The Thieves of Nottica

by Ash Gray

  Having been forced to sit up, Morganith rubbed a tired hand across her face, the brown stub of her half-arm lifting momentarily to show her irritation.

  Because of the pollution that poisoned the sea and sky, most people were born with missing arms and legs, especially demons and halflings, who lived in the bottommost tier of every city, in slums devoid of sunlight and full of pollution. Morganith had been born with her right arm missing from the elbow down.

  “Fine!” Morganith snarled. She batted Hari off, lurched up from the table with a screeching chair, and bellowed to know who was at the door as she staggered into the other room for her shotgun. She returned with the weapon, wielding it clumsily in one drunken hand, and aimed the double barrels at the door, the twin bayonets beneath them gleaming innocently.

  Morganith’s shotgun was a very unique piece. It was capable of folding up as small as a pocketknife, and as result, was covered in gears that allowed it to fold and retract, as well as whirling doohickeys and rotating monocles that functioned as sights to help Morganith aim. The shotgun had been made especially for Morganith by Arda, so that Morganith – should she lose her mechanical arm during a fight – would find it easier to shoot with one hand.

  Morganith jerked her head at the door. “You gonna open it or what?”

  “Better be loaded this time,” Hari grumbled under her breath. Rivet scuttled onto Hari’s shoulder, lifting its sharp, spindly front legs like weapons prepared to strike, and butcher knife still in hand, Hari moved quickly for the door. With her back against the wall, she fumbled at the locks and threw it open.

  The Keymasters lurched forward as one, weapons ready, and paused to see a thin young woman standing on the threshold, shyly twisting her fingers. She screamed to find three armed people aiming assorted pointy things at her.

  “Shut up before someone hears you,” Morganith snarled, “and get in here before someone sees you!”

  The girl obeyed, leaping into the kitchen with a jolt. Glancing up and down the street, Morganith kicked the door shut, then turned to the frightened girl and aimed the shotgun at her face.

  “You made a mistake comin’ here, girl,” Morganith warned in a low, gravelly voice. “You better hava damn good reason for --”

  “Stop it, Morganith, you’re scarin’ her!” Hari scolded.

  The young woman stood rigid against the door, and indeed, Rigg thought she looked ready to wet her combinations. She had the strangest golden eyes Rigg had ever seen, sort of like the eyes of a goldfish, and yet they were so lovely, Rigg’s hands absently melted back into their normal shape; her candy dropped from her open mouth, and she simply stood gaping at the girl in awe.

  The girl was clad in a plain gray dress with a white apron tied back over it, and her little button-up ankle boots were caked with mud. Like most everyone in the realm, her brown skin was smudged with soot and grime from just having passed through the smoggy city, and her black hair was pulled back atop her head in a frizzy bun. She was drenched from the rain, with her dress clinging to her slender frame and hair hugging her forehead in wet tendrils. Rigg found it odd that she hadn’t worn a coat or even carried an umbrella, though she seemed to be shivering not from cold but from fear.

  The young woman slowly stopped trembling and looked over at Rigg, pausing in surprise to find Rigg staring at her. Her lashes fluttered prettily and she dropped her eyes, shaking now from bashfulness. But she slowly lifted her eyes again, and when they met Rigg’s, she smiled. Rigg took an absent step forward.

  “Stay back, Riggy,” Morganith warned. “We dunno what --”

  “She’s one girl, for god’s sake, Morganith,” said Hari irritably, who had put down her butcher knife and was studying the girl sympathetically.

  Morganith snorted and didn’t lower her weapon. “One girl can cause alotta trouble, Hari. You and I are proofa that.”

  Hari rolled her eyes. “Unless she’s gotta gatling gun in that bodice, I doubt she’ll be a problem.” She tilted her head and said gently to the frightened girl, “Are ya lost, sweetheart? We won’t hurt you.”

  The young woman’s eyes snapped on Hari, large and panicked, like a frightened doe. Water dripped from the her nose and lips as she extended her arm with a trembling fist.

  “Well?!” Morganith barked.

  The girl squeezed her eyes shut and leapt at the command in Morganith’s voice. She slowly opened her fist to reveal a small piece of paper. Hari’s curious eyes darted over the girl once, then she snatched the paper and unfolded it. Without a word, the girl flew out the door, letting the screen door slam behind her. Rigg scurried onto the counter and peered out the window, watching with mystified eyes as the young woman ran up the street with her skirts flaring, through the puddles and the rising mist, and into the milling crowds.

  “Squirrelly little thing, wa’n’t she?” grumbled Morganith as she flopped at the table again. Still peering out the window, Rigg could hear Morganith set her shotgun on the table with a clatter. “Come away from the window, Riggy,” she added. “We dunno if she has friends out there with a shotgun like mine.”

  “No one hasa shotgun like yours,” Rigg returned, but she climbed down from the counter and joined Morganith at the table, where she sat staring dreamily into space. The girl had smelled like something familiar. It was a coppery smell, like the machines that operated the city. Like wire. Like a coin. The girl smelled like the three riggits Rigg found in the wash last month. Well . . . not in their wash, anyway.

  “You gonna read that note today or next year, Hari?” muttered Morganith and tossed back her beer for a swig.

  Hari’s back was to the room and her hands braced against the sink. Rivet stood on the counter nearby, watching and clicking sadly as Hari bowed her head and made a choking noise.

  Morganith lowered her beer, her eyes dancing with concern. “Hari?”

  Without warning, Hari ran from the room and up the dark hall. Sitting in confusion at the kitchen table, Rigg and Morganith could hear her gagging, the splash of her fluids, and the flush of the toilet. She did not return.

  Weary, Morganith rose from the table and collected the paper from the floor. Her eyes scanned it and she went still.

  Rigg waited anxiously. “What’s it say? Mor? Say somethin’!”

  Morganith didn’t speak. Letting the paper go, she pushed a shaking hand back through her hair, then sat heavily at the table and tossed back her beer for a long, trembling drink.

  The paper swirled through the air and landed on the table near Rigg. She picked it up and tensed when she read the following words:

  Pieces of her are still in my drapes.

  Chapter 2

  Opportunities in the Workplace

  Later that night, the three Keymasters gathered in the basement, laid the note on the coffee table, and stared at it. A lantern sat on the table near the note, casting shadows across its yellow creases and curly script. The basement was the warmest room in their hovel, for a fat black stove stood open in one corner, and the fire within crackled and blazed, pushing back the drafty air. The walls were covered in Hari’s scribbled schematics and boards had been nailed over the long, rectangular windows. Bits of wire hung down the walls where standard surveillance cameras would have been installed by the Hand were the Keymasters not dwelling in their residence illegally.

  Over time, the basement had become Hari’s tinkering dungeon. Gears, cogs, and screws were littered everywhere, alongside oily tools, half-finished automatons with chests open to reveal clockwork insides, discarded welding masks, and scraps of metal. Hari’s old weapon – a retractable metal staff with buzz saws on each end – stood in a corner collecting dust. She hadn’t wielded it since Arda’s death.

  “There was an address on the back, did you see?” Hari said into the silence. She was still wearing her baggy sweatshirt and dingy socks. One arm was folded, and her elbow rested on it as a thoughtful finger touched her mouth.

  Sensing everyone’s dire mood and eager to help, Rivet clicked
across the coffee table and brushed the note off with its pencil-thin leg, more clearly revealing the scrawled mark that was Governor Evrard Gold’s signature.

  Morganith was slumped on the couch, her tired eyes staring indifferently at the note. “Yeah,” she said quietly, “I saw.” Much like Hari, she hadn’t changed her clothing and was wearing the same stained shirt and boxer shorts. She also hadn’t bothered to strap on her mechanical arm and scratched her stumpy half-arm absently.

  “The address is the last job,” Morganith said hoarsely. “. . . . Castle Atrocitas.”

  Rigg was sitting on the floor with her back against the couch, and hearing Morganith’s words, she hugged her knees and frowned. “He’s taunting us,” she said bitterly. “While we’re sittin’ here like dumb ducks, he’s sendin’ Crows ta kill us. You were right, Hari. We should shove off to Copperstone. We were stupid ta stay in Hardsmith this long.”

  “I’m not runnin’ from that bastard anymore,” Morganith said darkly. “If he wants ah fight, he’ll get ah fight.”

  Because Arda had been left behind, it had been more than obvious that the Keymasters were the criminals behind the robbery of Castle Atrocitas. The entire job was so bungled, they had allowed themselves to be filmed escaping the castle, so even if they had all made it out alive, Governor Evrard would have had them on film regardless. The man hadn’t hesitated to put their faces on wanted posters and plaster them all over Nottica. For the first time ever, the Keymasters were correctly and convincingly illustrated. Even Rigg: Rigg remembered Hari sending her to the market and how she dropped the groceries when she saw her own face – her true face – staring back at her from a dingy wall. The grocer asked sharply if she was going to pay or what, and Rigg was so horrified that she ran home, leaving the groceries behind. According to the wanted posters, they were now wanted dead or alive by the president of Nottica herself. They had been running scared ever since.

  Hari closed her eyes and pinched the wrinkled flesh between them. “Please, Morganith,” she begged. “For all we know, Evrard is baitin’ us and this is ah trap.”

  “I’m tired of runnin’ with my tail between my legs,” Morganith insisted. “I’m tired of hidin’. When I took the Keymaster oath, I swore to defy the Hand and spit in their fucking face – not run to a new hole whenever they popped their head in and said boo.”

  Hari massaged her eyes with a shaking hand, and Rigg knew she was thinking of Pirayo’s attack. Since the assault, it had become increasingly difficult for Hari to venture outside, and it was she who insisted on moving constantly.

  “Come on, Morganith,” Rigg said, hoping to sooth Hari. “What can the three of us do against the Hand right now? We’ve lost touch with all our contacts. We got no car. We can barely get by. We’re drownin’ here. It’d be stupid to go after Evrard, guns blazin’, when none of us have hadda full meal in weeks.”

  “Stupid,” Morganith repeated and snorted. “I can afford to be stupid. What’ve I got ta lose now?”

  It saddened Rigg to hear the dull misery in Morganith’s voice. She glanced back over her shoulder at the listless woman, and when their eyes connected, she smiled sadly and said, “Ya got me, Morganith. I ain’t goin’ no where.”

  Morganith’s dark lips spread in a slow half-smile.

  Hari began pacing up and down. “Think about this, you two. Evrard knows we don’t have the lockbox. Otherwise, he would’ve sent someone to for it.”

  “Yeah, someone scarier than that pretty girl,” Rigg said dreamily.

  Morganith snorted in amusement. “Focus, Riggy,” she teased, tilting the bottleneck of a beer to her lips.

  Hari passed behind the couch, snatching Morganith’s beer as she went.

  “Hey!”

  “Maybe he wants to interrogate us,” Hari went on, setting the beer aside. “Discover who we gave ‘is property to.”

  “Interrogate?” repeated Morganith lazily. “You mean torture.”

  “Then kill,” Rigg added, hugging her knees with haunted eyes. “Right, I say we shove outta here.”

  “No . . .” Hari said thoughtfully, as if something had occurred to her.

  Rigg scowled. “No?” She twisted around to stare incredulously at the other two. Hari paused behind the couch, and Morganith looked at Rigg with weary indifference. “Have both of you lost your shit?” Rigg demanded. “You wanna stay here, with Crows breathin’ down our neck, ready any minute ta string us up?”

  “I believe Evrard already knows where his lockbox is,” Hari calmly explained. “That’s not what he wants us for or we’d be in his possession right now. The note was clearly an invitation.”

  Morganith shook her head, and the distant glow of the streetlights seeped through the cracks of the boarded window, touching her mussed wreath of hair. “Really, Hari? Evrard’s invitin’ us ta tea after we stole from him? Well, hot damn. Maybe he ain’t so bad after all.” She set her feet on the coffee table – Rivet scurried out of the way -- and crossed her ankles one over the other. Rigg watched as she pulled a cigarette from behind her ear, stuck it in her mouth, and lit it with the silver lighter she pulled from her cleavage. “I think we all need ta get out more,” she said around the cigarette in her teeth. “Sittin’ in here on to top of each other is drivin’ us crazy.”

  Rigg pressed her back against the couch again and closed her eyes as the harsh scent of Morganith’s cigarette drifted through the room. She just wanted the nightmare to end. Like Morganith, she was tired of running from city to city, but like Hari, she was afraid to face Evrard as well. Her concern was not for herself but for Hari and Morganith: she didn’t want to watch as another of her friends was murdered.

  “It’s not crazy. Think about it,” Hari calmly insisted. “The governor probably wants his lockbox back. Who better to take it from Pirayo than the Keymasters? Who would hava reason to take that risk besides us?” Her face darkened as she thought with hatred of Pirayo. “And of course we wouldn’t just trustingly waltz into Ironmire. Evrard’s baitin’ us into comin’. He thinks we’ll barge in hell-bent on revenge, which is . . .” Hari laughed weakly, “. . . nothin’ short of an insult.”

  “You aren’t sayin’ . . .” began Rigg incredulously.

  “He’s hiring,” said Morganith in disgust.

  Hari nodded and repeated darkly, “He’s hiring.”

  ***

  Morganith went upstairs to shower, leaving Rigg and Hari alone together in the gloomy, lantern-lit basement. The oven’s fire roared softly in the silence, and Rigg found it comforting, the shadowy dark and the glowing warmth.

  Hari went around the room with her worn satchel, stuffing into it all the tools and items she would need for their coming journey, while Rigg sat on the arm of the moldy couch, contemplating Evrard’s note and hardly able to believe that after six months of hiding from this powerful and dangerous man, they were going out to confront him face-to-face. Though Rigg was glad to put the matter to an end, one way or another. Like Morganith, she joined the Keymasters because she believed in all they stood for, and hiding from their enemies -- rather than facing them head-on with a laugh and a middle finger -- was a direct violation of their oath.

  Thinking of Arda, Rigg’s jaw sagged past her belly like putty, and she reached past the maw of her crooked teeth and down her own throat. Her small hand searched through the various treasures she kept in her dry, warm second stomach until her fingers found Arda’s old yo-yo. She pulled the object up through the dark wetness of her esophagus and smiled at it gleaming in her hand.

  “So that’s what happened to Arda’s yo-yo,” Hari said quietly behind Rigg. “I thought maybe she had it on her when . . .” her voice trailed off sadly.

  When she was murdered by Crows, Rigg thought darkly.

  The people of Nottica alone referred to the Hand’s soldiers as “Crows,” for it was little more than scathing nickname derived of the long bird-like masks they wore. The masks were meant to instill terror in Nottica’s people and served as a physical rem
inder that the Crows were not human. Though plenty of organic humans – and sometimes demons – worked for the Hand, the Hand’s soldiers themselves were robotic. Behind their leather beak-masks, every trench coat clad Crow was a cold automation with dead eyes gleaming, distant and emotionless. They were programmed to punish those who violated the harsh laws of the Hand with any means necessary, including brute force.

  While there were many who argued that soulless machines had no concept of right and wrong and were therefore unsuitable for the role of policing Nottica, the frugal and convenience-loving human overlords of the Hand ignored such concern. For it was easier to control an army of indifferent automatons, who wanted nothing and lived for nothing and did not even require payment. Automatons did not sleep, did not need food, could easily be replaced if they were broken, and did not disobey, rebel, or morally object – at least that’s what the Hand told themselves every time a Crow went astray.

  Some automatons today were so human, both in appearance and personality, that they could easily pass for organic when walking down the street. For this reason, the Hand deemed it illegal for companies to produce unique models with individual faces. Every year, a new line of Crow automatons were produced, and every year, while they improved in hardware, their face models remained identical to each other and exactly the same as the year before. This made them instantly recognizable as Crows, even without their uniform masks.