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Silas stayed ahead of Tibbit, checking back often to watch him zigzag along the cobbled street, much to the disgust of the vendors he staggered toward.
As if from nowhere, a castle servant in a golden waistcoat appeared in front of Silas. The servant scoffed and held up his basket as if it were a shield. “Bugger off back to the Spring, scum.”
Silas’s hand brushed the blade handle beneath his shirt. Arse-wiping hypocrite. “On my way, sir.” The servant sneered and gave Silas a wide berth, blissfully unaware of how close he’d come to death.
Silas reached the alleyway that led back to the Spring, checked Tibbit remained on course, and got into position.
Too scared to sleep, Scab had spent the night walking through the Spring’s maze of muddy paths through wooden shacks and now headed for the vendor district. The best place to steal food.
Peter had taught him how to slip through the crowded markets and pick from the baskets of shoppers. It was risky, though. Those caught were given severe beatings from the guards, and they’d killed kids just like him.
Several alleyways connected the Spring to the vendor district, all of them hardly used – most Spring residents unable to afford anything sold there. Instead, they travelled in the opposite direction through the eastern gate to work in the surrounding farmland, only to exchange their measly pay for stingy amounts of the food they’d painstakingly grown for the city. This meant shanty families remained so for generations and blamed the high-class for everything.
Without the family ties to work on the farms, orphans like Scab were offered even less. Forced into a life of thieving or whoring. Most orphans would wind up finding a family of sorts within one of the Spring gangs. But Scab wasn’t most orphans. He’d been told more times than he could count that his eyes were too weird to join.
Two teenage girls dressed in skimpy clothes sat by the entrance to the alleyway ahead. One let out a cloud of red smoke, while the other’s head drooped forward. They both had the dirty red stains on their fingers from the Red Mist, the whores’ drug. Why do they smoke it? It just makes um’ lie there.
He knew why, really. He’d watch
ed Peter smoke before he went off to sell himself. Peter had said it stopped him remembering anything that happened.
The smoking girl let out another cloud. “Oi, Scab.”
“What?” Scab waved his hands at the smoke. Close up, he recognised her as one of Peter’s friends. She must have been thirteen, but the paint on her cheeks and lips made her look older.
“Got any coin?”
“No.”
“I’ll let you suck me tits.”
Scab kept on walking and entered the alleyway. He didn’t want to suck anyone’s tits, let alone a girl’s that was three years older than him. She might have the Wane.
“Fuck off then. I wouldn’t ’ave let you anyway.”
As the Spring’s sewage stench faded, the mud underfoot became stone, and the grey buildings stood high above the wooden shacks. The death smell from the Wane compound remained. It could be smelt all over the city now. The faint shouts from the market made Scab’s stomach gurgle.
Fuck. Scab dived sideways and wedged himself in between a pile of broken barrels. If he’s drunk, he might not have seen me.
The Wretch paused, swayed side to side, then placed a hand against the wall above someone who looked like they were sleeping. He rustled with his trousers, slurred something, and removed his cock. I gotta go before he comes down here.
Scab looked back toward the Spring, then took one last look toward the Wretch. The person Scab had thought was asleep now walked towards him as the Wretch slid down the wall to his knees.
The person’s rags looked the same as anyone else’s in the Spring, except for the cloth wrapped around the head with only a gap for the eyes. Scab felt the Slow coming as everything went quiet. No, not now.
The Slow came, and Scab saw every slight twitch of the rags. Loose strands floated in the air like someone held them there. It felt like forever for whoever wore the rags to get to him. His stomach tightened. Too scared to run, he tried to push himself further under the wood.
The head turned toward him. Bright blue eyes shined through the dirty cloth. Scab had never seen eyes like them. Is that an angel?
The stranger didn’t stop and disappeared into the Spring as the noise from the vendor district faded back, time returning to normal.
Scab shook his head. He hated the Slow. It happened for the first time when Peter died. During his final coughing fit. For what felt like hours, he’d seen every bubble of blood pop, every blink, and every tear.
He often wondered if the Slow happened to anyone else. But he daren’t ask anyone, too scared they might think him weirder than they already did, then beat him up or tell the guards he had the Wane.
Scab pushed out from the broken barrels and crept along the alley. The Wretch lay in a heap, eyes wide, mouth hung open. Blood oozed from his neck into a pool on the ground.
“What you doing there, boy?” a man shouted.
