He stood and dusted himself off. As he did, he noticed a gap under the stairs, a drain of some kind. His fall had uncovered the opening. Hearing the approach of the butcher’s wagon, he quickly slithered inside.
“What will you have today, sir?”
“Goose.”
“No beef? No pork?”
“Tomorrow starts Blood Week, so I’ll wait.”
“I have some right tasty pigeons and a couple of quail.”
“I’ll take the quail. You can keep the pigeons.”
Mince had not eaten since the previous morning, and all their talk about food reminded his stomach.
“Very good, Mr. Jenkins. Are you sure you don’t require anything else?”
“Yes, I’m sure that will be all.”
Jenkins, Mince thought, that is probably the servant’s name, not the master of the house.
Footfalls came down the steps and Mince held his breath as the manservant brushed the snow away from the cellar door with a broom. He opened it to allow the butcher entry.
“It’s freezing out here,” Jenkins muttered, and trotted out of sight.
“That it is, sir. That it is.”
The butcher’s boy carried the goose, already plucked and beheaded, down into the cellar and then returned to the wagon for the quails. The door was open. It might have been the cold, the hunger, or the thought of five silver—most likely it was all three—that sent Mince scurrying inside quick as a ferret without bothering to consider his decision. He scrambled behind a pile of sacks that smelled of potatoes and crouched low while trying to catch his breath. The butcher’s boy returned with the birds, hung by their feet, and stepped out again. The door slammed, and Mince heard the lock snap shut.
After the brilliant world of sun and snow, Mince was blind. He stayed still and listened. The footsteps of the manservant crossed overhead, but they soon faded and everything was quiet. The boy knew there was no way to escape the cellar undetected, but he chose not to worry about that. The next time there was a delivery, he would just make a run for it. He could get through the door on surprise, and no one could catch him once he was in the open.
When Mince looked around again, he noticed that he could see as his eyes adjusted to the light filtering down through gaps in the boards. The cellar was cool, although balmy when compared to the street, and filled with crates, sacks, and jugs. Sides of bacon hung from the ceiling. A small box lined with straw held more eggs than he could count. Mince cracked one of them over his mouth and swallowed. Finding a tin of milk, he took two big mouthfuls and got mostly cream. Thick and sweet, it left him grinning with delight. Looking at all the containers, Mince felt as if he had fallen into a treasure room. He could live there by hiding in the piles, sleeping in the sacks, and eating himself fat. Hunting through the shelves for more treats, Mince found a jar of molasses and was trying to get the lid off when he heard steps overhead.
Muffled voices were coming closer. “I will be at the palace the rest of the day.”
“I’ll have the carriage brought at once, my lord.”
“I want you and Poe to take this medallion to the silversmith. Get him started making a duplicate. Don’t leave it, and don’t let it out of your sight. Stay with him and watch over it. It’s extremely valuable.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“And bring it back at the end of the day. I expect you’ll need to take it over several times.”
“But your dinner, my lord. Surely Mr. Poe can—”
“I’ll get my meals at the palace. I’m not trusting Poe with this. He is going along only as protection.”
“But, my lord, he’s hardly more than a boy—”
“Never mind that, just do as instructed. Where is Dobbs?”
“Cleaning the bedrooms, I believe.”
“Take him too. You’ll be gone all day, and I don’t want him left here alone.”
“Yes, my lord.”
My lord, my lord! Mince was ready to scream in frustration. Why not just use the bugger’s name?
Mince listened for a long time before deciding the house was empty. He crossed the cellar, climbed the steps, and tried the door to the house. It opened. Careful and quiet as a mouse, he crept out. A board creaked when he put his weight on it. He froze in terror but nothing happened.
He was alone in the kitchen. Food was everywhere: bread, pickles, eggs, cheese, smoked meats, and honey. Mince sampled each one as he passed. He had eaten bread before, but this was soft and creamy compared to the three-day-old biscuits he was used to. The pickles were spicy, the cheese was a delight, and the meat, despite being tough from curing, was a delicacy he rarely knew. He also found a small barrel of beer that was the best he had ever had. Mince found himself light-headed and stuffed as he left the kitchen with a slice of pie in one hand, a wedge of cheese in the other, and a stringy strip of meat in his pocket.
The inside of the house was more impressive than the exterior. Sculptured plaster, carved wood, finely woven tapestries, and silk curtains lined the walls. A fire burned in the main room. Logs softly crackled, their warmth spreading throughout the lower floor. Crystal glasses sat inside cherry cabinets, fat candles and statuettes rested on tables, and books filled the shelves. Mince had never held a book before. He finished the pie, stuffed the cheese in his other pocket, and then pulled one down. The book was thick and heavier than he had expected. He tried to open it, but it slipped through his greasy fingers and struck the floor with a heavy thud that echoed through the house. He froze, held his breath, and waited for footsteps or a shout.
Silence.
Picking up the book, he felt the raised leather spine and marveled at the gold letters on the cover. He imagined the words revealed some powerful magic—a secret that could make men rich or grant eternal life. Setting the book back on the shelf with a bit of sadness, Mince moved toward the stairs.
He climbed to the second story, where there were several bedrooms. The largest had an adjoining study with a desk and more books. On the desk were parchments, more mysterious words—more secrets. He picked up one of the pages, turned it sideways and then upside down, as if a different orientation might force the letters to reveal their mysteries. He grew frustrated. Dropping the page back on the desk, he started to leave when a light caught his attention.
A strange glow came from within the wardrobe. He stared at it for a long time before venturing to open the door. Vests, tunics, and cloaks filled the cabinet. Pushed to the rear was a robe—a robe that shimmered with its own light. Mesmerized, Mince risked a hesitant touch. The material was unlike anything he had felt before—smoother than a polished stone and softer than a down feather. The moment he touched the fabric, the garment instantly changed from dark, shimmering silver to an alluring purple and glowed the brightest where his fingers contacted it.
Mince glanced nervously around the room. He was still alone. On an impulse, he pulled the robe out. The hem brushed the floor and he immediately draped it over his arm. Letting the robe touch the ground did not seem right. He started to put it on and had one arm in the sleeve when he stopped. The robe felt cold, and it turned a dark blue, almost black. When he pulled his arm out, the beautiful purple glow returned.
Mince reminded himself he was not there to steal.
On principle, he was not against thieving. He stole all the time. He picked pockets, grabbed-and-ran from markets, and even looted drunks. But he had never robbed a house—certainly not a Heath Street house. Thieving from nobles was dangerous, and the authorities were the least of his worries. If the thieves’ guild found out, their punishment would be worse than anything the magistrate would come up with. No one would raise a stink over a starving boy taking food, but the robe was a different matter. With all the books and writing in the house, it was obvious the owner was a wizard or warlock of some sort.
It was too risky.
What would I do with it, anyway?
While it would put old Brand the Bold’s tunic to shame, he could never put it on. The
robe was too big for him to wear and Mince would not dare cut it. Even if he managed it, the robe would draw every eye in the city. He reached out to put it back in the wardrobe, deciding he could not risk taking it. Once more the robe went dark. Still holding it, he pulled his arm out, and it glowed again. Puzzled but still determined, Mince hung it back up. The moment he let go, the robe fell to the floor. He tried again and it fell once more.
“All right, go ahead and stay there,” he said, and started to turn away.
The robe instantly flared to a brilliant white. All shadows in the room vanished and Mince staggered backward, squinting to see.
“Okay, okay. Stop it. Stop it!” he shouted, and the light dimmed to blue again.
Mince did not move. He stood staring at the robe as it lay on the floor. The light was throbbing—growing bright and dim almost as if it were breathing. He watched it for several minutes, trying to figure it out.
Slowly, he stepped closer and picked it up. “Ya want me to take you?”
The robe glowed the pretty purple color.
“Can I wear you?”
Dark blue.
“So… ya just want me to steal you?”
Purple.
“Don’t ya belong here?”
Blue.
“You’re being held against yer will?”
The robe flashed purple so brightly that it made him blink.
“You’re not—ya know—cursed, are you? Ya aren’t going to hurt me—are ya?”
Blue.
“Is it okay if I fold ya up and stuff ya inside my tunic?”
Purple.
As big as it was, the garment compressed easily. Mince stuffed it in the top of his shirt, making him look like a busty girl. Because he was already stealing the robe, he also picked up a handful of parchments and stuffed them in as well. He was not going to find out who lived there while the occupants were out, and Mince did not want to stick around for them to discover that the robe was missing. Mr. Grim looked to be the type to know letters, or know someone who did. Maybe he could tell enough from the parchments for Mince to win the silver.
Royce sat on the bleachers in Imperial Square, observing the patterns of the city. Wintertide was less than two weeks away and the city swelled with pilgrims. They filled the plaza, bustled by the street vendors and open shops, and shouted holiday greetings and obscenities in equal measure. Wealthy, blanket-wrapped merchants rode in carriages, pointing at the various sights. Visiting tradesmen carried tools over their shoulders, hoping to pick up work, while established vendors scowled at them. Threadbare farmers and peasants visiting Aquesta to see the holy empress huddled in groups, staring in awe at their surroundings.
Betrayal in Medford. Royce read the sign posted in front of a small theater. It indicated nightly performances during the week leading up to Wintertide’s Eve. From the barkers on the street, he determined the play was the imperial variation of the popular The Crown Conspiracy, which the empire had outlawed. Apparently in this version, the plotting prince and his witch sister decide to murder their father, and only the good archduke stands in the way of their evil plans.
Four patrols of eight men circled the streets. At least one group checked in at each square every hour. They were swift and harsh in their peacekeeping. Dressed in mail and carrying heavy weapons, they brutally beat and dragged away anyone causing a nuisance or being accused of a crime. They did not bother to hear the suspect’s side of the story. They did not care who had trespassed on whom, or whether the accusation was truth or fiction. Their goal was order, not justice.
An interesting side effect, which would have been comical if the results had not been so ugly, was that street vendors falsely accused their out-of-town competitors of offenses. Local vendors banded together, forming an alliance to denounce the upstarts. Before long, people learned to gather at the squares just before an imperial patrol was expected to arrive, or follow the men as they patrolled. The spectacle of violence was just one more holiday show.
Two good-sized pigs, attempting to escape their fates of Blood Week, ran through the square, trailed by a parade of children and two mongrel dogs chasing after them. A butcher wearing a bloodstained apron and looking exhausted from running paused to wipe his brow.
Royce spotted the boy deftly dodging his way through the crowd. Pausing briefly to avoid the train chasing the pig, Mince locked eyes with Royce, then casually strolled over to the bleachers. Royce was pleased to see no one watched the boy’s progress too closely.
“Looking for me?” Royce asked.
“Yes, sir,” Mince replied.
“You found him?”
“Don’t know—maybe—never got a name or a look. Got these, though.” The boy pulled some parchments from his shirt. “I snatched them from a house on Heath Street. It has a new owner. Can ya read?”
Royce ignored the question as he scanned the parchments. The handwriting was unmistakable. He slipped them into his cloak.
“Where exactly is this house?”
Mince smiled. “I’m right, aren’t I? Do I get the coin?”
“Where’s the house?”
“Heath Street, south off the top, harbor side, little place right across from Buchan’s Hattery. Ya can’t miss it. There’s a crest of an oak leaf and dagger above the door. Now, what about the money?”
Royce did not respond but focused on the boy’s overstuffed tunic, which glowed as if he had a star trapped inside.
Mince saw his look and promptly folded his arms. Tilting his head down, he whispered, “Quit it!”
“Did you take something else from the house?”
Mince shook his head. “It has nothing to do with ya.”
“If that’s from the same house, you’ll want to give it to me.”
Mince stuck his lip out defiantly. “It’s nothing and it’s mine. I’m a thief, see. I took it for myself in case I got the wrong house. I didn’t want to risk my neck and get nothing. So it’s my bonus. That’s how professional thieves work, see? Ya might not like it, but it’s how we do things. You and me had a deal and I’ve done my part. Don’t get all high-and-mighty or go on about bad morals, ’cuz I get enough of that from the monks.”
The light grew brighter and began flashing on and off.
Royce was disturbed. “What is that?”
“Like I said, it’s none of yer business,” Mince snapped, and pulled away. He looked down once more and whispered, “Stop it, will ya! People can see. I’ll get in trouble.”
“Listen, I don’t have a problem with a little theft,” Royce told him. “You can trust me on that. But if you took something of value from that house, you’d be wise to give it to me. This might sound like a trick, but I’m only trying to help. You don’t understand who you’re dealing with. The owner will find you. He’s very meticulous.”
“What’s that mean… meticulous?”
“Let’s just say he’s not a forgiving man. He will kill you, Elbright, and Brand. Not to mention anyone else you have regular contact with, just to be thorough.”
“I’m keeping it!” Mince snapped.
Royce rolled his eyes and sighed.
The boy struggled to cover up by doubling over and wrapping his arms around his chest. As he did, the light blinked faster and now alternated different colors. “By Mar, just give me the money, will ya? Before one of the guards sees.”
Royce handed him five silver coins and watched as the boy took off. He ran hunched over, emitting a rapidly blinking light that faded and eventually stopped.
Mince entered the loft by climbing to the roof of the warehouse, pulling back a loose board near the eaves, and scrambling through the hole. The Nest, as they dubbed their home, was the result of poor carpentry. A mistake made when the East Sundries Company had built their warehouse against the common wall of the Bingham Carriage House & Blacksmith Shop. A mismeasurement had left a gap, which was sealed shut with side boards. Over the years, the wood had warped.
While trying to break into the warehous
e, Elbright had noticed a gap between the boards that revealed the hidden space. He never found a way into the storehouse, but he had discovered the perfect hideout. The little attic was three feet tall and five feet wide and ran the length of the common wall. Thanks to the long hours of the blacksmiths, who usually kept a fire burning, it was also marginally heated.
A collection of treasures gathered from the city’s garbage littered The Nest, including moth-eaten garments, burned bits of lumber, fragments of hides tossed out by the tanner, cracked pots, and chipped cups.
Kine lay huddled in a ball against the chimney. Mince had made him a bed of straw and tucked their best blanket around him, but his friend still shivered. The little bit of his face not covered by the blanket was pale white, and his bluish lips quivered miserably.
“How ya doing?” Mince asked.
“C-c-cold,” Kine replied weakly.
Mince put a hand to the brick chimney. “Bastards are trying to save coal again.”
“Is there any food?” Kine asked.
Mince pulled the wedge of cheese from his pocket. Kine took a bite and immediately started to vomit. Nothing came up, but he retched just the same. He continued to convulse for several minutes, then collapsed, exhausted.
“I’m like Tibith, ain’t I?” Kine managed to say.
“No,” Mince lied, sitting down beside him. He hoped to keep Kine warm with his body. “You’ll be fine the moment the fire is lit. You’ll see.”
Mince fished the money out of his other pocket to show Kine. “Hey, look, I got coin—five silver! I could buy ya a hot meal, how would that be?”
“Don’t,” Kine replied. “Don’t waste it.”
“What do ya mean? When is hot soup ever a waste?”
“I’m like Tibith. Soup won’t help.”
Heir of Novron Page 15