Jimmy moved to the far wall and picked up some rags, a whet-stone and a small vial of oil from the storage box near the weapons lockers. Such thoughts made his head swim. He was a boy of unknown age—perhaps fourteen, perhaps sixteen, no one knew—and such considerations were intriguing to him, yet he knew he didn’t fully understand all of it. Politics and intrigue were attractive, but in an alien way.
He made his way to a secluded corner to clean his rapier. His rapier, and a gift at that! There had been few of those in his life, making the fine weapon all the more precious. It would take the finest craftsman half a year to fashion such a thing of deadly beauty; it was as different from the crude, heavy weapons of ordinary soldiers as a war-horse was from a mule.
He pulled the blade from the scabbard again and realized to his dismay that he’d put it away bloody. He quirked his mouth wryly. Well, he’d never had such a thing before: he couldn’t be expected to remember every detail of its care immediately. On closer inspection he realized that the scabbard was held together with ivory and brass pins, and could be taken apart for cleaning and oiling.
His pleasure in his gift went up a notch, if that was possible. This was a prize!
‘Loot like that’s to be turned in for sale, so’s we can make proper shares,’ Laughing Jack said. He reached for the sword and Jimmy slid it and himself away from Jack’s hand with an eel-like motion.
‘It’s not loot,’ he said. ‘It’s a gift. From Prince Arutha himself.’
‘Oooh, you’re getting gifts from princes these days are ye?’ Jack had never actually been known to smile; his nickname had been bestowed on him by Jimmy as a joke.
But he sneers better than anyone else I’ve ever met, Jimmy thought.
The Nightwarden reached for the blade again, and again the young thief slid away. As senior lieutenant to the Nightmaster he had a great deal of authority; most of the time, when appealed to, the Nightmaster would come down on Jack’s side of an argument. But Jimmy knew he was in the right, and was sure that this time the Nightmaster would side with him.
Jimmy stood defiantly. More than one member of the Mockers had promised Jimmy someday Jack would kill him over the joke of a nickname he had given the glowering man. Now Jack appeared on the verge of making that prediction come true.
Jimmy stood a full two heads shorter than the Nightwarden. He was a slight boy, nimble and with a speed of hand and foot few in the Mockers could equal, and none could surpass. His own nickname was well-earned, for no Mocker was better able to lift a purse in a crowded market without being detected. He was a handsome boy, with curly brown hair cut tight against his head. His shoulders were just promising to broaden to a man’s. His smile was infectious, and he had the knack of fun, but right now there was a hint of menace in his eyes as he stood with his hand on the pommel of the sword, ready to dispute Jack with blood if needed. His age was uncertain, perhaps thirteen years of age, perhaps fifteen, but he had already seen more danger and death in his life than most men twice his age. Softly he said, ‘It’s mine, Jack.’
‘His. Saw,’ Barmy Blake said in a voice like rock talking. The huge basher said no more, continuing on his way into the far recesses of the hall as though he’d never spoken at all.
Laughing Jack gave the basher’s retreating back an uncertain look. Blake wasn’t named Barmy for nothing; he was as unpredictable as a wild animal and capable of terrifying berserker rages. If Jack decided to make an issue of Jimmy’s right to the sword after the basher had spoken up for him the Nightwarden might well find himself in a world of pain, senior lieutenant to the Nightmaster or no. Jack turned his sneer once again on Jimmy.
‘Keep it then, but it’s to be locked up.’ He jerked his head toward the weapons lockers.
‘Soon as it’s cleaned,’ Jimmy agreed. The rules allowed for that and they both knew it.
The Nightwarden turned away and stalked off. Jimmy turned his eyes to Blake who sat by himself at a table, a tankard in his beefy paw, gazing at nothing. He didn’t bother to go and thank him; you didn’t do that with Barmy. But he made a mental note of a favour owing, more honourable and more useful by far than any spoken thanks.
‘Well, there’s a pretty thing.’
Jimmy looked up and smiled at Hotfingers Flora, so named because of her early success in stealing pies that their owners mistakenly thought were too hot to handle. Unfortunately for Flora the insensitivity that allowed her to do so made her a very poor pickpocket despite Jimmy’s best efforts. At sixteen, and pretty, she was turning to a different profession.
She sat beside him and twined her arms around his neck, slipping her legs onto his lap, and gave him a peck on the cheek.
‘Hello, Jimmy,’ she purred, fluttering her eyelashes at him, one chubby hand rubbing his chest.
He laughed. ‘As if I’d keep anything valuable there,’ he said.
Flora pouted, then smiled gamely. Pulling her legs off his lap she pointed at the sword. ‘What are you going to do with that, eh?’