Lies of Descent

by Troy Carrol Bucher

  The laugh grated at Riam’s nerves. “Yes, sir,” he said. He had no idea about the value of the chest. In his life he’d never held more than two dregs. There were, however, lots of things that could not be fixed with money. The guard at the gate could not be fixed. Nola could not be saved. His uncle couldn’t be returned. Money would never hold sway over his desires, and once he became a Draegoran, money wouldn’t matter at all.

  “Why the face?” Pekol asked. “You’ve got a look about you I don’t much like. Thinkin’ on something too hard for your own good.” The cart stopped. “It’s the coin, isn’t it? You want some of the dregs the chest will earn.”

  “No, sir,” Riam said, thankful for the halt that allowed him to rest.

  “Is it the lesson I gave you?” Pekol tilted his head to the side and rubbed at his bottom lip. “I’ll tell you what, I’ll give you a dreg if I clear ten. That ought to take your mind off feeling sorry for yourself. You can spend it in the square. Laws don’t much apply there. After that, if you work and do as you’re told, we can put this whole thing behind us.”

  Riam started to refuse. Things would never be back to right, not unless Pekol miraculously fell into the pit.

  “Thank you, sir,” he forced himself to say instead. The words were false, but the coin would give him an excuse to move around the square and ask questions without Pekol getting suspicious. He forced himself to grin, as if the money made amends for everything the man had done.

  Satisfied, Pekol yanked on the arms of the cart, starting it moving again. “You’re lucky to have a raker as generous as I am. You know that, don’t you, boy? Sollus-touched lucky.”

  “Yes, sir. Sollus has truly blessed me,” Riam said. He rubbed at the knife in the sling.

  * * *

  —

  Pekol made his ten dregs. Thirteen to be exact, from none other than Sadal, the dark-skinned Arillian who ran the square. Nobody else offered more than seven, and Riam had worried that he wouldn’t get his dreg. But then, from across the yard, Sadal locked eyes on the chest and walked away from his conversation with a tall raker as if the man didn’t exist.

  Pekol could smell desire like a marcat smelled a sage hen. “Fifteen,” he said, before the Arillian’s robes stopped swaying with his steps.

  Sadal put up a halfhearted argument, but there was no doubt Pekol would get the dregs. The question remained if Riam would get his promised share.

  Riam took a risk and made sure he stood in the way when the money changed hands. Pekol cursed at him for being underfoot, but grudgingly kept his word and flipped a coin at him before heading off to join a group of rakers who gambled with dice. Sadal remained, turning the chest this way and that, examining the broken latch and the design on the cracked and chipped surface.

  “Is it really worth so much?” Riam asked. Sadal would turn a profit on the chest sure as the wind blew, and Riam knew it would be more than double what Pekol made.

  The Arillian pulled his beady eyes away from the chest. “It’s not always the item itself that has value. Sometimes, it’s the story of where it came from that fetches the highest price. The truth of a thing is worth more than gold to those who desire it.” He glanced at the bandages on Riam’s arm. “But you already know that don’t you? To those who search, I think your story is worth far more than this box.” He snapped the lid shut and Riam jerked a step backward, startled. “But it’s not a story I’d profit from, so I’ll remain out of it.” He winked and tucked the chest under his arm. “For now, anyway, but I would find a way to disappear if I was a young churp who fit the description of a boy the Wolves are looking for.”

  He looked past Riam and spied a raker entering the yard. “Ah, more business,” he said and hurried away.

  An odd man with odd words. No doubt he was even more conniving than Pekol. Riam half thought the Arillian already knew his glyph was gone somehow. There’s no way he could know that, but what was that part about the Wolves? Did he mean the Wolves are looking for me? That didn’t make sense. How could they know who I am?

  Riam closed his fist on the dreg in his hand. He needed to hurry. No telling how Pekol would fare with the dice. If the man came back empty-handed, he wouldn’t think twice about snatching the dreg back.

  He wanted to go to the raker who’d given Stick his freedom. The man had another churp—a girl about Riam’s age. She might have spoken to Stick or at least seen him yesterday.

  It wouldn’t do for Pekol to notice he went to her first, so he moved instead to the line of carts adjacent to her wagon. He worked his way down them, feigning interest in shoes on one cart and then at a pair of worn breeches on another. He pretended to be unsure about the breeches in case Pekol was looking. He’d come back and buy them to replace his soiled pair.

  He risked a glance toward Pekol. He needn’t have bothered being so careful—the man knelt and threw dice into a large clay bowl. Riam heard the rattle across the square. Groans broke out around the group, and Riam heard Pekol’s hoarse cackle as he snatched a coin from each of the other gamblers.

  “Seen Stick?” Riam asked while rummaging through the back of a cart. It held nothing but ash and broken plates.

  A soot-stained churp on the back of the cart shook his head. “Not since yesterday.”

  Riam continued working his way through the carts and wagons, avoiding the one filled with waste from the butchers. He could hear maggots writhing in the back when he passed. A hollow-eyed churp sat on the driver’s bench. The boy stared straight ahead, holding the reins of the single horse that pulled the wagon slack in his hands. Maggots wiggled in his hair. Riam shivered. He’d seen the boy before. He never spoke or moved on his own, just sat waiting to be told what to do next.

  “You’re back,” the freckle-faced girl at Stick’s old wagon said. “Thought maybe Pekol had done you in like Doby.”

  Riam couldn’t remember her name. He waved at his sling. “He nearly did.”

  She brushed the stringy hair from her face. “I saw him beat you. You don’t survive long here without knowing when to keep your mouth shut,” she said in a low voice.

  “Have you seen Stick?”

  “Not today. I couldn’t believe it when he showed up here after being set free. Idiot doesn’t even realize Peke’s got it in for him.”

  Riam felt a pang of guilt. It’s my fault. Stick’s only real flaw was kindness. “That’s what I’m afraid of, that Pekol’s done something to him. I haven’t seen him, and Pekol’s got a lot more coin than usual.”

  She looked around nervously. “Keep your voice down.” She moved up close to him, oblivious to the smell of the chamber pot he’d spilled down his front. “You don’t want to be heard by any of the other rakers making an accusation like that.”

  Riam nodded. “Keep a lookout out for Stick, will ya?” he asked quietly. “And let me know if you see him.”

  “If he’s smart, he’s already left the city. If I were you, I’d be gone, too. You’ve a better chance running than you do with Peke.”

  She turned back to her wagon and climbed up a wheel to the back. “Don’t have nothing you’d want to buy,” she called out.

  “Thanks anyway,” Riam said.

  He used his dreg to buy the breeches, even though they were worth a lot less. He even talked the raker into throwing in a loaf of stale bread so he wouldn’t go hungry all day. He ducked behind a wagon and changed before returning to the cart.

  “The day keeps getting better,” Pekol said, walking toward him. He opened his purse and dropped a handful of coins inside. “Time to go to the pit. Best get it done.”

  Riam looked at the purse. Innocent people were dying, and Pekol was getting richer for it. Riam had one, maybe two, days to find Stick and do something about Pekol, and that was if no one figured out his glyph was gone or if the Wolves didn’t find him first.

  Chapter 34

  Another day went
by, and Riam felt a little better. Grantor’s Street was mostly empty, with only chamber pots and little in the way of refuse outside the shops. They were halfway down the street when Jami came out of the bakery. He held a cloth sack in front of him.

  “Here’s your order, Peke.”

  Jami came within arm’s reach, and Pekol snatched the sack from his hand and undid the drawstrings.

  They stopped for it every third day or so, and Pekol always double-checked the contents of the sack.

  “Two loaves and two sweetcakes.” Jami looked at Riam, taking in his injuries and the sling. He stepped back out of Pekol’s reach.

  Pekol opened the sack and fished around inside before grunting. He pulled the bag closed and hung it on a hook on the front of the cart.

  “So, Peke, about the favor . . .” Jami’s nasal, high-pitched voice trailed off. He took another step back from Pekol, moving closer to the shop. He looked ready to bolt back inside should Pekol get angry. “We’re even after last night, right?”

  “We’re even on the favor.”

  Jami sagged in relief.

  “Although you still owe me for the charm.”

  “Ah, come on. You said I could have it for helping.”

  “Never said it was free. I said the favor would make us even. The charm is extra.”

  The door opened, interrupting their conversation. Master Silva stood in the doorway. His wide curling mustache was frosted in white, and his apron was a canvas of flour and sugar-splattered lines that could have sat next to an artisan’s painting two streets away. He wasn’t a big man, but he was bigger than Pekol. He held the door open with one hand, and a heavy rolling pin in the other.

  “You’ve ovens to clean,” he told Jami.

  “Yes, sir.” Jami ducked underneath Master Silva’s arm and into the shop.

  “You pay for your bread and keep moving next time, raker. The boy doesn’t need to waste his time talking when there’s work to be done.”

  “Boy owes me for a charm.”

  “That true?” Master Silva asked without taking his eyes off Pekol.

  Jami’s head poked out from behind the baker. “He said I could have it.”

  “Give it to me,” Master Silva said.

  “But . . .”

  “Now!”

  Jami fumbled something from around his neck, and Riam was sure he saw a flash of blue before Jami dropped it onto the baker’s palm.

  Master Silva looked at it and frowned. “Here.” He held out the charm toward Pekol. “Take it and stay away from my apprentice.”

  Riam couldn’t see the charm properly, only the leather thong it hung from draped over the man’s hand. Could it be Stick’s?

  “It’s not the charm I want. It’s the dreg that’s owed for it.”

  “The boy has no need for a Church of Man pendant.”

  “Not my problem. A deal’s a deal,” Pekol said. He thumbed the handle of the knife at his waist.

  “There was no deal!” Jami yelled from behind Master Silva. “I’m not lying. He said I could have it. I didn’t even know what it was.”

  “Boy says there was no deal, then there was no deal.” He tossed it through the air and into the back of the cart. “Move on. You’re keeping the customers away with your smell.”

  Riam wanted to dive into the cart after the pendant. Instead, he didn’t so much as glance toward it. He didn’t want to attract Pekol’s attention.

  “No need for insults. Give me the dreg the boy owes me, and I’ll be on my way. Otherwise, you can cart your own throwings to the pit.”

  Master Silva brandished the wooden rolling pin in front of him. “The only thing you’ll get is this pin upside your head before I make a complaint to the district warden. I pay my taxes, and you’ll collect whatever I put out front.”

  Riam slid closer to the cart, putting a hand on the sidewall the same as he’d done all morning for support.

  The two men stared at each other, neither backing down.

  “Here’s your dreg,” Bortha said, walking up to stand between the two. He flipped a coin toward Pekol, who let it spin by him without reaching for it. The dreg bounced on the street and landed behind Pekol.

  “I don’t want it from you.” He thumbed toward the baker. “I want it from him.”

  “What does it matter where it comes from? Money is money.” Bortha walked over and picked up the coin. “Now, quit being stubborn and take the dreg.”

  There was something different about the innkeeper. The belt and knife. Bortha wore a knife at his side, one Riam had never seen. The tip nearly reached the man’s knee, and by the size of the sheath, it was wider than Riam’s hand.

  The knife didn’t escape Pekol’s notice either. “Been a long time since you wore that. It’s not on account of me, is it? If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were thinking of moving against me.”

  Bortha let out a forced laugh. “Not unless you’re thinking of trying to kill me first.” He put a hand on Peke’s shoulder, turning him away from Master Silva. With his other hand he shooed the baker away.

  Master Silva lowered the rolling pin. “Get the cart away from my shop,” he said while moving back inside.

  “When I’m good and ready!” Pekol snapped back.

  “What good does arguing with that oaf do you?” Bortha said. “You’ve a full purse I see, your streets are easy today by the load in the cart, and soon you’ll have a full belly with wine to wash it down with if you come by the inn. I’ve a job if you’re interested—the kind of job we used to work together.”

  Riam’s hand fell from the cart and he almost gasped aloud. What is Bortha doing, inviting Pekol to the inn? What job could he possibly need that monster for?

  The skin around Pekol’s eyes scrunched up. “Yesterday you were willing to fight over the churp, and now you’ve a job for us? What are you angling at?”

  “Call it a change of heart. The inn’s not doing so well, and you got me thinking. Then, yesterday afternoon, I overhear two customers discussing a shipment. I could use the money.”

  “Where? What kind of shipment?”

  “Not here. Come by the inn after you make your turn at the pit. Then we’ll talk.”

  Pekol tilted his head and rubbed his upper lip on his bottom teeth.

  “Don’t give me that look.” Bortha held up his hands, showing his open palms. “Honest, I’m not up to anything but trying to make some easy coin for the both of us. I don’t have the friends I used to for this type of work. I need you.”

  “Never trust a man who says he’s being honest,” Pekol said.

  “When have I ever betrayed you, Peke? Never. Sure, we’ve had our falling-outs, but when it’s come to what matters, we’ve always stood by each other.”

  “You’re still here!” Master Silva yelled from inside. “I told you to move away from my shop.”

  “Shut up, Silva, or I’ll let Pekol come in there, and I’ll swear to the warden you started it.”

  Pekol smiled at that. “You should let me go in anyway—show him he’s no better than me.”

  “There’d be blood, and then the warden would get involved. It’s not that I really care about what happens to you, but I do need your help. What do you say? It’d be like old times—even better than going to the fights.”

  “All right. I’ll come by the inn and listen, but you’d better not be jerking me about to protect the baker’s runt.”

  “You’ve nothing to worry about. The job is real. I’ll see you this evening.” Bortha turned to leave, then paused and spun back around. “One more thing. Do you mind if I take your churp with me? There’s no use taking him to the pit. You’ll end up carting him back when he can’t make it. He can muck out the stables instead.”

  Pekol’s jaw tightened up. “So that’s what—”

  “No, that’s not what
this is all about. Take him if you want. I don’t care, but take a look at him. If he walks to the pit and back, he’ll be unable to muck out my stalls. It’s been days, and I’d prefer to spend the evening discussing the job over a table and wine, not a pile of horse shit.”

  Pekol looked from Bortha to Riam, trying to gauge if they were in on it together.

  Riam did his best to look as weak as possible—not that it took much effort. Bortha was right. Even though he’d made it yesterday, he didn’t think he could do it again today.

  Pekol rubbed his teeth on his lip some more while he thought. He wasn’t going for it. Riam knew it. He would make him try and walk to the pit and back.

  “Fine. Take him. But if he’s not there when I get back, or you double-cross me, by the Fallen, I’ll burn the inn down around you.”

  “There’s no need for threats, Peke. He’ll be there.”

  “He’d better be.”

  “Come on,” Bortha said to Riam. “You’ve stalls to clean.”

  “Yes, sir.” Riam took a step away from the cart. The charm! He’d almost forgotten it. He couldn’t let Pekol dump it in the pit. He stepped up to the cart and grabbed the charm. “Since nobody wants it,” he said, limping past Pekol. It took all the courage he had to look straight ahead and keep from wincing in anticipation of Pekol’s backhand.

  Bortha laughed. “Seems you haven’t quite broken his spirit yet.”

  “You’ll pay for that, boy,” Pekol said.

  “Relax, Peke. I already paid you for it.”

  Riam continued limping toward the inn. He looked down at the charm in his hand. It was exactly as he remembered it—painted blue and white with a sliver of yellow for a pupil—just like the one Stick wore. But is it the same one? If all the members of the Church of Man wore the pendant, he had no way of knowing for sure if it belonged to Stick. He wanted to believe it didn’t, but in his heart, he feared it did. It couldn’t be a coincidence, could it?