by Todd Shryock
The second dirty hand reached up and grabbed hold of a broken tile. The boy started inching his way down the peak of the roof. Maybe he could kick his hands loose before he could climb up. As he approached the edge of the roof, a mop of dirty hair slowly rose up, revealing a scruffy, bearded face streaked with sweat and two dark hollow eyes that shone of murder. As soon as the man saw the boy, the eyes narrowed slightly and a hum of happiness came from his lips.
“Room for one more,” the man stated, not asked. He swung his leg up, and with alarming quickness, pulled most of the rest of himself up, as well. But as he just started to climb on to the roof, Quinton heard a slow cracking of wood. The man froze.
“Uh oh,” he said in a slow, quiet, almost girlish voice.
The roof started to sway. The rotten post must have given out, and now with the weight of both of them on the roof, it was starting to slowly rock in a circular motion that got slightly bigger with each pass.
Another post cracked and gave way. Quinton watched as the roof stopped swaying and the man looked up at him again.
“Ah,” he said with a grin. He moved his hand up to get a better grip. The other two posts snapped in half, dumping them over the side of the tower, Quinton riding it like some sort of twisted sled through the air, crashing down to the roof of the warehouse below.
Quinton watched in disbelief as the broken tower roof smashed into the warehouse roof, pushing the vagrant through a hole and dislodging him into the darkness below. He breathed a sigh of relief, only to have it pulled from him as the warehouse roof gave way, sending the remains of the roof and him to the floor below. The roof hit the stone floor and shattered, sending tile and wood fragments in every direction. He was thrown off onto the floor and rolled to stop next to the blank stare of the dead vagrant, his face forever frozen in a strange look of happiness, as if the plummet from the roof had been a joyful ride in the country.
Quinton’s entire body hurt. His chest and legs hurt from being bounced on the broken tiles and from the sudden jolt of hitting first the roof, then the floor. His right knee hurt so badly he wasn’t sure he could bend it, and he could tell from the light coming through the hole above that he was bleeding in several places. But at least he was alive. The rats, at first startled by the sudden appearance of the two men and the tower fragment, started inching back toward him. They were already starting to sniff around the dead vagrant, and he hated to think what they would do to him once they realized what an easy meal he was.
The boy forced himself to sit up and winced in pain. It took several moments to regain his breath and test his body parts. He didn’t think anything was broken, but his knee was starting to swell. He rolled over on his hands and knees, then slowly rose to his feet, gasping for air to alleviate the pain shooting through his body. He could tell it was quickly getting lighter by the glow coming from above and from the door that was slightly concealed from him by a pile of debris. The boy limped over to get a better look at the door, then headed out, sending rats scurrying around him.
Chapter 5
The sun was cresting the horizon, sending long lines of brilliant red and orange across the early morning sky. Quinton might have even described it as beautiful, if Star Gleam City weren’t such a pit of despair -- and if his knee wasn’t screaming in pain. There were a few workers walking down the far end of the street, almost out of sight from where he stood. The dark shapes of the wall and the towers were visible, but as for the maggots and the men following them, there were no signs. He looked up along the roof line on the other side of the street, hoping to see Sands standing there, but then cursed himself for even thinking the man would be stupid enough to be spotted from down below.
He wasn’t sure what to do. Sands was nowhere around, and any sense of danger seemed to have passed. He didn’t want to head toward the wall, because that would put him deeper in enemy territory, and he couldn’t exactly run away. He found a large piece of driftwood that had somehow made its way up to one of the many piles of debris around the warehouse and made a makeshift crutch out of it. His new aid in hand, he hobbled down the street, heading back toward the guild. He hadn’t gone far when he saw two men enter the intersection ahead of him. The men, the same ones he had seen following the maggots earlier, were busy chatting and eyeing a butcher shop on the corner and hadn’t noticed him. He hobbled over to a shadow along the near building and didn’t move. One man, who was a head taller than the other, sported grey, greased-back hair; the other was squat and muscular, his physique emphasized by the faded red shirt that hung open at the waist, exposing a chest full of muscle.
Quinton watched as the two men moved to the door of the butcher shop, still talking and sometimes arguing with each other. Occasionally, one gestured down the street where he was sitting, not seeing him, but motioning about some unseen subject. The boy made sure he was as deep in the shadows as possible, but the ever-increasing light made that more difficult. There were no easy escapes from his current position, no alleyways or cross streets. With his leg throbbing with pain, he doubted he could climb, so he was stuck. The men stopped their arguing and the one with the greasy hair disappeared inside, while the other kept glancing in every direction as if standing guard. A few minutes later, the man reappeared in the doorway. There was another man behind him, partly obscured by shadows. From what he could see, the hidden man was wearing a rich green shirt with a large gold medallion hanging around his neck. He was only in the doorway a moment, then quickly disappeared back into the depths of the butcher shop. The greasy-haired man motioned to his companion and started down the street directly toward Quinton’s position.
Now what? he thought. There was no running. There was no hiding. The only thing he could do was to stay put and hope for the best. He pulled himself to his feet, put on his saddest looking face and leaned precariously on his crutch, as if he had been a cripple his whole life. The men were briskly walking down the street, and it didn’t take long for them to notice him. Quinton hobbled out toward them, hoping his ruse would work. As the men approached, he held out his hand.
“Please, sir, a coin for a poor lad?”
The muscled man didn’t pay him much attention, but the greasy-haired man eyed him suspiciously. He repeated his plea as the men approached.
“What are you doing here, boy?” said the man with the greasy hair as he walked up to him and stopped, the muscled companion standing beside him. “There are no beggars in this part of town.”
Quinton managed a wry smile. “Forgive me, sirs, but that’s why I’m here. There’s no one else asking in these parts, so I figured my chances would be better.”
The man ran his long pale fingers through his dark hair as his eyes narrowed. “I don’t think that’s the case at all; do you, Gus?” The muscled man just slowly shook his head and brought his hands slightly in front of him.
Quinton stood his ground. “So do you have a spare coin?” He looked from man to man, but their expressions were grim. His time was running out. The guild taught you that when faced with a situation that didn’t look to be to your advantage that you made every effort to change it to your advantage. Do what the enemy least expected.
“I think he’s a maggot, sent here to spy on us,” said the greasy-haired man. Things were quickly unraveling. Gus was certainly the bigger threat, so Quinton struck him first. He planted on his good leg and swung his other one up into the man’s groin as hard as he could. Before he heard the man groan and saw him double over in agony, he swung his crutch at the greasy-haired man. But the man had enough time to raise his arm and lean away. The crutch hit him in the forearm and glanced off. His face scrunched up in pain, but he was already moving for a knife at his belt. Quinton lunged with the crutch, but the man jumped back out of his way. The boy took the opportunity to smash the crutch down on Gus’ head, and he sprawled to the ground unmoving.
“Methinks that you have made a terrible mistake,” said the greasy-haired man as he brandished his long knife in his right hand.
>
“Methinks I’m going to run,” Quinton said as he held up the crutch to try to keep the man at bay. He glanced to either side. The unconscious muscle man was to his right and his knee hurt so badly he wasn’t sure he would be able to step over him. Not that it mattered. In his current state, he couldn’t outrun anyone. There was a bit of an opening to his left, but as soon as he glanced in that direction, his adversary stepped to block the path.
“Be a good boy and put your little stick down,” the man said with a sneer, showing his dirty yellow teeth as he did so. “Or I’ll have to cut you.” He brandished his long, thin knife in front of him.
Quinton faked a lunge with the crutch to keep the man off balance. Time was running out. “You’ll cut me anyway.”
The man smiled an evil smile with eyes that gleamed like those of the fox at the henhouse door. “Ah, now, why would I do that? You have some value while you are alive, but if you...”
Quinton made a break for it while the man was finishing his thought, but his escape was short-lived. He spun to the right and tried to run, but his knee almost immediately buckled, which allowed the man time to reach for his arm. He missed, but it was enough to knock Quinton off balance and send him sprawling on top of the muscle man, who groaned in response. The boy felt a hand clamp down on his neck and squeeze hard, a blade pressed to the base of his skull.
“Nowhere to run now.”
Quinton felt something jabbing into his ribs, worked his hand under his body and felt the hilt of a small knife in the belt of the unconscious man. He slowly pulled it out, but the man quickly yanked him up to his feet, sending waves of pain through his knee and his neck. But he still had the knife in his hand and kept it pressed against the front of his body while the man stood behind him.
“Now I go to collect my little reward, and you get sent away,” the man said, his breath nearly knocking Quinton back to his knees. He didn’t know what the man was talking about, but he was at a serious disadvantage so tucked the knife into the hidden folds of his dirty clothes for use at a later time. It didn’t sound like the man was going to kill him right away; he would wait for when he had an advantage to pull his little surprise out of his belt.
“I’ll be back for you in a minute,” he said to his unmoving comrade. “This way, I don’t have to split anything with you. Now come on.” The last words were directed at Quinton, who was shoved forward, the man’s hand and knife still clamped securely to his neck.
The man walked him toward the butcher shop. A few people walked by as they made their way up the street, but they were all smart enough not to even make eye contact, let alone question what was going on. What was the world with one less orphan? As they approached the shop, Quinton could see gruesome cuts of meat being placed in the window. Was he to be turned into some sort of maggot sausage? He shuddered at the thought and continued to look for an escape.
As he entered the doorway, the man threw him forward and Quinton sprawled out onto the floor face down.
“Here’s a maggot for ya, Mr. Greenpants.”
Quinton was lying on a wood plank floor, its grain long since worn smooth by the passing of booted feet. The smell of smoked meat and spiced sausage was overwhelming, and despite his predicament, he couldn’t help but think how hungry he was. He lifted his head and looked up. A large pair of shiny black boots was just a few feet away. Tucked into the boots was a pair of green hose worn by a very clean-looking man with round features and perfectly combed hair. Around his neck he wore a small gold medallion that he absently toyed with when he talked.
“Get up, boy,” Greenpants whispered. He hadn’t said it loudly, but there was authority in his voice that was very similar to Fist. He knew if he didn’t get up quickly, he was dead.
The man eyed him up and down, his gaze pausing slowly at the spot where he had tucked in the knife. Quinton inhaled, worried that the man had spotted his only hope, but then his gaze moved on. When his eyes finally met the man’s, he knew that the man knew all about his knife and probably everything else about him, too. There was no point in hiding anything from him.
“Who are you?” he asked.
Quinton hesitated. What should he tell him? The man’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly and Quinton blurted out, “I’m Quinton.”
The man smirked. “I don’t care what your name is, you little freak. Who do you work for?” The last sentence had a sharp tone to it.
The boy swallowed hard. Each second, his life hung in the balance. Each right answer would buy him a few more precious seconds to find a way out. The planks behind him creaked as the man with the greasy hair stepped up behind him. He couldn’t see him, but he knew that long knife was still in his hand.
“I’m a maggot and I work for Fist.”
Greenpants’ expression changed, as if he hadn’t expected him to say that.
“Just another urchin, sir, just like I told you. Now about that reward?”
Greenpants stared blankly at the man for a moment. “Where’s your partner?”
“Uh, well, he, uh,” the man started.
“I knocked his ass out,” Quinton said.
Greenpants almost smiled as he glanced at him and then the man. He raised an eyebrow as he looked at the greasy-haired man.
“Well, sir, that’s not exactly true. I ... ”
The man cut him off. “I think it is true. I think Quinton here is telling the truth. And I don’t know about a reward because maggots are hard to retrain. They are rotten in the middle. Once something starts to rot, there’s no stopping it. And you are so incompetent, I’m surprised the kid didn’t take you out, too.”
“I, uh, sir, that’s not fair. I brought you another kid just like you asked, and now the way I see it, you owe me the money, uh, sir. I need that money, you see?”
Greenpants turned and walked away, stopping behind a counter in front of a dark doorway. “Quinton, we will meet again.” He glanced at the spot where Quinton had hidden the knife. The greasy-haired man started to press past him to protest his lack of reward. “Now give the man his reward.”
Never hesitate when the moment presents itself, because it will never present itself again. That’s what the guild teaches you. Quinton pulled the knife from his hidden place and in one fluid motion, planted it in the man’s neck. Blood poured from the wound and the man dropped to his knees, choking. Blood ran from his mouth and he started to teeter forward. Quinton pulled the knife from the man’s neck, took the knife that was still loosely balanced in the man’s hand that was quickly turning white, placed both weapons in his belt and limped out the front door. He didn’t know if Greenpants had watched him go or not. It didn’t matter. He had just faced down death and been ruled the more worthy opponent. The fear that had gripped him went away.
The townsfolk who walked by gave the blood-spattered boy with the angry eyes a wide berth.
***
Hours passed.
The boy wandered through the streets in a daze as the sun shone brightly, its light reflecting off the cracked brick and stone facades of the city buildings. He was unaware of his surroundings, the bustle of the city passing him by unnoticed.
When the pain in his knee brought him back to reality, he found himself in the shadows of an alleyway. He was sitting against the wall, his knees pulled up to his chest. A woman was standing in front of him. He looked up at her and saw concern in her eyes, an emotion he hadn’t seen for some time.
“Child, come with me.”
Quinton recognized the face. It was Lady Turnbull, the woman who would stand and urge the street children to leave the gang to live with her sect. Her hand was out. It might as well have been death offering him a deal. He stared at the hand and didn’t move.
“Come.” She waited for him to take her hand, but he just looked at her. She dropped her hand and sighed. “I’m offering you a better life.”
“You offer me death,” spat the boy. “If I go with you, they will hunt me down. No one leaves the family. No one leaves the guild.�
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“You could,” she said, her voice soft and even. “You could leave the guild.” She paused, took a breath, then continued. “Look at you. You are clothed in rags. You have blood spattered all over you. When was the last time you had a decent meal?”
Quinton looked to the ground. He was hungry now. What had he eaten this morning? Some bread scraps? Who knew? Whatever it was, it wasn’t enough.
“Come with me. No one will see you. You’ll be in the safety of our church before they can stop you. We’ll protect you.”
Quinton scoffed. “Protect me from the guild? You have no idea.”
“Children disappear all the time. They might think you are already dead. If you come with me, you’ll have a better life. They’ll never know.”
The boy was tempted. Could anything be worse than where he was now? He looked down at his hands. They were caked in blood. The blood of the man he murdered this morning. He tilted his head back and looked up to the sky, needing an answer.
And he got it. There was a balcony several stories above him and slightly to the left. As he looked up, a man obscured by shadows stepped back out of view. A watcher. The decision was easy. He pulled himself to his feet, his knee still throbbing in pain. He pushed past the woman and started down the street, back toward the safety of the guild. The woman watched with sadness as he disappeared down the street. She turned and looked up to see what the boy had seen just before he left. But there was just an empty balcony and the rustle of the wind.
***
The chatter back at the guild was fast and full of rumors. Several maggots were missing, a few lucky ones dodged attempts to nab them and others had seen nonguild-affiliated urchins dragged away by various men. None of this really bothered Quinton. He hadn’t even bothered to wipe the blood off his face, and the other boys gave him a wider berth as a result. The missing maggots just meant there might be more food for him and one less person kicking him in the back when he tried to sleep in the pit. But the news that almost knocked him to his knees was delivered by Red eye. Sands had not returned, and no one had seen him. The way he had emphasized “no one” made Quinton believe that at least some of the watchers were working for the guild. A reassuring thought, as long as you were doing what Fist wanted and didn’t get caught doing anything wrong -- like taking a little extra food for yourself.
