Once Called Thief

by Lexel J Green

  “No.” Ember stared at the floor. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I’ll be fine. I just need to be doing something. I don’t like all this waiting around. Makes me jumpy.”

  They were all jumpy. Life in Refu Ruka had a peculiar rhythm to it — short bursts of intense action followed by long periods of waiting around while the technicians worked on the gates. Each caster had their own way of dealing with the downtime. Hannar-Ghan obsessively cleaned his lance, methodically test-firing it and then cleaning it again. Junn-Kri spent his spare time throwing a knife at trees, with varying degrees of success. Roon-Kotke played endless games of Acharawan Aces in the mess, sometimes for money, sometimes for more money. Only Lor-Qui seemed glad of the break, almost as if the missions got in the way of his oconic experimentation.

  Ember kept himself to himself, waxing his bowstring, sharpening his sword, checking his borrowed armour, running laps around the fortress, sleeping, eating and reading. On one occasion, he’d tried to find some peace by climbing to the top of Refu Ruka’s single round tower. There he’d sat, eyes closed, breathing deeply, feeling the wind in his face, listening to the chirrup of birds and the swish of the trees. But any contentment he felt was fleeting. Memories of Aarhyn rose in the darkness, her eyes red, black dress grubby and torn, falling from the Spire in that glitter of broken glass.

  There would be no escape from the memory until the Watcher was dead.

  Perhaps not even then.

  “Are you in a rush to get yourself killed?” Rahi asked him. “You’ve seen what lies through some of these old portals. Heard the stories.” She pointed to gate twenty. “This gate here was home to a nest of Varinocks. Big, very pissed off Varinocks.”

  “Bring them on,” said Ember. “Fighting is what I’m good at. It helps me forget. Besides, the sooner we clear out the rest of these gates, the sooner I can leave. I can get back to murdering Tydek Mordume. That’s all I care about.”

  Rahi punched him again. “You are easily one of the most infuriating men I've ever met. Doubly so now you’ve got this shaggy Ember thing going on. I miss the old you. I miss Lokke.”

  Ember. Lokke. He no longer resembled the coiffed Colonel of old. Nor was he quite the mercenary the real Ember had been. He was someone else. Some third self, still under construction.

  “Can’t do anything about the beard,” Ember said rubbing his chin.

  “Well, it’s not a deal breaker. Besides, I don’t have much of a choice. Su-Zo told me to watch out for you. Keep you alive. Here and wherever you go after this.”

  “You’ll fight with me?”

  “I might. You’re a hard man to say ‘no’ to. Besides, killing the second-most powerful person in the Empire doesn’t sound quite so crazy when you’ve already faced Varinocks, Crystal Slicers and killer water spouts, does it?”

  Rahi winked at him and walked away.

  “No. That’s true… Wait,” he called after her. “What’s a Crystal Slicer?”

  8. PAINTED LIKE A SKULL

  THE FENCER WHO CALLED himself the Rook ran his affairs from a boozer on the Blood Road, not far from the Temple of the Ocamor.

  The Firebird Rising was a favoured haunt of the stallholders and barrow boys who worked the surrounding streets, all mixed together with the Rook’s juvenile mob of thieves and muggers. On a good day, it smelled of pipe smoke, stale beer and fish. Much like any other Blood Road watering hole. Yet the Firebird stood out. Candles flickered on its walls, housed in beautiful red glass lamps. Stone always thought them a strange choice. After all, most people used longlamps these days — cheap, oca-powered and considerably longer-lasting. But they gave the Firebird’s saloon a cosy feel, casting dancing shadows across its sticky floor, a mosaic of ale-splashed black, white and orange tiles.

  Stone usually met the Rook in a private room out the back, ushered in by a muscled lackey with a milky-white eye and a ragged scar across his face. Today, he straightened his cap and walked in like he always did, clutching his bag tightly, trying to calm the nerves he felt a-jangling. His stomach gurgled at the thought of bartering his hard-won salvage. He didn’t like dealing with fencers. But the Rook was the best of a bad bunch. The scrappers went to him because he looked kindly on them; treated them fair and with respect.

  As he stepped into the tavern’s back room, he expected to see the Rook sat at the end of the long wooden table, counting coins into a dark wooden box. But someone else sat in the Rook’s grand leather chair, a young boy with spiked up blond hair, streaked with green dye, his face pocked with small round pimples, scars of some unfortunate childhood disease.

  Stone’s shoulders slumped.

  Dak-Trur looked at him with a disdain that bordered on hatred. He had no connection to the scrappers. No fondness for them. All he saw were sewer rats and refuse-pickers, hawking junk plucked from the mire. The boy had kept his Ocosconan name, as if it would set him above those who’d ditched theirs for nicknames and aliases. He wore a continual sneer, as if everything in the world displeased him. If this was how the Rook’s boys turned out, Stone was glad he hadn't joined up with them. Why risk getting nabbed by a Justice for a few extra crowns? Getting banged up for thieving wasn't going to help his mother.

  Stone took a deep breath. He knew he had to keep calm. Dak bullied the younger children to get a reaction, to prove how tough he was. Stone was damned if he'd give him the satisfaction.

  “Where's the Rook?” he said.

  Dak leaned forward. “He’s busy. I act for him today.” He patted the money box on the table. “And I can buy for him today too. Question is, have you got anything worth buying? I'm not interested in your rivets and rope. Marine store down the street will buy that crap.”

  “I usually see the Rook.”

  “Gods, are you deaf? Am I not saying the words simple enough for you? Or maybe you've still got muck in your ears. He's… Busy.” Dak said the words loudly and slowly. Stone clutched his bag even tighter. “Or maybe you ain't got anything worth selling.” The bully stood up, palms flat on the table. “And if that be the case, this meet is over. I’ve got better things to do. So go on. Hop it! Back to the shit with you.”

  “No wait.” Stone put the bag on the table. He needed the money. “Please. I’m here to sell. I’ve brought silver.”

  Dak sat back down again, leaning back into the padded red leather. “Got some treasure in that bag of yours ‘ave you?” He tapped his palm on the table. “Alright. Let's see what you’ve brought.”

  Stone tumbled the contents of the bag into the table. He set the hairbrush silver-side up, the spoon, the penny, the needle case and the buckle alongside it, arranged in a neat line. He looked up at Dak, hoping he’d be impressed.

  “There are some good pieces here,” he said, hopefully.

  Dak scoffed and sneered at him from across the table. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

  “Ten crowns-worth, easy,” Stone added.

  “Pah! How would you know? What have you got there? A useless brush and part of an old belt by the looks of it.” Dak sniffed. Unimpressed. “I'll give you seven crowns for ‘em.”

  “Seven? They’re worth ten.”

  The bully-boy laughed. “I don't think you understand how this works, scrapper. I'm offering you seven crowns. Take it or leave it. We’re running a business here. Not bartering like a common pot-seller. That silver is worth seven…”

  Dak opened the box and started to count out the coins.

  “You haven’t even looked at them.”

  “Seven, I says. Not a penny more.”

  “That’s not fair,” Stone complained.

  “Six.” Dak tossed a coin back into the box.

  “What?”

  “Six crowns. That’s my offer now. One crown deducted for suggesting I’m a cheat.” Dak pulled a sad face. “Why, I’m insulted.”

  “But you can’t do that!”

  “Five. I can do what I bloody well like.” The bully-boy sat back in the chair, one leg over the polished woode
n armrest. He pulled out a knife from underneath the table and held it up, blade catching the light. “I can offer what I bloody well like. Show me some respect, scrapper. Or my price will drop so low you’ll end up owing me money!”

  Stone picked up the hairbrush and stuffed it back into the bag. He bit his lip, wanting to argue his worth, but knowing that Dak would never listen. He picked up the spoon next, avoiding the bully’s smug gaze. He was about to drop it into his bag when the door to the back room opened with a soft click.

  A man stood there.

  Tall he was, dressed in a dark green suit with a matching shirt beneath it. A necklace of polished animal teeth hung around his neck, while on his head sat a black top hat, white feathers pinned into its chimney pot crown. But it was the man’s face that caught the eye, painted like a skull, chalky white cheekbones, dark hollows around his bright blue eyes.

  The Rook grinned. “Now, who do we have here? Little Stone, no less. The Prince of Eddo’s Wharf.” He shot Dak-Trur a disapproving look. “You should have called me down.”

  “I was handling it,” the bully said defiantly.

  “He was trying to cheat me,” Stone corrected him.

  Dak jumped to his feet, temper flaring. “Shut yer trap, you little—”

  “That's enough!” the Rook shouted. “What's going on here?”

  “This river rat wants ten crowns for his dirty trinkets. I say they are only worth seven. If that. I told him, if he don't like our terms, he can find another fencer who likes ‘em better.”

  Dak shrank back from the chair as the Rook strode towards the table. Nobody knew the fencer’s true name. Like Stone, he'd abandoned it in favour of something more suited to his position as Lord of the Blood Road. For he ruled a goodly portion of the old thoroughfare, from the multicoloured houses near the Temple to the warehouses by the old city wall. A string of law-abiding businesses fell under his control, fronts for darker dealings, smuggling, housebreaking and betting amongst them.

  “Show me,” the Rook sat down in his chair.

  Stone grabbed the needle case, the bent penny and the buckle from the table and walked towards him. Reaching the other end of the table, he placed the three silver pieces before the Rook, followed by the serving spoon and the hairbrush.

  The Rook picked up the buckle. “This is a fine piece,” he said, turning it in his fingers so it caught the candlelight. “Legion made by the looks of it. Part of a dress uniform. Given to a man of the Fuerzi-Kri unless I’m mistaken. You found this?”

  Stone nodded. “Mistress Yali says it's worth four crowns on its own.”

  “Pah,” spat Dak-Trur.

  The Rook’s arm lashed out, his balled fist catching the boy in the stomach. Dak groaned and toppled back on his arse.

  “Four crowns, easy,” the Rook continued. “Maybe more. To the right customer. Mistress Yali, you say? How is the old bird?”

  “Well,” said Stone. “She sends her regards.”

  The Rook placed the buckle back down on the table and picked up the needle case. “Not seen her in a while. Found another fencer has she?”

  “Don't rightly know, sir. She don't tell me where she goes when the tide is high. Or who she sells to.”

  “No. She’s a mystery that one...” The Rook opened the lid of the needle case and looked inside. “So you want ten for all these do you? That’s a lot of coin.”

  “They're all silver and well-made, as you said. I’m sure you can double your money on them.”

  “Maybe.” The Rook looked at him, as if sizing him up. Stone held his stare, standing his ground, trying not to show any weakness. Had he done enough? Should he say anything else? Men like the Rook respected strength. Maybe he wouldn’t notice that Stone’s mettle was fragile and just for show.

  “Alright,” the skull-faced racketeer said at last. “Ten it is.”

  “What?!” Dak spluttered in disbelief as he got back on his feet.

  The Rook raised his arm, as if to strike out again. The bully silenced his protest, fixing Stone with a hateful stare.

  “I apologise for young Dak here,” said the Rook, ignoring his protégé. “He ain't as worldly-wise as he thinks he is. Doesn’t yet appreciate that part of our business is building relationships and keeping them greased. Ten crowns is a fair price to that end. But I could give you twelve for them. That is, if you agree to do some work for me.”

  “I'm no thief, sir. Ain’t got the wits for hoisting or blagging...”

  “That’s right,” Dak said. “The boy's weak. Look at him. He'd be a liability. Good for nothing but pecking in the mud like a blueshank.”

  “... But thank you for the offer,” Stone added.

  “Thirteen crowns change your mind? I could use a lad like you. Not in acquisitions, perhaps. Retrieval might be where your talent lies. You've got the smarts and you look quick on your feet. It’s an easier living than picking through the mud every day. Especially with winter coming.” The Rook let out a long breath. “The mud freezes, you know. You have to chip away at it. Saps your strength. Gets so cold even your bones start to ache… You're still new to scrapping, right?” Stone nodded. “You won't have experienced it yet. However bad I might make it sound, the reality of it is worse.”

  The offer was tempting. He could earn money faster if he threw his lot in with the Rook. But it was a dark path and if he stepped onto it, no telling whether he’d ever find his way back. Besides, Yali’s advice kept bobbing around in his head: If you ain’t smart, he'll have you thieving or blagging with his boys ‘fore you know it. I don't want that future for you. Your mother, bless her heart, wouldn't want that neither.

  “I'm happy where I am sir. For now. I hear others have raised themselves up and out of the mud.” The Rook raised an eyebrow. “In time, I intend to do the same. I’ll just take the ten crowns if you please.”

  The Rook slid the coins across the table. “I applaud your spirit, little Stone. Even if it’s a little naive. For the world is bigger and far less friendly than you realise. It’s a lengthy path you’re fixing to wander. Still, you'll see the truth of things one day. As have other scrappers before you. My offer will still stand when you come to your senses. And you will. You’ll see I’m only trying to help.”

  “I'll think on it, sir.” Stone scooped up the coins and stuffed them into his pocket. “Thank you again.”

  “What will you do with the money?”

  “Give it to my mother, sir.”

  “Ha!” Dak laughed. “Then off you go mummy's boy. Back to the shit with you.”

  9. AN INKY DARKNESS

  TWO FRUSTRATING DAYS LATER, Ember stood watching a tall, sandy-haired technician wheel an oconic capacitor across the Terminus. The Ocosconan dropped the blackiron drum with a clang, shifting it into position next to the curved arch of the newly-unlocked gate twenty-three.

  The tireless technicians had worked through thousands of combinations to crack the seal on the ancient gateway. Often through the night. Their reward? The locked gate right next to it. Another trio of iron dials. Another mystery combination. Two more techs were already fussing around gate twenty-four’s heavy metal seal, checking the six huge latches that held it fast. Ember didn’t envy them their monotonous job. But, considering the lurking horrors they’d already encountered through the Refu Ruka gates, the technicians probably didn’t fancy his either.

  A second tech barged past, older than the first, hair shaved down to a brown fuzz. Ember suddenly realised that he didn’t know any of the technicians by name. Bar the members of Roon-Kotke’s squad, the Captain and Rahi-Khun, nobody else had spoken to him. Except to say “get out of my way” or “watch it!” or “do you want gravy with that?” Back when he commanded the Old Hundredth, he knew everyone by name, every caster, cook, clerk, porter and messenger boy.

  The technician — he’d call him ‘Fuzz’ for now — busied himself connecting the thick copper pipes that would spurt the compressed oca from the capacitor into the metal ribs of the ancient gateway. W
hen the words to cap the oconic binding were spoken, the dormant connection would expand with a familiar sigh, ripping a hole in the fabric of the world. The power required to conjure a portal, and keep it stable, was enormous. A barrel-sized capacitor could only sustain a full-sized gate connection for a count of one hundred. Yet it was more than enough time for a five-caster squad to travel safely through it.

  “Alright casters,” said Roon-Kotke, as the technician Ember had christened Sandy, fetched a second, slimmer capacitor. “Stand ready.”

  Where gate twenty-three ultimately went didn’t really matter. Nor did Ember care if he faced giant spiders, spouters, Varinocks or some other bio-magical Kajjon weapon. He was eager to get going. The sooner they cleared out the gates in Refu Ruka, the sooner he could infiltrate the Briar, sneak into one of the most heavily guarded buildings in the Empire and stick an arrow through Mordume’s heart. Or a sword through his gut. Or a spoon into his eye. Easier said than done, of course. (Especially killing a man with blunt-edged cutlery.) As his old friend Su-Zo had pointed out, striking back against the Watcher was going to take time, planning and an enormous slice of luck.

  “Cobb?” Roon-Kotke’s voice.

  Ember snapped back to reality. “Yes?”

  Roon-Kotke stared at him. “You alright?”

  “I’m fine,” he said patting the overlapping plates on his armour. “I’m ready.”

  The young Caster-Corporal nodded, then signalled to a pair of casters in full armour who stood behind them. Ember didn’t know their names either — one wore a breastplate with a white clenched fist stencilled upon it (henceforth known as ’Fisty’), the other had his armour daubed with a pair of slapdash five-pointed stars (meet ’Star Man’). The two men levelled their lances at the gateway, primed to defend the Terminus if anything nasty tried to scuttle, slither or flap its way through when the portal opened.