by Viki Storm
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
About the Author
© Viki Storm 2018. All Rights Reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form by any means without the prior written consent of the author, except in the case of brief quotations for critical reviews and certain noncommercial uses permitted by law.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, locations, and events portrayed in this work are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.
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Three minutes. That’s all it should take. I put my hand in my pocket and feel the comforting weight of the cold steel in my left hand. I take a deep breath.
Then, with my right hand, I throw the rock.
It’s so much louder than I thought, the crash of breaking glass. The wind will carry the sound. Three minutes. That’s all it should take—all I can afford to take.
I take cover in the darkness, but the darkness will also make my task more difficult. I’ve been spying on this mill every day this week, and I think I know where the bolts are kept—but I didn’t dare spy today. If anyone noticed me snooping around, I could be walking right into a trap.
Normally I’m the one who lays the traps.
I take the long, heavy pair of scissors from my coat pocket. It’s stupid to carry them around—especially on a mission like this, where speed and stealth are everything—but I never go anywhere without them. My good luck charm. These shears have gotten me out of more than one scrape.
I use the long blades to clear out the jagged shards of glass stuck in the window pane. It’s late—too late for anyone to still be inside. But still, I hesitate. I’ve done this a hundred times—could it really be a hundred times?—but now I feel trepidation. The stupid, irrational feeling that I should turn back.
But I can’t do that. The weather is turning cold—and it’s only September. Usually, September in the city is stiflingly hot. Not this year. This is going to be a cold winter—the sort of winter where people burn their furniture to stay warm. The sort of winter that kills.
I must go inside. I must get the wool.
I clamp my hands on the window sill and jump up, scrambling my feet on the wall for purchase. I swing one leg over and dangle, the sill between my legs, carefully trying to get my balance so I can lift up and swing my other leg over.
“Hey,” someone says—and before I can blink, there’s a hand clamped around my ankle. A strong hand. I jerk my knee, but the grip only tightens—the hand easily clamping down, yanking.
Then I’m falling. Thankfully, the window isn’t that high up—but I land on my back and all the air belts out of my lungs with a sick wheeze.
“That’s her,” somebody else says. This voice is different—a little nasally, like he’s been bonked on the nose more than once.
“Hard to tell,” the first guy says. I can’t see anything but the stars above—pinpricks in the black sky. Then two faces rove into view, hovering above me.
They wear the blue coats of the constabulary. Shit. I spring into action. Ignoring the pain in my back, I roll over and scramble onto my hands and knees.
They also wear the black leather boots of the constabulary—and I feel one of them drive directly into my stomach. I curl up, the pain coming in hot, white waves.
“You think this is really Arachne?” one of them says. He has a deeper voice—incongruous with his long, scrawny neck and bobbing Adam’s apple.
“It’s gotta be,” the nasally one says. He’s got a weasel’s face—long teeth and a flat, upturned nose. “She’s the one I seen nosing around here.”
“I can’t even tell,” Mr. Scrawny Neck says. He bends down and reaches for the knit cap I have pulled down over my face. I made it myself—with only two eye-holes to see out of, the dark yarn covers my entire face and neck. I inch my hand towards my pocket.
Maybe those scissors can get me out of one last scrape.
He yanks the cap off and the cold air stings my sweaty face. “That’s gotta be her,” the Weasel says. “Who else is going to break into the textile mill again?”
Shit. I should have waited longer between raids. I hit this same factory in March, when spring was nowhere in sight and the little ones had worn-out their winter clothes. Now, just a few months later, it’s already cold again. Last time I was too greedy. I took eight bolts of wool, plus blades and an entire crate of cotton thread—about fifteen-thousand dollars’ worth of materials. I was busy—had to recruit a lot of the little ones to help, but now almost every prole in the city is wearing one of my coats, or sleeping under one of my quilts, or wrapping their fingers in one of my gloves.
Almost everyone got properly outfitted that long winter. I didn’t need to hit up this factory again so soon. But I did. A few weeks ago, when I was doing my rounds, I smelled the lanolin in the air and knew they were spinning inside the factory. After spinning comes the weaving—and I knew it would only be a matter of time before the bolts of wool were ready. I just couldn’t help myself.
And here I am—on the cold ground, two constables turning my insides to mashed potatoes.
“What a catch,” Scrawny Neck says. He’s the younger of the two. “You owe a lot of money to a lot of people. Factory owners, dressmakers, tailors.”
“They’re thieves,” I spit. The clothiers of the city only produce for the wealthy. Why toil away making fifty reasonably-priced coats that the proles can afford when you could just make one coat for some rich bastard? They’re lazy. They’re greedy. They deserve to be burgled.
“They’re thieves?” Weasel says, letting out a cruel laugh. “You—with one foot inside the factory and an empty rucksack over your shoulder—call the honest merchants of this city thieves?”
“Yes,” I say. Weasel punctuates the end of my sentence for me—with his boot.
“This bitch is Arachne,” Scrawny Neck says. He holds my knit cap inside-out, the little white tag on display for Weasel to behold. Pride. My other sin. Nothing but vainglory makes me add those labels to my work. It takes extra effort, to be sure.
Pride goeth before the fall—isn’t that what the Brothers and Sisters always preach?
“Looks like you’re the one caught in the web now,” Weasel says. He puts his boot on my neck—and he’s not afraid to really lean into it. He takes a knee, still keeping his foot on my neck, pressing harder, narrowing my windpipe. I breathe slowly. Deeply. Controlled. I won’t let him see how he’s hurting me. I am in control, I try to tell myself. I’m always in control.
He’s bent before my face, turned at an odd, downward angle. I could probably get my scissors out and into the nice
meaty flesh of his thigh. But, then what? Best to think these things through.
He fists the collar of my coat and peers down, looking for the tag. “Yep,” he says, “Arachne.” I stitch a little spider on a scrap of white cotton and sew it into the hem of every garment I make.
Vainglory. Pride.
And now, goeth the fall.
“Who’d have thought this little girl was responsible for so much trouble?” Weasel says. “You quietly steal more than the big, brash kids who mug decent folk on the streets—or the syndicates who run the streets.”
“Because they’re fools,” I say. And they are. The petty gangs and organized syndicates sell alcohol and sex. Those things always sell, to be sure, but to a relatively limited audience. But a warm pair of trousers and thick coat? That’s something that everyone needs.
Winter comes for us all.
“Maybe,” the Weasel says. He grinds his boot left to right, like he’s stomping on a particularly stubborn roach. I suppose—to his mind—he is. “But you don’t look too smart right now, do you?” He repositions so that he’s now kneeling on my neck, able to lean forward and crush more with the heft of his frame.
I slip my hand into my inner, hidden coat pocket and wrap my hand around the handle of my scissors. I tuck them back into the waistband of my pants. Maybe, if I get the opportunity. If I make the opportunity. Men like these constables, they’re usually easy to play.
“What are you waiting for,” Scrawny Neck says. “Get the cuffs on her.”
“Hold on, now,” the Weasel says. “Maybe we can work something out.”
“I have money,” I croak. I don’t. Not really. My throat is starting to burn, and I need to say something. I need to stall.
“I bet you do,” Weasel says. “After all the stuff you’ve stolen, you’d better have money—otherwise you’re dumber than you look.”
“Money?” Scrawny Neck says. He sounds unsure. That’s fine. I know that Weasel is the one I have to convince. Weasel’s the greedy one. Greed is the mask over the eyes of good judgment.
I should know.
“Nah,” Weasel says. “Money doesn’t mean anything to an uppity bitch like you. You don’t do this for the money, do you?”
I hate it because he’s right. I hardly charge anything for my products—just enough to get by. And if there’s kids? Most of the time I just end up giving the stuff away for free.
“Maybe you could give us something that you actually value?” Weasel says. “An uppity bitch like you? I bet that’s your pride.”
Am I that transparent? That simplistic? Are my heart and mind so easy to read that this overgrown brute knows me inside and out?
“Hey,” Scrawny Neck says. “Come on, now. What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about this uppity bitch, on her knees in an alleyway, with one cock in her mouth and another in her ass,” Weasel says. “How’s that for the famous Arachne? The folk hero seamstress, splayed out and pounded by the constables she thought she could outsmart. What do you say to that?”
He leans his knee even harder onto my throat. I can’t help but gasp for some air. He laughs.
Go ahead and laugh. He thinks he’s giving me some hope—that I’m so stupidly desperate to get out of this that I’d really believe he’d let me go. Yeah, right. I don’t trust anyone—and a constable is the last person on Earth I’d be stupid enough to trust.
Make the opportunity, I remind myself. “Yes,” I pant. “I’ll do anything. Please.”
“That’s what I thought,” the Weasel says. He reaches forward to get my coat off.
This is when I have to take the chance. I can’t risk them getting my coat off and seeing my shoulder.
I take my scissors and plunge them right into his chest. They’re sharp and sink in easily—his flesh giving no more resistance than an overripe tomato.
“Fuck,” Scrawny Neck shouts. His face is a perfect ‘O’ of shock. I get to my feet and take off down the alleyway. If I can just get one or two blocks head start, I can duck into any one of the tenements. In this neighborhood, everyone’s wearing one of my coats—and will gladly hide me until the heat dies down.
My throat is on fire, my ragged gasps for air like a hideous claw down my throat. The end of the alleyway is actually getting closer. I can turn right or left and disappear into the huddled tenements. I can hear Scrawny Neck’s feet pounding on the ground behind me, but there’s no way he can catch me.
He’s running for an arrest. I’m running for my life.
Then, out of nowhere, shadows subsume the entrance to the alleyway—a solid bulwark standing right in my way. What the hell? What are the odds that another constable just happened to be here and heard the scuffle?
As I approach, that’s when I see the shadow is no constable.
Constables don’t have big, bald heads and red skin. Constables are not towering, hulking, muscular creatures. Constables are not armed with batons that send a blast-wave through your insides, until you’re nothing but red jelly smeared on the street.
No. Standing right in front of me are two Zalaryns.
And suddenly, my night just got a whole lot worse.
Every time I go to Gunga’s shop, I have to have at least two cups of freykka under my belt—but never more than four. Two or three cups takes all the sharp edges off of the situation. Things don’t seem so bad. Everyone’s my friend.
Last time, I made the mistake of visiting Gunga after quite a few cups past my usual limit. The sharp edges were back—jagged and dripping blood. Things seemed hopeless. Everyone was my enemy.
This time, however, I don’t have the time to get even the slightest bit intoxicated—so I must face this slithering villain stone-cold sober.
I weave my way through the heart of the capitol, through the buildings and market stalls—then through the other side: where the deals are done in whispers and where disputes are either won or lost depending on the number of teeth knocked loose with the blunt end of an anankah.
Where males like Gunga have eked out tenuous, crooked little empires.
His shop is a run-down boot repair store. I wonder who he strong-armed it from. Some lowly shopkeeper who was swimming in debt? Or perhaps this place had never repaired shoes—perhaps it had always been a front for males like Gunga.
I step inside and two males stand up immediately, crossing their arms and blocking my way. “Do you have an appointment?” one of them asks me. I know both of these little sneaks: Miigko and Lirxi. They were always sniffing around downtown, trying to get scraps of work from the black market bosses, rather than training in the yard with the rest of the lads.
I know, because I too spent much of my youth hanging around downtown instead of battling in the training yard.
“Yes,” I say. I reach into my waist-pouch and both of the goons snap into action, bracing me against the wall.
“Easy, now,” Miigko says.
“What’s in the pouch?” Lirxi says. The amusement in his voice is clear, as if he’s been waiting all day to give me a hard time, and he can’t believe his patience has finally paid off.
“Your mother’s love letters,” I say. “She keeps writing them to me, but I keep telling her that our business ended when I got my money back from the brothel keeper. He apologized deeply for selling merchandise past its prime.”
“Real cute,” Lirxi says. “You oughta know, considering your sister’s the pro.”
“The only thing I know,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady and playful—trying to keep the muscles in my jaw from knotting as I clench my teeth, “is that in primitive human societies, only eunuchs were chosen to guard the harems. I assume that Gunga has adopted the same practice.”
Lirxi and Miigko exchange a puzzled look. They both know they’ve just been insulted, but aren’t sure how badly.
“I have a payment, you louts,” I say, when they don’t release my arms from the wall, “and you can explain to your boss why it’s late.”
�
�Oh, yes,” Lirxi says with a smile. “Your payments. How many do you have left?”
“So many that you never learned to count that high,” I tell him. “Can I see Gunga? Or are you going to keep me here so you can fondle my muscles a little longer?”
Both of the goons let go of my arms with a disgusted flourish—Miigko even conspicuously wiping the palm of his hand on his breeches. I don’t have the patience to deal with these boobs on a good day, when I have a nice buzzing in my head from freykka—let alone today, when I’m about to leave for Fenda.
“We’ll see you next time,” Miigko says.
“And the time after that,” Lirxi says. “Pretty much every week, isn’t that right?”
“Maybe longer,” I say. “If you keep talking, and I break your teeth, and Gunga tacks your dental expenses onto what I already owe him.”
I brush past them and go through the back door. Gunga is sitting at his desk, several comm-screens lit up before him, displaying names and numbers. His ledgers must take up terabytes; he misses no detail and records everything.
“Ayvinx,” Gunga says. “Right on time this week.”
“Not a problem,” I say. Gunga is an older male, but you could never tell it from first glance. He stands tall and poised, his muscles are firm and the skin on his face is tight. But he’s seen at least sixty summers and has the shrewd, greedy wisdom of a man who’s seen twice that many.
“I was rather hoping you’d be late with your payment again this week,” Gunga says. He reaches for the coin, and the sight of his eager, outstretched hand makes me rage inside. I’d love to take each of those long fingers and bend them backwards, until they snap like twigs. I take the small satchel of coins from my waist-pouch and toss them onto his desk. It’s a petty, immature gesture—but I can’t help feeling petty and immature right now.
“I bet,” I say. I’m grinding my teeth together so hard I can feel the blood whooshing through my ears from the strain of it all.
“Last week’s payment was so much more… enjoyable,” he says, drawing out the last word as if actually speaking it through the throes of connubial pleasure. “I wouldn’t mind if Loza made more of the payments. She’s such a sweet girl—hardly deformed at all. Such a pleasure to do business with.”