Once Called Thief

by Lexel J Green

  Coombe eyed the bag of coins like a cat watching a bird. He picked up his tankard and drained the contents, yellowy foam clinging to his beard.

  “I’ll have the same again,” he said, wiping his face with his sleeve.

  “Alright.” Daode waved towards the barkeep. “Another drink for my friend here.” The barkeep nodded back.

  “You not joining me?”

  “Bit too early for me. Can we talk about Cobb?”

  “What do you want to know?” Coombe croaked.

  “I want to know everything,” Daode said, opening his notebook. “Where did he come from? Who did he serve with? Where did he fight? How did he lose his eye?”

  The Yarborough barkeep brought over another tankard and set it down upon the table. Coombe grabbed at the handle and pulled the drink towards him.

  “How much you got in that purse of yours?” he asked, tapping the side of the tankard with his finger. “Talking can be thirsty work.”

  “That depends on you, Mister Coombe. What secrets can you tell me?”

  “I got some dark ones.”

  “Excellent. The darker the better, if you please.”

  12. I WANT HIM ALIVE

  JUSTICE-GENERAL RISTAR DE FALLON traced the red trim on the sleeve of his black tunic. His finger followed the thin line that looped around the cuff. How delicate it was, he thought. How precisely stitched. He smoothed the fabric one last time and straightened his collar as the doors opened to the Watcher’s study.

  De Fallon’s boots click-clicked on the polished marble floor as he walked past the two guardsmen at the door, towards the huge wooden desk at the far end of the room. Paintings hung on the walls, nine to each side, mounted in almost perfect alignment. De Fallon glanced at the third one on his right, a sombre and looming likeness of the sixth Watcher. To his eye, it was just off-centre. Distracting. Ugly. It ruined the symmetry. De Fallon wondered, as he had done on his previous visit, whether the nineteenth Watcher might allow him to straighten it.

  The nineteenth Watcher of Mulai sat behind the giant desk, his attention focused on a stack of papers that anyone would find disappointingly high. Behind him, huge windows framed a dazzling view of the city he protected, its slate-roofed buildings splashed with the pink and gold of a clear summer sunrise. The Hourglass fortress soared above it, a vertical cityscape rising above the sprawl, thousands of longlamps glittering on its edges like fallen stars. De Fallon stopped a few feet from the desk and stood with his arms behind his back.

  “Good morning, my Lord Watcher. And what a morning it is. How are you feeling today?”

  “Spare me your pleasantries, Justice-General.” The Watcher, Tydek Mordume, looked up from the paper he was reading. He winced. “It is never a good morning. I can hardly sleep at night. My wound aches as if there is still a sword blade rammed deep into it. My wife is held captive. The Sentinel will not speak to me. De Calvas is still at large. What news of our fugitive? Have you found him?”

  “I’m afraid not, my Lord. The information we received proved unreliable. The house we searched was empty.”

  The Watcher put the paper he’d been reading down onto the desk and picked up another. “Did you question the owner?” he said, without looking up.

  “Most thoroughly and forcefully, my Lord. As instructed.”

  “Then where is he!?” There was a hard edge to the Watcher’s voice now. A bubbling annoyance. “You assured me that you could find him and I am paying you a considerable sum of public money to do exactly that. He might already be here in the city. Right under your nose. He could be coming for me even now!”

  “My Lord, you are quite safe here. You have a hundred guards to protect you, a series of oconic Walls and the Watcher’s Eye is one of the most impregnable spaces in the city. I think it might now be easier to break into the Sentinel's palace.”

  Mordume leaned back in the high-backed, black-buttoned leather chair. “Don't underestimate our renegade Colonel. He might be disgraced, defeated, and on the run, but he's still a brilliant strategist. An exceptional caster. He saw me push his wife out of that window.” Mordume pointed over his shoulder to the floor-to-ceiling glass behind him. “That makes him even more dangerous.”

  “With the greatest respect, sir. It also makes him weak. De Calvas is not the man he once was. If he is coming after you, he won't be thinking objectively. He will make mistakes, take risks when he shouldn't. That is the nature of vengeance. Common sense is dulled by emotion. That’s why we will find him. It's only a matter of time. The whole Empire is hunting him. The bounty you’ve placed upon his head will ensure that he is apprehended eventually.”

  “Eventually isn’t good enough. Where is he?”

  De Fallon swallowed, not wanting to say the words out loud. He wouldn’t accept them from any of the Justices under his command. They smacked of failure. Of incompetence. He knew it. The Watcher would know it too. But there was nothing else to say. De Calvas had escaped aboard a fishing boat, fled to the isle of Tanderu, gated to Ocos, then onwards to Astoran, Happ-Jagar and then…

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I believe Astoran was a false trail. Happ-Jagar too. Merely stops along the way to his final destination. Or misdirections, intended to confuse and delay. As you say, my Lord, De Calvas is no fool. He’s had help covering his tracks. The High Lord Su-Zo Zozadhan, most likely. Although I am unable to prove his involvement. He—”

  “Yes, yes,” snapped the Watcher. “I don’t care about the details.” He indicated the stack of papers on his desk. “As you can see, I’m drowning in details of my own. Petitions. Planning proposals. Tax statements… We can’t confront the Ocosconan High Lord based on a hunch. Besides, it doesn’t matter who helped him. I just want De Calvas found! I want him brought before me, beaten and broken. Are you the man to do it, Ristar? Or do I need to find a new Justice-General who will?”

  Any other Justice might have been flustered by the threat. Panicked. The Watcher of Mulai was one of the most powerful clansmen in the city. But De Fallon didn’t flinch. It was true that power grew with rank and riches. But power could also be attained through knowing those things that your rivals (or your enemies) did not.

  “I am still your man,” De Fallon said. “And De Calvas will be found. You have my word on it. We are getting closer. Eliminating the lies so only the truth remains.”

  “He could be anywhere.”

  “No, Lord. I believe he is still in Ocoscona. Either holed up in Lord Su-Zo’s residence or hidden somewhere remote. The Wilds maybe.”

  The Watcher snatched another sheet of paper from the stack in front of him. “Then find him,” he said. “Whatever it takes. Whatever it costs. And remember, I want him alive.”

  “Of course.”

  “Yet not necessarily intact.”

  “I’ll see what I can do. As it happens, I’m just about to have a friendly chat with someone who might know more on the subject.”

  ***

  Down beneath the Hall of Justice, through a room that was part Justice armoury, part sprawling storeroom, there was a wooden door with a rusted lock. The previous Justice-General had once hidden a bomb behind it. Justice-General Ristar de Fallon had nothing quite so crude inside. Horribly violent, certainly. But not remotely crude.

  The door led to a smaller room with bare stone walls, no windows and a single longlamp bolted into the ceiling. Where Mordume’s bomb had once stood, a small round hoop of blackiron sat upright on a small metal cart, thin copper pipes linking it to an oconic capacitor. Next to it, there was a single wooden chair, to which was roped an Ocosconan caster, arms splayed out to either side, wrists tied to either end of a long wooden bar that topped the simple chair. He was slumped forward, beaten and bloodied. The air smelt of sweat and piss.

  De Fallon took off his coat, brushing some dirt from the black sleeve. Satisfied it was clean, he hung it on a single hook on the back of the door. Then he turned and walked towards his captive, shiny boots clicking with each slow step. The Ocoscon
an looked up, a scarlet bead of blood hanging from the end of his nose. He sneered, a half-baked show of defiance dulled by blinding pain.

  “Are you ready to talk?”

  The Ocosconan looked away. De Fallon sighed, unbuttoned his cuff and began to roll his shirt sleeve up towards his elbow.

  “No? Then we'll take a different approach today. You might have noticed this little contraption, this blackiron ring, and these delicate pipes that connect it to this small oconic capacitor. You're a smart man, so I'm sure that you've realised it's a miniature oconic gate. A fully functional and rather expensive one. I'm rather proud of it."

  De Fallon unbuttoned his other cuff and silently rolled up the sleeve.

  “It's not important where this gate goes. It's too small to be used for travel. Its companion gate is somewhere on the West coast, overlooking the Deep Dark. It's a pretty view. You'll see it for yourself in a few moments.”

  The Ocosconan spat blood onto the floor.

  De Fallon ignored it and walked across to the cart. Then he wheeled the compact gate and its capacitor across the room, positioning them to the left-hand side of his captive. The front wheels of the cart squeaked in protest.

  “Now, I'm sure you know how oconic gates work. This one is connected, as I've said, but the portal is dormant. So tiny you can barely see it. Logicians who understand these things far better than I do, tell me that a dormant gate connection is the width of one of the hairs on your head. But then you're a caster, right? You probably know all this already. Interesting fact for you though… This capacitor here might be small, but it can power this particular gate for a count of about two hundred and ten, maybe two hundred and twenty.” De Fallon reached into his pocket and drew out a small hourglass, filled with white sand. “I measure it using this. You have the time it takes for the sand to fall to answer my questions.”

  The Justice-General pulled a lever on the capacitor and spoke the words of the gate binding. The small hoop sprang into life. A fresh breeze blew in through the newly-established connection. The smell of salt. The sound of screeching gulls.

  “Just to give you an extra incentive, I’m going to stick your arm through this portal.” He moved the blackiron hoop towards the Ocosconan’s outstretched arm until it reached into the gate up to his elbow. The man struggled, straining at the ropes.

  “Can you feel that fresh air? Makes you feel alive, doesn’t it?”

  De Fallon turned the hourglass over and the sand began to fall.

  The Ocosconan struggled again.

  “You get it don’t you?” De Fallon leaned in closer, almost nose to nose with the sweating prisoner. “Yes, I can see it in your eyes. You know that anything caught in a collapsing portal collapses with it, crushed down to the width of a human hair. So if your arm is still sticking through this gate when the sands run out… It will slice your arm right off.” The Ocosconan struggled again. “And if I don't get a satisfactory answer to my questions, I’ll repeat the process with your other arm. Then your left leg. And so on until there's nothing left of you to call a man."

  The Ocosconan spat at him, flecking his white shirt with crimson. “Damn you!” he managed through gritted teeth.

  De Fallon looked at the hourglass. “We’ve wasted valuable time already… Let’s get to it, shall we? You work for Su-Zo Zozadhan. You recently escorted a person of great interest to my employer from Ocos. Where did you take him?” De Fallon, pulled the gate closer, so it swallowed the Ocosconan’s arm right up to his shoulder. “Tell me, where can I find Lokke de Calvas?”

  13. A RISING PANIC

  THE TEA HOUSE EXPLODED. Glass windows shattering. Green-painted wood splintering. Old metal urns and tins shearing, disintegrating into deadly flying shards. Black smoke. Staggering heat. Choking brick dust. The air thick with shredded tea leaves, raining down like ash.

  Stone stumbled out of Lif-Mar’s store opposite, head throbbing, ears ringing, coughing as he breathed in dust and smoke. His balance faltered and he staggered against the door frame, steadying himself against it. Broken wood burned in the street. A cart lay tipped over on its side. The tea house, once popular with legionnaires, merchants and families, was now a skeleton of dark wooden beams wreathed in bright orange fire.

  A few moments earlier, Stone had been standing in front of it, face pressed against the window, staring at the brightly-iced cakes and pastries behind the glass. He’d stood there wishing he had a few spare pennies to buy one. Not only was it a luxury he couldn’t afford, but the owner wouldn’t let the likes of him inside. Something about ‘lowering the tone’ of the place. Too scruffy, too dirty, too untrustworthy. So he’d walked away, mentally adding a cake to his list instead. That now read:

  Settle the debt.

  Free his mother.

  Repay Mistress Yali for her kindness.

  Kill the warden.

  Buy the biggest, sugar-dusted, lemon cream-filled chocolate roll he could afford.

  But not today. He heard a groan from somewhere in the smoke. Coughing. A scream. Someone sobbing, the heartbreaking sound of a life forever changed. Stone noticed bodies amongst the debris, some of them moving, some still as the corpses that often washed up on the river bank. Then a shout, followed by the whump of a Fura charge. Stone ducked, dropping to his knees as a streamer of fire sliced through the air, low enough that he could feel the prickling heat of it. Gods, he thought as he crouched outside Two-Four-Three. This must be what a battlefield looks like.

  Stone glanced around him. He needed to get away. Where was his basket? His things? He hadn’t found much of note so far — a handful of fat, a piece of old iron, some lengths of rope. But they were worth a few pennies and every penny counted towards paying off his mother’s debt and saving her life.

  Speaking of saving lives, Stone noted a man laying face-down in the street nearby.

  “Hey,” he called out. “Are you hurt?”

  The man didn’t reply. Didn’t move. He wore a high-collared crimson tunic with matching trews and a white belt. A Mulai caster by the looks of him. One arm bent at an impossible angle; a blackiron lance sticking out from under his body where he’d fallen on it. Blood on the back of his head.

  His mother would want him to be a good citizen, do the right thing and help the injured. Even a Mulai. Even though he had every reason to hate them.

  But his eyes flicked back to the lance.

  It was just lying there, ripe for the taking. If he was speedy, maybe he could slide it out from... Hells, he felt guilty even thinking about it. Pinching the caster’s weapon would make him no better than one of the Rook’s band of grubby muggers. Besides, what if the Mulai was still alive? What if he caught him in the act, grabbed him by the wrist (with his good hand) and held him fast ‘til the cuffers rolled up? They’d bang him up for theft, quick as a wink. How would he free his mother then?

  No. It was a dumb idea. Wasn’t worth the risk.

  Unless…

  He squinted at the Mulai again. The caster still lay there in the street, still not moving. Didn’t even look like he was breathing.

  What if he was dead?

  He looked dead.

  And if he was, that would change things.

  It would turn stealing into scrapping.

  Your basic ‘finders keepers’ situation.

  The distant sound of clanging bells signalled the approach of rattling fire wagons, although Stone couldn’t see what good they would do. The tea house was already lost to the flame.

  A pair of Ocosconan casters ran down the street, dressed in legion blues. Probably chasing the perpetrators. The Yafai were the most likely villains in this. The banished clan hailed themselves freedom fighters, but were little more than murderers and terrorists. Stone was no friend to the Mulai. They had annexed his nation, forced it to become part of the Empire. But they didn’t go around killing innocents with oconic bombs like the so-called ‘ghosts’ of Yafnagar did.

  Again, his conscience nagged him to help, but he sat in the doo
rway, eyes only for the lance. If he could snag the weapon while nobody was looking, the Rook might pay him handsomely for it. He knew of a scrapper who’d found and fenced a rusted one a few months back. Bagged herself fifteen crowns for the find. This one, if he could get it, might be worth double. More if the chambers were fully stacked. Thirty crowns... It might take him three weeks of sifting river mud to make that much coin.

  After seeing how his mother was suffering in Ash House, this was a potential payday he couldn’t ignore.

  It was why he scrambled forward, reaching for the lance, hands closing around the cold blackiron. He yanked at it, sliding it out from underneath the caster’s heavy body. It came free easier than he expected, metal scraping loudly on the cobbles as he pulled. Stone winced, hoping he hadn’t damaged it. Should have run then, but he held the weapon for a moment, marvelling at the length and weight of it, longer than an Ocosconan lance, fourteen-chambered instead of eight. Dreams of becoming a caster resurfaced, fringed by memories of days spent playing with his friends, pretending to cast Fura and Ampa charges, a tree branch for a lance, straightest he could find.

  The Mulai stirred. Stone flinched, almost dropping the lance in fright.

  Not dead then.

  That changed things.

  Turned scrapping back into stealing.

  He backed through the open doorway of Two-Four-Three, sandals crunching on broken glass.

  Too late to put the lance back. The deed was done.

  A squad of newly arrived Justices had closed off the street, while a squad of firemen pumped jets of water onto what remained of the tea house, its tattered edges still aflame. Why had the Yafai attacked it? He didn't know. Didn’t much care. The politics of the city were as foreign to him now as baths and hair brushes.

  He backed away some more, almost tripping over his basket on the floor, salvaged rope spilling out of its lid. He scooped up the frayed odds and ends and stuffed them back in. Then he nodded to Lif-Mar, who sat with his back against the sales counter, dazed and a little confused. The air smelled of burnt tea, wood smoke and death.