Boots for the Gentleman (4 page)

“Querry, I—”

“I know you’re grateful to your family, but it’s still your life, Reg.”

“We can’t. Please let me go, Querry. You’re just making it worse.”

Dejected, Querry let go. How amazing Reg’s hair had felt against his knuckles. More than anything, he wanted to grab a handful of those wheat-colored locks and pull their faces together. He wanted to feel Reggie’s bee-stung lips slide against his, then open slowly to his advances. He wanted to hold him by the back of the head and kiss him until his mouth swelled and he choked for air. And, looking across the desk, he saw that Reg wanted it too. Querry cursed at the world, the rigid social order that had stolen away the only thing he’d ever loved. They’d planned a future, no matter how fantastical, but life shattered it all.

“I can’t accept this,” Querry said.

Reg smiled a smile so full of understanding and lament that Querry had to turn away. “Of course you can’t,” he said, in the soft, slow voice he used after love. “It’s your nature not to accept. You’ve never been any different. If you decide you want a sunny afternoon, you’ll rail against the rain clouds.”

“You make it sound so hopeless.”

“After a while it’s just too exhausting to fight against everything. We’ve got to take what we’re given. If it rains, it’s easier to put your umbrella up than to curse at the sky.”

“We never believed that! We said we’d make our own way!”

“We were just boys. We didn’t know any better.”

The defeat in Reg’s voice halted Querry’s argument. He sounded like an old man, his life done and over. What had happened to the hope they’d been able to muster, even in the worst of times? Was this what they called good fortune?

“But you’ll let me know if you hear anything about that house?” Querry said, trying to salvage the conversation.

“Sure, Querry,” Reg said, without meeting his gaze. “But I don’t think you should come back here anymore.”

A
MIX
of light rain and mist blanketed Rushport, rising from the river and mingling with the industrial fumes. It stung Querry’s eyes and bit his lungs when he inhaled. People only a block away looked ghostly, their feet lost to the fog. Querry’s unruly, black hair glistened with acidic droplets. He’d been thinking too much: about Reg, society and class, luck and destiny. Why should it be that one person was born to wealth and comfort, while he and Reg had drawn a place in a workhouse that many never survived to leave? Some of the Rajallah in town believed that each person was reborn again and again, and that the deeds of his past life affected his lot in the next. Querry wished he could subscribe to it. If he thought he deserved this hardship, maybe he could accept it. But in his heart, he knew it came down to dumb luck.

If he’d wanted companionship, Querry knew of plenty of places to buy it. He could also find it for free not far from his neighborhood, in the public houses along the little cul-de-sac called Lickwhistle Circle. Men who shared his tastes frequented those taverns, and with his youth, looks, and charm, Querry could have his choice. Tonight, though, an accommodating body would not be enough.

He wanted a bottle of absinthe, and figured he could sell enough of the jewelry he’d stolen to afford one. An old, Gypsy woman at the Iron Vine Tavern would likely take it off his hands at a decent price.

Maybe it was because Reg, smaller and more timid, had it tougher in the workhouse and the factory than Querry. Or maybe tasting wealth and security made it more frightening to give up. Querry had nothing, and nothing to lose. But why the change? When he’d first gone to live at Whitney Manor, Reg sneaked away to see Querry every chance he got. They met in cheap inns, or on the street when Querry couldn’t pickpocket enough for a room. Years in the factory, with the other workers slumbering drunkenly a few feet off, had taught them to touch discreetly. Did Reggie really believe in the course chosen for him, or had he just given up? Either way, Querry didn’t want to think about it anymore, couldn’t stand to think about it anymore. He wanted to seek the company of the Green Faerie and succumb to the pleasant apathy she would provide. Even Querry needed one night empty of struggle. He’d nearly made it to the pub; he could hear the raucous voices within and smell the greasy odor of questionable meat.

“You there. Pretty boy.”

The fine hair stood up on the back of Querry’s neck, and he turned slowly toward the alley and the voice.

“You’ll be wanting to take your hand away from that sword.”

There were five of them, all built like bulls and smelling just as pleasant. The speaker wore a much-mended top hat and an eye patch, and held one of the big, curved knives popular in the colonies. His tongue flicked out between his misaligned teeth and touched the tip of the blade. “What have we here?” he said.

“Looks to me like a cat burglar who ain’t paid his monthly dues to the Cat Burglar’s Union,” said a big man in a leather helmet with spiked goggles over top.

“What?” Querry spat. They moved closer, circling him like vultures. He wished he’d had his guns, but until he sold the jewelry he didn’t have the money to spare on bullets. He hadn’t been expecting trouble.

“Ain’t you heard?” said the man in the top hat, his dagger glinting. “To ensure safe and fair working conditions. Just like the Lady Duchess wants in them mills.”

Querry’s eyes darted everywhere, seeking escape. Grinning and chuckling, the thugs closed in on him. Running would be impossible.

“Ten pounds,” snarled a bald man. His rancid breath struck Querry in the face like a fist, making him gag and turn away.

“How am I supposed to get that?” he asked through gritted teeth.

“Go and ask the faeries.” All of them shared a laugh. Then the one in the top hat said, “We’ll be needing a down payment. A show of good faith.”

“I haven’t got anything!”

“Ain’t that too bad?”

“Terrible, ain’t it?” They laughed again.

Querry cursed himself for letting Reg distract him to this degree. It wasn’t like him to stumble into dark pockets. Normally his sharpened senses detected any hint of danger. But he’d been so wrapped up in his thoughts that he’d walked right into this. Now he had to figure a way out, and quickly.

“Let this serve as a reminder.” The thug swung his knife at Querry’s cheek, but the more agile thief stepped to the side and dodged. The man reeled forward, off balance, and his hat fell off. Seeing his chance, Querry shoved his doubled body to the side and bolted for the opening.

He only gained a few steps before a set of big, hairy arms caught each of his elbows, snapping him back. The two men held him as their leader pushed himself up from where he’d landed. Slowly and carefully, he replaced his headwear and picked up his weapon. Querry struggled, and his captors yanked his arms back hard, straining his shoulder sockets.

The man in the top hat grinned as he approached Querry. He drew back and punched Querry hard in the stomach, making the thief glad he hadn’t yet eaten. Only a mouthful of bile splattered the cobblestone. Then his fist struck Querry’s diaphragm, stopping his breath. The thug hit him again and again as he choked and sputtered, fighting through dizziness to stay on his feet.

Blows rained down on Querry’s waist and torso. He couldn’t protect himself or fight back, couldn’t even crumple in half like his body told him he should. One after another, agonizing hits landed on his already screaming sides. He felt the sharp stab of a rib cracking, and he cried out. The stinking men who held him chortled.

Finally the assault ended. Elbows released, Querry fell to his knees, then on to his side. As he panted, trying to recover his wind, the dirty hands of the thugs searched his pockets.

“The little bugger was holding out,” said one of them, his fingers digging into Querry’s coat pocket and closing around the pound coins and jewelry within. Weakly Querry tried to grab his wrist. He needed that money. But the man struck him in the shoulder, flipping him to his back and making his head smack against the hard street. White fuzz erupted in his skull.

“Take that sword,” instructed a garbled, far-off voice.

“No,” he tried to whimper, but no sound came out. A knife severed the leather strap over his hip.

Blurry, dark masses looked down at him now. Querry couldn’t even try to move, couldn’t even focus his eyes.

“Ten pounds next time,” said the leader. “Or I cut that pretty face. Filthy faerie-lover.”

They ran off, laughing. A few minutes later a whore, reeking of sex and cheap perfume, knelt to scavenge Querry’s pockets again. Finding nothing, she cursed him and staggered away, holding the hem of her skirts up from the rubbish on the street.

Querry lay on the wet ground among the garbage until he could muster enough concentration and breath to haul himself up and limp back to his room.

Chapter Three

F
OOTPRINTS
through the thick dust on the floor told Querry a sizeable team had recently searched the dilapidated little house. They’d left a series of overlapping trails, as well as squares and circles where they’d likely placed equipment. If they’d found anything, they’d taken it with them. Only empty bottles and trash filled the main room now. Squatters had scrolled all manner of obscenities across the walls over the years. Barely a square foot had escaped without a badly spelled insult or explicit drawing.

Querry stepped into the huge, stone fireplace. Chicken bones, or maybe pigeon, crunched beneath his boots. Carefully, an inch at a time, he felt along the inside of the chimney for a latch or mechanism that might indicate a secret passageway or compartment of some kind. Soot darkened his gloves and sprinkled the lenses of his goggles. Through the special glass he scrutinized the surface of every stone until he felt certain he hadn’t missed anything. Then he emerged from the hearth and sneezed.

Dusting himself off, Querry went up the rickety stairs to search the second floor a third time. Though he’d been all through the house, he knew he had to be overlooking something. Lord Thimbleroy and the duchess possessed teams of experts and expensive gauges and sensors, but they lacked the instincts of a thief. Querry could almost feel the presence of something valuable, a chest of money beneath the floorboards or hidden in the wall, maybe. He needed to find it. His assault two nights ago had left him depleted of funds. He hadn’t eaten since, and the cats were left to hunt the plentiful rats of Rushport’s alleys. Taking a shallow breath, mindful of his ribs, Querry entered the first of the three upper rooms.

It had probably been a bedchamber: small and square with a little window and recessed closet. Graffiti covered it now. Someone had relieved himself in the corner, and someone else left half a bottle of ale. The stump of a cigar floated within. Querry began the tedious process of tapping the walls. As he did, he held a curling, metal horn to his ear to amplify any irregularities. Once he thought he detected something and broke away the plaster, only to find the bricks worn away, exposing the timber supports.

Next he checked the floor, inspecting every plank. Even in the old place, none of them had come loose. Back then, craftsmen, rather than factories, made things, and they lasted. Finding nothing yet again, Querry checked the remainder of the second floor. Then he went back downstairs.

It was just a simple, middle-class home: bedrooms upstairs, sitting room, kitchen, and a storage room beneath. Normally Querry wouldn’t waste his time plundering such a house. How could the faerie gentleman even care to know the place existed? What could Lord Thimbleroy or the duchess hope to find here?

“Damn,” he hissed, frustrated. He’d spent most of the day searching. If he left empty-handed, it meant an empty stomach. He hated to ask Reg for a loan, after all those years in the orphanage, promising to take care of him. Spinning on his heel, Querry thrust his hands into his coat pockets and paced to the missing front door where he kicked the skeleton of an umbrella into the front yard. He pivoted again and strode all the way to the cold storage space beyond the kitchen, at the other end of the structure. Walking back and forth, he tried to think of anything he might have missed. He stopped in front of the blank, windowless stone wall. There was nothing here. Irritated, Querry pounded his fists against the stone. Immediately his bruised torso protested, and he winced and held his sides.

It occurred to him then that the room seemed too narrow. To test the theory, he hurried outside and around the side of the house. It definitely looked longer without than within. He felt certain that the storage room should be double its size. Ignoring the pain in his ribs and belly, he sprinted back inside and stood staring at the wall, made from the same gray stone as the chimney and then bricked over on the exterior. Something waited beyond it: another small, secret room. One by one, Querry pressed each of the stones. Nothing happened. He tried pressing them in different combinations. Again, nothing. Exasperated, Querry stepped back to look at the wall again. His eyes searched the surface for something, anything that might give him a clue to opening it. Just below the ceiling he finally picked out an irregularity: a tiny hole in one stone. Following the line of the ceiling he spotted another a few inches away. This had to be it. There were seven in all. Querry fished around in his jacket and found a ten penny nail. He fit it into the first hole and tried applying pressure at various angles. He pulled the nail toward the floor and heard an audible click.