Skate the Thief

by Jeff Ayers

  Boss Marshall looked at the ceiling as he considered Skate’s plan. “Yes, I’d guess so. My concern, though, is time. It doesn’t matter how many clods you got on the street ready to carry a haul away if you can’t get them out of the building fast enough, does it? Your man don’t leave the house much, does he?” he asked, directing the question to her while cutting a knowing glance to Haman.

  Skate shook her head. “He didn’t when we were watching his house to start out with, and he ain’t gone out once since I’ve been around him, either.”

  Boss Marshall was nodding sagely by the time Skate finished speaking. “So the amount of time you’d have to get the books out would be low. Too low to make it worth much of an effort. What else?”

  Skate agreed, and remembered that Belamy claimed to need neither food nor rest, which would also complicate the theft. She decided to hold on to that piece of information for the time being. “Well, he’s got magic stuff, too. He’s got lanterns that never go out, a bottle full of some stuff that heals you, a stack of firewood that never runs out. I’m sure there’s loads of magic kit that we could make a clean getaway with if we tried. ’Course, if I’m gonna be working on my own, I’ll need to figure out what’s worth what and take the best thing he’s got. I’m pretty sure there’s loads of stuff I haven’t even seen yet, so it’ll take some time to narrow it down.”

  The Boss was smiling congenially at her. “You’re a fine thief, Skate. I’ve known it since you first joined us. Your smarts and instincts are top-notch. You probably won’t get a chance to clean house, so you’re absolutely right: find the best thing he’s got and then get him for all he’s worth by taking it away. Don’t take too long, though; every second you spend in the home is a chance that you’re discovered, and it will all have been wasted. It sounds like you may be able to take care of your dues for the next many weeks if this works out for you.” He smiled again, his eyes disappearing behind his puffy cheeks.

  Skate smiled herself, glad of the Boss’s praise. “Yeah. It won’t be easy, though. The guy doesn’t sleep.”

  “Sure he does, girl; everyone sleeps. You just gotta find out when.”

  “Nah, Boss. He really doesn’t sleep, ever. He says he don’t have to. Says the same thing about eating.” As she explained her earlier conversation with Belamy, the Boss’s face became more and more confused, and he looked to Haman more and more. In turn, Haman’s narrow features became more and more strained and pale. Skate began to feel uncomfortable, understanding that these two were silently coming to a conclusion to which she had no access. She pressed on and finished explaining what the old man had told her.

  Boss Marshall’s face was drained of color, save for two bright pink patches on his round cheeks. He wasn’t looking at Skate anymore, but only at his lieutenant. “Haman.”

  “Yes, Boss?”

  “Do you know of any magic that can do what she’s describing?”

  “Yes and no, Boss.” When Boss didn’t say anything else, Haman took that as a cue to expound. “Well, you see, I know of spells that can stave off hunger, and I’ve read of trinkets that can feed your body without your ever having to actually eat anything, but I don’t know of any magic that can eradicate the need to eat entirely. Similarly, I know of spells to help one stay awake, but extended use of such magic leaves one feeling drained and could eventually kill the recipient if used too much.” Haman licked his dry lips and removed his glasses, taking a soft cloth out of his breast pocket and rubbing the lenses. There was a tremor in his hand as he worried at the glass. “Skate,” he said without looking up from his polishing work, “you’ve never seen him sleep or eat?”

  She shook her head. “No. Pretty sure he stayed in one spot for an entire night.” The memory of seeing him in exactly the same spot that he had been the previous night flashed through her mind, with a third of a huge book apparently read in one sitting. “I’m sure he didn’t sleep,” she said, with renewed confidence.

  Haman’s polishing continued with increased jerkiness, but he said nothing.

  “Haman?” Boss Marshall prompted.

  Haman jumped as if stung, and looked around dazedly. “Yes. Well. As I said, I know of no spells that could make these things true, but there are…ways to get around the common needs in life.” He gingerly replaced the glasses on the end of his nose. He took a deep breath, and his composure reasserted itself. “If your mark is not alive, he would need none of these things.”

  Skate shook her head, not understanding. “What do you mean, ‘not alive’? I just talked to him this morning, and he talked right back. He moves; he reads; he talks; he can do magic. I don’t know a lot, Haman, but I know dead people don’t do any of that stuff.”

  “He didn’t say he was dead, Skate.” Boss Marshall had not gained his usual color back, but his deep grating voice was calmer, at least. “He said ‘not alive.’ There’s that in the world what’s neither living nor dead and never was, like stones and water. But there’s else that’s been one and not passed into the other. Eh, Haman?”

  “Just so, Boss.” Haman placed his paper gingerly on the edge of Boss’s desk, and Skate could see that sweat had bled onto the page where he’d been holding it. “And based on what we’ve seen and heard, I think our Mr. Belamy may be one of these. There are huge varieties of these half-dead, and some need to eat still, though many don’t. They don’t sleep; they don’t breathe. They don’t pass on from old age.”

  This last characteristic echoed in Skate’s ears. I’m a hundred and seven, he’d said, though he was able to do much more than a man so old could be expected to do.

  “Could they survive a knife to the ribs?” she asked, already guessing the answer.

  “Yes,” Haman said, gingerly pushing his glasses further up his thin nose, “I imagine most of them could.”

  The three of them sat in silence. Haman held his chin in one of his hands, deep in thought. Boss Marshall drummed his fingers nervously on his desk. Skate sat looking at the floor. Maybe they’re wrong, she thought. Maybe he’s not a half-dead. Maybe he’s just healthy for his age and uses his magic to get past things he finds inconvenient. It was certainly possible; Haman said he knew of no such magic, but Haman didn’t know everything. He could be wrong. And Boss Marshall relied on Haman for all of his information about magic. Maybe they’re wrong.

  Staring at her feet, Skate felt in her heart that they were not wrong. Barrison Belamy was a man who had died but was not dead. The kind old man who liked to spend his days reading was some sort of monster who would not die. He was an unnatural thing. It was the only explanation that made sense of his idiosyncrasies—oddities that not even magic explained properly.

  “He doesn’t act like a monster,” was all she finally said, looking at her feet.

  “The undying are many and varied,” Haman intoned, settling into a pedantic affectation that helped his composure. “Depending on what he is, he may be able to control his nature for short or even extended periods of time. A vampire—”

  “Vampire?!” Skate exclaimed, jerking upright, her fingers gripping the hard seat of her chair. Twitch had told her stories of such monsters, and Skate had consoled herself by deciding they were just stories, imaginary things made up to scare children like her. Haman’s mention of them with regard to Belamy shattered that feeble comfort. “You think he’s a vampire?”

  “He may be. Or a haunt. Or a ghost or a lich or a revenant or a ghoul or any of a dozen other horrors sent by the demons to torment the living. My best bet right now would be a vampire or ghost, since he never seems to leave his home. He may be a particularly reclusive and inactive lich, I suppose. It’s all conjecture until you learn more.”

  “I gotta go back?” Skate imagined trying to sleep in the bed given to her by her host, imagined sharp fangs glistening in moonlight, Belamy’s face feral and long as his mouth opened entirely too wide. She shuddered.

  “Oh yes, Skate,” Boss Marshall said, leaning forward and dropping into a comforting tone, “
you must. You owe the Ink, remember? You were supposed to rob that place days ago to meet your quota for the week. That debt is deferred only so long as it takes you to successfully steal something of great value from the fellow. You’ll be out if you fail to pay, and you know what that means—to say nothing of what will happen should you outright refuse.” His rough voice was little more than a growl, his wobbly smile nowhere to be found. “I’ve protected you, Skate. You know that. I’ve made sure you were always among the best among us. But that protection only works if I’m still in charge. I’ve GOT to make money. The Big Boss, he…well, he’s got reasons to be upset with me right now, Skate. If I start reporting a dip in income—which is exactly what I’ll have while you’re not bringing anything in—I’m gonna have to explain that to him.”

  The Boss leaned back, his wide eyes moist with tears. “I’m sorry, but you have to.” His soft smile did not reach his eyes this time. “I hope you don’t fail. I don’t want you hurt. But the Ink needs its funds, and anyone not doing their part gets blotted out. We’d take away the mark on you, and you’d be on your own in this city. You’ll go back to the old man. You have to.” He wiped his eyes. “No matter what.”

  Skate looked to Haman and saw no support there. His narrow eyes showed perhaps sadness, but no help. No willingness to intervene.

  She was trapped.

  Skate felt herself starting to cry. She blinked hard and swallowed. It was her father’s voice she heard in her head, a voice she had not heard in years. Be strong, it said. Cry later, away from these men. Be strong. It helped her. It surprised her, too. She took strength from the memory.

  After a steadying breath, Skate said, “All right. I’ll pay what I owe. I’ll do it, monster or no monster.”

  The Boss grinned his toothy grin, and Haman nodded. “I knew you would, girl,” said the Boss. “I knew you’d do what’s smart. You’re a survivor, aren’t you? That’s what I’ve said about you since I met you. Ain’t that so, Haman?”

  “Just so, Boss.”

  “Sure, ‘Skate’s smart and a survivor’; that’s what I say. Well, you better get back to work,” Boss Marshall said, motioning toward the door, “while I take care of more business with Haman. And, Skate,” he added as she put her hand on the handle, “don’t give it away. It’d be bad enough for a wizard to find out who you work for, but I don’t want to deal with something that fought death itself and won. Be smart, like I know you are.”

  Skate took the final words as the dismissal they were and stepped back out of the room. She closed the door behind her and saw a familiar shock of blond hair headed her way through the shadows.

  Twitch was alone and seemingly in good spirits; he had a bounce in his step even though he seemed lost in thought. Skate whistled at him, and he perked up at the sight of her. He smiled and changed course from the Boss’s door to her.

  “Boss is meeting with Haman,” she said, taking a seat at one of the tables, “so you gotta wait.”

  “No—no problem,” he said, sitting near her in another chair, “I can wait. I made a great haul.” He patted a bag at his hip. “Nicked some silver off a vendor, then got some spices out of a warehouse. Already took ’em to Rog,” he explained, naming one of the Ink’s approved fences, “and I got more than enough to cover my quota this week. Even after the—the Ink gets their cut of the leftovers, I’ll have a nice bit of silver to hold on to.”

  “Nice one,” Skate said, holding her hand out to examine the bag. Twitch handed it over, and she felt its weight. “Yeah, you’ll be fine.” She smiled and gave it back.

  “Yeah. So how’d it go with your guy? Did you find something worth stealing from him yet?”

  “Nah, not yet, but I found out some stuff.” Skate explained what she’d learned and what Haman and the Boss thought it meant. Twitch looked horrified.

  “They can’t make you go back if he’s some sort of monster! Well, I-I guess they can, but they shouldn’t!” His good mood was gone, replaced by anger and indignation. “It’s dangerous. Way t-too dangerous.”

  “Everything we do is dangerous,” Skate reminded him. His discomfort bolstered her somehow. “It’ll be fine. If he wanted to hurt me, he could have done it last night. Although…” She trailed off, thinking of the less-than-friendly conversation they had had before she left. “It’ll be fine,” she repeated, deciding she’d cross that bridge when she came to it.

  “If you say so,” Twitch said, looking into his bag and counting the coins. “You can han-handle yourself.”

  “No doubt about it.” Skate smiled at her friend, who was engaged in counting his money. She knew he was genuinely worried about her, and she also knew he genuinely had confidence in her ability to stay alive and take what she could. His apparent lack of concern was a show of his belief in her. The blind trust puffed her spirits up; Belamy did not seem so dangerous anymore. “Thanks.”

  “For what?”

  Before she could answer, the Boss’s door opened, and Haman walked out. He saw Twitch and Skate and cut his eyes toward the door to signal that the young boy could go in. Twitch scooped up his bag to deliver his payment firsthand, leaving Skate alone. She decided to make her way back to Belamy’s house. Before leaving, though, she needed some more information. She walked over to Haman’s table, where he had again taken his seat behind the great wall of paperwork.

  “Skate,” he said without looking up as she approached, his eyes shifting between whatever he had brought in to the Boss and the blank page in front of him, “is there something I can do for you?”

  “Yeah, Haman. How can I tell if he’s a vampire?”

  “Garlic,” he said, putting the finished page on the table next to the blank one. “Vampires don’t like garlic or sunlight. There would also be a coffin somewhere nearby that he’d spend time in. He’d need to…eat, as well, so you should be able to find some evidence of that.”

  “Okay.” Skate felt confidence rising in her like steel, an unbending bar of willpower to face whatever she needed to face, including asking this next question: “Have you seen Kite?”

  Haman blinked and shook his head. Skate saw a flash of dislike in that action that was quickly replaced by Haman’s calm, neutral expression of polite disinterest. “No, not since he paid his dues two days ago. Why? I never got the sense that you wanted to work with Kite or even liked the fellow.” After he spoke, he drew one flat palm across the blank page in front of him while the other hand pointed at the words on the marked page. As his palm moved down, the exact same marks appeared on the blank page as on the marked one. He flipped both pages over and began the process anew.

  Skate smiled. “Just wondering.” That meant he hadn’t told Haman or the Boss about their little meeting. He’s probably too embarrassed, she thought. How could he tell anyone without revealing that he had failed to bully a nine-year-old girl? He would sound like a lunatic if he mentioned Rattle to anyone who had not seen it, so he had not told anyone. “Thanks, Haman.” She stood and turned back toward the exit. “Tell Twitch I’ll see him around, and not to spend all his money on tobacco.”

  “I’m not your messenger, Skate,” Haman said in a bored voice as he lifted the newly written page, examining it for copy errors.

  Skate smiled again and began to walk down the hall.

  “Skate.” Haman’s voice echoed down the hall as she prepared to turn the corner. He had set both pages down and was looking at her. He took his lenses off and held them in his hand as he leaned forward, his head framed by the documentation surrounding him. “Stay safe. The Boss doesn’t want you to fail, and neither do I.”

  Skate nodded and left the hideout. There was something in Haman’s voice that bothered her. It was only after she had stepped back into the open air behind the tavern that she was able to determine what it was: sympathy.

  She rolled her eyes and made her way back to Belamy’s old stone house in the Old Town, reminding herself to make a quick stop by a spice vendor on her way.

  Chapter 7

>   In which a theory is tested, a secret room is explored, and some soup is set on the floor to cool.

  Skate stood once more at the door of Barrison Belamy’s home as the afternoon sun disappeared behind a few blanket-like clouds. She wondered briefly how best to enter, and decided a knock at the door would be most appropriate, given that she was not sure she was still welcome as a guest. She banged her fist on the heavy wooden portal, listening carefully for approaching footsteps or a call to enter. She heard the familiar sound of Rattle’s legs clicking together, and moved her head away from the door. The latch clicked, and the door slowly swung open, though not all the way. Rattle moved away from the door, so she went in.

  Belamy’s bottom floor was much as she had left it that morning, though the scant light streaming in had shifted as the day had passed. A purplish light was bouncing off the walls into the room. No orange glow escaped the fireplace, which sat cold and untended. Skate saw the ends of Rattle’s legs as it floated back upstairs, perhaps to read or perhaps to clean. She also saw her host in his usual spot behind his desk at the end of the room, his book open and his head bent over it.

  The room had chilled to the outdoor temperature, and Skate’s breath puffed into clouds when she spoke. “Evening, Mr. Belamy,” she said, making a concentrated effort to keep her voice steady and calm.

  “Good evening, Skate.” He did not take his eyes from the page in front of him. His voice was cold and cordial, uninviting and lacking any of his usual warmth. As the silent seconds ticked by, Skate’s sense of discomfort grew. Whether he was a monster or not, the awkward cloud hanging in the air was unbearable, and she was ready to get back on speaking terms with the person in front of her.