Dax wondered how carefully accounts were kept for this system, but he did not say anything. Instead he asked, “So how do I shine the boots?”
“Shinin’ is the easy part. It’s gettin’ the mud and dirt off ’em first that’s the pain. Some fancy gents seem to think it’s funny to walk through street dung before they stop.” He smiled. “Other’n the smell, that’s not as bad as dried mud from somebody just off the road. That can take a lot of hard work to clean off. Got to clean ’em before you shine ’em, though.” Spike went on at some length, obviously proud to show his experience to the new boy. Dax already had a good idea how it all worked, but he let the boy talk. Although he had never shined his own boots in the castle, and certainly not since leaving the castle, he had been around the guard long enough to have seen them at work on their boots.
When they arrived at the bootblack stand, Hammer unlocked the storage chest and handed out a stiff-bristled brush, a tin of black wax, a small applicator pad, and two wiping clothes for each boy. Spike nudged Dax. “Let the cloth get pretty much black before you turn it in for a fresh one. They don’t take kindly to us usin’ up too much stuff.”
#
Dax’s first customer of the day was a young dandy on his way into the old city to meet his girlfriend. While Dax worked, the man told him all about the girl, her family, how the family thought their daughter could do better, and a string of other inconsequential information. After he left no tip, Dax decided that maybe the girl’s family was right.
His next customer was as dour as the first had been talkative. Dax did not make any attempt to talk and just tended to the man’s boots. They were recently polished and needed little work, so he decided to experiment. When he had seen guardsmen shining their own boots, some of them would spit on the toes after they were already shiny, then polish them some more.
Spitting on the man’s boots openly would probably not be a smart thing to do. Instead, Dax transferred a little saliva to his finger and wiped it around on the toe of the man’s boot. He followed that with the cloth and was dismayed to see the surface turn cloudy. Disappointed, he continued to rub, hoping he wouldn’t have to start over. Suddenly the haze disappeared from the leather. The area he had rubbed was a deep, glossy black. He worked the toe of the other boot the same way.
When Dax finished, the man stood up and looked down at his boots. He said nothing but gave a grunt of approval. Before he left, he fished in his pocket and tipped Dax two coppers. Dax was elated. It was a small gesture. Compared to the loss of his kingdom, it was completely inconsequential. However, for the first time, someone had valued Dax’s work. Valued it, not because he was king, but because Bug, an anonymous bootblack, had done something well.
After his first success, Dax continued to use the trick, and his customers were pleased with the results. Before long, the other boys caught on that Dax got more tips than they did. He knew they spied on him to learn his secret, so he made a point of being gracious to his customers and trying to get them to talk with him, disguising his real technique.
The next evening Hammer came to see him after their meal. “Okay, Bug. How are you doing it?”
“Doing what?” Dax answered in innocence, knowing perfectly well what Hammer was getting at.
“The tips. What are you doing different to make the boots you do look so good? The guys all want to know. If our tips go up, maybe Weasel will give more of the extra back to us.”
Dax had not thought about this aspect of the transaction. Although he knew Hammer got a goodly amount more than any of the bootblacks, if Dax shared his trick, they would all be better off. With a pang he realized that his urge to show up his fellows had kept them from earning more money, meager though the amount might be. Dax did not intend to be a bootblack forever, but at this point he needed all the friends he could get.
He looked at Hammer and smiled. “Sure. It’s an easy trick. I saw a guardsman do it once and thought I’d try it myself.” It took about two minutes to explain the trick, and the next day all the boys trooped to their daily work with excitement. Most of them caught on right away, and by the end of the day, their customers left with an extra-bright shine on their boots.
#
The next evening Weasel showed up to collect their earnings. When they saw him come through the door, all the boys fell silent. They drifted off to the far side of the bunkie and found things to do. Dax took their cue, but kept a surreptitious eye on the man. The name Weasel described him well. His face was narrow and pinched. Lanky clumps of greasy hair fell almost to his shoulders. His left eye looked outward at an odd angle and caught the light in a funny way. It was hard to tell where he was looking. A rounded belly gone to fat interrupted an otherwise spindly figure. He had a long cloak hung around his narrow shoulders, and it had collected a fair amount of food droppings, stains, and other detritus from long use.
Every night Hammer dropped the day’s coins into a locked box concealed at the head of the stall where he slept. Weasel had the key that opened the box. He shuffled around, concealing his actions while he scooped the coins into a bag he wore hooked to his belt.
When he was done, he came out of Hammer’s stall and gave the bag a couple of shakes. “Well, now. It looks like our wee darlin’s have been especially charming this week, eh?” He licked his lips. “What kind o’ new tricks have you learned now? Something old Weasel be interested in?” His leering gaze swept across the room. His misbehaving eye lent his inspection a particularly ugly feel. “So, who needs ta be straightened out tonight, huh? Which of you sweet things is gonna let old Weasel make you a better person?”
Dax felt a new tension in the room. He did not know what was coming, but the other boys did, and they were afraid. He took a sideways glance at Weasel and was horrified to see the man’s one good eye fixed on him.
“Well, well. A new boy,” Weasel chuckled. “That’s special sweet. Why didn’t you tell me you’d gone and found someone new?”
Hammer tried to intervene. “Ah, come on, Weasel. He’s new and already one of our best boys. Leave him for later.”
Weasel rounded on the older boy. A thin, wickedly pointed knife had suddenly appeared in Weasel’s hand. “Oh, I don’t think so, friend. You’ve gotten a little old and should know better than to sass me, but that doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten you entirely.” He looked down at Hammer’s crotch. “You know, maybe you’d be better off after a little alteration. Maybe you’d have better manners if I was to cut ’em off. Eh?”
Hammer backed away from the knife, and Weasel turned back toward Dax. “Now, little one, come over here and help ol’ Weasel out a bit.”
Dax began to understand what the boys must have meant in their casual remarks about Weasel. His heart beat faster, and the grim, focused determination rose up inside him, circling a ball of growing anger. When Dax did not move right away, Weasel gave a disgusted snort and started toward him. Dax glanced down and saw the knife still in Weasel’s hand. The man grabbed Dax’s arm and lifted him up on his toes. He brought the knife to Dax’s face and held it in front of his nose. The knife caught the light from one of the candles in the room, and the colorless reflection Dax saw was bright with exquisite detail.
Chapter 6
Weasel chuckled to himself in pleasure as he stepped out of the bootblacks’ shack with the new boy in tow. Put a knife to their necks and they all come along real quiet. A new one was a treat for the evening after a really rotten day. Holder, the mucky turd who ran all the criminal enterprises outside the wall, had sent Binder around with a warning last week, “Shape up, or you’re out.” Shape up, huh? Okay, so he had been into the wine pretty good at Wiggy’s lately, but he still made his rounds on time . . . mostly. He had turned in all the money he’d picked up . . . mostly. After all, he was entitled to a little cut. A man had to have something for his old age.
Then just today, Holder had called him into his office. Turned out Holder had heard about the young boys. “Weasel,” Holder had said, “you are a di
sgusting piece of shit. You’re a swine, but if you keep it on your own time, what you do with your noodle is your own business. However, you keep that business away from my businesses, or I’ll send one of my men around. You’ll end up with your noodle in your pocket instead of between your legs.” He’d paused and looked at Weasel. Weasel had to look away. “You understand?” Holder finally asked.
It embarrassed Weasel to have Holder speaking to him this way. Finally, he muttered, “Yeah.”
“What’s that, Weasel? I didn’t understand you.”
Weasel looked him in the eye. “Yes, sir. I heard you.”
That evening Weasel still burned with the memory. It wasn’t fair for Holder to tell him what to do. He did not hurt the boys . . . mostly.
But that was then. Now he had a fresh young boy by the neck. Holder and the others just did not understand his needs. While he liked all the young boys, the thought of a brand new one was too much of a pleasure to resist. He pulled the youngster, Bug, they had called him, around the back of the bunkie and pushed him up against the rough wall. His chest was tight with excitement. It was getting dark, but there was still plenty of light to see. He liked to watch as they surrendered to the inevitable. When Weasel looked down at this boy, he had scary eyes . . . dark . . . hard to look at. Ah, but he was a new one.
Weasel held the boy by the shoulder for a moment and tapped the boy’s other shoulder with his knife. “Now you’re going to make ol’ Weasel very happy, you are. It be just what you sweet young things are made for.” His smiled at thought of the pleasure to come. “Now gets down on your knees while I gets it ready.”
He fumbled with the ties on his drawers, but managed to get them pushed down to his knees. The boy had knelt down in front of him, and Weasel reached out for his head. He caressed the boy’s hair a moment. Most of his sweet young things were trembling, crying, even pleading with him at this point. This boy was different. Calm. Just waiting. Maybe this one enjoyed it? The thought gave Weasel a pause. How did he feel about that?
Weasel cupped the back of the boy’s head in his hands and drew his face closer to his crotch. “Now you go to work on that thing,” he said. “Get it standin’ up all nice and proud. Then ol’ Weasel show you a thing or two.” He felt the boy’s hot breath on his flaccid organ as he pushed it between the boy’s lips. He sighed. This was the moment he lived for.
Searing pain erupted as the boy bit down on him. Weasel shrieked incoherently as unendurable agony pulsed out of his trapped penis. Even as he screamed, the boy’s teeth sunk in deeper. Weasel fumbled to use his knife, but the boy’s hand gripped his wrist, blocking him. Weasel cuffed wildly at the boy’s head with his free hand. The blow struck, but a fresh burst of fire tore through his loins. The boy’s jaws were locked tight. He stumbled backward, and the boy’s free hand punched up into his open crotch. Weasel doubled over in fresh agony. He toppled backward. A hot, bright tearing in his member was the last thing he felt.
#
Someone was whimpering. Weasel gradually drifted back to consciousness and realized it was his own mewling he heard. His eyes fluttered open. The evil boy’s face, smeared with blood, was right in front of him. He jerked in surprise, but the boy’s dark eyes stared into his. Weasel started to shift his hips to get up, but he cried out in agony at the pain between his legs.
“Don’t move.” The boy’s voice was quiet, and he poked the end of a knife firmly into the tip of Weasel’s nose—Weasel’s own knife. A bright spot of pain flared and made him close his eyes. Weasel’s bladder released in fear, and he moaned again as the hot fluid caused even more pain between his legs.
The boy did not speak again, and Weasel finally opened his eyes. The wicked boy was still there. Weasel flinched, but the boy waited. When Weasel focused on the knife with his good eye, the boy spoke calmly. “So, what am I going to do with a pig like you?” The boy’s words might have been calm, but his eyes were terrifyingly bright. Weasel held his breath. The boy did not really expect an answer from him. Besides, Weasel could not muster the control to speak with the boy staring at him so fiercely.
“Can’t kill you.” The boy spoke with a terrifying lack of emotion. “Although you deserve it. No, that would draw too much attention to our little enterprise. Don’t want the guard snooping around any of Mr. Holder’s businesses, now do we?”
Weasel once again decided the question did not really need an answer. If he held his breath and avoided the boy’s eyes, he could almost manage a coherent thought through the pain.
“You know,” the boy said. “I could pluck your eyes out, one at a time, with your little knife here. That one”—Weasel twitched when the boy touched the point of the blade to the skin below his bad eye—“doesn’t look all that useful anyway. Who knows? You might do well as a blind beggar, eh?”
The boy moved the blade to just below Weasel’s good eye. The point lightly traced a line from his eye down his cheek. “Maybe I’ll decorate your face a little.” The boy’s voice was bitter and cold. “You’re an ugly son of a bitch, so anything will be an improvement.” The knife blade caressed his skin again, and the first cuts started to sting. Terrified even though the boy said he would not kill him, Weasel shuddered. He had never seen such angry eyes.
“No, I think maybe I’ll just make sure you never use your thing on any of us . . . ever.”
Weasel fainted at the first touch of the knife on his genitals.
Chapter 7
A candle was burning in Hammer’s stall when Dax returned to the bunkie. All the boys lay on their cots, either asleep or pretending to be asleep. Dax took a deep breath and eased the door closed. The last of his rage had drained away on his walk back, leaving him exhausted and disoriented. He could not remember exactly what had happened. Back in the homely setting, he just wanted to lie down on his cot and sleep.
Hammer sat on the edge of the stool near the door, waiting for him. “I’m sorry, Bug,” he said in hushed tones. I shoulda warned you ahead of time about Weasel. I shoulda kept you out of sight or stopped him . . . or something.”
Dax stepped closer to Hammer so he could speak quietly. “No. It’s all right. Really.”
“Ah, you’re a bloody mess. Did he hurt you bad?”
“It’s not my blood.” Dax glanced down at the sticky red splotches on his shirt. “And Weasel won’t bother us anymore.”
“What?” Hammer was startled. He moved closer and lowered his voice even more. “Oh, no!” he whispered. “You didn’t kill him, did you? If you did, we’ll have to get the body out of here right now, tonight, before the guard discovers it.”
Dax grimaced. “I didn’t kill him. I just . . .” His voice faded as he realized he did not remember exactly what he had done to the man. He had managed to hold his anger in check until the moment when Weasel had started to assault him, but after that . . . Finally Dax shrugged. “I don’t think I killed him anyway.”
Swiping at an itch on his cheek, Dax realized he held something in his left had. He looked down and saw a bloody mass of tissue. Hammer followed his look and sucked in his breath. “By the Goddess’s left tit . . .” He looked up at Dax. “You cut the bastard’s balls off!” Hammer’s voice rose as he spoke, and it filled the room with his last declaration.
The bunkie erupted in turmoil. Dax winced at the sudden attention. He did not remember doing it. Disgusted, he cast the gory souvenir to the floor. The boys gathered around, staring at what Dax had dropped. Finally Bubbles stepped forward with an angry scowl and stamped on the bloody piece of meat. “What you get, bastid!” That broke the spell, and one after another, each boy bitterly repeated the ritual, each with his own epithet.
When the last boy had finished, Hammer took the ash shovel from the heater and scooped up the flattened remnants. He held it up to the assembly. “To the rats?” he asked.
“To the rats!” they all shouted.
Hammer opened the door and flipped the residue into the night. When he turned back, he shook the shovel at the crowd an
d crossed his arms over his chest. “All right, settle down.” He waited until the excited group calmed enough to listen. “I need Bubbles and Spike to go check Weasel. If he’s dead, get back here right away. Otherwise make sure he’s up. Get him out of the area.” He looked at Dax. “What happened to Weasel’s knife?”
Dax was not thinking clearly. It took a moment to understand the question. His pouch? Dax felt for his belt and pulled out Weasel’s wicked-looking blade. Hammer stared at it with an unreadable expression for a time before he took it from Dax. “Bubbles, take Weasel’s blade to make sure he goes on his way. Whatever you do, don’t let him have it back!” Hammer went into his stall and got his own knife. He gave it to Spike. “No trouble. No killing. Just get him over to Hanger’s territory or somewhere.”
Once Bubbles and Spike were out the door, Hammer turned back to the rest of the group. “Now back to bed,” he ordered. “We’ve got to work tomorrow, and I need to get Bug cleaned up.”
“Save me a cup of Weasel’s blood to drink a toast to the Dark One,” came a voice from the darkened room. After a cheer for that thought, the boys quieted down.
The rest of the bootblacks retreated to their cots. Hammer turned to Dax and helped him remove his shirt. It was soaked with Weasel’s blood. Hammer was surprisingly gentle and thorough as he helped Dax clean up at the washing basin. He whispered a few more questions as he worked, but he concentrated on getting the blood off Dax’s face and out of his hair.
Once he was satisfied, Hammer dug into a box and found a fresh shirt. “Here. You need a new shirt. We’d never get the blood stains out of your old one, and the guard might ask questions. We keep some spare clothes handy. The temple brothers come around now and again to give us stuff.”
King's Exile: Chronicles of the Dragon-Bound: Book 1 Page 9
