Skate the Thief

by Jeff Ayers

  It clicked again.

  “Great. Go away, then, and I’ll try to outrun the Guard. I’ll yell if I need you.”

  A third and final click, and it had gone, straight into the half-cloudy sky.

  Skate shot out of the alleyway and doubled back the direction she’d been coming from, hopefully throwing the Guard off her trail. The people on this street had not seen Rattle, and her appearance was close enough to theirs to prevent any particular interest.

  Skate wandered the streets, looking for a crowd of people, or a stage. It occurred to her that it was entirely possible Tillby’s troupe was not planning to perform in the street, but was preparing to give its most important performance in some hall or other indoor accommodation. That would make the search more difficult and time-consuming. Even here in the Baron’s district, the Ink had influence and several contacts who could make life difficult for her.

  While she was ruminating on these difficulties and strolling down the road with the other pedestrians, Skate became aware of a persistent hissing. She turned and saw Twitch trying to get her attention from an alleyway, attempting not to be seen in his conspicuous rags amongst the finery of the Baron’s dwellers. Spotting her eyes on him, he waved her over, rather frantically. Skate made sure she was not being followed or marked by anyone before making her way over to the boy.

  Twitch looked much the same as ever, though there was a tiredness to his eyes that was not usually there. His shock of wiry blond hair drifted fitfully in the light winter wind. He did not smile at her approach, but looked worried.

  “What—what are you doing here?” he asked, pulling her conspiratorially into the alley with him. “It’s not—not safe.”

  “What are you talking about?” Did they already get news that I’m trying to leave the Ink behind? Why would it spread that fast? Skate wrung her hands but disguised the act by blowing into them as a warming technique. “What’s dangerous?”

  “We’ve been called in to deal—deal with a lich. It’s your lich, the old wizard. The Bosses think they’ve got—got something the old man can’t do without, and they’re going to try to force him into helping the—the Ink, whether he wants to or not. He’s supposed to be looking for the p-people that put on that great show we got to see.” His eyes lit up in wonder at the mention of the show and its performers. Skate didn’t like the effect; he looked like a person turned into a grotesque mask of enjoyment, a wooden mockery of happiness. “I think they might be trying to s-s-stop the performance, too. I’m not really clear on all the det-details. I just know that when we get the signal, we’re supposed to come running to wherever the b-b-brawl is and do our part to help out.”

  Twitch motioned to a log leaning against one of the nearby buildings. “I’ve got a stick—stick to help out with. I just hope I don’t find the lich at the other end of th-that thing.” He shuddered. “Fighting a wizard who won’t d-die? No, thanks.” His concerned expression returned. “But enough about th-that. What are you doing here? Did the Bosses s-s-summon you away, too? Stealing the th-thing from the old man’s house would have been more important than an-anything here, right?”

  “There’s been a change of plans there, Twitch.” Skate looked around to make sure they were not being watched or listened to. “I’m out. I’m leaving the Ink.”

  His face screwed up in confusion. “Leaving? W-what? Why?” His head jerked to the side, a familiar expression of agitation.

  “They’re asking me to do something I can’t. They want to turn Belamy into a slave, to be a tool for their schemes, whatever they are. I won’t do that to him. I can’t.”

  Twitch was shaking his head. “But he’s a l-lich. He’s not alive; he’s not a p-person.”

  “He is. He’s not alive, but he’s still a person. I’m not gonna hand him over.” She searched his face. “You’re not gonna run off and rat on me, are you?”

  “I…” His voice trailed off and he looked side-to-side, not meeting her gaze. “No, of c-course not. But w-what are you g-gonna do?” Now he did look at her, and there was only concern in his voice. “They’re not gonna l-let you just leave, especially not when they were expecting all of th-this work from you.”

  “I’ve already sort of let them know I’m leaving,” Skate said, “and I think Kite will be pretty quick in delivering the message.” She explained the fight at Belamy’s house, and how she had all but declared her retirement from the Ink through her betrayal. “They’ll know soon, if they don’t already, that I’m not bringing Belamy’s soul tether to them.” She resisted the urge to place a reassuring hand on the statuette in her pocket; there was no reason to announce to Twitch (or anyone else, for that matter) that she held the thing. “Do me a favor: whenever what’s going to happen happens, stay out of it, okay? Belamy isn’t gonna try to hurt anybody, but I don’t wanna take chances.”

  Twitch wasn’t listening. “What are you g-gonna do? I mean, how’re you gonna s-stay away from the Ink?” He brought a hand up to his head and scratched nervously. “They’re n-not gonna just let this go. They c-can’t. It’s one their r-rules. ‘Ink always stains,’ remember?” He looked her in the eye for the first time since her pronouncement. “What’s y-your plan?”

  “I’ll stay with Belamy. He’s strong enough to protect me. He’s a wizard who doesn’t sleep or need anything.”

  Twitch was shaking his head again. “They know where h-he lives, though, Skate. They’ve got wizards of their own, plus m-more they can hire if they need to. How many w-waves will it take for them to break through? How many attacks would he be willing to put up with f-for your sake?” He put a hand on each of her shoulders. “The Ink doesn’t g-give up, Skate. The Big Boss would never allow it. They’ll keep coming after y-you until they’ve got you. You know th-they will.”

  It was Skate’s turn to avoid eye contact. He was right. You could be kicked out if the Boss thought it was a good punishment, or you could leave on good terms if you made a hefty payout.

  Attacking members before leaving was…decidedly not advisable.

  “I don’t care,” Skate said finally, still looking at her feet. “I don’t care what they’ll do. I won’t do what they want. It’s wrong. I don’t care if Belamy throws me out or gives me over to them to get them to stop. I can’t put him into their hands like that. Not after…” Her words trailed off because she didn’t know how to end that sentence. After he’d taught her to read? After he’d taken her in even though she was a thief? After she’d seen his memories? Any or all or none of these might have been the reason; she could not be sure, even now, what the deciding factor in her defection had been. I know it’s right, though. She raised her eyes. “I won’t betray a friend.”

  Twitch nodded. “Neither will I.” He looked out into the street. “You n-need to go. We n-never talked.” He picked up his stick and went back to his post at the end of the alleyway, then shot a glance back at her. “Good luck, Skate.”

  She wanted to say something more, but she heard the cause for Twitch’s concern: Kite was coming down the street, talking animatedly to someone. She ducked behind a stack of empty crates and waited for them to pass.

  “—not lying to you. I got no reason to lie about this.”

  “Spare me. You don’t need a reason. You’re a deceitful creature, Kite, as you have always been.” She knew the other voice; Haman rarely sounded this mad. “You cannot expect me to believe that in a few short weeks a girl seven years younger than you has managed to master difficult and complex magical skills. You say she summoned a demon frog out of someone’s legs, trapped two men in magical webbing, and cast a spell to hypnotize and disorient you? Preposterous nonsense. Stay ready, Twitch.”

  Twitch said nothing, but evidently Kite and the other speaker stopped right in front of him to continue their talk. When Kite spoke again, he was seething, but kept most of his composure. “It ain’t nonsense, though, is it? I got witnesses. She didn’t manage to kill any of us; you ask the other four—they’ll tell you what happened. It w
ere magic, Haman. Real powerful stuff.”

  “I doubt very much that their reports and yours will match. They never have, have they? Always inconsistencies between your own reports and others’. Extraneous details implanted or crucial information omitted, names misremembered and locations blurred, outright contradictions left unexplained. I’ll say it again: spare me. Go report it to your new Boss. I’m sure he’ll be more than happy to listen to whatever you have to say. Why are you here talking to me about it?”

  There was a shuffling of feet. “Boss Shade don’t like it when jobs go bad.”

  “Nobody likes that, Kite. It seems Boss Shade has even less time for fools like you than Boss Marshall does.”

  Another shuffle of feet, though this time there was what sounded like a shout followed by a grunt. The sound of coughing and retching echoed down the alley. When Haman spoke again, his voice was almost a growl. “Don’t ever think you can touch me, Kite. Ever.” The coughing continued, and Haman sniffed dismissively. “Unpleasant,” he muttered. “Twitch, come along. We think he’ll be closer to the Plume. Our inquiries have told us that at least one of the performers has been seen there in the past weeks.”

  “O-okay.” There was the sound of crunching snow as the two went away, and Kite’s heaving was slowing down. He groaned.

  “Kill him. I’ll kill him, never mind the rule.” Kite coughed as he got to his feet, and more snow crunched underfoot, though he went in a different direction than Haman and Twitch.

  Once she was sure she was alone in the alleyway, Skate stood and crept back toward the street. Stepping over Kite’s pile of sick and holding her nose to block out the smell, she turned left to follow her fellow thieves to whatever the “Plume” was.

  Haman’s height made it fairly easy to keep track of him, though he blended well into a crowd with regard to his clothes; dressed as if he belonged here among the wealthy and elite, he seemed quite at home. Twitch stuck out, of course, but he was small and easy to forget once seen—and hard to follow over the heads and hats of the well-to-do. Haman turned a few heads as he walked, almost all from silly young women in wholly impractical heavy dresses.

  The Plume, it soon became apparent, was a coffeehouse nestled among other shops—a bookstore, a haberdashery, a stationery shop, and a wine store were all cluttered around a central courtyard. The Plume’s sign had a set of feathers of a fantastical nature: delicate, long, and thin with a circular pattern at the end. Skate had never seen such a feather, but the sign held five of them arrayed like a fan, under which was the name of the shop etched in wood.

  Skate lurked by the edge of the courtyard. Haman turned and spoke briefly to Twitch, and then stepped inside. Twitch turned and walked toward Skate. She didn’t want to be seen, so she stepped off to the side and let him pass. Then she made her way across the courtyard and stepped through the fine, heavy door of the Plume.

  A bell rang above the door to announce her arrival, but none took note of it. The place was full today; the rich loved to discuss current events, the rumors of trysts among their fellows, the degradation of the poor—all topics great and small passed through the doorways of every coffeehouse in Caribol, and the Plume was no exception. Jokes and games of chance and waitresses and waiters fluttered around the room in a dizzying flurry, so that the arrival of a modestly dressed little girl was missed by all in the room. That did not include the watchful eyes of Haman Vaerion, who had placed himself alone a few seats from the door and was pretending to be very interested in a nearby conversation as he nursed a steaming mug. In reality, Skate knew that he had focused all of his attention on watching the door. His eyes scanned over her with a flicker of recognition and confusion. He did not get up.

  Skate slipped around the tables toward the counter, where the proprietress stood with a hand on her hip. She was talking to a customer.

  “Sir, I assure you, the drink came to you as you ordered it.”

  “It did not; it did not!” He accentuated his words with small knocks on the counter with his knuckles. The old man had a bristly white mustache that hung over both lips. He was dressed expensively but not well; he looked disheveled and more than a little upset. “I asked for a dark cocoa flavoring, and I got a sweet flavoring. I cannot have sweet things—my poor stomach aches when I eat or drink anything sweet!” Though the grating of his voice betrayed him to be old indeed, his words and tone would have otherwise led Skate to believe she was listening to a particularly prissy, spoiled child.

  The proprietress did an admirable job of hiding the roll of her eyes by wiping gingerly at her forehead with a handkerchief. “I shall send you another cup at half the advertised cost by way of apology for the error. Would that suffice, sir?” She smiled the practiced false smile of servants and salesmen, and the old man’s irritation melted into satisfaction.

  “Indeed it will. I shall have to give the other to my…niece.” His cheeks flushed, and he shuffled back over to his table, where he joined the men and women there engaged in a rousing game of cards.

  The owner’s smile vanished as soon as his back was turned. “Old cheapskate. You knew what you ordered the first time. You just wanted a discount on your drinks. And if that strumpet is your niece, then I’m a…” Skate never heard what she was, because the owner began mumbling too low to be heard, and swabbing off the counter with more force than was strictly necessary.

  Skate announced her presence with a cough. “Ma’am?”

  The owner stopped her mumbling and looked up in surprise. “Hello, young miss! I didn’t see you there; so sorry.”

  “Not a problem—I mean, it is quite all right,” Skate said, catching herself. “I would like a cup of whatever kind of bean you deem most appropriate—plain, if you please.” The seat beside Haman became vacant. “I’ll take the drink down there,” she added, pointing in that general direction.

  “At once, miss,” the owner said, arching an eyebrow at the girl. Her slip of words had not gone unnoticed but was also not sufficient to cause any genuine concern.

  Skate stepped back and took the empty seat she’d wanted. Haman did not pay her any mind beyond a sideways glance. She took her drink when offered by the servant boy.

  “That’ll be three blades, miss.” Skate’s eyes widened at the price, but she fished out the coins and placed them in his open hand. He seemed a little put off when she put her money away, but said nothing. When he left, Skate turned to find Haman looking directly at her.

  “Hey,” she said by way of greeting.

  “Hey yourself,” he said, taking a sip from his drink. “You’re supposed to tip here.”

  “What?”

  “That’s why that boy shot you a dirty look. You’re supposed to pay more than what they ask for. ‘Be open with your gifts.’ You know the words.”

  “Not gonna happen. Three blades for a mug? That’s thievery, that is.” Skate took a sip from her mug and had to steady herself on the counter. It was the strongest brew she had ever tasted, and had a pleasant flavor she could not place. She’d never had a cup of coffee like it, and she decided as she took another sip that perhaps the price was not as unreasonable as she’d first thought. “And I oughta know, huh?”

  Haman smiled at the joke, but it was a reserved smile, more out of politeness than any real mirth. “Everyone in this room ought to, in one form or another.” He cleared his throat and moved on. “Anyway, I fear we have much to discuss. I have heard troubling reports this morning.”

  “From Kite.”

  “Yes. I take it from that surprisingly accurate guess that you know what he told me?”

  “I overheard you near the alleyway. He told you that I had learned some sort of powerful magic, and that I used it to attack him and his goons, and that I was leaving the Ink?”

  Haman nodded and looked back at the nearby table in their animated conversation. They seemed to be engaged in a vigorous debate about the nature of taxation and its purpose between Caribol and Herzeschal, the capital city. One group of the coffee d
rinkers was convinced it was a politically driven choice of the crown being used deliberately to punish the merchant lords to placate the nobility. Another section of the table was adamant that it was not a political choice but an economic one; it was common knowledge that the kingdom had never fully recovered from the loss of a huge cache of goods at sea some months previously, and the crown had to recoup the losses somehow. Still another faction was almost frothy with rage at the other groups, and claimed this was the doing of the church; for how else could the High Weaver afford his fantastic cathedrals throughout the kingdom if not from extra money delivered to his feet by the reigning monarch? The arguments were loud and numerous, and seemed at points to be near blows, but never actually came to that.

  “Is it true?” asked Haman.

  “I don’t know. I’ve never even been to Herzeschal.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Not all of it.” Skate took a steadying breath before continuing. “I’m not a witch. I don’t know any magic.” She tapped out a skittish rhythm on the table with her index fingers. “The rest of it is true. I threw some stuff of Belamy’s at them, and it scared them enough to leave. Kite was the first to run.”

  Haman snorted. “No surprise there.”

  Skate smiled weakly, but she soon found the expression a waste of time and effort. “I can’t take from him, Haman. I just can’t. He’s done too much for me.”

  “He’s an inhuman thing. He’s not alive. He’s a monster.”

  “No,” Skate said, shaking her head after the first sentence, “he’s not. I know it doesn’t make sense, but he’s not. He…he taught me to read and to write.”

  “And he’s done this out of charity? Out of the kindness of his heart?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did he make you pay somehow? Or was it a free service offered?”

  “Well…”

  “Of course it wasn’t. He wanted your help to steal things, didn’t he? That was why he was letting you stay in his home, so it only makes sense that he’d be interested in securing more books in exchange for lessons. It was business. Though I’m sure he was quite friendly and hospitable, it’s all been for him. Business.” Haman paused to let his words sink in. “Now, my question to you is this: Have you overestimated the good nature of your teacher? Have you treated this as a business endeavor, as he has? Because to me, from the outside viewpoint, it looks as though you’ve been misled.”