“Now, Chance,” the man with the pipe said, approaching with a slow, smug gait. “You know better than that. You’re making this a lot more difficult than it need be. Vince, get up, you bolt.” He kicked the brute on the ground. “Go get the kid.”
The brute clambered to his feet and gave Chance a dark look as he touched his hand to his swelling cheekbone. “Little whelp!” he spat as he lashed out with his boot and caught Chance across the face. Chance’s head jerked backwards, and he collapsed the rest of the way to the ground, his arm twisting free of its hold.
He let himself lay there against the rough stone, tasting blood.
“Now!” the boss commanded.
The thug reluctantly gave chase after Rhett. Chance could only hope the boy had enough mind to keep running until he was home, or at least until he found a constable.
The second thug pulled the satchel off of Chance’s shoulder and rummaged through it.
“Still with us?” the boss said as he moved Chance’s chin with his foot.
Chance let out a groan.
“That wasn’t a smart thing to do. Not at all. You see, I need my men to make our living. You’re lucky you only bruised him. Imagine what would have happened if you’d done something more serious—gouged his eyes with that piece of scrap, maybe. Gives me the shivers to think of a man deprived of his means to his livelihood.”
“That is our living you’re taking from us.” Chance spat away some of the blood on his lips.
“We’re hardly keeping you from working.”
“You’re not making it any easier.”
“Check your luck.” The man crouched down so that his shadow shrouded Chance. “Nobody’s got it easy, kid. Not here. Not now. Not ever. If you think you’re exempt, then you’re fooling yourself. You’ve got yourself a good thing going, no doubt about that. But, everyone’s got to pay their dues eventually. Call it a redistribution of the wealth—and we’re here to collect.”
“Jackpot,” the thug said, recovering their money purse from the satchel. He tossed it to his boss.
“Ah,” he beamed. He shook the purse a bit, listening to the jingle of the coins. “Now that’s a sound I’ve come to love. Looks like my men were right after all.”
“It’s slag like you that make this place the dump it’s become,” Chance said.
“Trust me, you all took care of that long before we arrived. We’re just making a slightly less than honest living. It’s work just as honest as the rest of you. A foreigner’s tax on the humbler parts of the city for all the contraband that we deliver from overseas. It’s just the natural order of things.”
“You have an awfully high opinion of yourself, “Chance said. “Seems a bit wasted on some forgotten highwayman.”
“You can’t tell me you haven’t leeched off of anyone else’s misfortune in your lifetime. Can you, kid?”
Chance ignored his question, but deep in his heart the answer pained him. He thought of Ashworth and all the times he’d been sustained only at his mentor’s expense.
“I thought so,” the boss grinned. “Ah, here’s the little guttersnipe now!”
The other thug returned holding Rhett in a tight grip around the collar. Ripping away his satchel, he pushed him down onto his knees.
“Sit still,” he barked. The two thugs rummaged through Rhett’s pack, pulling vials and tubes out and weeding through what they deemed valuable.
“Don’t worry,” the boss said, rising so that he loomed over Chance’s prone form. “You’ll bounce back from this. You free-merchants are a resilient batch. But injure one of my men again...”
He stomped down hard on Chance’s hand and ground his boot into it. Chance cried out in pain and jerked his hand free.
“You get the message, I think.”
Chance clutched his hand to his chest, watching as the men loaded up with his work. He winced. Some of the skin had been scratched away from his knuckles and fingertips. It stung exposed to the air, and he slipped it into his coat to protect it.
It brushed up against the carrier kept secure at his side.
Every alchemist carried such a carrier, meant to be a quick resource when away from their workshops. Chance’s was a hardened leather case not the length of a parchment piece, and about half the width. It tucked easily underneath his coat into the space under his arm. It had three flaps which folded over the center and buckled with a pressure clasp. Inside, individual buckles held all of his ready-made compounds tightly in their place.
And, in all the commotion, they’d forgotten to search his person. A dangerous oversight. Carefully, Chance unclipped a flask and slipped it into his good hand.
“You all need to label these better,” the boss said. “How in all of this mess do you even know what you’re working with? It’s impossible to tell what half this stuff is.”
“Recognize this?” Chance growled. The men looked up from the bag and considered Chance. He rose up from the ground, the flask cocked above his head, his expression one of raw malice.
All three men took a few steps back.
“Try to run off with our stuff and you’ll lose more than your eyesight!” Chance warned, and the men stopped. They glance nervously from Chance to their boss.
“Hold on now,” the boss began. “Let’s keep our heads about us. There’s no need to escalate things this way. Wouldn’t do you any better if you throw that flask than if you didn’t. The constables would lock you up for the rest of your measly life. Then what would become of you, or your little friend there?”
“At least I’d be at peace knowing your remains are scattered across these streets.” Chance’s arm shook as he gripped the vial. “Rhett, come here.”
Rhett rose from the ground and hurried to get behind Chance.
“You’re playing a dangerous game right now, lad.” The boss grinned, revealing a row of withered teeth. “And I think you’re bluffing.”
“Try me, and we’ll see what a desperate man will do when pushed far enough. Come on!” Chance snarled. “Call my bluff!”
The seconds passed slowly and neither side made a move. The boss was too calm, clearly weighing the odds. Chance kept his eyes locked on the man’s, his hatred seething out from behind them.
“Alright,” the boss said, raising his hands in defeat. He tossed the money pouch and satchel unceremoniously on the ground. “You win then. We’ll be on our way. Come on, lads. Let’s leave them to their misery.”
Chance kept the flask raised high as the two thugs followed their leader away. The bruised one spat on the ground as he glared at Chance once more. Chance didn’t move until they’d disappeared at the end of the street.
Once they were out of sight, he collected the purse and satchel from the ground. The bottom of the bag was leaking a mess of liquids and he heard the tinkle of broken glass. He rummaged through to check if any of the vials hadn’t broken.
“Good thing you had that flask bomb,” Rhett said, brushing himself off. “They’d have gotten away with everything.”
Chance chewed on his tongue. “It’s all broken,” he scowled. He checked the purse. Inside were the coins, but the banknotes were missing. “And they took the banknotes!”
“All of them?”
“He must have taken them out when I was on the ground.” Chance’s jaw twitched as he twisted the purse in his hands.
“You should’a just thrown the flask,” Rhett said. “Blown them all up!”
Chance couldn’t speak. His eyes were wet as they burned with a white-hot rage. He squeezed the flask in his hand and hurled it against the nearest wall. The glass shattered violently, but there was no explosion—only wetted brick and the weak smell of calamus.
Chapter Seven
The Pub & Brawl
A good old-fashioned guffaw is a decent retardant in the face of despair.
— Alchemical Proverb
O f all the cowardly filth these streets produce!”
Chance and Rhett sat in the backroom of Liesel’s Pub
& Brawl, a finer establishment amidst the shoddy businesses bordering the factory districts. The room was filled with crates and barrels of fresh foodstuffs, and kegs full of assorted liquors stacked high against one of the walls.
Liesel, one of Chance’s closer friends, fetched a few rags from one of the cupboards while the cook worked to unpack a supply of vegetables and salt and season raw steaks for the evening meal.
“Here, hold this to your cheek,” Liesel instructed, taking a slab of the fresh cut meat and offering it to Chance. “It will help the swelling to go down.”
Chance gave her a queer look as he took it, and she went to fill a bowl with water from the pump. Tentatively, he pressed the raw meat to his face where he’d been kicked and winced.
“You’ll appreciate it in a moment,” the cook smiled. “It’s Liesel’s home remedy for everything from a bump to a brawl. It’ll lift a bruise right out of the skin. At least, that’s what she swears.”
“Thanks,” Chance said, giving the cook a disbelieving look. His cheek was already feeling a little better, though he suspected it was just in his mind.
“You’re more than welcome,” Liesel said, coming back with the water. “What about you, Rhett? You alright over there?”
“I’m fine,” he piped up from his stool. His attention was caught on a rattrap set in the corner. “Chance stopped them so I could get away,” he added without looking away.
“And somehow he still ended up getting caught,” Chance pointed out. Rhett’s head sank into his shoulders a little more.
“Well, I’m glad they had the mind not to harm you,” Liesel said. She set the basin of water on the table and took Chance’s hand in hers. “I’d still like to give them a piece of my mind.”
Chance couldn’t help but chuckle. Liesel’s idea of giving someone her mind was going toe to toe in fist-to-cuffs. She was one of the few ladies he knew who fought for sport. Her establishment frequently hosted sparring events where unlucky men could gamble away their weekly earnings over drinks.
True to form, Liesel was typically the first into the circle, and there were few who could hold up against her fortitude.
“Nothing is broken, fortune be counted.” She soaked the rag in water and cleaned the caked blood from Chance’s knuckles. “One thing you have to admit, we’re a resilient breed. Do you have any idea who it was that jumped you?”
“Just a thug and his two goons,” Chance said. “I had a run-in with the same guy a few months ago. It was only him back then. I’d thought he was just another local lifter, but after hearing him talk today it sounds like he’s a foreigner come to squat.”
There were always foreigners coming through Hatteras on account of the trade routes that ran along the coast. It wasn’t uncommon for some to linger in the city to collect some coin before boarding a ship to the next town.
Judging by the way the man was dressed, Chance supposed he’d decided to set up a more permanent presence.
“Dirty leech,” Liesel cursed. “Well, if he’s set up shop nearby there’s a good chance he’ll make the mistake of coming in here someday. What does he look like?”
Chance tried to picture him clearly “Stout man. A hand shorter than me, perhaps. He wore a green suit with a gentleman’s neckerchief. He had thick eyebrows, like caterpillars, and one of the reddest faces I’ve ever seen.”
“And what about the others?”
“I’m pretty sure they were just hired muscle.”
“Well, I look forward to meeting this man,” Liesel grinned, taking the washbowl away. “How much did you lose?”
“All of it,” Rhett sighed.
Chance shot him a look. “Enough to put us behind a week or so, that’s all,” he corrected. It was a lie, and he guessed Liesel knew it. But, he didn’t like others knowing just how deep his misfortunes ran. It only seemed to invite more. “It’s just a bit of the wretched luck of the Basin,”
“You’re talking about my home,” Liesel said, breaking a wedge of cheese and a roll. She gave Rhett half of each. “There’s nothing wretched about it.”
“Sorry,” Chance shrugged, “but I honestly believe it. You can’t tell me you don’t feel it sometimes. It’s like we’re destined to watch our lives unravel, and there’s nothing we can do about it. We’re just being jerked around at the end of a string and made to dance until either fever or famine kills us off.”
“No great force is manipulating our lives, Chance,” Liesel insisted. She offered him the other half of the roll and cheese and he took it sullenly. Even such a small gesture of charity caused his jaw to clench. “If things go wrong sometimes—”
“Most times,” Chance interjected.
“—sometimes, it’s because they do. That doesn’t mean you’re being toyed with. It just means you have to change your strategy and come at it again.”
“Sounds to me like you’re describing bad luck.”
“I’m describing life. There’s no such thing as luck,” Liesel insisted. “This whole luck obsession is unhealthy, thinking the tidewaters bring some ill will or that you can escape it by moving further away. The Basin isn’t any worse off than the Spire. Trust me on that.”
Chance ate some of the bread and cheese. The truth was, she probably did know—better than most. Liesel hadn’t always been a Basin-dweller. She’d been born in the upper tiers of the city to a successful factory owner. She could have enjoyed a lavish living her entire life had she wished it. She’d surprised everyone when she abandoned it all to take up work for herself in the Basin.
“Why did you do it?” Chance asked, curiosity getting the better of him.
“Do what?”
“Leave the Spire.”
“Why do you stay in the Basin?” she asked.
Chance gave her an accusing look, and she smiled.
“I left for the same reason anyone would want to leave home; I wanted to be the one in control of my life. And the fashion was changing,” she added with a smirk. “It’s awfully easy to lose yourself in all that flair and flouncing, and honestly I just never took to it.”
Chance hadn’t considered her motivations might have been the same as his for wanting to escape. He’d always viewed citizens of the Spire as the ones in control—capable of doing whatever they wanted on a whim. It certainly appeared that way from his vantage point. They had hold on most of the city’s resources, occupied the best land, and were born into the right circles. Their opportunities were nearly limitless.
“I wish it was as easy to move up into the Spire as it was to move down,” Chance said wistfully.
“It wasn’t as easy as you think. There are just as many obstacles moving down as there are up.”
Chance doubted her there. Easy might not have been the right word, but there was no way she could convince him that leaving was more difficult than integrating oneself into the meritocracy. Chance had experienced that struggle when he’d nearly climbed the academic ladder years before. That road was marred by dozens of gatekeepers intent on keeping everyone but the truly gifted or well-connected out.
There was a knock on the back door, and Liesel rose to get it.
“Afternoon, Liesel.”
The familiar voice of Welch, Liesel’s closest friend, caused Chance’s shoulders to slump and his eyes to roll. If there was anyone whose company he didn’t want to entertain, Welch was near the top of the list.
“Good to see you again, Welch. You can bring that just inside the door here.” Liesel directed him inside and pointed to a spot by the wall.
Welch was bent over, shouldering a large block of ice on his back. He held it against him with a wide leather strap looped around its bulk, which he pulled over his shoulder with a tightly wrapped hand. Carefully, he swung the parcel to the side and set it down beside the door with a gentle thump.
Standing straight again, he let out a deep humph and stretched himself tall. His back cracking as each of his vertebrate decompressed.
He was a larger man—not puffy as some get whe
n overweight, but certainly stocky. He had a pleasant countenance, though odd to look at. His face was rough and set deeply with wrinkles, one set so deep between his brows that it was difficult to tell if it was a wrinkle or an incision. His hair was a thick bristle from the top of his head to the chin of his beard. It was peppered white, and his jowls jiggled from underneath it when he spoke.
“You wanting it in the cellar?” he asked.
“Yes, eventually,” Liesel said. “There’s no hurry, unless you have more errands to run.”
He shook his head. “No. That’s the last.”
“Then take a moment to breathe. You’ve already brought it so far.”
“I don’t mind the walk,” he said. “Keeps my limbs warm and an idle mind turning.”
“Just as well, stay and visit a while?” Liesel implored. “I was about to put a kettle of tea on.”
Welch noticed Chance and Rhett and his demeanor shifted uncomfortably. “Nah,” he said, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “I shouldn’t intrude if you’ve got company.”
“Not at all,” Liesel insisted. “Malt, mind boiling some water?”
“Sure thing,” the cook said, nodding to Welch and taking down a kettle from above the stove.
Welch scratched at his cheek. “What, eh, happened here then?” he asked Chance, pointing at the bruise by his eye.
“It’s nothing. Just a bit of bad luck,” Chance said. He shot a goading look at Liesel and she shook her head.
“Ah. Perhaps I should wash up quick, if that’s alright,” Welch said.
“Pump’s out back.”
“Thank ya, ma’am.” He stepped out the door, shutting it tight behind him.
Liesel gave Chance a stern look. “You could be a little kinder to Welch,” she said, stepping behind the counter. She picked up a knife and started chopping up some potatoes.
“I didn’t say anything!”
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