Rag had stayed in that room for days – she couldn’t remember how many. After a while the landlord come to turf her out; she didn’t have any coin and where her mother was weren’t none of his problem, any road. She’d hung round the building for weeks after, always waiting, begging for scraps, selling what little she had left for food. It was a while before she realised her mother weren’t ever coming back.
And so she’d become Rag, a thief and a beggar. She’d learned harsh lessons – who were your friends and who weren’t, where to go and where not, who to thieve from and who to avoid – and now here she was with a crew of her own, for what they were worth. Orphans all, and none of them any good at stealing, apart from Fender of course, but they were her crew, and they loved each other in their own way. She felt like they were family and she’d do what she could to look after them for as long as she was able.
A sudden noise made her jump up. Tidge gave a squeal as he fell sideways, and Chirpy and Migs grabbed each other even tighter.
Rag moved to the doorway and peered out. Relief washed over her as she saw Markus walking across the roof. He gave a wave and a smile.
Markus entered their shack with a jolly ‘hello’, sitting on the little woodpile and looking round as if he was one of them, as if he belonged. It was obvious to anyone with half an eye that he didn’t. The boy was clean for a start … well certainly cleaner than any of the street kids he was sitting with. His clothes had no holes and had been washed within the past week and his hands weren’t grimed with filth, the nails white, not black from scrabbling through garbage for food. He’d been hanging round with them for weeks, and Rag hadn’t seen the harm in it. He wasn’t an orphan; he lived with his father in the Trades Quarter, but Rag had found him wandering the streets, sad and alone like a lost puppy. Of course she’d taken him under her wing – that’s what she did – but he didn’t thieve and he didn’t beg. No use but no harm, so what was the danger?
‘You all right?’ Rag asked, when Markus didn’t speak.
He shrugged back. ‘Good as ever,’ he said.
Rag hadn’t asked, and Markus hadn’t told, but she reckoned on the boy’s father being a bit of a bastard, which was why he had taken to wandering the streets so far from home and hanging round with the urchins. It weren’t none of her affair so she didn’t pry. Everyone had their own private business, she reckoned.
‘Might be cold tonight,’ said Chirpy. ‘We should maybe think about getting the fire going again.’
‘Don’t talk wet,’ Tidge replied. ‘Ain’t been cold for ages. I reckons we should save the wood for another night.’
Rag smiled at his good sense. For his age he had a solid head on his shoulders. He might even be clever enough to leave this shit life when he was old enough.
‘We’ll wait and see,’ said Rag. ‘Could be a storm coming.’ She nodded through the missing slats in the shack towards the north. A dark cloudbank was gathering on the horizon, an ominous blackness that threatened to consume the clear blue.
‘What the fuck’s this, a mothers’ meeting?’
Rag started at the voice, but as soon as she saw the tall figure framed in the doorway she relaxed.
Fender climbed inside, his lithe muscular limbs moving with feline grace within the confines of the makeshift shelter.
‘What’s the matter? You’ve a face as long as a donkey’s cock.’ He sat down in the middle of the group, with Migs and Chirpy shuffling up to give him room. ‘Looks like you’ve had a shit day at work, Rag? Where’s your coat?’
‘I gave it to your mum,’ she replied. ‘She said she was cold sucking cock at night time.’
Fender smiled back. He’d never known his mother or father, so it weren’t any insult. ‘It’s a good job one of us has been busy, ain’t it?’ He reached in the pocket of his coat and pulled out a tiny bronze vase. The younger boys looked at it with awe, their little faces lighting up at such a flagrant display of wealth.
Fender tossed the item to Tidge. ‘Go deal this to Boris downstairs. And don’t let the fat bastard sell you short.’
Tidge didn’t need telling twice and ran out of the shack faster than Rag had ever seen him move. This was good – they might eat tonight. Boris, innkeeper of the Silent Bull, didn’t mind them making a home on the roof as long as they kept providing him with the odd trinket. He’d even give them food and a little grog if the items were valuable enough.
‘What the fuck’s he doing here?’ Fender said suddenly, looking daggers at Markus.
‘He ain’t doing nothing,’ Rag replied defensively, but she knew it wouldn’t placate Fender – he hated Markus. It was jealousy, pure and simple, and Fender could be a nasty bastard sometimes. Nevertheless, Markus had always taken every slap and insult Fender dished out, and kept coming back for more.
‘I’ve had enough of it.’ Fender stood, ducking beneath the low roof of the shack but still towering over the rest of them. ‘If he stays, he pays, like the rest.’
‘Sit down, Fen—’
‘Fuck off, Rag, I mean it. Get out, rich boy, and don’t fucking come back until you bring something worthwhile. We all gives a bit for the pot. Time you did the same.’
Markus had already moved to the door, clearly fearful of Fender and his cold challenge, but he raised his chin defiantly. Rag had to admit she was a bit proud of him for that.
‘All right, I will,’ he said in a small voice. Then he ran off across the roof.
‘You didn’t have to do that. He’s one of us,’ said Rag.
‘Like fuck he is. He’s got family. He don’t need us. Let’s wait for winter, shall we, wait for the biting cold and the hunger to set in? Then we’ll see how many times he comes to stay.’
Rag didn’t answer. She wanted to tell Fender where to go, wanted to tell him that Markus was a member of her crew and she trusted him, but she couldn’t – because, deep down, she couldn’t help but think that Fender was right, and when the going got tough they would never see Markus again.
T
he song of steel was not a pretty tune. It rang out, discordant and loud, hammered in with muscle and sweat and dirt. Nobul Jacks performed the song like an artist, working his anvil as well as any fiddler at his bow, his powerful strokes expert in their precision. His formidable frame struck out the rhythm; hammer smashing white-hot steel, which sparked in quick quick time, filling the smithy with a dirge to rival any orchestra.
In the darkness of the forge a fierce fire burned, blades protruding like the spokes of a wheel, ready to be struck flat or quenched in water, ready to sing like the strings of a harp. Nearby stood the grinding stone whose voice called out as it sharpened and honed in a perfect falsetto.
For Nobul this was more than mere craft, more than a living. When working the forge he could forget what his life had become – all that existed was the song, the music of his labours, and it swept him from the world, his nightmares and his grief. Once he had closed the door behind him, he felt safe, deep in the sanctuary of his noisy, dirty, honest work.
But the door could not stay shut forever.
It opened, letting the sunlight from outside wash the interior of the forge and breach its sanctity. Nobul paused, hammer raised, as, with the opening of the door, the magic of the song was lost.
Two men entered; big men, burly men. Both taller than Nobul, with thick necks and shaved heads, but they were not lean like him, not hard, not wrought of iron sinew as he was. Nevertheless, Nobul placed his hammer down gently, and with a leather-gloved hand shoved the glowing steel back into the coals of the fire.
One man walked forward as the other closed the door behind them, shutting out the noise of the street. The first smiled, confident, his head slightly cocked to one side.
‘Hello again, Nobul,’ he said, in a deep, arrogant voice. ‘You know the drill.’
Nobul did not speak; he did not have to. Instead he moved to the back of the forge to the worktable that sat against the wall. It was scattered with cross-guards and pommel heads, some ornate and made from bronze or silver, others simpler, crafted from polished iron or other base metals. Whatever the material, they were all of the highest quality; Nobul never made second-rate gear. He was a craftsman: though his wares varied in price they were all finished with meticulous care.
A layman might have considered the table a mess, but Nobul knew where everything was, everything kept in its proper place. He reached for a small leather pouch secured by a drawstring. Still silent, he walked back across the forge and placed the pouch in the big man’s upturned palm. The brute smiled, weighing it in his hand and jingling the contents before untying the drawstring and glancing within.
‘Feels a little light. Do I have to count it?’
‘It’s all there,’ Nobul replied. There was no fear in his voice. These men didn’t inspire fear in him as they did in others. Nobul was too proud to be scared. He’d gone through too much to be afraid of men such as these, despite their size. Despite their reputation.
‘I’m sure it is,’ said the man, smiling again as he secured the drawstring and secreted the pouch within his jacket. ‘How’s business anyway? Good, I’ll bet. You must have more work than you can manage, what with the war coming.’
‘Business is fine,’ Nobul answered.
‘Come now, Nobul. It’s more than fine, we both know that. The Guild keeps abreast of these things. We’re always watching, even if you can’t see us. Weapons and armour for the soldiers at the front are in high demand, especially from a smith of your … talent. And a man of your talent needs protecting, needs looking after. You never know when an agent of the Khurtas might come knocking, might want to do you harm to sabotage the war effort. That’s why we’ll be taking extra special care of you over the coming months. And consequently this extra care will cost a premium.’
Nobul didn’t answer; there was little point. He paid his protection money to be left alone, not to be looked after.
With a nod, the big man turned. His burly friend opened the door, allowing the clangour in once more. ‘Be seeing you,’ said the brute, with a smile; then they were gone, letting the door slam shut behind them.
Nobul clenched his fists, feeling helpless, full of rage. Truth was he
had
received a big commission from the Crown, but he was only one man and he couldn’t afford an apprentice. His son was too young to work the forge, and this backbreaking work wasn’t something he wanted for the boy anyway. It was hard, dirty work, for hard, dirty men, and Markus was not suited to it. Though Nobul had raised him as best he could, their relationship was far from ideal. The last thing Nobul wanted was to
make
him work the forge and drive an even deeper wedge between them.
Yet what choice did he have? If he hadn’t got to pay back his loan for the forge, together with his stipend to the Guild for their ‘services’, he might have been able to get ahead. But if he now had to pay out even more, how could he keep a roof over his head and feed himself, let alone Markus?
Standing around lamenting wasn’t going to solve the problem. Nobul pulled the glove back onto his hand and picked up his hammer.
It was dark when he finally left the forge and ventured out into the cool of the street. Several people were busying themselves hanging banners and bunting for the Feast of Arlor, but Nobul wasn’t interested in any of that. What was the point?
He closed the heavy door behind him, turning the large iron keys in their mortise locks at the top and bottom of the door before taking the short walk to the small house he and Markus called home. Though the tiny space was cramped with the furniture they owned, it still felt empty without her there. He looked towards the hearth where she would have been … should have been sitting, but the chair was empty. The fire was lit though, and above it bubbled a pot of broth which filled the room with a rich smell that made his stomach rumble with approval.
‘Markus?’ Nobul called. He was answered by a clattering upstairs from their shared bedchamber, followed by his son’s muffled answer. The boy came down the stairs as quick as he could at his father’s call, stumbling halfway down. He was a clumsy child, gangly, thin, weak at the shoulders. Something inside Nobul resented him for that. If Nobul had been able to forge his son as he could forge weapons and armour, Markus would indeed have been a formidable child. It hadn’t worked out that way.
‘Father,’ Markus said, reaching the bottom of the stairs, and attempting to compose himself.
‘Asleep again?’ Nobul said, not expecting an answer. Markus only ever seemed happy when he was napping, only seemed to smile in his sleep. It was a laziness that Nobul should have beaten out of him. It was time Markus learned some of his father’s hard work ethic, but beating him never seemed to work. It certainly hadn’t toughened him up, and Nobul was loath to continue on that path. It might eventually drive his son away altogether, and Nobul had lost enough.
‘Lay the table,’ Nobul ordered as he kicked off his boots and sat by the fire.
‘I made the broth,’ Markus said, placing wooden trenchers on the table and laying out the spoons.
‘Yes, I can see that.’
‘And I went and got the bread like you asked. Baker said he was doing a deal on the soft kind, the stuff with no grainy bits in, so I got that.’
Nobul frowned. ‘Markus, how many times? The soft kind doesn’t last; it’ll be stale in a day. We need a loaf to last the week. I’m not made of—’ He stopped himself. It would do no good. Markus didn’t seem to pay heed to any chastisement; he just retreated further into himself.
Nobul lifted the lid of the stew pot, and picked up the wooden spoon that sat by the hearth. Then he stopped – the pot was filled to the brim. It looked like Markus had used their entire stock of meat and vegetables for the month.
‘What’s this?’ he demanded. Markus froze by the dinner table, transfixed. ‘When will you think, boy? Our food has to last. If you cook it all in one stew it’ll be bad in a few days.’
His son’s eyes began to well with tears, and Nobul suddenly found himself twisting the wooden spoon in his hands like a damp dishcloth. He must keep his temper, stay ahead, not let the daemons within rise up.