Michael Sullivan - Wintertide

He stood and dusted himself off. As he did, he noticed a gap under the stairs, a drain of some kind. His fall uncovered the opening. Hearing the approach of the butcher's wagon, he quickly slithered inside.

"What will you have today, sir?"

"Goose."

"No beef? No pork?"

"Tomorrow starts Blood Week, so I'll wait."

"I have some right tasty pigeons and a couple of quail."

"I'll take the quail. You can keep the pigeons."

Mince had not eaten since yesterday morning, and all their talk about food reminded his stomach.

"Very good, Mister Jenkins. Are you sure you don't require anything else?"

"Yes, I'm sure that will be all."

Jenkins, Mince thought, that is probably the servant's name, not the master of the house.

Footfalls came down the steps and Mince held his breath as the manservant brushed the snow away from the cellar door with a broom. He opened it to allow the butcher entry.

"It's freezing out here," Jenkins muttered and trotted out of sight.

"That it is, sir. That it is."

The butcher's boy carried the goose, already plucked and beheaded, down into the cellar and then returned to the wagon for the quails. The door was open. It might have been the cold, the hunger, or the thought of five silver-most likely it was all three-that sent Mince scurrying inside quick as a ferret without bothering to consider his decision. He scrambled behind a pile of sacks that smelled of potatoes and crouched low while trying to catch his breath. The butcher's boy returned with the birds, hung by their feet, and stepped out again. The door slammed closed, and he heard the lock snap shut.

After the brilliant world of sun and snow, Mince was blind. He stayed still and listened. The footsteps of the manservant crossed overhead, but they soon faded and everything was quiet. The boy knew there was no way to escape the cellar undetected, but he chose not to worry about that. The next time there was a delivery, he would just make a run for it. He could get through the door on surprise, and no one could catch him once he was in the open.

When Mince looked around again, he noticed that he could see as his eyes adjusted to the light filtering down through gaps in the boards. The cellar was cool, although balmy when compared to the street, and filled with crates, sacks, and jugs. Sides of bacon hung from the ceiling. A small box lined with straw held more eggs than he could count. Mince cracked one of them over his mouth and swallowed. Finding a tin of milk, he took two big mouthfuls and got mostly cream. Thick and sweet, it left him grinning with delight. Looking at all the containers, Mince felt as if he had fallen into a treasure room. He could live there by hiding in the piles, sleeping in the sacks, and eating himself fat. Hunting through the shelves for more treats, Mince found a jar of molasses and was trying to get the lid off when he heard more steps overhead.

Muffled voices were coming closer. "…I will be at the palace the rest of the day."

"I'll have the carriage brought at once, My Lord."

"I want you and Poe to take this medallion to the silversmith. Get him started making a duplicate. Don't leave it, and don't let it out of your sight. Stay with him and watch over it. It's extremely valuable."

"Yes, My Lord."

"And bring it back at the end of the day. I expect you'll need to take it over several times."

"But your dinner, My Lord. Surely Mr. Poe can-"

"I'll get my meals at the palace. I'm not trusting Poe with this. He is going along only as protection."

"But, My Lord, he's hardly more than a boy-"

"Never mind that, just do as instructed. Where is Dobbs?"

"Cleaning the bedrooms, I believe."

"Take him, too. You'll be gone all day, and I don't want him left here alone."

"Yes, My Lord."

My Lord, My Lord! Mince was ready to scream in frustration. Why not just use the bugger's name?

Mince listened for a long time before deciding the house was empty. He crossed the cellar, climbed the steps, and tried the door to the house. It opened. Careful and quiet as a mouse, he crept out. A board creaked when he put his weight on it, and he froze in terror but nothing happened.

He was alone in the kitchen. Food was everywhere: bread, pickles, eggs, cheese, smoked meats, and honey. Mince sampled each one as he passed. He had eaten bread before, but this was soft and creamy compared to the three-day-old biscuits he was used to. The pickles were spicy, the cheese a delight, and the meat, despite being tough from curing, was a delicacy he rarely knew. He also found a small barrel of beer that was the best he had ever had. Mince found himself light-headed and stuffed as he left the kitchen with a slice of pie in one hand, a wedge of cheese in the other, and a stringy strip of meat in his pocket.

The inside of the house was more impressive than the exterior. Sculptured plaster, carved wood, finely woven tapestries, and silk curtains lined the walls. A fire burned in the main room. Logs softly crackled, their warmth spreading throughout the lower floor. Crystal glasses sat inside cherry cabinets, fat candles and small statuettes rested on tables, and books filled the shelves. Mince had never held a book before. He finished the pie, stuffed the cheese in his other pocket, and then pulled one down. The book was thick and heavier than he expected. He tried to open it, but it slipped through his greasy fingers and struck the floor with a heavy thud that echoed through the house. He froze, held his breath, and waited for footsteps or a shout.

Silence.

Picking up the book, he felt the raised leather spine and marveled at the gold letters on the cover. He imagined the words revealed some powerful magic-a secret that could make men rich or grant eternal life. Setting the book back on the shelf with a bit of sadness, Mince moved toward the stairs.

He climbed to the second story, where there were several bedrooms. The largest had an adjoining study with a desk and more books. On the desk were parchments, more mysterious words-more secrets. He picked up one of the pages, turned it sideways, and then upside-down, as if a different orientation might force the letters to reveal their mysteries. He grew frustrated. Dropping the page back on the desk, he started to leave when a light caught his attention.

A strange glow came from within the wardrobe. He stared at it for a long time before venturing to open the door. Vests, tunics, and cloaks filled the cabinet. Pushed to the rear he found a robe-a robe that shimmered with its own light. Mesmerized, Mince risked a hesitant touch. The material was unlike anything he had felt before-smoother than a polished stone and softer than a down feather. The moment he touched the fabric, the garment instantly changed from dark, shimmering silver to an alluring purple and glowed the brightest where his fingers contacted it.

Mince glanced nervously around the room. He was still alone. On an impulse, he pulled the robe out. The hem brushed the floor and he immediately draped it over his arm. Letting the robe touch the ground did not seem right. He started to put it on and had one arm in the sleeve when he stopped. The robe felt cold, and the color turned a dark blue, almost black. Pulling his arm out, the beautiful purple glow returned.

Mince reminded himself he was not there to steal.

On principle, he was not against thieving. He stole all the time. He picked pockets, grabbed-and-ran from markets, and even looted drunks. But he never robbed a house-certainly not a Heath Street house. Thieving from nobles was dangerous, and the authorities were the least of his worries. If the thieves' guild found out, their punishment would be worse than anything the magistrate would come up with. No one would raise a stink over a starving boy taking food, but the robe was a different matter. With all the books and writing in the house, it was obvious the owner was a wizard or warlock of some sort.