Unbound

by Shawn Speakman

  Shev hitched that professional smile back up, though it was hard to think of anyone she wanted less in her place. “Morning, Crandall. Morning, Mason.”

  Mason ducked in just behind his boss. Or his boss’s son, anyway. He was one of Horald’s boys from way back, broad face criss-crossed with scars, ears all cauliflowered up, and a nose so often broken it was shapeless as a turnip. He was as hard a bastard as you’d find anywhere in Westport, where hard bastards were in plentiful supply. He looked over at Shev, still stooping on account of his towering frame and the low ceiling, and gave an apologetic twitch of the mouth. As if to say, Sorry, but none of this is up to me. It’s up to this fool.

  The fool in question was peering at Shev’s prayer bells, and without bending down, mouth all twisted with contempt. “What’s these? Bells?”

  “Prayer bells,” said Shev. “From Thond.” She tried to keep her voice calm as three more men crowded past Mason into her place, trying to look dangerous but finding the room too tight for anything but uncomfortable. One had a face all pocked from old boils and eyes bulging right out, one had a leather coat far too big for him, got tangled with a curtain and near tore it down thrashing it away, the last had his hands shoved deep in his pockets and a look that said he had knives in there. No doubt he did.

  Shev doubted she’d ever had so many folk in her place at once. Sadly, they weren’t paying. She glanced at Severard, saw him shifting nervously, licking his lips, held out her palm to say, calm, calm, though she had to admit she wasn’t feeling too calm herself.

  “Didn’t think you’d be much for prayer,” said Crandall, wrinkling his nose at the bells.

  “I’m not,” said Shev. “I just like the bells. They lend the place a spiritual quality. You want a smoke?”

  “No, and if I did I wouldn’t come to a shit-hole like this.”

  There was a silence, then the pock-faced one leaned towards her. “He said it’s a shit-hole!”

  “I heard him,” said Shev. “Sound carries in a room small as this one. And I’m well aware it’s a shit-hole. I’ve got plans to improve it.”

  Crandall smiled. “You’ve always got plans, Shev. They never come to nothing.”

  True enough, and mostly on account of bastards like this. “Maybe my luck’ll change,” said Shev. “What do you want?”

  “I want something stolen. Why else would I come to a thief?”

  “I’m not a thief anymore.”

  “Course you are. You’re just a thief playing at running a shit-hole Smoke House. And you owe me.”

  “What do I owe you for?”

  Crandall’s face twisted in a vicious grin. “For every day you don’t have a pair o’ broken legs.” Shev swallowed. Seemed he’d somehow managed to become more of a bastard than ever.

  Mason’s deep voice rumbled out, soft and calming. “It’s just a waste is what it is. Westport has lost a hell of a thief and gained a very average husk-seller. How old are you? Nineteen?”

  “Twenty-one.” Though she sometimes felt a hundred. “I’m blessed with a youthful glow.”

  “Still far too young to retire.”

  “I’m about the right age,” said Shev. “Still alive.”

  “That could change,” said Crandall, stepping close. As close to Shev as Carcolf had been and a very great deal less welcome.

  “Give the lady some room,” said Severard, with his lip stuck out defiantly.

  Crandall snorted. “Lady? Are you fucking serious, boy?”

  Shev saw Severard had that stick of hers behind his back. Nice length of wood it was, just the right weight for knocking someone on the head. But the very last thing she needed was him swinging that stick at Crandall. He’d be carrying it up his arse by the time Mason was through with him.

  “Why don’t you go out back and sweep the yard?” said Shev.

  Severard looked at her, jaw all set for action, the fool. God, maybe he was in love with her. “I don’t want—”

  “Go out back. I’ll be fine.”

  He swallowed, gave the heavies one more glance, then slid out. Shev gave a sharp whistle, brought all the hard eyes back to her. She knew well enough what having no choice looked like. “This thing you want. If I steal it, is that the last of it?”

  Crandall shrugged. “Maybe it is. Maybe it isn’t. Depends whether I want something stolen again, don’t it.”

  “Whether your daddy does, you mean.”

  Crandall’s eye twitched. He didn’t like being reminded he was just a little prick in his daddy’s big shadow. Shev had always had a problem with saying the wrong thing. Or the right thing at the wrong time. Or the right thing at the right time to the wrong person, maybe.

  “You’ll do as you’re told you little gash-licking bitch,” he spat in her face, “or I’ll get my boys to burn your shit-hole down with you in it. And your fucking prayer bells too!”

  Mason gave a wince, and a disgusted sigh, scarred cheeks puffed out. As if to say, He’s a rat-faced little nothing, but what can I do?

  Shev stared at Crandall. Damn, but she wanted to butt him in the face. Wanted to with all her being. She’d had bastards like this kicking her around all her life, it’d almost be worth it to kick back just once. But she knew all she could do was smile. If she hurt Crandall, Mason would hurt her ten times as bad. He wouldn’t like it, but he’d do it. He made a living doing things he didn’t like. Didn’t they all?

  Shev swallowed. Tried to make her fury look like fear. The deck was always stacked against folk like her.

  “Guess I haven’t got a choice.”

  Crandall blasted her with shitty breath as he smiled. “Who does?”

  * * * * *

  Never consider the ground, that’s the trick to it.

  Shev straddled the slimy angle of the roof, broken tiles jabbing her in the groin as she inched along, thinking about how much she’d rather be straddling Carcolf. Down in the busy street to her right some drunk idiots were haw-hawing way too loud over a joke, someone else blabbering in Suljuk, of which Shev didn’t understand more than one word in thirty. Down in the empty alleyway on her left it seemed quiet though.

  She inched to the chimney, keeping low, just a shadow in the darkness, slipped the loop of her rope over it. Looked solid enough but she gave a good heave to check. Varini used to tell her she weighed two-thirds of nothing but even so she’d almost dragged a chimney clean off once and would’ve taken a tumble into the street with half a ton of masonry on her head if it hadn’t been for a luckily placed windowsill.

  Careful, careful, that’s the trick, but a healthy streak of good luck doesn’t hurt either.

  Her heart was pounding now and she took a long breath and tried to settle it. Out of practice was all. She was the best thief in Westport, that was well known. That was why they wouldn’t let her stop. Why she wouldn’t let her stop. That was her blessing and her curse.

  “Best thief in Westport,” she muttered to herself, and slid down the rope to the edge of the roof, peering over. She could see the two guards flanking the doorway, lamplight gleaming on their helmets.

  About the right time, and she heard the whores’ voices, shrill and angry. Saw the guards’ heads turn. More shrieking, and she caught the briefest glimpse of the women struggling before they went down in the gutter. The guards were drifting down the alleyway to watch, and Shev smiled to herself. Those girls put on a hell of a show for a couple of silvers.

  Seize your moment, that’s the trick to it.

  In a twinkling she was over the roof, down the rope, and in through the window. It had only taken a few coppers to get the maid to leave the shutters off the latch. She pulled them shut as she dropped onto the other side. Someone was on their way down the stairs, a light tread, unhurried, but Shev was taking no chances. She nipped to the candle and pinched it out with her gloved fingers, sank the corridor into comfortable darkness.

  The rope would still be dangling but there wasn’t much to do about that. Couldn’t afford a partner to hoist it ba
ck up. Had to hope she was long gone by the time they noticed.

  In and out quick, that’s the trick to it.

  She could still hear the whores screeching in the street, no doubt having attracted quite the crowd by now, folk betting on the outcome and everything. There’s something about women fighting that men can never seem to take their eyes away from. ’Specially if the women in question aren’t wearing much. Shev hooked a finger in her collar and dragged a bit of air in, squashing a stray instinct to go and take a peek herself, and padded softly down the corridor to the third door, already slipping out her picks.

  It was a damn good lock. Most thieves wouldn’t have even bothered with it. Would’ve moved along to something easier. But Shev wasn’t most thieves. She shut her eyes, and touched the tip of her tongue to her top lip, and slid her picks inside, and started to work the lock. It only took her a few moments to tease out the innards of it, to tickle the tumblers her way. It gave a little metal gasp as it opened up for her, and Shev slipped her tongue and her picks away, eased the knob around—though she was a lot less interested in knobs than locks, being honest—worked the door open a crack, and slipped through, just as she heard the boots on the stairs, and felt herself grinning in the darkness.

  She hadn’t wanted to admit it, least of all to herself, but God she’d missed this. The fear. The excitement. The stakes. The thrill of taking what wasn’t hers. The thrill of knowing just how damn good she was at it.

  “Best fucking thief in Westport,” she mouthed, and eased over to the table. The satchel was just where Crandall had said it’d be, and she slipped the strap over her shoulder in blissful, velvet silence. Everything just the way she’d planned.

  Shev turned back towards the door and a board creaked under her heel.

  A woman sat bolt upright in the bed. A woman in a pale nightdress, staring straight at her.

  There wasn’t supposed to be anyone in here.

  Shev raised her gloved hand. “This is nothing like it looks—”

  The woman let go the most piercing scream Shev ever heard in her life.

  Luck’s a treacherous bitch and won’t always play along. Then cleverness and caution and plans will only get a thief so far. Boldness will have to take you the rest of the way. Shev raced to the window, raised her black boot and gave the shutters an almighty kick, splintered the latch, and sent them shuddering open as the woman heaved in a whooping breath.

  A square of night sky. The second storey of the buildings across the way. She caught a glimpse of a man with his head in his hands through the window directly opposite. She thought about how far down it was, and made herself stop. You can’t think about the ground. The woman let blast another bladder-loosening scream. Shev heard the door wrenched wide, guards yelling. She jumped through.

  Wind tugged, flapped at her clothes, that lurching in her stomach as she started to fall. Like doing the high drop when she was tumbling with that travelling show, hands straining to catch Varini’s. The reassuring smack of her palms into his and the puff of chalk as he whisked her up to safety. Every time. Every time but that last time when he’d had a drink too many and the ground had caught her instead.

  She let it happen. Once you’re falling, you can’t fight it. There’s an urge to flail and struggle but the air won’t help you. No one will. No one ever will, in her experience.

  With a teeth-rattling thud she dropped straight into the wagon of fleeces she’d asked Jens to leave under the window. He looked suitably amazed to see her floundering out from his cargo, dragging the satchel after her and scurrying across the street, weaving between the people and into the darkness between the ale-shop and the ostler’s, the shouting fading behind her.

  She reeled against the wall, gripping at her side, growling with each breath and trying not to cry out. The rim of the cart had caught her in the ribs, and from the sick pain and the way her head was spinning, she reckoned at least one was broken, probably a few more.

  “Fucking ouch,” she whispered through gritted teeth. She glanced back towards the building as Jens shouted to his mule and the wagon rolled off, a guard leaning out of the open window, pointing wildly across the street towards her. She saw someone slip out of a side door and gently push it closed. Someone tall and slim, a strand of blonde hair falling from a black hat, and a satchel over her shoulder. Someone with a hell of a walk, hips swaying as she drifted quietly into the shadows.

  The guard roared something and Shev turned, stumbled on down the alley, squeezed through the little crack in the wall and away.

  Now she remembered why she’d wanted to stop, and run a Smoke House.

  Most thieves don’t last long. Even the good ones.

  * * * * *

  “You’re hurt,” said Severard.

  Shev really was hurt, but she’d learned to keep her hurts as hidden as she could. In her experience, people were like sharks, blood in the water only made them hungry. So she shook her head, tried to smile, tried to look not hurt with her face twisted up and sweaty and her hand clamped to her ribs. “It’s nothing. We got customers?”

  “Just Berrick.”

  He nodded towards the old husk-head sprawled out on the greasy cushions with his eyes closed and his mouth wide open and his spent pipe beside him.

  “When did he smoke?”

  “Couple of hours past.”

  Shev gripped her side tight as she knelt beside him, touched him gently on the cheek. “Berrick? Best wake up now.”

  His eyes fluttered open and he saw Shev, and his lined face suddenly crushed up. “She’s dead,” he whispered. “Keep remembering it fresh. She’s dead.” And he closed his eyes and squeezed tears down his pale cheeks.

  “I know,” said Shev. “I know and I’m sorry. I’d usually let you stay long as you need, and I hate to do this, but you got to get up, Berrick. Might be trouble. You can come back later. See him home, eh, Severard?”

  “I should stay here, I can watch your back—”

  More likely he’d do something stupid and get the pair of them killed. “I been watching my own back long as I can remember. Go feed your birds.”

  “Fed ’em already.”

  “Feed ’em again, then. Just promise me you’ll stay out till Crandall’s come and gone.”

  Severard worked his spotty jaw, sullen. Shit, the boy really was in love with her. “I promise.” And he slipped an arm under Berrick’s and helped him stagger out of the door. Two less little worries, but still the big one to negotiate. Shev stared about, wandering how she could be ready for Crandall’s visit. Routes of escape, hidden weapons, backup plans in case something went wrong.

  The coals they used to light the pipes were smouldering away in the tin bowl on their stand. Shev picked up the water jug, thinking to douse them, then reckoned maybe she could fling them in someone’s face if she had to, and just moved the stand back against the wall so she could reach for it easily, coals sliding and popping as she set it down.

  “Evening, Shev.” She spun about, trying not to wince at the stab of pain in her side. For a big, big man, Mason sure had a light tread when he felt the need.

  Crandall ducked into the Smoke House behind him, looking even more sour than usual. She watched two of his thugs crowd in behind him. Big-Coat with his big coat on and Hands-in-Pockets with his hands still stuffed in his pockets.

  The door to the yard creaked open and Pock-Face sidled through and shouldered it shut. So much for the escape route. Shev swallowed. Just get them out fast, and say as little as possible, and do nothing to rile them. That was the trick to it.

  “Black suits you,” said Mason, looking her up and down.

  “That’s why I wear it,” she said, trying to look relaxed but only getting as far as queasy. “That and the thieving.”

  “Got it?” snapped Crandall.

  Shev slipped the satchel out from under the counter and tossed it to him, strap flapping.

  “Good girl,” he said as he caught it. “Did you open it?”

 
“None of my business.”

  Crandall pulled the satchel open. He poked around inside. He looked up at her, with far from the expression of delight she’d been hoping for. “This a fucking joke?”

  “Why would it be?”

  “It’s not here.”

  “What’s not?”

  “What was supposed to be in here!” Crandall shook the satchel at her and the frowns his men wore grew a little bit harder.

  Shev swallowed again, a sinking feeling in her gut like she was standing at a cliff edge and could feel the earth crumbling at her feet. “You didn’t say there’d be anything in it. You didn’t say there’d be some champion screamer in the room either. You said get the satchel, and I got it!”

  Crandall flung the empty satchel on the floor. “Thought you’d fucking sell it to someone else, didn’t you?”

  “What? I don’t even know what it is! And if I’d screwed you I wouldn’t be standing here waiting with nothing but a smile, would I?”

  “Take me for a fool, do you? Think I didn’t see Carcolf coming out of here?”

  “Carcolf? She just came . . . cause she had a job . . . in Talins . . .” Shev trailed off with that same feeling she’d felt when her hands slipped from Varini’s and she’d seen the ground flying up to greet her. Crandall’s men shifted, one of them pulling a jagged-edged knife out, and Mason gave a grimace even bigger than usual and slowly shook his head.

  Oh, God. Carcolf had finally fucked her. But not in a good way. Not in a good way at all.

  Shev held her hands up, calming, trying to give herself time to think of something. “Look! You said get the satchel and I got it, what else could I do?” She hated the whine in her voice. Knew there was no point begging but couldn’t help herself. Looked to the doors, the thugs slowly closing on her, knew the only question left was how bad they’d hurt her. Crandall stepped towards her, face twisting.