by Richard Ford
For she might soon be here.
She was his one secret. His one betrayal. Were the Father to know that he came to such a place in daylight to unburden himself, there would have been a grave price to pay. But River was careful — he always had been.
Some days he would find her here, sitting patiently, and they would talk until dark. Others, he would wait until the sun had crossed the sky and there would still be no sign of her. It was a vigil he often kept, her company the reward he granted himself for the grim work he had to do. It was his one concession to normality, his one pretence at being one of the ordinary thousands he moved amongst, unseen, unknown, unwanted. She was his confessional, even though he never told her of the men he had killed or the real life he led.
And so he sat and waited.
TWELVE
She’d cried until she couldn’t cry no longer; hard tears, racking sobs, until she could hardly breathe. Rag had never felt anything like this before.
When she’d started thieving it had been there, that guilt, a constant weight on her innards, as if she had always known what she was doing was wrong, that other people would have to live with the consequences of her actions — but nothing had ever felt like this.
She was scum off the streets; she weren’t supposed to have no responsibilities. Weren’t supposed to care about nothing but herself.
But she had cared about Markus.
He might have been older than the other boys, than Migs and Tidge and Chirpy, but he was more innocent than any of them. He didn’t have half the street smarts of Tidge, nor the skills of Chirpy. He shouldn’t have even been with her that night. And he wouldn’t have been, would he, if it hadn’t been for Rag? It was her that took him along, her that said yes to his eager talk of joining their crew.
Crew? Who was she kidding, they weren’t a crew, they were just a band of street filth, robbing what they could and staying out of sight.
The feeling in her guts had been so bad she’d even gone to see poor Markus buried on Dancer’s Hill. She’d seen his father too, or at least the man that took him and put him beneath the ground. He’d looked sorry enough, standing by that grave, though she didn’t see him shed a single tear.
She’d wanted to say something, wanted to give him some kind of condolence, but when she saw the look on his face, that look of loss in those steel features, she thought better of it. What would she have said anyway? I was the one that took him up on the roofs, mister. So you could say it was me that got him killed. Anyway, sorry for your loss, and all. By the way can you spare us a few coppers?
Yeah, she was sure that would have gone down real well. She might even have felt less guilty as he was twisting her head off her shoulders.
And it was all this … all this shit, that had got her to thinking about herself.
It was only a cruel twist of the gods that had seen Markus take that quarrel and not her. It was only by a hair’s breadth and a bit of luck that it hadn’t been her gasping her last on a rooftop, blood pumping through her fingers, waiting for the Lord of Crows. And after all that thinking she’d come to a decision …
It was time for all this to end.
She’d talked to Fender about it. Explained to him that she’d had enough, that she didn’t want to end up just another dead urchin on the streets. Talked to him about how she couldn’t go on like this, couldn’t keep living this way and she needed something more.
At first he’d been his usual angry self, calling her an idiot for wanting to break out, saying she was foolish to have ambition above being more than she was. But in the end, despite all his angry words and trying to persuade her otherwise, he’d agreed to help her.
He agreed to help her get into the Guild.
Of course Fender’d had the chance to join himself a while back but he’d bottled out. He said the Guild was a nasty bunch, bastards all, just out for themselves, but he still had connections and he could get Rag an introduction if she wanted it.
Maybe he thought that if she was in the Guild it was as good as them all being in — a licence to thieve, connections in all the right places, on to the big time. Maybe he just wanted rid of her after all this time, with them both being at odds over who was leader of their crew. Whatever Fender’s reasons, he said he knew someone who could have a word with someone, and that was that.
So now she just had to wait for him, standing on the roof of the Bull, trying her best not to look Migs and Chirpy and Tidge in the eye. If this was going to happen she would be leaving them behind, moving on to better things. Course she’d be able to see them again, maybe even see them right for food and a few coppers, but things would never be like they was. She was moving up, moving on, and it didn’t pay to keep looking back over your shoulder when you did. You had to keep looking straight ahead, keep your wits, keep strong and fuck everything else.
‘Sure you want to do this?’
Rag turned to see Fender standing there at the roof edge. She hadn’t even heard him arrive. He was getting far too good at sneaking around and she had to admit it made her a bit nervous. Maybe another reason it was time to move on.
‘You don’t have to, you know,’ he said, sounding almost sympathetic, but not quite. ‘There’s no need to take things so hard. He was a-’
‘Don’t talk about him, Fender.’ She didn’t want him even mentioning Markus’ name. It would only make her angry. ‘And yes I do have to. The thing with Markus just made my mind up quicker. I was always going to do this sooner or later.’
Fender smiled and gave a little nod. ‘Yeah, I suppose you were. Not like you was gonna play mother forever.’ He glanced towards the rickety shelter in which Chirpy, Tidge and Migs were sitting.
Suddenly she felt guiltier than ever, and not because of Markus. Try as she might to convince herself she had no responsibilities, she knew there were three little lads that relied on her. Three little lads she was turning her back on.
As though he could read her thoughts Fender said, ‘Don’t worry about them. I’ll see them right.’
As Rag looked into Fender’s eyes she actually felt he was telling the truth. First fucking time for everything.
‘You gonna say goodbye?’
She looked again to the little shack, hearing a giggle, probably Chirpy, from within its confines. ‘Nah,’ she replied. ‘No point ruining their day. They’ll find out soon enough. Did you speak to your man?’
Fender nodded. ‘Course I did. He says “yes”. In fact he knows someone looking right now. If you want the intro we can go straight away.’
‘Right then, let’s go.’
Fender didn’t say any more, just led her down the rickety stairs off the roof of theBull. Rag followed, head bowed, resigned to it now, knowing there was no turning back. And she didn’t turn back, didn’t try to snatch a last look at her boys. It might have stopped her doing what she had to do.
When she got down to the filth of Slip Street she didn’t look around. She was hoping to leave all this behind, to move on to a better life, so she just kept her head down and followed Fender’s lead.
They walked quite a way through the city until they got to Northgate. This was a massive sprawling part of Steelhaven, a warren of rickety houses, easy to get lost in. Quite soon Fender stopped, pointing to the building where his contact was.
‘In there,’ he said. ‘Ask for Krupps.’
Rag felt a knot tighten in her throat. Even down in Dockside she’d heard of this place. The Black Hartwas one of those alehouses you avoided. Even the Greencoats gave it a wide berth. She’d never been in there. Had she tried plying her trade and lifting a purse from anyone in The Black Hart she’d likely not have lived long afterwards … certainly not with all her fingers.
But there was no way but forward.
‘Thanks, Fender,’ she said. ‘Guess I’ll see you later.’
‘Just watch your fucking back, Rag.’
When she turned to nod her thanks, he was gone.
No one but her now. Her and a bar f
ull of scumbags and cutthroats. And she had a chance to get into the Guild. Into a better life.
Well, it couldn’t get any worse, could it?
The door to The Black Hart was almost hanging off its hinges, wood rotted, black paint chipped and peeling. She swung it inwards and stepped into the gloom, expecting everyone inside to immediately put their drinks down and look her way with dark, furious eyes. But no one so much as glanced in her direction.
There was a hum of hushed conversation and a pipe-smoke haze hung in the air like the breath of some ancient firedrake. Rag took it all in, careful not to catch anyone’s eye, mindful she shouldn’t stand too long just gawping. She didn’t want to attract undue attention by looking like she didn’t belong.
Her best bet was to move to the bar and do it with some bloody purpose — don’t draw attention, don’t be seen. So she moved, head bowed, keeping focused, staying wary. It wouldn’t do to let her guard down now.
She strode boldly across the creaky floorboards, past hunched men playing games of cards, until something screeched in her ear.
She jumped almost out of her skin and gave off a girly squeal. There was an ugly bastard monkey, one of those hairy foreign things, on one of the hunched men’s shoulders. The old fella himself was untroubled by the noise, but laughed, in an old phlegmy voice, at Rag.
Well done, Rag. How to make yourself look like a horse’s cock. Great first impression.
Rag made it to the bar, all pretence at looking natural thrown to the gutter. The barman had a bald head and a big greasy moustache and was running a filthy rag around the rim of a tankard. He was smirking, most probably at that stupid fucking noise she’d made.
She expected him to ask what she wanted but he just stood there, with that idiot grin. She guessed she’d best do the talking.
‘I’m looking for Krupps.’ She tried to sound as tough as possible, all gruff and emotionless, but it just came out in her same old voice.
Still staring, the barman nodded towards a corner. Rag turned to see a man looking at her from the shadows. In the scant light from one grimy window she saw two other men with him.
Not wanting to show any reticence lest it be mistaken for fear, Rag strode straight up to the trio of men, her chin as high as it would go.
‘You Krupps?’ she asked, again trying to talk tough but failing miserably.
‘Indeed, I am,’ he replied with a surprisingly amiable smile. ‘You must be this Rag I’ve heard about. Take a seat.’
One of the other men shifted a wooden chair from beneath the table with his foot. Rag gave it a cursory glance before grabbing another empty chair behind her and pulling it up to the table. None of the men reacted to her feigned attempt at bravado. They could probably hear her heart fluttering like a pennant on a windy day.
She took in the features of the three men. Krupps didn’t look bad, she had to admit. In fact, all things considered, he looked extremely out of place in The Black Hart. He was handsome, probably in his early twenties, with a floppy mop of dark hair more befitting a Crown District dandy than some underworld criminal. Nevertheless, Rag knew better than to let his easy smile lull her into lowering her guard. No danger of that with the other two. As much as Krupps looked out of place, these two fit right in.
The one who had slid the chair with his foot was bald and burly, what little hair he had slicked back in greasy knots over his ears. He was chewing on something, and Rag really didn’t want to know what.
In the corner, seemingly clinging to the darkness, was the last of the trio. He was stick thin, with hollow cheeks perched beneath two piercing eyes. His dark hair was pulled back in a tight topknot and his body shrouded in a tatty, ill-fitting coat that failed to hide how skinny he was.
‘This is Burney,’ said Krupps, motioning towards the thickset man who acknowledged her with a wink. ‘And that’s Steraglio.’ The thin man in the corner merely scowled. ‘We hear you’re quite the purse-cutter, young Rag,’ Krupps continued.
She shrugged her answer, trying to look casual about his comment. Probably just made her look more scared.
‘Because we’ve got a job coming up and we might need someone with your skills. Someone stealthy. Someone lithe.’
Again she didn’t answer, still trying to size up exactly what she had got herself into.
‘This is horseshit,’ Steraglio suddenly said from the corner. His voice was reedy and thin, but it still filled Rag with an unsettling sense of dread. ‘Look at her: she’s a fucking child. And just because she can cut purses don’t mean she can break houses.’
Krupps gave him a look — a shut the fuck up look. Steraglio took the hint.
‘As my friend just mentioned, we don’t necessarily just want you to steal someone’s coin. But I’ve a feeling you’ve broke a house before.’
No, she fucking hadn’t. ‘Course I fucking have,’ Rag said with a confidence that surprised her.
Krupps smiled. ‘Excellent. We’ve got just the job for you. And it’s an even four-way split if you’re in, Rag.’
A four-way split sounded damn good, but coin wasn’t the main reason she was here.
‘What about the Guild?’ she asked. ‘Will this get me entry to the Guild?’
Krupps’ smile widened. ‘That’s why you’re here, ain’t it? Entry to the Guild? Do this job right and you’re in. Write your own ticket, Rag — the only way is up.’
She suddenly felt at ease, felt safe. This mob needed her, and needed her so bad they were prepared to give her exactly what she wanted. This was turning out easier than she’d expected.
‘So what’s the job? Whose house we breaking?’ she asked, feeling her confidence rising.
‘All you need worry about is breaking in and opening a door for the rest of us. After that we’ll handle things.’
Open a door? For this crowd to just walk into someone’s house? Glancing around the table she wasn’t sure this was such a good idea after all. If she ever owned a house she was damn sure she wouldn’t want the likes of Steraglio and Burney slipping into it in the middle of the night.
‘Handle things how? I’m not gonna be part of no murder or nothing.’
Krupps laughed, joined soon after by Burney, but Rag noted Steraglio hadn’t even cracked a smile.
‘Oh, Rag. We’re not in the murder business — we’re in the taking-what’s-not-oursbusiness. Do we look like assassins? Do I look like the kind of bloke who steals into someone’s house in the middle of the night and slits their throat?’ In all honesty, Rag wasn’t reassured. ‘The house we’re breaking into … sorry, you’re breaking into, is owned by a rich merchant — a greedy fucking merchant — but he won’t even be home. So, empty house, easy pickings. Sound good?’
Rag had to admit it was sounding better and better. Her nod of assent was greeted by a big smile from Krupps and a firm slap on the shoulder from Burney.
‘Varson! Break out the good stuff,’ Krupps called across to the bar. Within moments, the greasy barman had placed a dusty bottle on the table with four relatively clean glasses. Krupps filled them — and Rag picked hers up, staring at the murky-looking liquid inside.
‘Here’s to other people’s money,’ said Krupps, raising his glass with a wide grin. Rag couldn’t help but be charmed by that smile, raising her own glass with the rest and swigging its contents in a single slug before slamming it back to the table. The taste was hot and sour, burning her throat and making her nose sting. It was all she could do to hold it down, but to Rag’s dismay, Krupps was already filling her glass up again.
‘To our new friend,’ said Burney, his baritone voice resonating through the interior of The Black Hart.
‘To Rag!’ said Krupps, lifting the second glass to his lips.
In for a penny, Rag thought, taking a swig. But this time the thick alcohol made her snort and, without warning, she was spewing the stinging liquid out of her nose and all over Krupps’ lap.
A sudden silence. Then the rest of them, Steraglio included, began to laug
h hysterically.
Wiping sour-tasting snot from her nose, Rag had to admit that, despite just having ruined a man’s britches, things were looking up.
THIRTEEN
Another day, another book filled with indecipherable nonsense. This one apparently detailed the metaphysical aspects of healing through the Primary Art of Divination; but all Waylian could appreciate was the weave of the book’s binding and the craftsmanship of its embossed cover. He’d always admired the work of skilled artisans, their attention to detail and the years of practice it took to produce a work of supreme artistry. Writers of complex treatises on the ins and outs of the magickal arts, however, he did not appreciate so much.
He was losing patience with the whole thing. What was the point? The frustration at his lack of understanding was manifesting as a distinctly short attention span, and he often found himself daydreaming both in and out of Gelredida’s lessons. At least here in the Grand Library he wouldn’t be reprimanded for his inattention.
Waylian glanced out across the rows of desks, flanked by the seemingly endless line of bookshelves. They seemed to taunt him with their mystery, looming over him like impassable mountains, laughing at his ignorance and jealously guarding the knowledge they would never impart to him. He guessed he wouldn’t have to suffer this indignity for much longer. The Red Witch would doubtless see him expelled quite soon.
Casually glancing across the room his eyes settled on one of the other students. That girl, with blonde hair falling in curly locks about her face. She smiled at him, but before Waylian had a chance to smile back she turned back to her studies.
What was her bloody name? Gael? Glorie? Balls, what was wrong with his memory these days! Whatever her name was she was the prettiest thing he had seen in a while … and she’d just smiled at him.
Not that it would have meant anything, just a friendly smile across the library — nothing to get excited about, Waylian. You won’t be here long enough to do anything about it anyway.
