Once Called Thief

by Lexel J Green

  “We’ll do this another time,” Stone said to him, turning to run out the back.

  As he dashed through the store and out into the alleyway, it occurred to him that, if he’d been quicker, he might have picked the caster’s pockets too, perhaps ripped off his brass buttons or searched for other treasure. But with the oconic lance firmly in his grip, he was content with his prize. Too early for the Rook to be receiving visitors, so he needed to stash it. He needed to go home.

  ***

  As before, Stone darted through the back of Lif-Mar’s store and out into the dirty alleyway behind it.

  He walked quickly down the narrow passage, hoping there wasn’t a furious Mulai chasing after him. For all he knew, the Imperial was already stumbling through Two-Four-Three looking for him, holding Lif-Mar by the neck, threatening to beat the truth out of him. Either way, Stone needed to keep moving. He’d felt jumpy when he was carrying the silver buckle. With a stolen lance in his hands, he felt positively terrified.

  He accelerated to a jog, ducked through the broken fence (no easy task with a lance long as a quarterstaff), then took the staircase up the side of the brush makers. From there, it was a short dash over the flat roof and down into the muddy alley on the other side, landing with a squelch.

  Then he was running again, scrapper’s basket bouncing on his back, heavy with wet rope. As he approached the point where the alley ended and Cua Street began, he thought about stopping to catch his breath, finding some clever way to disguise the lance from prying eyes — rolling it in the mud, perhaps (too damned messy), or covering part of it with his coat (too damned small).

  He kept going instead, favouring speed over deception, darting straight out into the morning crowd, dodging his way through the shoppers and hawkers that thronged the thoroughfare. On any other day, he’d have been more cautious, wary of cuffers on the lookout for hoisters and cutpurse crews. But with clanging fire bells still sounding behind him and a smear of black smoke rising above the rooftops, he suspected the Justices had better things to do.

  He gripped the lance tightly, worried he might lose it as he slipped his way through the shifting crowd. He thought a guilty-looking, scruffily-dressed boy with a lance in his hand might attract more attention. But the smoke in the sky proved a handy distraction. Many of the people in Cua Street looked up at it, pointed fingers at it, exchanged worried glances about it. Some ran like he did, keen to be as far away as possible from the blast.

  Halfway along the street, he cut through the alleyway between the milliner and the silk mercer, following it between the five storey houses until he reached the Blood Road. He felt tired now, didn’t usually run this sort of distance. But he couldn’t stop. Needed to get the lance home. Best he could do was jog down the long line of pastel-painted houses, by the flower sellers and the shoe shiner, the barrow boy and his questionable ices. Past the school, its playground empty, the children in their classes, chalks scribbling on slates.

  Then down into the warehouse district, onto Zahn Street, slowing to a walk as a squad of casters jogged past, fully armed and armoured. Strange to see them amongst the warehouses. Maybe the Yafai had struck here too? They certainly weren’t looking for a nine year-old boy with a basket on his back and a lance in his hand. He stopped outside the red brick warehouse owned by the Crick, its windows barred, huge iron gates locked. Next to it, the familiar ruins of the old stables, roof collapsed, its sign obliterated so only a red-painted ‘A’ and ‘R’ remained.

  As usual, he stole a quick glance behind him to check if anybody was watching. Then he ducked into the narrow gap between the two buildings, raising the long lance up like a flagpole. Sidling halfway down the passage, he dropped to his knees, pushing aside the loose grating in the old stable wall to reveal the crawlspace into the rubble. Stone hadn’t realised how much of a challenge it would be to get the lance through the gap. He had to lay it down and angle it through the hole, pushing and pulling it, the end scraping on the shattered bricks inside. Stone cursed. That might shave another few pennies off the price the Rook would give him.

  With another prod and a hard twist, he eventually manoeuvred the lance into the hole and crawled in after it. He let out a sigh of relief. He’d made it back. He was safe. Hidden. For nobody knew of the tunnel through the rubble. Nobody knew about the plank of wood that hid another section of tunnel behind, nor of the tin cans that rattled a warning if you moved it…

  Stone stopped, mid-crawl.

  Someone had moved it. Slid it aside to reveal the trap door that led down into the old basement.

  Impossible.

  He felt a rising panic, a tightness in his stomach.

  Someone had been here. Found his hideaway. His things.

  Oh gods, what if they’d taken his money?

  He crawled forward, leaving the lance behind him, about to throw open the trapdoor, desperate to check his money tin, when a thought occurred to him. A terrifying realisation that settled upon him like a heavy weight.

  They might still be down there.

  He swallowed, mouth suddenly dry as week-old bread. There or not, it didn’t change what he had to do. But it certainly changed how he might go about it.

  Slowly does it, he thought, crawling forward, careful not to make any noise. Although with the racket he’d made trying to get the lance through the grating, if anybody was down there, they’d surely know he was coming.

  He lifted up the trapdoor, breathing heavily, not knowing what he’d do if he saw someone staring back at him from below. Maybe it was another scrapper down there? One of the Rook’s boys? Perhaps it was that ragamuffin girl from the other day? She’d certainly spooked him. While he was certain he’d ditched her outside Two-Four-Three, he couldn’t be certain there hadn’t been a second spotter that had trailed him home.

  Dammit. He was usually so careful.

  Stone peered down into the basement. The area at the bottom of the ladder looked clear, packed earth scored with fuzzy bars of shadow where the longlamp light shone through his shelves.

  No sign of an intruder.

  He listened, leaning right over the edge, hands on the top rung of the ladder.

  No sound of an intruder, neither.

  He pulled himself back up. What now? Maybe there wasn’t anyone down there after all. Maybe they’d been and gone. But if there was… He sighed. He couldn’t stay up here all day. If there was someone hiding down in his home, he had to confront them. Scare them into leaving. After all… He reached behind him, hand closing around cold, slightly scratched blackiron. He had a lance.

  Mind made up, he took off his sandals and climbed down the first few rungs of the ladder, reaching back to take the lance with him. He descended to the floor without a sound, heart hammering in his chest, listening for the slightest noise, watching for any shifting of the shadows.

  Dropping into a crouch he crept forwards, gripping the lance tighter, imagining himself as a caster stalking a dangerous foe. The murderous Yafai perhaps or that wounded Mulai, come to reclaim the weapon he’d lost. When he reached the shelves, he took a deep but silent breath, and chanced a peek around the edge.

  He immediately jerked back.

  There was someone there.

  14. MY LOYALTY ISN’T FOR SALE

  “HEY CORPORAL?” JUNN CUPPED his hand over his eyes, squinting into the distance along the bridge. “There’s something up ahead.”

  “Another bloody wheel, no doubt,” grumbled Hannar-Ghan.

  “No. This is bigger,” said Junn. “Looks like some sort of crate. A big one.”

  “A crate with wheels,” suggested Lor-Qui. “Are those wheels?”

  “Where?” said Ember, struggling to make out any detail. The light was too bright and he couldn’t see clearly. He blamed the heat haze and the wind-blown dirt rather than his ageing eyes. After all, in gate nineteen, he’d downed an oconic water spout by putting an arrow into a spinning canister from a distance of thirty paces. His eyes weren’t the problem.

&nbs
p; Lor-Qui pointed. “Look, there are wheels on the top.”

  “Crates don't have wheels,” said Hannar-Ghan.

  “Isn't a crate with wheels technically a waggon?” asked Junn.

  “Looks too small to be a waggon.”

  “A cart then.”

  “Rakou’s balls!” Roon-Kotke barked. “Will you all shut up? If there's anybody out here, they'll hear us coming a mile off with all your damned yapping... Prime your lances. Whatever it is, Cobb and I will scout ahead and find out. The rest of you, hold here. And for the gods sake, be quiet.”

  Roon-Kotke set off at a jog. Ember drew three arrows, nocking one to his bow and keeping two in his fist. He held the shafts lightly between his fingers, easily accessible should they encounter any trouble. He then followed the Caster-Corporal, trailing a few paces behind, slowing to a walk as they approached the obstruction that blocked the roadway.

  Junn had been right. It looked like a cart. The sort you’d see rumbling along the streets of the Briar, pulled by an oconic horse. This one lay on its side, as if someone had shot it, wooden bed boards worn yet undamaged, its front and back axles seemingly intact. Couldn’t say the same for the wheels though. Out of the four, only three had survived the crash unscathed — the two large, iron-rimmed wheels at the back and a smaller wheel at the front. The other front wheel looked warped and was missing three of its ten spokes.

  Roon-Kotke stopped and dropped into a crouch. He waved Ember forward.

  Ember advanced, edging sideways along the side of the overturned cart. He moved slowly, stepping lightly, listening for any sound that might suggest someone — or something — was hiding behind it.

  The sun blazed high in the sky. There was no shelter. Foolish to be out in the heat wearing full legion blues and a metal helmet that was increasingly hot to the touch. What he’d give to be sat in the cool gloom of the Yarborough with a chilled pitcher of wine. Or to feel the sharp nip of a Slate Street penny ice upon his tongue.

  Readying his bow, Ember peered around the edge of the cart.

  There was nobody there.

  Just more fragments of wood, split and broken. They were strewn amongst the remains of a what looked like a mast, snapped in two; the metal carcass of a shattered Blower; a dented blackiron capacitor, its copper pipes bent and kinked; shreds of tattered canvas, flapping in the breeze.

  Not simply a cart, then. The wreck had all the trappings of an oconic boat.

  Ingenious.

  Maybe he could fix it?

  “Cobb?” Roon-Kotke called out from behind him.

  “Clear!” Ember hollered back, lowering his bow.

  “Found anything useful?” Roon-Kotke asked, as he rounded the overturned cart. “It looks mostly intact,” he added, spinning the smaller wheel. He held his arm high and whistled to summon the others. “What’s all this?”

  “It seems to have been some sort of land boat. A cart with a sail, propelled along this roadway by an oconic Blower.”

  “Clever. Do you think we can use it to get to that building up ahead?”

  “Maybe. But look there…” Ember pointed at the shattered wooden pole. “The mast is busted. One of the front wheels looks weak. And even if we could replace the Blower, there’s no sail. I don't suppose Lor has the code for an oconic horse in that notebook of his?”

  “No,” said Lor-Qui, poking his head up above the overturned cart. “But I do have a couple of those DoubleQuick Ocara-2 we used to drag Ember along under the water in gate nineteen. Pre-cast too. They'll be just as good, if not better than a horse. Just need some rope to tie them on.”

  “Cobb?” Roon-Kotke said, as Hannar-Ghan and Junn-Kri joined them. “What do you think? Will that work?”

  Ember nodded to himself. “It might.”

  “Excellent!” The Caster-Corporal rubbed his hands together. “Then let’s get this cart righted. Han! Lor! Get round the other side and get ready to pull. The rest of you grab this side and lift... Arasei's balls! Not yet Junn.”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “Everybody ready?”

  Ember gripped the side of the cart and, when Roon-Kotke gave the word, he and Junn lifted as Lor-Qui and Hannar-Ghan pulled from the other side. The cart was heavier than it looked and Junn complained constantly that he was about to drop it, while Han complained that Junn wasn't helping. The cart finally tipped over and landed with a crunch. Ember winced as it landed, heard the splintering of wood as the damaged front wheel cracked and buckled, two more spokes popping out, spinning away across the road. The waggon tilted suddenly, axles groaning.

  “Dammit!” Ember cursed.

  “Maybe we can fix it?” Roon-Kotke knelt down to examine the broken wheel.

  “Stop looking at me like that, sarge,” complained Junn-Kri. “It’s not my fault!”

  “You let it go too early!” the big caster said with a scowl.

  Lor-Qui slumped down onto the flagstones and let out a rasping sigh. “Hells, I suppose this means we’re walking again?”

  “No. This thing might still be roadworthy if we shift some of the weight,” said Ember, standing back to assess the damage. “It’s in fairly good shape. The brake looks busted, but we could mend that. And we could compensate for the missing…”

  “It’s a sign…” Hannar-Ghan grumbled.

  “What about that other wheel?” suggested Junn.

  “The castle, the fortress, or whatever that building is, must still be hours away,” said Lor-Qui. “I don’t know if I can walk that far…” He pulled a boot off and pressed his fingers against his toes. “I think I’ve got blisters.”

  “… It’s a sign that we should turn right around and head back to the gate. Before the kid brings us any more bad luck.”

  “I said, it’s not my—”

  “Shut up,” yelled Roon-Kotke. “All of you. Let me think…” Ember saw the Caster-Corporal glance hopefully at Hannar-Ghan, but the big caster just shrugged back. No guidance there. Maybe the red-haired caster had it right. Maybe he wasn’t cut out to be a leader. Not everyone was.

  “Junn,” said Ember, breaking the silence. “Tell the Corporal what you just said.”

  On the other hand, some leaders just needed a little nudge.

  “I said, it wasn’t my fault.”

  “No, after that.”

  “About the other wheel?” Ember gestured for him to continue. “The wheel. We could use the wheel. You know, that one we passed earlier. We could go back and get it.”

  Roon-Kotke stared at Ember, who nodded back.

  “A fine idea, Caster,” said the Corporal at last. “Thank you for volunteering. Off you go then.”

  “Me?” said Junn.

  “You. Yes, you. Double-time, boy. Go, go, go! I want this cart fixed well before sunset. With Lor’s double-whatsit Ocara we might still be able to make it to the end of this road before it gets dark.”

  ***

  “Thank you,” said Roon-Kotke as they waited for Junn to return.

  “For what?” Ember stood with his hands in his pockets, staring out over the edge of the wall, a view over the seemingly endless expanse of forest below. At least the growling and the howling they’d heard earlier had stopped.

  “For pointing me in the right direction. Again.”

  Ember shrugged. “There’s no shame in accepting help. Nor asking for it. The best leaders know they can’t do everything themselves. Or know everything… Even the best leaders make bad decisions now and then. Or so I’ve heard. You’ve got a good squad here.”

  “How do you know?”

  “You’re all still alive.”

  Hannar-Ghan joined them at the wall. He pointed back down the road.

  “The boy’s on his way back, chief. I’ll need some help lifting the cart.”

  “I’ll give you a hand,” said Ember.

  “You’re part of this squad too,” said Roon-Kotke before Ember could walk away. “I know you said you were keen to go home, but perhaps you’d consider staying on after all this
is over? We could use an unconventional caster like you.”

  “That’s a kind offer,” said Ember with a smile. “But as much as I like being the only Mulai amongst a bunch of Mulai-hating separatists, I plan to head back to the Briar. I’ve got some business to attend to that just can’t wait.”

  “Another contract, I suppose?”

  “Something like that. A personal project.”

  “Pah!” Hannar-Ghan spat over the edge of the bridge. “You mercs are all the same. You only fight for money. I don't know if I trust a man whose loyalty can be measured in crowns.”

  Ember frowned. “Everybody's loyalty can be measured in crowns.”

  “Not mine, Mulai.”

  “Perhaps, Sergeant, you've just not received a good enough offer?”

  “My loyalty isn't for sale.”

  “I'm afraid he's right,” said Roon-Kotke. “Han has stuck by me since we met at the Testing in Ocos. He had the chance to transfer to the Fuerzi-Mar, the Sixth, when we were both casters. Sergeant's commission. Big pay rise with it. But he stayed on with me. Been by my side so long, I don't know what I'd do without him. I might have a price. But he doesn’t.”

  “Shall I get the two of you a room?” Ember asked. “Although that might be difficult considering our current location...”

  “Shut up Mulai,” said Hannar-Ghan, turning away towards the cart.

  Ember looked to the Caster-Corporal. “Look, I’m sorry about…”

  “What he said,” Roon-Kotke quipped, with a smile.

  ***

  “So how do we do this?” said Roon-Kotke, staring at the cart’s half-collapsed front wheel. “We don’t have a jack.”

  “Don’t need one,” Ember explained. “Only have to lift it a little ways off the ground to get the new wheel on. But first we need to get the broken one off. Anybody seen the wrench?” Ember dropped down to the ground, rolled onto his back and peered up at the underside of the cart. “There should be one. Standard issue. Made of iron, long with a ‘C’-shaped bit at the end… It might have fallen off in the crash. If the rest of you could have a hunt around… No. Wait. I think… Yes. Here it is…” He reached up and unclipped the wrench from its mountings beneath the bed boards. “Got it,” he said. “We’ll use this to unscrew the retaining nut from the axle.”