by Kate Forsyth
The thieves were whispering, ‘Wha’ should we do? Where are we? We’re lost!’
To Tòmas’ surprise a finger touched his hand briefly, then withdrew. A voice said in his mind, ‘Come, lad.’
‘Ceit Anna?’ he whispered.
‘None other. Come.’
‘What about the others?’ he said. At his words, the thieves had fallen silent and although he could not see them, he could feel them staring in his direction.
‘What do I care about a gaggle of thieves? Come.’
‘Please, Ceit Anna, I canna leave them.’
The nyx sighed, and Tòmas felt her leaning over him. ‘Very well, but only because the guards are close, and they have lights and I do no’ like the light. Bring them if you wish.’
Tòmas took the nyx’s hand, and he felt a shudder go through her at his touch. His hand was still bare, the gauntlet tucked in his pocket with the kitten, who had been miaowing pitifully for some time now.
‘Take my hand, Scruffy,’ Tòmas commanded. ‘She canna bear the light so we mun go in darkness.’
‘Who? Wha’ are ye talking about?’
‘A … friend. She will help us get free. Trust her, she likes the guards less than any o’ ye.’
And so, linked by hand, the long line of prisoners made their escape through the endless tunnels of darkness. Again and again one of the thieves’ courage would fail and the line would halt while arguments went on, but each time the nyx said indifferently in her dry-leaf whispery voice, ‘Leave them. They will die in these tunnels, but no-one will care,’ and each time the thief would hastily grasp someone’s hand again and on they would go.
It was many hours before the nyx at last halted, and said to Tòmas, ‘We are under the great square. If they climb up into the sewers they should be able to find their way out.’
Tòmas told Scruffy, who told Culley behind him, and so the word passed down the line. Most of the thieves obeyed the nyx, and scrambled up one of the great pipes, thanking Tòmas over and over again, bowing to him, and kissing the edge of his cloak. ‘It was no’ me, it was Ceit Anna who got us out,’ he said tiredly, but the thieves were too afraid to even try and see the nyx through the gloom.
Scruffy, the old man and his daughter, Culley, the black-haired giant, and a handful of others stayed.
‘Do no’ send us away, my laird,’ the old man said. ‘Your magic is a wonderful thing. We would stay wi’ ye and have ye tell us wha’ ye wish us to do.’
Tòmas was only seven years old, and very tired and hungry. He clung to Ceit Anna’s hand and could think of nothing to say. Scruffy took it upon himself to answer. ‘Ye can hang round if ye want, but do no’ be expecting him to touch ye again. He’s worn out!’
The nyx bent and whispered in Tòmas’ ear. ‘Jorge is waiting for ye in my cavern. Once he told me what had happened, I came to find ye. It is lucky ye took off your glove, for otherwise I might no’ have been able to follow ye. No-one knows these tunnels like I do.’
The old seer did not scold Tòmas, just gathered him in his arms, hugged him tight, fed him milk and porridge, and put him to bed. While the little boy slept, the kitten curled up at his side, Jorge spoke to the remaining thieves, and his words resounded. He spoke of how a winged rìgh was coming, how the Lodestar would be saved, and a new era of peace and enlightenment would dawn on the land.
‘But the Lodestar was destroyed on the Day o’ Reckoning!’ the old thief s daughter cried.
‘It was no’. It was saved by Meghan NicCuinn and hidden until such a day could come when it might be used again. The Lodestar shall again protect the people o’ Eileanan. Magic shall again be revered and used for the good o’ the people.’
By the time Tòmas woke at noon, hungry again and eager to see Jorge, the thieves had gone to spread the word through the city. Only Scruffy remained, Jed curled up on his lap chewing a strip of dried meat. ‘Yer auld man let me stay,’ he said jubilantly. ‘I’m to travel with ye!’
They spent the afternoon resting and preparing for the next stage of their journey. Scruffy had reluctantly given back Tòmas’ boots, and had bound his feet up in rags in an attempt to protect them from the stones of the road. Jorge took the kitten back to its mother and returned with a leather satchel full of supplies donated by the chandler’s wife, which made Scruffy’s eyes widen in excited anticipation. Jorge was looking worried, for the streets had been filled with blue-clad city soldiers, searching for the escaped thieves, and a ‘lad, fair, charged with the foul practice o’ witchcraft’. The Guild of Seekers had also mobilised, causing the old man’s face to furrow up like crumpled paper.
Jorge had planned on slipping out of the city the way they had come, mingling with the crowds of people crossing the Bridge of Seven Arches before Lucescere’s gates shut at sunset. The legions of soldiers marching the streets and guarding the gates, and the great crowds of excited citizens made this plan impossible, however, and he racked his brains trying to think of an alternative plan. The Ban-Bharrach and the Muileach Rivers were too fierce to be crossed without the bridges, and the only other way out of the city was through the palace grounds, far too risky to be attempted.
Seeing the worried expression on the old man’s face, Scruffy cheerfully asked what was eating his goat. Absent-mindedly Jorge explained his problem, only to have the freckle-faced lad grin and say, ‘Och, no need to fraitch yourself. That’s no problem. We’ll slip out the Thieves’ Way.’ In answer to Jorge’s question, Scruffy explained that the thieves had to have a secret way to come and go without the soldiers knowing, and that as the son of Adair the Bold, he naturally knew the way. ‘Me and the gang’ll help ye, master,’ he said.
So, rather reluctantly, Jorge agreed to put himself and Tòmas into Scruffy’s very grubby hands. Leaning on his gnarled staff and holding Tòmas’ gauntleted hand tightly, he followed the beggar boy out into the crowded slums and was perturbed to hear the ragged cheer that rose up from the throng. Crowds gathered behind them, calling blessings on their heads and reaching out to touch Tòmas. Small gifts of flowers, cakes, bundles of scented candles and skins of wine were thrust into their hands, and mothers held out babies for Tòmas to touch. The little boy clung close to Jorge’s side, but Scruffy swaggered boldly, exchanging ribald comments with the crowd and waving to those he knew.
Soon a ragged band of children was swarming round them, saluting Scruffy and asking for news. Jay, the most able of Scruffy’s lieutenants, began to play on his fiddle, and the discreet withdrawal which Jorge had planned turned into a procession of laughing, dancing, shouting townsfolk. Stout matrons and thin whores waltzed together on the muddy cobblestones; bellfruit sellers dropped their great flat baskets and danced jigs, their legs bare and hairy under their bright robes; a crippled beggar hopped wildly on his one good foot, waving his twisted stick and knocking off a plump merchant’s tam-o’-shanter; children sang hastily composed rhymes of winged warriors and healing hands.
The procession wound its way through the muddy alleyways, torches hissing in the constant grey drizzle. Resigned, Jorge shrugged, clutched his rag of a blanket closer around his shoulders, and limped along, his dirty beard flapping in the wind. There was nothing he could do but trust in Scruffy’s gang to alert them to any soldiers and to hide them in the crowds. Besides, it did his old heart good to hear Lucescere singing the praises of witches again. Lucescere had always been proud of its magical heritage, the one-time home of the MacCuinn clan, the most powerful family of witches in the land.
Jorge heard the sound of marching feet before his ragged guide did, but even as he reached forward to grip Scruffy’s shoulder in fear, the beggar boy had begun deploying his troops. Jay the fiddler boy kept marching forward, playing his violin with such skill and passion that the townsfolk kept dancing and singing in his train without realising their hero, the little boy with the sky-blue eyes, was no longer with them.
Scruffy pulled back a grubby curtain and ushered Jorge and Tòmas through, as two boys promptly beg
an to play knucklebones in front of it, hiding their passage. As the soldiers ran into the square, a crowd of small, very dirty children ducked and weaved about their feet. A few of the soldiers staggered, and one almost fell, grabbing hold of a pile of crates to steady himself and bringing them crashing to the ground, spilling their contents across the mud. All was confusion, and by the time the leader had sorted out his troops and begun questioning the crowd, there was no sign of the blind beggar with the raven on his shoulder, nor of the little boy the soldiers were seeking so desperately.
The Baron of Lucescere had put a high price on the head of the Lad with the Healing Hands, once the stories racing round Lucescere had reached his ears. Worse, he had threatened his soldiers with a whipping and a severe cut in their pay unless the source of all the rumours was tracked down quickly. Baron Renton knew that his rule over Lucescere was tenuous, and only maintained with great brutality and the excellence of his spies. Lucescere had been a trouble spot since the Day of Reckoning, filled with witch-lovers and rebels who worked constantly to undermine his protector, the Banrìgh Maya, and therefore him. Sixteen years of harsh rule and the public burning of any witches found had done little to cement his domination, and the Baron knew the boy’s so-called miracles would be enough to cause an open uprising. Not only would he then lose the life of luxury and power he enjoyed so much, but any failure on his part would not please the Banrìgh, and he knew he must keep pleasing her at all costs.
So, despite all Scruffy’s diversions and tricks, it was a hard chase through the narrow alleys of the slums, soldiers seemingly around every corner. Once or twice they were sighted and the chase grew fierce, Jorge having to pick up his ragged robes and run. Once he only escaped after diving through the half open door of a carriage-way, Scruffy slamming it shut and bolting it behind them so that the soldiers had to use their shoulders to break it down. By the time the door was smashed through, the alley beyond was empty, though if the soldiers had thought to look up they might have seen a small bare foot disappearing over the edge of the gutter as Scruffy chivvied his charges over the rooftops. Another time Jesyah was almost spitted on a spear after dive-bombing the soldiers as they emerged into an open square. Distracted by the flurry of black feathers and the raucous screeching of the raven, the soldiers failed to see an old man tapping his way round a corner, a mangy puppy at his heels. Instead, the soldiers hurried in a different direction, tricked by the sound of running footsteps that turned out to be merely two beggar children playing.
By now Scruffy had lead them down into the poorest part of the city, the huddle of shacks and shanties built into the side of the cliff below the waterfalls. Here the roar of the Shining Waters was so loud Scruffy had to yell to be heard, and their clothes were dampened by the constant spray. The uncobbled pathways were knee-deep in mud, and they made their way across the reeking slime by stepping on unsteady bridges made by broken planks and stones. Here there were no singing crowds, no gifts of bread and wine. Thin girls huddled in corners, coughing and hiding their bruised faces behind filthy rags. Men with scarred faces that caused Tòmas’ heart to race with fear peered from doorways and fingered notched daggers before melting away. The puppy Jed kept up a low growl in his throat, causing Scruffy to bend and stroke his black-patched head. In several places the water roared down right past them and they had to cling to the slimy cliff wall to avoid being swept away. Far below them was the loch, while above the dark cliff loomed over them, broken by the white rushes of water. The air smelt foul, and Tòmas kept his gloved hand clapped tight over his mouth.
‘Where are ye taking us?’ Jorge asked, his voice trembling a little. Although he too had grown up on the streets of Lucescere, he had rarely been in this part of the city, known as a cesspool of disease and crime. Only those who wanted to hire a cut-throat or arrange for the burning down of a rival’s warehouse would venture here, and even then they would hire one of the Guild of Thieves as a go-between in preference to braving these streets themselves.
‘Ye’ll see,’ Scruffy answered, then embarrassed, said, ‘I mean … ye’ll find out soon enough.’
Once or twice they were accosted, and each time Scruffy, his voice shrill with fear, cried, ‘In the name o’ Adair the Bold and the King o’ Thieves, let me through,’ and each time they were allowed to pass. By now the key members of Scruffy’s gang had caught up with them—the thin-legged Jay who had played the fiddle so beautifully, a lass called Finn who called out cheerful insults to the men lurking in the shadows, the two freckled lads who had played knucklebones, and a younger boy, only about nine years old, who hung close to Scruffy’s shoulder. They came and went like shadows, reporting to Scruffy who would then send them off on yet another errand, to return five or ten minutes later with another summary of the location of soldiers or witch-sniffers.
‘I’ve thought up a diversion,’ Scruffy whispered into Jorge’s straining ear. ‘It’s dangerous but I think it’ll work. I found a lad that looks much like our Tòmas … He and a few o’ the other lads have lead the soldiers back towards the palace. They’ll think we’re trying to get through the maze and out into the mountains that way. Finn says they’ve taken the bait, and the whole lot o’ ’em are running like mad towards the auld Tower.’
Soon the narrow track led past the last of the shanties and came to a halt at a bulge of rock, the water running down in a black clamour. Tòmas stopped in fear, unable to see how they could travel any further, while Jorge turned his blind head from side to side, unable to hear or sense anything but the tangled energies of the waterfall.
Scruffy edged his way forward, feeling round the bulge of rock. His foot slipped in the ooze and he almost fell, causing Tòmas to cry out in terror. He had found a handhold, though, and hung there grimly, water crashing onto his head and shoulders with the force of a hammer. With a massive heave, he pulled himself round the bulge of rock and was gone. Tòmas gave a little mewl of distress, but Finn was crouched by his side, reassuring him, and the oldest of the beggar boys—a thickset lad called Anntoin—was guiding Jorge’s faltering steps forward.
The old man was not at all troubled by the slippery manoeuvrings required to get round the bulge for, blind as he was, he could not see the stomach-dropping fall to the loch so far below. With Scruffy pulling from one side and Anntoin pushing from the other, he got round quite nimbly, and then it was Tòmas’ turn. The little boy could not help crying a little from fear and tiredness, but with Finn’s encouragement and a length of old rope from Anntoin’s belt tied round his waist, he slowly crept forward until the rock was pressing against his belly. Water pulverised his head and back, threatening to unbalance him, but Scruffy’s muddy hand was waving from behind the outcrop and Anntoin was holding him steady. He reached out and grasped Scruffy’s fingers and with a squeak, felt himself tugged round, feet flailing. He landed on his hands and knees at the mouth of a cave, great sheets of water pouring past like they had outside Ceit Anna’s cave.
One by one the other children clambered round the rocky outcrop; Jed was heaved round, with the rope tied round his thin belly, then they all cautiously filed into the cave.
‘Got the torches, Finn?’ Scruffy asked, and with a nod and a smile, the girl pulled three long twigs, wrapped with cloth and pitch, from under her ragged skirt. Scruffy’s flint was wet and so it took them a long time to light the torches, which stank foully when at last they spluttered into flame. They lit up the dark cave, however, showing a narrow crack at the back.
‘Welcome to the Thieves’ Way,’ Scruffy grinned, and took the lead.
In single file they followed him through the narrow passage that wound through the rock on which Lucescere was built. Occasionally they could hear the thud of boots overhead or the distant sound of shouting, reassuring sounds in the thick musty silence of the caves. Once they heard a dry rustle and Tòmas looked round excitedly. ‘Ceit Anna?’ he whispered, but there was no answer and the sound did not come again.
Here and there the passage widen
ed into a low cave, or split into different directions, but Scruffy seemed to know his way, padding forward soundlessly on his bare feet. After about twenty minutes they came to a junction and Scruffy was just moving forward when a long arm suddenly shot out and seized him by the neck. Before he could even squeal, a long wickedly serrated knife was pressing into his throat and a hoarse voice said humorously, ‘Now where do ye think ye’re going, Dillon me bold?’
Scruffy was unable to speak, but Finn dashed forward and kicked the unseen assailant squarely between the legs so that he gasped and bent over, the knife lifting from Scruffy’s throat. The puppy Jed also tried to save his master, biting at the man’s bare calf, but although Scruffy tried to wriggle free the man had recovered in an instant. Although his voice was even hoarser than ever, it did not lose its humorous tone. ‘Do no’ go making any mistakes now, laddie,’ he said. ‘I’m a gentle man mesel’ and no’ wanting to hurt a passel o’ brats, but I am no’ the only one round here, and we do no’ like just anyone saunt’ring our highways. So answer me quick, laddie, or I’ll be getting angry and ye do no’ want that.’
Scruffy shrugged his shoulders sulkily, and tried to ease the pressure of the knife against his throat. ‘Ye be hurting me, Culley,’ Scruffy whined, but the man just tightened his hold. ‘I be helping the auld man and the bairn get outa Lucescere afore the witch-sniffers get hold o’ them. The streets be swarming wi’ soldiers and if the bloody Baron gets hold o’ them they’ll burn for sure …’
The knife lifted, and the man slid out of the shadows so that he could get a good look at the little party. ‘Aye, that be the lad,’ he said, and Tòmas recognised him as the thief they had befriended in the dungeons. Culley seemed to ruminate, his bearded cheeks rolling as he chewed his tongue, then he said abruptly, ‘Better be taking ye to see His Highness, for it’s up to him to decide. Ye shouldna have brought strangers along our way, but since it’s the lad that did save us, I be sure His Highness will no’ be too hard on ye … C’mon, Dillon me bold, I’m sure ye ken the way …’
