John Anderson - The Dungeoneers

He left it on the table. All of it. Or almost all of it, anyway. He didn’t take the time to stack it, just poured it all out into one giant, tinkling pile. He kept one silver piece himself. Finder’s fee, he thought, tucking it into his pants, into a secret pocket he had sewn there himself to hide trinkets from his sisters.

He paused a moment and looked admiringly at the shape of it, that mound of silver and gold, how it reflected the last glint of the fading sun that poured through the wide front window. He hadn’t bothered to count it. He only had the coin. The purses of silk and calfskin had been tossed into the river on the way home; he wasn’t sure how to explain them. Of course, he wasn’t entirely sure how he would explain the money, either, but he figured it would be easier without the purses.

Colm heard heavy footsteps coming from the cellar and retreated before his mother could find him there. He stopped and listened from behind his closed bedroom door. Maybe she would take it for a miracle. Some divine intervention. The gods repaying the Candorly family for all of their honesty and hard work. Maybe she wouldn’t even ask where it came from.

Through the crack in the door, Colm heard his mother shriek, then yell for one of Colm’s sisters to go and get his father from the barn. Colm almost ran out to her, but then he heard the clomping step of his father, followed by the scuffle of his sisters’ soles on the wood floor. He heard them whispering over one another, their voices impossible to distinguish as everyone shuffled into the kitchen at once.

“What is it? Is it Seysha? Is she worse?” Colm’s father asked.

“Seysha’s fine,” he heard his mother say, her voice barely more than a whisper. “It’s — ”

“What is that ?” Rove Candorly said. Colm imagined him, eyes wide with wonder, standing at the back door with his cobbler’s hammer hanging by his side, blisters already broken, apron stinking of glue.

“It looks like money, Papa.” Meera, the third youngest, said. Colm cracked open the door farther, peering out with one eye. They were all standing around the table, just staring at the pile of coin.

“I know it’s money. What I want to know is, where did it come from? Is this any of your doing?” There was a long pause, long enough for seven sisters to shake their heads. “You?”

“I have no idea,” Colm’s mother said.

There was another moment. Then the rafters shook as Colm’s father yelled his name.

Colm opened the door and stood in the frame, hands tucked into his empty pockets.

His father knew. Colm could tell just by looking at him. He knew exactly where the money had come from. At the very least, he knew that Colm was responsible. Everyone else’s gaze was fixed on Colm as well, but only his father’s mattered.

“Is this yours?”

Colm swallowed. It seemed like a thorny question. Or at least a matter of perspective. “It’s ours,” he muttered.

“Where did you get it?” Rove Candorly’s voice was cold. Colm wasn’t sure what he expected. He had hoped for joy. Gratitude. Or at the very least, relief. But all he could sense in his father’s voice was anger. Colm didn’t want to say. He had hoped the answer to that question wouldn’t matter, but to someone like his father, it was probably all that mattered.

“Answer me, boy!”

Colm steeled himself, suddenly unsure of his footing. Getting the money had been so much easier than explaining how he got it. He looked over at his sisters. They were no help. Not against their father.

“I found it,” Colm squeaked finally.

“You found it?” his father echoed. He pointed to the mountain of coin on the table. “You just found this much money? And where , exactly, did you find it?”

Colm ran through the possibilities, but there were none his father would believe. He had lied to his father only once before, and his backside had smarted for three days after.

“Where?” his father demanded.

“At the town square,” Colm said.

“Town square?”

“In a purse,” Colm added a little quieter.

“In a purse ?” his mother said.

“Well, several purses, actually,” Colm murmured. “And a couple pockets.” Five purses and three pockets, to be exact, though one of the pockets turned out to be full of stones and not coins, so it didn’t count. The purses were much easier, for obvious reasons, but over the course of the afternoon Colm had found that he had a knack for emptying a pocket, especially if the breeches were baggy and the gentleman wearing them was oblivious.

Mina Candorly suddenly turned to her daughters. “Why don’t you take your little sister and go outside and make yourselves useful? Your father and I need to talk to Colm for a bit.”

Colm stole a sharp sideways glance at Celia before she was shoved out the door. Like their sisters, she looked confused, her eyes searching him, asking him questions. But she was the only one in the room with the hint of a smile on her face.

Colm stood there as his sisters closed the door behind them. He tried looking everywhere but at his father, whose face was like a radish, purpling with anger. His mother’s hands were wringing an imaginary cloth. Colm noticed that all the girls had crowded around the kitchen window, angling for a view — their idea of being useful.

Rove Candorly stood quivering, one hand on the back of a chair, clenching it so hard, Colm was certain it would snap in two.

“You mean to tell me that you robbed people in the middle of town in broad daylight?”

Said out loud, it sounded terrible — and perhaps just a little impressive. Colm tried to frown, to appear remorseful, but somehow a smile crept out instead. His father slammed his fists onto the table. His mother jumped, and Colm could see the O’s of his sisters’ lips through the window. Colm stopped smiling and looked down at his feet.

“Do you know what the magistrate does to pickpockets?” his father roared, reaching out with his cobbler’s hands and snatching one of Colm’s, the one with all of its fingers. “They take your hand. Right here!” He pinned Colm’s fist to the table, made a chopping motion just above his wrist. It didn’t hurt, but it startled him. Colm’s father had never grabbed him quite like that before.

“Please, Ro,” Colm’s mother pleaded. “He was only trying to help.”

Colm didn’t speak. He knew anything he said now would only make it worse. Besides, his mother had just said the only thing he could think of. His father shook his head and let go. Then he started to gather up the pile of gold and silver, scraping it across the table toward him. Colm rubbed his wrist and tucked both hands under his arms. “We have to go back,” his father said. “Return all this money. I hope you memorized the faces of the poor people you stole from.”

“They weren’t poor,” Colm muttered. Half of the purses he had swiped were from the belts of ladies and gentlemen who wore twice that much gold on their necks and fingers.

“That’s not the point!” his father yelled.

Colm couldn’t look his father in the face. He certainly couldn’t tell him that it was exactly the point, even though he wasn’t sure about that anymore either. His eyes kept coming back to the pile of coins, then up to the window and his sisters, looking like the crowd at a funeral procession.

“Rove,” Mina Candorly intruded. “It’s already dark out. You’re not going to find anyone tonight. Let it wait till morning, and we will think of what to do with the money.”

Colm turned and stared at his mother. The way she said it. What to do with it. As if there was a choice?