“ANOTHER OF my boyhood haunts,” Querry said, indicating the notorious Slouch End Slum with a sweep of his hand. Unlike Rushport, no whores or beggars called out to the pair. No cooking smells spilled from taverns. The only drinking establishments here consisted of dank little rooms serving the dregs that other pubs threw out. Querry had been able to order a beer at eight. Fearful silence replaced lewd cacophony as they made their way up the street, Frolic gaping at the tumbledown row houses, most of which lacked windows and many of which lacked doors.
As they went, dirty children began to emerge from behind broken carriages and ruined walls. They approached slowly, circling like hungry wolves, with faces as wild and desperate. More small heads poked from the holes in the upper stories, and soon the whole neighborhood, a hundred or more orphans, became aware of Querry and Frolic. The thief, having spent much time here in his youth, knew they would cut his and Frolic’s throat for a penny. He stopped in the center of the street and planted his feet in a wide stance. Theatrically he whipped open his coat to reveal his many weapons.
“Black Bethany,” he said, his voice echoing through the hollowed-out shells of the buildings. Some of the urchins scuttled off, disappearing down the winding alleyways. The rest continued to gawk at them, waiting to be entertained in the way children will. Querry was little surprised at the appearance of heavy pipes, knives, boards wrapped with jagged wire, and all other manner of makeshift armaments. Frolic’s training brought him to stand at Querry’s back, ready to draw his sword.
“Wait,” Querry instructed quietly, though Frolic’s shoulders against his own felt reassuring.
The children began to chatter and inch closer, some of them fingering their weapons impatiently. Querry thumbed the hammer of his pistol.
Then the throng parted and a plump woman sauntered to where Querry and Frolic stood. She wore a garish tartan frock, tucked up in the front to reveal striped hose and armored, knee-high boots with sharp, silver tips. High on each thigh rode an assortment of blades in leather sheathes that matched the bodice pushing her freckled bosom almost to her collarbone. More plaid strips held red-orange ropes of hair, graying noticeably at the roots. Crisscrossing her ample body was a studded belt holding a clockwork rifle. The woman smiled, revealing teeth as black as the coal Querry used to shovel, and said, “Querrilous Knotte.”
“Black Bethany.” She took her name not from the color of her skin, hair, or even teeth, but from her rumored mastery of witchcraft. Querry couldn’t be sure, though he had witnessed troublesome boys disappear just as new cats took up residence in the Slum.
As if unaware that her charms had long since departed, she put a hand on Querry’s waist. “You’ve grown into a fine young man,” she said with a wink, in her thick, booze-soaked brogue.
“Thanks,” he mumbled.
“What is it ye be wantin’ then, Querry?”
“Sanctuary, I suppose.”
“Eh?”
“My companion and I just need a safe place to lay low for a couple of days,” he said. “And if there’s one part of this city law enforcement won’t dare set foot—”
His words were cut off by cries of “Bugger those pigs!”, “I’ll slit their bags and make them eat my shite!”, and many more colorful oaths from the assembled boys.
When the fervor died down, Querry continued. “All I ask is that you tell your people to let us be. We’ll duck into one of these buildings and by the end of the week we’ll be gone.”
“An’ who’s he? A damned sidhe fey—”
“No,” Querry said quickly. “A friend of mine.”
“You won’t bring no trouble down on me and mine?” she said suspiciously. “I heard about the work you been doin’, Querry. And who for.”
He took her rough, dirty hand and said, “Bethany. You know me. I always did what you asked and never tried to keep more than my share of the cut.”
Swaying, she touched Querry’s face. “Such a handsome lad you was. Quick little fingers too. Aye, you was always one of my favorites. Right then. Just this once.”
“Thank you, Miss,” Frolic said.
Black Bethany ignored him and addressed the throng. “Listen up, all of ye. These here are my guests, and if ye little shites don’t want to end up catching rats for yer supper, you’ll let them be.”
Slowly the boys dispersed, mumbling, disappointed at the loss of participating in, or even watching, a good brawl. Black Bethany took a flask from somewhere in her skirts and enjoyed a long pull. She wiped her mouth on her dress sleeve and belched. “Ye remember your way around?” she asked Querry.
“Home sweet home,” he answered, and she staggered away. He led Frolic up the steps of one of the long, rectangular buildings. Clothing, food, and bottles lay scattered about by boys who’d never been taught otherwise. Someone had ripped the door from the frame of each of the small rooms. Most of these contained groups of three or four boys, drinking beer, playing dice or cards, or resting on the mounds of discarded clothing that served as their beds. Plates and dishes of food, in various states of putrification, dotted the floor and scented the air.
“Fuck off someplace else,” said a seven-year-old who sat cross-legged, gnawing on a chicken leg, in the first room Querry and Frolic entered, “’fore I cut your goods off and make ye eat ’em.”
They encountered similar reactions until they reached a room at the end of the third-floor hallway. Though twice the size of the others, it held only two children: a flaxen-haired boy of about nine or ten and his younger sibling. The older boy reclined in the glassless window, while the younger, not more than two or three, arranged blocks of wood on the dirty floor. In the corner Querry saw a basket lined with scraps of cloth: a makeshift cradle.
“Suppose we could spend the night here?” Querry asked.
The older drew a long drag from his pipe and leisurely exhaled a stream of smoke. “Let me ask you somethin’,” he said in a jaded tone. “You a faggot, mister?”
“Excuse me?”
“’S just some of the guys been talking. They say they heard about things you done. I gots to protect myself’s all. And me little brother.”
“You have nothing to worry about from me.”
“What about him?” the boy pointed at Frolic with his pipe.
“He’s a doll,” Querry said with a wry grin.
“Fucking sick,” the boy spat. “But as long as you keep it between the two of ye. And ye go fetch me two pints of ale and a quart of milk.”
“What?”
“That’s the rent, mister. Pay up or bugger off.”
“We’ll be back with them, then,” Querry conceded. “What’s your name?”
“They call me Tommy the Axe,” he said, puffing with pride. “On account of her.” He pointed to a heavy axe handle with a jagged, rusted blade. Her owner had driven heavy nails into the wood around the top, and Querry saw some dark brown stains. “Just remember that, if yer thinkin’ of tryin’ anything.”
“YOU’D NEVER think it to look at the place,” Querry said to Frolic, quietly, as the tow-headed toddler called Little Ricky had finally fallen asleep in his basket, “but this place was a paradise for a boy.”
Outside, the winter wind howled, but Tommy had covered the window with a horse blanket and lit a fire in a pitted steel cauldron. He’d even been gracious enough to provide Querry and Frolic with a cloth sack full of rags for a pillow and a moth-eaten lady’s coat to cover themselves. Within the fur and leather, Querry felt warm and secure, content with Frolic dozing on his chest. On his errand for ale and milk, he’d picked up a few links of bologna and a loaf of bread, so not even hunger troubled him.
“Total freedom,” he said, watching Tommy in the corner, well on his way through the second bottle of ale. Frolic’s face nestled closer to his chest, and he made a murmur of agreement. Querry tucked the collar of the jacket around his neck and stroked his curls. “But wouldn’t a little privacy be nice?” he added, tracing Frolic’s ear. “Feels like an eternity since we had some time together.”
Frolic chuckled sleepily, and Querry kissed the part in his hair before letting himself drift off. Still weak from his ailment, sleep hit him like a wall.
IT FELT like he’d only been unconscious a few minutes when a loud crash woke Querry. Frolic stood over him, sword in hand. Forcing alertness, Querry analyzed the sounds coming from the hall and the street beyond: boys yelling and cursing, knocking on doors and rousing their allies. Droves of them ran down the building’s halls and into the street. Feeling for his gun and then getting to his feet, Querry scanned the room. The fire had expired to coals; it was colder, and dark. Querry saw young Tommy tucking his brother’s basket into a corner and heaping it high with garments. Next he made a barricade around the infant with a broken piece of a wooden sign and a three-legged chair.
“Be a good lad and stay right here,” he said gently to Little Ricky. “Big Brother’ll be back soon.”
Then the boy’s demeanor changed dramatically, and he bellowed, “Time to crack some fucking skulls!” He lifted his trademark axe over his head and let out a ferocious war cry.
As Tommy ran past, Querry caught his elbow and said, “What the hell is going on?”
“Barty Siddle’s gang,” he said, with a blood-crazed look that should never touch so young a face. “His boys been picking pockets on our turf. Now they got the stones to come here. Well, I’ll cut them clean off!”
“Wait,” Querry said, thinking. “Barty Siddle. With the eye patch and big hat?”
“You know that dirty cocksucker?”
“But Tommy, those are grown men!”
“We’ll spill their fucking guts, mister. And piss in their faces, not to worry!” He broke free and tore off, yelling at the top of his lungs.
“I think we should get out of here,” Querry told Frolic. “This little skirmish might attract attention that we don’t need.”
“Will they be all right?” Frolic asked, looking at the basket in the corner. “They’re just children, Querry.”
“They’re young, but they can take care of themselves. I was the same at their age. Besides, us getting caught up in this won’t change anything.”
“Why is it always that way? Why does nothing we do ever make a difference?”
“No time for philosophy, beauty. We’ll make our way to the docks and get on board a ship. Let fate decide where to take us.”
Frolic didn’t argue, though Querry could see the turmoil in his large eyes. They fought their way into the hall and onto the stairs as boys pushed past them on every side, yelling oaths that made even Querry blush and brandishing all kinds of weapons.
Outside was chaos. Piles of debris had already been set to burn. At least fifty youths blocked the street, standing shoulder to shoulder. Others poured from alleys and nearby buildings, shouting out their eagerness to join the fray. About a block and a half away, Querry saw the approach of more than twenty men. A young man of about fifteen noticed them, too, and he screamed, “Here those whoresons come! Let’s tear their throats out!”
His troops bellowed a deafening response, and the group surged forward at a run. Querry grabbed Frolic’s elbow, and they pressed their backs tight against the closest building. Not ten feet from where they stood, the two groups clashed. The din increased as metal met metal and flesh met flesh. Many of those who had been near the front of the group fell right away, only to be trampled by their enraged comrades as they tried to crawl to safety. Blood wet the cobblestone and screams pierced the night. Black Bethany’s boys scored the first victory; one of them hurled a bottle of flaming oil into Barty’s ranks. Four men caught fire and had to leave the melee to roll in the filthy snow. Others took their places, though, and the two factions crashed together again. More fell, and others rushed to claim their spots.
Inch by inch, trying to avoid wildly swinging boards or hurled bricks, Querry and Frolic made their way toward the back of the battle, past Barty Siddle’s thugs. The street was a blur of flailing limbs, wrestling bodies, fire and blood. Endless reinforcements arrived to join Bethany’s cause, and it looked like Barty’s gang would be overwhelmed by the superior numbers. By now the boys surrounded the dozen or so men left standing, and pushed and clawed at one another to land a blow. Their adversaries held their arms in front of their faces, and succeeded a few times in pushing some of the boys back. But as soon as they did, another group closed the gap, and it seemed inevitable that the thugs would be crushed beneath a pile of angry young men.
Querry put his left arm around Frolic’s shoulders, and wrapped his hand around his forehead to protect him as they prepared to sprint through the clusters of combatants fighting in smaller groups beyond the main battle. His right hand held the clockwork pistol ready. As soon as he saw an opening, he urged Frolic on. Small bodies lay in the street, and injured boys limped past them. Frolic let out a wail when they collided with a young man holding a blood-soaked rag over his eye.
“Don’t look, don’t look,” Querry chanted, trying to soothe him. They’d nearly made it through, to a street corner that lead away from the slum. A boy sailed into his chest, knocking Querry on his ass and sending Frolic sprawling beside him. The clockwork pistols bounced against the street and landed a few feet off. It took a moment for Querry to recognize Tommy. The boy held his diaphragm and spat a mouthful of blood onto the cobblestone. He’d lost two of his front teeth. A big, bald man, his face so disfigured by scars that it barely registered as human, approached them with a meat cleaver. Tommy’s signature axe was nowhere to be seen.
Querry crossed his arm over the boy’s small shoulders and drew his sword. Being on the ground put him at a disadvantage. He needed to level the field, and fast. With a quick motion he sliced at the man’s knees, severing the tendons and dropping him. As he fell, he swung the cleaver at Querry’s hand. Querry tried to angle his blade to deflect the blow off the hand-guard, but he knew he wouldn’t likely escape a deep wound.
Shouting Querry’s name, Frolic tackled the big man and pummeled the side of his ugly face with his fists. The man’s cries got the attention of three of his cohorts, and one of them struck Frolic hard in the ribs with a broken oar. Frolic flew threw the air and landed on his side.
Disoriented, Querry struggled to stand with Tommy still in his arms. He set the boy down, held his shoulder and looked seriously into his face. “Get home to your brother,” he said, and Tommy obeyed without argument.
Instead of wasting time locating his gun, Querry ran to stand in front of Frolic, sword extended. He thrust at the thug with the oar, piercing his side and, from the rush of blood and air, his lung. The man staggered back, clutching the wound. Another member of the gang swung at Querry with a knife, but the thief kicked him in the groin and disarmed him as he doubled over. Behind him, Frolic had reached his knees and was using Querry’s coat to pull himself up.
Pain erupted across the top of Querry’s foot. Looking down, he saw the man with the cleaver had dragged himself through the street to attack. The blade still stuck in Querry’s flesh, and blood darkened his leather boot and pooled around his foot.
“You son of a two-penny whore!” he yelled, and brought his sword down in an arc, hitting the man between the eyes with the hilt. His head hit the cobblestone, and Querry reached for the handle of the cleaver and extracted it with a scream. The momentary distraction cost him; the third of the thugs smacked him in the back of the head. He fell across the back of the man with the cleaver.
Everything blurred and bled together. Querry willed his eyes to focus, willed his muscles to get him up. Neither would cooperate. Nearby, Frolic fought furiously. Querry heard the hum of his blade. He had to get to his feet, get Frolic out of here. His foot throbbed and burned, shooting agony up his leg. Nothing but smudged rusts and grays met his vision. Frolic cried out. Querry heard a thud, ground his teeth and pushed with all his might.
Rough hands grabbed his hair, wrenching his head back painfully.
“Frolic?” he choked, but got no response.
“Shut it, pretty boy,” said a familiar voice.
Querry twisted to escape. Something hit him between the shoulder blades, held him down.
“Frolic!”
He was dragged away from the man with the cleaver, onto the cement of the walk. Someone pulled his arms behind his back and restrained his wrists. They hauled him up, but his injured right foot couldn’t support him, and he dropped to his knees. Through his haze, he scanned around desperately for his partner, but instead of growing clear, the world became fuzzier, darker—
Lost too much blood.
“I won’t. Let you. Take. Him.”
“An’ I said shut up.”
Something struck Querry’s temple, and everything went black.