Which do you think is more likely? That Junn is waging a one-caster war on the Yafai out there, or that he ran away and got his head ripped off by a grome? I liked the boy. He had guts.”

  “He had guts?”

  “Come on. I’m only saying what you’re both thinking. Junn’s dead. I’ll bet we’ll soon be joining him. Except Lokke here, who didn’t tell us he was a renegade Mulai Colonel and the most wanted man in the whole gods-damned Empire! If you’re so bloody famous, why don’t you get us out of here? Summon up some of that Zegoma Beach magic?”

  “There isn’t a way out.”

  “Giving up already? Pah! You don’t need to look for a way out do you? You’re getting out of here. Lor and I, we aren’t going to be so lucky.”

  “I’m not giving up, Corporal. You’re the one who seems resigned to his fate. Are you just going to let the Yafai stick a lance against your chest and burn your soul away?”

  “Sometimes, it’s not worth fighting.”

  “Do you think the Yafai gave up after the Sentinel flattened Yafnagar and wiped out thousands of their people? They continue to fight, even though the odds are stacked heavily against them. Why can’t you do the same?”

  “I thought I could. But maybe this is it. The end of the road. Junn’s gone. Han’s left us. I’ve led us to disaster. Maybe the Roons aren’t cut out to be casters. I’m a failure. Just like my father.”

  Another thump. Closer this time. Lokke returned his attention to the door.

  “Whoever it is, they’re still fighting. I wish I could see something through this door. This window is so small that I can only— Agghh!” Lokke stepped back from the door, reaching for a sword at his hip that wasn’t there.

  “What is it?”

  “A grome. There are gromes loose inside the fortress.”

  ***

  Hannar-Ghan froze as he saw a grome on the steps below.

  Even at a distance, the creature was huge, barrel chested, furred arms thick as tree trunks, teeth curved like the old scimitars Ocosconans used to carry into battle. The beast hadn’t seen him, so Hannar-Ghan took a step back, quietly so as not to attract its attention. While gromes were big, they could move surprisingly fast. The big caster doubted he could draw and prime his lance before this one reached him, let alone get a shot away. Lokke’s sword would be equally useless.

  He needed to hide. Somewhere with a door that locked…

  ***

  “Suddenly being locked inside a stone cell doesn’t seem quite so bad,” said Lor-Qui, peering through the grille.

  “Can you see anything?”

  “No. It’s gone. How did it get in here?”

  “Through the tower?”

  “No.” Roon-Kotke had perked up. Like Lokke, he seemed to sense the sudden possibility of an escape. “We shut down the air bridge. Maybe the gromes in the holding pens escaped?”

  “The only way that could happen is if somebody let them out.”

  Roon-Kotke and Lor-Qui looked at each other, both struck with the same unlikely notion.

  “You don’t think…?”

  “Did Junn…?”

  “Junn! Oh, you clever, clever boy. That throws a wrench right in the works. Ha-ha!” Roon-Kotke jumped to his feet. “Maybe, just maybe, we can get out of this after all.”

  “Let’s not get carried away,” said Lokke. “We’re still locked inside a cell with no way out. If Junn is alive, and it’s still a big ‘if’… then he’ll need to avoid the gromes, dodge the Yafai and somehow find us in this room amongst the many hundreds of rooms in this huge fortress…”

  “Or I could let you out…”

  There was a face at the door. A traitor’s face.

  “You!” Roon-Kotke growled, lurching towards the door. “Traitor!”

  “Listen…” said Hannar-Ghan.

  “I’ll kill you! After everything we’ve been through, you…”

  “Hey!” Lokke grabbed Roon-Kotke by the collar and yanked him back.

  Roon-Kotke shook himself free. “Get your filthy hands off me!”

  Lokke raised his palms, blocking the Corporal’s path to the door. “Not until you listen. Calm yourself. Your traitor is offering to let us out… So I say, we listen to what he has to say. You can kill him later, if the mood still strikes you.” Roon-Kotke balled his fists, shuffling impatiently, his anger all too evident. But he didn’t make a move forward. “If we stay here,” Lokke continued, “the Yafai will eventually quell this breakout and kill you. Or leave you here to rot. As for me, I’d rather not be handed over to the Watcher. My prospects would be equally grim... So whatever you’re feeling, shelve it. We need Hannar-Ghan’s help. Besides, you can’t kill him through a locked door.”

  On the other side of said door, the Sergeant fumbled with the key.

  Roon-Kotke turned away, seething.

  “Why?” Lokke asked Hannar-Ghan. The key rattled in the old lock.

  “Why what? Why did I do it? That’s a long story. We don’t have the time.”

  “No, why are you here? Why did you come back?”

  “Because it didn’t sit right with me.”

  “You have a talent for treachery. That’s two betrayals in one day…”

  “She was going to kill you. And… Because I…”

  “Because you owe me? The blood debt?”

  The lock clicked open.

  “No.” Hannar-Ghan turned the door handle with a clunk. “You I’d quite happily see dead. I came back for family.” He glanced at Roon-Kotke. “Something my mother said to me, a long time ago. Something, to my shame, I’d forgotten. There's nothing more important than family.”

  ***

  Junn-Kri realised he hadn’t thought his plan through.
<
br />   Setting the gromes free had certainly caused the chaos he’d expected. The ancient creatures had taken the Yafai by surprise, mauling two casters before the alarm was finally raised. The Yafai were now fighting back, also as expected, but their long lances were ill-suited to fighting in such close quarters. Given time, the angry beasts he’d let loose, would be defeated, the Yafai would resume control of the fortress and they’d go back to hunting him down.

  He needed more gromes.

  Junn-Kri looked down from his hiding place above the holding cells. Satisfied there were no gromes or Yafai casters below, he lowered the ladder and tentatively climbed down. He wasted no time, sprinting back to the outside door, now closed. He heaved it open, letting sunlight flood in, obliterating the shadows. Two gromes stood on the tower opposite and Junn yelled to attract their attention. Huge heads turned, maws opened, revealing rows of razor sharp teeth. He balled his hand into a fist and struck the iron button next to the door. The air bridge activated with a fizz, two lines of bright light streaking out from the fortress to connect with the tower, before bouncing backwards, zigging and zagging as the air between the lines solidified.

  Junn didn’t wait around for the bridge to finish forming. He’d seen the gromes tear the two Yafai casters to pieces, shredding armour with their claws, ripping off limbs. He didn’t want to face the same fate. He turned to the ladder, only to find it gone, raised higher than he could reach, a sobbing Yafai now occupying his former hiding place…

  “Shit,” he cursed. “Shit. Shit. Shit.”

  34. TEN LOUSY CROWNS

  STONE TUMBLED ONTO A SLOPING ROOF, sliding down it in a storm of splintered wood and glass. If it wasn’t for the guttering, he would have slipped straight over the edge and down into the dark waters of the Eene.

  Instead, he hung there by his fingertips, legs kicking, frantically trying to pull himself back up. He was horrified to see the bailiff knocking out the broken window panes with his lance, the Warden still yelling behind him. With only moments before the bailiff followed him out, he clambered back up, scrambled across the roof and dropped down into the street on the other side.

  Then he was running. Sprinting along the outer wall of Ash House, not sure where he was going. He’d never scoped out this part of Ocos, so he didn’t know the flow of it — which streets were less busy, where its dingy alleyways led or what routes the cuffers walked and when. He didn’t have an escape route; didn’t have a Two-Four-Three. He never imagined that he’d need one. But at least he had a head start. The bailiff might be bigger and stronger than he was, but Stone had speed on his side. He hoped it would be enough.

  As he approached the junction, Stone quickly considered his options. Ash Street ran left and right, now clogged with slow-moving waggons and carts, the sidewalks thick with Ocos citizenry going about their business. Probably Justices in the crowd too, not that he could see them. He needed somewhere less busy, a quieter route where he could maintain his pace. The narrow opening he saw across the street would do nicely. He’d heard it called ‘Harp Lane’.

  Darting across Ash Street, knocking a red-coated messenger boy back onto his arse, Stone bolted into the narrow lane, the huge outer wall of a soap works to his right, houses to the left, desperately looking for a smaller alleyway to hide in. He couldn’t find one, so he kept running, following the scimitar curve of the lane round to the right and towards another junction ahead.

  A shout sounded behind him. “Stop! Stop thief!”

  Stone grimaced, switching left into a wider street, shops lining either side, their canvas awnings all pulled out. He chanced a look back, saw the bailiff maybe thirty paces behind him, tattered grey coat flapping, chains rattling, people in the street hurriedly moving aside to let him by.

  Then a whistle. Another shout. This time from up ahead. Stone’s heart sank. Two cuffers were jogging towards him, joining the bailiff in the chase.

  “Halt!” one of them yelled. “Halt in the name of—”

  Stone changed direction, pushing past a posh-looking gent with a walking stick. He spotted another opening between an optician’s shop and a dentist, dim and narrow. He veered into it, hoping it didn't lead to a dead end, a wall he couldn’t climb, windows he couldn’t smash. He sprinted past a row of terraced houses, peaked roofs zig-zagging like the teeth of some giant rusted saw. In an open field to his right, a group of children kicked a ball between them. The parkland would have made a perfect escape route were it not for the high iron fence topped with spikes that separated Stone from it.

  Two more whistles sounded, short and sharp, one near, one distant. Stone couldn’t tell where they were coming from. But he knew what they meant — more Justices. His chances of escape were shortening with every step.

  Tiring now, Stone darted left again, emerging onto a wider street, rounding people as they stopped and stared. He could still hear the sound of footsteps behind him, the clink-clinking of the bailiff’s chain.

  “Ten crowns to anyone who can stop that boy!” came a shout from behind him.

  Hells, now the bailiff was trying to turn the city against him.

  A man made a grab for his arm, but he ducked underneath his grasping hand. If he could just make it to the Blood Road, he’d be on familiar ground. There, he knew every alley and cut-through, every shadowy doorway and stinking sewer grate. All he had to do was sprint down the street he now found himself on, hang a left at the end, take the next right and he was practically there.

  Except…

  A pair of cuffers stood guard at the end of the street, batons sparking blue Ampa. Stone might have been able to avoid them, but the air behind the Justices had the soft blue tint of an oconic Wall, a barrier of thickened air that stretched from sidewalk to sidewalk, blocking his way forward, blocking his way home.

  Stone cursed, slowed and frantically glanced about him for an alternative route. But as he did so, a woman grabbed a handful of his shirt, shrieking “I’ve got him!” He desperately tried to wriggle free but then a man seized his left arm, gripping it tightly, shouting: “Get off! He’s mine!” The man (a fella in a striped shirt and braces) and the woman (a hefty, surprisingly strong lady in a voluminous dress) pulled Stone between them, yanking his arm, ripping his shirt. Stone could see the bailiff getting closer, jogging now, a smug smile upon his face, confident he had bagged his prize.

  Stone wriggled again, but to no avail.

  The woman shrieked again. “I nabbed him first.”

  “The money is mine,” hissed the man.

  Money. Everything came down to money in the end. Give people enough of it and you could make them do anything, even if it compromised their beliefs.

  Stone stuffed his free hand into his pocket.

  Money changed people. The man and the woman who held him didn’t think to wonder why Stone was being chased. Or who he was and why he was there. All they saw was ten crowns. Ten lousy crowns. The price the Rook paid for the silver buckle, needle case, bent penny, serving spoon and hairbrush he’d brought him. Surely his life was worth more than that?

  How about eleven crowns to let him go?

  Fifteen crowns?

  Twenty?

  Stone’s hand closed around the purse in his pocket, fingers teasing apart the string that drew it closed. He pulled it free and let it fall, reluctantly allowing the first of seventy-nine crowns to spill out, listening to the metallic ring as they bounced across the cobbles.

  His captors let him go, as Stone hoped they would.

  Suddenly, he was far less valuable. Free, but far from safe. He caught the bailiff’s gaze before he started running again, saw the man’s smile slip to a sneer as he realised that the two of them were standing on opposite sides of a street-blocking, money-grabbing crowd.

  Stone didn’t waste any time. Sprinting to the side of the street, he hopped a fence into the back yard of a three-storey townhouse, dashing across the bare earth to vault up over the next wooden boundary, using a table as a step. Spotting an open window on the f
irst floor of the nearest house, he clambered up the drainpipe, heaving himself through the opening and into a plain room with four beds. He yanked open the only door and dashed into a hallway, not wanting to look behind him, hoping the bailiff hadn’t been able to follow him up.

  He opened the door opposite and barged into a washroom, past three wide-eyed kids wedged into a small tin bath. They watched as Stone opened the only window and crawled out onto a flat roof. From there, he dropped down to the busy street below, knees jarring with the impact of the landing. He was slow to his feet. His lungs burned. Ribs ached. He gulped in air. Not far from the Blood Road by his reckoning. The bailiff ditched. The cuffers nowhere to be seen.

  Finally, things were looking up.

  “Stop thief!”

  Or not.

  Stone sighed. The bailiff had followed him through the house. Of course he bloody had.

  “Twenty crowns to whoever catches that boy!”

  Summoning what little strength he had left, Stone accelerated to a run, slipping away from a outstretched hand, dodging a street sweeper trying to block his way. He saw a grocer’s store across the street, door left invitingly open. Perhaps he could run right through it, just as he’d done many times with Two-Four-Three. There was always another way out. You just had to believe. No matter what got in your way, you had to face it head-on, be hard as stone.

  Shame he never reached the door.

  The crowd closed in on him. Twenty crowns the prize.

  He was barely halfway across the street when someone grabbed his arm, pulling him off balance, holding him tight.

  He almost shook himself free before another hand slammed into his back, clutching a fistful of his shirt, refusing to let go. He struggled, all his plans slowly unravelling. The shop was so near. Escape so close.