Before she could reply, the old man leapt at the boy with the satchel and clubbed him in the side of the face with a hand-length cudgel he’d had hidden beneath his belt. The boy went down hard, his head cracking on the cobblestones.
Immediately, another boy leapt onto the old man’s back, taking him in a choke hold. Another swept the man’s legs, dropping him to the alley floor. A second girl pounced, slicing two of the old man’s fingers clean off. He screamed and grabbed his hand, squeezing back the blood.
The girl in front of Mikel never moved. Never took her eyes from him. And Mikel had had enough of this gods-damned business. He started toward her, his sword ready. Two steps and she flashed her hands. A half-moment later something entered his cheek with a searing pain. Mikel stopped and pulled a long, sturdy pin from his face. A third of it coated with blood. Delicate fletching made it something slightly more than a sewing needle.
‘I would have put that in your eye, but I don’t want you coming back.’ The girl casually raised a second pin between them, staring at him over its tip. ‘Take it as a warning, and get the hell out of my alley.’
The old man on the ground moaned, still held tightly in a choke hold. That’s when Mikel saw it, the pendant hanging on the old man’s chest—the prince’s seal. This was a member of Aronal’s coterie. An official man.
That’s also when Mikel realized the old man hadn’t come into the alley for charity’s sake. There’d been an unseemly proposition. It hadn’t been compassion that relaxed the old man’s shoulders. It had been the ease of filling an appetite. The carnal kind. For this old man, it seemed Privilege wasn’t enough.
But Mikel wouldn’t leave him here. Didn’t matter the circumstance or danger. Ten against one. Not fair. Even if they were kids. Though, perhaps it would be two against ten, assuming the old man could be expected to defend himself if Mikel pushed this.
He stared at the girl and her pin for an uncomfortably long time. He meant to make them uncertain about what he’d do. Mostly, he was thinking about her age.
‘How old are you?’ he asked, his voice softer now.
‘I don’t work on my back,’ the girl said.
‘Twelve?’ he asked. ‘Fourteen at the outside?’
She frowned and spat at his feet. ‘You want part of the take. That it? Because you know you could put a couple of us down before we cut you through. And you think we won’t make the tradeoff?’
He shook his head. ‘You took to the streets rather than—‘
‘Men and women who wear silk don’t have Privileges in the Tides.’ She twirled the pin deftly between her fingers.
But that was bluster. The law had every name on a list. Every name. Save drifters. And Mikel was paid to keep drifters moving in and out. These scamps and gillers were refugees who’d escaped the Privileges. For now. And to survive in the Tides, they ran together and fleeced whomever they could.
It made sense to Mikel now, where it hadn’t before. The packs of children. The crime. The killings.
He studied the pin he’d pulled from his cheek. He guessed this scamp’s mother had given her a leather sewing kit as a means to provide for herself when she left her to the Tides—to escape the touch of Privilege.
My silent gods, he thought. Anna, his daughter, would be this age in a few years’ time.
‘Easy,’ he said, and reached into his coat for a bag full of coins—his take from Jackman on the pup’s odds. ‘Let him go, and I’ll make him square with my own money. You keep your take and go the hell home.’
The girl’s eyebrows arched in surprise, then her eyes narrowed. ‘What trick?’
Mikel ignored the question. ‘I’ll see him to a physicker for his fingers. And if we meet again, I’ll go hard on you for this.’ He waved the pin and tossed it aside.
‘Maybe we’ll take your coins, too,’ she said, her fingers tensing on the pin in her hand.
‘You’re welcome to try,’ replied Mikel, hefting his bag to jingle the coins. ‘But I won these by frustrating the prince’s odds maker at the pit. So these are winnings that stole wine from Privileged bellies.’
The girl laughed, and lowered her pin. Then she took several steps toward Mikel, coming up close to see him clearly through the shadows. ‘We’re not looking to be saved. We don’t need your sympathy.’
Softly so that the others wouldn’t hear, he said, ‘That’s horseshit.’
She smiled.
‘I’ve made a fair offer. Are we made?’
The girl motioned with her hand, and the scamps disappeared into the alley. She backed slowly away, looking frailer in the darkness with each retreating step. The Tides would get her eventually. That much was sure. But not today. And she’d go with brighter eyes when the odds caught up with her. But they’d be odds she chose herself.
* * *
Weeks of walking the Tides exhausted him. In every possible way. Coming home to his family was Mikel’s only relief. Small concerns and wrestling with his little ones. Chores and simple repairs. Laughter.
Then one day entering his home, he felt a graveside stillness. The air was heavy. The silence loud. On an old chair in the corner, his wife, Mable, sat rocking their youngest child. Beside her sat the cobbler he’d saved from the pit, holding a pair of shoes.
‘What is this?’ He stepped in, surveying the rest of the room. No one else. ‘Where is Anna?’
His wife looked up at him, unable to speak, her face pale and tear-stained.
The cobbler broke the silence. ‘I came to give her these,’ he said, glancing at the shoes in his hands. ‘For what you did for me and my family. This is how I found her.’
Mikel knelt beside her. ‘Mable, where is Anna?’ he asked again.
Tears rolled down her cheeks. But she could only shake her head.
Privilege. But so early?
It didn’t matter that he’d known this day would come. It didn’t matter that he’d sometimes thought the tradeoff for safety was worth the price of Privilege. It didn’t matter that it was the law. The thought of his little girl taken into the hands of the prince and his cronies to be used for their pleasure and amusement tore at him. His heart hammered with anger and fear and helplessness. His mind raced with images no parent should have to imagine.
Before he knew what he was doing, he’d stood and started for the ruling manors. For the prince.
The cobbler said something behind him, but he didn’t register the words.
* * *
At the sentry gate, he showed his paper of authorization. The prince’s seal and signature got him past the guards. At the manor doors, he did the same, claiming that Prince Aronal had requested a personal report on the state of the Tides—he dropped a hint of “special taxes”, money lay at the top of the prince’s concerns.
The doormen took Mikel’s sword and knife—a precaution at all ruling manors. Then a man in a red velvet uniform ushered him personally up two sets of stairs to a set of double doors guarded by four men. He showed his authorization paper again; one of the guards knocked softly on the private chamber door.
Some moments later came the reply, ‘Can’t it wait?’
‘It’s the Tides, sir. Something about new taxes,’ said the usher.
Another delay and then, ‘Very well. Come.’
The usher bowed and opened the door. If Prince Aronal’s attire was extravagant, his bedchamber was grotesque in its lavishness. It smacked of the careless spending a man does when he’s had a bounteous night of gambling in the Tides. Art covered the walls—the styles foreign, and so expensive to import. Rugs of intricate design stretched to every corner of the room. And there stood no less than six refreshment tables, laden with wines, cheeses, fruits, pastries, and thin meats.
And the jewel of it all was the bed. An oversized piece of furniture—clearly commissioned—with Aronal’s likeness graven into the wood in dramatic relief. The bed had four immense posts, and sheer drapes pulled back, as if the man wanted to b
e seen sleeping.
Mikel had only taken two strides into the room, when he nearly fell.
Lying on the prince’s bed . . . was Anna. Her eyes red. Her lips trembling. One hand tied to the bed post by a length of rope.
Mikel found strength enough to signal that she shouldn’t acknowledge him. ‘Sire, I’ve news. But I doubt you’ll want your man here when I share it.’
Aronal was pouring a glass of dark liquor. Smelled like plum brandy, but tapped too soon, as if by impatient hands. He turned, nodded to the usher, who bowed and withdrew, closing the door.
‘And you are?’ asked the prince.
‘Mikel Richerds, sire. I enforce your laws.’
‘I’m not aware of new taxes in the Tides,’ Aronal replied, unimpressed, ‘so, I’ll assume you have an enterprise to propose. Something that profits us both. Thus your request for privacy, yes?’
Mikel forced himself not to look at his daughter. He couldn’t think straight when seeing the fear in her eyes. And he needed a clear head for this.
‘Sire, your Privilege has brought my daughter to your bed.’ Mikel motioned to Anna.
Aronal’s eyes scanned Mikel, ensuring he’d been relieved of his weapons. Then he took a long draught of his brandy, smiling behind his glass. ‘So, you’ve come to ask for an exception.’
‘I serve your law,’ Mikel answered. ‘I carry your lists. I walk the Tides. I keep my opinions to myself, because I like that our roads are safe.’
‘You have opinions?’ Aronal laughed softly, mockingly. ‘Well, I’d like to hear them.’
Mikel closed his eyes and shook his head. ‘That’s not what I meant, sire. I’m sorry. I just understand that a man has to give to receive. There are trades we make.’
‘Like Privilege,’ Aronal followed, goading him.
‘I used to think so,’ Mikel replied. ‘I used to think that it’s not really a trade if the thing you give up means nothing. Costs nothing. But now . . .’
‘Yes?’ Aronal spared a look at Anna, whose powered face was streaked with tears. Her eyes asked for help.
‘The price is too high . . . and she’s not yours to take.’
‘Do you think, perhaps, that’s for me to decide?’ said the prince, lowering a hand to the blade at his belt.
‘No,’ Mikel said earnestly. He struggled with the words. ‘I’m not a law maker. But I know what’s fair. I’ve kept your pits moving, made sure the fights were satisfying. I’ve patrolled the drift that rolls through Sever Ens, ensured they left as much coin as they took, and kept your taxpayers alive.’ He looked the prince straight. ‘It’s fair for me to ask this favour.’
Aronal offered a conciliatory laugh. ‘My good man, I appreciate your service. The city’s in your debt. But I think the personal nature of today’s Privilege has clouded your thinking. That’s understandable. But I assure you, I will be . . . delicate.’
‘As will I,’ came a voice. Its owner stepped from behind a large bureau on the other side of the bed.
The old man.
His one hand still bandaged, he held a crystal goblet in the other, his cheeks ruddy with drink. ‘When a Prince’s man is attacked by street scum, the little bastards should be gutted. Not paid off!’
This was why Anna had been brought here nearly two years before her time. Punishment. Mikel’s punishment for not better defending the prince’s man.
Petty gods damned bastard!
Mikel could have left the man there to die. He’d bought his life with pit winnings. Took a pin in the face and nearly lost an eye for this whoreson bugger!
The old man smiled thinly.
Mikel turned back to Aronal, ready to explain, but saw only a look of supreme smugness. They’d planned this together. More amusement at the expense of lives they were sworn to hold safe.
Anger burned hot inside Mikel, who finally looked again at Anna. Her eyes had begun to show a hint of resignation. It was the worst thing he’d seen in all his life. And by every last silent god, he would die trying to keep it out of her face.
‘I’m afraid I’m growing impatient with you,’ said the prince. ‘I applaud your commitment to your family. But it’s time for you to go.’
Mikel could rush the prince, but the man was no laggard with a blade. And Mikel was unarmed. He’d test those odds if he had to, though he hated the thought of Anna watching the prince kill him if he failed.
He scanned the room for a makeshift weapon; another knock sounded at the chamber door.
‘Oh my dead gods, what now? Come,’ Aronal yelled.
The usher bowed apologetically as he led the cobbler into the room. ‘You said to admit this man as soon as he arrived,’ the usher explained.
Aronal’s eyes widened with delight. ‘So I did. Come in, my good fellow.’ He gestured for the cobbler to approach, and dismissed the usher.
The cobbler shot Mikel a look, then glanced at the boot box he carried. He did it twice. Something’s inside. The cobbler came up beside him and put the box down on the floor between them, removing thick wood stumps from the boots that helped them keep their shape.
Aronal hastily finished his liquor and wiped his neatly trimmed beard inelegantly with his sleeve. ‘This man, Mikel, this man . . . do you know what he did?’
Mikel waited.
The prince lit with glee. ‘Oh my, it was wonderful. He was in the pit. Against an Inveterae, mind you. And perfectly held to the rules while killing the creature before I’d even finished announcing the match.’
Aronal didn’t recognize either of them. In fairness, the prince’s platform was a fair distance from the pit floor. And Mikel had muddied his face. Though he guessed Aronal had also been rather drunk.
On the bed, Anna was using the distraction to try and free her bound hand. But the binding was too tight, and she was trembling, besides.
‘Sounds like a clever man.’ Mikel nodded to the cobbler.
‘You’ve a gift for understatement,’ said the prince. ‘This fellow saved his own life by using my rules against me. It was brilliant! So, you know what I did?’
‘No, sire.’
Aronal leaned forward and whispered like a conspirator, ‘I commissioned a pair of boots . . . from the very hide of the Inveterae he killed.’ Then he boomed, ‘Isn’t that marvellous!’
Mikel glanced down at the boots near his feet, and that’s when he saw them. A knife hidden in the bottom of each boot.
‘I simply had to have a reminder,’ Aronal went on. ‘Best pit fight of the year. And the commission on the boots pays our man here in full. Plus some. He’s no debtor any more. Do you see how Privilege works?’
Mikel looked up at the prince. A pair of knives wasn’t a guarantee. The monarch had a sword and dagger, and he was powerfully good with them. But it was a chance.
‘I beg you, sire.’ Mikel gave Anna one last look. ‘Let my daughter go. For all I’ve done. All I will continue to do. Grant me this one request.’
Aronal’s countenance changed. Darkened. His delight was replaced by furrowed brows and an angry twist on his lips ‘You are relieved of your duties,’ he said. ‘And good luck finding work, even in the Tides, where you’re known as a man of the law. Oh,’ he added, with a suggestive drawl, ‘and your daughter will remain here a full year. Perhaps longer.’
Privilege was usually a few days.
Anna began to cry.
Mikel bent to the boots and took hold of the knives. The cobbler grabbed the box and retreated to the wall.
Aronal stared a long moment at them both, then shook his head and laughed. ‘This cobbler is full of surprises.’
‘One last time,’ Mikel said. ‘Let her go.’
‘And what do you think happens, my friend, if you manage to kill me?’ He pointed at the door behind Mikel. ‘You’ll never escape the manor alive. There are thirty men between you and the gate. All armed and armoured.’
Mikel twirled the knives around into a pit fighter’s gri
p. ‘I’m betting once the head is gone, the body won’t follow.’
‘Quite the risk,’ said the prince, still standing near one of the refreshment tables.
‘I’m also betting some of those men are fathers,’ Mikel added.
Aronal drew his sword. ‘Clever,’ he said.
The old man bolted for a second door beyond the bureau. The cobbler dashed and cut him off, smashing the box against the side of the old man’s head and knocking him to the floor, unconscious.
‘And to keep the odds fair . . .’ the cobbler turned and locked the main door, then moved to the bureau and pushed it in front of the other door. ‘Just in case his majesty had thoughts of calling in help.’
The prince’s eyes flattened, became calculating. ‘Your daughter will watch me kill you.’
‘Maybe,’ Mikel conceded.
Aronal lunged, the tip of his blade slicing at Mikel’s forearm. He managed to deflect the blow with one of his knives, and dropped into a ready stance. He’s fast.
Mikel closed in, hoping to end the fight quickly. He stabbed with his right hand dagger, but the prince warded off the blow with his own jewel-hilted long-knife.
Mikel spun past Aronal, crouching as the man’s blade swept through the air above his head. He leapt up and kicked Aronal in the chest, driving him back. Mikel needed space to reset himself.
The prince regained his balance and stood ready. Mikel stalked a slow circle, looking for an entry point, a momentary lapse of concentration. Aronal gave him none, even as he smiled. ‘Actually,’ said the prince, ‘this is a nice surprise. It’s not often enough that someone is fighting back when I slice them open.’
Mikel rushed, then dropped low, changing levels. He meant to get a knife in the prince’s belly, but the man stepped gingerly aside and brought his own knife hard across Mikel’s arm, opening a deep cut. Blood flowed fast and hot. And he felt his left hand grip weaken. He rolled through, near the foot of the bed, and whirled as the prince swept in on him.
Mikel jabbed up with his good hand, and caught the prince deep in the thigh. Aronal moaned and staggered back. ‘Your family will pay for that,’ he said.
Grimdark Magazine Issue #6 ePub Page 2
