Chapter Three: Lyewkin

The aroma of rodent carcasses and piss wafted from the cellar where Finn fetched another flagon of ale for us. Subsequent years of carrying kegs up and down that cellar—my shoes ripping through roaches and rats—I'd lost my appetite to join in Finn and Godwin's revelry.

Instead, I'd watch, easing the weight of my weary upper half by hugging the waterlogged bar-top with both forearms. I'd rest my lower half on the basement tavern's stool-traded barrels.

The air down here was clammy and cool, despite Pale's tropical climate. There were no windows. Only walls of piled stone—jagged to the touch, damp, and dripping in mossy growth. Finn spared candlesticks, only setting one per every two tables—said he liked to keep the place dingy—said it fit the atmosphere best. Though I knew he was simply a miser.

"You missed a mean game of Three Card Swank yesterevening, Mate," Godwin remarked. Finn set an ale-filled tankard down before him.

"Hamo said Lyewkin walked away with half the tin." Finn redirected his gaze to mine. Then over the top of goading chants and the blows of brawling regulars behind me, queried, "How did you swing that?"

"Meh… three kings of separate suits," Godwin answered for me, "You and I both know it nothing but luck. Where were you, Mate?"

With a gargle of his spirit, Finn set into his latest excuse, "Dolt I was—vexed the lady friend before leaving the shanty." Godwin and I both let out groans, our heads hanging in a shared look of disappointment. "Oh, don't look at me like that. In time, you'll share the same burdens as I," he directed at both of us.

"It isn't often you're wrong, Mate, but you missed the mark with that one by a far piece," Godwin began, "The day a lass weighs in on my whereabouts will be the day I'm buried six feet under." He slammed his fist onto the bar-top, rattling the wood in an attempt to glory his oath.

"You say that now," Finn egged him on, and I knew such a quartet of words would urge Godwin to rally.

"I say that now…," Godwin echoed in a mumbling voice, shaking his head, smiling like it was a jest.

"Till you find a gal that can put up with you… the way you walk about like a roughneck—" Finn truly was asking for it now.

"Women handle me just fine, and vice versa," Godwin retorted with a wink, "But I'd never let one lock me in the shanty on gambling night." The two began to go at it, the way they did most nights, sliding the sleeves of their tunics up against the friction of bewhiskered forearms.

"Knock some sense into the boy, Lyewkin," Finn said at last, shaking his head. And giving a rag one swivel through his tankard, he deemed it clean enough.

Finn was like family to us both. Something between a scoundrel-uncle and wise father-figure. I agreed with him on most-everything. Everything but this. So my words remained stuck at the back of my throat, and my tongue sat bitten between two rows of chompers.

It was answer-enough for Finn, and he scolded me for it. "Don't tell me you're just as bad as he is!"

Tossing my hands into the air and pleading innocence, I offered my only opinion on the matter—a bone for the wolves at the fore and side of me. "All I know is that I prefer the company of you two over the company of a lady anywhere other than the bedchamber."

"Cheers to that," Godwin added, patting the backside of one of my shoulders before using the same hand to reach for the handle of his tankard. He downed another swig.

"And what does that have to do with settling down alongside a lover?" Finn queried.

"Enjoyment of one's company? I'd hope it has a lot to do with love or lovers or whatever you just said." I meant every word.

"Are you saying that you love me?" Godwin smiled a besotted grin, his face a lousy performance of buried inebriation. He was drunk and a terrible faker. Thanks to Finn and the Basement, he had become quite the tippler.

I shook my head at him. "That ale's getting to your head," I finally uttered before Godwin offered another drunken musing.

"Lyewkin speaks the truth. Ladies are either so prim and proper that they're boring, or they're too dull-witted to engage in conversation of anything moderately interesting."

"Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, boys," Finn interrupted, thankfully putting an end to Godwin's slurring, "But I much prefer returning home to my wife, than returning to the both of you here, nigh every night."

"I'll remember that, Finn," I crooned, sporting a teasing grin. "You see, were you to say that to a woman, she might cry—beg for you to take it back." I placed a hand on Godwin's shoulder, "At least the two of us can accept your faulty priorities without becoming overly-emotional." Godwin nodded in agreement. And Finn shook his head in the opposite direction.

"And you, my boy, will rue the day you spat such unripe words of ladies and love." He returned the smile but with an added boon—a guiding gleam of sympathy that twinkled in both eyes. I brushed it off. Perhaps Finn had me in age and exploits, but wisdom was grasping the uniqueness of a man—understanding courtship as a driving force for some, but for others, merely a bothersome hitch to smooth over every now and again.

It went without saying that for me, it was the latter.

➸

At the heart of every evening, I would leave Godwin and Finn and migrate back to the Basement's inkiest of corners. It made for a rather splendid place for business—where one could lure paying clientele, speak of private matters, and do so in the dark.

Perhaps basement taverns were discouraged in Pale, but Finn had done right by me, offering work as a boy and keeping me knee-deep since, as he'd promised.

Now, folks would look at me and see the brooding slant—the sullen optics, toned muscles, domineering stature. But when Finn found me, I was a wiry little thing. Innocent—perhaps even sweet—but run over by folks of a status-seeking city.

The child I once was found the basement tavern as a place to run up shillings—pack in the coin by lifting kegs or mopping bloody, spirit-soaked floors. Floors which were impossible to clean.

Then, after years of carting hulking barrels up and down steps of slick rock, my soft tissue grew taut, I underwent growth spurts, and muscles popped up in places I didn't know they could. That's when our tavern bouncer, Hamo, passed along the real work. Work which I enacted with ease.

In fact, I performed the job so well that he passed my name on to a friend. The trend continued, my name passing from friends to friends and brothers to brothers.

The man approaching me now, tattered in rags and built like a blacksmith, was responding to my latest with a sack of coin for another job well done. At this point, I had never a clue who passed my contact on, nor how my newest client related to the next.

And truth be told, I didn't care. Whatever put food on the table, I'd do. Whoever bothered to pay me enough, had my muscle at their disposal.

The man, who set a wooden plate of mutton atop our corner's waterlogged table—candle-less and reeking of mold—took one look at me before gulping down whatever spirit Finn filled his tankard with.

Drawing a coin purse from somewhere 'neath his rags, he dropped the shillings to the table with a rattle. Then he tore a chunk of mutton from the bone he held it by, shredding it to crumbs in his chompers, and wiping at the droppings on his chin with a tree trunk for a forearm.

I just sat there watching him repeat the guzzling and chomping till the plate was nothing but crumbs and bone. And his tankard, nothing but tin.

"You did good, kid," he uttered in a heavy, rolling voice. And with that, he swatted at the coarse hair of his beard—flakes of mutton flying off with every strike—and hurdled his body through crowds of drunken scoundrels frolicking about.

I pulled out the brass pocket watch, which held a regular place in my pant-pocket—the coolness of its metal sending a chill through every nerve affixed to the skin sheathing my fingertips.

As planned, I'd receive my monthly stipend of hush-coin—delivered by my father's courier in the next moment. Until then, I'd wait with my back and crown leaning strainlessly against the damp wall at the back of me. I'd wait, keeping my eyes glued to the tavern's parlor-doors.

The crowd of ruffians grew in size as late evening shifted to early morning. But father's courier always stood out a mile, dressed in flashy garments of textures far more fine. I looked for those garments, those textures, only spotting the Basement's routine crowd. It was brawlers, tipplers, and courtesans.

That is until they swung wide again and surprise nearly tipped me back in my seat. Had I not been so stunned to see him here, I may have laughed to witness esteemed-ole-Stoney Diamond at the rattiest tavern of Pale's lower end. Of course, he fit in with this crowd more than folk might realize.

Approaching me in haste, his gaudy silks and velvet robe stuck out the most, glimmering each time he passed a candle stick. He was the reason I chopped my hair short, for wearing it long made me bear too close a resemblance. I fancied not to look like him. Nor his son.

For perhaps a breath, the tavern stilled at the sight of him. Punches froze in mid-air and brawny men swiveled to dare a look. Anyone else may have missed the effect my father had on the scoundrels, but the fleeting stillness was more clear to me than expired brandy to the tongue of a tippler.

I was the same those years ago—a wide-eyed lad, in awe of the greenness of his grass or something equally nauseating. For Djinn's sake—I let the wretch point the barrel of a rifle up my nose. Looking back at it now, the memory jogged a chuckle. How could I have ever been so weak?

Of course, that was before Finn and his ruffian-friends got a hold of me—before I had my reputation. The beginning of my turn for the worse, one could say. And seeing Godwin turn to three hundred pounds of sheer muscle, seemingly overnight—a man cut from the same cloth—was proof that I was no more to be trifled with than him. Though I was far more lean, we were two sides of the same coin—him the side of brute force, and I the swift cutthroat.

I was pickier with my words the second time I sauntered up that hill, years after my failed first attempt. Not quite so pleasant and insured by a brotherhood of men equally unafraid to coat their fists in blood. It took a handful of words or less to have those two guards cowering like goats. And not many more to have my father in amicable agreement. Coin in exchange to keep quiet of his exploits—an illegitimate child would be flattering to no one, much less the most-respected man in all of Pale. Two hundred shillings a month—that was our deal. Simple enough.

And here he was—in the flesh. What could he possibly want with me here?

Knowing him, I was certain I'd get my answer sooner than later.

➸

"Don't look so pleased to see me," my father uttered in his arrogant tone, collecting every ounce of might to push his barrel closer to my table. He was half the size of the man who left behind the bones and tankard. After an amusing display, he finally seethed, "For Djinn's sake, boy, won't you help me?!"

I peeled off the clammy wall, in no rush whatsoever—rather taking my time to nonchalantly move the barrel where he pleased. "I hope that pretty son of yours can lift a barrel," I muttered while doing so, "I'll give you a pass since you're hardly dodging a coffin these days…"

"How old do you peg me for? Besides, tell me why I'd bother when men like you are better suited for such mundane tasks."

"Good to know you haven't changed a bit since I last saw you," I said, the sarcasm lacing each word and an irking smile peeling my lips up at the corners. "Where's errand-boy? Too busy whipping up a bath for one of your playthings?"

"I won't engage with the antics, boy—I'm here to get in and get out. Save the immature goading for that ginger brute you run around with." No fun. But at some point Stoney would break and engage in a battle of wits. I so enjoyed playing with him. The cat and mouse was perhaps all my father had ever been good for.

Wit wasn't Godwin's strong suit. And Finn… he was softer than a pound of churning butter.

"Why don't we discuss the matter of my being in this…," he grimaced and pushed the bone-piled platter an inch forward with his forefinger, "decrepit slop pen. Hm?"

I sighed, leaned back, and began picking at my nails, rallying my greatest look of disinterest. Even if I was intrigued by my father's being here, I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of noticing it.

"Humor me…," was all that I allowed myself to say, sure to keep my voice bored and low.

"I hardly know where to begin," he admitted, "How do your dealings usually go? Usually… begin?"

I chortled. "You want to strike a deal? Well, you certainly didn't disappoint when I said 'humor me.'"

"Where do they begin?" He questioned again, like he hadn't heard my third insult of the night.

I sighed. Seriously, no fun.

"With a man twice your size having been messed with."

"And from there?"

"From there," I sighed again, "I tell them to get to the point. I prefer keeping such matters short and sweet."

Stoney's eyebrows flicked up at that. "Unfortunately nothing about my being here is quite that simple."

"I take it you have my hush-coin with you?"

"In the carriage outside." Stoney looked the room over in a careful sweep, like what he had to say next was of the utmost secrecy. "Plus five-thousand more as down payment. That is if you're willing to negotiate." Five-thousand shillings got my attention.

"The terms?"

"Simple. You kill me a thief, and the five-thousand shillings are yours to keep, on top of the two-hundred I owe you monthly." Sounded easy enough.

"I thought you said none of this was simple?"

"Ah," Stoney grinned, "This is where it gets complicated." Leaning back, he scanned the room again. I fought the urge to tell him not one drunken scoundrel cared for what he had to say. "The thief has yet to be caught."

"If the thief has yet to be caught, how are you so sure there is a thief?"

"Coincidences," Stoney spat in reply, "There are too many of them. And all in the same place." He scooted forward on the barrel and intertwined his fingers on the table. "Someone is angering my clients in the theater." I knew it. I knew he'd only hire me for a Djinn dust scheme—to prevent a scandal from unearthing his best kept secret—that he was the king of sniffer's sugar.

He carried on. "Stealing their pouches of dust before they even leave the door. My clientele is beginning to think this is all a set up—that I sell them the dust, steal it back, and only profit. It's nothing but hearsay for now, but such allegations could jeopardize my business. It already has begun to stir up bad blood with my most prominent clients—clients who talk, if you know what I'm getting at."

I could only imagine the backlash the Diamond family would face if word of my father's affairs were to get out. Djinn dust… the banned powder of our province—it was a substance that turned even priests into demons, hence the name.

I grinned. And the best part of his story—

"A petty thief has you sweating bullets?" I chuckled, "That's rich."

"I'll reward you thirty-thousand shillings." My eyes popped at the number. "On top of the down payment, and on top of the monthly hush-coin. If you catch and rid of my thief without a hitch, it's all yours." I mulled it over in my head, added the numbers, considered the sum.

With thirty-five thousand shillings on top of the coin that I'd saved and two-hundred a month… I'd never have to work again. With coin like that I could upgrade the shanty, or afford the best medics in the province to cure Mother of her ailment.

Perhaps—yes, perhaps I could even just run. Run away, and never turn back—purchase a map and a horse and live out the remainder of my life as a globetrotter. It's what I'd dreamt of since I was six.

I clutched the topaz pendant that hung from my neck—a natural habit—a nervous habit.

"You're the only one I know that could do this for me," he finally admitted. "I've already sent a man or two to scout the place out, and either this thief is a ghost, or they're quicker than a cat. I need your eyes—your gifts that for one reason or another weren't passed onto my son."

Was Stoney groveling? I had to admit, I quite enjoyed watching him beg.

"The talent comes from my mother's side—don't beat yourself up." I grinned.

"Margaret… how is she?" I didn't try to hide my seething at the query. The audacity. Perhaps his sole purpose of asking was to soften me into accepting his deal, but considering he was responsible for her ailment, the fake sympathy appalled me. He backtracked. "Forget I asked."

I straightened and held out a hand, averting my attention back to the case. "It's a deal." And in hasty acceptance, he wrapped his hand in mine, giving it a firm shake.

The theater was grand, but it wasn't oversized. I couldn't imagine catching a pickpocket in such quarters to be very difficult. This could very well be the easiest coin I'd ever earn.

The two of us sat in silence for a moment or two, exchanging nothing but breaths and occasional eye-contact. When I noticed Godwin and Finn both staring at us from their place at the bar, I stood, insisting we fetch the coin from his carriage. On the way, saying, "Tell me all that you know about this thief."

I'd need all the information I could squeeze if I were to start snooping as soon as tonight.