by Kate Forsyth
That afternoon they went out into the city again, in search of money and food to refill their empty packs. The blind seer led them through the narrow streets to a great square, where stalls of all sorts were set up, and bands of ragged jongleurs roamed, juggling apples and bellfruit, and pulling coins from behind people’s ears. Jorge found an empty spot to crouch, and began to wail out his beggar’s song, calling for coins and good wishes. In between verses, he listened to the gossip of the marketplace and planted a few seeds of his own. The afternoon sped past so quickly it was only when Jorge began to pack up that he realised Tòmas was no longer crouched beside him.
With the enchanted gloves muffling the boy’s magic, Jorge had no way of knowing when the boy had crept away or how long he had been missing. Cursing fluently, the seer called down Jesyah and instructed him to search the marketplace. He then began his own search, casting out his mind anxiously and tapping his way through the thinning crowds. Jorge was well known in these parts, and so many people called greetings to him, some kindly, some not. To all that were kind, Jorge asked if they had seen a small blond boy. Fair hair was rare enough in this land of dark-eyed, dark-haired people for him to be sure Tòmas might have been noticed. All his queries were in vain, though, and Jorge cursed the nyx for creating a concealing magic so strong it would hide his apprentice from his own eyes. By the time night was falling and the torch-bearers were filling the square with orange smoky light, Jorge was close to tears. Lucescere was not the city for a young boy to be lost in.
Scruffy pushed against a well-dressed man in the crowd and felt through his heavy coat the fat, hard shape of a well-filled purse. A smile flickered over his face but he drifted away as the man looked round sharply, feeling the presence of someone too close for comfort. By the time the man’s hazel eyes were scanning the crowd, Scruffy was well away, a piebald puppy galumphing at his heels.
‘We’ll eat tonight, Jed,’ Scruffy whispered, pulling at the puppy’s flea-bitten ears. They followed the man through the marketplace, never hovering close enough to attract any attention, but never losing sight of the plump man in his fur-lined cloak.
The puppy was just four weeks old, and the only thing in the world that Scruffy had to call his own. He had rescued the puppy from being eaten, for meat was scarce after the long, hard winter and many a lady’s pet had found its way into a thief’s cookpot. Painfully thin as the puppy was, it still meant the best meal the thieves had had for a long time and they had not been happy at Scruffy’s interference. At first Scruffy himself was unsure of why he had rescued the little dog, or even why he did not eat it himself. After a night spent with the warm little body snuggled under his shirt, he did not wonder any longer. He just knew the puppy was his and had to be protected.
Scruffy was an orphan, and like many children in Lucescere, lived off what he could beg or steal. His mother had been a maid in the royal palace, his father a gardener. When the Rìgh left Lucescere and took his royal court down to the new palace by the sea, they had been left without jobs, despite their families having been employed by the MacCuinns for generations. By the time Scruffy was born, his father was one of the famous band of Lucescere thieves, his mother a prostitute. In Lucescere there was not much else for an ex-lady’s maid to do. By the age of five, both his parents were dead, and the little boy was left to fend for himself as best he could. It had not taken long for Scruffy to adjust to living on the streets, and the thieves of Lucescere had a strict honour code that protected their own. Scruffy thought his life was a good one, even though cold and hunger were his daily bed-mates.
The chance for Scruffy to steal the man’s purse came as the Lady of Lucescere’s litter was carried swaying through the marketplace. The plump man stopped to stare, as indeed did everyone in the square, for the lady had chosen cloth of gold curtains for her litter and they glittered in the bright sun. Servants beating drums and blowing pipes led the procession and followed after, and the litter itself was borne on the shoulders of four gaudily dressed men. Fascinated as he was by the sight, Scruffy took the opportunity to press up close to the man, slip his hand in his pocket and gently remove the purse. He was just slipping his hand free when Jed caught sight of a kitten perched on a young boy’s shoulder, and with a hoarse bark of rage, launched himself forward. The cat shrieked and dived for cover, and the puppy promptly gave chase, his ears flapping wildly as he skidded and lost his footing in the mud. Scruffy gave a shout and followed after, afraid of losing the dog in the crowd, as the plump man clapped his palm to his empty pocket.
‘Thief! Stop, thief!’ he called, and Scruffy felt his heart sink as he put on speed.
Stealing in the marketplace was always dangerous, for the shopkeepers had an unwritten agreement to help stamp out thievery. At the shouts of ‘Stop, thief’, many tried to grasp Scruffy’s shoulder or bowl him over so they could pin him to the ground. Luckily, though, this was Scruffy’s home ground and most of the beggar children swarming the great square were members of Scruffy’s gang. As thin as matchsticks and dressed in a wide assortment of dirty rags, they dodged and weaved through the crowd, tangling the fat man’s legs or knocking over a basket of apples so the city soldiers slipped and fell. Distracted by the sudden swarm of dirty children, the pursuit fell behind, and with a slap to the palm of Jay the Fiddler, one of his lieutenants, Scruffy dived into the labyrinth of alleys beyond the square.
Clasping the heavy purse hard to his chest, Scruffy ran after the determined white bob of Jed’s tail, leaping over a basket of bellfruit and ducking his head to avoid being brained by two men carrying a loom. It was only sheer persistence that prevented Scruffy from losing sight of his dog, but at last he ducked into a dark alley to find the puppy wagging his stumpy tail and barking loudly at the outraged ball of fuzz perched on a narrow windowsill.
‘Bad dog, bad dog,’ Scruffy said, and fumbled for the length of string tied around the puppy’s neck. Jed avoided his grasp, however, jumping up and down in a vain attempt to reach the kitten, who sat down and calmly began to wash. Scruffy made another lunge and caught the end of the string just as a small blond boy came running into the alley.
‘Kitty, kitty,’ he called.
‘Your cat?’ Scruffy demanded belligerently.
‘Aye,’ the boy replied sunnily and held out his arms so the kitten jumped straight from the windowsill onto his shoulder. Jed whined and rubbed around the boy’s feet, making Scruffy jerk on his string with jealousy. He eyed the little boy with distaste. He was blond and very neat, with wide blue eyes, and a good pair of boots. Scruffy had never owned a pair of shoes and he eyed them with contemptuous envy. The little boy also wore a pair of black gauntlets, like a falconer, and Scruffy huddled his own dirty, scratched paws under his threadbare jerkin.
‘Your bloody cat almost got me caught.’
‘Your dog almost ate my cat.’
‘I could’ve got into real trouble!’
‘Ye were stealing.’
Scruffy was taken aback. ‘Wasna.’
‘Ye were. I saw ye.’
Scruffy darted forward and punched the little boy in the face, so he reeled back and fell, blood trickling from one nostril. To Scruffy’s horror, Jed barked at him and bounded forward to lick the little boy’s face.
‘What ye go and hit me for?’ The blond boy sat up, one hand to his bleeding nose. ‘I wasna going to tell anyone.’
The kitten, finding itself face to face with Jed, hissed and arched its back. The puppy bounded forward joyfully, barking, but the little boy said, ‘No, dog,’ and obediently Jed flopped to the ground, giving his hand a lick.
That was too much for Scruffy. ‘Jed! Come here!’ he commanded. His puppy whined and wagged his tail but did not move. ‘Jed! Do as ye’re told! Come here!’ Reluctantly the dog wriggled through the dust to Scruffy’s feet, but cast a longing look back at the little boy, who was scrambling to his feet.
‘What a runt!’ Scruffy said contemptuously, and pushed the little boy. Again he fell over, and
Scruffy leant over and began to pull his boots from his feet.
‘Do no’ take my boots!’ the boy said in dismay, tears beginning to trickle. ‘I need to walk such a long way. I need my boots.’
Scruffy sat down and tried to squeeze his broad, flat feet into the boots, only managing the task with some difficulty. ‘Och, dinna I look grand!’ he crowed. ‘I look like a laird!’ Flushed with his success, he began to pull at the boy’s jacket and then tried to wrench one of the gloves off, even though there was little chance he could fit his hand in it. For the first time the little boy began to fight back.
Scruffy had been so consumed by jealousy and instinctive dislike he had not been keeping an eye on the mouth of the alley, and had virtually forgotten he had been chased all through the marketplace. He was just grinding the little boy’s face into the ground, and trying to undo the clasp of his woolly plaid when there was a shout, and he looked up in horror to see the fat man in the furred cloak pointing at him, a whole group of blue-clad town guards with him.
‘That’s the lad who stole my purse!’ the fat man shouted.
Scruffy looked about him in panic, but the alley ended in a high wall with only a small window breaking its height. There was nowhere to run, and none of his gang was around to help him escape. He let go of the little boy and gathered the puppy up in his arms, conscious of the weight of the purse in his pocket. If he was caught, the best he could hope for was a branding or to lose his right hand. At the worst, he would be hanged.
As the town guards fanned out, closing off any means of escape, he launched into action. Running full-tilt at the guards, he head-butted one in the stomach, dodged around him and through the gap. Ordinarily Scruffy would have been able to escape, for he was quick and canny, but he was hobbled by the too-small boots and laden down with the squirming body of his puppy tucked inside his shirt. The guards caught him halfway down the street.
The little boy was also held tightly by a guard, the fat man proclaiming he must be an accomplice. When his purse was found in Scruffy’s pocket, the fat man was very pleased. ‘Take them to the city dungeons!’ he cried. ‘I will speak to my cousin Baron Renton myself!’
The city dungeons were deep below the old palace, which had been abandoned when the Rìgh moved the court to Rhyssmadill fifteen years earlier. The current Baron of Lucescere occupied only one wing of the massive building, the Guild of Seekers another, with the rest being allowed to fall into ruin. Scruffy and Tòmas, frightened as they were, could not help but look about them in interest as they were taken through a pair of great gates and up a neglected drive, planted on either side with tall trees, just budding with white blossoms. With the snow-capped mountains behind, the glittering domes and turrets of the palace looked very beautiful, set as they were in acres of wild gardens, with the Tower of Two Moons, greatest of all the Witch Towers, rising straight as an arrow in the background.
‘I’ve only ever looked through the gates and ye canna see much,’ Scruffy whispered, limping in the tight boots which were chafing his feet unbearably. ‘My da was once a gardener here, ye ken.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘He’s dead,’ Scruffy answered, just as he was knocked sideways by a blow from a guard, who yelled at him to be quiet.
They had little chance to see much of the inside of the palace, for they were marched straight through to the guards’ barracks and then down to the dungeons. Deeper and deeper they descended into the bowels, darkness and a horrible smell closing over them. Tòmas shrank closer to Scruffy, who was surprised at the protectiveness that swelled up inside him. They were eventually thrown into a long room of cells, filled to the brim with men, women and children, some chained to the wall, others free to roam about their small pen, clutching the wooden bars and peering out at the blaze of torches that accompanied the guards.
This was the thieves’ gallery, they were told by a young man who recognised Scruffy as the son of Adair the Bold. ‘Well, young Dillon, following in your da’s footsteps? Well done! Shame your da is no’ here to see it, he’d be that proud!’ Culley, the young man, was here for thieving, as they all were, and had been there for almost three years. ‘Baron Renton do be busy wi’ other things. I was told we would be tried and judged when there were too many thieves in here and they needed the room. I would say that would be soon.’
And the long gallery was indeed crowded with prisoners, most sunken-eyed and pale, as if they too had been locked up for years. Many were sick, coughing hoarsely, and one old man lay in a pile of rags, his waxen features silhouetted against the slimy stone wall, his breath rattling in his throat.
Following Tòmas’ gaze, Culley’s mouth twisted. ‘He’s been like that for days now. It will no’ be long, and we’ll have a corpse stinking up the place. Shame. He was a grand auld man, King o’ the Thieves, afore he was caught. No’ that they ken, the fools. None o’ us’d betray him. He was taken wi’ his daughter, who stole the Lady’s jewels right off her finger without her noticing a thing! She was no’ got for that, but for spitting at the seanalair. The jewels are safely stashed away somewhere, no doubt o’ that.’
Culley was a garrulous young man and obviously glad to have a new audience, tired as he was of talking with his cell-mates, who threw in sarcastic comments every now and again, but generally sat in silence in the foul straw, too broken by hunger and fear to move much at all. Scruffy listened in interest, but Tòmas was concentrating on the old man, lying like a sepulchre in his cell. One of the old man’s bare feet was almost within his reach, and so while Culley was telling Scruffy he’d be lucky if he ever saw daylight again, Tòmas took off his gauntlet and reached his hand through the bars to touch the old man. He could not reach, so had to lie almost prone, stretching his arm as far as he could. Scruffy noticed what he was doing just as Tòmas managed to touch the old man’s toe. His rude comment was halted as a wave of colour seemed to wash over the dying man. The pink bloom of health began at his toe, and washed right over his body, finishing at his face. The old man stirred and coughed, then sat up tremulously. His daughter, who had been cradling his head and weeping quietly, cried out in surprise. He shook his head and seemed to smile.
‘Come closer,’ Tòmas said. ‘It is better if I can touch your head.’
The old man and his daughter looked at him in blank surprise, then the old man shuffled over and knelt so Tòmas could put his hands through the bars and lay them on his head. This time the change was dramatic. Colour sprang up in the old man’s cheeks, his eyes brightened, his stooped shoulders straightened, and he rose and stretched. ‘I feel bloody grand!’ he cried. ‘Where are we? Wha’ has happened?’
The entire gallery was thrown into chaos. Sick prisoners stretched out their hands to Tòmas through the bars; whispers and exclamations ran round like wildfire; and the old man’s daughter knelt at Tòmas’ feet, thanking him and crying out that here was magic, magic had returned to Lucescere at last.
Locked in his cell as he was, Tòmas could not reach all the prisoners, but he laid his hands on all those he could and those he could not moaned and pressed up against the bars. Scruffy and Culley stared at him in awe. Soon those too far away from Tòmas to be touched were rattling their bars, calling to him, begging him to touch them. One prisoner, a huge bearlike man with a leg all swollen and weeping with pus, managed to pull one of the wooden stakes out of the ground. A cheer went up and, with a loud groan, he managed to knock another out of the way. At last he was kneeling in the straw on the outside of Tòmas’ cell and when Tòmas laid his hands on the giant’s curly black hair and all the infection melted away, the old bruises and cuts disappearing, and he could stand on his leg without pain, a cheer went up.
The black-haired giant was able to break open Tòmas’ cell and the boy hurried around the room, touching everyone he could reach. One by one the cells were broken open. Strength and hope filled every prisoner in the room, and they began to test the door at the entrance to the gallery. No-one had responded to the noise and e
xcitement in the prisoners’ gallery, and Culley shouted, ‘The guards never stay down here when they could be up drinking and feasting in their guard-room. If we can get free …’
The thought of drinking and feasting was an added spur to the prisoners, and the extraordinary strength Tòmas’ touch had imparted to them at last had the wooden door broken down and the prisoners streaming out into the dank corridors beyond. The old man, minutes before close to death, naturally took the lead, and the escaped thieves followed him, mindful of his years as King of the Thieves, leader of their guild.
The escape was not to be that easy, however. Three hours after breaking down the door they were still wandering in the labyrinthine dungeons, though their numbers had been swelled by other prisoners freed from their cells. The high excitement and bravado was beginning to fade into fear of the consequences, and arguments between the escapees were turning ugly. Tòmas was exhausted by his healing efforts and could barely stumble along, and all were painfully aware it was almost time they were all fed. Once the guards came with the trays of slop, they would find the door broken down and all the prisoners escaped.
They had paused to rest in one of the endless identical corridors, and the thieves were arguing amongst themselves about the best way to go.
‘We’ve been in this corridor before!’ Culley was asserting belligerently. ‘I recognise that stone.’
‘How can ye recognise a stone in the wall? They all look the same!’
‘We should be markin’ our passage,’ Scruffy said. ‘Does anyone have any chalk?’ Of course no-one did, nor a knife they could scrape marks with, nothing that could show them the path they’d already taken. Tòmas lay curled on the damp stone, his head on Scruffy’s thigh, his eyes closed. He was breathing shallowly, his soft face white with exhaustion.
The corridors were nearly all lit with strong-smelling torches that were placed sporadically along the way and could burn for days without being replaced. As they all argued, the torch nearest to them suddenly went out and they were plunged into darkness. Immediately a scared hush fell over the band of thieves. Tòmas sat up, yawning and rubbing his eyes.
