by SL Figuhr
Again they looked to each other. “We realize you are newly arrived, and have just been granted leave to become a citizen. It is why we thought to trouble you with the issue of the theft. Nobles prefer to mete justice out for injustices against them, even those not granted leave to use their titles. We are asking if it would be possible for the person to be handed over to us instead. We implore you to consider our plea.” Mica’s mind was closed to me, just like Eron’s and the little boy’s had been, unless I could find a way to take blood from him. “What does it matter who metes out justice as long as it is done, and why should my being a relative newcomer be a help to you?” I looked to Colin, but it was the other brother who answered.
“In other words, a foreigner would be excused my minor gaffes. This significant object, it is business related?” I inquired. There was something about the story which just didn’t sound right.
“Family and business related, and very dear to us,” Mica said. “Have you heard of the thief?” Colin asked.
I heard Mica’s heart beat faster, felt the rise in heat washing off his skin, a few other minute changes letting me know his anxiety level rose at my response. Strange reaction!
The whole conversation was definitely off. “Why would I agree to become embroiled in your problems? What is it about the person which makes you ask after him in such a strange manner?”
“Most people are inclined to believe a child’s story over two grown men’s; I begin to see your difficulty.” I said. They sucked in a breath, but had not relaxed. “Which means of course I must ask why I should believe your version of events over a child’s.”
They looked miserable, defeated. Colin answered me. “We have no answer. We only ask if you know of, or run across the boy, to be careful of him. If you ask him his side of the story, he will know we are looking for him, and he will run again.”
“And you shall be back to square one,” I added.
“Yes, we shall.” Colin regarded me steadily.
“Perhaps rightly so,” I said as an afterthought.
They inclined their heads. Mica began to talk. “We took the child in when he was eight or nine. He was an orphan at the time, trying to survive on the streets. We started to teach him what we knew of our business. We did not realize the boy had already been taught a trade by another man, was still being taught: how to steal. We noticed stuff missing. At first it was just small objects, small amounts of money. We believed it to be other apprentices, or dishonest servants.”
Colin took up the story next when his brother paused to drink some ale. “We began to travel, setting up our trade routes, taking only the boy with us, at which point we realized our thief was the boy himself. One night my brother and I discussed what we should do: cure him of his stealing, or turn him over to the authorities. He must have overheard us. We went to bed undecided. That night, we woke to find a strange older man in our room tying us up. He and the boy stole everything we had. He would have killed us, but Mica managed to work himself loose and called for help.”
“We found the boy’s accomplice, but not the boy himself. We managed to retrieve some of our possessions, but not our family heirloom. We’ve been tracking him down, and each time we think we’re close, we lose him again,” Mica finished the tale.
I looked at each man in turn. Seriously? That was the best they could do? “What is the family heirloom which makes you chase it down so—the crown jewels?” I asked in jest.
I heard Mica give an exhalation as if relieved that was all I was going to ask. Did they really have nothing to do with the young man carrying the same scent as they, having nightmares of them? I was missing something crucial; time to proceed ever more cautiously. “What does the boy look like? And what is his name?”
Swiss cheese had fewer holes than their story. I thought back to the man I saw and his dreams of being a boy in pre-cataclysmic times. I wondered if their precious object was a grimoire. Were they witches? They were not kin to me, nor did they have the faint scent of animal which denoted a were-creature. Was that why they all smelled the same? What did you call male magic handlers? I had never met a witch before, but it didn’t mean they didn’t exist. I needed them to leave the town before they found out what I was. I had no way of fighting true magic users. Was this why the man’s blood had affected me the way it had? I would have to tread very lightly.
“It is possible I have seen the boy you speak of. The name sounds familiar, although there are any number of nobles and adjuncts to the royal court who could fit your description. I will inquire discreetly for you.” The name, coupled with the man’s nightmares, made me think they did know each other, and were enemies. I could use it to my advantage.
I watched as Colin glanced at his brother, who was struggling to remain neutral. “Not to challenge you or your methods. But could it be executed so the boy doesn’t flee if he is here? Or hears he is being looked for?”
I spread my hands wide. “Of course one can’t always be sure word won’t get to the wrong person. Be that as it may, the person I’m thinking of may no longer care, or think his position is unshakable.”
“I will have to rendezvous with the person of whom I am thinking before I can be positive.” I let them infer what they wanted from the statement. How long had they been looking for the boy? Why did they persist in calling the kid a boy, if Lord Nicky were the same person? The advisor was a young man of nineteen, not twelve. I also didn’t like the fact that if their story wasn't true, they'd be as long-lived as I. Only those who had lived pre-cataclysm would dream or know of modern clothes and inventions. “It would explain in part why we have not heard from the king about our query,” Mica muttered to his brother.
I pretended I didn’t hear. Any royal court is riddled with spies, and trying to keep a secret in court is akin to holding water in a sieve. What kept the boy from using his influence to neutralize men who were a threat to him?
I watched as he blew a frustrated breath out, sipping from his tankard. “We are at an impasse; none of us wish to bring the king bad tidings.”
“Let me see what I can do,” I said, wondering what was in it for me. “It will be safer if there is a plausible reason for us to meet confidentially on a regular basis.”
Colin appeared worried as I continued, “I do not see the problem of my rebel slave dragging on much longer; therefore we cannot use such an excuse. As I recall, you mentioned you are looking to establish a trade route here, and the concessions needed to sell?” They nodded. “As new merchants in town, you will need help. I will get what you need to set up your business faster than the local guilds can, as a silent partner for a cut.”
“We seem to be the ones taking the biggest risk, and now you demand a part of our business? Just what are you suggesting we give you?”
“I am not insensitive to your doubts. I shall be risking much in making sure the boy I know is the one you pursue, and he does not escape should he prove guilty. It is only fair I have a chance to recoup some of the costs. Say forty percent?” I ventured.
I continued, “Are my sources incorrect when they say the sheriff confiscated your possessions in his zeal for upholding the law, as he sees it? And that attempts to retrieve those items have been unsuccessful?” I was fishing, exaggerating what Eron had told me, but by their reactions, I’d touched the truth. The brothers’ faces froze as they drew back from the table.
Colin bowed his head to me. “You must be a hell of a gambler, and a winner.” He had a small smile of amusement at realizing they had been out-bluffed.
“Thirty.”
“Twenty-five, on the conditions already discussed.”
I wanted to move cautiously until I had a little more information and this dolt wanted to go full tilt. "When we are satisfied he meets each of our particular requirements, the ideal time to grab him would be when the king hosts a harvest ball. It is a tradition here I have learned for the tradespeople to attend the Harvest Ball if they have received invitations and can afford to come in cou
rt dress. One may mingle with one’s betters, if only for one night.”
Colin blinked. The distaste on Mica’s face indicated he hated cloakand-dagger shit. “I fail to see how it’s useful. There will be too many guards about, and we would need invitations. Besides, how will you know we are the injured party without questioning him about the specifics, which will make him run?”
I nearly gritted my teeth in vexation. I’m all but handing him to you on a silver platter, and you want to quibble! “I will not kidnap and hold a minor against his will if there is a chance he is innocent. Let me use my plan first. If I think there is a chance he will bolt, I shall detain him.”
If this doesn’t do it for the big lunkhead, what will? I needed them all gone. If the Nicky they sought was the same as the king’s advisor, holding him against his will would escalate matters to a level I wished to avoid. I should have been able to sense the boy as I can everyone else, yet I had not. Only his footsteps and voice. If he as well as they were magic users, that made him an even more dangerous threat to me.
Of course you would think of more!I used my most imperious tone. “None but the most foolish would think to question and risk alienating us when we bring wealth and much needed goods into the kingdom. There are gardens outside the ballroom where you may hide. I will lure the boy outside to you, at which point he can be grabbed and spirited away. I can further ensure the guards will not interfere. Any other objections?”
It is too easy. What we have to offer can’t match the level of generosity and support if she is serious. Mica spoke cautiously, “Your generosity knows no bounds; it is worth more than what we have agreed upon.”
“Believe me, even with papers for twenty-five percent of the trade route, I can recoup any expenses incurred in our venture over the course of my lifetime. Do we have a deal, gentlemen?”
Chapter Twelve
L aughter and shouts from drunken patrons came through the kitchen door. Mary Elana stirred the pot of stew, hoping she needn’t serve with the tavern slaves. A familiar name pricked her curiosity; the servants were gossiping about the new foreign woman, who’d been denied the use of her title by the king. How she had bought the merchant man the sheriff and his group had sold to the slavers.
Laughter rang out; no one with a regard for their long-term safety put themselves in the position of needing or requesting a favor of the king’s advisor.
“Marya from the Whale Tail, she heard it from a slave who heard it from the slaves at the Silver Thorn. That nob got the advisor to promise the sheriff would leave her slaves alone.”
The young girl kept silent as she stirred; so the woman hadn’t lied when she said she could help. Why would a member of the nobility want to help a nobody?
“I heard she be needing slaves, and freeborn, skilled workers. She ain’t got none.” Catya had all the best gossip, as the owner’s favorite slave.
“Like you’d be sold ta the likes of her; what she want with a slut anyway?” a blonde called out as she snapped to the girl, “I need four bowls of stew and hurry up.”
Mary Elana’s mother barely looked up from the meat she was carving. “Don’t you sluts be thinking my Tom will sell the likes of you if you misbehave the way Domiano did. Highborn ladies want female slaves who know their place and ain’t gonna be competition. Now get outta my kitchens. There’s men out there be needing drinks.”
The girl left off stirring at her mother’s command and began to wash the used dishes. The water was cold, greasy and needed changing. She knew her Ma would not let her out of sight while the tavern itself and its yard teemed with patrons. Mary Elana went about her work, the night wore on, and slowly the tavern emptied.
Mary Elana scurried to fill bowls, her stomach rumbling in hunger. She had not been allowed to eat yet, and it looked like she wasn’t going to, either, as her father continued on complaining while he shoveled down stew.
Tom gave a nasty laugh as their daughter dawdled, eavesdropping, until her parents caught sight of her and ordered her back to the kitchen. Catya’s earlier words about food came back to Mary Elana. She felt a curious sensation start in her belly. The girl brought the tray out, the men grabbing the bowls and platters of bread. She only had time for a quick look around the tavern: the usual assortment of patrons, a few hooded and cloaked to conceal their identities. When her tray was empty, Mary Elana retreated into the kitchen, glad the sheriff’s men hadn’t paid much attention to her.
The girl nodded, sitting on a wobbly three-legged wooden stool, looking at the meal before her with new eyes. A not-quite-clean plate held chunks of meat too fatty or gristly for the stew, a burnt heel of bread. A mug held tepid buttermilk.
The typical complaining from the drunks began at her words about Tom closing an hour or two early. The girl approached the last table that held a hooded and cloaked patron.
She lingered a heartbeat, wondering if she dared vocalize help me, just two little words. Mary Elana flinched when her father shouted for her to get back into the kitchen, and scurried to her mother. A pail of scraps for the pig, destined to become dinner for tavern patrons, waited to be taken outside. Mary Elana huddled in her ragged, threadbare dress and shawl as she passed the stable, its doors shut to keep the heat inside, the expanse of yard almost pitch black and silent. The cold ground made her unshod feet burn with pain. The slops in the bucket were better than what her mother had given her to eat.
A squeal from the hog—she realized in horror she had been cramming food from the pail into her mouth. Her stomach roiled, the pail dropping into the pen, spilling what remained. Mary Elana clutched the top rail, vomiting up all she had just eaten, the hog snuffling and grunting as it ate. She sniffled, wiping at the snot running down her nose, dizzy and swaying with fatigue and hunger. What if the merchant man were wrong? What if there was no opportunity for a better life? Even her father’s slaves were better treated than she; they needn’t eat from the pig’s slops What if she had just thrown away her only chance by not asking the lady for help? She sobbed out loud, cramming a fist in her mouth as she leaned against the side of the building. The coins she’d sewn into her dress hem rapped her knees as the wind whirled. Perhaps Mary Elana could warn the lady of the danger she was in—would she hire her in thanks? A sharp sound brought her head up; the side door to the tavern thrust open, a large, dark shape stumbled out, cursing.
The girl huddled down, trying to make herself smaller, listening to the sounds coming from the tavern. The shouts from the tavern sounded different. She was too late. Her father and the sheriff’s men must have already attacked the noble lady.
The sheriff breathed a combination of ale and bad breath onto her as he squinted. “Ain’t youse supposed to be inside, girl? Yeah, I thinks ya are. Yer father thinks he gonna make his fortune offa yer hide.” He gave a bark of laughter at the terrified look on her face.
She felt his fingers ram somewhere they shouldn’t. The jolt of pain brought her out of her frozen numbness. She screamed, loud and long, barely taking in breath between screams. The pail dropped unnoticed from her hands.
“Damn it, Jake! The damn foreign slut be causing trouble! Git in here and takes care of it afore she kills half yer men!” Tom roared, missing his daughter on the ground.
“The stupid bitch knows how to fight! And it ain’t any kind I ever seen before. She already disabled or killed half the damn bar! Just git in here!” Tom spotted two other men walking in the yard as Jake stomped toward the doorway. “Hey! You two get outta here! I told you before not to come begging around here or spouting your stupid religious beliefs!” It was Priester Joseph and Brother John. The men gave her uneasy feelings despite what they preached.
“Whore monger! Sinner! The death lands will have you for your sinful ways! You and your slattern of a wife and daughter selling their bodies,” Priester Joseph yelled in outrage.
Her father’s hobnailed boots stomping across the dirt yard. “Stupid bitch! I told you not to leave the tavern! You better not have tried fucki
ng selling yourself like the whores. You stupid bitch, you’re just like your mother! Neither of you listen!”
Mary Elana sobbed out denials, crawling away from her father’s hands and feet slapping, punching, kicking. He was wild-eyed in rage, a look upon his face she’d never seen before. A revelation came to her: her Pa didn’t care if she lived or died. He thought she was damaged goods and thus worth nothing. A sharp pain lanced through her head, vision growing hazy before she blacked out.
Tom would have continued the assault upon his daughter if he hadn’t also hit the two holy men, purely by chance. They took instant offense and managed to subdue their attacker, alternately praying over and shouting accusations at him.
The girl lying in the dirt woke slowly, moaning in pain as voices continued to rage at each other. Oh no. Where am I? This doesn’t feel like my bed! Why can’t I see?
What did he do? What has my father done to me?!“Nooooo!” she moaned fearfully. “I can’t! Please, I can’t be sightless!” The undernourished girl broke down into wracking sobs, sending a searing pain all through her body.
A cool, rough hand touched her brow, another grasped her hands, a man said “Shh . . . shh now. You’ll be fine. I’m Brother John. You’re outside the Bloody Knuckles, and you’ve been badly injured.”
Brother John remained silent a moment, before gently replying, “Only for a few moments. Would you like to come to our temple with us? We can heal you, both bodily and spiritually. When you are ready, you can take vows to join as a Sister.” He patted her hand kindly.
“Fuck you! You leave the slut alone. She ain’t going anywhere with you or taking any of your crazy vows! Jenfry, get the hell out here and deal with your disobedient slut of a daughter!” Tom yelled.
“You have put the girl’s soul in mortal peril of the wastelands, doomed to burn and wander after death in darkness.” Priester Joseph replied harshly.