‘First,’ Cyrus held up a finger, ‘we get those names, and, second,’ a second finger followed the first, ‘we’ll be shot of this place. We’ll get out of here, you and me Alex. We just need an opportunity.'
’What? Cyrus, look, you make it sound too simple,’ said Alex.
He scratched at the plaster that surrounded his bunk and looked at the ceiling. Alex again counted the marks chipped by dozens before him. They were both waiting for their names; the names that would elevate them above initiate and into adept. While Cyrus began another plan of how to leave this life behind, counting steps on his spindly fingers, Alex drifted in his mind. He almost wished his world was a painting at that moment, a choice to start over and scrub clean the canvas; he then wished to have never grown up in such a place, to have never studied under aged men who once played the game of shadows. There was a sharp knock at the door of the room which turned both their heads. Cyrus stood and walked out of the room, where a conversation took place beyond Alex’s hearing. With a nod and smile Cyrus waved goodbye and left the door open.
The wool sheets underneath felt too warm at midday. Alex sat himself up. He rubbed his stomach where butterflies fluttered, for all of his wishing that he wasn’t here, it certainly felt important to him. He paced and checked each familiar corner. There was a mismatched tile, blushed with paint, next to a drain that was never unclogged. He pulled it loose, and grasped the bag at the back of a niche. Inside flopped out a bundle of scrap paper, squeezed between two hard covers and wrapped with twine. It was everything he knew of his family, a collection of writing and sketches made by his mother. On the front cover was an embossed white rose, which he traced with a finger. It was old, he was sure, maybe a generation or two. Faint memories still spun around his mind from time to time; ones of his mother who kept him close. Although Alex remembered her as soft and kind, his father was a hard blur, a lightning–bolt of a man.
Before he had built the courage to ask about his past, his mentor died in his sleep. The only man who knew the person who had delivered him as a babe along with the journal, had taken those secrets to his grave. He spun a new reality in his mind on some of the harder nights, one where he lived with his family, and everyone was happy, and warm, and well fed. Sometimes his imagination would frighten him and provide hard truths. Sometimes, Alex would shake in his bunk, the wool wet with tears, until Cyrus would take pity and raise his spirit.
'Alex,’ croaked voice behind the door. 'Alex, it's time.'
He followed the senior down a steep stairwell, the older man taking care down the steps, while he slipped down each like a child. Alex stared at the walls. Noting every patch of mortar, every mark made by a chisel as he had a dozen times. He passed one hand down a groove, twisting his fingers with the folds of the plaster as he clomped down. At the bottom Cyrus strolled forwards, his faint smile and that arrogant twitch of his head directed at Alex. They passed by each other by. ‘See you outside,' Cyrus whispered.
Before Alex could reply the senior sped up his walk. The march ended before the gold–shod doors that ran parallel to the mess and training rooms. He oft wondered what was beyond. What ceremonies or hushed meetings the seniority would hold, soon he would know. He looked up at the senior who gave the briefest of winks beneath his cowl and left him alone to attend to other matters. He studied the golden doors. There were no handles, no signs of hinges or dents at the bases, they were paragons of craftsmanship. Carved symbols dotted the trim, marked with numbers and dates beside each. Two generations of thieves up there. The original ideals of the Tower were at the top: Ignis, Aeris, and Aqua. The names each wore crowns: one alight, one lofted by a cloud, and one sunk in a river. Knowledge, Freedom, Opportunity. Alex stopped gawking, swallowed hard and pushed. The polished coasters rocked the doors inwards, and the hall ahead exhaled warm air over him.
The council of the eldest thieves sat on simple wooden stools with black cloaks swaddled around them. There were twelve in total, six women and six men, each with an impassive look on their faces. He sat on the only empty stool left in the hall, the one that was in the middle of their scrutiny. He turned, facing them with hot cheeks and watery eyes. Past them, candles upon candles dotted the stills and the floor and wax upon wax melted in opaque clumps. Alex noticed the shadows of the hall had been manipulated to obscure the faces of the council, steep windows at the back of the room carefully curtained over.
'Initiate, you face our judgement today.'
Alex studied what he could of the man who spoke. He was their main benefactor, and none knew his name, his coming and goings kept secret. The man’s voice echoed off the stillness; it was cold and impatient.
'Whether you are to receive a name that is unworthy, or worthy, is based on your previous tithes, and willingness to further our mission to free London from her fetters.’
He listened to the woman who spoke beside this man. She had milk–white hair, dark skin and amber eyes that belied a deep perception. He had rarely seen her before, and so nodded in respect. She raised her eyebrows in surprise, turning aside to whisper something to the Benefactor.
'I have trained and studied hard,' said Alex with truth to his words.
The Benefactor scoffed. Part of his cowl formed something of a beak and his chin jutted as he whispered something to Amber Eyes next to him. Alex now knew why the younger among referred to the Benefactor as “the biggest bird this side of Redbridge.” Alex caught himself before any laughter escaped.
'You have passed our tests, eaten with your brothers and sisters. You have earned your keep here at the Tower by following marks and relieving them,' said the Benefactor.
'I have,' said Alex.
'But rumour tells us that you have a desire to escape–an insult to all who live here. Are you so unhappy you wish to leave this life of opportunity-are we so repulsive?'
'No,' Alex lied.
'A lie. The boy lies. Nothing more than a child sits before us,' he continued.
'Nothing more than a child who disgraces those ideals carved on that door.'
The hoods all turned to him, expectant. Butterflies bubbled inside Alex; the anxiety spilled into his fists which he balled tight. His teeth mashed against each other until he relaxed his jaw.
'He grinds his teeth in anger,' said a new voice, slippery as wet clay.
'Why do you want to leave our family, one that has provided so much?' said Amber Eyes.
'This is all I know. All I know of the world.' Alex felt hot stings around his eyes, 'there is another waiting for me beyond these walls.'
'Answer the question,' said the clay voice.
Alex shook his head. 'Yes. I want to be free of it. The world is the tower I must climb, not here. I cannot grow anymore.'
More whispers followed. It seemed like an age as Alex waited for the verdict, an age he regretted making. Maybe that's not the answer they were looking for. How did Cyrus finish so quickly? I just want this to end!
The Benefactor stood and fanned his cloak about him. He looked at each of the council in turn, as if counting invisible votes.
'Then we are sure of your name, based on what you are, and what we have learned from you.'
'But you were teaching me,' said Alex.
'Knowledge flows both ways,' said Amber Eyes. ‘You have a fresh perspective; the only kind that naivety and innocence can bring. Our eyes are old and stubborn - they see what they want us to see. Our organisation survives on its youngest and brightest. It must bring fresh blood to our ever-growing family.'
'Enough, Isolde. The boy is ready for his name,' the clay voice added.
The Benefactor bent low and sat back down, he pointed at Alex. 'Your previous mentor died correct?' Alex nodded.
'Then you will take on his name. I name you Canis in front of the council–a name which we hope will grow in renown.'
Alex sighed. He rose and bowed and shook Turner’s gloved hand, who embraced him lightly in return. 'Go. You are an Initiate no longer. Spread your name and do us proud, f
or the sake of this fair city.’
The Benefactor indeed. Lord Percy Turner sat back onto his uncomfortable stool and examined the young man before him. He was a wiry, unkempt thief, who had a predilection to scratch at things around him, and show worry by bunching his entire face up. If this was the quality they were expecting, standards have to be raised, Percy thought. But perhaps, if this young man wishes to be free, we can use that against him.
After all his worry, the whole ceremony meant nothing, as Alex knew it would. It was all smoke and mirrors. Each of the council stared back at him, they revealed no emotion, gave away no struggle for power nor internal politics. Alex tipped his head again. He left back through the doors, struggled through the hall and paused around one of the pillars to feel his chest. His heart had calmed. His feet felt light and free as he walked down the cracked steps leading to the entrance. The cobblestone at the base was caked with muck, which he danced over. Alex spied Cyrus waiting at the market of Redbridge; his arms rested along the backs of two young women. They giggled as he pretended to nibble along their necks. One looked over at Alex, her eyes judged him in a flick before turning her attention back to the sweet nothings Cyrus spun in her ear.
'This is Helena–she's Greek, I think.' said Cyrus. He let her go, and she gave Alex a twirl, scattering the red jewels on her dress. They picked up the sun, mixing orange and burgundy into a spiral. He looked at the kohl which led straight to her eyes. 'She's ready Alex, but this one is mine.' Cyrus growled and took a playful bite at the other woman, as he shook her shoulder. 'Victoria,' he said, 'what a beauty.' Victoria gave Alex a practiced flutter of her lashes. Her painted lips squeezed together into a subtle kiss. Alex shook his head, hand scratching his brow. One night of celebration would do them both good. Alex tossed a purse at Cyrus, who hung his mouth open as he caught it.
'Then, sir, ladies, tonight we'll celebrate. Our friend Mr Benefactor is paying,’ Alex said, bowing.
✽✽✽
Outlines of smokestacks and houses melted into each other. Each shape blended into the muted river and smudged a smoked sky. It was a morning of fine benevolence; a morning where work started and finished in a cool haze; a morning where the artist felt as though he was king in a fool’s paradise. People materialised from the low clouds that hung close to Alex and Helena; she purred at him as he led her back to her boudoir, made of old brick and painted wood, gaudy posters and soiled screens. She pawed at Alex, still drunk. Her mouth whispered false promises in her most convincing Greek accent before she twirled, and tripped over the front step. She lay there, just beyond the entrance, asleep. Her snores disturbed the other jades in the foyer. They began to throw pillows as Alex gawped into their hidden world.
Recollections surfaced with his appetite. He had lost Cyrus after the ninth drink last night; something he had vowed on the third not to do. Now any remaining pennies jangled sadly in his breast pocket. He knew a morning such as this could only cured with a fresh bun soaked in bacon fat and washed down with coffee. Alex followed wherever the air was fresh; he let the promise of food inspire his legs into action. He found a street baker and bought the greasy bun with half of the coins he had left and chewed it happily. After, Alex crept down ancient steps to a bank close to the Darkwater, letting his boots squelch in the filth. He threw up what breakfast he had managed to swallow. A sewage gate of iron, cut into the stone, squealed open behind him. Out of the hole there were two children, one boy and one girl. His new students, since he was now technically a mentor in his own right. Alex jumped up when he saw the boy with a red scarf. The young man could not pinch pockets with a red flag hung around neck, he would soon find a rope there instead, the other end thrown over a gibbet. Alex walked up to them both. He snatched the scarf away and stuffed it into one of his pockets, out of sight.
'Like this,' he said to them, 'you either go black, or don't bother with theatrics. The Globe is on the other side if you fancy becoming a thespian.'
He pulled out his own black scarf, the length of a man's arm. It wrapped his head twice, covering the lower half of face. With his hood pulled up, he looked every bit a professional thief spread on posters across the city.
'You're 'im' said the girl. ‘I’ve seen you about the Tower.’
'I am 'im,' Alex mocked. 'I am Canis. And you two must be my understudies.'
'We are,' came a cold voice from the boy, 'The Benefactor sent us. You'll teach us then?'
'I will. But you'll need street names, not your real ones. Coppers will catch you before you know it. Falsehoods can be your best friend. Let that be the first lesson.'
'Are you alright? You're white as a sheet,’ the girl squinted at him.
'What was your name at the Tower?' Alex asked her.
'Charlotte.'
'No, simpler than that, a nickname.'
'I like Ghost. I could sneak around easy like.'
'Ominous. And yours?' he said, pointing at the boy.
There was no reply, just a dull glare. Alex sighed. 'The boy with no scarf,' he scratched the back of his head. 'Let's call you Red to remind us all why you don't have one anymore.'
Alex removed his boots and stockings, and rolled his breeches to the knees. He played with the mud and silt beneath his toes, before stepping into the river proper. The cool water lapped up to his ankles giving small sanctuary to the boulevards that were waking above. His understudies stood behind him, waiting for him to give some clue as what to do next. He could hear Ghost cough, but he ignored it. Red had to tap him on his shoulder before Alex sighed and removed his feet from the river. He replaced his stockings and boots, rerolled his trousers and then fixed the pair with a look to inspire silence.
'Come then,' Alex said, 'we'll find a mark in all this.' He flung his arms up to frame London in its totality.
Each of them had three purses full by the afternoon. They had scoured the Redbridge market, the canal yard and a church. Alex chose the hardest areas to pickpocket on purpose. He wanted to see how well the youngsters would cope. He watched from a distance and waited for them to hoodwink someone, and then do it himself. He showed where perhaps they hesitated or lacked confidence. They tried it in pairs. One distracted with a sob story or under the pretence of a street entertainer, and one stole. Fops with ladies tucked under one arm were easy targets; the youngest and less worldly the best of all. You could tell from the face and hands, Alex informed them, the less scars and stress, the more of a blessed life they had led. When Ghost asked, Alex told them that prosperous merchants were usually not worth it.
'There,' Red said, pointing. 'That fat bastard has two guards.'
'Look at the size of his purse,' marvelled Ghost.
'It's a ruse,' added Red, 'no merchant would leave his home with that much coin.'
'Now, which of you is right?' Alex asked.
They sat sullen on their seats inside the cafe. Alex sipped his coffee while watching the merchant waddle along. A single fat hand with a collection of fat rings pointed at what he wanted to buy. A footman would saunter off and buy whatever his master wanted.
'Do you see him? That pad is the prize, not the merchant,' said Alex.
Alex stood and followed, his feet responded and put weight onto their soles. Each step he took was silent. The footman wound his way back through the market square. He made sure his master’s money was tight in his hand. Down an alley, before Alex could act, Cyrus crashed into the footman, who tumbled with the master's purse onto the cobble. There was a flash of utter hatred across the footman's face before he composed himself. Cyrus apologised; with his free hand, he pointed at the purse, vulnerable and without owner. Alex roughly guessed the weight, removed it of coins and replaced pebbles inside. He tied it up and patted it down of dust. With a snatch, the footman hurried on.
'We're combing the same patch friend,' said Cyrus. Alex looked down on his friend’s boots; they were slick with yellow mud.
‘We don't believe in coincidences. You were late in meeting me.’
‘Makin
g new friends. By the by, there's a Lady in town, from the south.'
'Another girl caught your eye?'
'Let’s be serious. There are rumours of a treasure hunt, and she’s heading the expedition. The boss wants us back at the tower.’
✽✽✽
In the afternoon, clouds continued with their downpour. It had turned Redbridge into a morass. Their Tower, Alex noticed, was lucky to be built as it was. Several homes around them were already waterlogged. People had gathered bushels of straw and pails ready to fight the worst of it. Inside, after stowing his cloak, he arrived in time for late supper, the council already sat in a tight circle around the far end of the hall. Attention all on them. Setters hugged the table legs; they shook from the wet, or whimpered as food passed them by. He noticed Ghost and Red among a crowd of youngsters huddled off to one side; he gave them a wave, which was returned with eye rolls. Plates of squashed potatoes and carrots mixed with loaves as black as the table were presented. Roasted hare and duck were eaten in gusto. The lurking dogs gobbled any scraps thrown underneath. After everyone had emptied, or licked a plate clean, Percy rose and spoke:
‘We believe there is an expedition heralded by a Lady Saville. Her ship is to uncover some hidden treasure from legend. Days before the Tower came to be,’
'What's the treasure Master?' asked a thief by entrance.
‘Gold,’ replied Percy.
Laughter broke out in the hall. The younger among them wiped tears from their eyes before they understood the matter was grave. Percy swiped his hand for silence. ‘This gold, according to Isolde,' he wiggled a finger at the hooded woman sat to his left. 'Is important to secure our future brothers and sisters. If the Saville heiress has invested part of her fortune in this, it is worth our attention. There is a journal that survived from an expedition made over twenty years ago, when Lord Saville was still alive and Sarah just a child. We have a copy from the British Museum,' he coughed, 'thanks to Isolde here.' The woman nodded at the mention of her name. She stared at Alex, who blushed and looked down at his feet. She had been present at his initiation, same amber eyes. 'Our task is to steal this gold; in whatever form it may take. Then, sell it to the highest bidder. Business as usual.' Percy clapped his hands twice and the hall began to disperse. He walked over to Alex and Cyrus, placed one hand on Alex's shoulder, and beckoned Cyrus with the other.
The First House Page 3
