by Kevin Sands
Lop wasn’t a real cat. It was a construct, its body shaped from clay and enchanted by a Weaver to act alive. Grey had taken Lop as payment for a job a few years back and kept getting it re-bound with enchantment because he liked having it around.
I did, too. Though it was only a construct, Lopsided behaved uncannily like a real cat, mouthing an odd, distant-sounding purr and pouncing on things—or at least trying to, because whatever Weaver had shaped it hadn’t done a very good job putting it together. Its legs had sunk a little into its clay body, so the cat leaned toward the left and tended to walk in circles if you let it. It was a hapless sort of thing, endlessly silly, and for some reason I didn’t understand, I liked it even more than if it were real.
When it spotted me, it stood and walked clumsily my way, purr rumbling in its chest. I had to grab it before it fell over the side.
Unlike a real cat, it didn’t care that my hair was dripping on it. If the Old Man was still around, he’d have told me to stay away from the thing. Fiddling with nature is for fools, and all that. But he wasn’t, so I held it, until I saw the banknotes stacked at the end of the counter. “What’s this?”
“The High Weaver’s underpants,” Grey said. “What d’you think it is? It’s your share.”
I put Lop on the floor and stared at the tiny stack. Each note was one hundred crowns. There were five of them. “Is this a joke?”
“Am I smiling?”
“You said we’d get thirty thousand for Bronwyn’s necklace. My share is half.”
“Half after expenses, boyo. You were supposed to be in Coulgen three weeks. You took three months.”
“That’s not my fault! It was your man who said he’d introduce me to the princess!”
“Yeh, I know. He chaffed it right proper, and he’ll be getting nothing for his trouble ’cept the sole of me boot. That don’t change the facts none.” Grey tapped his ledger. “You know how much it cost to keep you living the good life? Fancy clothes, fine food, comfy hotel? We spent half the prize on room and board alone. To say nothing of the sparkly necklace y’asked me to get—and the job took so long, the first one ran out of juice! So that’s twice I had to pay the Weaver, and double that to make sure he kept his gob shut.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “That’s . . . But . . . it can’t be so little.”
“Read it yourself, boyo.” Grey slid the ledger across the counter. “Full expenses, total cost: 29,151 crowns and 54 septs. Profit: 848 and 6. I gave you five hundred flat—which is more than your share. So don’t give me none o’ your guff.”
My head throbbed. Three months. Three months I spent. Three months with the most useless layabouts in the world, at the whim of that rotten little girl. For this.
“Shuna’s teeth!” I crumpled the banknotes and hurled them across the counter.
Grey watched them flutter to the floorboards. “That don’t make ’em worth more, y’know.”
“I needed that money!” I said.
Grey scoffed. I’d never talked to him about money before, but he knew the Old Man had never paid me. Every job we’d pulled, the Old Man had pocketed all the earnings. The price of a priceless education, he’d said loftily whenever I’d complained.
“What d’you need money for?” Grey said. “You going on holiday?”
I kicked the nearest bill and flung myself into the chair by the display counter.
“Callan,” Grey said.
I ignored him.
“Callan. Look at me, boy.”
I did, jaw tight.
“You in some kind of trouble?” he said.
“No.”
“Then what d’you need money for?”
Lopsided waddled over to me. It batted one of the crumpled hundreds around, then rubbed against my leg. I picked it up, held it, felt the gentle hum of the binding beneath.
“Daphna said she’d help me with something,” I said.
Grey’s eyes narrowed. Daphna was our contact inside the Weavers. Not a Weaver herself; more of a go-between. It was she who’d arranged for the enchanted necklace with which I’d cheated Bronwyn.
“What’re you talking to that one for?” Grey said, voice harsh.
I waved him away. “We deal with Daphna all the time.”
“Yeh. But I know not to trust her as far as the end of me little finger. What’s she getting you into?”
“Nothing.”
“Boy,” he said warningly.
“It’s nothing. Really.” Lop shifted in my lap. “She said she could help me. With . . .” I made a vague motion toward my back.
Grey sat on his stool, pensive. He’d never actually seen my scars—no one but the Old Man had—but he’d always seemed to know they were there. I wasn’t sure if that was because the Old Man had told him, or whether Grey noticed I always kept myself covered, even on the hottest days of the year. But if he knew they were there, then he knew where’d I’d gotten them. And he knew what they meant.
My scars were the marks of my punishment, doled out long ago. The knotted, gnarled flesh marked me as a thief.
“You in pain?” Grey said.
I shrugged. “I can live with it.” I had, for eight years. The constant ache, the occasional shooting stab in the back, it was something I’d gotten used to. There were others who had it worse. Others who’d died at the hands of the Stickmen. I would have, too, if the Old Man hadn’t taken me in afterward.
“If it’s not that bad,” Grey said, “why bother . . . ? Ah.” He trailed off as he realized what I was really after.
Like I said, the scars marked me as a thief. And once a thief, always a thief. If I wanted a life, a job—a proper job, not just selling apples stolen from the local orchard to passersby on the street—I’d need to join one of the guilds. The problem was, no guild would take an apprentice without giving the child a once-over. And no guild would take me once they’d seen my back.
I’d already tried to find a way out once. A year ago, while the Old Man was off somewhere out of town, I’d gone to Grey in his workshop and asked if he’d teach me to fix clocks.
It took him a while to answer. Finally, he’d said, “Not sure that’s wise, boyo.”
Grey was a terrible clockmaker. He was more a fence—a broker of stolen goods—than a craftsman. He worked with the likes of the Old Man and let a young thief—me—live in his home. So he was hardly above breaking the rules. But even Grey knew better than to test the guilds.
There was one group that would have me. The Breakers—the House of Thieves and Beggars—could make good use of a gaffer like me. But if that was all that waited for me, what was the point? Work for strangers, and get what in return? The Old Man had already taught me what I needed to know. And then, when he left, one last thing.
Don’t trust anyone. Not even the man who raised you.
“So,” Grey said softly. “Tired of all this glamour, are yeh?”
He almost made me laugh. “Mad, aren’t I?”
“What is it you’d do?”
“I was thinking of making clocks. Know anyone who can?”
He tossed a rag at me. “You’ve a sharp tongue for a child with nowhere to go. So what’s Daphna promised you? A healer?”
I nodded. I’d asked her before I’d set off for Coulgen if Weavers could heal scars. She’d said yes, there were enchanters who had the touch. But they were rare—and not even close to cheap.
“And how much,” Grey said, “would this heartwarming mir-acle cost?”
“Fifty thousand crowns.”
“Fifty thousand!” He sputtered. “And people call me a thief.”
He wasn’t wrong. It was an outrageous sum. The Coulgen job, before expenses, was supposed to be a payoff I’d hardly dreamed of, and that was only fifteen thousand, not even a third of the way there. And yet . . . if I saved . . . kept working . .
. then maybe. Just maybe.
I’d be free.
Grey had asked me what I’d do. Join the Airmen’s Guild, I thought. Ride the clouds. Forever. But I’d never told him that. My dreams were mine to keep.
Still, I noticed Grey was studying me oddly. It didn’t take an expert in reading faces to know he’d been hiding something—and the Old Man had made me an expert.
“What are you not telling me?” I said.
“Well . . .” He paused, as if weighing his words. “There might just be a gaff that can pay that . . . and more.”
CHAPTER 3
Before he’d left, the Old Man had arranged our jobs. Offers came through the post, sent anonymously to Grey’s shop, addressed to a “Mr. Brantworth, Architect.” I had no idea what the Old Man’s real name was—I’d only ever called him “Old Man” and he’d seemed perfectly satisfied with that—but I was sure it wasn’t Mr. Brantworth.
The first couple of months after he’d gone, letters still arrived. Grey read them and sent me on the jobs he thought I could pull myself. It had kept me working—small payouts, yes, but something. Soon enough, however, even those offers had dried up. The Coulgen job was the last one we’d received, and that was almost four months ago.
“You got a new letter?” I said.
“No,” Grey said. “You did.”
The clockmaker flicked an envelope toward me from behind the counter. In a rare display of coordination, Lopsided batted it down before I could catch it; I had to pick it off the floor.
The envelope was top-quality paper, embossed with gold trim. Grey had already slit it open with a knife. On the front, in elegant calligraphy, was my name.
Master Callan of Perith
c/o Grey’s Fine Clocks, Redfairne
Callan of Perith. Definitely me. Except no one but the Old Man, Grey, and Daphna knew my name—and neither Grey nor Daphna knew the Old Man had found me in Perith.
My heart thumped in my chest. He sent me a letter, I thought. Except the writing wasn’t in the Old Man’s hand. It wasn’t from him.
“When did this come?” I said.
“Yesterday.”
The stationery inside was a good, heavy stock, watermark plainly visible through the lamplight. It smelled faintly of charcoal. I read the message.
On this, the 17th of Newday, Rebirth 4211
Master Callan,
I hope this letter finds you well. I am in urgent need of a young man with a particular set of talents—the very same talents that, I have heard on good authority, you possess.
If you desire employment, I invite you to visit my home in Carlow. Naturally, I will compensate you for your time. I can offer two thousand crowns to speak with me, plus substantial additional payment if you agree to the job.
I looked over at Grey, surprised. “Does this say what I think it does?”
“Two thousand crowns just to meet him? Aye.”
No one had ever paid the Old Man just for a chat. I returned to the letter.
As noted, there is considerable urgency to my request. Our meeting must take place on the 20th of Newday. To ensure our rendezvous, I have secured you a berth on the Malley. The ticket accompanying this letter can be used on any voyage, up until the morning of our engagement.
If my terms are agreeable, please arrive at 444 Remlin Street, Carlow, at ten o’clock in the morning. There I hope to make your acquaintance.
Cordially,
Mr. Solomon
I shook the envelope. A long, narrow card fell into my palm; it, too, was embossed in gold. As promised, it was an open-ended ticket, one way, from Redfairne to Carlow on the airship Malley. First class.
I pushed the cat from my lap and began to pace the floorboards. Two things raced through my mind.
First: An airship. He’s sent me a ticket for an airship.
And second: Two thousand crowns . . . for a meeting?
That was four times what I’d made for stealing Bronwyn’s necklace. Shuna’s paws, even the airship ticket would have cost more than that.
What’s more, if this Mr. Solomon was offering two thousand for a meeting, what would the actual job pay? Ten times that? Twenty?
More?
Fifty thousand crowns, I thought. Fifty to pay Daphna. And if I could haggle her down . . .
Grey, watching me, said nothing. But I remembered how he’d hesitated giving me the letter. “You think it’s a trap,” I said.
He raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you?”
It did feel like it. In fact, that lesson was one of the earliest the Old Man had ever given me. It had come right after we’d hid in the snakesroost. We’d evaded the Stickmen and snuck out of Perith, then spent the night in the back of a cart left out on the edge of a farmer’s field. The cart was full of potatoes, so I stacked a bunch in a corner to make a fort.
The Old Man lay atop the pile, outside my potato walls, gazing up at the night sky. The stars were out, I remembered, brighter and more alive than I’d ever seen in the city, the twin moons just slivers on the horizon. He puffed on his pipe, making little designs in the air, as if drawing constellations with his fingers.
So, boy, he said, with that tone I’d soon learn meant I was about to get a lesson. How do you trap your mark?
I sighed. I was tired. Worn out by the gaff, by running, by being scared all the time. Even more so tonight, my stomach full of boiled potatoes. I really just wanted to sleep.
Desire, I said, echoing the first thing the Old Man had taught me. Find what the mark wants, and he’s yours.
Yes. But desire is just the beginning. He blew a smoke ring from his pipe. It spread outward, disappearing into the heavens. You see, when you offer a man what he wants, his first instinct is to grab at it. How could he not? And yet, if you give him time, he may start to think. “How lucky I am,” he will say, “that what I want falls right in my lap! How lucky . . . how lucky . . .”
Now, some will never question their luck, because deep down, they think it’s not luck at all. That their own successful nature brings the opportunity. They’ve not only earned it, they deserve it. These are the easiest marks in the world. You could offer them the moons, boy, and they’d think they could pluck them from the sky.
He stretched his hand out, grasping the sliver of Mithil, the moon highest in the heavens. He held the imaginary prize between his fingers, eyes glinting with pride.
Then he let it go. Yes, he said, the easiest suckers are those with self-belief. The warier mark, on the other hand, may question his good fortune. Too good to be true, he’ll think, if you give him the time. How, then, do we convince them to reach for the prize?
I wasn’t in the mood to guess. Put a barker to their ribs, I said.
A potato sailed over my wall, like a stone from a catapult. It bounced off the top of my head—the Old Man’s favorite target.
Still feeling clever?
I stayed quiet.
I already gave you the answer, the Old Man said. Doubt grows with time. So don’t give it to him. Place a ticking clock in front of his eyes. An hourglass. Make him think of the sands running down. And when those last few grains have trickled out . . . poof. He spread his fingers. Opportunity gone.
You see? he said. Force them into a decision, and they’ll push aside their own doubts. They want it to be true. So they’ll convince themselves that it is.
He kicked off his shoes and crossed one leg over the other, stocking foot dangling among the stars.
Need. Greed. And speed, he said. These, boy, are the three pillars of a most effective gaff.
The memory of the Old Man came back strong as I read the letter once more. This Mr. Solomon was offering me what I needed, what I wanted. Enough money, maybe, to pay Daphna, to pay for a healer, to rid me of my scars. To promise me a future. And I had to be there by tomorrow to accept.
And yet . . . a trap for what? Set by whom? It couldn’t be Bronwyn. While she knew by now she’d been had—the sparkly necklace I’d given her would have faded days ago—she had no idea who I really was. I’d covered my tracks, I was sure of it. Besides the princess, I hadn’t cheated anyone else badly enough to go to so much trouble to get me. Every other gaff I’d pulled was the Old Man’s fault. And I didn’t have any money to steal.
Still, something strange was going on here. “Why come to me?” I asked Grey. “Why wouldn’t this Mr. Solomon contact the Breakers?” In fact, in a city like Carlow, you pretty much had to run jobs through the Breakers. If they caught an independent thief working their patch, you were in for a beating. Or worse.
“Guess you haven’t been reading the papers.” Grey pulled a broadsheet from beneath the counter and tossed it to me. It was dated the 16th of Newday; three days ago. I didn’t have to guess what he wanted me to read; it was right there, in the top headline.
CARLOW BREAKERS CRUSHED
The Carlow Metropolitan Police have announced they have finally put an end to the nefarious activities of the Brotherhood of Thieves, more commonly known as the “Guild of Breakers.” In a series of daring predawn raids, the police smashed the very backbone of the Thieves’ Guild, capturing or killing every known operator within city grounds. The malefactors (deceased) are:
The article continued with a long list of names. I didn’t know them. The Old Man had kept us as far away from the Breakers as he had the Weavers.
But this . . . this was stunning. “How did this happen?”
Grey shrugged. “I’d say the Breakers made someone in Carlow very angry.”
My mind churned. Mr. Solomon’s letter was dated the 17th—one day after the Breakers were raided. Which meant he was in desperate need of a thief. That would explain the generous offer.