Paul Durham - Dishonour Among Thieves

Villagers began to return to their toils while Constable Valant worked through the long list of minor offences and their excessive penalties. Rye’s ears reddened in frustration – it seemed the Earl had emerged from his winter slumber even pettier than before. As the crowd thinned, Rye scanned the familiar Market Street shop fronts: the butcher shop, the fishmonger’s stall, the coffin maker’s and Quartermast’s blacksmith shop, among others. But one shop was now very different. Rye felt a lump in her throat as she stared at the husk of scorched brick and timbers. The Willow’s Wares, or what was left of it, was no longer a colourful standout among Market Street’s weathered grey facades. Rather, it was a charred skeleton – a permanent pillory.

“Jameson Daw,” Constable Valant was calling out from his list. “Guilty of public drunkenness and uttering untruths about the House of Longchance. Repeat offender. Sentenced to five stripes at the thrashing stump and eight hours on the Shame Pole!”

Rye looked over her shoulder at the Constable – the man responsible for doing this. Her ears had turned as crimson as his hat.

Folly seemed to want to say something, but just bit her lip. She put a hand on Rye’s shoulder.

“We should go,” Folly said after a moment. “I’ll find Quinn, then we’ll get out of here.”

She darted across the street to Quartermast’s, but Rye couldn’t take her eyes off the remains of her family shop. Villagers wandered past it without a second glance, as if they’d already become numb to the black eye or simply forgotten about it altogether. All except for one. A bent figure sifted through the rubble, almost invisible in the shadows of the burned-out frame. Rye watched carefully as he reached down to pick something from the ashes.

A looter! There might not be much left to take, but there was no way she was about to let someone pick through their belongings.

She dodged a foraging piglet as she hurried across the street and ran through the empty, blackened doorframe. Muted afternoon light filtered through the hollow windows but she could not see anyone in the shadows. Instead, a yellow sheet of parchment nailed to a timber caught her attention. Thanks to her mother’s refusal to follow the Laws of Longchance and Quinn’s informal lessons, Rye was one of the few village girls who could read.

PROCLAMATION

OF EARL MORNINGWIG LONGCHANCE!

Generous Rewards Offered for the Capture of

Abigail O’Chanter and her Two Offspring!

Wanted for Crimes Against the Shale!

The proclamation included a drawing of her mother, with pouty lips and evil, smouldering eyes; a small, wild-haired girl with a ferocious look on her face; and someone who appeared to be a rather skinny, unkempt boy. Why did they always think she was a boy?

Rye’s blood ran cold. She was officially a fugitive, but why? Had the Earl decided to goad Harmless by targeting his family? She pulled the hood of her coat tight around her head and peeked out nervously at the villagers wandering past. When she was sure no one was looking, she tore the parchment from the post, crumpled it into a ball and stuffed it into her pocket.

The sound of nearby activity caught Rye’s ear. Skipping over the rubble, she crouched and hid behind the remains of a brick wall at the back of the shop. She heard hooves on cobblestones. Snorts. She peeked over the wall where she could see straight into the back alley behind the Willow’s Wares. It was just several large hogs rooting through the refuse with their long snouts.

Rye breathed a sigh of relief. She pulled the parchment from her pocket, unfolded it, and read the proclamation again.

“You shouldn’t be here,” a stern voice said behind her.

Rye spun around to find the man she’d spotted rummaging through the shop, a scorched tin box tucked under his arm. From under his hood, long inky-black hair framed his sharp-edged face. He studied Rye with pale blue eyes the colour of robins’ eggs, and couldn’t conceal a hint of a smile at the corner of his thin lips.

“In fact,” he added, “this is the very last place you should be.”

RAMBLE?” RYE ASKED in disbelief.

The man lowered his hood. “It’s good to see you again, niece,” he answered warmly.

Bramble Cutty was her mother’s brother. That made him Rye’s uncle, of course. Not that she really knew him at all. They’d met ever so briefly the prior autumn, and it was quite some time before her mother got around to telling Rye who Bramble actually was.

Bramble also happened to be the Luck Ugly who had given her the black swatch of fabric that she kept in her pocket. The Ragged Clover.

A furry head with round, dark eyes popped out from the folds of Bramble’s cloak. Rye leaped back. The small black monkey shrieked and bared its teeth. She knew him too. The little ape had never been particularly pleasant to her.

“Quiet, Shortstraw,” Bramble hissed, and stuffed the monkey’s face back under his cloak with a shove of his palm.

“He’s not fond of the cold,” he explained. “Makes him ill-tempered.”

Bramble handed the charred tin box to Rye. “This is for your mother if you see her before I do. It’s all I could find.”

Rye ran her fingertips over it, turning them black with soot. She slipped the box inside her coat.

“Tell me, Riley,” Bramble said, “what are you doing back in Drowning?”

Rye looked up at the burned beams and rafters around them. The lump returned to her throat. “Folly told us about … this.”

Bramble nodded gravely. “Well, now you’ve seen it for yourself. Abby’s been in quite a twist, as you can imagine. It’s a brazen gesture on the part of Longchance and his Constable – especially given the warning he’s under.”

Rye vividly remembered the warning Harmless had given Morningwig Longchance. She’d been there in the courtyard of Longchance Keep along with the small band of masked Luck Uglies. Harmless spared Longchance’s life, but promised that the Luck Uglies would be watching – and he would show no such restraint if Longchance were to ever trouble his family again. The Earl had either forgotten the warning – or no longer feared it. Had the new Constable emboldened him or were the Luck Uglies too preoccupied with their own differences to be bothered?

“And where in the Shale is your father?” Bramble asked. “Surely he hasn’t sent you back here alone?”

Rye told Bramble of the sniggler and Harmless’s pursuit into the culverts. Bramble’s face darkened.

“That man would drop everything for the thrill of the hunt,” Bramble muttered, then seemed to catch himself. “Not a problem, though. I’ll see you to the Dead Fish myself.”

It wasn’t the first time she had heard Bramble express frustration with her father.

“Bramble,” Rye said, lowering her voice out of habit, “what do you know about Slinister and the Fork-Tongued Charmers? Have they been heard from since the attack on the Mud Sleigh?”