Boots for the Gentleman

by Augusta Li

  “Be a good lad and stay right here,” he said gently to Little Ricky. “Big Brother’ll be back soon.”

  Then the boy’s demeanor changed dramatically, and he bellowed, “Time to crack some fucking skulls!” He lifted his trademark axe over his head and let out a ferocious war cry.

  As Tommy ran past, Querry caught his elbow and said, “What the hell is going on?”

  “Barty Siddle’s gang,” he said, with a blood-crazed look that should never touch so young a face. “His boys been picking pockets on our turf. Now they got the stones to come here. Well, I’ll cut them clean off!”

  “Wait,” Querry said, thinking. “Barty Siddle. With the eye patch and big hat?”

  “You know that dirty cocksucker?”

  “But Tommy, those are grown men!”

  “We’ll spill their fucking guts, mister. And piss in their faces, not to worry!” He broke free and tore off, yelling at the top of his lungs.

  “I think we should get out of here,” Querry told Frolic. “This little skirmish might attract attention that we don’t need.”

  “Will they be all right?” Frolic asked, looking at the basket in the corner. “They’re just children, Querry.”

  “They’re young, but they can take care of themselves. I was the same at their age. Besides, us getting caught up in this won’t change anything.”

  “Why is it always that way? Why does nothing we do ever make a difference?”

  “No time for philosophy, beauty. We’ll make our way to the docks and get on board a ship. Let fate decide where to take us.”

  Frolic didn’t argue, though Querry could see the turmoil in his large eyes. They fought their way into the hall and onto the stairs as boys pushed past them on every side, yelling oaths that made even Querry blush and brandishing all kinds of weapons.

  Outside was chaos. Piles of debris had already been set to burn. At least fifty youths blocked the street, standing shoulder to shoulder. Others poured from alleys and nearby buildings, shouting out their eagerness to join the fray. About a block and a half away, Querry saw the approach of more than twenty men. A young man of about fifteen noticed them, too, and he screamed, “Here those whoresons come! Let’s tear their throats out!”

  His troops bellowed a deafening response, and the group surged forward at a run. Querry grabbed Frolic’s elbow, and they pressed their backs tight against the closest building. Not ten feet from where they stood, the two groups clashed. The din increased as metal met metal and flesh met flesh. Many of those who had been near the front of the group fell right away, only to be trampled by their enraged comrades as they tried to crawl to safety. Blood wet the cobblestone and screams pierced the night. Black Bethany’s boys scored the first victory; one of them hurled a bottle of flaming oil into Barty’s ranks. Four men caught fire and had to leave the melee to roll in the filthy snow. Others took their places, though, and the two factions crashed together again. More fell, and others rushed to claim their spots.

  Inch by inch, trying to avoid wildly swinging boards or hurled bricks, Querry and Frolic made their way toward the back of the battle, past Barty Siddle’s thugs. The street was a blur of flailing limbs, wrestling bodies, fire and blood. Endless reinforcements arrived to join Bethany’s cause, and it looked like Barty’s gang would be overwhelmed by the superior numbers. By now the boys surrounded the dozen or so men left standing, and pushed and clawed at one another to land a blow. Their adversaries held their arms in front of their faces, and succeeded a few times in pushing some of the boys back. But as soon as they did, another group closed the gap, and it seemed inevitable that the thugs would be crushed beneath a pile of angry young men.

  Querry put his left arm around Frolic’s shoulders, and wrapped his hand around his forehead to protect him as they prepared to sprint through the clusters of combatants fighting in smaller groups beyond the main battle. His right hand held the clockwork pistol ready. As soon as he saw an opening, he urged Frolic on. Small bodies lay in the street, and injured boys limped past them. Frolic let out a wail when they collided with a young man holding a blood-soaked rag over his eye.

  “Don’t look, don’t look,” Querry chanted, trying to soothe him. They’d nearly made it through, to a street corner that lead away from the slum. A boy sailed into his chest, knocking Querry on his ass and sending Frolic sprawling beside him. The clockwork pistols bounced against the street and landed a few feet off. It took a moment for Querry to recognize Tommy. The boy held his diaphragm and spat a mouthful of blood onto the cobblestone. He’d lost two of his front teeth. A big, bald man, his face so disfigured by scars that it barely registered as human, approached them with a meat cleaver. Tommy’s signature axe was nowhere to be seen.

  Querry crossed his arm over the boy’s small shoulders and drew his sword. Being on the ground put him at a disadvantage. He needed to level the field, and fast. With a quick motion he sliced at the man’s knees, severing the tendons and dropping him. As he fell, he swung the cleaver at Querry’s hand. Querry tried to angle his blade to deflect the blow off the hand-guard, but he knew he wouldn’t likely escape a deep wound.

  Shouting Querry’s name, Frolic tackled the big man and pummeled the side of his ugly face with his fists. The man’s cries got the attention of three of his cohorts, and one of them struck Frolic hard in the ribs with a broken oar. Frolic flew threw the air and landed on his side.

  Disoriented, Querry struggled to stand with Tommy still in his arms. He set the boy down, held his shoulder and looked seriously into his face. “Get home to your brother,” he said, and Tommy obeyed without argument.

  Instead of wasting time locating his gun, Querry ran to stand in front of Frolic, sword extended. He thrust at the thug with the oar, piercing his side and, from the rush of blood and air, his lung. The man staggered back, clutching the wound. Another member of the gang swung at Querry with a knife, but the thief kicked him in the groin and disarmed him as he doubled over. Behind him, Frolic had reached his knees and was using Querry’s coat to pull himself up.

  Pain erupted across the top of Querry’s foot. Looking down, he saw the man with the cleaver had dragged himself through the street to attack. The blade still stuck in Querry’s flesh, and blood darkened his leather boot and pooled around his foot.

  “You son of a two-penny whore!” he yelled, and brought his sword down in an arc, hitting the man between the eyes with the hilt. His head hit the cobblestone, and Querry reached for the handle of the cleaver and extracted it with a scream. The momentary distraction cost him; the third of the thugs smacked him in the back of the head. He fell across the back of the man with the cleaver.

  Everything blurred and bled together. Querry willed his eyes to focus, willed his muscles to get him up. Neither would cooperate. Nearby, Frolic fought furiously. Querry heard the hum of his blade. He had to get to his feet, get Frolic out of here. His foot throbbed and burned, shooting agony up his leg. Nothing but smudged rusts and grays met his vision. Frolic cried out. Querry heard a thud, ground his teeth and pushed with all his might.

  Rough hands grabbed his hair, wrenching his head back painfully.

  “Frolic?” he choked, but got no response.

  “Shut it, pretty boy,” said a familiar voice.

  Querry twisted to escape. Something hit him between the shoulder blades, held him down.

  “Frolic!”

  He was dragged away from the man with the cleaver, onto the cement of the walk. Someone pulled his arms behind his back and restrained his wrists. They hauled him up, but his injured right foot couldn’t support him, and he dropped to his knees. Through his haze, he scanned around desperately for his partner, but instead of growing clear, the world became fuzzier, darker—

  Lost too much blood.

  “I won’t. Let you. Take. Him.”

  “An’ I said shut up.”

  Something struck Querry’s temple, and everything went black.

  Chapter Nine

  THE first thing Querry p
erceived was the smell. Even before he opened his eyes, it made him fight to keep from retching: human waste and moldy straw. A large cinderblock room slowly became clear. Indeed, straw covered the floor. Here and there sat a broken chair or a wooden crate made up as a table. Metal buckets lined the walls, and the swarms of flies above them told Querry their purpose. Across from him, a fat, naked man gnawed on a rat. The smears on his sagging chest proved he made it a habit. Tiny, semicircular barred windows let in the cold winter light. People huddled together for warmth: men, women, and children in filthy rags. The Halcyon penal system made no distinction between those who couldn’t make their rent and the homicidally insane. Querry wondered which of the city’s many prisons he could now call his home.

  “What the—”

  A boy of about twelve handed Querry a canning jar full of cloudy water, and Querry drank. Gradually he recalled the battle in Slouch End, though he couldn’t envision how it had ended. Soon two other boys joined the first, crouching beside Querry with their elbows on their knees.

  “We heard what you done,” said one. “Back in the Slouch End.”

  “We wouldn’t let them saw your foot off,” said another proudly.

  Remembering his injury, Querry curled and uncurled his toes. His foot felt cold, but the pain wasn’t much, considering. Looking down, he saw a scabbed-over gash. It didn’t look red or puffy, though: no infection.

  “Got hold of some gin to pour over it,” the boy continued.

  “Thanks,” Querry said. In a place like this, one didn’t sacrifice gin lightly. “What happened?”

  “Barty Siddle got hold of ye. Turned ye in for a hundred-pound reward.”

  “I had someone with me.”

  “Silver-haired bloke? The constables took him off somewhere else. I’ll tell you what, he looked a little like a pansy, but he could fight like a demon. Took eight of ’em to get him in the wagon.”

  “Where did they take him?” Querry asked, even though he knew the answer.

  The boys shrugged. The one who’d saved Querry’s foot said, “It’ll be off to the workhouses for us. Not that they’ll keep us long.”

  “Better than the colonies,” said the boy with the water jar.

  “Why would they keep me alive?” Querry mused. Of course, they’d taken his gear and stripped him down to his shirt and trousers. One of his benefactors had wrapped a scratchy blanket around his shoulders. It didn’t make any sense. Now that they had Frolic, why not just put a bullet in his head? Unless they wanted a hanging, a public spectacle.

  Tearing a few strips from the blanket with his teeth, Querry wrapped his bare foot and stood. He could try to escape, but he had no great expectations. The windows with the iron bars were twelve feet above his head, and the walls were likely four feet thick. A huge metal door, green with oxidation, stood at the other end of the room. It had no handle on the inside. And while no guards patrolled the prison interior, Querry knew the yard beyond would be a different story. All he could do for now would be to wait and try to recover his strength.

  A few hours later, just after sunset, the prison staff lit the candles that sat on the crate tables, and the residents lined up to receive a loaf of rock-hard bread and jar of water. Bullies immediately tried to take the rations from the weak, and several fights were broken up by the clubs of the guards. Querry found a secluded corner and finished his cheerless supper. Covering as much of his body as he could, he drew his knees up and leaned his head against the wall to try to sleep amidst the crying of babies, drunken altercations, and the babbling of the mad. Off in the dark, he heard the too-familiar sounds of women and boys fighting off unwanted attention. He found it disgraceful not to even separate the women and children from the men.

  Shivering and hungry, Querry thought about the Thimbleroy manor and the luxuries within: stuffed leather chairs beside cozy fires, trays of fruit, biscuits and fine cheeses to snack upon, tumblers of good whiskey and cigars, tubs of hot, bubbling water, soft towels, silk robes, satin sheets, and servants to turn down the beds. Was that where Frolic was at the moment? What would he be doing: sitting down to a dinner party or shooting billiards in the study? Did Querry have any right to deny Frolic a life of such pleasures, just because he wanted Frolic for himself? He’d introduced Frolic to a hard world, a world where survival meant struggle, and a world where innocents suffered. Thimbleroy could give him a life unlike Querry could ever dream of providing.

  But Querry could picture the aging aristocrat closing a carved door and ordering Frolic to undress, to get on the bed. Querry could see Frolic’s fair, slight form beneath the velvet canopy, waiting, wondering. Was it a good trade, comfort for freedom? If he believed that, Querry could just go and live with his gentleman and want for nothing. No, Frolic should be given the choice, and Querry would see, somehow, that he was.

  Querry closed his eyes. He was tired after the fever and the fight. He thought about his gentleman. Maybe the faerie would come and rescue him, force the guards and prisoners to stare in dumb impotence as the two of them strolled leisurely away. He could imagine it: the gentleman talking animatedly about a play or party, completely oblivious to the danger and despair around them. He’d probably insist Querry accompany him to some sort of bizarre dance or symphony. Not for the first time, Querry had a sense of something significant that he couldn’t grasp. But he was too exhausted to puzzle it out just now, and so he forgot it.

  OVER the next three days, little broke the bleak monotony of prison life. In the morning the prisoners got a metal dish of gruel and a cup of milk that had usually gone sour. Then the guards rounded up those people scheduled to be deported to the colonies and those to be executed. Orphans left for the factories. Querry spent the afternoons pacing, trying to examine the windows and walls for ways of escape without being obvious. So far it seemed his only chance would be to run past the guards when they opened the door to distribute food. He didn’t like his odds of being shot in the back, though. Now and then the inmates got to spend a little time walking the desolate, gray yard.

  On the fourth day of Querry’s incarceration, four constables in their blue uniforms and silly hats came looking for him just after breakfast. They cuffed his hands with heavy, iron manacles and led him into a corridor beyond the entrance. They walked by more metal doors, until one of them stopped and unlocked one. Another pushed Querry inside the tiny cell, which contained a utilitarian desk and chair, and another chair facing it. At the desk sat a portly, middle-aged man in a brown suit and a salmon-colored kerchief that almost matched his complexion. His jowls drooped, and a ring of ruddy flesh squished out around his starched collar. He looked up at Querry without much interest, then back down at the papers he examined by a gas lamp. A guard dragged Querry to the unoccupied chair, slammed him down, and secured his ankles to the chains welded to its legs.

  The man at the desk cleared his throat and began reading. “Name: Querrilous Knotte. Date of birth: unknown. Age: unknown, presumably between eighteen and twenty-two years. Current address and family are unknown. Charges include burglary, larceny, sodomy, treason—including faerie collaboration—inciting of a riot, assault and murder. The penalty for which shall be death by hanging.”

  “Aren’t I supposed to stand trial?”

  The man looked up at Querry and smirked, as if to say, Who do you think you are? He continued, “However by intervention on the part of Lord Pyramus Earnest Thimbleroy, Grande Chancellor, the sentence shall be reduced to permanent exile on the Gondwalla Island Colony, if the accused is willing to cooperate by answering fully all queries set forth by his Lordship.”

  Querry snorted. He knew if he answered the questions, the four burly constables would take him to a secluded alley and slit his throat.

  “Skeptical, Mr. Knotte?” asked the pudgy attorney. He held up a page and pointed. “This is His Lordship’s signature and seal. He’s arranged for you to make the journey to Gondwalla Island in three days time. If you cooperate, that is. You’ll be given lodging and respe
ctable work.”

  “I’ve had a taste of your idea of respectable work,” Querry said. “I don’t care for a second helping.”

  A guard with a thick, red moustache hit Querry with the back of his hand. Querry’s lips pulsed and swelled, and blood trickled down his chin. “No speaking out of turn,” the guard warned.

  Barely fazed, the barrister continued. “First question,” he said, dipping his pen in anticipation of recording the answer, “Where and how did you acquire the clockwork mechanism that you refer to as Frolic?”

  “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

  “Constable, if you please.”

  The guard backhanded Querry again, splitting his lip. Eyes watering, he spat the blood on the floor.

  “Second question. Upon obtaining the aforementioned clockwork mechanism, did any other clockwork machines come into your possession? Or literature relating to the construction of clockwork mechanisms?”

  “Clockwork mechanism,” Querry said, shaking his head and making his chains rattle. “Fuck you.”

  The hairy fist struck him on the cheek, making him and the chair fly through the air. It landed on its side, and Querry smacked his head and scraped his shoulder. Two guards hauled him back up and positioned him in front of the desk. Blood dripped into his left eye from a cut on his brow, and a strand of his black hair stuck in the wound.

  “Where is the book, Mr. Knotte?”