Skate the Thief

by Jeff Ayers

  Skate didn’t move away from the fire, but waved at him as he came in, a motion he returned with only the smallest reluctance.

  “My word, what are you still doing up?” His question was probably a point of genuine interest, but the way he avoided her gaze when he asked it probably meant he was asking as a way to avoid talking about something else.

  “I took a walk.” She wanted to talk about what had happened at the show, but didn’t think this was the best time to broach the subject. “Stayed out longer than I meant to. What about you? Where’d you go after…earlier.” Nice save, dimwit, she thought as Belamy broke off the brief eye contact he’d managed to establish.

  “I talked to some more people. Found out why nobody’s wanting to talk with me: these hooligans have wizards of their own. Fairly dangerous ones, it would seem. This isn’t just a trio of low-principled ruffians. It’s an organization, one that’s involved in all sorts of nasty business. I don’t have a name yet, but I’ve managed to gather a sense of what they’re about.” He shook his head, sending small clods of snow flying; the stroke of his goatee achieved much the same. He noticed all at once how much of the white stuff he’d accumulated, and began to brush it off onto the stone floor in fussy swipes. “That they’ve managed to ensnare the like of Jack Gherun into their web of illicit criminality is a testament to the scope of their influence, whoever they are. Lady Flandel is a woman of no small standing and influence, but Jack’s money outweighs most bloodlines in the city by itself, never mind his pedigree.”

  “Huh.” She wondered how Belamy’d managed to piece all of this together in the span of roughly half a day, but she didn’t want to seem too interested; in her exhausted state, she didn’t trust herself not to give herself away, especially since tiredness was a disadvantage that the old man did not have to deal with. “What does them having wizards have to do with anything?”

  “Most of the time, those of us who have any appreciable skill at magic have a distinct advantage over those who don’t. If you’re facing another wizard, though, or are faced with the prospect of facing more than one at once? Well, then, the wizard’s advantage disappears, and he’s among peers—in this case, peers who want to take his money and keep him from talking about the group to anyone who comes around asking questions. This group must make extraordinary amounts of money in order to be able to afford to keep more than one of us fed, especially since anyone who knows how to cast spells could easily afford to sustain themselves through honest work. The danger of a life of crime would push many away from such associations…unless, of course, the aforementioned fees were high enough to be irresistible to wizards and witches with, shall we say, dubious standards.”

  “Magic isn’t cheap,” Skate muttered, recalling a conversation she’d had with Haman. Magic was an incredibly difficult skill to learn in the first place, he’d said, and that meant that people who could do it could charge whatever they wanted for the services asked. The Ink did, in fact, keep contracts out with several wizards in the city, though the Bosses alone knew just how many. Most of them weren’t like Haman—they weren’t members of the organization, but were involved in a more-or-less mercenary capacity. The only other known magic-user who was actually a member of the Ink was one of the Big Boss’s small crew, a trio of people he kept around himself at all times. Their names were on a need-to-know basis, and people like Skate didn’t need to know.

  “Quite true, quite true,” Belamy responded, satisfied that the snow was now off him entirely. He looked at her and narrowed his eyes. Skate’s instincts almost took over; her muscles tensed and prepared to shoot her out the door. She forced herself to relax, though, when she saw concern in that expression rather than suspicion. “Skate, are you feeling all right?”

  “Yeah.” The lie came easily, as many did for her, because she didn’t really think before answering. In truth, she was exhausted from the trek, cold from the air, and confused from the show.

  “Come, come,” Belamy said, waving her toward himself, “let me look at you.”

  “What?”

  “I think there’s something wrong with you,” he said, not waiting for her to comply but walking over to her. “Does your mind feel foggy?”

  “N-no,” she said, leaning back as he bent over to stare directly into her eyes.

  “Skate, I’m serious. Is there something wrong? If you’re not aware of it, you may be in more danger. Is your memory fine? Any blank spaces? Do you know who I am?” He started speaking slowly at this last question, as if she might not understand his words.

  “Stop!” She pushed him back, but not with enough force to actually move him anywhere. He did stand up fully in response. “Okay, yeah, something weird happened on my walk.”

  She explained her trip, omitting all parts that involved Twitch. Belamy interrupted her only once to ask why she had been going to the slums.

  “It’s where I’m from. I’ll go there sometimes if I’m out wandering.”

  He motioned for her to continue. When she described the performers, he frowned but said nothing. The frown grew more pronounced as she finished explaining her attempt to get answers from Miss Amanda and Kibo. “I didn’t know what else to do, and I was tired, so I came back here.”

  He brought a hand to his chin, tapping a thin finger as he thought. Since he didn’t seem to want to talk, she filled the silence with some of her own thoughts from the past hour or so.

  “I thought it weird that they didn’t get any money from the show. They weren’t even performing for people who had money to begin with. Plus, why were two of them so quick to scurry away without explaining themselves?”

  “Very weird, indeed. It sounds like they may have been using some form of magic to hypnotize the crowd. In fact, I’m sure of it; I detected hints of the spell that did it clinging to you. It’s how I knew something was wrong.”

  “Yeah, it’s like when I was—” She cut herself off, not entirely sure that she wasn’t about to reveal something she shouldn’t. She’d suddenly remembered what the sensation felt like, and in her excitement had forgotten to run the thought process through her usual list of dos and don’ts regarding what to talk to Belamy about. Too late now, she realized when the old man returned his too-curious gaze to her. “When I was using your glass earlier.”

  “My glass? What are—” His eyes widened with surprise. “You used my scrying glass? You were able to use it?”

  She shuffled from one foot to the other, though her discomfort did not keep her from making eye contact. “I had help. Petre walked me through what to do. Plus, you left the gold thing going when you…left.” She wanted to call it what it was—storming out in a huff—but decided that diplomacy was needed here. “So, I used it to look for someone I know, and it worked. But I was doing it for hours, and coming back from the watching was almost painful, because I felt I was going to miss something, even if it was something small or stupid. Sorry, I shouldn’t have done it without your permission.”

  “No, you shouldn’t. However, that you were able to do it at all is remarkable.” His countenance had shifted, this time to one of careful consideration—silver eyebrows raised slightly, a small smile playing at the edge of his mouth. “We’ll come back to it. I want to figure out what these performers were doing. You say you can remember nothing of the story?”

  She shook her head. “Nobody could. I asked.”

  Belamy shook his in turn. “I’ve never heard of these Tales of Beuford Hall, but I’ve been away from the singers and players for decades. It must be a newer grand story that I’ve yet to have the chance to witness or read. Yes, I must conclude that they were using magic to dull the senses of the crowd, especially since this Kibo fellow was there providing lights that no one can remember. But to what end?”

  “Not money. Or popularity.”

  “No, neither of those, which are found easier and more plentiful elsewhere. They could perform even here in the Old Town and have a better time of it than what they’d find in the residents
of the slums. Why, indeed, perform for those who have nothing to give?” He rubbed his chin, lost in thought, then shrugged. “Perhaps they just like casting magic on people. Maybe they’re impish tricksters of some sort, and we aren’t in on the joke.”

  The image of Miss Amanda’s stern face and Kibo’s inscrutable one, all cloth and shadow, flashed across her mind. “I don’t think they were joking, and they were surprised to find me there to talk to after the show. It did not look like fun for any of them, with the exception of the one who did the talking, Tillby.”

  Neither of them had an answer to that puzzle, so they sat in silence for several moments, considering. Upstairs, a page turned.

  “Maybe it’s practice.”

  Belamy perked up at her words, so she continued.

  “Like, they’re planning to do something like this with a crowd with money, but they’re practicing on the people in the dumps to make sure they’ve got it right.”

  “That’s a possibility. It makes sense, really. If they tried this and it went wrong in another part of Caribol, they’d have the Guards called on them very quickly. Whatever they’re up to, I need you to promise me something.” He bent over to be at eye level with her, staring deep into her eyes again, as if searching for something. “In the next few days, if you have some inexplicable urge to do something strange—attack someone, break something, go somewhere odd, anything like that—examine that urge as thoroughly as you can. Fight it if you need to. Hypnotism can be a dangerous thing for its victims, lying in wait for hours or days at a time before being set off. If you were hypnotized, you may still be in danger from the magician. The whole crowd might be. Just be careful of it, yes?”

  Skate nodded, leaning back a little to get him out of her face. “Sure, you got it. I won’t do nothing weird.” She put her hands up in surrender. “Nothing more weird than normal, anyway.”

  Belamy stood and smirked. “Very well. Let’s return, then, to the topic of my crystal ball.” He turned toward the desk and took his seat behind it. “Petre encouraged you to do this? To use my precious and very valuable scrying devices without my knowledge or consent?”

  She nodded. “Don’t be mad at him, though. I’m the one who did it.”

  “You did, indeed. And you were able to see something in it? Truly?”

  “Yes.” The conversation had taken a different turn than she’d been expecting, and it had caught her off-guard. “It took a while, but with Petre’s help, I was able to find a friend out and about in the city.”

  “Explain what you saw.” He leaned back with an elbow propped on the armrest, his head against his hand.

  “Uh…I saw my friend. He was smiling at something and pushing through a crowd. I couldn’t see what he was looking at, though. I could only see him and a foot or two around him. Petre told me to try concentrating on ‘moving’ the image, and I did. Didn’t help me figure out where he was, though. The view was too close to him.”

  “I see.” Belamy showed some measure of surprise at her retelling of the events. “And how long did this take you?”

  “I didn’t know while I was doing it, but when I snapped out of it, I think it was three hours. Petre and Rattle had to pull me out,” she admitted, lowering her gaze and drawing on the floor with her foot, leaving barely detectable swirls in the thin layer of dust.

  “My word,” Belamy muttered, “you really managed to do it, didn’t you?” He chuckled to himself, a dry noise not unlike a cough. “You’d have to have done, in order to know how hard it is to stop.” He ticked the enhancer with an outstretched finger, setting it lazily spinning once or twice before it began to resettle. “Yes, one must be ever so careful when seeing afar. Of course, for me, the only danger is squandered time that could be otherwise spent reading and learning. When I was younger, though…” He shook his head. A dark cloud sank his features—a memory of shame?—but it passed quickly. He laughed again. “I spent so long at the ball that I passed out. On my way down, I hit my head.” He pointed to his left, at the corner of his desk. There was a slight stain there, darker than the wood around it. It was almost imperceptible. “I would have died had I not been found. You shouldn’t ever try this without someone else around. It could be the death of you, no matter what you find within the glass.”

  She nodded. I would’ve stayed there forever, watching Twitch even up to where he chucked snow at my window. “Yeah.”

  “All magic is dangerous, Skate. Better that you learn that now, before it’s had a chance to do any lasting damage to you. It’s unforgiving, and even the simplest applications of it take years of study to perform with any measure of safety. As long as you’re aware of the danger,” he added with a smirk, “you should be fine. But never charge in unawares where the Craft is concerned. Many before you have done so, and it’s left them scarred or obliterated. I’d hate to see the same happen to you.”

  Skate fought hard to avoid screwing up her face in confusion at the kind words. This was the man who’d stormed out in a huff hours ago because she’d asked questions about some letters. Now he’s expressing hope for my safety?

  She must have been slow to hide her confusion, because Belamy coughed and lowered his own gaze to the floor. “I…apologize for earlier. You had no idea what you were asking, or how it could possibly have upset me. You see…” He paused, then shook his head. He raised his gaze from the floor. “Well, it can wait until morning. I imagine you’re tired.”

  She was. Her lids were very heavy. She nodded, but said, “I’d still like to know.”

  “In the morning. I promise. Off with you, now. Make sure you have the vent open; I’ll keep the fire going. And remember,” he added as she made her way up the stairs, “be mindful of anything strange you might want to do. I don’t want you trying to burn the house down because some street people put you in a trance.” He pulled a book from the shelf and began to read it. It was one of Gherun’s.

  Chapter 20

  In which coffee is made, a story is begun, and a name is revealed.

  Skate was in front of the fire, wrapped up in the blanket she’d used as an improvised book bag, and holding a hot cup of coffee prepared by Rattle, when Belamy began to tell his story. He was seated in a chair, facing the fire. Rattle was resting in his lap, unmoving as the old man kept a hand on the glassy surface of its eye-body. Petre was also downstairs, though he asked to be on the desk rather than with everyone.

  When Belamy spoke, his voice was calm and measured, as if he were reciting a story he’d learned through rote memorization. His eyes did not leave the fireplace.

  You asked what AB is, and you asked innocently enough. I’m sure Petre counseled you not to, but the curiosity of a child is rarely turned aside by such warnings. I reacted much more harshly than I should have. The question caught me off-guard, as it is something I have not heard for many years and have grown completely unaccustomed to talking about. There was a time when it was all I could talk about, when I took the pain and moved it toward some more productive purpose, a goal to find justice, to set right what went wrong. It consumed my thoughts for decades. It’s the reason I became what I am today, the reason I was not ready to let my life end before dealing with the trouble of my soul, the burden I refused to renounce.

  You see, AB is not just a pair of letters. They are initials, carved into the desk upstairs by one of the most important people in my life. Alphetta Belamy. She was my student. She was my daughter.

  She was a wonderfully gifted young girl, a child whose sharp mind was matched only by her adventurous spirit. I was as likely to find her climbing the walls as to catch her at studies that no one had set her to. She was like her mother that way; Eliza was a flame, a passionate woman, and brilliant to boot. It was impossible for her to be content without something to chase, something to conquer and strive for. The only reason I ever left the house in those days was to follow her on her schemes. Her loss during Alphetta’s birth was a blow I did not know that I would be able to recover from. Perhaps seeing so muc
h of her mother in Alphetta helped, or perhaps it was simply the passage of time. I don’t know. Eventually, though, the pain became less crippling, and Eliza became a companion again in memory, a refuge to return to when talking to myself, a mental stronghold of comfort and support as I raised our daughter alone.

  As Alphetta grew, she began to take an interest in magic, which I had feared. I had hoped instead she would seek another occupation, another obsession to excel at. She could have done much fantastic work, regardless of what she set her mind to, but she was adamant about becoming a witch. My refusal to take her on as apprentice, I think, wounded her. I knew that I was taking a razor to her dearest hopes, but I could do no other. The study of magic was too dangerous, even under my protective eye. I could not bear to risk losing her as I had her mother. She did not understand, and I did not have the words to make her. I had taught her to read and write, which she did with exceptional skill, but I could not teach her this. Maybe if I had taken her on, things would be different. I have often thought about that; even now, I wonder. It is my deepest regret, to have turned her away out of fear of her or my own failure.

  I had an apprentice at the time. I think that irritated her to no end, that I would teach these arcane mysteries to another, but withhold them from her. She could not—or would not—understand my actions for what they were, did not see them as protection but as cruel deprivation. Petre Hangman had been under our roof for a little under a year by then, and was showing promise. His father had taught him the basics of literacy, so that part of his education went by exceedingly fast, and the elder Hangman had agreed to pay handsomely for his son’s education in the study and practice of magic. During those days, before the war started, hangmen did well in general; the crown became paranoid before deciding war to be the necessary course of action, and anyone suspected of disloyalty went to the noose, as did thieves, murderers, brawlers, and the like. So, Petre’s sire could afford the high price.