Stealing Life

by Antony Johnston

  Nicco looked at the floor. He couldn’t meet her eyes. “Is it serious?”

  She didn’t reply. He looked back at his mother and saw her sitting with her head bowed, her shoulders gently shaking.

  Nicco would remember that moment for the rest of his life. It was the moment when all the resentment, all the contempt and anger that had boiled inside him for the past decade simply melted away, leaving a gaping hole in its wake. He closed the door and approached his mother, put his arms around her shoulders and leant his head against hers. He was surprised to find he was crying too. Neither of them said a word for five minutes.

  Finally Lilla sniffed, wiped at her eyes with a tissue and smiled. “Still,” she said. “It’s not so bad. Madame Zentra allowed me to retire, but she says I can have this room for as long as I need it.” She got up and busied herself around the room, straightening pictures that didn’t need straightening, folding corners on bed sheets that were folded perfectly well already. “Have you spoken to her yet? I’m sure she’d love to see you again. Oh, look at you, all grown up and handsome.”

  “Mother, stop. Sit down for a minute, stop fussing. There’s...”

  “There’s nothing else for me to do!” she shouted and began crying again.

  Nicco had questions, so many questions, but couldn’t bring himself to ask them. He could guess the answers anyway. Had she been for a second opinion? Of course she had. Madame Zentra herself probably paid for the best doctors in Azbatha to check his mother out, to protect her investment. Were all her affairs in order? Of course they were. Madame Zentra would have taken care of that too. Did she have anywhere to go? She was staying right here. She’d already said Zentra gave her the room for as long as she needed it, and Nicco had no doubt his mother would take her up on it. Since she was a teenager, Lilla Salarum had known little else besides this brothel, this room. It wasn’t just like home to her, it washome. Could he do anything for her? She’d say no. They hadn’t spoken in almost five years, after Nicco left to strike out on his own. What could he possibly do for her now?

  But there was one question he couldn’t guess the answer to. One question he had to ask.

  “How...” His voice cracked, his throat suddenly very dry. He cleared it and tried again. “How long do you... I mean, did they...?”

  His mother looked at him with sad eyes and smiled. “Maybe a year.”

  He took her to Tea for Turith that night, at the top of the Lighthouse Tower. She’d never dined there before. His mother was a pragmatic woman. She saw no point in wasting money on expensive nights out, unless a mark was paying for it, of course. All her money went on working equipment—clothes, jewellery or perfumes—or on Nicco. He may not have attended school like a normal child; his entire childhood was pretty far removed from what most people, even Azbathans, would consider normal. But he’d never wanted for holovids, storyvids, non-fiction magazines or books—anything he wanted to know or learn. His mother had given him a good education without his even realising it.

  The watery saints only knew what she’d spent her money on since he left home. As they sat in the restaurant eating tanglefish, drinking purple Varnian wine and gazing out together over the silvery moonlit sea, Nicco absent-mindedly wondered if she’d been hoarding it, if he was about to receive a large inheritance. He cursed himself for thinking it as soon as the thought entered his mind, and swore that he’d make sure she spent it all on herself. He didn’t need or want her money. All he wanted was to turn back the clock to that day he walked out when he was still barely a teenager, so full of anger and frustration, and change everything.

  And that was impossible. But he could make sure he was there for her now, make sure the regrets and sadness were shared and maybe even resolved while there was still time.

  As if sensing his thoughts, his mother turned from the window and smiled at him.

  HE WOKE SUDDENLY, jolted from sleep by a loud metallic noise. He sat bolt upright, then regretted it as pain lanced across his chest and back. Squinting through his grimace, Nicco made out the large wheels of a groundtruck close by. The driver was unloading goods from the back of the vehicle, hefting them around on the heavy steel tailgate.

  Nicco had walked for three hours before finally finding the market place. It should have only taken him two, but he had started out in the wrong direction. It wasn’t until he came across a public information post—not an active terminal, just a printed sign—that he discovered he was heading toward the Hurrun Peaks, away from the city centre.

  By the time he reached the market place, it was gone midnight. Nicco was surprised at how balmy the evening was, but he figured being almost a thousand miles closer to the equator than the Turithian winter he was used to had more than a little to do with that. The few locals he saw didn’t seem to regard it as a particularly warm evening, especially as the night drew on.

  The market place was closed, along with almost everything else in the city. Nicco had seen a few stores open for business during the walk, but they were almost exclusively restaurants, bars and groundcar hire firms. He’d bought something to eat, a fish and wheatgrass concoction that came in a cardboard box. The fish tasted of oil and brine, and the wheatgrass was limp and bland. Normally he would have thrown it straight in a recycan, but he hadn’t eaten since the airship journey that morning. Besides, as far as he could see, recycans didn’t exist in Hurrunda. People just threw refuse in canisters on the street and left it there to fester. When he first came upon one of these, he’d recoiled from the smell. It was clear that this city needed more than a new airship engine and terminals in the library. The whole basic infrastructure needed a serious overhaul.

  The market place was a plaza, walled by rows of stores on all four sides. The stalls themselves were empty, just wood and steel frames with heavy cloth drapes for roofs, waiting for the traders to arrive and set up. Nicco didn’t bother to count how many stalls there were, but it looked like a lot. Markets were extinct in Azbatha, and rapidly dying in the rest of Turith. They took up too much room for too little return. Besides, when you had holovids, computers, smartphones and a Shalumari payment card, why would you waste your time dealing in cash at some flea-ridden market? You could buy everything you needed, from food to wine to sex, without ever leaving your apartment. Of course, most apartments in Azbatha were so small that no-one wanted to stay in them, and spent all night pushing their way through the crowded streets instead; but it was a matter of principle.

  In a way, he was looking forward to seeing a traditional market for the first time. But first he had to sleep. After a day of flying, being bombed and then beaten up—followed by hours of walking—he was desperately tired.

  Nicco decided to join the rest of the sleeping city, and bedded down in the doorway of a store. He had no covering beside his jacket, but to his Turithian constitution it was more than warm enough to sleep. He dropped off as soon as he closed his eyes and slept through the night. Now it was a new day, greeting Nicco with the breaking of dawn and the slam of metal on metal. The traders had arrived to set out their stalls.

  Nicco sat up, slowly this time. The ache from the gem in his hand had subsided to a dull throb, and his chest and back seemed all right so long as he didn’t make any sudden movements. He checked his watch. Just gone six in the morning.

  His stomach grumbled when he stood up, reminding Nicco that besides the horrid ‘fish-in-a-box’ concoction, he hadn’t eaten anything for over twelve hours. He hadn’t been able to make out the stores around the marketplace properly last night, as there was no street lighting in the square and the moonlight was subdued by thick cloud. Now that he could see, he spied a café on the other side of the square. He could while away an hour or two in there, getting fed while he waited for the traders to finish their preparations.

  He walked through the plaza, wincing a little at his stiff legs as he maneuvered his way through the groundtrucks, carts, trolleys and crates. Traders shouted to one another over the din of groundtruck engines. Burly as
sistants carried boxes of spice, silks, fruit, newspapers and more, hefting them onto their shoulders like they weighed nothing.

  “Look out!”

  Nicco turned to see who was shouting, but in doing so missed why he was being shouted at and caught a sudden sharp jab on the side of his head. He looked round and saw a wooden box, lacquered with ornate brass fittings, hovering in the air just a few inches away. Ten more hovered behind it in a line.

  “What in the fifty-nine hells...?”

  An elderly man wearing grey robes ran over, shouting at Nicco in Varnian. He understood the words idiot, look and some variation of go. The meaning was pretty clear.

  “Zandomon, bikka,” said Nicco, rubbing his head. He didn’t quite see how being clobbered in the head by a magical flying box was his fault, but he didn’t want to get into an argument about it, so apologised all the same.

  The wizard looked up at the flying box that had hit Nicco and whistled a short, high note. The box changed direction, flying around Nicco, and the others followed it. He waited until the strange caravan had moved on before resuming his journey to the café. He hoped there was more than one wizard at the market today.

  Despite the early hour, the café was heaving with people, all working men by the look of them. Nicco guessed this was the market traders’ regular haunt. He pushed open the door and squeezed himself onto the end of a bench occupied by a group of big men with rough hands. As he’d expected, the café’s menu was simple, basic and hearty; just what he was looking for. The waitress, a twenty-something woman who would have been pretty if she didn’t look as tired as Nicco felt, walked over as he sat down.

  “What do you want?” she said in Varnian.

  For everyone here to talk in nice simple words like that, thought Nicco, it’d make my life a lot easier. “Tallus breakfast, please,” he replied in Varnian. “And a coffee.” If yesterday was any indication of how his time in Hurrunda would progress, he’d need it.

  The waitress jotted down his order, then looked up, saw his face properly for the first time and peered at him. “Are you alright?”

  Nicco put a hand to his mouth and found dried on his lips and chin. He probably had bruises all over his head, too. He wasn’t looking forward to seeing a mirror.

  He said, “I am well, thank you,” and waved the waitress away with a smile, hoping she wouldn’t feel the need to call the police. He turned back and saw that some of the labourers on his table were looking at him with similar expressions. He must have stuck out like a sore thumb, a newcomer in a regular haunt with a bloody nose and bruises. Very discreet.

  A vidscreen, bolted to a bracket at the top of a wall, showed a news stream. The sound was off, but the lead story appeared to be yesterday’s bombing at the airship port. An important-looking Hurrundan cop in full PR regalia was talking to a crowd of reporters while the text reported that the Kurrethi had denied responsibility. Twenty-three people were dead, dozens more injured. Nicco could only imagine what the death toll would have been if a similar explosion occurred at Azbatha International. Hundreds, at least.

  The waitress returned with his breakfast, roast tallus with root vegetables and a thick meaty sauce. Nicco noticed it seemed much larger than the other meals he’d seen handed out, and wondered what was going on. The waitress patted him on the shoulder and smiled sympathetically. Then she really confused Nicco.

  “No charge,” she said in Varnian, and glanced at the men sat beside him.

  Nicco followed her gaze and realised the labourers were all watching him carefully. One of them, a big man with a thick, dark beard, nodded at him. Nicco looked at his plate, then back at the labourers.

  “Felishe, bikka,” he said.

  The bearded labourer nodded again and spoke in Varnian. Nicco made out the words you, look for and work, and it sounded like a question. Did these men think he was a labourer like them?

  “Sakk,” he said, smiling. No.

  The bearded man leaned closer. He peered at Nicco and said, “Lok shazok Varnik?” Are you Varnian?

  Nicco knew he wouldn’t be able to fool these natives into thinking he was one of them. But if Brinno and Huwll were any indication of the prevailing attitude in Hurrunda, admitting he was from Azbatha could get him into serious trouble. “Sakk,” he said. “Shazomon Turithik. Hun Turilum.” He emphasised the last word, hoping they’d know the difference between Turilum and Azbatha, and began eating. The tallus was a little fatty, the sauce a little over-salted, but in his ravenous state Nicco didn’t care.

  The bearded man nudged one of his friends, a shorter, thick-set man with stubby fingers who’d just eaten his second helping of breakfast, and spoke rapidly to him in Varnian. The shorter man looked at Nicco and spoke with a very thick accent.

  “Who hit with you?”

  Nicco wasn’t sure where this was going. Should he claim to be a tourist who had got beaten up because of his race? Had they noticed the red gem in his palm when he picked up his cutlery? Perhaps it had a deeper meaning besides just being a magical tracker. Telling them the truth was out of the question. But without some indication of the motive behind their questions, how could he be sure which lie to tell? He decided to stick with acts of the God, or rather Kurreth.

  “Nobody,” he said. “I was at the airship port yesterday, when the Kurrethi bomb exploded.”

  The labourer translated for his friends. Everyone at the table snorted and muttered.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Nicco.

  “You should know,” said the thick-set man. “This bomb is not of Kurrethi, no. Lies, they tell you.”

  “What do you mean? Who else could have done it?”

  The man sneered. “Werrdun. His men, to hurt bad of the protest! Then blame Kurrethi, exactly.”

  “Werrdun bombed his own people? But that’s...” Nicco stopped as the man’s expression darkened. He was serious. Every man around the table nodded solemnly as the short labourer translated his words. Were they sympathisers? What about all this Hurrundan prosperity he’d heard so much about? Was it just more lies?

  “Ven Dazarus is not killer. We know of the truth is, and hero is a man of God! Werrdun he is impotent and sick. His lies and tricks to make bad of Kurrethi. Kurrethi have the hearts of people!”

  Nicco gaped. Was it true? Did the Kurrethi really have popular support? The protestors he’d seen yesterday in the plaza were certainly vocal and loyal, but how many had there really been? For all its problems, Hurrunda was a big city, almost as big as Azbatha. The population had to be around a million, if not more. It would take more than a few thousand demonstrators with placards and slogans to unseat a ‘governor for life’ who just happened to also be the local mob boss...

  Wouldn’t it?

  The labourers stood up and began leaving. Nicco said nothing, returning to his breakfast as the men picked up their belongings and finished their drinks. The shorter labourer patted Nicco on the shoulder as he walked past.

  “Always there is work for here, if you want it. No questions, not even for rules breaker, hmmm?” He touched Nicco’s hand, the one holding the embedded red gem, and wrapped his thick fingers around it. “Market is good pay, no questions, exactly.” He smiled at Nicco. “I am Julan.”

  “Nicco. And thanks, but I don’t need work...”

  Julan leant down, close to Nicco’s ear. “You stay away of city lake today. Is the gala, many people. Nicco is maybe to be hurt again, exactly.”

  Then Julan walked out through the door and disappeared into the market, leaving Nicco staring at his violated hand and wondering how much more dangerous this trip could possibly get.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  MARKET SETUP HAD only finished fifteen minutes ago, but the plaza was rapidly filling up with shoppers. Clearly the Hurrundans loved a good bargain, and no threat of bombs or fanatics was going to stop them. Nicco strolled through the stalls, browsing with one eye on the wares and one on the lookout for a wizard.

  The market was a riot of colour, so
und and smells. Dark-skinned merchants in bright, gaudy clothes shouted their wares to the sky, their jewel-encrusted necklaces and bracelets rattling with every gesture. A fat grocer paced back and forth, encouraging passers-by to taste his fruits and dried vegetables. A butcher with arms as meaty as his stock stood at his counter and slammed a cleaver through shanks of flesh without missing a beat of his booming, incessant sales pitch. A short, wiry spice trader held small spoons with pinches of aromatic powder under the noses of customers, advising them on which spices to use with what meals. Nicco almost jumped out of his skin when he turned a corner and came face to face with the shaggy head of a Varnian tallus. The beast snorted and whinnied at him. He was about to shout for help when he saw it was part of a livestock farmer’s stall, a miniature pen holding about a dozen different animals. The same man had glass cases of snakes, lizards and small, furry mammals that Nicco didn’t recognise. In fact he didn’t recognise even half of the animals, and the farmer pointedly ignored the chance to enlighten him. Evidently Nicco didn’t look like a prospective customer, and he wasn’t surprised. He hadn’t washed or changed his clothes since yesterday morning, and the previous day’s tribulations had left him stained with blood, dust, dirt and more. It was probably his scent that made the tallus uneasy.

  In broken Varnian, Nicco asked the farmer where he might find a wizard. He didn’t actually know the word for wizard, so he asked for a magus and hoped the farmer would understand. But the farmer just shrugged and turned away.

  Nicco moved on, looking for the telltale signs of a wizard; floating ornaments, talking anti-theft purses, sudden flashes of light and colour. He didn’t see any immediately, but he did see someone else he recognised. Sothus, the Azbathan arms dealer, was meandering through the marketplace with a young woman on his arm. She was dark-skinned and lithe, obviously a native. Probably a working girl, an escort Sothus had picked up in town.

  He was surprised to find himself glad that Sothus had survived the explosion at the airport too, but didn’t feel like making idle conversation. Nicco turned away, losing himself in the crowd. Or so he thought.