by CM Raymond
Getting out of bed was a chore. Her muscles and joints protested while her face throbbed. The Hunters did more of a number on her than she had thought when she drifted off to sleep—but not as much as they could have.
Hatred boiled in her blood, and she promised that they would get theirs someday.
She’d take extra time on Scarface.
Thinking of the Hunters reminded her of the demon from the alley. If she hadn’t already been terrified, seeing it would have scared the hell out of her. The more she thought about it, the less frightening its appearance seemed.
She had heard about magic users that had the ability to alter their appearance. In the light of a new day, with some time and sleep between her and the attack, she was convinced that the demon face was only some sort of scare tactic.
If so, it certainly worked. The last thing she saw before taking off down the alley was the demon with staff raised high and hands pointed toward the Hunters in rebuke.
Perhaps they had already gotten what they deserved? She smiled at the thought, before losing the smile a moment later.
The joy of that thought didn’t last, as she swiped the back of her hand across her forehead. The Hunters’ tag was still there. It would not only be a reminder of the Hunters’ cruelty but worse, they would tell all of Arcadia that she was an Unlawful—or at least she stood accused as one.
But being accused and being guilty were basically one in the same. At least, that’s how the other Hunters would see it.
Hannah dressed and pulled on a wool hat to cover the mark. She made her way to the kitchen and already the wool itched at her scalp. She would have to find a way to remove the tag.
William was already gone, which was good. Two years ago, they still worked the streets together, but since she had grown older, panhandling wasn’t quite the return on investment that it once was.
In Arcadia, begging was children’s work. And despite her thin frame, she was definitely a child no longer. She wondered about William’s sickness and prayed that the seizures wouldn’t return while he was out working on his own.
She didn’t believe in the gods. If they ever existed, the Patriarch and the Matriarch had abandoned this world long ago.
But when it came to her brother? She was even willing to give faith a try.
****
The woman’s voice called out in the little rundown apartment. “Parker. Parker! Wake up already. Your shift is starting soon.”
“Coming, Mother.” Parker stumbled out of bed as he rolled his eyes. His mother was sweet and conveniently naive. Many mothers along Queen’s Boulevard became this way. He wasn’t sure if she had actually believed that her boy, a kid from the slums, could land a job at the factory, or if she had just fooled herself into accepting the life she wanted for him.
Either way, Parker was glad she rested well and could brag to her friends over a game of Wicken—a popular card game within the city. He slid into his clothes and tightened the laces of his boots.
One snapped from too many days of rot.
“Shit,” he hissed, tying another knot in the already tangled laces. He could scrape by working the streets of Arcadia. While he couldn’t get a more respectable job like his mother thought, conning shoppers provided a steady enough income.
And since the trading traffic had increased in the summer, bringing more and more outsiders through the city gates, there was plenty of work to be done. But the money was still precious, and some would have to be holed away for the down season.
Grabbing his bag of tools, he left his little room and headed for the kitchen.
“Here you are, lovely,” his mother said, sliding a plate of eggs with a single strip of bacon across the table to the spot where his dad had always sat.
It took months before she accepted he wasn’t coming home. The first day that Parker ate in his father’s chair was the moment he knew for certain he had become the man of the house, and that was the day he stole his first loaf of bread.
Parker didn’t necessarily like the life of a thief and conman, but it paid the bills and kept his mother from doing other questionable jobs. Too many women in the quarter did things no human should face—and his mother wouldn’t be one of them.
“Thanks, Mother. What’s the plan today?” He asked it every day, and every day he got the same answer in return.
“Oh, I need to do some tidying up around the house and see if MacIntyre has work for me. If not, I’ll swing by the park and sit with the girls.” She smiled broadly at her son. “It’s a good thing I have a working man in the house.”
MacIntyre ran The Arcadian, the city’s local paper. For the longest time, it was esteemed as a reputable news source but had become, over the past few years, a mix of political propaganda for the Governor and the Chancellor. The remaining back pages were reserved for gossip and advertising. Since its transformation, there had been little work for people like his mother.
People said that the business had been infused with special magitech, magic-powered machines that nearly wrote, edited, and printed the paper all by itself. Parker knew that was horseshit, but couldn’t deny the fact that his mother’s unemployment had something to do with the legal use of magic.
The magic was controlled by those in power and worked to make them more powerful. Since as long as he could remember, the Capitol had boasted more and more progress, while life in Queen Bitch Boulevard got worse and worse.
“Sounds like a good plan,” Parker said, shoveling loads of eggs into his mouth. “I better get going, the foreman won’t be happy if I’m late.” He ate his last bite, kissed his mother on the cheek, and headed for the market square.
The morning fog was thick, and the cobblestones were slick with dew. Few people were out that early in the quarter—not many had any reason to be. He exchanged “good mornings” with those he knew better and nodded at some familiar faces.
Arcadia had grown exponentially over the past few years. People were flooding into the city from the corners of Irth, looking for a fresh life and a new hope.
Outside the walls, a certain narrative about his home was spun for foreigners. People were told that Arcadia, as the heart of Irth, had good houses on every corner and that jobs were abundant for anyone willing to work.
Parker had no idea how this lie was spun or why. But he did know that when people came to the city they would eventually end up realizing the ugly truth of the place. Many of them landed on Queen’s Boulevard and doing the same work he did—hustling on the streets for whatever sustenance they could find.
This was why he was out earlier and earlier.
It was also why the con had to change. Every few weeks he would devise a new plan. His work was always evolving. It had to be. And that morning, he was about to kick a new plan into play.
“Morning, Mac,” Parker said as he pushed through the growing crowd on the South end of the Market Square.
A burly man with a face only a mother could stand, sat on an empty mead barrel chewing on the stump of a cigar that looked older than Parker himself.
“Hey, kid. What’s happening?” the man asked as he sorted through a handful of coins, glancing up occasionally to watch the crowd gather for the first fight of the day.
Mac ran the Pit—a roped off little corner of the Market that was reserved for daily boxing and mixed-methods fights. It provided entertainment for the lower classes and a chance to cash in through the official bets that Mac facilitated.
He was a brilliant businessman. The odds were perfectly calculated and earnings acutely tracked. All bets were supposed to flow through him. He would collect a fee from each transaction, a portion of which would go to the fighters.
Both the victor and the man that left in a bloody pulp on the dusty ground would get their cut, which everyone knew was less than Mac’s. Side bets weren’t allowed, although everyone knew they happened.
“I want in today,” Parker said.
“On the first fight? You know I’ll take anyone’s money,
kid, but no one’s stepped up to fight Hank. His reputation has preceded him. After what he did to Grant last week, I can’t find anyone to go toe-to-toe with him.”
Parker looked around before answering him, “Not for a bet, Mac. I want in the ring. I want to fight Hank.”
Mac stopped counting his coins and looked up confused for a moment then laughed. Parker was tall for his age, his frame was lean and muscular, but fully dressed he looked like a beanpole. “Be serious, kid. You can’t go in there. You look like you couldn’t give a stray dog a run for its money.”
If you only knew, Parker thought.
Undeterred, Parker continued his pitch, “That’s exactly why I’m the perfect man for the job. You’ll be able to set the odds at whatever you want, and you’ll still draw plenty of action.” He tried a different tact, “People would love to see Hank break me in half.”
Mac shook his head and put up a hand, shaking it. “No way. If word spreads that I’m putting kids in the ring, the Capitol’ll shut me down faster than you can say Queen Bitch.”
Parker thought about saying ‘Queen Bitch’ but decided snark wasn’t a good choice right now. “I turned eighteen last month, Mac. I’m legal now. There’s no legal problem for you.”
Mac chortled. “Just a number, kid. That argument won’t fly. Not with the Governor, nor with the people.” He pointed to himself. “I’m a businessman first and foremost, Parker. I can’t have my customers turning away because I let you get mauled. It’d be bad for business.”
Parker leaned forward on the table. “What’s bad for business, Mac, is not having fights for people to bet on.” He argued, “Come on. Give me a shot. If shit goes sideways, I’ll call it.”
Mac scratched his graying beard a few moments, considering before he nodded. “OK, kid. One shot. But don’t get your ass handed to you. You’re dear, old dad would never forgive me.”
The mention of his father only fueled Parker’s appetite for the ring. His old man had gone off to strike it rich on a new mining operation deep in the Heights.
It was a fool’s errand.
If his dad had told the truth about what he was doing, then odds were good he had been buried in a landslide or crushed to death by a mountain troll or whatever creatures lived beyond the walls of Arcadia.
But Parker suspected that his father was more coward than fool. He probably used the new mine as an excuse to get out of the city and away from his family. Either way, he was never coming back.
His mother, of course, believed that his father would return one day, with a cart full of diamonds and enough money to take them out of the slums. But deep down, Parker assumed that the guy found his only way out of Queen Bitch Boulevard—and the rest of them were left to fend for themselves.
“Thanks, Mac. I won’t let you down.”
****
Ezekiel sat at the city gate, resting his legs. Traffic was picking up and a long line had formed of people waiting to make their way into Arcadia. He watched in amazement as the travelers took turns through the large gate.
A pair of Capitol guards lounged on either side of the roadway. Their work of inspection was done with a certain level of casualness if done at all. Most of those entering were farmers who made up the region immediately outside the city. The land surrounding Arcadia was lush, and agriculture thrived for miles beyond the walls. It was part of what made Arcadia great, why it was founded here to begin with.
The city had access to enough fresh produce and meat to let its population grow, and due to the taxes levied by the Capitol, farmers had to sell within Arcadia’s markets if their land was within ten thousand paces of the gate.
After a mile of farmer carts rolled through, a half-dozen mystics with their gentle faces and perfect robes ambled into the city.
The guards stood back, giving them more room than was necessary. The mystery surrounding these monastic people preceded them, and most Arcadians offered a wide berth. Tales flowed like Mule Head Mead concerning the abilities and power of the mystics, though no one in town had ever seen their powers manifest.
Adrien had forbidden it within the city limits. Nevertheless, it seemed as if this small group of men and women still found it worthwhile to make the long trek down from their mountain temple. They brewed a potent drink up in the mountains and were happy to sell it in Arcadia.
From what Ezekiel could tell, Arcadians were happy to buy it.
Ezekiel smiled as they passed; a sense of power flowed from their serene forms, one which the old man was quite familiar. The demon’s mask he used was a form of magic like their own. He considered reaching out to them but held back.
Adrien had changed much in his absence. Maybe these people who he once knew so well were friends of his no longer.
Behind the mystics, a group of five men several days away from home trudged along. They pulled a cart along with them, filled to the brim with their game and pelts of the smaller animals they had cleaned in the field.
When Ezekiel was a man forty years younger, before he had left on his half-century sabbatical, Ezekiel had hoped that Arcadia would become a place like this, a place for the nations, a place that would welcome all people.
And, at least in part, it had.
But in his absence, the city had become something more. More powerful than he could have imagined, more prosperous, and unfortunately, more cruel. He had seen that firsthand.
Stretching his legs, Ezekiel stood up, stretched and then continued on his journey back into town.
He had already seen the marketplace and all that it had to give the city. It's bustling crowds and eager vendors were appropriate for a city the size Arcadia. And although it also attracted less seemly characters, it wasn't far from what he imagined a marketplace could be.
Just south of the market, he had experienced the Queen’s Boulevard, what the locals called Queen Bitch Boulevard.
Named after the Matriarch, Irth’s God-Queen of old, QBB had the lowest elevation of any of the quarters. The nobles liked to say, “All the scum runs downhill in Arcadia.” And in a way, they were right.
In contrast to Ezekiel’s hopes, not all thrived in his city.
The slums were an aberration. Ezekiel had yet to learn their cause. But its inhabitants persisted through their squalor, and, for the most part, were good folks. Nevertheless some of the dwellers, down on their luck and desperate for survival, did things that would make a noble woman blush.
Queen Boulevard was the most disconcerting of Ezekiel’s experiences in the city he once loved. The promise of magic and the hope of what it could offer shouldn’t result in a place like this.
The power of the art was meant to keep poverty and suffering at bay—to enhance prosperity and progress for all. It was clear that something had gone desperately wrong. The old man needed answers. And with the right information at hand, he could bring change.
He’d make a trip to the Academy later. Along with the Capitol, it made up its own quarter, and it was the most prestigious of all. But before making his way towards the halls of higher learning, he had something else to do, someone to find. An old friend that lived in a humble home among the nobles.
CHAPTER FOUR
She knew that the wool hat pulled down over her brow looked ridiculous on the warm summer morning, but Hannah had to hide the mark of the Hunters in some way. Walking around with the tag on her forehead was an invitation she didn’t need to make, and the ratty knit cap was the best disguise she could find.
Hannah hoped that the men who nearly stole the final shred of innocence she maintained might be in recovery after what that demon person put them through. Despite the terror she felt when his hood fell off, today, she thought of him not with disgust, but with appreciation. He saved her life.
Winding her way through the crowd, she found a spot behind a group of rearick near the front of the Pit.
The rearick were short, stocky miners and craftsmen that made their home in half-buried cities in the mountains south of Arcadia called t
he Heights. Although these men were adults, Hannah stood just a little taller than them.
Her dad always said that life working in the caves had made them short, but crazy strong. These men must be unloading ore and crystals here in Arcadia and decided to take a break to watch the entertainment.
There was no better entertainment in Arcadia than the fighting Pit. The audience for the first fight of the day was thicker than usual, and she wondered if her plan was going to work.
“Wildman” Hank paced the ring as the people cheered on their champion. “Wildman. Wildman.” His nickname was well deserved. He had been winning for nearly a year, ferociously tearing through anyone stupid enough to challenge him.
Hank disrupted the entire gambling system out of whack because the only way that people bet on his opponent was if they were desperate enough to hope a long shot might pay off.