by Richard Ford
‘Oi!’ screamed Gunta, ladies forgotten and his face all twisted in rage. ‘You little bastard! Come here!’
Rag didn’t need further encouragement to head off through the crowd, but before she could take a step someone had grabbed her coat by the collar. She struggled in vain — he had her. She glanced back to see who it was, hoping it weren’t a Greencoat, terrified it might be someone from the Guild, but it was just an ordinary bloke, going about his business.
She struggled and squirmed her best, even trying to stamp on the wanker’s foot, but he was immovable, and Gunta was coming from behind that bread counter, his face all puffy and red. She was going to get a right beating for this and no mistake.
Rag let her body go slack, bending her knees and dropping out of her coat, just before Gunta was able to grab her. Then she was off and running, through the crowd and all the hubbub. She’d had that coat for years, and it pained her to leave it behind, but better a coat gone than maybe some fingers, she reckoned.
Gunta was coming on behind, screaming his head off and stirring up the whole marketplace, but Rag, concentrating on escape, only thought to get to the nearest alley and disappear.
Before she could make it, she caught sight of a figure moving fast and purposeful towards her through the crowd. A Greencoat — young and eager, unlike most of the others, and definitely in better shape than Gunta. He had the determined look of a man with something to prove, and catching Rag was his way of doing it.
Ducking a swipe of his arm, she dodged sideways into one of the narrow streets that led from the market. Her bare feet mashed the shit of the alley as she increased her pace, but the Greencoat continued his pursuit, helmet rattling and crossbow slapping against his back. Rag sped through the tight labyrinthine alleyways with practised ease, but her pursuer was matching her pace with sheer power. For a brief second she considered her knife — pulling it on her pursuer might make him wonder whether catching her was worth being cut — though she hadn’t used a blade in anger for years. Truth was she’d never been convincing with a shiv. She remembered how Gus the Puller had just taken it off her once and put a stripe down her cheek for her trouble. After that she never bothered again.
Rag realised she wasn’t going to outrun the lad so she would just have to disappear. As she turned another corner she jumped, planting her bare foot against a narrow windowsill and propelling herself upwards, catching hold of the lintel and dragging her body up above head height. Within two breaths the Greencoat turned the corner, splashing through the puddles and heaving air into his lungs. Thinking Rag had gone, he stopped, cursing loudly and slapping his thigh in anger. All the while she watched from above him, holding her breath, but this Greencoat obviously wasn’t a clever one; he never even bothered to look up.
When he was gone Rag climbed down from the sill, with neither food nor coat. All in all it hadn’t been a good day’s work, but the day wasn’t over yet — something else might come along.
With the market too hot to return to, she headed for Slip Street where she usually bedded down. Slip Street was on the edge of Dockside, not the worst place in that district, but certainly worse than anywhere in Eastgate. It was generally filled with drunks looking for a good time, and expecting to find it there. Aside from the alehouses that lined the street, almost every spare doorway housed a whore of one type or another. Rag would have felt uncomfortable here, vulnerable even, but this was where she’d grown up; her face was known to most of the girls and boys who plied their trade, but for the most part she was ignored. But then that had always been her talent.
She climbed the rickety stairs at the side of the Silent Bull inn, her filthy feet padding lithely across the cracked and broken wood. Her weight made the whole staircase creak violently, but it held beneath her. A full grown man using those stairs might have made them collapse; he’d certainly have made a hell of a racket climbing them. It was the kind of early warning that kept Rag alive in the foul and dangerous streets. Rag and her fellas.
As she made her way up, past the third storey and onto the roof, Tidge was there waiting for her as usual. His big sad eyes stared hopefully from his dirty, podgy face.
‘Didn’t get nothing, mate,’ Rag said, walking past him towards the rickety shack that sat on the flat roof of the inn.
‘Where’s your coat?’ Tidge asked.
‘I had to lose it, but don’t you worry, I’ll find another before the cold nights come.’
She stooped below the broken lintel of the makeshift shack that sat in the centre of the roof and climbed inside. The previous night’s fire had burned down to embers, which smoked feebly in the bottom of the rusted old shield that made do as a fire pit. On the bench opposite were Migs and Chirpy, sitting close enough to be hugging, as they usually were.
‘All right, Rag?’ Chirpy asked with his usual smile. Migs was silent as ever, looking out from beneath the long fringe that fell down almost to his nose.
‘Yeah,’ Rag answered, but she knew she wasn’t. Another failed day in the market meant they had another night with nothing to eat. She could only hope that Fender would bring them something later — if he decided to come back at all.
Tidge climbed into the shack and sat beside her, resting his head on her arm. She hugged him close, looking through the cracks in the wall of the shack and out across the city.
Below, from the streets surrounding the inn, came the sound of the corner girls plying their trade, their sweet voices full of promise and allure. Rag felt both disgust and envy. She resented them for giving their bodies away so easily, degrading themselves for a few coins, but deep down she knew they only did it to survive; if they had an alternative they’d take it. She was jealous too — jealous that she’d been born so pig ugly, so awkward and unsightly. There was no way she’d make any money on the street corner even if she could lower herself enough to try. Not that she ever would.
Back in the dim past, Rag’s mother had been a corner whore — and a beautiful one too. They had lived in a room back then. Not a big room, and it was none too clean, but they had a roof and walls and it was warm. There’d been food on the table and all Rag had to do was make herself scarce while her mother did the business. She’d been called Morag then, Morag Rounsey; a real name for a real girl. That had all changed after her mother met the man from Silverwall. He wore fancy clothes, had a sweet smell about him and flashed his pennies around like he was someone that mattered. Rag’s mother had told her she was going off with the man, back to Silverwall to be with him, but she’d return soon enough to take Morag with her. Then they’d both move to Silverwall to live with the fancy bloke in his fancy house.
Rag had stayed in that room for days — she couldn’t remember how many. After a while the landlord come to turf her out; she didn’t have any coin and where her mother was weren’t none of his problem, any road. She’d hung round the building for weeks after, always waiting, begging for scraps, selling what little she had left for food. It was a while before she realised her mother weren’t ever coming back.
And so she’d become Rag, a thief and a beggar. She’d learned harsh lessons — who were your friends and who weren’t, where to go and where not, who to thieve from and who to avoid — and now here she was with a crew of her own, for what they were worth. Orphans all, and none of them any good at stealing, apart from Fender of course, but they were her crew, and they loved each other in their own way. She felt like they were family and she’d do what she could to look after them for as long as she was able.
A sudden noise made her jump up. Tidge gave a squeal as he fell sideways, and Chirpy and Migs grabbed each other even tighter.
Rag moved to the doorway and peered out. Relief washed over her as she saw Markus walking across the roof. He gave a wave and a smile.
Markus entered their shack with a jolly ‘hello’, sitting on the little woodpile and looking round as if he was one of them, as if he belonged. It was obvious to anyone with half an eye that he didn’t. The boy was clean for a st
art … well certainly cleaner than any of the street kids he was sitting with. His clothes had no holes and had been washed within the past week and his hands weren’t grimed with filth, the nails white, not black from scrabbling through garbage for food. He’d been hanging round with them for weeks, and Rag hadn’t seen the harm in it. He wasn’t an orphan; he lived with his father in the Trades Quarter, but Rag had found him wandering the streets, sad and alone like a lost puppy. Of course she’d taken him under her wing — that’s what she did — but he didn’t thieve and he didn’t beg. No use but no harm, so what was the danger?
‘You all right?’ Rag asked, when Markus didn’t speak.
He shrugged back. ‘Good as ever,’ he said.
Rag hadn’t asked, and Markus hadn’t told, but she reckoned on the boy’s father being a bit of a bastard, which was why he had taken to wandering the streets so far from home and hanging round with the urchins. It weren’t none of her affair so she didn’t pry. Everyone had their own private business, she reckoned.
‘Might be cold tonight,’ said Chirpy. ‘We should maybe think about getting the fire going again.’
‘Don’t talk wet,’ Tidge replied. ‘Ain’t been cold for ages. I reckons we should save the wood for another night.’
Rag smiled at his good sense. For his age he had a solid head on his shoulders. He might even be clever enough to leave this shit life when he was old enough.
‘We’ll wait and see,’ said Rag. ‘Could be a storm coming.’ She nodded through the missing slats in the shack towards the north. A dark cloudbank was gathering on the horizon, an ominous blackness that threatened to consume the clear blue.
‘What the fuck’s this, a mothers’ meeting?’
Rag started at the voice, but as soon as she saw the tall figure framed in the doorway she relaxed.
Fender climbed inside, his lithe muscular limbs moving with feline grace within the confines of the makeshift shelter.
‘What’s the matter? You’ve a face as long as a donkey’s cock.’ He sat down in the middle of the group, with Migs and Chirpy shuffling up to give him room. ‘Looks like you’ve had a shit day at work, Rag? Where’s your coat?’
‘I gave it to your mum,’ she replied. ‘She said she was cold sucking cock at night time.’
Fender smiled back. He’d never known his mother or father, so it weren’t any insult. ‘It’s a good job one of us has been busy, ain’t it?’ He reached in the pocket of his coat and pulled out a tiny bronze vase. The younger boys looked at it with awe, their little faces lighting up at such a flagrant display of wealth.
Fender tossed the item to Tidge. ‘Go deal this to Boris downstairs. And don’t let the fat bastard sell you short.’
Tidge didn’t need telling twice and ran out of the shack faster than Rag had ever seen him move. This was good — they might eat tonight. Boris, innkeeper of the Silent Bull, didn’t mind them making a home on the roof as long as they kept providing him with the odd trinket. He’d even give them food and a little grog if the items were valuable enough.
‘What the fuck’s he doing here?’ Fender said suddenly, looking daggers at Markus.
‘He ain’t doing nothing,’ Rag replied defensively, but she knew it wouldn’t placate Fender — he hated Markus. It was jealousy, pure and simple, and Fender could be a nasty bastard sometimes. Nevertheless, Markus had always taken every slap and insult Fender dished out, and kept coming back for more.
‘I’ve had enough of it.’ Fender stood, ducking beneath the low roof of the shack but still towering over the rest of them. ‘If he stays, he pays, like the rest.’
‘Sit down, Fen-’
‘Fuck off, Rag, I mean it. Get out, rich boy, and don’t fucking come back until you bring something worthwhile. We all gives a bit for the pot. Time you did the same.’
Markus had already moved to the door, clearly fearful of Fender and his cold challenge, but he raised his chin defiantly. Rag had to admit she was a bit proud of him for that.
‘All right, I will,’ he said in a small voice. Then he ran off across the roof.
‘You didn’t have to do that. He’s one of us,’ said Rag.
‘Like fuck he is. He’s got family. He don’t need us. Let’s wait for winter, shall we, wait for the biting cold and the hunger to set in? Then we’ll see how many times he comes to stay.’
Rag didn’t answer. She wanted to tell Fender where to go, wanted to tell him that Markus was a member of her crew and she trusted him, but she couldn’t — because, deep down, she couldn’t help but think that Fender was right, and when the going got tough they would never see Markus again.
FIVE
The song of steel was not a pretty tune. It rang out, discordant and loud, hammered in with muscle and sweat and dirt. Nobul Jacks performed the song like an artist, working his anvil as well as any fiddler at his bow, his powerful strokes expert in their precision. His formidable frame struck out the rhythm; hammer smashing white-hot steel, which sparked in quick quick time, filling the smithy with a dirge to rival any orchestra.
In the darkness of the forge a fierce fire burned, blades protruding like the spokes of a wheel, ready to be struck flat or quenched in water, ready to sing like the strings of a harp. Nearby stood the grinding stone whose voice called out as it sharpened and honed in a perfect falsetto.
For Nobul this was more than mere craft, more than a living. When working the forge he could forget what his life had become — all that existed was the song, the music of his labours, and it swept him from the world, his nightmares and his grief. Once he had closed the door behind him, he felt safe, deep in the sanctuary of his noisy, dirty, honest work.
But the door could not stay shut forever.
It opened, letting the sunlight from outside wash the interior of the forge and breach its sanctity. Nobul paused, hammer raised, as, with the opening of the door, the magic of the song was lost.
Two men entered; big men, burly men. Both taller than Nobul, with thick necks and shaved heads, but they were not lean like him, not hard, not wrought of iron sinew as he was. Nevertheless, Nobul placed his hammer down gently, and with a leather-gloved hand shoved the glowing steel back into the coals of the fire.
One man walked forward as the other closed the door behind them, shutting out the noise of the street. The first smiled, confident, his head slightly cocked to one side.
‘Hello again, Nobul,’ he said, in a deep, arrogant voice. ‘You know the drill.’
Nobul did not speak; he did not have to. Instead he moved to the back of the forge to the worktable that sat against the wall. It was scattered with cross-guards and pommel heads, some ornate and made from bronze or silver, others simpler, crafted from polished iron or other base metals. Whatever the material, they were all of the highest quality; Nobul never made second-rate gear. He was a craftsman: though his wares varied in price they were all finished with meticulous care.
A layman might have considered the table a mess, but Nobul knew where everything was, everything kept in its proper place. He reached for a small leather pouch secured by a drawstring. Still silent, he walked back across the forge and placed the pouch in the big man’s upturned palm. The brute smiled, weighing it in his hand and jingling the contents before untying the drawstring and glancing within.
‘Feels a little light. Do I have to count it?’
‘It’s all there,’ Nobul replied. There was no fear in his voice. These men didn’t inspire fear in him as they did in others. Nobul was too proud to be scared. He’d gone through too much to be afraid of men such as these, despite their size. Despite their reputation.
‘I’m sure it is,’ said the man, smiling again as he secured the drawstring and secreted the pouch within his jacket. ‘How’s business anyway? Good, I’ll bet. You must have more work than you can manage, what with the war coming.’
‘Business is fine,’ Nobul answered.
‘Come now, Nobul. It’s more than fine, we both know that. The Guild keeps abreast of th
ese things. We’re always watching, even if you can’t see us. Weapons and armour for the soldiers at the front are in high demand, especially from a smith of your … talent. And a man of your talent needs protecting, needs looking after. You never know when an agent of the Khurtas might come knocking, might want to do you harm to sabotage the war effort. That’s why we’ll be taking extra special care of you over the coming months. And consequently this extra care will cost a premium.’
Nobul didn’t answer; there was little point. He paid his protection money to be left alone, not to be looked after.
With a nod, the big man turned. His burly friend opened the door, allowing the clangour in once more. ‘Be seeing you,’ said the brute, with a smile; then they were gone, letting the door slam shut behind them.
Nobul clenched his fists, feeling helpless, full of rage. Truth was he had received a big commission from the Crown, but he was only one man and he couldn’t afford an apprentice. His son was too young to work the forge, and this backbreaking work wasn’t something he wanted for the boy anyway. It was hard, dirty work, for hard, dirty men, and Markus was not suited to it. Though Nobul had raised him as best he could, their relationship was far from ideal. The last thing Nobul wanted was to make him work the forge and drive an even deeper wedge between them.
Yet what choice did he have? If he hadn’t got to pay back his loan for the forge, together with his stipend to the Guild for their ‘services’, he might have been able to get ahead. But if he now had to pay out even more, how could he keep a roof over his head and feed himself, let alone Markus?
Standing around lamenting wasn’t going to solve the problem. Nobul pulled the glove back onto his hand and picked up his hammer.
It was dark when he finally left the forge and ventured out into the cool of the street. Several people were busying themselves hanging banners and bunting for the Feast of Arlor, but Nobul wasn’t interested in any of that. What was the point?
