by Ted Neill
Nursing him back to health took some time and of course at first he was reluctant to cooperate with those that had disfigured him, but alone, scared, and starving, he eventually acquiesced. Sade stationed him outside the temple of prayers and Simon soon became the most productive boy in his stable. So productive that Sade improved upon the plan: cutting out the eyes of the next runaway boy they found. Blinded he could not recognize that his rescuers were the same as those who had maimed him and thus was much more cooperative.
“Practical cruelty,” Sade called it. But it came with a price. Just as he had felt overwhelmed and vomited after killing his uncle, just as he had felt a strange sense of emptiness after running down the girl in Linusport, each time they blinded a boy, sent a girl out with a man for the first time, Sade felt a sickness in the pit of his stomach. Some nights he had nightmares where they were on Skull Point again, cutting out the eyes of their own mother. He would awake in a cold, trembling sweat, but he swallowed the guilt and spoke of it to no one. Eventually it lessened—he willed it to—because he knew he had to survive.
Survival is everything. Those with power survive.
It was not long before there was an “epidemic” of blindness among the youngest of boys and some girls on the streets. Sade would organize them around the temple. He was not familiar with the island’s religion but he knew it paid—or at least its worshipers did. Their only adversaries in the enterprise were the sheriff’s men and above them, the king’s men—armed like soldiers and clad with blue cloaks. They were the highest enforcers of the law on the island and followed a chain of command directly to the king himself. Unlike sheriff’s men, the king’s men were not easily bribed. After all it was the sheriff’s men who “tolerated” the Guild living in the sewers, so long as they cleared the occasional blockage and made sure that bodies dumped there did not resurface. The king’s men were different. Their prisoners never ended up missing or dead. Each received a trial and no bribe would free them. When they captured a boy for stealing, he was sent to an orphanage or if his crime grievous enough, forced to work in a mine. They were thorough where the sheriff’s men were lackadaisical, persistent where their lower counterparts were lazy. Something as petty as pickpocketing did not always attract their attention or resources, but maiming other children, and certainly murder, would. Sade and Vondales did what they could do avoid them. Any child in the Guild knew they if they ever threatened to go to the king’s men, they, too, would end up disappearing.
Time passed. Seasons changed. Sade and Vondales’ influence grew. Boys came to them for help, advice, even permission for new schemes. Soon Sade and his brother took customary seats next to Nicholas. Vondales, quick, strong, menacing on the boy king’s left—a body guard of sorts—and Sade on his right, a counsellor and a captain. They had their share of grog, meat, and girls. They might not have been kings, but they were indeed princes.
And so they were seated on Nicholas’ left and right, a game of cards going on among them one evening, when some of the older boys dragged in Timos.
Timos was taller, his hair longer, his boyishness being replaced by features that were more manly: a stronger chin, a feathering of whiskers above his lips and on his chin, and a more pronounced notch in his throat. His clothes were well made, not like a noble’s, but close. Obviously he lived a comfortable life and still did well for himself. Two larger and older boys, Carter and Andre, held him by either arm. He had not come willingly. His face was swollen, his shirt untucked, his collar turned upward, and the knees of his trousers ripped.
Nicholas dropped his cards to the floor, pushed himself up, and clapped his hands on Timos’ shoulders. “Timos, still not paying your dues to the Guild.”
“I paid them already.”
“Eight months ago,” Nicholas said. “The Guild requires monthly fees to operate in our territory.”
“I don’t work in your territory.”
“Everybody works in our territory. Maybe you didn’t know, but we’ve grown.”
Timos looked at his feet, his hair falling across his face. In a small voice he asked, “How much do you want?”
Before Timos could speak, Sade stood. “Sir, a word.”
Nicholas turned from Timos, who did not even recognize Sade or his brother. Sade realized his heart was beating in his chest. Uncharacteristically, he stammered as he began to speak, “This—This is the boy who deceived my brother and me when we first arrived.”
Nicholas turned his head, intrigued. “Timos, do you recognize these young men, these friends of mine?”
Timos shook his head to see around the hair that had fallen across his face, looked at Sade and said, “No I don’t recall him.”
“How about the face of my brother,” Sade asked, gesturing to Vondales who sat coiled like a cat ready to pounce. “Or maybe you would recall what you took from us, our money, our clothes, our books?”
Timos closed his eyes and sighed. “Yes, I remember now, the books. Useless, we could barely give them away.”
“Do you still have them?” Sade stepped forward. His hands were shaking now, but he did not bother hiding it, the prospect of the power the books represented made his entire body feel light and charged. Timos nodded with vigor, sensing an opportunity to bargain. “I sold one for its cover and used the pages of another for fire starting, but there is one I still have.”
Sade clenched his fists.
At least there is still one.
“Sir,” he said to Nicholas. “I ask that we consider the property he stole from us when we assess his debts.”
“Granted.” Nicholas faced Timos, bending down to rub the patch of red fuzz on his chin. “Oh Timos, how the tables have turned.”
“I’ll return the book.”
“As well as double the money you stole to make up for the ones your destroyed or sold, this in addition to the fees you owe the Guild.”
Timos’ lips whitened as he pressed them together in a frown. But Sade knew it was for show, he was still getting off lightly.
“I’ll do it,” he said. “And I’ll arrange to pay future fees—”
Nicholas brushed the hair out of Timos’ face. “That goes without saying.”
“Of course.” Timos swallowed. “You have been very gracious. Does that mean I can go?”
A few of the boys in the circle of card players laughed. Nicholas looked at them askance and smiled. “Timos, your debts are not yet paid. There are your penalties. You don’t think I can let you go so easily? Not with so many of my own watching. What precedent would I be setting?”
Timos looked around, as if becoming aware of the five score children who had stopped whatever they were doing and were watching the drama unfold before them.
“A precedent of graciousness, sir,” Timos croaked.
Nicholas narrowed his eyes and said between clenched teeth, “I am not gracious. Andre, Carter, show him how gracious we are in the Guild.”
The two boys on either side of Timos released him and each made to strike. But living on the street by his wits and his own fists had made Timos quick and cunning. His previous show of weakness had been exaggerated for he ducked one punch while reaching for Andre’s belt and snatched his knife by the handle. He spun and caught Carter just before he lunched forward, slicing a rip in his sleeve and gash in his arm. Timos’ feet were still in a fighting stance, the knife held out purposefully, not so far that he could not defend himself, not so close that he could not strike. Sade sensed those around him stiffening, reaching for their own blades and clubs, but they were slow, reluctant. It was clear Timos had training. The extent of which no one knew and no one, not even Nicholas, was willing to engage him in one-to-one combat to find out.
Except for Vondales. He stood up slowly, without a weapon, and stepped towards Timos. Vondales’ eyes were unblinking, unmoving even as he neared his adversary. He copied Timos’ stance, extending a hand that was empty into the space between them. For an eternity no one in the entire hall moved, spoke, or breathed
. Then Vondales feinted an attack and Timos swung the knife at his torso.
Vondales caught Timos’ wrist with a slap and clenched it in a vice-like grip. Timos eyes widened with surprise only to widen further when Vondales released him without taking the dagger. Sade’s brother reset himself into a fighting stance, lifting his hands once more into the neutral zone between them, except this time he curled a single finger towards himself.
Timos was breathing hard now, his chest rising and falling. His eyes darted for the nearest tunnel opening, his feet shifted. Vondales met his eyes and curled his finger again. This time Timos struck, jabbing into Vondales’ chest. Again Vondales caught him by the wrist only to release him, leaving the knife in Timos’ possession. Timos whipped his blade a third time, slashing at the same hand Vondales had been catching him with, expecting it to come down again. But Vondales swept in the opposite arm and caught Timos once more. This time the tendons in Vondales’ wrist stood out, the pulse in his neck began to visibly beat, and his face turned red with exertion. While he squeezed Timos’ forearm, Timos let out a small cry and dropped the knife. Vondales kicked it away then turned Timos’ arm against himself and made him punch his own face.
The crowd laughed but there was not a trace of mirth in Vondales. He took advantage of Timos while he was dazed, ripped his britches down to his ankles, and then kicked him with such force between the legs that the gathered children gasped.
Timos struggled for air and cried out. He fell to the floor only to have Vondales pick him up by the collar and strike him in the face with his knee. After three more such blows, a tooth dropped to the floor. When Vondale’s released him, Timos staggered, tripped on his britches, and fell. He tried to crawl to safety but Vondales dragged him by the ankle, drew him close and began to kick him in his gut. Timos rolled, coughing and crying, his face dark and twisted in pain, his eyes squeezed to narrow slits, blood spraying out of his mouth with each strike.
Vondales righted himself and sent another kick into the base of Timos’ spine. His body arched backwards and he wet himself. Hurt, humiliated, and defeated, Timos simply lay still, awaiting the next strike. Vondales provided it, stepping up to Timos’ head which he slammed against the stone floor with a stomp.
He didn’t stop, the chamber echoed with the thudding sound of Timos’ skull on rock and his ragged breath.
“Sade,” Nicholas said, his face pale.
He’s scared. Sade realized. Nicholas is scared. So was he, of his own brother. Even though he could draw a straight line from the bewildered boy who had wept at Skull Point to the person before him, something had disappeared from his brother. Gone was the frightened boy who could not bring harm to his own sibling. He had been replaced by this young man, who derived his worth, his power from the harm he brought to others.
Survival is everything. Those with power survive . . . .
Sade stood agog, bewildered at his own complicity in re-shaping his brother. But without doubt, he knew that his brother’s coldness, cruelty, and strength amounted to one thing: more power. So he waited a few more breaths, letting the echoes of Timos’ head striking the stone travel throughout the chamber once more, just so all ears could hear, just so all could witness the ferocity in their midst.
A ferocity I will have to contain.
Sade stepped forward and called Vondales by name. His brother continued to hammer Timos with blows, unaware of his brother, unaware of the smallest children who were beginning to sob, unaware of Andre who said in a low voice, “He’s had enough.”
Sade came closer. Vondales’ knuckles were dark with blood; Timos’ face was unrecognizable. The floor was awash with urine, blood, and spit. Vondales moved without tiring, raining his hatred and vengeance on Timos, releasing a storm of pain and loss that had been years in the making. He had no comprehension that the mood of the room had shifted, that Timos was now viewed as the victim, with sympathy even. Another tooth rolled out onto the floor. Sade reached out and touched his brother’s shoulder.
“Vondales, it’s me. Your brother.”
For an instant he knew his own brother did not recognize him as his eyes darted up and down Sade’s breadth and width, assessing him as an opponent. But the demon that had taken over Vondales released its grip and his spirit returned.
“Sade,” Vondales said, his eyes clearing.
“You’ve punished him enough now,” Sade said. Vondales turned back to examine Timos with the detachment of a hunter who had just butchered his kill.
“He stole your books.”
“He did. We’ll get them back.”
“You said we should never be weak again.”
“I did. You’ve proven how strong we are.”
Vondales nodded and strangely, beneath the bloody, strapping body of a young man, Sade could sense the young, scared boy again, eager to please and desperate to survive in a harsh world. A harsh world that Sade had spelled out the rules for.
His brother had listened.
Vondales let go of Timos’ collar and he slumped to the floor. The room relaxed, the spectators drawing in a collective breath. One of the older boys cracked a joke, but no one laughed. Some of the older girls rushed over to see to Timos. Slowly voices returned to the room and an ordinary clamor resumed. Sade took a basin from one of the girls tending to Timos and began to wash Vondales’ hands and face. Young children were staring. Older ones watched them out of the corners of their eyes. No one came close, no one dared, except for Nicholas. The fear had left him and he looked upon Vondales like a proud father to his son.
“Vondales, I know just the place for you,” he said. “You are going to the fighting pits. We will make a fortune.”
Chapter 14
Of Bluefish and Bird Watching
The sun rose the next morning, slipping over the horizon like a freshly minted coin. Ghede brought the Elawn low over the water and dropped a fishing line off the stern. By midday, he had reeled in four feisty bluefish. With a thin knife, he cleaned and gutted them, then sautéed them in a wide, flat pan over the brazier with herbs and peppers. The result was delicious.
“Our skipper has a charming touch for cooking as well.” Gabriella used a biscuit to sop up the remaining sauce from her plate.
“Not just cooking, but all the business of sailing,” Omanuju said, helping himself to more. “Pilot and vessel are connected in ways we cannot see with the eye alone. You notice the Elawn sails more smoothly under his hand than she ever did in mine.”
He was right, of course. Gabriella slept more soundly when Ghede had piloted the Elawn than she ever had when Omanuju was at the helm. It seemed as if even the wind blew more favorably when Ghede was at the wheel. Since Ghede had kept the ship low to fish, Gabriella had nearly forgotten her terror of heights. With her eyes closed, she could imagine the Elawn was no more than a simple skiff floating in Harkness harbor on a calm day. All the normal sounds of a ship’s timbers and rigging creaking and sails flapping were familiar and reassuring. So much so that after their lunch of bluefish she even began to doze, stretched out in the sun and soaking in its warmth.
She woke when Omanuju settled down next to her, setting a bucket of water and a lump of lard soap on the deck with a thump. “You showed great bravery on Kejel. If it weren’t for you, Adamantus and I would be bones bleaching on the shore.”
She nodded, looking down at her skin, still stained scarlet, a stark reminder of the danger they had been in and the desperate lengths she had gone to. “I’m glad it worked.”
“I am too, Miss Carlyle. I’m glad you chose to come along. It seems the dead judged wisely. He nudged the bucket. “I brought you some soap and water, in case you wanted to remove your costume.”
A good deal of her skin was still quite exposed. Her mother would have called her immodest, even indecent. But something had shifted inside of her since her performance for the Kejelin. No longer did she feel tall and gangly. Instead she felt lithe and graceful. She was proud of the outline of muscles on her midriff, the
tautness of her arms and thighs. For the first time, she felt made of the same capable stuff as grown women, as if they were no longer members of separate universes but rather one and the same. Then she laughed, picking up the bucket and soap. I am taking myself much too seriously, she thought as she doused herself and began to scrub.
Kejel dyes were valuable for a reason though: they did not run easily. Even after an hour of bathing, her skin still had a ruddy glow to it. She decided she didn’t mind. The remaining pigment was a reminder that her brush with womanhood had been real.
The sky the next day was a deep blue, unbroken except by the smallest of clouds. The wind was up and swept the Elawn along too quickly to drag trawling lines. Omanuju spread maps out over the navigation table while Adamantus slept next to the cabin’s double doors, his long legs folded beneath him, his muzzle resting on the wooden deck. Ghede was in good spirits, whistling and humming to himself. “We’re making good time,” he said.
“To where exactly?” Gabriella asked. “Dis?”
“Well, Dis is still a long way distant and we need to make a stop or two before then. First off we will need a map to help us through the labyrinth that surrounds Nicomedes’ treasure.”
“Labyrinth? Won’t that make it hard to find our way?”
“That is why we will borrow a map from our friend Nicomedes. We’ll just make a short stop at one of his workshops along the way.”
“He had workshops?”
“Yes, but not for just anyone to find. They are hidden. But you have yourself a good skipper. I know the way.”
“All right,” she said, realizing the faith they were placing in Ghede and that without him, they were worse than lost.
In late morning, they passed over a series of islands. From a distance, they were covered in black and white, but as the islands grew closer, Gabriella could see that they were actually textured with yellows and reds mixed in as well, their surfaces moving with thousands upon thousands of birds. “Puffins, there are thousands of them!”