‘Thanks, Fender,’ she said. ‘Guess I’ll see you later.’
‘Just watch your fucking back, Rag.’
When she turned to nod her thanks, he was gone.
No one but her now. Her and a bar full of scumbags and cutthroats. And she had a chance to get into the Guild. Into a better life.
Well, it couldn’t get any worse, could it?
The door to The Black Hart was almost hanging off its hinges, wood rotted, black paint chipped and peeling. She swung it inwards and stepped into the gloom, expecting everyone inside to immediately put their drinks down and look her way with dark, furious eyes. But no one so much as glanced in her direction.
There was a hum of hushed conversation and a pipe-smoke haze hung in the air like the breath of some ancient firedrake. Rag took it all in, careful not to catch anyone’s eye, mindful she shouldn’t stand too long just gawping. She didn’t want to attract undue attention by looking like she didn’t belong.
Her best bet was to move to the bar and do it with some bloody purpose – don’t draw attention, don’t be seen. So she moved, head bowed, keeping focused, staying wary. It wouldn’t do to let her guard down now.
She strode boldly across the creaky floorboards, past hunched men playing games of cards, until something screeched in her ear.
She jumped almost out of her skin and gave off a girly squeal. There was an ugly bastard monkey, one of those hairy foreign things, on one of the hunched men’s shoulders. The old fella himself was untroubled by the noise, but laughed, in an old phlegmy voice, at Rag.
Well done, Rag. How to make yourself look like a horse’s cock. Great first impression.
Rag made it to the bar, all pretence at looking natural thrown to the gutter. The barman had a bald head and a big greasy moustache and was running a filthy rag around the rim of a tankard. He was smirking, most probably at that stupid fucking noise she’d made.
She expected him to ask what she wanted but he just stood there, with that idiot grin. She guessed she’d best do the talking.
‘I’m looking for Krupps.’ She tried to sound as tough as possible, all gruff and emotionless, but it just came out in her same old voice.
Still staring, the barman nodded towards a corner. Rag turned to see a man looking at her from the shadows. In the scant light from one grimy window she saw two other men with him.
Not wanting to show any reticence lest it be mistaken for fear, Rag strode straight up to the trio of men, her chin as high as it would go.
‘You Krupps?’ she asked, again trying to talk tough but failing miserably.
‘Indeed, I am,’ he replied with a surprisingly amiable smile. ‘You must be this Rag I’ve heard about. Take a seat.’
One of the other men shifted a wooden chair from beneath the table with his foot. Rag gave it a cursory glance before grabbing another empty chair behind her and pulling it up to the table. None of the men reacted to her feigned attempt at bravado. They could probably hear her heart fluttering like a pennant on a windy day.
She took in the features of the three men. Krupps didn’t look bad, she had to admit. In fact, all things considered, he looked extremely out of place in The Black Hart. He was handsome, probably in his early twenties, with a floppy mop of dark hair more befitting a Crown District dandy than some underworld criminal. Nevertheless, Rag knew better than to let his easy smile lull her into lowering her guard. No danger of that with the other two. As much as Krupps looked out of place, these two fit right in.
The one who had slid the chair with his foot was bald and burly, what little hair he had slicked back in greasy knots over his ears. He was chewing on something, and Rag really didn’t want to know what.
In the corner, seemingly clinging to the darkness, was the last of the trio. He was stick thin, with hollow cheeks perched beneath two piercing eyes. His dark hair was pulled back in a tight topknot and his body shrouded in a tatty, ill-fitting coat that failed to hide how skinny he was.
‘This is Burney,’ said Krupps, motioning towards the thickset man who acknowledged her with a wink. ‘And that’s Steraglio.’ The thin man in the corner merely scowled. ‘We hear you’re quite the purse-cutter, young Rag,’ Krupps continued.
She shrugged her answer, trying to look casual about his comment. Probably just made her look more scared.
‘Because we’ve got a job coming up and we might need someone with your skills. Someone stealthy. Someone lithe.’
Again she didn’t answer, still trying to size up exactly what she had got herself into.
‘This is horseshit,’ Steraglio suddenly said from the corner. His voice was reedy and thin, but it still filled Rag with an unsettling sense of dread. ‘Look at her: she’s a fucking child. And just because she can cut purses don’t mean she can break houses.’
Krupps gave him a look – a
shut the fuck up
look. Steraglio took the hint.
‘As my friend just mentioned, we don’t necessarily just want you to steal someone’s coin. But I’ve a feeling you’ve broke a house before.’
No, she fucking hadn’t
. ‘Course I fucking have,’ Rag said with a confidence that surprised her.
Krupps smiled. ‘Excellent. We’ve got just the job for you. And it’s an even four-way split if you’re in, Rag.’
A four-way split sounded damn good, but coin wasn’t the main reason she was here.
‘What about the Guild?’ she asked. ‘Will this get me entry to the Guild?’
Krupps’ smile widened. ‘That’s why you’re here, ain’t it? Entry to the Guild? Do this job right and you’re in. Write your own ticket, Rag – the only way is up.’
She suddenly felt at ease, felt safe. This mob needed her, and needed her so bad they were prepared to give her exactly what she wanted. This was turning out easier than she’d expected.
‘So what’s the job? Whose house we breaking?’ she asked, feeling her confidence rising.
‘All you need worry about is breaking in and opening a door for the rest of us. After that we’ll handle things.’
Open a door? For this crowd to just walk into someone’s house? Glancing around the table she wasn’t sure this was such a good idea after all. If she ever owned a house she was damn sure she wouldn’t want the likes of Steraglio and Burney slipping into it in the middle of the night.
‘Handle things how? I’m not gonna be part of no murder or nothing.’
Krupps laughed, joined soon after by Burney, but Rag noted Steraglio hadn’t even cracked a smile.
‘Oh, Rag. We’re not in the
murder
business – we’re in the taking-what’s-not-ours business. Do we look like assassins? Do I look like the kind of bloke who steals into someone’s house in the middle of the night and slits their throat?’ In all honesty, Rag wasn’t reassured. ‘The house we’re breaking into … sorry,
you’re
breaking into, is owned by a rich merchant – a greedy fucking merchant – but he won’t even be home. So, empty house, easy pickings. Sound good?’
Rag had to admit it was sounding better and better. Her nod of assent was greeted by a big smile from Krupps and a firm slap on the shoulder from Burney.
‘Varson! Break out the good stuff,’ Krupps called across to the bar. Within moments, the greasy barman had placed a dusty bottle on the table with four relatively clean glasses. Krupps filled them – and Rag picked hers up, staring at the murky-looking liquid inside.
‘Here’s to other people’s money,’ said Krupps, raising his glass with a wide grin. Rag couldn’t help but be charmed by that smile, raising her own glass with the rest and swigging its contents in a single slug before slamming it back to the table. The taste was hot and sour, burning her throat and making her nose sting. It was all she could do to hold it down, but to Rag’s dismay, Krupps was already filling her glass up again.
‘To our new friend,’ said Burney, his baritone voice resonating through the interior of The Black Hart.
‘To Rag!’ said Krupps, lifting the second glass to his lips.
In for a penny
, Rag thought, taking a swig. But this time the thick alcohol made her snort and, without warning, she was spewing the stinging liquid out of her nose and all over Krupps’ lap.
A sudden silence. Then the rest of them, Steraglio included, began to laugh hysterically.
Wiping sour-tasting snot from her nose, Rag had to admit that, despite just having ruined a man’s britches, things were looking up.
A
nother day, another book filled with indecipherable nonsense. This one apparently detailed the metaphysical aspects of healing through the Primary Art of Divination; but all Waylian could appreciate was the weave of the book’s binding and the craftsmanship of its embossed cover. He’d always admired the work of skilled artisans, their attention to detail and the years of practice it took to produce a work of supreme artistry. Writers of complex treatises on the ins and outs of the magickal arts, however, he did not appreciate so much.
He was losing patience with the whole thing. What was the point? The frustration at his lack of understanding was manifesting as a distinctly short attention span, and he often found himself daydreaming both in and out of Gelredida’s lessons. At least here in the Grand Library he wouldn’t be reprimanded for his inattention.
Waylian glanced out across the rows of desks, flanked by the seemingly endless line of bookshelves. They seemed to taunt him with their mystery, looming over him like impassable mountains, laughing at his ignorance and jealously guarding the knowledge they would never impart to him. He guessed he wouldn’t have to suffer this indignity for much longer. The Red Witch would doubtless see him expelled quite soon.
Casually glancing across the room his eyes settled on one of the other students. That girl, with blonde hair falling in curly locks about her face. She smiled at him, but before Waylian had a chance to smile back she turned back to her studies.
What
was
her bloody name? Gael? Glorie? Balls, what was wrong with his memory these days! Whatever her name was she was the prettiest thing he had seen in a while … and she’d just smiled at him.
Not that it would have meant anything, just a friendly smile across the library – nothing to get excited about, Waylian. You won’t be here long enough to do anything about it anyway.
Then again, it wouldn’t hurt to have something nice to focus on while he was here.
He glanced towards her again, hoping she might look up, but before that had any chance of happening a cold shadow fell over him.
‘Hard at work again I see, Jotun?’
Waylian jumped at the voice. He didn’t know if he was more annoyed or scared –
Jotun
was her new name for him … and he was nowhere close to working out what it meant.
‘Erm, yes, Magistra,’ Waylian replied, looking up sheepishly to see Gelredida staring down at him with her usual haughty disdain. ‘I was just … er …’
‘Yes, I can see what you were doing.’ The Red Witch raised an eyebrow and peered over to where the blonde girl was sitting. Waylian could see her watching as he was humiliated by his stern tutor.
Great first impression, Waylian. Just great.
‘Jotun, you’ll be pleased to know I require your assistance.’
‘My … ?’
‘Assistance, yes. I’m sure it comes as a surprise considering your uselessness in all other matters, but I’m heading out into the city and it wouldn’t do for me to be seen traipsing the streets without my faithful apprentice, now would it.’
‘Well, I …’
‘Yes, I’m sure you are, Jotun. Now take your books back to your chambers and meet me in the entrance hall as soon as you’re done.’
With that she stalked from the library.
Waylian gathered up his books as quickly as he could, not daring to glance over towards the blonde girl lest she be laughing at his humiliation, and rushed from the library.
Gelredida was standing in wait for him, and it was clear she was less than amused. He had only been a few moments, rushing to his chamber, then straight back down the long winding staircase to the entry hall, but she looked as though he’d kept her waiting an age. She didn’t speak as he appeared, merely set off through the massive double doors as they were pulled open by four towering Raven Knights.
On first arriving in Steelhaven, Waylian had come through Eastgate, a relatively affluent area of the city, and been ushered straight to the Tower of Magisters. Since then he had seen little of the city, beyond what could be spied through one of the Tower’s many windows. As Gelredida led him out through the Tower’s grounds it was clear they were not heading towards an area of affluence.
He followed his mistress north, through streets that became gradually more filthy. Houses of stone and timber soon gave way to twisted shacks of rotting wood and chipped slate; polished cobbles to mud pits swimming with effluent. If Waylian hadn’t been so frightened of the Red Witch he might have asked why they weren’t being accompanied by a Raven Knight or maybe
five
. However, the ever more insalubrious characters wandering the streets seemed to be giving them a wide berth – as though they knew who Gelredida was and what it would mean to confront her. The pair went ever northward, as if with an aura – an aura that said
we are of the Caste, and if you try it on you’ll regret it
.
They continued in silence. Waylian was beginning to wonder if they were lost, when he saw something of a commotion up ahead. A crowd had gathered: a mob of bedraggled-looking peasants all barracking one another for a look at something. As they drew closer Waylian could see that two Greencoats were standing vigil at the door of a ramshackle three-storey house, occasionally pushing back anyone getting too close or peering too far through the partially open door.
Gelredida walked up to the back of the crowd, and as Waylian was wondering how they might make their way through, one of the peasants suddenly sensed the Red Witch bearing down on him. He blanched and moved from her path. Like a whisper on the wind, the knowledge of her arrival seemed to sweep through the mob, heads turning, eyes suddenly widening as each caught sight of the stern visage of Waylian’s mistress. A gap big enough for a horse and cart appeared in the crowd and she strode through, Waylian stumbling to keep up with her as he slopped through the muddy thoroughfare.