Herald of the Storm

EIGHT

Rag stood on the roof of the Silent Bull, arms round Tidge’s shoulders. All of them looked out towards Eastgate, from where there still came the sound of celebration.

It had been a good night. Everyone had eaten well, Fender’s bronze trinket paying for a large pot of broth and fresh bread, courtesy of Boris the Innkeeper. Migs was lying on his back, caressing his swollen belly, whilst Chirpy sat cross-legged beside him gazing over the rooftops at the bright lights. Where Fender was, Rag had no idea — he’d left before sundown and not come back. Not that she gave a shit. She’d not spoken to him since he’d bullied Markus away earlier. The longer Fender was gone the better.

But she couldn’t stand here enjoying the show all evening. Down in the streets below were thronging crowds, vendors selling ale and food, live entertainment and carny stalls. People had full purses and couldn’t wait to part with their money. Rag could certainly help.

Before she could drag herself away from her boys, the rickety staircase at the side of the building give off a whiny creak. Tidge and Chirpy jumped, but Migs just continued rubbing his bare tummy as if polishing it to a shine. When they saw it was Markus coming up the stairs, the boys let out a sigh. Rag’s welcoming smile dropped when she saw the look on his face. His eyes looked red from crying, and the streetlight showed up a livid bruise on his cheek.

‘You okay, Markus?’ Rag asked, gently.

He shrugged in reply. Rag put an arm round his shoulder and they turned to watch the endless procession of revellers. She was concerned for sure, but she wasn’t going to pry — it was none of her business. If Markus wanted to tell her he would, in his own time.

They watched the show until Rag decided it was time to go to work.

‘Right, you stinkers, I’ve got to go. I’ll try and be back before sun up, so the lot of you had best stay out of trouble.’

There were faint noises of acknowledgement from the younger boys, who were still captivated by the display. Markus, however, looked at her questioningly.

‘What is it?’ she asked.

‘I think I should come with you,’ he stated, uncertainly.

‘What? On the rob?’ She couldn’t help but grin at the suggestion. ‘You must be joking.’

‘I’ve got to learn some time. I need to start paying my way. Fender said-’

‘Fender says a lot of things and most of it’s horseshit. You’re fine to come and stay with us any time you want.’ She glanced at his discoloured cheek, wanting more than ever to know what had happened. ‘It’s safe here for you, there’s no need to fret. You leave that long streak of piss, Fender, to me. I’ll soon change his mind.’

‘No.’ Markus raised his chin determinedly. He had never been so forceful before — Rag was impressed. ‘If I stay I’m going to learn what you know. You can teach me, Rag. You and Fender are the best purse pinchers in the city.’

Rag was flattered — she couldn’t help it, even though she knew Markus was wrong. If she had been one of the best in the city the Guild would have grabbed her up for sure by now and she’d be sleeping under a roof rather than on top of one. Markus had a point though — he could do with learning the trade. An extra pair of hands bringing in the steal would benefit them all. Besides, persuading Fender that Markus could stay would be much easier if he was earning his cut.

She stared deep into his eyes, looking for any doubt there, any weakness, and it pleased her to see only cold determination. If Markus was going to walk this road with her he had to be damn sure it was what he wanted to do.

‘All right then,’ she said. ‘Best follow me, hadn’t you.’

Markus smiled, a wide naive smile, as though this was going to be some kind of laugh. It gave Rag second thoughts. This was no laugh — it was deadly serious.

‘You do what I say, when I say it,’ she made clear as they went down the rickety stairs from the roof. ‘Keep your eyes open and your mouth shut. Tonight you’ll just be watching and learning and staying out of the way. And if the Greencoats spot me, you just run. Run home and don’t look back.’

Markus nodded obediently, a trace of a smile still on his face.

They made their way from Dockside up towards Eastgate, sticking to the shadows like the rats they were. Markus was with her every step of the way and it didn’t take long for Rag’s doubts to leave her. He was doing well, keeping silent and close and out of view. If she hadn’t known better she’d have called him a natural, but it was obvious he weren’t. Rag was a natural — had a sixth sense for this kind of thing, Fender said. Saw trouble coming before it hit and knew when a mark was ripe for the picking. Anyone could see that Markus was keen and young, and stealthy. Whether a natural thief, only time would tell.

Glancing over her shoulder she gave Markus a reassuring nod and he smiled back. In that smile she saw his innocence, his inexperience. Again she had second thoughts, but then they came out on the Promenade of Kings and she became totally focused on the seething array of targets milling around before her.

The Prom was a major street that ran all the way from the Stone Gate to the Sepulchre of Crowns. It split Northgate from neighbouring Eastgate, an impressive street lined with timeworn statues depicting historic kings from the most ancient of the Sword Kings — whose names Rag had no idea of — right up to King Cael himself, standing looking towards the palace, his armour shining even in the night, his face proud and handsome. Rag had never seen the king close enough to make out his features, but if the statue was even half realistic, he must be a man to be reckoned with. These were his streets, governed by his laws, and in any other life Rag could well have been happy to abide by them. But times was difficult, and King Cael’s laws put no food in her mouth, so she guessed she’d just have to ignore them.

With Markus at her shoulder, Rag made her way amongst the press of bodies. A band somewhere was playing music — strings and pipes working together to rise above the din of the crowd. The perfect opportunity for a couple of quick pinches. By the time they’d crossed the Prom and reached the cobbled pavement opposite she had two purses inside her shirt. Once in the relative safety of the shadows she looked back at Markus, still following like a faithful puppy.

‘See that?’ she asked.

‘See what?’ he replied, then noticed the purses bulging in her shirt. ‘Oh, no, I missed it.’

She shook her head. ‘I thought I told you to keep your eyes open. We’re not here for a good time; we’re here to work. If you’re not up to it, just go back to the Bull.’

‘Sorry. I’ll do better next time.’

Rag looked at him sternly, but couldn’t hold it for long — his expression was too pitiful. Shaking her head wryly she cuffed him playfully around the head.

Safe in a side street she secured the purses in her trews, tying their drawstrings tight to the loops inside her waistband.

‘Right, let’s go. And this time, concentrate.’

Markus nodded, composing his features sharply … perhaps a little too sharply.

‘And try to look relaxed. You don’t want to look like you’re desperate for a shit. That’s only going to draw attention to us.’

Another nod, and his features slackened into a vacant stare.

It would have to do.

Rag led the way once more onto the Prom and this time went with the flow of traffic, taking them south towards the Crown District, where the richer punters were. Normally Rag never got anywhere near the Crown before being spotted by one of the Greencoats and chased away. Pinching there could be more trouble than it was worth. Tonight though would be different. With so large a crowd they were unlikely to be noticed.

The stream of folks moved at a merry pace, and they were soon at the big old gates that led into the Crown District. As Rag hovered outside, trying to spy a perfect mark, her attention was drawn to a pair of Greencoats standing watch over the gate. She cursed silently — did they never have a bloody night off? It was the Feast of Arlor after all!

‘We’ll never get inside,’ she said to Markus, ‘those two look keen as mustard.’ She was turning back when she spied something that brought a smile.

The young woman was beautiful, her gown billowing out from a tight waist in a pastel harlequin pattern. Her hair was tied up in a gravity-defying bouffant and a gold mask covered her eyes. The fat man on her arm was equally well dressed. A merchant and his wife, maybe, and rich — there was no way a beauty like her would be married to such a fat bastard if he weren’t swimming in gold.

The couple walked through the gate from the Crown District bold as brass, swanning past the Greencoats. Rag guessed the Feast celebrations must have been pretty tame in the Crown if these two fancied seeing how the scum were faring on the Prom.

Slumming it with the yokels, eh? Rag would show them how they did things out here.

‘Stick close, and get ready to bolt,’ she instructed Markus, moving aside to let the couple to walk by.

She followed her mark closely, watching as the couple breezed through the crowd. The fat merchant’s purse was at his waist, fastened to a double leather loop over his belt. This wouldn’t be easy, and Rag realised she’d need a distraction if she was going to pull it off. She saw that Markus was alert this time, focused and watching — just as she’d told him. For a second she was conflicted, caught between putting Markus in harm’s way and stealing that big juicy purse, but the need to eat triumphed, as always.

Putting an arm around Markus’ shoulder she leaned in close.

‘Move in front and bump into the woman. Just for a second, just enough to take their attention, then move north and I’ll meet you at Shoulders.’

Markus listened to her simple instructions and moved off as he was told.

Rag moved in behind the fat merchant, keeping her eye on the prize. The purse was attached by drawstrings. She had little time to pull it, but little time was all she’d need.

Markus suddenly came out of the crowd ahead, walking straight into the woman. He bounced off her, looking up all surprised, and Rag was so taken with his performance skills she almost forgot to do her bit.

‘Watch where you’re going,’ barked the merchant, as Markus disappeared into the crowd. Before he could say more Rag had cut the purse strings with her knife, and was off in the other direction.

When she got to the headless statue of the king they aptly called ‘Shoulders’, Markus was waiting patiently, an assured grin on his face.

‘Well? How did I do?’ he asked.

‘You did okay,’ Rag replied, giving him a playful nudge with her elbow.

‘How much have we got?’

‘Dunno, but we ain’t gonna count it here. If two pups like us are seen looking through a full purse, someone’s bound to guess we’re up to no good.’

Markus nodded at the sage advice.

She was about to say they needed to find a quiet spot, lift the coins, ditch the purse then spend some of the pennies on hot pies when she heard the noise cutting through the music and the laughter of the crowd.

Whistles!

Cold fear ran down her back and instantly she regretted having brought Markus. The Greencoats were signalling something was afoot! How could she have brought him to lift a purse from someone in the Crown District? Stupid! Stupid!

Well, now wasn’t the time for wallowing … now was the time for running.

‘Come on,’ she said, grasping Markus by the collar and pulling him to the side of the street out of plain view. Markus clearly had no idea what was going on, but he followed her anyway.

The pair ran down an alley, into the dark and out of sight. Rag paused, listening, hoping on hope that the whistles would grow quieter, that the Greencoats would be heading off in the wrong direction, looking vainly for the two thieves stupid enough to rob a couple of rich gits from the Crown.

But the sound only got louder, joined by more and more whistles, rising in a chorus that seemed to be drawing closer.

The alley was dark but empty — there was nowhere to hide. It was only a matter of time before one of the Greencoats came this way, and found them skulking there.

‘We have to go up,’ Rag said, pointing towards the eaves of the building they hunkered beneath.

Markus nodded, needing no further encouragement as he grasped one of the cornerstones and began to pull himself upwards. Impressed, Rag followed him towards the roof. Without growing up on the streets as she had he almost matched her for agility, and within moments they were scrabbling onto the sloping tiles, well above the alley, the crowds and the searching Greencoats.

With the whistles still blowing Rag felt keenly the need to escape. She led Markus north, towards the Bull, dodging the chimneys and skirting the edge of the rooftops. But the sound of the whistles carried on, now seeming to surround them.

At the corner of a high, sloping roof Rag suddenly swallowed a sharp breath. A Greencoat was coming at her; she could hear his heavy footfalls over the noise of the street below. In his mouth was a whistle that squealed with his every laboured breath and in his hands was the biggest crossbow she had ever seen.

Rag froze, instinctively raising an arm to warn Markus, but he, oblivious to the danger, ran straight into the back of her. They both stared as the Greencoat loped towards them. Then he spat the whistle from his mouth to dangle around his neck on its chain.

‘Out of the bloody way,’ he snapped and trotted straight past them. Rag heaved a sigh of relief. ‘You shouldn’t even be up here,’ the Greencoat cast over his shoulder as he rounded the edge of the building and disappeared into the night.

Rag saw that Markus was grinning like an idiot.

‘Something’s going on,’ he said. ‘Maybe something good.’ And before she could stop him he was off in the Greencoat’s wake.

Before Rag could shout him back he disappeared into the shadows.

‘Bloody bollocks,’ she breathed, as she made after him along the rooftops.

They were both following the whistles now, padding across the top of the city, lifted by the excitement of the chase. Every instinct told her this was foolish but she did it anyway. She couldn’t just have Markus running straight into harm’s way, could she? He had disobeyed one of her express instructions, but she still felt responsible for him. And besides, part of her wanted to know what was going on too.

There was a commotion ahead; by the ambient light from the revelling crowds below Rag could see there was a stand-off on the rooftops.

Craning for a better view, she found herself at Markus’ shoulder. His eyes were locked intently on the action and they both peered through the dark, scarcely daring to breathe.

A single figure stood at the centre of a flat roof surrounded by Greencoats. Two had crossbows trained on him, three more had blades clear of their sheaths and were approaching slowly.

Markus edged closer, keen to hear what was being said, and rather than pull him back into the shadows Rag found herself moving up beside him. Something inside was screaming at her to flee, yet it was trumped by her boundless curiosity. Things like this didn’t happen every night.

‘Don’t move,’ said a Greencoat, moving forward with tentative steps and fumbling a pair of manacles from his belt. ‘Don’t you fucking move.’

The lone figure stood, awaiting the Greencoat’s approach, his face hidden in the shadow of his hood, his dark, plain garb making him almost invisible in the night.

As the Greencoat reached forward with the manacles, there was a blur of motion. The figure burst into action, his movements too fast to follow in the dark. The Greencoats began shouting, the one with the manacles loudest. Rag could see that somehow the Greencoat’s wrist had been clapped into one of his own manacles, and the man he had been trying to cuff had him around the neck. A blade in his free hand was pointed at the Greencoat’s throat.

‘Shoot him!’ cried the Greencoat. ‘For fuck’s sake shoot him!’

The rest of the Greencoats tried to move into better positions, their voices a confused cacophony of bellowed orders and curses. Meanwhile the hooded figure held his victim fast, his blade winking in the moonlight. One of the Greencoats suddenly ran in from the flank, his sword aloft. Still holding his victim, the dark figure dodged the other’s blade and struck out with his foot. The second Greencoat went down screaming and clutching his snapped knee as the rest of his fellows stormed forward.

Rag couldn’t really see what happened next, it was all too fast, too dark. A slashing of blades, grunting, cries of pain, the telltale thrum of a crossbow being fired off wildly. Then it went quiet.

Creeping forward she could just see the Greencoats on the roof — all five of them were down, some not moving, others rolling around in agony. Of the hooded man there was no sign.

Rag suddenly realised that Markus was no longer at her shoulder. Spinning around she saw him lying there, and her mouth dropped open in a silent scream.

Markus was spluttering, choking and spitting blood into the air. In his neck was lodged the shaft of a bolt, a stray shot fired from a Greencoat’s crossbow, a thousand to one chance that had struck him in the throat, straight and true.

She kneeled by his side, gripping his hand, watching his eyes begin to glaze.

‘Help me!’ she screamed into the night. ‘Somebody please help me!’

But there was no one there to help.