Skate the Thief

by Jeff Ayers

  “That was the best thing you’ve ever seen.”

  “Yeah, and I—”

  “Laughed harder than you have in months because it was so great and had magic.” The appeal of sitting in front of the crystal to see struck her in a different light; being able to know things she shouldn’t was pretty great, but seeing the stunned confusion on Twitch’s face was even better.

  “How do you know? Were you there?”

  “I got my ways, kid,” she said, snapping her fingers at him. She only called him “kid” when she was trying to frazzle him. She didn’t actually think too much about their slight age difference. For one thing, it didn’t really matter; they were close enough to the same for them to get along. For another, despite being bigger and older than she was, he was willing to do what she wanted most of the time when it came to jobs. Belamy’s house had been her idea, not his; and whether he’d thought it smart or not, he’d gone along with it without any hesitation.

  “Whatever, doesn’t matter,” he said, shaking his head. “The point is, you gotta come see this thing. They said they’re doing one more show tonight, so ‘be ready and bring your friends.’ I can show you where the next one is.”

  “What’s so great about it?”

  “I’ve never seen anything like it.” His low voice cracked, and in his excitement, he seemed not to care. “The lights, the music, the jokes—it’s just…” Words failed him, but the message was plain. His scowl was nowhere to be seen, replaced by the shadow of blissful awe.

  “Music?” In watching Twitch through the crystal, she’d heard echoes of the chatter and laughter of the crowd and her friend, but she had heard no music.

  “Yeah, there’s music. So m-much more, though, Skate. Come on, you’ll love it.”

  She scratched her head. It was late, and she was tired. It had been a much longer day than she’d wanted already. Still, the pleading look on Twitch’s face was overpowering. He’d never cared for street shows before—“beggars with better tools,” he’d called the performers—but this one must have been something truly special, because she’d heard nothing but admiration for it.

  “Yeah, okay.” The acceptance split his face into a wide grin, and he waved her out into the night, snow falling steadily on them both as they went.

  Chapter 19

  In which a lady with a lisp almost falls over, a tale is told that no one knows, and a warning is delivered.

  She pulled her hood up soon after they took off into the night; the snow was stinging her face because she was having to move so fast to keep up with Twitch. He moved with a fervor she’d only seen from him when on the run from the Guard, and she’d never fully appreciated how difficult it was to keep up with him when he was in a hurry. Even though crowds were fewer than during the day, the night was young and the roads barely covered with a new layer of white powder, so there were still plenty of people to negotiate around on their way toward the performance. Twitch almost knocked over an old peasant woman in his haste, sending her tumbling into Skate’s way as they went.

  “Thtupid braths!” she croaked through the four teeth left in her head, shaking the knobby stick she’d been using to balance herself. “You coulda kilt me!”

  “Sorry!” was all Skate said as she scrambled on, throwing an apologetic wave back at the old crone. Twitch didn’t acknowledge the cry, but kept on running at his breakneck pace.

  They were headed toward the slums. This made no sense, as buskers couldn’t make any money off of people who had none, but the conclusion was inevitable as they left the vestigial splendor of the Old Town behind and began to skirt past the sordid shacks of the destitute. There were fires burning in hastily dug pits at odd intervals, where the desperate and the uncared-for huddled together to stave off the cold. There’ll be lives lost tonight, Skate thought as she considered the cold and the utter lack of protective clothing or blankets available to the people living here.

  That was one thing she owed the Ink, she mused. They kept me from starving and dying. She did not have to sleep in the street if she didn’t want to, and she never had, after she’d taken up with them. The safe houses were open to members in good (or even iffy) standing. Food was available. If she hadn’t joined the Ink, she’d have been out here, wandering the paths of the worst kind of poverty, desperate for heat and food in the dead of winter. And apparently being treated to the most amazing street show ever performed in the streets of the city of Caribol.

  Skate shouted at Twitch to wait. She bent over, her hands on her knees in order to catch her breath. It came out in translucent clouds that disappeared a few inches from her face. Twitch jogged back, his cloth-wrapped foot tapping impatiently on the packed snow while he waited.

  Skate stared at the ground to collect her thoughts and her air. It was hard to see, now. There weren’t any lamps in this part of the city, and lights were scarce, a luxury few could afford. Even the moons weren’t helpful, being too low in the sky to shed much light. There were not many actual streets in the slum, and the Keepers certainly didn’t bother with this part of town; they only came to help when a fire threatened to spread to other parts of the city, which rarely happened. The slummers had, for generations, gotten used to dealing with things their own way, and their destitute community worked internally on all emergencies, knowing that help was unlikely to ever come.

  The Ink did great business here, especially in the selling of alcohol and a dangerous substance called “opum.” Though Skate had never seen the stuff herself, she’d seen its effects often enough: users became very drowsy, usually barely able to stand. The Ink operated several houses in the quarter—dingy wooden structures that were nevertheless some of the best the area had to offer, and that existed solely as a repository for the comatose bodies of users. Skate didn’t know where opum came from, but she knew the trade routes into the port were the primary source of it. It wasn’t made here. Whenever the denizens of the slums did manage to get money, most of it that didn’t go toward the sparest of food went to either drink or opum. For some, the food was an afterthought. Starvation was common.

  “You ready? It’s n-not much farther.”

  She nodded, and the run began anew. Soon, they were nearing a clearing in the tents and hovels, in the middle of which stood a hastily thrown-together platform. The clearing turned out to be more of a shallow pit; it probably filled with water in the spring and summer. The snow had surprisingly been cleared away here, and the brown dirt was clearly visible for the torches tied to stakes around the clearing. No one was on the platform, but there was a homemade stool on one of the corners.

  “Is this where it’ll be?” Skate asked.

  “Oh, aye, girl, thish’ll be it,” slurred an old man sitting at the edge of the crowd. He was dressed in rags, and stared off past where she and Twitch were standing. “The mushic’ll come, and the lightsh, too. Bet on it.” He fell into a delirious cackle that sounded like it was tearing at his throat to get out. He clapped his hands as he laughed, showing a toothless grin. He continued looking past the pair, having clearly forgotten he was talking to anyone. Twitch rolled his eyes and pointed to a spot relatively free of people in the impromptu amphitheater.

  They walked over and squatted down, rubbing their hands and shoulders to stave off the cold. It was not easy to stay warm, as the setting sun seemed to herald the return of more and more snow. It was melting as soon as it hit the ground here, so there was no danger for the time being that the area would become choked with the stuff. The cold and snow were also not much of a deterrent to fans and curious passersby. Dozens of people were milling about, chatting, passing around bottles, or trying to stay warm while they waited for the performance of a lifetime to repeat itself.

  “So, what is the show, exactly?”

  “It’s music and lights, like the c-crazy old guy said. That doesn’t describe it well enough, though. It’s hard t-to explain. Good news is, you’re about to s-see for yourself.” Twitch grinned and nodded toward someone near the stage.r />
  There were three people who did not appear to belong to the slums stepping onto the platform. The first was a woman all in black who took a seat on the stool. In front of her sat a huge instrument that looked like a fiddle but made three times larger. She stood it on the ground in front of her and held the bow in her other hand. She had a rather wide face, and her black hair was pulled back into a tight knot, giving her a severe look when coupled with her stern expression.

  The second was a man in a fine brown coat and plumed hat, who made a point to pat the back of every person he passed on the way to the dais. He had a thin goatee, one that might have been mistaken for being penciled on if it had not jutted out from his chin. His boots jingled when he walked; the buckles seemed to wink in the torchlight.

  The third person was the strangest of the three: they were wearing a very heavy fur coat that obscured the shape of their body. Their head was wrapped in a very long scarf with only a thin slit at the eyes for the sake of its wearer’s vision. All of this prevented identification as either a man or a woman. This person did not speak to anyone as he—she?—stepped up to the platform.

  When all three were onstage, the man in the feather hat raised his gloved hands and waved the crowd closer. When he spoke, the crowd immediately quieted.

  “Come one, come all! Gather around for a repeat performance of The Tales of Beuford Hall. For those who have yet to see this humble show of ours, we say ‘Welcome!’ To those who are coming back for more, we say ‘Welcome back!’” He flashed a toothy grin and winked to the crowd at large. His voice was deep and booming. He reminded Skate of some of the hucksters she’d seen selling oils and unguents to crowds before skipping town the next day. For some reason, that didn’t cause her to distrust him. “The Tales are thrillers, don’t you doubt, but you’re in for a treat this evening, ladies and gentlemen. For not only shall the stories be told—by none other than yours truly, Carsen Tillby,” he said with a bow and a flourish, “but they shall be accompanied by music provided by the lovely Miss Amanda, and images—moving images—designed and created by the inestimable Kibo the Magnificent!” At each of their introductions, the other performers acknowledged their parts: Amanda played a flourish on her instrument, which resonated with a deep, rich echo, and Kibo flashed lights and smoke out of her—his?—sleeves. “I must warn you, dear people,” Tillby continued, his deep voice growing serious, “that the Tales are sometimes dark and dreadful; and if you’ve not the stomach for such fare, you should depart before the story begins—else, you may find yourself too engaged to leave!”

  His eyes roved over the crowd. No one left. He didn’t expect them to, Skate thought as his winning grin showed itself again. “You’ve been warned. Without further ado, make yourself as comfortable as you may, and prepare to enjoy The Tales of Beuford Hall!” He clapped his hands, and immediately, Miss Amanda began to draw her bow across the strings and Kibo brushed smoke and lights out of his or her sleeves. The light took shape in the sky, creating a young couple in a field.

  The next thing Skate knew about the show was that it was over. The audience was showing its appreciation through applause, which was all such a crowd could hope to offer. She shook her head and joined in the clapping.

  She was standing as she had been before the show started. She didn’t know what had happened, other than that the show had gone on for some time (some of the torches were burning very low, and drifts of snow had formed on the ground), and that she’d loved every minute of it. Tillby was thanking the crowd repeatedly, and had swung the plumed hat off his head into a deep bow. He began to shake the hands of those nearest the stage—people who were reaching out to him, hoping to get a handshake or even just to touch him. Kibo and Amanda did not go toward the crowd at all, but stood and sat respectively, both impassive and unnoticed.

  Skate shook her head again and stopped clapping. What was the story? Who were the people in the field? Beside her, Twitch was still clapping and whooping along with the crowd. There was something familiar about the feeling she had, but it was slipping away like a dream in the morning. She lifted her head and focused on Miss Amanda. What was the music like? She couldn’t remember any of it. She tried to hum a tune from the show and couldn’t come up with anything. She only knew she’d liked it.

  Skate stood and tugged on Twitch’s sleeve. He continued whooping and clapping, as did most of the rest of the crowd, so she pulled on his shoulder to bring his ear to her mouth. “What was it about?”

  He shook his head, his gleeful expression unchanged, and continued clapping. Skate also shook her head, but did not resume clapping. How could she remember nothing of it? How could the music have been good—so good that she was sure she’d never heard anything like it—but she couldn’t remember the smallest bit of any tune played? The story, too, had been something incredible, but she knew nothing about it. How could that be? And images! No one in the history of performing had crafted such magical illusions!

  But what had they been?

  This didn’t make sense, and she didn’t trust any of it. Twitch had finally stopped his applause as Tillby and the others dismounted the stage, moving roughly together through the thinnest part of the crowd. Twitch was laughing, and he put a hand to his eye to wipe away wetness that had developed there. Something is wrong. Skate had known this boy for the better part of four years, but had never so much as seen his eyes water, either in mirth or in misery. She didn’t try saying anything to him, but moved to where the performers were trying to push through their chosen patch of people. Tillby was glad-handing, all smiles and compliments to the paupers who were eager to meet him and thank him. Several of the women were batting eyes and adjusting sleeves. A little ahead of Tillby, the other two performers were making much quicker progress, ignoring the sparse words of thanks and admiration that came their way.

  Skate jostled through the crowd toward them. “Hey, hey!” she shouted when she got near, having shouldered past a handful of people who’d given up on meeting Tillby and were dispersing into the dark paths of the slums. “Hey!” The third shout got Miss Amanda’s attention, and she sneered when she saw who was shouting at her. She and Kibo quickened their pace into the dark. Skate reacted in kind, and soon overtook the pair. She tugged on Miss Amanda’s black dress hem, and the woman finally stopped and faced her.

  “What do you want?” Her wide face was fixed in an expression of irritation. Kibo, who had seemed not to have heard Skate before this point, turned to watch the exchange between the musician and the young girl.

  Skate noticed with a jolt of vague surprise that she still couldn’t see the eyes within the scarf. “What was it?”

  “What was what?” Miss Amanda’s voice was low and unrefined, a voice of a woman who’d lived in spare conditions all her life.

  “What was the show?”

  Miss Amanda looked to Kibo, who turned to return her glance, before both returned their attention to Skate. “It was called The Tales of Beuford Hall. Check back tomorrow for another performance. Tomorrow will be our last one for at least a season.”

  “I know what it’s called. What was it?”

  Amanda’s irritation boiled into impatience. “Girl, I don’t know what you’re babbling about, but I have no time for silly games.” She turned to go, and Skate pulled her hem again. Miss Amanda whipped around, snatching the piece of her dress out of Skate’s hands.

  If looks could kill, Skate mused, this one would be hanged for murder on a daily basis. “Why can’t I remember any of it?” The question sounded insane to her as she asked it, but it was what she could make no sense of. This time, Amanda’s and Kibo’s shared glance carried something that looked like fear.

  “If you want someone to explain the story to you, I’m sure someone else can—”

  “They can’t; I’ve asked. You know they can’t. Why?”

  Miss Amanda scoffed and turned. Skate reached out to pull her back again, but stopped short when waves of pain shot up her arm. The pain lasted only a few mom
ents, but she screamed. She felt like she’d dipped her hand into a pot of boiling water.

  Kibo turned and followed Amanda. With the torchlight of the paltry amphitheater now distant, it took only a few moments for the pair to dissolve into shadow.

  Skate rubbed her hand, not knowing what to do with any of this information. The pain was quickly fading, but she found she needed to rub for the sake of warmth as much as for soothing. She walked slowly back to where the performance had taken place, but Tillby was gone. Some stragglers remained, perhaps hoping for an encore performance, but most had gone out into the night, back to their huts or ragged blankets, or in search of awnings to protect them from the snow. Twitch was gone, too. With nothing else to do, Skate began the long trek back to Belamy’s home.

  The late-night journey was a dull one, and it caused her more than once to consider just tossing herself into an alleyway to sleep through the night. In addition to how boring it was to walk alone in the snow in freezing conditions, she had to deal with the strain of being careful not to slip and fall; the clean stones of the Old Town were a dangerous place for snow to be falling, and her legs ached from the effort of constantly reacting to each small slip of her feet. She didn’t even have the energy to puzzle over what had happened at the performance.

  When she got back to Belamy’s house, Skate saw that the fire had burned down to smoldering embers in the hearth. She rushed over and heaved two logs onto the fire. The coals were still very hot, and it was only a few minutes before the wood was crackling vigorously, renewing the orange light that usually filled the room. She briefly considered changing the color to the only shade she knew the words for, but decided against it. It was cold enough in the room already without going through extra work to make it look colder.

  Skate was warming her hands by the fire when Belamy’s front door creaked open again, and in walked the owner himself. He looked much as he had when he’d stormed out hours earlier, though his expression was simply neutral rather than bitter and angry. He also had an impressive layer of snow sticking to his clothing and hair.