Once Called Thief

by Lexel J Green

  Stone held his mother’s hand across the table. She wore a regulation grey smock, coarse and grubby. “Something ought to be done about him. Maybe there’s someone we can complain to?”

  Lini-Lat Kotkedhan sighed and Stone felt her squeeze his hand. “I doubt anyone would listen. Mister Fowley has a warrant from the Council to run this place. You'll only make things worse for me if you speak out. So keep that mouth of yours buttoned. Stay that anger I see boiling in you. It will do you no good to let it loose. You’ll only get me into trouble.”

  He got his flame red locks from her. Her hair used to be long, reaching down to the small of her back when brushed straight. But since her capture and incarceration at Ash House, someone had hacked it short — still pretty but now shoulder-length, ends curling underneath her freckled chin. It wasn’t the only change in her. She looked paler than when he’d saw her last. Thinner too. Stone noticed a cut on her cheek that hadn't been there before. All the while they talked, her dark brown eyes never left his face. As if she was looking at him for the first time. Or the last.

  “It's not fair,” he said. None of this was.

  “Life isn't fair, little one. Sometimes you have to make hard choices. You'll find that out one day.” She frowned at him. “You look too thin. Are you eating enough?”

  Stone shrugged off her suggestion. “I’m fine. Busy that’s all. Working all the hours the gods send and saving the coin I make so I can get you out of this horrible place. Don't worry about me.”

  “Oh, how can I not?” She smiled at him, but there was no happiness in it. “You’re only nine and you’re out there in the city on your own. I’m your mother and I can’t help you. I can’t keep you safe.”

  “I can look after myself.” Stone let go of his mother’s hand and pulled a crown out of his pocket. He glanced about him, hoping nobody was watching. “Here…” He pushed the coin across the table. “See. I’m making money. It’s for you. To buy food. Or to pay whatever dumb fees the Warden conjures up next.” He leaned forwards and whispered to her. “I've saved ninety-six crowns these past six months. That's almost half of what you owe him. I made ten crowns just today selling silver I found by the river.”

  His mother’s debt was two-hundred and nine crowns. But a few more good scraps like today and she’d be free in no time. A matter of months if he continued to work hard and the river gave up some more of its treasures.

  His mother looked away. “That's... Good,” she mumbled.

  That wasn’t the reaction he’d expected.

  “I thought you'd be happy?”

  His mother took his hand again. Smiled again. “I am happy. Of course I am. But the debt… It has swelled since you came here last. Interest, Mister Fowley says. It’s now two hundred and twenty-four crowns, five pennies…”

  “But how? I don’t understand?”

  “I also have to pay the guards.”

  “What for?”

  His mother looked away. “To leave me alone.”

  Stone felt his heart sink and his anger rise. He grimaced.

  “That's not right.”

  “’Tis the way of things here. There are fees for everything — for our lodgings, food, these clothes they give us to wear, hot water, even a bit of peace… A penny here, a quarter-crown there. It all adds up. What coin I earn from working in the laundry doesn't cover it all. I’m… I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It’s not your fault… It’s Fowley. One of these days, I’m going to...” Going to what? Kill him? Stone knew that he wasn’t big enough, old enough, tough enough or even brave enough to try. “It doesn't matter. I'm going to earn the money to pay off all of your debt. And more besides. It might take a little more time, but I'm going to free you from this gods-awful place so we can be a family again. Then we can put all this behind us. We'll rent a house. With a garden. Plant a new apple tree there. Things will be like they used to.”

  “My dear, sweet boy.” His mother looked at him, her eyes glittering. “It might not be that easy. This is my shame to bear. So listen to me.” She pushed the coin back towards him. “You have a chance to build a good life. Use the money you’ve saved for yourself. Don’t go wasting it on me. Have a life.”

  “No…”

  “There’s no need for both of us to suffer. Leave me here. I’ll be alright. I want you to invest in yourself. In your future. Maybe in a few years you’ll be able to do the Testing. Join a legion. Just like you always wanted.”

  “No.” Stone pushed the coin back across the table. “If your duty is to the debt, then my duty is likewise. We are family. You and me. There is nothing more important than that. I'll find a way to fix things.” He stood and leaned across the table, gave her a gentle kiss on the forehead and sat back down. “I’ll get you out of here.”

  “Your father's debts are my debts. In honour and in law. You can’t save me.”

  “I can. And I will. Don’t give up. I’ll find a way.”

  Stone thought back to the Rook’s offer.

  “You...” His mother looked down, her hand shaking, the words lost.

  “What is it?” Stone asked her. “What's wrong?”

  “It's nothing.” She looked up again, wiped away a tear, looked at him just the way she used to as she tucked him into bed at night. “You've changed. And so much in a short time. I'm… I’m proud of you.”

  No, he could never work for the Rook.

  “I’m just doing what you told me to, mama. I’m being hard as stone.”

  ***

  It broke Lini’s heart when the prison bell set to clanging and a warder ushered her son away. But she fought back the tears, forcing a happy smile, giving him a wave. Even though she’d urged him to forget her, she knew he wouldn’t. He was headstrong, like his runaway father. Stubborn and spirited like him too. In truth, she was thankful for the likeness. Glad he hadn’t given up on her; that she would see him again. Maybe tomorrow…

  She held the crown he’d given her, tight in her fist. He’d survived on the streets this long. Saved an astonishing sum already. Maybe he would find the money to free her. Maybe there was a way out.

  What other hope did she have?

  As her mind drifted to a life outside Ash House, she didn’t see the Warden approach until he was standing before her. She made to leave, rising from her chair, slipping the coin into the pocket of her smock. But that’s as far as she got. Hands pushed her firmly back down again. One of Fowley’s guards stood behind her, breath already stinking of whiskey. No point in struggling. She wasn’t strong enough. Besides, any insubordination on her part would incur another fine, further deepening her debt. Nobody stood up to Mister Fowley and his turnkeys. They couldn’t afford to.

  “That your boy, Lini?” The Warden pulled out the chair and sat down opposite her. He wore a brown suit with a white shirt, a copper-coloured cravat tucked up under his chins. “He looks a strong one…” Fowley ran the tips of his fingers through his waxed hair. “How old is he? Ten? Perhaps I should petition the court to bring him in here too. Help you work your debt down faster.”

  “No!” she said through gritted teeth. “You leave him alone. It is my debt. My responsibility.”

  “It is a family debt, my pretty. If you are no longer able to contribute payments to this institution and the creditors we represent, I am legally entitled to acquire another family member to service it.”

  “I am able. I’m doing everything you require of me.”

  “Well, not everything.” Fowley smiled, lips parting to reveal yellowed teeth crooked as he was. “You could make this easy on yourself. You're a fine-looking woman, Lini. My offer of a hot bath, better food and cleaner lodgings still stands. You can make your time here more bearable if you choose. Even work down your debt a little faster. All in exchange for certain comforts.”

  Lini winced. “I've already told you, the answer is ‘no’. I'd rather stay here.”

  I’d rather die.

  Fowley grabbed her chin, fingernails digging into her
flesh, pulling her face towards him. “You’re mine,” he hissed. “I could just take you!”

  “If you do, you'll find no pleasure in it.”

  He pursed his lips, letting go of her chin. But before she could pull back, he struck her hard with his other hand. A stinging slap across the cheek.

  The buzz of conversation in the Shed ceased. Inmates and visitors alike stopped to watch them.

  “What are you lot staring at?!” Fowley shouted. “Visiting time is now over. Everybody out! Get out, I say!”

  Lini sat quietly as the Shed emptied until only the three of them remained — her, the sour-faced Warden and the unseen, whiskey-smelling guard. She feared another slap. Or worse. But Fowley just looked at her sadly.

  “I didn't want to do that,” he said in a calm voice. “You made me do it. Do you see? But we can put it behind us…” He reached out towards her and she flinched backwards.

  “Get away from me!”

  Fowley scowled. “As you wish, my pretty. Perhaps a little time to think will do you good.” He stood, chair scraping on the rough stone floor. “Throw her in the strongroom. And clap her in irons…” The Warder leaned forward. “I'll add the cost of their removal to your already considerable bill. Perhaps we can talk again tomorrow? Or the day after that? Or the day after that? For I fancy you'll be with us for quite some time, Lini. In fact, I’ll see to it that you never get a chance to leave.”

  ***

  Stone left Ash House as he always did — fists balled, dreaming of how he might barge his way into the Warden's office and knock the man’s chubby, over-quaffed block off. The prospect of several locked gates, a dozen warders and the whole illegality of it conveniently forgotten.

  Buoyed by anger, he dawdled back to the ruined stables he called home. As usual, his route took him along the Blood Road, then right between the towering brick cliffs of the warehouses that lined Zahn Street. A canyon of commerce — workers shouting, cranes creaking, hammers banging, Ocara-pulled waggons rumbling along the old cobbles, stacked with crates, boxes, barrels and sacks. A thousand pairs of eyes, yet nobody seemed to see him.

  He stopped at the far corner of the warehouse owned by the Crick, its windows barred, huge iron gates still locked. Next to it, the familiar carcass of the old stables, officially condemned. He waited for a pair of chattering warehousemen to pass by before ducking into the narrow gap between the buildings, edging down it as far as the loose grating in the wall. Then into the tunnel, crawling on his hands and knees. Past the plank, its tin cans a-rattlin’. Through the old trap door with the sticky bolt. Down the rusted ladder.

  Into the basement, dim and chill.

  Every day the same.

  With the money from the Rook in his pocket, he walked around the shelves towards his bed, a mess of borrowed blankets, pieces of old sail and straw, wedged up against the basement’s back wall. Kneeling down on it, he reached for one of the bricks, fingers either side of it, wiggling and jiggling it until he pulled it loose. Behind the brick was an old biscuit tin, green and red, in which he hoarded his coin. All ninety-six crowns of it. He added the nine crowns he had left after visiting his mother. Making one hundred and five in total, each one landing in the tin with a satisfying plink. He closed the lid and slid the tin back into its hiding place, sealing it safely away behind the brick. His mother's revelations about Ash House didn't change a thing. His course was still set, his list still in play and getting longer by the day.

  Settle the debt.

  Free his mother.

  Repay Mistress Yali for her kindness.

  Kill the warden.

  But not today. Instead, he settled down, listening to water dripping through the rubble, coat wrapped tightly around him, hood pulled up. At times like this, alone in the wreck of his old life, he was glad to have a reason to keep going. It quieted that small part of him that wanted to walk into the river Eene and keep going, until the stinking black water swallowed him whole.

  11. A LITTLE SIGHTSEEING

  DAODE-KOTKE KHUNDHAN, long-suffering assistant to Caster-Captain Zan-Naka Mindhan, stepped down from a carriage onto Wolton Way. Above him, one of the Briar’s famous Spires loomed large. He didn’t know which one. The Spear, perhaps or The Sword. The towering symbols of unjust Mulai rule all looked the same; each one a thorn in the side of Ocosconan freedom.

  Even so, Daode had to admit that they were quite magnificent. Hard not to be impressed by the sheer scale of them. The paintings he’d seen, the stories he’d heard, none did them justice. For the Mulai Spires were ten times taller than those that ringed the Temple of the Ocamor in Ocos. They were home to hundreds of people too. He couldn’t stop looking at them.

  “You've got to see the Spires,” a gent had urged Daode, as he’d gated from Meiwu to Ocos on the first leg of his journey to the Briar. “The Hierin Bridge too,” said the man, a bald-headed fella, grey beard, gesturing wildly with his hands as he yammered. “But be sure to go at night when it shimmers blue, like it’s been sculpted out of ice… Beautiful, it is. Like a work of art. And if you get the chance…” The overly familiar gent had wrapped an arm tight around Daode’s shoulders. “Head to the top of the Glass. There’s a little park up there, right in front of the Sentinel’s palace, and it’s got a view to make you feel like you’re on top of the bloody world. Ain’t nothing like it anywhere in the Empire.”

  A little sightseeing couldn't hurt, thought Daode as he paid the carriage driver in coin. The Captain would never know.

  But first, he had a mission to complete. A chance to show the Captain his true worth; to show the mean old bastard that this particular Daode, the thirty-third of his line, was capable of more than making tea and writing up reports. Succeed here, by unearthing Ember Cobb’s deepest secrets, and he might tease a half-decent service recommendation out of Zan-Naka Mindhan. That was why he tolerated him. Why he ignored his foul moods and hurtful jibes. A recommendation would help him get a better job when the Fuerzi-Kri finally marched back to Ocos. A job without reports. Or making tea. A quieter career, one without the threat of giant spiders invading his workplace and eating his face off.

  Clutching his brown leather satchel, he watched the people thronging Wolton Way. It was a canyon of shops and two-storey terraced houses, walked by well-to-do gents and ladies in voluminous dresses, merchants and porters, black-clad Justices, roadsweepers and flower sellers, with scarlet-coated messenger boys, weaving between the lot of them. None, he supposed, had any idea of the horrors that lay hidden in some of the Kajjon fortresses they’d discovered. There might be one beneath his feet now, infested with Varinocks, Crystal Slicers, or something far worse. Imagine if any of them got out. Imagine them pouring out of the ground. All these people… Daode let out a long breath. They wouldn’t stand a chance.

  Banishing dark thoughts of bio-magical weaponry running amok, Daode spotted his destination across the street — the Yarborough Inn, a three-storey stone alehouse located on the corner, its doors already thrown wide open. Waiting for a gap in the traffic, he jogged across towards it, giving way to a crate-lugging Ocara that followed the blue and green lines painted on Wolton Way’s well-worn brick. You either stopped to let the faceless conjurings by or you got knocked on your arse by them. They weren’t coded with enough smarts to stop.

  Reaching the sidewalk outside the inn, Daode walked into the dim haze of the Yarborough’s saloon. An open fire crackled at the back, orange flames sending flickering shadows scampering across the wood-panelled walls. An unusual sight. Most places used oconic heaters these days. His nose wrinkled as he breathed in the wood smoke; his boots squeaking on wet black and white floor tiles, recently mopped. A series of rough-hewn wooden tables were arranged in lines along the bar, all empty apart from a small round one at the back. An old man with straggly brown hair sat there, shoulders slumped, wrapped in a long brown coat and staring forlornly at a pewter tankard.

  Was that him?

  Daode walked over to the man, trying to project a confidence
that he didn’t feel. He stood there for a moment, working up the courage to speak.

  “Are you Coombe?” he asked at last.

  The man slowly looked up, revealing a matted beard, mouth drooping slightly to one side, eyes scarily wide. He reached for the tankard, his hand shaking.

  “Who wants to know?”

  “Uh, my name is Daode-Kotke Khundhan.” Daode pulled out a chair and sat down at the table. “I met a friend of yours at the Hourglass. One Caster Pennon. He said you could tell me some stories about Ember Cobb? Said you served with him.”

  Coombe took a sip of his drink and sloshed the dark brew around his mouth before swallowing it. He looked Daode up and down.

  “You're an Okey.”

  “Yes. I'm Ocosconan.” Daode pulled a notebook and a pencil from his satchel. “What can you tell me about Ember Cobb?”

  Coombe sniffed. “Why does an Okey want to know about Cobb?”

  Daode leaned back in his chair. “I'm a writer,” he lied, a simple disguise he’d thought up while sat in the back of Trur-Gem’s cart. “I’m researching a book on Colonel Lokke de Calvas and I understand that Cobb was his closest friend. So I’d like to get some insight into what—”

  Coombe slammed his tankard down on the table.

  “I don't talk to Okeys,” he growled. “Now, leave me be.”

  Daode nodded to himself reached into his jacket and pulled out a purse, which he placed down on the table. The coins inside it clinked, a sound that suddenly focused Coombe’s disinterested gaze. He’d hoped to get some information from the haggard caster without resorting to bribery. The Captain had only given him a meagre fund to draw from. Nevertheless, he needed to know what the man knew.

  “Maybe this Okey can buy you a drink?”