Once Called Thief

by Lexel J Green

  “How do you know so much about fixing carts?” Roon-Kotke asked.

  Ember shuffled out from underneath the cart and got to his knees. He slapped each hand on his trews to remove the dirt, before manoeuvring the C-shaped end of the wrench onto the chunky retaining nut. Then he pulled at it. “My father was a carpenter,” he said. “A practical man. We had a cart, a little bigger than this one…” Ember grunted as he pulled on the wheel nut holding the broken wheel in place. It didn’t budge. “Come on you little…” he groaned, pulling harder, before forcing the wrench in the opposite direction to try to loosen it. “Everything I know about carts and waggons, I learnt from him.”

  Junn watched Ember struggle. “There should be a binding that does all this for you,” he said. “Want some help?”

  Ember shook his head. “I’m good.”

  “I’m sure you could code an Ocara to turn a wrench.” Lor-Qui pulled out his trusty notebook and pencil. He started scribbling. “A conjuring could easily bring more force to bear than Ember here is providing.”

  Ember ignored Lor’s jibe and pulled hard on the wrench again, willing the nut to move. “You can’t replace everything with Ocara,” he muttered through gritted teeth. “We’re becoming too reliant on oca and the powers it gives us. We’re losing touch with old knowledge. Going backward. Hells, some people these days don’t even know how to light a fire…”

  With another hefty pull, the wheel nut finally loosened and Ember worked at it with the wrench until it began to turn freely.

  “Why would I need to light a fire?” Lor-Qui said. “I have a heater in my pack. It’s much quicker and far more efficient.”

  “What if you didn’t have a heater?” Dropping the wrench to the flagstones, Ember cupped the retaining nut with both hands and began to slowly unscrew it.

  “I have the code for a heater,” said Lor.

  “Of course you do.” Ember sighed. “But what if you didn’t have any oca?”

  “I…” Lor-Qui frowned. “No, I can’t imagine a world without oca.”

  “Just look at our Mulai friend and you’re halfway there,” said Hannar-Ghan. “A world without oca would send us back to the dark ages. Carrying antique swords and bows. No lances to keep the peace, no longlamps to light our cities, no oconic heaters to warm our homes.”

  “No Blowers to power Greatships,” added Roon-Kotke.

  “No Ocara to pull waggons,” said Junn.

  “And no gates.” Roon-Kotke rubbed his chin, almost as if the prospect of a world without portals was just sinking in. “What would we do without the gates?”

  Ember gave the retaining nut another full twist and it finally came off. Tired hands fumbled it and the nut slipped through his aching fingers, dropping onto the roadway with a dull clunk. He sat back to catch his breath, feeling rather pleased with himself.

  “Oca isn’t going to run out, is it?” asked Junn.

  “Never gonna happen,” Hannar-Ghan assured him. “Oca is a part of this world. Like the air we breathe and the sun in the sky. It ain’t going anywhere.”

  “But how do you really know?” Ember got slowly to his feet. “Oca is a force we still know very little about. We don’t know how much of it there is or whether it will last. Can’t see it. Can’t measure it. And every year we use more of it without any thought to the consequences. A lake only has so much water in it. keep taking water from the lake and eventually it will run dry.”

  “Pah, you fret over nothing, Mulai.”

  “The Sergeant has a point” said Lor-Qui. “Albeit one crudely put. Even if the oca we draw from is a finite resource, the Academy of Logicians believes that it’s probably so vast that it would take thousands of years to use it all up.”

  “I hope you’re right. But if there’s some truth to the notion, I plan to be prepared for the worst. Now, shall we get this wheel off? Corporal, if you stand ready with the new wheel, the Sergeant and Lor can lift up the cart. Junn?”

  “Right here, Ember. What can I do?”

  “You,” said Ember, “have one of the most important jobs of all. Without you, this cart won’t get moving. See that small metal bucket on the back of the cart?” Junn nodded and scampered across to it. “Open it.” He levered open the lid. “Tell me what you see?”

  “Ugh, it’s full of… It looks like fat. It… Ugh, I think I’m going to…” Junn gagged and pinched his nostrils closed with his fingers. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

  Hannar-Ghan laughed.

  “Once we’ve got this broken wheel off, I want you to smear it on the axle. Else we’ll have another busted wheel on our hands.”

  Junn hesitated.

  “Come on, kid. We need to get moving. We've already been here too long and we have nothing to show for it.”

  Reluctantly, and with a constant stream of complaints, Junn dipped his hands into the grease. Hannar-Ghan and Lor hefted up the cart, allowing Ember to pull off the broken wheel and push it aside. Junn slicked the axle with his foul-smelling hands, while Roon-Kotke speedily slotted the new wheel into place. When the cart was lowered, Ember replaced the retaining nut and tightened it with the wrench, which he then replaced underneath the cart.

  “Lor,” said Roon-Kotke. “Two Ocara when you’re ready.”

  Lor-Qui placed two blackiron canisters on the ground, flipped them open and uttered the priming words. Ember stood back as the oca fountained upwards, coalescing and thickening as invisible hands sculpted two shining statues of solid light. The combat-tech ignored the oconic fireworks, kneeling down to pull a length of rope out if his valise. As the faceless Ocara formed and cooled, Lor looped one end of the rope around the conjuring and tied it off. He hitched the other end to the cart.

  “Need more rope,” he said, clapping his hands. “Sergeant?”

  Hannar-Ghan fetched his pack and pulled out another coil of rope. He tossed it to Lor-Qui and the combat-tech harnessed the second Ocara.

  Ember stared at the two oconic figures — faceless, two-legged things, like ghosts. Ocara-2 conjurings were coded to be messengers or used to transport small loads, not pull waggons or carts. “Is this really going to work?” he asked.

  “If my calculations are correct, and they are always correct, then each Ocara should be capable of pulling a small cart like this at an average speed of…”

  Roon-Kotke slapped the combat-tech on the shoulder and climbed aboard the cart. “Let’s take that as a ‘yes’, shall we? The finer details, while I’m sure they are fascinating, aren’t important right now. Come on. Let’s get going.”

  The rest of the squad scrambled aboard after him.

  “Can I point out,” said Ember, pulling himself up onto the cart at the front, “that Lor’s last calculation blew up an entire room, an oconic sentry along with it.”

  “Yes. But I did say that the binding was unstable,” Lor countered, settling down to one side of the broken mast. “These Ocara are oconically sound, the bindings are tried and tested.”

  “Once,” Ember responded. “They were tried and tested once.”

  “That’s enough, you two.” Roon-Kotke snapped. “Lor, say whatever primer you need to say to get us moving.”

  Lor flashed Ember a smug grin and shouted out a string of Kajjon words. Nothing happened at first. Then slowly, the Ocara moved, the ropes tightened and creaked, the cart’s wheels started to edge forward.

  “Hey,” said Junn-Kri, taking up a position at the back of the cart. “How do you steer this thing?”

  “It's a straight road, kid,” said Ember.

  “Oh, yeah. Then what about stopping? You said the brake was broken.”

  “Hopefully, we won’t need it. Lor can slow the Ocara when we get to the end of the road. Time it right and we’ll just glide to a gentle stop…”

  It had all seemed like a good idea. But if Ember had known that barely a bell’s-worth of time later, the cart would be a flaming wreck, he might have suggested they keep walking.

  15. THEN THERE WAS PLAN B


  STONE FELT SICK. Not only had someone invaded his home, they were still there. Not the ragamuffin girl. Or one of Dak’s lackeys. Someone big. Dressed all in black. He’d only managed a quick glance. The intruder was sat on the blankets and canvas Stone used as a bed, bold as you like, propped up against the back wall right below where he hid his money tin.

  Rakou’s balls! What was he supposed to do now?

  He gritted his teeth. Couldn’t call for anyone, could he? Didn’t want anybody else to find his hideaway — one intruder was bad enough. Like it or not, he had to deal with the situation himself and that meant coming up with a plan. Legionnaires used plans. Didn’t go into battle without them. They assessed their situation and considered all the options. Needless to say, Stone was disappointed that he could only come up with two.

  Worse, he didn’t like the first option.

  Plan A was hastily constructed and ill-thought. It involved storming around the shelves and confronting whoever was there. With lots of yelling to scare the intruder off. It was a plan built around the fact that he had a lance, albeit no idea how to fire it. But the intruder didn’t know that, did he? Perhaps showing it would be enough. Or he could swing it. Aye, he thought. Swing it. Use the metal staff as a club or bat. That might work. He would charge in, hollerin’ at the top of his voice, distract the trespasser and threaten to beat him ‘til he left. They were in his house! His home. Stone would make them sorry they ever set foot in it.

  Then there was Plan B. An alternative course. One that involved running away and hiding, avoiding the notion of violence altogether. Because what if the intruder was armed? What then? He hadn’t got a good look. So maybe it was smarter to back out and wait for them to leave. Chances were, they wouldn’t find his savings. He’d stashed them too skilfully. He’d also just sold all his silver to the Rook, so there wasn’t much of any value left on the shelves. Nothing worth risking his life over by any stretch. His lamp. The toy soldier. Their value was to him, no other.

  Just back away, he thought to himself. Slowly and quietly. Let the situation play itself out. That way, nobody would get hurt. It would mean moving, of course. He couldn’t very well stay on when somebody knew where he slept. He wouldn’t be safe. But where would he go? The penny coffins? The arches ‘neath Eddo bridge, fighting for a patch of dry dirt with the other scrappers? Both options were a depressing thought.

  That meant a return to Plan A. The bold choice. Risky in its design. He tightened his grip on the lance.

  Or Plan B? The coward’s way. Albeit with a certain appeal.

  Or Plan A?

  Or…

  “I know you're there.”

  A woman’s voice. Stone almost dropped the lance in surprise. He crouched perfectly still, holding his breath as if somehow that would make him invisible. He could feel his whole body shaking.

  “Show yourself,” the voice said, a slight croak to it. “I’ve got a lance pointed right at you. Primed and ready to fire.”

  Stone straightened his shoulders, gripped his own lance tightly and stepped out from behind the shelf. A woman sat on his bed, clothes black as river mud, a short lance in her left hand. At first, Stone thought she was a cuffer. But her outfit wasn’t right — the coat was too short, its buttons black not brass, and she wore a peaked cap with a grey feather pinned to it. Green eyes stared at him, framed by a tangle of black hair, curls within curls tumbling down to her neck. The woman looked pale. Deathly so. She clutched at her side with her other hand. Stone noticed a patch of her clothes were burnt away, her skin bloody and blistered.

  “I also have a lance,” he said.

  “And a big one.” The stranger smiled, although it looked as if it took some effort. “Do you know how to fire that, boy?”

  “Of course I do,” Stone lied.

  “Then you might want to turn it the right way round.”

  Hells! Stone fumbled awkwardly with the heavy lance, flipping it over to point the other end at the stranger.

  “You…” He clicked open the top chamber on the weapon, hoping doing so would prove he was serious and knew what he was doing. He didn’t know what charge he’d chosen, but the oca fizzed in readiness. “Get out of here,” he snapped. “You can’t be here. This is my home!”

  The woman’s lance dipped down, as if she didn’t have the strength to hold it up. She grimaced, letting out a breath.

  “I said, get out!” Stone repeated.

  “My mistake.” The woman raised her weapon again, groaning with the effort. “You were holding that lance right the first time. Now you’re holding it backwards. So put the weapon down, pup. If you don’t know how to hold it, you damn well don’t know how to fire it.”

  Stone’s shoulders slumped. He knelt down, placing the lance gently on the ground so as not to damage it any further. For if he managed to get out of this alive, he still hoped the Rook would take it. Although that might be a big ‘if’.

  “I ain’t no pup.”

  He rose slowly, arms out in a gesture of surrender, wondering what the stranger planned to do next. As if to answer his question, there was a clunk as the woman primed a cartridge in her lance.

  “Does anybody else know about this place?” she asked, ignoring him.

  Stone shook his head. “Just me. This is my home.”

  The woman let out a breath. Was that relief? She pulled off her cap and dropped it next to her on the bed. Those green eyes eyed him with suspicion and… No. Not suspicion. Something else. Something he’d seen in his mother’s eyes at Ash House the other day. It was sadness.

  “I'm sorry about this,” the woman said, pointing the lance square at him.

  “No… Wait.” Stone took a step back, hands still raised high. “You can’t shoot me. You…” Why shouldn’t she shoot him? Stone’s mind suddenly went blank. Because it would be murder? She didn’t look like she cared. Or because he was just a kid? She might not give a rat’s arse about that either. He took another step back. Think! He looked at her again. What did he have that she wanted?

  “You need me,” he said at last. “You're hurt. I can help you.”

  The woman winced. “It's nothing.”

  “I can fetch a healer for you, miss. I know a fella. Not too far from here. If you’ll just let me...”

  “No healers.”

  “Alright, then maybe I could take a look at your wound? I’m—”

  “No. I’m fine.”

  Stone realised his choices were narrowing.

  “You don’t look fine to me, miss. That wound looks nasty. And if you don’t get it seen to, it could get infected. You don’t want to catch a fever. ‘Cos if you do, you’ll likely die down here.” Stone gestured around him. “Nobody will find you. Nobody knows this place is here… Listen, maybe you have friends. I could go and—”

  “Shut up and turn around, pup. Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

  “You'd shoot me? In the back? Where's the honour in that?”

  “Honour is overrated. Besides, death is kinder when you don’t see it coming. Now, turn around.”

  “How about money?” Everybody needed money. Everybody had a price... “You want money, miss? I've got money. I can pay you. Please. Just let me go. You don’t need to do this.”

  “Just turn around. No more of your yapping.”

  Stone turned his back, tears in his eyes. He’d survived clambering over a three-storey roof the night his mother was taken, escaped drowning in the Eene (four times), prospered in an unforgiving city where scrappers like him enjoyed as much respect as those men who scooped up dog shit to sell on to the tanners.

  “Please, miss. I haven’t done anything. I’m just a kid…”

  “You've seen my face.”

  Stone spun around. “But I won't tell anyone about you. Cross my heart and swear it to whichever god you like. And I ain’t no friend to the cuffers. Casters neither. I keep to myself. Work the river, see. Every day. Don’t talk to a soul.” Stone was aware he was babbling, but he plou
ghed on in the hope that something might persuade the woman to change her mind. “I just want to earn coin for my family,” he pleaded. “Please. Don’t kill me. You’ll be killing them too. Please, miss.”

  “As I said, I'm sorry. But I'll be sure to put you down quick. Now shut up and turn your back.”

  Stone gritted his teeth and turned his back again. He heard the sigh of oca close to casting. This was it. He shut his eyes, squeezing out the tears that had been welling in his eyes. Not sadness, he realised. But frustration. For his mother would never know what became of him. She'll think he took the money for himself. Left her in Ash House to rot.

  He lifted his head up. Pulled back his shoulders. Waited.

  It irked him that he wouldn’t settle the debt.

  Or free his mother.

  He’d never repay Mistress Yali for her kindness.

  Never get a chance to kill the warden.

  The biggest, sugar-dusted, lemon cream-filled chocolate roll he could afford would remain sadly uneaten.

  He waited. Thought of whispering a prayer to Arano. Rakou. Any of them. But his silent plea was interrupted by a clatter behind him. The sound of metal against brick. A faint groan like a someone stepping gingerly on a creaky floorboard.

  Stone turned around slowly, wondering why the woman hadn't made good on her murderous threat. He almost didn’t want to look. Didn’t want to stare death in the face. Expected to hear her say: “turn your back”, with no feeling in the words. But no command came. Rather than seeing the woman pointing her lance at him, he saw her sat on his bed, eyes closed and her head slumped forward.

  He hesitated for a moment, thinking it some sort of trick. But when the woman didn’t move, he began to edge across to the wall, to the old soldier with a blue breastplate, the metal box with some bread and cheese, the short knife and the stone he used to sharpen it. Picking up the knife, he gripped it tightly in his hand, turning the rusted blade in the longlamp-light.