Chapter 5
Hooking left onto the Chimes Way, Fen shook the girl and the gang from his mind, then fell in line with the rest of the shuffling traffic, glancing up as he did so at the hundreds of chains that swayed and jingled in what little breeze moved through the Pinprick. It was like walking into a storybook jungle; into one of those far-off places in the Hamal or Procyon Clusters where the isles grew thick with trees big as the Sentinel, and plant-ropes called vines hung down all over the place. At an earlier age, Fen might have imagined himself as the Wilderman, a pulp fiction hero who grew up in the wild after his parent’s airship crashed in one of those distant jungles. Swinging from vine to vine with the native gargoruls, fighting barbarian Glutborn tribes, Elwyn witch-weavers, and Candaran patrols (usually to save his love), the Wilderman was a force to be reckoned with. But Fen wasn’t that age anymore, and Eddy wasn’t there to pretend at being Elaine; and the chains…those were just leftovers from some earlier utility lost over the decades…or centuries.
Fen really wasn’t sure how old Junction was, nor did he particularly care. The city had always been, and so had the Rat Warrens as far as he cared. And he just kept shuffling with the line towards the Skylight without saying a word; without pretending he was the Wilderman. It took all his concentration at that point just to choke back the fear setting him to quaking.
Up until then, Fen hadn’t dared approached the Skylight by day, not since the scamp lost his thumbs. Even regular adult ratties weren’t allowed to loiter beneath the Skylight, let alone rat pups. It was said Boss Trask hated children with a passion, and sometimes went sport hunting in the Chimes Way with his dangermen and bruisers; something Fen had heard called pup punting. Enough of his mischief mates told horror-stories about it that he’d never pressed his luck by trespassing in the rat lord’s domain…not alone anyway…not until now.
It was Lydia who typically dealt with the Exchange when it came to some of their goods; being on the cusp of adulthood as she was, and being a girl to boot. Fen had accompanied her enough times to know the rat lord’s men took a shining to her, and he’d had to grit his teeth and bear the catcalls and wandering hands thrust her way. As for Lydia, however, she seemed to deftly slip through their dirty old groping hands with an ease, and with not much grumbling. But today, today was different. Today Fen was a man, well…at least sort of. Mostly, he had to do this himself because Lydia would probably scalp him for not following through with disposing of the money.
Taking a deep calming breath, the boy-rogue stepped past the chalk line and into the Pinprick’s wash; though the light wasn’t direct this afternoon, and the Node hung in gray twilight as a result. He’d hoped for some sun, like the sort from the trial all those years ago, but today wasn’t the day.
“Whoa! Stop right there,” hollered a sunkeeper as Fen came strolling towards the Sentinel. Beneath the Skylight, the tree’s scraggily up-turned leaves looked like the sparse hairs of an old man. Fen had been about to round his way left towards the stairs to the Bartermen’s Exchange when the rat lord’s Node enforcer came swooping out of nowhere to cut him off. “Now you rat pups know there’s no lollygagging ‘neath the Pinprick, so off with you.”
But Fen stood his ground and looked up to the man coolly. “I’m on course for the Bartermen’s,” he replied, confident, but the thickset keeper just gave him a dark look of skepticism, and folded his arms over his chest. With jet-black eyes he glared down, adding a scowl to scare off the pipsqueak caught beneath his broad shadow.
But Fen didn’t back down, and instead narrowed his eyes and stepped up like he’d seen his sister do time and time again. “I got business.” He realized he could have avoided the whole rigmarole had he just come during the dark hours, but his eagerness to cash-out for some tokens overrode any sensibilities.
“Business? A little rat pup like you? What for? Need some baby’s milk for you tummy-wummy?”
“Only if it’s coming straight from the source,” Fen stated, straight-faced and bold.
The man took a moment to ponder the meaning of this comment, and then broke into uproarious laughter when he got it. “You got chops, kid, and a wit to match,” he admitted, wiping a mirthful tear from the corner of his eyes. “So alright, off with you… you and your business.” The amused keeper stepped aside and motioned for Fen to move along. “But if I see you linger a half-second longer than need be, I’ll flay the skin off your ass, boy. Remember, there be ratties ‘neath the Skylight that’ve paid a well bench-rent to be enjoying the light, and dangermen and bruisers’ll do worse to you then I for disturbing the peace, so mind the line and bee it straight to the stairs.”
“I got’cha, chum,” grumbled Fen, “It’s not my first go-about in the Node. I know the deal.”
Passing by rough-cut benches chocked-full of loungers, Fen glanced right, towards the nearby bay windows of the Claw’s Cradle, and found a host of smartly dressed dangermen sitting just on the other side of the greasy glass. They seemed to be enjoying the tavern’s vices, and Fen tried to imagine his father doing likewise, but then Art never could hope to afford a window seat. He’d had probably done all his drinking in the subbasements with the rest of lowly ratties. So Fen turned his attention back to the benches lining the stairwell and instantly spotted the one him and his family had stood on that day, years back. Now, it held two fat traders, a haggard consort, and a block of muscle that must have been a bruiser owing to his square jaw, mashed-up face, and the cauliflower ears. With his arms around the consort, the violent look the brute flashed Fen all but cried his profession aloud, and it was with relief when Fen mounted the stairs and sprang past the other scroungers, trollers, and trudgers all heading down on route for the Bartermen’s.
The Exchange existed in what must have been an old brick cistern at one time; a deep and cylindrical borehole from which a broader, but low-ceilinged arcade ran off to the north once you hit bottom. For the sake of the bartermen, and the hundreds of traders who conducted business down there, some rat lord ages ago had swallowed the expense of running electricity. Around the perimeter he’d strung globe-arcs that came spiraling down from the ceiling, and then took to stretching back and forth across what the regulars called the Boulevard.
Beneath the arc-lights’ jaundiced glow, the Bartermen’s Exchange grew into a hodgepodge of stalls, booths, and tents all crowded together into one giant, elongated market, and all of it officially ‘licensed’ under the rat lord. Beyond the fact the bruisers tanned the hide of any thief caught stealing from the Exchange, Fen didn’t much know what the difference was between trading down there and, say, trading with mongers and flea-peddlers in the various slum boroughs. Though the fact Fen was here braving the Exchange said it all. No one outside had much to trade when it came to notes (except scamps, and Fen still liked to believe he wasn’t in danger of losing his thumbs).
Down in the crowded market, Fen floundered through the crowds looking for some inconspicuous stall to trade his goods at. In the beginning he wanted to find the best rate of exchange, but the hustle and bustle made his head spin and soon he was just looking to get it over with. Though the rest of the Warrens were crowded through and through, the byways and corridors were seldom this noisy. After all, the poor hadn’t much to say to one another beyond a few simple pleasantries…or insults depending on the circumstances, and when they moved about it was usually with purpose, and in one direction. But down in the Exchange, the person walking in front of Fen was liable to suddenly cut right or left or stop altogether when something bright and shiny caught their eye. People were constantly bumping into him, and then would yell at him for being in the way.
Eventually Fen happened upon a stall with an older gent who had a wrinkled face and a kind smile, but then he’d undercut him on the exchange and gave Fen just two tokens for one note. He’d seen others, even at the stall next-door, hawking at three per, and yet in the end he’d only gotten the two with that deceptive old scoundrel. So then he tried a middle-aged woman, thinking
her maternal instincts (or whatever), would work to his advantage, but she went ahead and robbed him even worse. The old cow only gave him only one for one, and when he complained, and asked for the note back, she just cackled at him.
“Litt’l Rat scat like you’s even lucky to find a Ludwig,” she bellowed, red-faced and jowls all a-shaking, “so just take your token and piss off, ‘for I call down the bruisers. Tell’um you robbed me, and haul you off to the sweaty… o’ better yet, been scampin’, that I wills. Oh, and they’ll teach you a measure of what be fair and not, alright—take your thumbs—so just get!”
Fen might have gone ahead and decked the fat broad in her flapping mouth, but he didn’t want to bring down the bruisers, and besides, he knew he still had a whole ruck full of notes stashed away. In the end, the joke was on her really, and he tossed the token right back at her face, then slipped into the crowd while she bayed and bellowed like a cow. After that he stopped trusting in appearances.
From then on out Fen counted on younger men and women, especially those who looked desperate or worn-down. Most gave him a close on three for one rate, while one vacant looking button merchant (near about Lydia’s age), gave him a full-on four. By the time Fen had pawned the last of his notes, he could barely keep his pants up anymore, and the pockets were near bursting with close on twenty score in tokens. The clatter was unbelievable. He’d enough to buy bench-rent for two days plus, and that had him grinning from ear to ear and whistling a tune as he went jangling back up the stairs to the Node.
Fen shouldn’t have been surprised at all when he got jumped halfway up. It happened in a flash, and the first punch broke his nose and put a flood of tears in his eyes. After that, he was basically blind to the beating he received, but he heard what must have been half his tokens scatter and bounce down the stairs in a hellish jangle, while people cried and fought one another to gather them up. As for the other half, he felt hands plunging in and out of his pockets grabbing loot by the fistfuls, and when it was all gone they left him lying torn and bleeding on the stairs.
Someone gave him a sharp kick to the ribs not soon after it was all over, but that turned out be a rowdy bruiser. “Move it off the stairs, boy, this ain’t a hotel, and you’re getting blood all over the place,” he ordered.
Prompted by another sharp kick, this time to the guts, Fen heaved himself up, coughing and sputtering and trying not to bawl. He began stumbling up the stairs in retreat when someone nearby shouted, “The boy was chockfull of tokens, mate,” which was about all it took for the bruiser to reconsider his leniency and seize Fen by the collar.
“Tokens? And full of them, you say?” inquired the bruiser with harsh severity, jerking Fen around and holding him dangling at arm’s length.
“A fortune’s find,” that someone relied back, and when the bruiser spoke next it was to his captive. “And where did a little rat pup like you scrounge up a ‘fortune’s find’ in tokens, hmm?” His voice rumbled.
“They were mine,” Fen strained, choking on his collar and filled everywhere with pain. He was about ready to spill his stomach’s contents on the stairs too.
“As likely a story as the return of the Enox, there boy. Best we go to the clink to sort this one out proper.” The brute turned to drag the boy away to the rat lord’s prison when someone else interrupted. “No need there, friend,” called out a soothing male voice, but Fen found it difficult to locate the source through all the blood and tears.
“And why’s that, Time?” asked the bruiser sharply.
“‘Cause the kids one of my trudgers; off on a Barterman’s errand—”
“Said they were his though…” the bruiser challenged. Fen could just make out a wavering ghost clacking its way up the stairs after them.
“A misspoken word uttered in dazed stupidity. Friend, just look at the pup, he’s a mess… probably thinks he’s the boss of the Pinprick if you ask him.”
The bruiser took a moment to reason it out, then asked. “Aye… So you vouch?” Fen felt the iron grip on his collar relax, and he might have fallen had a pair of hands not come to a rest on his shoulders and steadied him. The battered boy flinched against the touch anyway, but when the grip turned out to be loose, and the guiding direction it gave gentle, he relaxed. “I got you,” this savior whispered very near to his ear. Then to the bruiser he said, “of course I vouch for one of mine. Though the bank he dropped’ll cost me a week’s profit for sure.”
“I could go-ahead and haul him off to the sweaty for you, if you’d like.”
“No, no, so’t goes. I’ll handle him personally…though he screws up again and he’s yours to tenderize for sure.” Satisfied, the bruiser lumbered off on patrol again, and this man took Fen and guided him away. “Come along,” he said, “let’s get you cleaned up, kid.”
Fen was led back down the stairs, once more into the Bartermen’s Exchange, but, beyond all the tears and sweat and blood in his eyes, it was just a shimmering nebula pixelated by points of light. The man easily guided them both however, navigating with expert precision through the chattering crowds, and Fen took comfort in the man’s strong perfume. It was something spicy and sweet and just bold enough to be a statement, but not so much as to be gagging and cloying. It reminded him of his father, back before they were forcibly removed from their tenement, before Art had started smelling sour; of booze sweated out through oily pores.
Eventually Fen and his savior left the crowds and when the noise tapered to a murmur the boy knew they’d entered some sort of structure. By then his vision had cleared enough to detect the color red surrounding him, and after a few minutes of wiping at his eyes he could make out rows of shelves standing about a head shorter than he. The stranger had disappeared, only to reappear a moment later with a damp washcloth that he pushed into Fen’s scraped-up hands.
“Go ahead and wipe the filth from your face, kid. Certainly did a number to you, didn’t they? Seems to me you’re a lucky one—bunch a feral rat pups. Didn’t shank or prick or cut you at all though…near as I can tell anyway, and you got all your teeth too it seems.”
“What happened,” mumbled Fen around a fat lip. His voice sounded weird in his own ears, and when he reached up and touched his face he found most of it swollen. His tongue also hurt, and a little tender exploration revealed he’d bit near clean on through it.
“Sit down first, kid, before you pass out on my floor. Don’t need customers tripping over you.”
Once more the bloodied child found himself being maneuvered around like some cart; the motion dizzying and roiling his stomach, but he managed to catch more of his surroundings. He was standing in a fabric stall fashioned of red cloth…more of a piecemeal tent really, and filled with various items for sale, most of which looked close to brand-spankin’ new. But before he could reason out the details, the man was shoving him into a corner chair tucked in the elbow of two taller shelves.
For the first time they came face to face. “So you ask me, what happened to you?” the man reiterated. He studied the boy closely while leaning on his haunches. “Well, how I see it, what happened to you is what we call a good ol’ fashion pop and rob, kid.” The man grinned, and the waxed corners of his mustache came curling up. He’d a pleasant enough face, free of blemish and wrinkles, and of which Lydia might have called handsome. He wore his hair short and neatly swooped to the side in a dramatic wave that both drew the eye and fascinated. To Fen, this Hierarch leaning in his face and scrutinizing him with colorless eyes looked old, but then being a child everyone looked old. At the least, he figured the gent to be older than Lydia, and by a handful of years—maybe more.
This merchant (as Fen came to think of him), disappeared again a second later but was back almost as quick, carrying a ceramic mug. He presented it to Fen in offering. “Here kid, this’ll help ease the pain and swab out that mouth of yours.”
Hesitant, Fen set the washcloth in his lap and took the offered mug with a shaking hand.
“Drink it up,” encouraged the m
erchant, putting two gloved fingers beneath its bottom and lifting the pungent liquid up towards Fen’s battered lips. “Gotta say, you’re the first rat pup I ever seen squeezed dry of so many tokens. Damn near caused a riot when they all went scattering down the stairs like that; though that’s probably what saved your life. Half the boys who done jumped you went scampering after them and let you be; so’t goes I guess, and lucky for you, I’d say.”
Fen took a draught from the mug and coughed and sputtered at the liquid’s burn; but not from any heat, but from the strength of its distillation. As it settled a riot in his gut, Fen was sure it had to be gutter gin, the taste was unbearable and the smell caustic.
“Good.” The merchant nodded in satisfaction.
Fen dared another sip, which again set him to coughing, and he felt close to being sick. “Which boys,” he spoke hoarsely in distraction, staring down at the milky liquid in the cup and grimacing through the pain of moving his mouth around the words. His mind raced through the list of gangs running the Pinprick. Could have been the Prowlies looking for revenge or the Maze Brawlers having some fun…?
“Which…?” The merchant shrugged. “Who knows? Just another mischief gang causing trouble like always. Bet you know how that is.”
Fen snapped to anger, but found the merchant’s thick and expressive eyebrows cocked and slanted in quizzical regard. It robbed the boy of his fight, and instead he went back to staring down at his drink. After all, this merchant of the Exchange was the only man who’d taken pity on him this day, and being mad at him for being right seemed a piss-poor repayment.
Aethosphere Chronicles: The Rat Warrens Page 4