Farther on, Dancer had stopped to watch two men trying their skill at hoop and stick: three hoops on a stick and you got a thimbleful of liquor. The girls stopped also, and Shadow let her wrap slide off her shoulder. Soon they were throwing hoops and laughing loudly at their own inaccuracy. A thickset middle-aged man, who might have been a tradesman or a master craftsman, was paying for everybody and was already flushed with drink. His arm was round Shadow’s shoulder. Once more her three hoops missed the pole and she wailed in mock dismay.
“Have another go,” he said, pulling out a purse attached to his belt by a cord. She shook her head.
“Put it away, fool. You’ll be robbed. Don’t you know thieves come specially when the fair is on?”
Fleet was holding hands with the other man, looking up at him lasciviously from under her long dark lashes. He had a dazed smile on his face, as if he couldn’t believe his luck. They all moved on, followed at a careful distance by Dancer and the rest. The group ahead stopped to buy sweetmeats, and Shadow, sitting on her escort’s lap, had her fortune told by a grubby old woman who turned over cards and promised her riches and long life. Now they had gone the whole length of the fair. Fleet detached herself and tugged Shadow’s arm. They ought to go, she said, it was getting late. Shadow nodded and turned sadly to her companion. He protested at once. Surely she didn’t want to go home. She must know the area well. Couldn’t she suggest somewhere where they could eat and drink, enjoy themselves? The girls conferred. Then Shadow took her companion’s arm again.
Away from the fair, the crowds thinned out. Down this street, under that archway, through this passage—a shortcut, just a little farther, nearly there. The streets were quiet now. Shadow drew her companion into the shadow of a doorway and put her arms round his neck. Fleet’s partner stopped.
“Never mind them,” she whispered. “She knows where we’ll be.” She took him by the hand and they disappeared round the corner.
A few moments later, Shadow gave a sudden cry and pushed the man away from her. At once Weasel, Dancer, and Edge surrounded him. Weasel grabbed him from behind with an arm round his neck, Edge kicked his legs from under him, and almost before he was on the ground, Dancer had found the fat purse and cut it free. Alis, watching in horror from the corner, could not believe the speed of it all. The others were up and running at once, Shadow catching her hand and pulling her along. Seconds later they were joined by Fleet minus her man. A few dark passageways and they slowed to a walk. Alis had no idea where they were.
“All right?” Shadow asked Fleet.
“No trouble.” She laughed softly. “He’ll think he dreamed me.
And see!” She held up another purse—not stuffed like the first but clinking agreeably.
The summer weeks passed and Alis struggled to become used to a new life that appalled her. Joel, seeing her expression once when they were planning a raid, said sharply, “Do you want to starve on the streets? It’s easy enough.” So she kept quiet and learned to mask her feelings. She did not want to die, and she had nowhere else to go.
To her horror, she found that she was to be the gang’s lookout, taking the place of the boy who had died. It was not easy. She did not know the streets and alleys as they did and was terrified of being left behind. Each time her brother said she was to go with them, her stomach churned and she could not eat. Joel ruled the group strictly, insisting that the knives were for purse cutting and intimidation only, unless they were used in self-defense. Nevertheless, Alis was haunted by the thought of blood, and learned to be grateful that Mute was so handy with his great fists. To see a man felled by a blow to the head was bad enough, but it was better than knowing he had a blade between his ribs.
The weather grew cooler, and Alis wondered how long she would have to stay with her brother. Ethan had spoken of finding honest work for her, but he had not thought it safe for her to remain in that part of the city where she might have found it. Even if she had been brave enough to risk venturing out on her own, she knew no decent person would employ her. Already she looked ragged, and though she drew water for washing every day, she could not keep her clothes clean as she had done at home. She told herself she would wait until she was more familiar with the city, but she felt her hope fade with the days.
Joel did not ask about their parents, and he was reluctant to talk about the past. Only once, when she wanted to know whether their mother had driven him away by harshness, he paused.
“Harshness? No, not really. Just, there were too many rules. And the dreariness. All that studying of an old book, and then the future stuck in one place. Our father would have had me work with him, but I wanted to see more of the world, learn something different. I meant to go back to see them, and you, when I had made my fortune.” He grimaced.
“So you are not . . . glad? It isn’t a better life?” She spoke hesitantly, fearing he would resent her questions, but he only shrugged.
“I do as I please, at least. And I needn’t stay here if I don’t want to.” He looked at his sister. “And what about you, Alis? Is it a better life for you?”
She did not answer at first. Then she said slowly, “I could not bear to marry Galin. I have been saved from that.”
He nodded. “Well, I am glad to have you here, and while I am leader, there is a place for you. But don’t expect too much. I can’t protect you from what we have to do, and it’s not always pleasant, as you’ve found out. Besides, the others already think I favor you. If I lose their loyalty, there’ll be nothing for either of us.”
She nodded. “When you first came to the city, did you look for . . . work of a different kind?”
He laughed briefly at her expression. “Well, I was set upon as soon as I arrived, and what little I had was stolen from me. I lived rough for a while. Then I met Dancer and he taught me how to pick pockets. It’s as good a living as any.”
“You didn’t miss home?”
He made no answer and she could not help adding, “I missed you.” She had put it away long ago—the misery of those first weeks. Now it came back to catch in her throat so that her voice trembled when she spoke.
He looked uncomfortable. “I thought of you often. And I kept the name Jojo. No one but you had ever called me that.”
She wanted him to say more, but the others came in and the moment passed.
Often a feeling of desolation came over her. There was nothing to look forward to, and only a hard, dangerous way of life to learn. Dancer was kind enough in his strange fashion, but Fleet and Shadow were unfriendly, and Weasel openly resented her presence. Edge never took any notice of Alis, but she was unpredictable and the ever-present knife was alarming.
In the small dark hours, afraid and sleepless, Alis could not escape the thought that Ethan might never go back to Two Rivers. And even if he did, he could not bring her any news, not knowing where she was in the city. Most likely he was glad to be rid of her after what had happened. Luke was lost to her: it was punishment for her wickedness. The Maker had turned his face from her, and there was nothing before her but to die eventually and go alone into the dark.
Slowly, however, she became used to her new life. Her brother was kind to her when he was sure no one would notice, and if the others disliked her, they did nothing about it.
One night, having successfully relieved a lost stranger of his money, they stopped to catch their breath in a shadowy doorway. Suddenly Alis noticed that Edge was no longer with them. Nervously she pointed this out to the others. Weasel merely shrugged, and Shadow said tartly, “Edge can take care of herself, as she’s always telling us. Come on, let’s go. I’m cold.”
“But she always comes back with us,” Alis said.
“Well, this time she ’asn’t.” Weasel sounded irritable. “We can’t do nothin’ anyway.”
“Something might have happened to her.” Edge knew the city better than anyone, but Alis could not bear the thought that they might be abandoning the fair-haired girl when she needed their help. Her own dread of being left behind in the dark squares and alleyways had not diminished. “We could just go back and look.”
Dancer, who was performing a neat sidestepping routine to and fro on the cobbles, broke off to say, “Quick look. No harm.”
Alis added quickly, “Then if she doesn’t come back, we can tell Joel we tried.”
That decided them. They retraced their steps cautiously, catching sight from time to time of other stealthy figures like themselves or a lone person slinking by.
Then they saw her. Light spilled for a moment from a tavern door, and there was Edge, limping slightly and clutching her jacket close about her in the chill night air. Weasel whistled softly and she looked up, startled.
They joined her, Shadow saying, “Why are you walking like that? Are you hurt?”
Edge shook her head. “Turned my ankle, that’s all. I couldn’t run. Didn’t expect you lot to come back, though. You needn’t have. I can manage on my own.”
“See!” Shadow gave Alis a hard shove. “We could’ve been back home instead of out here in the cold.”
Dancer made a little sound of protest. “Can’t run is dangerous. Bad people like us about.” The others laughed and Alis felt foolish, wishing she had kept quiet.
But the next day, Alis was drawing water from the well when Edge came through the grass-choked gateway. The other girl stopped and then made toward Alis. She was carrying something wrapped in a piece of cloth. “Do you like plums?”
Alis nodded, surprised. Edge sat down with her back against the stone well, motioning Alis to join her. She opened the cloth. “Three each,” she said.
12
E
dge’s support did not make Alis any more popular with the others, but it was a comfort. It pleased Joel, too, and Alis felt closer to her brother. It was not that Edge was friendly: she said little and was prone to black moods when not even Joel dared to disturb her. But Alis knew that the ever-present knife would not be turned on her, and in the dangerous byways of the city, the fair-haired girl could be relied on.
One morning Joel and Dancer were out somewhere. Shadow and Fleet sat murmuring to each other in a corner, while Weasel and Mute bickered over a card game. With nothing to do, Edge paced the room until Shadow looked up and said irritably, “Go out, can’t you? It’s like being shut up with a mad beast.” She glanced at Alis. “And take her with you.”
Alis felt herself flush, but before she could respond, Edge swung toward her, saying flatly, “Come on. It’s time you learned your way around.”
They went through a part of the city Alis had never seen before, along narrow streets to a crowded market. At one end, farm women from outside the southern wall sat on the ground, keeping watch over small piles of parched-looking vegetables and fruit. Some of them had tiny pens containing three or four scrawny chickens with their feet tied together. The birds pecked listlessly at the dust as if they knew their time was nearly up. Farther on, there were dozens of rickety stalls selling cooking pots, lengths of cloth, needles and thread, knives—all of poor quality. There were food stands, too. And everywhere, a press of people—pushing, arguing, haggling.
Alis kept close to Edge as they made their way between two lines of food stalls. Some of these had fire buckets with bubbling pots perched on top, adding to the pungent mix of smells. Alis watched a stallholder wipe a used platter with a cabbage leaf and begin ladling out a fresh portion of the greasy mixture from his pot. A couple of skinny lads handed over some coins and crouched down between the stalls to share the food.
Suddenly, a hunched, ragged-looking man barged his way to the front. His face was flushed and his eyes bloodshot. He demanded loudly to know the price of the grayish stew, and when the stallholder named it, he turned away with a curse. As he did so, he jogged the elbow of one of the squatting boys. The platter tilted, and the remains of the stew slopped onto the ground. With a screech of rage, the lad leaped to his feet, fists up. The man swung his arm and the boy went down, howling. At the same time, the stallholder kicked out at a mangy dog licking up the spilled food. He missed, and his foot caught the ankle of a thin-faced housewife instead. The woman yelped in pain, and the man at her side—her husband perhaps—gave the stallholder a violent shove. Within seconds, blows were being exchanged amid a clamor of angry voices.
In the rapidly growing crowd, Alis lost sight of Edge. She was struggling against the throng to find her again, when a man in sailor’s clothes grabbed her arm. “No good, this. You come along wi’ me,” he said roughly, hauling her away. Panic-stricken, Alis jerked her arm in an attempt to free herself, but he held on firmly. A woman stallholder said doubtfully, “Here now,” but the sailor winked at her. “She’s mad wi’ me for not buying her a ring, see. Womenfolk!”
He clamped his arm around Alis’s waist and half lifted her off the ground. “You come along, my girl. I’ll gi’ ye more than a ring, don’t ye fret.”
He was holding her so tightly and she was so frightened that she had no breath to scream. Within a minute, they were away from the heaving market crowd and he was dragging her down an alleyway with washing strung between the upper stories.
Her voice hoarse with terror, she twisted in his grasp crying, “Let me go! Let me go!”
A couple of roughly dressed young men came toward them. They looked at her as they went past and laughed coarsely. One of them said, “You’ve got an armful there, sailor. Want some help?”
The sailor grunted. “I can manage this ’un, I reckon.”
He swung her round, pushing her into a short passageway that ended in a blind wall. He let her go then and stood still, blocking the exit. She backed away from him, giddy with terror, the blood thundering in her ears. “Leave me alone!”
She could hardly get the words out, her throat was so dry. He grinned and came toward her, a big man with sun-weathered skin and blackened teeth. Her back to the wall, she put up her hands to fend him off, but he seized her wrists in one great paw and stretched her arms above her head so that he could press his body into hers. He smelled of sweat, tobacco, and clothes long unwashed. Desperately, she attempted to heave him off, but he only laughed and put his face down to hers. She jerked her head sideways, but he got his mouth against her lips, pressing, trying to force his tongue between her clenched teeth. His breath was foul. Only the fear of opening her mouth prevented her from vomiting. After a few seconds, he leaned away from her and said coaxingly, “Come on, now. Be a good girl. I’ll gi’ ye a present for it.”