Then, he got silently back to work. By the time Lai picked up a paintbrush and began to help, the moment had passed.
✽ ✽ ✽
Borric’s basket of treats was enough to last Fox for several days. There were sticky buns and little cakes, candies, bite-sized pies and Fox’s favorite rosemary bread. Picck said he’d of course helped with the baking as well, but that he and Rose had their own gift to give him. It was wrapped in fine paper on the cutting table, and Fox opened it excitedly. And then he stopped in awe. Tucked inside the wrapping was the most beautiful set of hunting knives Fox had ever seen. They had black stone handles and thin, dark blades. There were four of them, and Fox lovingly hefted each of them in turn. One small, almost dainty-looking knife, perfect for skinning tricky little pelts. One that looked more like a dagger than anything. One dangerously curved knife with a thicker blade, almost like a small hatchet with a hooked end. And one large, clearly deadly weapon that looked as if it could cut straight through bone as effortlessly as a kitchen knife through bread.
Rose and Picck were smiling at him. And when Fox opened his mouth to thank them, Rose swooped in and kissed him on the cheek. “We owe you more than you can possibly know,” she said quietly. “And we feel we can never truly repay you, but this is a start.”
As Fox was climbing into his bed nook that night, warm and happy from his parents’ birthday dinner, his gifts all laid out on top of his trunk, Fox could almost hear the man from his dreams, speaking to him. Reminding him of all the people he could lose if he didn’t work harder. And Fox, sure he was already doing everything he could, slipped into a miserable and restless sleep.
✽ ✽ ✽
Fox had spent his entire life in Thicca Valley and the surrounding woods. His farthest journey from home, before tracking with Father, had been one trip years ago, up onto the mountain road and into the untamed rock that surrounded it. The trip had not exactly been sanctioned by either of his parents. He hadn’t gotten lost; he was never lost. But he had been keen on exploring as a small child, and hadn’t given a scrap of thought to how his parents might react when they woke up in the morning to find him missing. It took them more than half a day to find him, happily climbing on and around the rock formations that he’d deemed his “castle.” After that, the Foxglove parents kept a much closer eye on their son, until it seemed that he’d finally outgrown that dangerous phase of his life.
But it was with the eyes of a small child that Fox viewed the city of Whitethorn, his first true excursion into the world of trade. He wanted to look everywhere at once. He saw shops and inns and eating houses all crammed together like suckling piglets. So many he could not keep count. Colors blurred before his eyes as he tried to catch a glimpse inside shop windows. He kept one hand on the side of Cobb’s harness to keep from getting lost in the crowds flooding the streets, but he was fighting the urge to simply run off and touch everything! He wanted to run his hands along the stone walls and feel the fine fabrics of ladies skirts. He wanted to taste the rich meats and fruit he smelled, and press his cheek against the cool glass of the tavern windows. And he wanted to climb, all the way up to the highest rooftop of the highest building in the city, look down upon the streets and the people and declare, “This is mine.”
Father led them to one of the six inns that Fox had counted so far. It was a small, offwhite building with a sign dubbing it “The Hatted Goat.” Father left a coin with the proprietor, a short, plump little man who smiled jovially and welcomed them in. A stable boy was sent for to take care of Cobb, and then the innkeeper himself showed them to a tidy little room in the back.
There were two small beds, a washing station tucked in the corner, and a simple but sizable fireplace along the wall. Father took stock of the room, then set to work unpacking his bags.
“We’ll send for the rest of the things from the wagon,” he said as Fox drifted casually toward the window, trying to peek out at the city beyond. “I’d like to get set up in the common room by supper, that’s usually my best hours. Shame this city doesn’t have a Nightmarket like Athilior or Sibica or ...” He trailed off, and Fox started, feeling guilty for being distracted during such an important part of his apprenticeship. But Father was smiling slightly. Then he sighed in resignation, although there was clear amusement in his attitude. “Or,” he said, “since I’ll be busy setting up here, you might take awhile and get to know the lay of the land. On a strictly professional level, of course.”
Fox was out the door in an instant, pausing briefly to hug his laughing father. And then, as the room door clicked shut behind him, Fox scampered down the hall, through the common room, and out into the crowded, foreign streets of Whitethorn.
At every turn there was something new and exciting to see. Fox let his feet carry him where they liked, in and out of shops and down twisting alleys with drying laundry strung between buildings. He found shops that sold fine candles, and another devoted only to fabric. To think, there was a city so big and glamorous just five days from Thicca Valley. And the idea that there were even grander places farther south! In other countries, on other continents! There was a tingle along the back of Fox’s neck, and a strange quickening in his heart. It was longing. Longing for a life on the road, with the wind as his guide. He stood in a shop window, watching all of the people milling about, and wondered how many of them had ever left their city. Then again, how many Thiccans had ever left theirs?
He wandered until the streets began to smell of suppertime. The late afternoon sun washed the city in orange and gold, and Fox found himself heading away from the bustling hub of the city, and into some of the quieter corners. He drifted past cozy little farmhouses and pastures. These, at least, were familiar to Fox. The goats might have been straight from Thicca Valley. The snug little cottages were surely built for hard winters. They might not have the same storms here in the flatlands as they had in the mountains – Fox wasn’t sure of their weather patterns – but they were definitely sturdy, and made for warmth.
Fox chuckled to himself slightly, thinking of one of the Thiccan miners’ jokes, describing their amply built wives in much the same way. It was a joke he had not understood as a young child, but in recent months he’d come to revel in the humor of men. He was, after all, going to be on the road with them each winter for the rest of his life. And the time when he would be considered their equal was, perhaps, not far off.
He started to make his way back to The Hatted Goat. As much as he would have loved to run all through the countryside, exploring each and every back alley and goat barn, he knew he was here to learn. He belonged at Father’s side for now, learning to become the trader that everyone was so sure he could be. And so, turning his back on the farm-splattered flatlands, he returned to the heart of the city.
The streets had emptied considerably. Lanterns were being lit all down the main road, giving the shop fronts a comfortable glow. Fox watched as boys not much younger than himself scurried from post to post, climbing up on collapsible footstools or else on each other’s shoulders to bring life to the rippling glass cases, taking care to light each individual wick until the lantern was full of dancing light. Fox’s eyes followed one of the boys as he ran back down the street, crowing taunts to his fellows. Apparently, his lanterns had all been lit the quickest. The others called childish curses at him and quickened their own pace, and Fox’s eye was caught by the littlest of the lamplighters. A small, mousy boy who often rode on a taller boy’s shoulders to get his job done. Fox could tell that even with the footstool and the long stick with a flame on the end, this boy would simply be too small to reach.
He was a pale boy, with straw-colored hair and a thin dusting of freckles across his cheeks and forehead. As Fox watched, he stood with his bare feet perched easily on his companion’s shoulders. He balanced expertly and lit the final lantern, then dropped to the ground like a cat, landing briefly on all fours before coming to his feet. The taller boy who’d been acting as his ladder waved a farewell and started off, pre
sumably heading home for dinner.
Two more boys joined him, leaving only the smaller boy. None of them seemed to have noticed Fox, tucked into the shadows of a glove-maker’s doorway.
He watched as the straw-haired boy went off on his own, carrying the long pole over his shoulder and whistling carelessly. But after a moment, the boy turned back to watch his companions depart. Once they were out of sight, he quickly disappeared down a side alley and re-appeared moments later without his lighting stick. He glanced up and down the street, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand, and then scurried across the road to a well-lit bakery window. He pressed his nose to the glass. Fox could see that beautiful cakes and sweet rolls were displayed in the window, and even he found himself licking his lips at the sight of them. Then the boy sidled up to the door of the shop and knocked quietly. When no one answered, he knocked again, loud enough this time that Fox could hear it from his spot in the shadows, several buildings away. When again there was no answer, the boy carefully opened the door, just wide enough to slip in. He disappeared briefly into the bakery, and then hurried back out, closing the door quickly behind him. The front of his shirt bulged, as though he was hiding something beneath it. From the smell, drifting to Fox on a playful little breeze, it was bread. Simple, hearty bread.
The little thief scurried back across the street with many quick glances around him, and Fox watched as he made his way back into the little alley where he’d apparently stashed his lamplighting tools. The alley where, Fox was almost certain, the boy would be sleeping tonight.
Lawkeeping was a very loose practice in Thicca Valley. Oftentimes, bargains were struck between the wrongdoers and those they’d wronged. But usually, Thiccans helped each other to survive. Everyone was family, everyone pulled their weight. But here, in such a large city, Fox was sure that the little thief was risking much more than an isolated shift in the deep mines, or the midnight watch during wolf season. He’d heard of places, more civilized than his own humble home, where children were hanged for stealing. Or shipped away to be slave to some rich lord, or work on a distant island harvesting expensive spices and fruit.
Fox watched the alley mouth for several more minutes, but the straw-haired boy did not reappear. Finally, torn between the adult, law-abiding idea of turning the boy in and his own natural instinct to let him be, Fox returned to the inn. But all through the dinner rush back at The Hatted Goat, where Fox sat dutifully at Father’s side, his mind wandered back to the little thief. Something about him nagged at Fox’s mind, tickling the back of his thoughts like a spring breeze playing at his hair.
✽ ✽ ✽
The art of trading did not come as easily as trapping. Fox often found himself letting expensive items go for much less than they were worth. A mistake he wouldn’t have made back in the valley, where everything was only as estimable as its ability to keep one alive. But here, in the grander world of trade and commerce, Fox found himself constantly stumbling. Father would slip in every so often with a gentle reminder or correction on a price. He’d ask quietly if Fox was sure that was his best offer, or wonder out loud if that gentleman wasn’t equipped to pay more than the price he’d walked away with.
But Fox was stubborn and determined to catch on. He began to learn how to pick up on what Father called “barter language.” The way someone acted when they desperately wanted what a merchant had to offer, as opposed to when they had only a passing interest. Tricks to tell when a customer was bluffing, and how one might act if he really could just walk away. And, after a few frustrating days that felt like an eternity, Fox began to get the hang of it.
By the end of the week, Fox was running many of the trades himself. Father watched him from the other side of the common room at The Hatted Goat, ready to step in if a deal went sour. But with the exception of one rather belligerent gentleman who “won’t take orders from a poxridden little child!” Father never had to intervene. And while he never voiced aloud his pride at
Fox’s success, Fox could see it on his face. As clearly as though it had been painted there with a brush.
They ventured out into the city on occasion, going door-to-door around the finer establishments. Offering to sell their pelts to milliners and cloak makers. And every evening, just as it began to grow dark, Fox made his excuses and slipped away from Father’s side. He would claim to need fresh air, or offer to run an errand. And he would watch the lamplighters.
And he would look for the straw-haired boy.
It didn’t take him long to figure out that none of the other lamplighters knew that their smallest companion was fending for himself. When the rest of them would cheerfully head off for supper at the end of their chore, the small one made sure to wait until they were out of sight before he disappeared into his alley. Sometimes, if the other boys were hanging around longer than normal, the urchin would make a show of heading off in the opposite direction, as if he were simply heading home. Then, he’d double back when he was sure the coast was clear. Fox watched as, night after night, the boy crept through the empty streets, looking for empty shops to steal from. Never the same shop two nights in a row. And always, Fox noted, small items that seemingly wouldn’t be missed. He did not steal fancy foods and fine linens, but instead rough and simple things. Fraying shoes from the secondhand shop. Short, yellow candles of the cheapest fat. Plain bread and fruit. Just enough to get by, it seemed.
One evening about ten days into their stay in Whitethorn, Fox was watching the boy hover uncertainly in the street, as if deciding where he could do his thieving tonight. The streets were empty save for an occasional straggler. It seemed that supper time truly was the best chance for a little thief to do his best work. The shops weren’t closed up for the night yet, simply empty. The boy didn’t have to pick locks or fumble around in the dark. He would just take advantage of the brief times when storekeeps disappeared into the back to enjoy a solitary meal. Or else joined their families in upstairs quarters. Most of the shops didn’t have apprentices to keep watch while the proprietors were away, and those that did the little thief avoided.
The boy seemed to make up his mind, and Fox followed at a distance as the urchin moved through the empty streets, keeping an eye out for anyone who might take notice of him. But Fox was far too good at keeping to the shadows to be discovered. He followed the boy all the way to the far end of the market district, where the smell of fresh mutton met Fox’s nose. And he knew at once that the thief was about to make a mistake.
The meat stall was perched prominently between a leather store and a great, sprawling laundry house. The butcher was a large, loud, beast of a man who often frequented some of the rougher taverns in town. Fox could hear him singing drunkenly in the streets late at night sometimes. His great leather apron was permanently stained with blood and smoke, and the whole street could often hear him roar his disapproval if someone couldn’t pay. He sold fresh slabs of beef and goat. Smoked pork. Great links of sausage. Spiced and dried meats hung from the rafters of his simple wooden stall, making his piece of the market district a feasting haven for scavenging birds. Great black crows would perch on the surrounding roofs, waiting for a dropped scrap.
The butcher had no apprentice. He had a son, a scrawny lad who would lurk in the streets, waiting for his father to call on him to tend the stall if he had to leave. But he rarely did. It was not a place to look for handouts or, Fox was sure, to be caught stealing so much as a chunk of gristle. One didn’t have to be in Whitethorn long to know who to steer clear of, and “Meat Man Mallard” was definitely on the top of the list.
But tonight, his stall was empty. Fox watched as the straw-haired lamplighter scampered over to it and clambered up onto one of the support beams, reaching for a hanging bundle of sausage links. The smallest, least-noticeable one, of course. And for a brief moment, as the boy stood triumphantly with his hand clasped around his prize, it seemed as though he’d get away with it.
But then a hand reached from the darkness, grabbing the boy by the w
rist and hauling him up into the air in one swift motion. Meat Man Mallard, red-faced with fury, detached himself from the shadows of the small street that wound behind his stall, right between the laundry and leather shop. He held the boy up to his eye level and shook him, screaming wildly.
“Step away for a drink and you come crawling in, little vermin, planning to take my wares!” He snatched the meat in question from the boy’s hand and tossed it unceremoniously back onto his chopping table. Then, still dangling the poor thief by the wrist, he took his other hand and twisted the boy’s ear, making him cry out. “You know what they do in the islands, boy?” he spat. “When they catch a little rat like you with his hand in a hard-working man’s wages.” And here he lowered his voice dangerously, but Fox could still hear him from his place across the street. “It is common practice to remove the offending limb. And I’ve got just the chopper that would do it, too.”
Fox had no plan. But his feet carried him forward anyway, and words spilled from his mouth before he could stop them. “You will unhand my apprentice, sir!”
His voice came out much more confident than he was actually feeling. He sounded almost like a man, instead of a scared little boy probably not much older than the one he was trying to save. But Mallard looked up anyway, and turned his evil gaze on Fox.
“You wanna be next?” he growled. “I’ve got more than enough knife to go around. Could take a hand from each.”
Fox held his ground. He let his chest swell with a false authority and said, “This boy is apprenticed to the Foxglove traders, and is therefore protected under Merchant Law.” He crossed his arms over his chest and planted his feet wide, a stance he’d seen Father take sometimes when dealing with a particularly hostile customer. “And I will ask you again, unhand him sir!”
Mallard’s face contorted with irritation, but he dropped the boy anyway. The lamplighter landed on his rump with a yelp, but stayed there, looking up at the confrontation in apparent terror.
Windswept (The Mapweaver Chronicles Book 1) Page 17