Angels

by Philip E. Batt

Moore gave him one of his infamous stares and he stopped instantly as he realised that Moore was not in the slightest bit amused.

  Moore turned his attention back to the boy. If he could have his way, petty criminals like Luke Vawdrey would be hanged just like they were in the old days of the Empire. But, since that no longer happened, he would have to console himself with the knowledge that at the very least a cold and uncomfortable night or two in the stocks, having mouldering food thrown at them by city-folk, usually put the thought of minor crime out of most people’s minds. Of course, there were always the repeat offenders such as Vawdrey and it was unlikely that any punishment, short of one of a capital nature, would stop them trying to develop their career further.

  At that moment, the boy’s hand darted out towards the newly baked pile of bread grabbing a large loaf and tucking it under his arm in one swift, flowing movement. The boy's head swivelled around to see if anyone had spotted him and he looked right at Sergeant Moore. The boy’s large brown eyes shot wide open in surprise as he realised that he had just been caught red-handed. Then, he took off at high speed into the crowd.

  'After him, Roland!' Moore shouted.

  'But—'

  'Go!' Moore ordered. 'I’ll take the opposite away around to the left and we’ll try to head him off.'

  oOo

  Roland sped after the boy, doing his best to gain some ground on him but up ahead, Luke dodged left and right, weaving in and out of the crowds, his small stature and youthful speed making it difficult for him to keep up. He followed the boy for the best part of a hundred yards and as he turned a corner the aisle began to open out into a wider thoroughfare. The groups of people had thinned out a little which made it easier for Roland to see up ahead. But, to his dismay, the boy seemed to have disappeared.

  'Damn!' Roland said. That was just so typical of his luck, he thought, and there he was thinking that he might be able to chalk up his first solo arrest.

  Roland slowed his pace and walked out into the aisle, planting his fists on his hips, looking left, right and then up ahead, hoping that he might catch site of Luke as he made his attempt to escape. There was still no sign and he let out a long sigh. What a waste of time! he thought.

  'Stop! Thief!'

  The words came from a rotund, balding trader, not far up ahead in the main aisle, just as Luke crawled out from beneath the covering of the man's stall.

  The boy looked up at Roland and smirked. He was only about ten yards away and Roland's mouth dropped open. He couldn't believe the nerve of the boy. He was trying to escape but still had the cheek to steal a ham joint at the same time!

  Roland charged after the boy again, but this time he seemed to be gaining on him a little. Luke ducked left, down a side aisle, not quite so mobile now as he carried the proceeds of his morning's work. Roland followed and it didn't take long for him to realise that he could follow the boy largely by listening for the screams and cries of the crowd as they protested at being barged and knocked to one side as Luke tried to get away.

  Then Roland realised what the boy was trying to do. He’s trying to go back to the main street, he thought.

  As Luke charged on, Roland now seemed to be keeping up. If the Sergeant had half the guile that he said he did then he hoped he would be doubling back and might just be in a position to stop him as he tried to leave the market. He kept running, and soon over the heads of the crowd he could see that he was nearly at the main crossroad of aisles where the exit would come into view.

  Roland turned the corner and there was Luke, running as fast as he could with a loaf under his left arm and a ham under his right. Standing steadfast between the boy and the exit was the Sergeant, his fists on his hips and trying to make himself look as big a barrier as he could.

  oOo

  Moore saw the boy look up and grit his teeth as he ran in his direction. Roland appeared across the aisle, following close behind Luke and he was catching up with the boy fast. To his amazement, rather than giving up, a look of sheer determination crossed Luke's face and he ran faster, at the same time lowering his head in an attempt to make the best impersonation of a battering ram that he could.

  'Oh, bugger!' Moore said, as he realised Luke's intention.

  Luke increased his speed and before Moore could grab him, the boy hit him head first, full in the stomach. Surprise, pain, and embarrassment coursed through Moore's body, precisely at the same time as all the air left his lungs in a desperate attempt to get out of the way and he fell backwards, almost in slow-motion, onto the cobbles.

  Moore held the image of the receding boy in his mind who was now travelling at an unstoppable speed, out of the marketplace and off in to the alleys between the houses and shops on the other side of the road. Through the pain and gulps for breath, Moore heard Roland's footsteps run up to him and felt him reach down to offer him some assistance in getting to his feet. The young Watchman's lips moved but somehow the sound of his voice was blurred and unclear. Moore held up his hand to signal him to stop.

  So far, he had managed to keep control of the panic and the air, with the help of several big gulps, was now returning to his lungs. He turned himself onto all fours so that he could breath more deeply and after a few more lungfuls he was grateful that the world had stopped spinning.

  'That was intense,' Moore said, after a moment more, as he got up onto one knee, pausing to regain his composure a little more. Then, he pushed upwards, bringing himself fully upright. As he reached his full height, he found himself staring directly into the eyes of Captain Winterburne.

  'Good Morning, Sergeant Moore,' Winterburne said, his voice calm, and unemotional, 'I see you're managing to do a splendid job of keeping the peace as usual.'

  3

  The solid oak desk in the office of the Captain of the Watch had been in use for several hundred years and bore the scratch marks of many a bored official of the law. There were also seven sets of initials carved in its timbers if you knew where to look. Not in the obvious places, such as the worktop or the leg, but in locations where no one would know about them unless it involved crawling around underneath and lying on your back. Winterburne had found them all, during the periods of tedium that inevitably came with the job, but he had yet to decide where he would make his own mark when his time to retire came. He hoped, though, that that particular day would be quite some time away yet.

  He leaned back in his padded leather chair and ran his fingers over the smooth wood of the armrests, his eyes focussing on the stack of official paperwork, books and ledgers, that had built up on his desk over the last two weeks but couldn't yet bring himself to make a serious attempt to clear down. He didn't enjoy the administrative work associated with his job and would much rather be outside, preferring to save the writing and the signing for days when it rained. He had always thought it a waste of a good day if he did it on glorious days like today, but the problem was that it hadn’t actually rained for ages. Perhaps it might if he did a rain dance, he had thought several times, even working out some steps in his head that might be suitable. But then changed his mind when he remembered, he couldn't dance.

  As a consequence of his current mood, the reports were unread, the requisition requests were unsigned, and the pile had grown by a little each day. As it did, so had the feeling of discomfort he felt every time he looked at it. Enough was enough, he decided. He reached over to the stack of papers and pulled them into some sort of ordered pile; the books and ledgers at the bottom, loose papers next, and finally, all of them topped with the loose notelets and messages that his men had left on his desk. He picked them all up and set them on the floor beside his desk. On a generous day, the pile might even have been considered neat. There, he thought, that's better. Out of sight, out of mind.

  Winterburne looked across his office, through the window, and out onto the street beyond. The shadows had lengthened as the day had strolled on, and evidently it was now approaching somewhere near the middle of the afternoon. The hands on the face of the ti
mepiece hanging on the wall, however, offered five minutes past nine. Timekeeping was never something that was particularly high up on his list of priorities, but he consoled himself in the notion that the clock was going to be correct twice a day, at least. He really would have to get it wound one of these days. The task was added to his ever growing mental list of things to do.

  On the desk, next to an unlit candle, lay his sword which was still in its scabbard. It usually stayed there and was very rarely removed, except that was for its weekly polish. In all honesty, he never actually understood why he had been given it. He had never thought of himself as a military man, though technically, in the eyes of Imperial Law, he held as much military power within the city as the man he was going to be meeting that afternoon. He was well aware of the fact that this was something that the Commander of the Imperial Guard had always had problems dealing with and it was also a fact that he liked to push hard as often as he could. Well, he thought, the man asked for it.

  He rose from his seat and walked over to the window, leaning on the ledge. In the world on the other side of the panes of glass, the people of Highport continued about their business as they always did, oblivious to the fact that the machinery of the Imperial State ground slowly and thoroughly behind the scenes, providing them with safety and peace within the Nine Provinces of the Empire. Would that was always the way, Winterburne thought.

  He turned and made his way over to his desk, picking up the sword and removing it from the scabbard. The steel blade shone in the sunlight that found its way into the room, and he rested it on the desk. He threaded his belt through the scabbard-ring and placed it around his waist before fastening it and picking up the sword and sliding it slowly into the scabbard, relishing the hiss of metal on metal it made as he pushed it home.

  It wasn't far to the main garrison buildings of the Imperial Guard, but even so he didn't wish to be late for the meeting. It wasn't that he really cared what Martell thought, he didn't, but it was more that it would only give the man another reason to go moaning to the Emperor, and, he could really do without the added strain that that would bring to his life at this point in time.

  His brown leather jacket still lay on the floor where he had dropped it earlier in the day and he stooped to pick it up, slipping it on in a single movement. Winterburne fastened only the middle of the three buttons that ran down the front. Martell would find it unacceptable that someone would have an official uniform and not ensure that it was correctly worn. The thought made him smile.

  He walked to the door, removing the large iron key from the lock, turning the handle and pushing it open. A long, loud creak split the silence and he stepped out into the hallway before locking the door behind him. He trusted his Watchmen implicitly but it was always possible that someone could sneak into the Watchhouse, so it never hurt to take the extra precaution. It had happened before, and the thought of all the paperwork that particular incident had generated still made him shiver.

  As he looked down the corridor to the main front entrance of the house it didn't take much effort to see that that the carpets were dirty, worn and shabby and they needed to be replaced. The cleaning staff did the best they could to make the place presentable but the paper peeled in places and there were damp patches near the floor where the moisture was rising up the walls. He would have to speak to the Bursar at the Palace to request additional funds to redecorate the next time he was there.

  The front door was not locked - it never was - and he could hear