“Your n-new Boss can ask him hisself,” Twitch said, spitting on the ground in the same place Kite had earlier. “That’s what Bosses do, ain’t it? There’s s-supposed to be talk, giving h-help where it’s needed. That’s how the Ink runs.”
“Maybe that’s how it used to run, but the Bosses—even the Big Boss—might be reaching their limit with Marshall. He’s been falling behind on promises, kids; and if the other Bosses can’t stand something, it’s broken promises. Now, you gonna tell me what I wanna know, or is this gonna get ugly?”
“Can’t be any uglier than you.” Skate saw Kite for what he was, and so wasn’t afraid. She might have been afraid if she’d stopped to think about what his defection might mean, or that insulting a man with weapons while she was unarmed might be a bad idea, but disgust overthrew her good thinking. “You coward.”
Kite tensed up, his hands becoming clawlike as he edged them closer to the blades. “What wazzat, spit?” His face hardened into the unmoving mask of indifference he took on before he hurt people. The only indication of his rage was the dancing hate in his eyes. “What did ya say to me?”
“I’ll say whatever I want, coward.” She moved closer to the dangerous young man, her eyes not dropping or blinking, despite the water she felt in her stomach. “You can’t use those nasty knives of yours. We’re still in the Ink. Boss Marshall’s still a Boss in the Ink. Keep your stupid threats behind your jagged teeth, because they don’t mean nothing.”
The hate remained behind his eyes, but it settled somewhat and became colder. “Oh, she’s smart, isn’t she. Clever little spit, dolled up in clothes that ain’t hers, telling me what I can and can’t do. So, so clever.” He uncrossed his arms and cracked his knuckles. “You’re right that I can’t use weapons in fights with Inkers. Did you forget that I’m two feet taller than you and four stone heavier?” He lunged for her, and several things happened at once.
Skate, who’d been banking on him charging straight at her, charged right back at him. His eyes widened when she dove right under his grasping hands and connected her shoulder with all her might right into his groin. His hands did manage to find her then, but he could only feebly push her away as he bent over in pain.
Meanwhile, Twitch had backed up a few steps. Seeing Kite doubled over, he took a running start and kicked both feet out to the side at Kite’s head. The older boy had enough sense to try to bring up a hand to stop Twitch’s attack, but it was no use: his feet shot over the weakly raised arm and connected solidly with Kite’s mouth and temple at once.
The blow floored him, and Twitch immediately ran over and began kicking Kite wherever he could find an opening in the flailing in the snow. Kite was trying to get up and keep from getting hit at the same time, spewing invectives from a bloodied mouth. “You spits, you worthless spits, you—”
One of Twitch’s kicks connected with the head again, and Kite stopped his bellowing. He was thoroughly dazed, and could only mutter and groggily bring his arms in front of his face. Twitch reared back for another kick, but Skate ran up and pushed him back. “Come on, he’s done, let’s go.”
Twitch looked at the other boy, who was half a decade his senior, and shook his head. “What a…” Whether because of his stutter, or just a lack of vocabulary to accurately describe what exactly Kite was, Twitch left the thought unfinished. He jerked, then nodded at Skate, and the pair left the older boy to recover his sense in the snow and debris of the alleyway.
Chapter 14
In which an unknown pub is patronized, a prisoner is visited, and a spinning trinket is stopped.
Skate took a seat at the bar of the pub. The sign outside had an image of a snake crawling out of a pile of pillows and barrels, so she guessed the name of the place was “The Sleepy Drunken Serpent,” or something like that. It was in the Old Town, several blocks away from Belamy’s house; and it was off the main avenues, settled comfortably in the back alleys where one could find a place to eat and sleep without worry of large crowds or patrolling guards.
She ordered some of the soup and coffee, throwing a square silver coin (bearing the familiar image of the helm of the Old King) onto the bar. Twitch had left her about an hour ago, citing a need to find some pickings before the end of the week. “Look out for the s-skinny idiot,” he’d said, referring to the battered Kite. She’d assured him she would, and he’d gone off into the city to make his fortune. Skate, for her part, had bumped into a passing courier and relieved him of a loose-hanging purse that ended up containing several copper blades and a few silver coins like the one she’d just made use of. Next time, he’ll keep his purse closer to him. Somehow, the usual rationalization wasn’t making her feel better about the sleight of hand. She never did like pickpocketing; something about having to look at the person she was stealing from always bothered her. That was the main reason she’d taken to burglary instead.
The barman brought her food and dark drink, scooped the helm off the table, and counted out seven copper blades in change. Skate slid all but one toward herself and flicked the other toward the man, who picked it up with a wink. Be open with your gifts. That was one of the most important lessons of the ethos of the Ink. Stinginess rarely opened doors, and a budding thief never knew where or when a piece of information might be found—and an easy lie told to the Guards as a distraction might be expected if she only had the foresight to be kind with her coins. One of Boss Marshall’s favorite stories to tell was of how, as a young man, he’d ducked into a familiar diner while running from the Guard only for the owner to tell the pursuers “That little thief just ran out the back!” The Guardsmen had run right past the bar that Boss (then, only “thief”) Marshall had been hiding behind. The owner had never brought it up again and the Boss frequented his shop to this day, even though it was the owner’s son running it now.
Skate slurped the soup off her spoon and winced at the heat. If what Kite had said was true, then Boss Marshall was in trouble. If he was in trouble, then his whole crew was in trouble. Boss Marshall might be relying very heavily on Skate’s job to get back into the Big Boss’s good graces. Especially now that the job had changed from “steal the most valuable thing Belamy owns so it can be hocked for money” to “steal the object Belamy stores his soul in so we can control him for our own ends.”
The soup wasn’t bad, once it cooled down. Skate continued slurping, wondering why this new prospect bothered her so much. Because you’re not just stealing anymore, the voice in her head explained. If you do the job like the Boss wants, you’re selling Belamy into slavery. The idea put a knot into her stomach that had nothing to do with hunger or the soup. It was a sensation she did not feel often, but she was familiar enough with it to name it: guilt. The idea of selling Belamy into slavery filled her with guilt.
“Stupid,” she muttered to herself as she brought the warm, blackish drink to her lips. Why should she feel guilt about it? If he’s stupid enough to let me do the thing, then it falls on him to deal with the results. That’s the way it works.
Running over these truths of the world did not help the unwelcome sensation go away; the knot tightened. “He’s a mark,” she muttered to herself out loud.