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[Tobias Murdock]

20th Roalis 2720

Tobias rubbed his eyes, the sweltering heat of the shoemaking factory had stained his laced shirt with sweat and even now, at the 27th hour, the air hadn’t cooled off. Black, tar-like glue had soaked into his fingers, giving them a greasy shine. If only gollies knew that their expensive shoes were the product of brutal machinery, cheap materials and watered down glue. Maybe they did know. Maybe they just didn’t care about buying new shoes every season. Tobias couldn’t remember the last time he had gotten new shoes.

He wished he would’ve dropped by Rum Ginny before he’d come here. Oh she’d roll her eyes at him again, but he knew exactly which lopsided smile to flash for her to let him wash up in the kitchen of the rowdy inn. Instead he sat slumped against the crooked wall of the dark alley, stinking of sweat and steam and glue, with only the occasional stray cat for company. He hated how sticky his fingers still were.

Suppressing a yawn, Tobias peeked around the corner of the neighbouring street and watched for the glow of the third house on the street to extinguish, but it was still shining. Mr. Mirrenshire was, in typically golly fashion, taking his sweet time powdering his nose and doing whatever other nonsense gollies did when they prepared to go to a party.

Puffing his cheeks, Tobias leaned his head against the rough, uneven brick wall and set his gaze on the stars once more. Just when he considered giving up, he heard a badly oiled door swing open, followed by the tell-tale rattle of a keychain. Careful not to expose himself, he peeked around the corner again, just in time to see a waddling figure set off toward the city centre. Was that the infamous Mr. Mirrenshire? Some of the old-timers had made him out to be a hard bite, a villain scheming the dark and a thorn in the side of the resistance who’d sent a fair share of gunners to the gallows.

He’s just an old, fat man, Tobias scoffed inwardly. Old-timers always exaggerated their tall tales to impress the freshies. They’ll have to try harder next time.

Groaning, he got up, stretched himself, shooed a black cat away and tiptoed around the corner. The street and its colorful houses had gone dark, all curtains were drawn and aside from the vale, flickering light of the streetlamps it seemed everyone was asleep.

Quiet as a fox he made his way to number 17, scuttled up the small stone stairway leading up to the door and pulled out his pocket knife. He nearly had a heart attack when something rubbed against his legs, but it was just the black cat begging to be petted with great big eyes.

“Not now,” Tobias hissed through his teeth. The skimpy cat only half obeyed as it leapt up the wrought-steel bannister and started to rub its head against his elbow. Tobias ignored it while he fidgeted with his pocketknife in the door’s keyhole, blissfully unaware that just a few streets down the painted ladies Mr. Mirrenshire had realized with a start he’d quite forgotten to bring his favorite cigars with him. And one couldn’t in good conscience attend a seance without Brayde Country tobacco.

[Bailey Sneed]

Vienda - The Painted Ladies
The 20th of Roalis - Late Evening

S

ummer can piss off. Summer never listens. Instead, it hangs around like the smell of three-day-old fish, wearing out its welcome. The worst is yet to come. Hot nights and lingering sun are poor conditions for burglary. Tonight is not without some merit. Warm enough to make a stroll pleasant, cool enough that he will not sweat on any job. He has no jobs in mind, not tonight. Better to watch the streets, the ebb and flow of the evening streets. Better to try and remember what it is like to be home.

Ma came by today. No unusual thing, and still all too frequent. Ma’s not a bad sort, but she does insist on poking about in his excuse of an apartment, tutting. There is nothing to tut about. There is nearly nothing in the apartment. He had brought only a few possessions from the alcove on Lesser Larch Street, and what furniture he had acquired here was third-hand but decent enough. An old couch well broken in that serves as his bed, a couple of chairs, a washing basin, and a table that managed to uneven on all its legs. Wilkes has been generous with the goods. Uncharacteristic, but welcome. Welcome for now. The bill will come due in the course of time.

The garret it too high above the streets, too far away from the bricks and cobbles, too distant from the narrow lanes. He needs to feel the streets under his feet, needs to dust off the old knowledge. A wise thief knows their home streets. A canny thief never forgets them. Nothing for it then, he will go down and walk the tangle of his home. He will try and remember.

Down Marlowe Street then, and around about to Hazlar. The little Bastian coffeehouse is closed. Too late for most patrons. Not too late for all of them. There is no little burning lamp in the window to indicate that Mr Shrike has left a message for him. Mr Shrike has been quiet of late. Perhaps he has finally gotten to sleep. Nearing four years he has know the man, and never has he known him to sleep more than a handful of hours a night. Coffee and hygeth seem to make up the balance. That is another bill that will come due.

Bills always come due.

At Gargery Lane he stops, presses himself into the shadow of a building. No sense in being seen. Not here. The little court at the back of it is one of the little golly enclaves, factory owners and personages of business who can’t be bothered to leave the precincts of their profits. Upjumped country gents most of them, or grasping city men of no character and less merit. Commercial types with no sense of real commerce. Parasites.

The old kov who livesat number 17, some factory man of no known pedigree, is abroad tonight. Taking the air perhaps. Taking the air without his usual cigar. Curious. In other parts of the city it would be inadvisable. Not in the Ladies. The Ladies know how to handle such men as Mirrenshire. The Ladies offer their protections, for a price. The fat old pigeon may be a greedy bastard, but he’s local enough. No Ladies man, but still a fixture. No sense in burgling such a man. A wise thief does not steal at home.

No one has told that to the lad worrying at the door with an indifferent knife. Idiot. It is too early for fancy work, too light still. Summer can piss off. The small hours are better, or else mid-day when the pigeons are about their daytime business. No one has taught the lad that either. He’ll learn his lessons tonight. Better from a thief than from some damned greencoat.

Does the lad at the door hear his approach? Not likely. He walks as silent as ever. He walks in shadows. Near enough to the door is a stair leading down to some basement dwelling. Even the gollies in the Ladies find themselves sharing walls and floors. It will serve. It will do. Fast and faster still he grabs at the lad, pulls him back and down into the quiet dark.

“No sudden movements, no calling out, blink if you understand,” he hisses in the lad’s ear. “Breathe nice and easy like and you’ll be fine.” It sounds more of a threat than he means. It cannot be helped. “This ain’t no proper way to practice the dub lay. Front door? No good. Too easy to be seen.” He tries to keep his voice calm, level. In that hissing whisper he likely fails. “Mirrenshire’s gone abroad, yes, but only just. Might be back. Might just be out for a little constitutional. You get caught now and like as not it’ll be the gallows for you, or leastways Forget Me Nows.” The Seventen prison is no picnic, or so he has heard. No sense in doubting such things. “This is your lucky day lad. I found you first. You follow?”

[Tobias Murdock]

20th Roalis 2720

For a second, Tobias thought the cat next to him had jumped on his shoulder. He whipped around just in time to make out the rough shape of his assailant and let out a stifled gasp. A heartbeat later he was pulled down into the dark of the basement entrance. Part of him expected a burlap sack to be pulled over his head, or a cloth doused in chloroform to be pressed to his mouth, or a knife to be stabbed into his side. Wouldn’t be the first or last to be swallowed by the dark of night and end up being fished out of the river by a mudlark.

But there was only the voice, the hand on his shoulder, and the vague impression of a young man with wild hair and wild eyes dressed in worn clothes.

Blink if I understand? He’d already blinked, once in surprise, then against the engulfing dark and now… He turned, as much as the stranger holding a fistful of his coat allowed, and was greeted by a young face and brown eyes that mirrored his own. Tobias twisted his arm and gave a light tug.

“Let me go,” he replied, his voice tense but low.

A sliver of light from the streets above illuminated the young man’s face. He didn’t seem intent on letting go, not before he’d finished his reprimand, and possibly not after it either. Tobias scowled at the older boy who’d not only spotted him, but snuck up on him without him noticing. It hurt his pride. “You think you know better,” he replied hotly. “I would’ve been in by now if it wasn’t for-”

He snapped his jaw shut. The stranger must’ve heard it too, the unmistakable footsteps on the pavement, the jingle of keychains, a gruff, muttering voice and then the snarl of a cat being kicked away. As the heavy breathing of Mirrenshire drew closer, Tobias took a step back further into the shadows until his back pressed into brickwork.

He held his breath, tried to urge his heart to stop beating so violently in his chest. The heavy, dragging footsteps were eerily close now and the shadow of the short, fat galdori crawled across the ground in front of them.

Mirrenshire unlocked the door with a sigh of relief. He much preferred coming home to going out and for just a spell permitted himself to believe he’d survived the gruelling trial of socializing with wealthy investors and fellow manufacturers. In truth, that ordeal was still ahead of him. The seance was just a guise, some pleasant background entertainment while those in attendance all sought to gain the upper hand in a game of economics. He wondered if any of his acquaintances had been plagued by ungrateful workers stealing raw materials from the inventory like he had. It was certainly the nature of the lower classes to be greedy and selfish and his competitors used the same basic workforce, prone to the same basic vices.

The smell of his waxed hardwood floor and the lime soap his housemaid used to keep his home prim and proper embraced him like a warm blanket. What he wouldn’t give to sit in the saloon instead with valued company, a fine cigar, and a glass of something to warm the cockles. Instead he had to make do with just the cigar and company he didn’t value, except for their worth in concords. But such was the life of a businessman.

Unconcerned and unaware of the interlopers huddled in the dark, Brandon Alder Mirrenshire stepped into his home searching for his cigar and left the door open behind him. It would only be a moment…

Tobias took a careful step into the light and glanced up, then spun on his heel and tried to yank his arm free. “Let me go!” he hissed again. It wasn’t until he clenched his fists that he realized he still held the pocketknife in one of them. In a flash it was up and into the older boy’s view. “Let me go now,” he growled.

The door was open, but time was running out.