by A C Rae
Quinn soon learned not to give money to beggars. He dropped a coin into a man’s hat only to discover that he wasn’t one-legged as he claimed; suddenly possessed of two legs to run off with the money at speed. He still couldn’t figure out how he had managed to hide one of his legs. Surely it would be impossible to stand on one leg for so long.
Pryce explained that although a lot of people were forced out onto the street by necessity, some people tried to capitalise on others’ pity. “Just wait until Feast Day,” he added. “The streets are full of them and in some areas you could find yourself mugged if you show the slightest hint of being soft-hearted.”
Quinn learned which areas of Aelin to avoid and others that should be especially avoided at night, if he was to go out after curfew.
He went to all the Guilds in the City. He was awed by the Merchant’s Guild. The Guild effortlessly rose above the vast opulent marble dwellings in the west side of the City. Their symbol, a set of scales with a compass balanced on one side, and a bag of money on the other, was outlined in gold on the marble carvings above the most intricately carved wooden doors he had ever seen. He wished to run his hand along the sails of the ship that was carved heading out to the Far East, where all the exotic spices and scented woods came from. It looked like the wind was breathing the sails into life, promising adventure.
In sharp contrast was the Tanner’s Guild, the Guild for all the tanners who made leather. Their sign was merely a stretched out piece of leather pinned to a meagre wooden sign.
There was a hint that the most opulent and fantastic Guild by far was the Witches Guild, just off the Temple Square, however only the tops of that building were visible. Light bounced down from the several spires to spread across the city but the walls, the height of several men, kept full sight of the Guild barred from ordinary men. Only witches and the Royal family set foot beyond the imposing gates.
The Priestess’ Guild nearby was only marginally more visible but was purposefully less imposing than the neighbouring Temple of the Ancestors that overshadowed it.
There was a side gate at that Guild for poor people to receive the alms the Temple passed out on Feast Day and other similar occasions. Traditionally these were passed out at the Temple steps, until a late king decided it was better to keep the poor people away from the magnificent temple, considering it unseemly for them to be clutching at coins in front of the Ancestors. Quinn judged that it probably had less to do with the Ancestors, and more to do with him not wanting to see them.
He had to walk for most of a day uphill and to the other side of the City to see the palace, the massive wall surrounding the King's gardens and the main theatre for the rich. They didn’t stay long, as Pryce pointed out that in this area a few of the people he had held up by coach might live. He wasn’t about to take chances, even with the fact that he always held up coaches with his mask on.
They went back to the other side of the City. Pryce showed him the best shops to buy from in Market Square, where a mix of poor and marginally wealthy Aeliners crowded daily to purchase a wide variety of goods and pointed out the streets where he could buy sole goods, such as bread from Bakers Street, or fish from Fishmongers Street. Everywhere, he introduced Quinn as his nephew.
Pryce started taking him to taverns to play dice and cards. After a few false starts, Quinn began winning more than he lost. “Though make sure not to win too many though or you’ll be looked at as a cheater, even if its skill or if you really are having a lucky streak.” Pryce warned.
After checking on Bessie in the evenings, Quinn read his book on cony-catchers. He read of pickpocket partners. One would sing ballads in order to draw crowds, while the other helped themselves to people’s money. Thieves would pull the pins off coach wheels to make them fall over so they could steal the occupant’s money, which is why most City coaches had large spikes on the wheels. Too late, he read of people who used poles to snatch items through windows.
A couple of months passed in a blur of excitement and learning. Quinn sat at the table with Pryce in their house, enjoying their evening routine of playing cards. He hid his smirk, having been dealt a favourable hand.
Abershaw sat in the corner, smoking his pipe and reading. There was a knock at the door. Pryce disappeared to answer the door, coming back he called, “It’s a letter for you Abershaw.”
Abershaw jumped up from his chair and ripped open the envelope. He read the letter, hands shaking. He folded the letter up and put it in his pocket. He looked calmly at Pryce and Quinn. “She said yes.” He said. Pryce jumped up and hugged him. “She said yes. She said yes!” He shouted.
Pryce looked at him. “But I presume there are conditions.” He said quietly.
Abershaw read through the letter again. “Oh.” He said.
“Oh?” asked Quinn.
“She. Um. She wants me to give up being a highwayman.”
Pryce clapped him on the back. “And of course you will agree, old friend.”
“But what about you?” He asked.
Pryce looked him in the eye. “We have been partners for a long time. I can see that you really do love this woman. And she is an honourable one too. With her money you will be able to do all that you have done with your highwayman money and more, without any of the risk. How could I stop you from doing this?” He pointed at Quinn. “Besides, I’m not alone. I’m starting Quinn on his highwayman training tomorrow.”
“Really?” Quinn asked. He tried not to sound too excited but failed miserably.
“Yes, really.” replied Pryce. “But tonight, we’re going out for a drink to celebrate. Let’s do the Ancestors proud.”
CHAPTER FOUR
“If you are looking to drown your sorrows, or celebrate with copious amounts of drinking until the sun rises, then Aelin is the place to go. Serving drink is illegal after the City Watch ring the bell to announce curfew, but that doesn’t stop the locals. Drink can still be found, if you know where to look….”
Book VIII, A Guide to Avarria
Quinn tried to sit up, but found his head was pounding too hard. He felt in his pockets. His well-thumbed guidebook for Aelin was missing. A worrying amount of the night’s activities were also missing from his memory.
Downstairs, he heard Pryce bang into a door frame and start cursing at it for making his head hurt more. In the other room, he could hear Abershaw snoring, which was a miracle. After the amount he could remember him drinking, any other man would be dead. At least the men from his old village weren't capable of drinking to that extent. Aeliners seemed to have a greater tolerance for alcohol.
Quinn tried again to sit up and discovered that if he moved really slowly the pounding in his head didn't reach too agonising a level. He made his way down the stairs, taking each one slowly to avoid the world spinning and tipping at odd levels.
When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he found Pryce looking at him cheerily through a haze of hangover induced fog.
“Good morning!” he said rather loudly. Quinn winced and tried to swat away the ringing in his ears.
“How did you recover so quickly?” Quinn groaned as a throb of pain shot between his eyes at the level of effort required for speaking. He closed his eyes in a vain attempt to stop the room spinning but the spinning room seemed imprinted on the inside of his eyelids. He fought the urge to vomit.
Pryce grabbed him by the arm and pulled him down into a chair. “Get this down your throat.” Without waiting for an answer, Pryce poured a bottle of slimy green gloop down Quinn's throat.
Quinn choked, his eyes watering profusely as he gagged. “What the hell is that?” he gasped between coughing fits.
Pryce clapped him hard on the back. “A hangover cure. Jacob made it.”
Quinn gasped. “Water.” he choked.
Pryce already had a tankard ready. “Unfortunately it has that side effect.” Quinn yanked it off him and spilt the majority down his front in his eagerness to drink the whole lot in one go.
He took a deep
breath to steady his wheezing before straightening up. “What was in that? I feel miles better already.”
Pryce grimaced. “I think it’s better if you don't know.”
They were interrupted by Abershaw falling down the last few stairs. Trying to act like nothing of the sort had happened; he straightened up too quickly and fell back on his rear. “Ow.” he mumbled.
Noticing that Pryce and Quinn were laughing at him he frowned. “Shut up and give me some of that stuff from Jacob. I don't care if it has pond slime in it, I want to see Elizabeth today and she won't be impressed if I turn up on her doorstep hungover.”
Pryce laughed at Quinn's expression of horror. “I wouldn't worry! That's one of the less disgusting ingredients Jacob has been known to use.” He handed a bottle to Abershaw, who grabbed a tankard of water in the other hand and deftly downed one after the other. After he had finished he stood up.
“Right, I'm off. What are you planning today?” he asked Pryce.
“I've decided to start Quinn on some proper highwayman training today.” He winked. “He is capable enough. Now he's gone some time without having his breeches stolen I figure he's ready.”
Abershaw grinned. “Well it is the kind of thing you usually only let happen once.” He pulled his jacket and hat off the table. “See you later.”
Pryce turned to Quinn. “What is the most important weapon a highwayman needs?”
Quinn paused, surprised by the sudden question. “Um. His pistols.”
“Wrong!” Pryce clipped him round the head.
“His sword then?”
“Wrong!” Pryce boxed his ears.
“What are you doing that for?” Quinn snapped.
“I'm trying to knock some sense into you because those are the stupidest answers I've ever heard!”
Quinn grumbled. “Well you wouldn't have much luck if you held up a coach with a bunch of flowers.
Pryce conceded with a begrudged smile. “Good point. However,” he added “You won't always have your weapons. Pistols are unreliable and even a sword might be lost. Your most important weapon is teamwork, whether that is with me or your horse Bessie. Either are more likely to get you out of a tough spot than just relying on your weapons. Resourcefulness is also handy. But more importantly for the time being; you must follow exactly what I say to the letter.”
Quinn nodded eagerly. “So what's first?” he asked.
“Well, despite what I just said I'm going to show you how to use pistols because whether I like it or not, indeed you cannot hold up a coach with just a bunch of flowers.” He walked up to a cupboard and pulled out a pair of pistols.
“Now, these are quite worn looking but it can't be helped. These were mine but I'm upgrading purely because Abershaw is giving me his now he's quitting. By the way, I don't know if you remember from last night but the wedding date has been fixed for early next year. Lady Elizabeth has enough money and influence to arrange it sooner but they want time to establish Abershaw as a prominent citizen of Aelin.” He handed Quinn the pistols.
Quinn pretended to inspect them. “I don't have a clue how to use them,” he finally admitted. “Father always felt that it was best to not use weapons. He always said anything could be solved by thinking rationally and talking things through.” He looked at his feet dejectedly for a moment before facing Pryce. “But Wilkins still took advantage of my father and then he took advantage of me. Never again!” He nodded determinedly. “Let's get started.”
Pryce grabbed some bags off the table. “First we need to get our horses. Gun fire in the house isn't only dangerous, it also attracts unwanted attention.”
Quinn picked up a bag from the floor and filled it with a flask of ale, bread and cheese before following Pryce out the door to head to the stables.
Bessie whinnied excitedly when Quinn approached. “We are going to the country today,” he told her. “Much better than a ride around this City, you can build up more speed and breathe fresh air.” After saddling her, he swung up on her back and steered her through the streets of Aelin, Pryce following.
On Pryce's direction, they arrived in a large field surrounded by trees.
“It's quiet out here.” He explained. “The person who owns this land rarely comes out of Aelin.
Quinn grinned as Bessie snorted, launching into a full gallop around the field. He breathed deeply. The air was so clean. Over the past couple of weeks he had forgotten how much Aelin stank. He winced. No doubt it would smell twice as awful when they were back.
Bessie trotted to where Pryce was waiting. He had already tethered his horse and had his bags open, chewing on a piece of bread. Quinn jumped down, stretching his legs as Bessie wandered off again to explore the field.
Pryce brushed the crumbs off his breeches and pulled out his pistol. “Personally, I don't like pistols,” he began. “Put too much gunpowder in them and they'll explode. Let it get clogged or wet and it might not fire, letting your opponent have the opportunity to shoot you. And of course, there's always the chance that even though you've loaded it perfectly, it'll explode anyway and blow your face off. Or your fingers.”
Quinn tried his best to not look horrified, but failed miserably.
“That said it's very effective, especially for holding up coaches because if you're holding one of these you can fire it before someone has the chance to unsheath their sword. And it's a darn sight harder to block a bullet than a sword thrust.” He held out the gun. “Normally you would prime the pistol so it's ready to use as it takes a while to load but I didn't want you to spill gunpowder all over the house, especially not with Abershaw's smoking habit.”
He pointed to the side of the pistol. “This is called a flintlock and this is the cock, holding the flint.” He pulled it back. “You pull this back into what we call half-cock. It locks in place. You don't want the flint to be near this bit yet otherwise you might blow your leg off.” He bent down and rummaged in his bag. “This is the gunpowder.” He held up a small piece of paper, folded up. He opened it to reveal black powder. “This is just the right amount. You pour it in at the muzzle end, followed by this,” he pulled out another thing from his bag. “A lead ball wrapped in a piece of cloth. You put it in, and use this, a ramrod, which is stored under the barrel to ram it down. Finally, you dust this flashpan, near the cock with this finely ground gunpowder. You close the flashpan. Got it?”
Quinn nodded.
“Your pistol is now loaded. We load them before we set out on a hold up, for obvious reasons. The important thing is to use your bullets wisely; there's no time in our line of work to reload. Now,” he said, aiming the pistol at some old crates in the corner of the field near them. “No point in aiming at something far away as the range of these things is quite small; we don't usually need them at long range anyway.” He pulled the cock back further. “You pull this back so it is fully cocked, aim, then pull the trigger.” There was a spark as the flint hit the flashpan, followed by a loud bang and a cloud of smoke. The bang echoed around the field, causing the horses to snort and a startled flock of birds to fly from the trees in a cloud of titters and squawks.
Quinn inspected the crates; there was a large hole in one, with splinters littering the grass. Pryce smirked, the gun still smoking in his hand.
“Even though it is dangerous, I can see it's useful.” Quinn admitted.
“Right then, Pryce replied. “It's your turn now. We'll use your pistols so you can get the feel of them.”
Quinn walked back to Pryce and pulled his pistols out of his bag.
“That's right, pull it into half-cock,” Pryce encouraged, “Now what's next?”
Quinn reached in Pryce's bag and pulled out the bullet and gunpowder. Pryce grabbed his arm, stopping him from putting in the bullet first. “Gunpowder, bullet, ram, more gunpowder,” he admonished. Quinn nodded, and then dusted the flashpan.
Pryce pointed at one of the other crates. “Aim for that one.” he said.
Hand shaking, Quinn lined up his pistol, po
inted, and fired. For a couple of seconds, he couldn't see the crates past the cloud of smoke.
Pryce clapped sarcastically. “Well I'm sure that bush over there is terrified of you.”
Quinn's cheeks flushed. “Well it isn't too far away from the crates.”
Pryce laughed. “That's the difference between shooting your intended target inside the coach, and shooting me while I'm covering the coach driver. Next time, try lining up the pistol in at least a vague semblance of the right direction!”
“Perhaps if you hadn't suggested I might blow my hand off, I would've been able to concentrate on the direction I was firing in rather than watching my hand in the hope it would stay attached to my arm!” He gestured at the hand that was holding the pistol.
“Thank the Ancestors I didn't ask you to try firing two at once then, like Abershaw prefers.” From across the other side of the field Bessie snorted. “Go on then,” he continued, “Have another go.”
Quinn reloaded the pistol and fired again, this time shattering a crate next to the one he had aimed at.
“Better, I guess.” Pryce groaned. “We'll try again tomorrow. Now it's time for you to practise sword fighting, a much nobler form of battle that tests your skills and wit more than those.” He glanced at the pistols with an expression of distaste. “We'll be using wooden swords.” He looked up quickly, noticing the expression of disappointment on Quinn's face. “I don't want you to cut off any limbs do I? Wandering around with one leg is something pirates do; highwaymen are smarter than that. Besides,” he added, “You'll wear down the blade if you use it in practise. And,” he warned, “You'll be doing a lot of practise, it takes more skill to wield a sword than it does a pistol.” He frowned. “I can tell you're thinking that all it takes is to wave it around and poke it in the other person.” He frowned. “This is going to take a lot of work.”
He pulled out the wooden swords from a long bag on his horse's back, passed one to Quinn and held the other, standing in a defensive position. “Now, attack me.”