by JM Guillen
“We need to go, Scoundrel.” I reached up into the box and took out a handful of the corn. I held it in my palm, and she jumped onto my shoulder.
“Good, good, good.” She nuzzled my face and let me feed her. I peered through the glass of the Masque and Moon, half expecting to find Wil here eating breakfast.
No. He was nowhere about.
“Come along, sweet girl, it’s time to patrol.”
“Sweet, sweet girl.” Scoundrel took one last peck at the corn and launched herself from my shoulder. I watched, knowing that she wouldn’t go far.
Scoundrel, like all judicar ravens, was trained to fly in small circuits periodically while on patrol. Often, it simply kept the citizenry mindful of the presence of a judicar in the area, but at times it would serve as notice, causing various residents to seek out the judicar to air their most recent grievances. On other days, the raven would find something of interest and return it to the judicar.
Days like today. I hadn’t taken fifty strides before she returned.
“Thom! Thom!” Scoundrel’s raucous cry held excitement and pride.
I closed my eyes wearily when I heard that tone. She had found something that caught her eye. It was likely street trash or some pretty nothing. We had work to do…
I sighed. I would have to praise her and figure out how to dispose of it out of her sight.
I took a deep breath and looked up. She was winging in to me, something shiny glinting in her claw.
My eyebrow rose.
Scoundrel landed on the ground and pecked at the object, turning it this way and that, eventually wedging it between two cobbles. I bent and pried it loose.
“Good girl, Scoundrel.” The words were automatic.
I stood and held up the bit of dross to the sun as Scoundrel preened and cawed her goodness to anyone who’d listen.
It was a torn, dirty scrap of lace with a few links of chain attached to a paste and glass gew-gaw in the middle that was shaped to resemble a jewel.
Odd. This wasn’t quite trash. It was worn but not ruined. It might have been part of someone’s clothing. As I turned it over in my hand, the possibility of some lady lying in an alleyway drifted through my mind.
Well, damn.
“Yes, you are a clever girl, aren’t you?” I cooed to her as I examined her treasure.
She flapped to my shoulder and preened at my hair, only to hop back to the ground. If I didn’t act soon, she’d try to steal her find back from me.
Maybe this was something after all.
I turned to Scoundrel and held out the frippery. “Scoundrel, lead.” I looked around exaggeratedly and made the sign with my hand.
Scoundrel hopped into the air, snagging the lace from my fingers. She flapped over to an alley and landed on the roof of a nearby building.
“Thom, Thom, Thom.” She sounded positively merry. If I hadn’t known better, I might have thought she enjoyed making me take my paces.
Scoundrel waited until I entered the alley before taking off on another short flight to the end of it. Once I was there, she continued on, leading me on a twisted chase that lasted near half a bell but was probably only about a dozen wheels away from The Masque and Moon.
At the back of a darkened, dead-end alleyway Scoundrel stopped and hopped about on the packed-earth ground, playing with the lace scrap. The cobbles smelled of piss and cheap rotgut, but my girl didn’t seem to care at all.
“Here, Thom. Good girl.”
This was the site of her find, then.
I looked around the small, dingy space. Several grimy barrels were stacked to one side, with a few battered, wooden crates across from them. A few laundry lines were strung overhead and the clothes hanging there flapped in the wind making shadows dance on the ground. At the very back was an overturned cart. A few old, worn items of clothing were mixed with scraps of rag and tangled with a fragment of bone on the ground under the topmost wheel.
“Good morning. What’s this, then?” I strode over and righted the cart. It was small, only having two wheels, but it was cleverly segmented into three compartments, two deep with the one shallow one near the push-handles. The shallow compartment held a tray, which could be lifted out. When I did, I found a few other fripperies to match the one that Scoundrel had brought to me.
I replaced the tray and examined the pushcart for damages. The wheels seemed sound, and the compartments were whole. A wooden board on the front right corner showed a brighter patch surrounded by splinters, but it appeared to be only cosmetic damage.
I stood and glanced around. Mud and greying side-boards were all that I saw until I moved the cart back a link or two. There, shining whitely in the dirt was the bone fragment and its decoration of rag. I smiled, picked up the fragments, and tossed the rag in one of the cart’s deep compartments and the bone in the next. It was only fitting they return to their proper places.
This was the cart of a ragman.
Teredon had thousands of the rag-and-bone men. They were a vital part of the city’s economy, helping to make certain we re-used as many of our resources as possible. It was an honest, hard-working occupation, and it looked as if one of them had been robbed.
“What to do with this?” I pulled on the cart; it rolled easily. It was an odd situation—who would rob a ragman and then leave all of his things intact?
It looked like I would need to ask about. I wondered how much time it would take to track down the good Kaiser Fallowson. If anyone would be able to recognize the cart, it should be the Warren’s master rag-picker.
But I was burning time.
Once, ragmen would simply gather what they could and then bring it to the local rag and paper makers. However, as the city grew, so did the ragman population. Soon there were so many of them that having individual sellers come to the various rag paper makers all throughout the day quickly began to eat up the paper maker’s time. As soon as they realized their profit was less because production was less as someone always had to deal with the current ragman at the door, the paper maker’s guildmen got together and appointed a master rag-picker. Today, those groups dealt only with the Kaiser.
The ragmen got the picture pretty quickly and started dealing with the master rag-picker themselves. They turned in their best rags and old clothes, got paid through him, and then the master turned over the rags to the paper makers and got paid himself.
The master rag-picker would certainly know all the ragmen in the area. I hoped he would also know their carts.
I bent and reached for the handlebar when there was a scuffle at the alley entrance. I paused, straightening up once again and turned in time to see two young ruffians dart into the alley.
“—lef’ it here for us, didn’t I? C’mon! I’ll push you firs—” The younger boy was shouting to the taller lad as he rounded the corner. When he saw me, he blanched, and his feet skittered out from under him as he tried to reverse direction. He hit the ground and scrambled back, scuttling like a fresh-caught crab.
I tilted my head to one side and watched as the taller boy tripped over the crab impersonator. He tried to catch himself but ended up landing on the dirt, his chest on top of the younger one’s legs while one foot rested on the other’s shoulder. The tall boy set up howling immediately, while the one on bottom ceased trying to escape and just stared at me as if the boggelmann himself had come to take him away.
“Boys.” I nodded a greeting. “I don’t suppose you happen to know who this cart belongs to and how it escaped him?”
2
In the end, the rag and bone man was extremely grateful to have not only his cart returned but the use of two young backs to haul his finds around for the next month. It seemed that he had just turned away from his cart to pry a few horseshoe nails from between some cobbles over on Elmin Way the day before, when two street boys ran past him and stole his cart of fripperies and rags.
“Just a bit of funnin’!” the shorter, younger one tried to defend the pair. “We ’re out for a lark. Wind in the hair on a day l
ike this.” He gestured to the sky.
I squinted at the few clouds studding the still too-bright day.
“We’d’ve brought ‘er back, master, uh, Judicar, sir.”
I narrowed my eyes.
Theft of a non-guildman’s equipment was a tier five offense, therefore it was within my power to fine the boys or their families or even file a writ of probate, notifying the Offices of the Just that I had taken an official interest in the boys.
Fining them would be a waste of time. It was clear that these children were barely eking out a living, surviving on what the streets threw their way. It was doubtful that they had any family they’d admit to, and if they did, it seemed unlikely that costing them more funds would be in the boy’s best interests.
Without putting the boys in the Havens, filing a writ would be a waste of my time. They would simply wait until evening and set off for another little street-shelter and blend in. I’d never see them again. I could put them in the Havens, but they were ever full, and these two boys looked to be nearing their ‘prenticing years. They’d be right back out on the streets.
The ragman in question, one Coryn Koas by name, finished looking over his cart and wandered near. He fixed the boys’ with a gaze like that of a kyte on the wing.
“These the stripling larceners?”
They shrank away from the wiry old man. He wasn’t much bigger than they were, but the old man carried himself with such an air that an eagyl would have been envious.
I nodded. “They are.”
He looked up at me. “Were I in charge, I’d rake ’em over the hot ones. Full punishment ’llowable by law. I know it’s naught but a tier five ’r six ’ffensive, but that’s not the point! The laws are in place to protect the citizens. Well, now, I’m a citizen too! These ruffians done stirred me up for nigh on two whole days. You know how much coin that cost me? I’m lucky I’m frugal minded and store up some hold-me-overs.”
I nodded slowly and nudged at the boys.
“I’m sorry,” whispered Aarne, the taller boy.
“What was that?” snapped Coryn.
I tried to suppress a grin as the old man leaned into the boy. He’d clearly had experience with young rebellious types before.
“I’m sorry. I… I ap’logise.” Aarne managed a bit louder.
“Me too,” chimed in Tau. “I beg your pardon, ser. I never wanted any harm to come from my actions, and I sorrow if it did.” His tones had turned mournful, and I wondered if he’d considered the play-shows.
“Humph,” Coryn grunted, apparently mollified.
I smiled as an idea struck. “Mister Koas?”
He looked up and preened at the title of respect.
“You are absolutely correct. The laws are in place to protect the citizens and sometimes they fail. I hope to correct that.”
“Well now,” he gave me a canny grin. “What did you have in mind, Judicar?”
Leaving the ragman in charge of the youngsters would provide them food and shelter, at least for a time, and it might spark an interest in becoming a ragman. Keeping Teredon’s streets may not be a glorious career, but warm clothing, food, and shelter made a powerful argument.
It took a judicar token and nearly a quarter bell to settle out all the details, but finally I was once again on my trail.
Finally. Perhaps soon I would be finding the Smiling Lady in my visions.
I strode down the street, turning winterward toward the Wyndhause. With a single signal, Scoundrel flapped ahead again, and we were on patrol.
“Thom! Thom Judicas!” The man’s voice was insistent and desperate. “Judicar!”
I stopped and closed my eyes briefly. I clenched my fist and took a deep breath.
“Judicar, your assistance!”
Sweet Elsador.
I opened my eyes and turned around, a smile wheat-pasted on my face. “Yes? How can I help you?”
This was a completely typical day in the Warrens.
It was a fact that we needed new Judicar squires, particularly here in my borough. Wil and I were the only two official presences in all of the Warrens, which made things difficult. Every citizen wanted an official opinion on the matters that plagued them and would much rather seek out a judicar than deal with the dozens of guildmen that could just as easily take care of most situations.
This was just such a time.
It was easy for such duties to cause me to drift wayward from the things that actually mattered in my borough. In this instance, it took me almost a quarter bell to realize that each of these men thought that the other one was robbing him in a business deal they had made. Never mind the fact that I was in no way capable of making choices regarding fishing rights in the Er’meander or the truth that the appropriate guild was right down the street, these two men had a quarrel, and they wanted it resolved right then.
After that of course was the young woman who was missing some of the wares from her perfumery. She had apparently already taken it up with one Mr. Wil Sommers, but strangely enough, he had not returned to her shop with the criminal in hand since she’d spoken with him only the night before.
I promised to give her concern all the attention it deserved before excusing myself.
Fortunately, by this point I was quite close to the Wyndhaus. I reined Scoundrel in, so that no more citizens would see a Judicar’s bird about. I set her on my shoulder, forced a grim expression on my face, and took long purposeful strides.
I knew that none of the citizens thought they were wasting my time, but I had already lost more than a day of the serum’s potency. It was time to sharp up, and put my judicar pants on.
The Twilight Blades were somehow at the root of all this, and I needed to know why.
If anyone had answers, it would be Booker Dox.
The House of Wind and Secrets
Riddling, First Bell Morningtide
I entered the Shipman Slums, up near Dockside, a short time later. Many of the more established guilds took advantage of the fact that the Slums were full of the larger manses that used to pepper the Warrens. Several of them had guild-sanctioned businesses in this area, taking advantage of the well-heeled patrons that would often drift in from Dockside. These places weren’t often official guildhouses, but more like way stations that catered to a specific clientele.
The Wyndhause had been a rambling country house once upon a time. It looked like the kind of home that a wealthy family might retreat to for a holiday. Or perhaps an elderly couple had lived there, their many descendants forcing the original dwelling to expand to the sprawling edifice that stood before me.
Time and use had not been kind to the old place. Its ancient, weathered oak beams and moss covered stones looked like they might have been new about the same time as the bounds awoke.
As I approached, I noticed that, while there was a large crowd of people milling around, more seemed to be leaving than arriving. It wasn’t particularly odd; Teredon is a city that keeps odd hours. I sharped up and studied the throng.
Slipping around the tallhats and brass-buttons were a different sort of folke: scars, dirt, large muscles, and torn clothing were common among the men, but the women who were sneaking away were quite a different show. Low hanging, thin blouses barely held up by tight corsets, skirts drawn up like a stage theatre to reveal long legs in lacy stockings, faces highlighted by cosmetics to appear rosy and eager. These women left a perfumed cloud in their wake just trying to get away from me.
I saw one blond woman scramble into a foot cab and gave her a tip of my hat. She blanched and turned her face away, revealing a purple bruise on the edge of one otherwise rosy cheek.
My fist clenched, and I grit my teeth. I surveyed the rabble, seeking out the brightly costumed mollies, searching for more signs of violence.
I found them. Cuts, scrapes, and bruises, all carefully covered with cosmetic or an artistically draped bit of fabric, decorated most of the pleasure-ladies I saw. Making the pillow-guilds illegal had certainly not stopped the
prostitution but made it a more dangerous and unsavory business instead.
I saw one delicate-looking girl glide toward a horse and four, escorted by two men. One was frail with greying hair, and the other was a brute of a man, perhaps not as tall as me, but twice my girth and not a bit of fat.
The large man helped the old one into the carriage and then the woman. He then took a step back before entering the cab, which revealed a man some way behind him, walking away from Wyndhaus.
A familiar man.
I let out a soft whistle. “Well now, Scoundrel, isn’t it interesting that Grith is here?” I asked in an undertone.
“Corn! Corn!” she demanded, since that was all that mattered.
“Not now, you greedy thing. We’ve got work to do.” I gestured her up to a nearby rooftop.
Grith was stomping down the cobblestones on Stone Glen Avenue, his shoulders hunched and his head down like a man fighting a storm wind. I could have easily followed him. I could have had Scoundrel tail him from above, as I nearly did. But it had taken me most of the morning just to get to Wyndhause, and there was no telling how far Grith could take me from it.
No. I would rook the man.
I set off down a side street, Scoundrel winging in behind me. I set a brisk pace but judged that I didn’t need to out and out run. I slipped down side streets and alleyways, noting the entire time exactly how clean and well repaired they weren’t. Still, I stepped quick, looping around Grith. This way, just before he reached the place where Stone Glen split to become Shepherd’s Glen going one way and Rock Creek the other, I could step back onto the main road.
I all but appeared in front of him like fairy-tale magic.
Grith stopped dead and goggled at me.
“Greetings, Grith.” I pushed at my hat brim with one finger. “Imagine meeting you here.” I stepped over to him and warmly put one arm around his shoulders, exactly like the friend he wasn’t. Gently, I guided him to the little café behind the street split. “Come, have a chat with me over a cup, chum.”
We sat at Jorge’s Café’s outdoor seating area. Grith fidgeted in his chair while I ordered a cup of horxata and pretended that the man didn’t smell like a saloon.
