Self-Made Scoundrel (28 page)

“Those look like they’d fit you, Scald.” They didn’t. Scald’s feet were definitely smaller than Derk’s but it didn’t keep the boy from nodding, obviously not wanting to disagree with The Bastard. “You could use something nice for the job anyways…off wif ‘em.”

Derk managed to bend down and undo the buckles, loosening them both before stepping out of them. His feet felt as if they were being jabbed by a million needles as he set them on the ground, the snow melting as he stepped into it. He grabbed the pair in one hand, keeping his other arm wrapped around his torso for all the good it would do, handing the boots over to The Bastard who handed them to the boy.

“Pleasure, always a pleasure doing business. Best you win a few hands next time you play wif me. Now, off wif you.” Derk managed to bow courteously to the pair, more mocking them than anything else, before he turned around and started off down the street. He waited till he was out of eyesight before he attempted a full on run, each step tortuously cold, each pace of air his body moved through threatening to crush his lungs. Stupid Bastard, Derk thought, his instincts hurling him away from the man he so desperately wished to kill. A string of curses bubbled in his brain, keeping it alert enough to find his way to the Ale’s Well. His dark thoughts began to thaw out as soon as he stepped through the door, all his vicious plans and vile words streaming from his mouth as the snowflakes melted on his pale shoulders.

A loud laugh directed at him gave away Jezlen’s position and Derk stumbled toward him, his feet not working properly. He was out of breath and the cold was still very real under his skin. Derk starting to shake more violently as he settled next to Jezlen in front of the roaring fire. The elf was still wearing his coat and didn’t offer it to him. Derk’s teeth were chattering too hard to ask for it so he pointed to the coat and then to himself. The elf wrinkled his nose in dismay and reluctantly handed the coat to the freezing man.

“Whatever just happened, I wish I had been there to see it,” was all Jezlen said, turning to the side to lift his mug of something warm off of the table. Derk tried to think some murderous thoughts about the elf but he was still shivering and his desire for revenge against Sersena the Bastard seared at the forefront of his mind. All this over a simple game of cards.

If Derk didn’t think so highly of himself, he would have counted himself lucky for escaping with a few less belongings. People who angered the thug usually had his gang after them, and those who did worse than anger him learned why he kept his chain in hand. Many a debt had been taken out in broken bones and torn open flesh in the Unders and sometimes for debts smaller than two shirts. Apparently Sersena the Bastard thought Derk might be useful. Derk could have gone along on the job and maybe made some money, as well as endeared himself to one of the more dangerous folk in the city.

But Derk wasn’t one to get on other people’s “ledgers.” Though not as well known as The Bastard, Derk knew he was a better thief and a better person in general than the dirty cur. The best way to make was one’s own. That was his general thought, and he figured he’d rather make a few blue pieces and answer to himself than be given a bag of fullies by someone he had to call “boss.”

Jezlen, in his saintlike generosity, offered Derk his pipe, the man finally noticing his hands stopped shaking as he took it. He would do something to hurt Sersena the Bastard. A long pull set his nerves aright, his bare feet finally registering the hard floor below and he stared into the fire. Sersena would pay.

Derk never got the chance to pay back Sersena the Bastard. The job went horribly and Sersena and all the men who were there as accomplices were rounded up and tossed into jail. They were sentenced to hang. Apparently, Hock hadn’t been at the job, nor had he been fingered as the mastermind behind it all; Derk saw him enjoying a mug at the Northside the day the group was convicted. When Derk cornered him later and asked him how he could let them go through with his original plan, Hock narrowed his eyes, hopping off his bar stool and leaning in close, his mouth by Derk’s ear. All he said was: “It’s trash off the streets.” Derk stood there, stunned, realizing what he was implying.

The plan was supposed to have gone wrong. Sersena the Bastard really was an idiot.

Derk, wearing a pair of boots and a shirt bought with Jezlen’s tobacco money, attended the hanging. Each of the criminals was bound and chained to the other. Two guards drove the wagon, two guarded the prisoners. All five of the convicted were led up the stairs to the platform where they were made to stand on stools. Sersena the Bastard fought back, cursing wildly. One of the guards pulled out their sword and plunged it into him. The large man doubled over and then went limp, his body unceremoniously loaded into the cart which had brought him there.

Among the four remaining, the boy was one of them. Derk felt a cold sweat break out on his forehead as they forced the boy up on the stool, tightened the noose around his neck and placed a sack over his head. Their crimes were recited in front of the jeering crowd: attempted robbery of ten barrels of lamp oil, destruction of private property, destruction of public property, assault of city officials, public inebriation and performing crimes within one hundred paces of a holy temple.

Their faces were covered but Derk imagined the dread wracking their faces, the tears in their eyes, the last minute prayers or curses springing to their lips. He imagined himself in their place, imagined where the boy might be instead if he hadn’t decided to join Sersena the Bastard’s gang. Derk held his breath as the crowd seethed around him, throwing things, shouting things, hungry for entertainment in the form of death.

The Bastard had gotten what he deserved; or had he? He was a cruel man, but even he didn’t strike a man when bound or in the back. Derk looked over to the cart, the booted feet of the dead man sticking out past the end. The crowd boiled around him but he didn’t notice, didn’t see what they did, didn’t hear what they said. The hangman went behind each prisoner, kicking the stool out from under each, their bodies bobbing up and down as they kicked desperately, the false hope for ground underfoot causing the bodies to dance, suspended as they were. One stopped, than another, followed by the other two, the crowd shrieking and hooting all the while. Derk stood there, frozen, numbed not by cold but an overload of emotion. He stood there in the square as the crowd dispersed, trembling slightly as he watched the four men cut down, loaded into the cart and led out by a simple peasant.

He stood there in the square for a while in a daze, the snow starting to fall yet again. People began to pass before him and behind him, some of them staring at the man who was staring at the small raised platform where five men had just died. Derk didn’t care about the cold beginning to bite at his face and legs. Trash. He wasn’t trash, was he? He didn’t deserve to have a stool kicked out from under his feet, did he? As if able to read his thoughts, someone came up and stood beside him. The voice of Hock was crisp and clear in the cold winter air.

“You are better than them. And you know it. Jezlen is getting your boots. Now come with me.”

Questionable Beginnings

Derk drank from his glass, trying to keep a smile on his face. The bar was loud, the lively exclamations of card players and revelers filling the air. Normally Derk would have joined in but not tonight. Across from him sat Hock, Drink and Paint, all three of them regarding him with different emotions. Hock looked hopeful, a smile plastered under his bushy mustache. Paint looked disinterested. And Drink…the woman with red hair and a face full of freckles did not look pleased.

When Hock had first taken Derk on last winter the big man made it seem like he was the head of the Cup of Cream. As Derk has asked more questions it became more and more clear Hock wasn’t. Nobody was in charge. Everybody was. But there were senior members who were regarded as the most knowledgeable, the best at what they did. Everyone could recognize each other and most knew of one another but finding each other got easier only the longer you’d been in. Hock said it was like ‘magic,’ the way they were able to come together when needed. Derk thought it was more about habit and a bit of luck. Hock could always be counted on to be in Bluemist eventually. Paint worked at a singing house called the Piper’s Dream. A man named Shot spent a lot of time in the ‘Wicks and the Holy Bowl. And Drink rode between Reedwood and Redtree at least once a season.

But now three members of the Cup of Cream were sitting before him. Under the table Hock’s dog wagged its tail, whacking everyone. Derk could felt its wet nose pressing against his leg, sniffing him over and over. Hock slipped the animal scraps of barley bread from time to time. Drink raised a brow at Derk but turned to Hock. “I still don’t understand where you found this boy,” Drink said. “He has a big mouth and a big claim. Horse riding, letter writing, mapping, prowling. Tell me, boy, what can’t you do?”

“I can’t break a man’s nose with a flick of my finger,” Derk started looking at Hock. “I can’t sing the high parts of ‘Cross the Sky Came My Darling’.” That was meant for Paint. “I can’t shoot an arrow into a man’s neck from a hundred paces.” He looked to Drink. “But I can do lots of things you all can’t. And we all share abilities.”

“Who cares where he picked it all up?” Hock said. “No one’s looking for him, he don’t owe anyone anything. You know better than anyone, living is learning, Drink. Some manage to live a bit more than others. Faulting someone for making better use of their time?” Hock laughed and dropped another crust of bread under the table for the dog. “Too useful, sorry Derk. We’ll find a bigger fapper to work with.”

“He’s very pious to boot. He goes to temple to honor the First Thief more than anyone I’ve ever met before, more than Shot even. He knows his scriptures too.” Paint played with the handkerchief tied around her neck but Derk knew what hid behind it. Born a man but living as a woman, Paint wasn’t the first of her kind Derk had met. Apparently Hock and she had something together. They had been kissing when Derk had arrived at the bar. Drink had been sure to sit between them.

The three of them didn’t need to know Derk went to temple to think about Sindra and to beat back thoughts of Gam. He missed both women, not able to see them as much as he would have liked while taking on with Hock. He had seen Sindra after Baron’s Day. The visit had ended with him sneaking out the window with his shirt in his mouth, Sindra feigning being ill as the priestess who had come to check on her asked various questions. Derk had damn near broken his neck jumping off the roof. “The Black Handed One is the Mother of us all and she stole the light so we wouldn’t be afraid in the dark times,” Derk said. Everyone knew it, sang about it in temple. Derk had said it to Sindra and she never had a response for him.

“We don’t need sermons, we don’t need priests. The Church means well and the Goddess might have made the first Take, but she risked burned hands, not a life in jail. Have you ever been to jail, boy?”

Derk shook his head. He had been to jails. He remembered the jail at Cartaskin Keep, dark and wet and underground. Rarely did prisoners occupy its cells. He’d seen people who had been released from prison. It was a deterrent to many.

“You don’t want to wind up in the Jugs,” Drink said. “We’re lucky they don’t brand criminals no more.”

“Didn’t I just say he’s good enough to stay out of the Jugs?” Hock exclaimed, exasperated. “Drink, I don’t just talk to hear my own voice.”

“That’s one good thing the Church did,” Paint offered, pouring herself another glass of wine. “Getting rid of branding. You know it was the Church which forbid it, right?”

“I do,” Derk said. “One of the few times the Church crossed the Barons.”

“Enough about the Church,” Drink snapped, glaring at Paint and Hock. She was obviously tired of them. She looked to Derk. “Hock here says you’re good at hiding. Strong. Smart. Paint says you’re loyal. Devout.” Drink looked again to Hock and Paint, the expression on her face telling them what she wanted before she said it. “Clear out, you two. I want to talk to this pretty boy myself.” For a breath neither of them went anywhere, but then Hock rose whistling for the dog and Paint went round the table, putting her arm in his before they walked away, the dog scurrying behind them. Derk watched them go, feeling nervous as they disappeared through the crowd. He hoped he didn’t seem nervous.

Drink took a bite of the food from the bowl, chewing it quietly while she stared at Derk. Her eyes were green like new leaves in spring and sharp. Derk squirmed in his seat.

“Hock’ll vouch for you. Paint’ll vouch for you. Why should I?” Drink said.

“What about Jezlen, he’ll vouch for me,” Derk offered.

“Nice try, trying to find a work around,” Drink said. It almost sounded like a compliment but Derk knew better. “But he can’t vouch for anyone.”

“Why not?” Derk said, trying not to sound disappointed.

“Well firstly, no one will vouch for him. He’s not right,” Drink said, taking another bite of the food. “The fact you two seem to get on is a puzzle to me.”

“We’ve a bit of history,” Derk said. More than a bit, but he wasn’t going to dominate the conversation or get into how they knew each other. Talking too much would only make Drink angry, he was fairly certain. And that history involved Sindra and the Church, two things he wasn’t sure he wanted to bring up.

“He’s not right. Be careful around him,” Drink said.

“Is that advice? Look, you’ve taken me under your wing already,” Derk laughed, flashing a smile at the woman. He thought she would smile back at him. Her eyes did but her mouth just frowned.

“You think you’re so cute, boy. You’ve got Hock and Paint in your bed, don’t you?” she said, drinking her beer.

“Not literally,” Derk said. Derk scooped up some of the barley salad with his spoon and looked at it. The bit about Jezlen still bothered him. Jezlen wasn’t a bad person. He just wasn’t very good and was sometimes a pain to get in on something. The reasons why the Forester did things were mysterious to decipher but apparently something about Derk got Jezlen on board with him. As far as Derk could tell Jezlen did things for Hock because Hock hated cats. “So you’re just using Jezlen?” he asked.