The Dungeoneers

by John David Anderson

  Colm sat and sweated and watched.

  That was the first step, he guessed. To watch and take note. So many years of spying on his sisters had at least taught him patience. Riches weren’t hard to spot, but Colm needed accessible riches. He started with the shoes. His father’s voice rang in his head: there was a lot you could tell about a man from what he wore on his feet—the quality of the leather, the thickness of the fur. The clothes too, of course. Silks and felts and richly dyed linen instead of rough-hewn wool. Broad and billowing versus skintight and threadbare. He watched people laugh. Tried to get a look at their teeth. Gold fillings or iron or no teeth at all. The polish of the buckles latching their belts. The number of jewels cresting their knuckles. Ribbons or combs. Hair washed or unwashed. Makeup or not. Women who wore makeup were wealthy. Men who wore it, doubly so.

  He watched for other things. Gaits and stances. Did they walk slowly, determined, aware of their surroundings, or did they hustle, pushing through the crowd, oblivious to the people they bowled over? Did they keep their eyes on their feet or in the clouds? Were their hands empty, or were they burdened with packages and bags? The more distracted the better, he decided. Also, he had to be able to outrun them. He could already outrun seven of his sisters. Only Kale, with her unnaturally long legs, could best him. No matter how it went, the most important thing was not to get caught. There were punishments for pickpockets, much worse than a sting from an angry bee defending its hive. You could wind up short a finger. Or worse.

  Colm looked for swords. Those he wanted to avoid most of all.

  He saw one man with an ax slung across his back, standing at least twice Colm’s size. The man held a whole roast chicken in one hand and was tearing into it, spitting out only the bones too big to chew. He looked completely out of place here, and for a moment Colm wondered if he wasn’t one of them—one of the ones he’d heard about. Colm considered just walking behind this man with his clinking chain-mail shirt and steel-tipped boots and picking up the scraps that fell from his beard. But chicken bones wouldn’t pay for a second bottle of medicine. He needed silver, or gold, better still. The contents of one lord’s purse would be enough to feed him and his sisters for a week.

  The minstrel finished his song to much applause, and passed his hat around. As the crowd started to disperse, Colm finally found what he was looking for.

  The man’s nose was thrust up so high, he couldn’t see what was standing right in front of him. His clothes gave the impression of a gentleman; his bone-white complexion suggested he spent most days indoors, far from hard work. He wore a red tunic and white tights. It was impossible to keep anything white for long in Felhaven, not without constant laundering, and soap was expensive. From one side of the man’s belt hung a dagger, blade barely longer than his own hooked nose, and it was almost enough to convince Colm to keep looking. Except this man didn’t look like he could use the knife for anything other than buttering bread. And besides, on the opposite side from the knife hung the purse, weighty and awaiting.

  Colm watched for another moment. Then he slipped into the throng.

  The man was walking quickly, shouldering his way through clusters of people, headed, it seemed, to the edge of the square, where the crowd was thinner. Perhaps he had finished the business that brought him here, the business that had fattened the sack tied to his waist. Not too tightly, Colm hoped.

  Colm circled around, dodging carts, positioning himself, calculating the distance, keeping a sideways eye on the man’s bobbing head. He would have a second. Maybe two. Any longer, and the man would notice. Colm flexed his four fingers and looked down at his boots, trying not to think about the cobbler who had made them. Instead, he thought of his sisters. Of Seysha sick in bed. Of Celia, who wrote little poems in her head because there was no paper to copy them to. Two seconds. That’s all it would take. Then it would be over, and he would leave.

  The gentleman was right in front of him now. Colm listed to the side. He felt a shoulder press against his own.

  “Watch it, you little whelp!” the man said, his face set in a sneer, looking down the length of his barbed nose.

  “Sorry, sir,” Colm choked. “My apologies. Please excuse me.”

  Colm stepped away, turning, his hands behind his back. He offered a short bow. The man huffed once, then resumed his quick pace, wedging his way through the crowd.

  And forgive me, Colm thought, stuffing his hand into his pocket, feeling the sudden weight of it.

  The purse hadn’t been tied that tight, after all, coming free with a single tug. And the man shouldering his way bluntly through the crowd didn’t seem to notice. Colm stood there in the center of Felhaven, amazed at how easy it had been, how effortless. He hadn’t even thought about it, in the moment; had just acted on instinct. He imagined what it might be like to fill his pocket, both pockets. To be so leaden with coin that he couldn’t lift his feet. Imagined the look on Celia’s face when he showed her what he had done.

  Colm flexed his nimble fingers. Then looked around for more fruit to pick.

  It was near dark by the time he returned, his breeches sagging, his feet sore, his heart thumping rapidly from the excitement of the afternoon. The house was quiet. Everyone was preoccupied with something. He could hear his mother in the cellar. The kitchen, at least, was empty.

  He left it on the table. All of it. Or almost all of it, anyway. He didn’t take the time to stack it, just poured it all out into one giant, tinkling pile. He kept one silver piece himself. Finder’s fee, he thought, tucking it into his pants, into a secret pocket he had sewn there himself to hide trinkets from his sisters.

  He paused a moment and looked admiringly at the shape of it, that mound of silver and gold, how it reflected the last glint of the fading sun that poured through the wide front window. He hadn’t bothered to count it. He only had the coin. The purses of silk and calfskin had been tossed into the river on the way home; he wasn’t sure how to explain them. Of course, he wasn’t entirely sure how he would explain the money, either, but he figured it would be easier without the purses.

  Colm heard heavy footsteps coming from the cellar and retreated before his mother could find him there. He stopped and listened from behind his closed bedroom door. Maybe she would take it for a miracle. Some divine intervention. The gods repaying the Candorly family for all of their honesty and hard work. Maybe she wouldn’t even ask where it came from.

  Through the crack in the door, Colm heard his mother shriek, then yell for one of Colm’s sisters to go and get his father from the barn. Colm almost ran out to her, but then he heard the clomping step of his father, followed by the scuffle of his sisters’ soles on the wood floor. He heard them whispering over one another, their voices impossible to distinguish as everyone shuffled into the kitchen at once.

  “What is it? Is it Seysha? Is she worse?” Colm’s father asked.

  “Seysha’s fine,” he heard his mother say, her voice barely more than a whisper. “It’s—”

  “What is that?” Rove Candorly said. Colm imagined him, eyes wide with wonder, standing at the back door with his cobbler’s hammer hanging by his side, blisters already broken, apron stinking of glue.

  “It looks like money, Papa.” Meera, the third youngest, said. Colm cracked open the door farther, peering out with one eye. They were all standing around the table, just staring at the pile of coin.

  “I know it’s money. What I want to know is, where did it come from? Is this any of your doing?” There was a long pause, long enough for seven sisters to shake their heads. “You?”

  “I have no idea,” Colm’s mother said.

  There was another moment. Then the rafters shook as Colm’s father yelled his name.

  Colm opened the door and stood in the frame, hands tucked into his empty pockets.

  His father knew. Colm could tell just by looking at him. He knew exactly where the money had come from. At the very least, he knew that Colm was responsible. Everyone else’s gaze was fixed on Colm
as well, but only his father’s mattered.

  “Is this yours?”

  Colm swallowed. It seemed like a thorny question. Or at least a matter of perspective. “It’s ours,” he muttered.

  “Where did you get it?” Rove Candorly’s voice was cold. Colm wasn’t sure what he expected. He had hoped for joy. Gratitude. Or at the very least, relief. But all he could sense in his father’s voice was anger. Colm didn’t want to say. He had hoped the answer to that question wouldn’t matter, but to someone like his father, it was probably all that mattered.

  “Answer me, boy!”

  Colm steeled himself, suddenly unsure of his footing. Getting the money had been so much easier than explaining how he got it. He looked over at his sisters. They were no help. Not against their father.

  “I found it,” Colm squeaked finally.

  “You found it?” his father echoed. He pointed to the mountain of coin on the table. “You just found this much money? And where, exactly, did you find it?”

  Colm ran through the possibilities, but there were none his father would believe. He had lied to his father only once before, and his backside had smarted for three days after.

  “Where?” his father demanded.

  “At the town square,” Colm said.

  “Town square?”

  “In a purse,” Colm added a little quieter.

  “In a purse?” his mother said.

  “Well, several purses, actually,” Colm murmured. “And a couple pockets.” Five purses and three pockets, to be exact, though one of the pockets turned out to be full of stones and not coins, so it didn’t count. The purses were much easier, for obvious reasons, but over the course of the afternoon Colm had found that he had a knack for emptying a pocket, especially if the breeches were baggy and the gentleman wearing them was oblivious.

  Mina Candorly suddenly turned to her daughters. “Why don’t you take your little sister and go outside and make yourselves useful? Your father and I need to talk to Colm for a bit.”

  Colm stole a sharp sideways glance at Celia before she was shoved out the door. Like their sisters, she looked confused, her eyes searching him, asking him questions. But she was the only one in the room with the hint of a smile on her face.

  Colm stood there as his sisters closed the door behind them. He tried looking everywhere but at his father, whose face was like a radish, purpling with anger. His mother’s hands were wringing an imaginary cloth. Colm noticed that all the girls had crowded around the kitchen window, angling for a view—their idea of being useful.

  Rove Candorly stood quivering, one hand on the back of a chair, clenching it so hard, Colm was certain it would snap in two.

  “You mean to tell me that you robbed people in the middle of town in broad daylight?”

  Said out loud, it sounded terrible—and perhaps just a little impressive. Colm tried to frown, to appear remorseful, but somehow a smile crept out instead. His father slammed his fists onto the table. His mother jumped, and Colm could see the O’s of his sisters’ lips through the window. Colm stopped smiling and looked down at his feet.

  “Do you know what the magistrate does to pickpockets?” his father roared, reaching out with his cobbler’s hands and snatching one of Colm’s, the one with all of its fingers. “They take your hand. Right here!” He pinned Colm’s fist to the table, made a chopping motion just above his wrist. It didn’t hurt, but it startled him. Colm’s father had never grabbed him quite like that before.

  “Please, Ro,” Colm’s mother pleaded. “He was only trying to help.”

  Colm didn’t speak. He knew anything he said now would only make it worse. Besides, his mother had just said the only thing he could think of. His father shook his head and let go. Then he started to gather up the pile of gold and silver, scraping it across the table toward him. Colm rubbed his wrist and tucked both hands under his arms. “We have to go back,” his father said. “Return all this money. I hope you memorized the faces of the poor people you stole from.”

  “They weren’t poor,” Colm muttered. Half of the purses he had swiped were from the belts of ladies and gentlemen who wore twice that much gold on their necks and fingers.

  “That’s not the point!” his father yelled.

  Colm couldn’t look his father in the face. He certainly couldn’t tell him that it was exactly the point, even though he wasn’t sure about that anymore either. His eyes kept coming back to the pile of coins, then up to the window and his sisters, looking like the crowd at a funeral procession.

  “Rove,” Mina Candorly intruded. “It’s already dark out. You’re not going to find anyone tonight. Let it wait till morning, and we will think of what to do with the money.”

  Colm turned and stared at his mother. The way she said it. What to do with it. As if there was a choice?

  His father’s mouth worked back and forth, like he was chewing leather. Then he growled like a wild dog and pointed a raw, rough finger at Colm. “First thing tomorrow, we are going to take this to the magistrate and beg for leniency. Then we will spend all day, if we have to, tracking down every single person you stole from and returning their money, along with an apology and a promise to work off the debt you owe them for their forgiveness.”

  Colm stood silent.

  “Do you understand?” his father yelled.

  “Yes, sir,” Colm mumbled.

  “Go to your room. No supper. You probably stole something to eat already today.”

  Colm wanted to protest. As a point in fact, he had passed by a fruit seller and noticed that several apricots had fallen beneath the cart, and he had actually helped the man gather them—he’d had no intentions of stealing from a peddler. Should he say something about that? Should he mention Seysha’s medicine or the empty pantry? Say something about how he had gathered in only a few hours what it would take his father months to earn?

  And how easy it had been?

  Instead he blurted out, “I didn’t get caught. Nobody saw me.”

  But apparently that wasn’t the right thing to say, either.

  “I caught you,” his father said. “I know. And even if I hadn’t, I’d hope your conscience would catch up to you eventually.”

  “Dad, I . . . ,” Colm started to say, but his father raised a hand.

  “I don’t want to hear it right now. Just go.”

  Colm looked to his mother, who nodded. He noticed his sisters’ eyes on him. Celia gave him a sympathetic shrug.

  Colm walked to his room and quietly shut the door.

  That night his stomach hurt. He sat and listened to the dinnertime conversation, what little of it there was. His father had demanded that no one speak of the money or of Colm, which, apparently, was all any of his sisters wanted to talk about, so nobody said much of anything. When Elmira asked where Colm was, his father said, “Hopefully on his knees in his room, praying for forgiveness,” and left it at that. After supper, the sisters were sent to their own rooms to read.

  Colm listened to the doors close, then heard his mother scraping the dishes. Even over the rumbling of his stomach, Colm could hear his parents whispering about him, his father’s voice still gruff but at least quieted.

  “What was he thinking?”

  “He was thinking he could help,” his mother replied. “He’s a smart boy. And resourceful. And it’s not as if you make any attempt to hide our troubles, always griping about how much everybody eats, how much it costs to fix things, how there’s never enough to go around.” Colm heard the clatter of dishes being stacked on one another.

  “That’s still no excuse,” Rove Candorly hissed. “I won’t have my son skulking about like a scoundrel or some petty thief, dipping his fingers into pockets, fishing for coins. Where’d he even learn to do something like that, anyways? I’m certain none of his sisters taught him. You know what the penalties for thieving are.”

  Colm looked at his right hand. He had gotten used to being short a finger. In truth, it hadn’t been much of a hindrance—there were ve
ry few things five fingers could do that four couldn’t—and today being short a finger almost seemed a blessing, his one hand slipping more easily in and out of pockets. But to lose the whole hand? Colm tucked them both under his chin for safekeeping.

  “What does it matter where he learned it?” he heard his mother say. “He’s obviously good at it.”

  “Mina!” His father’s voice rose, then lowered again. “You can’t be serious.”

  “I’m only saying that it’s remarkable, if you think about it. To pickpocket that many people in broad daylight and not get caught.”

  “You’re not suggesting it’s admirable, what he did? He stole from people. Innocent, hardworking people.”

  “Well, as to that, I’m not sure how innocent or hardworking every person in town is, not to speak of those sleazy merchants from upriver who charge twice what they should for half of what you need. And you tell me if you’ve ever seen a nobleman lift a finger to help someone beneath him. And no, I’m not suggesting it’s a good thing. I’m just saying it’s . . . astonishing. It’s a shame that he can’t put that talent to better use.”

  “Now it’s a talent? Our son is a criminal, and you are singing his praises? You’re incorrigible, woman.”

  “Lucky for me you’re too stubborn to leave.”

  Colm held his breath, waiting for one of them to speak again. When they did, it was his father’s voice, its edge blunted. Now resigned and thoughtful.

  “It is a lot of coin,” he mused. “I wonder how much is there.”

  And then his mother’s voice, an even softer whisper, nearly impossible to make out through the crack beneath Colm’s door.