Chapter 4

Time in the slums of Karvell ran contrary to the rest of the city. During the day, its streets were sparsely populated, but once the sun had completed its slow descent into inevitable slumber and the blood red moon gained ascendancy, its depraved denizens like cockroaches crawled out of the woodworks.

Karvell is a poor city at the very edge of what had after the fall of Ifel become known as the Parnian Empire. Too poor to be of any interest to the emperor and too far to draw the greedy grasp of merchants, the city is figuratively the pimple on the asshole of the great empire. Majority of its citizens were fugitives from serious crimes or lost souls just counting down the clock till Ehan’s embrace. It was a dangerous city, a haven for cutthroats and criminals, and nestled within Karvell like an egg in its mothers warm embrace was the slums of Karvell.

If Karvell was the cesspool of the empire, then the slums are the cesspool of Karvell, where the worst of the worst lived, even a mass murderer could be considered good there. No matter what vice you pursued, or the depravity you sought, it could be found behind one of the grimy dirt clogged doors in the slums.

With the inky black night covering the slums, a little boy of about five summers stood hidden in the shadows formed where two walls met. The boy did not have a name, having never had need of one, a name was a luxury he couldn’t afford. He had black hair left to grow long, tangled and unruly; black penetrating eyes and mahogany skin that implied an exotic ancestory.

The child watched the revelers with unblinking eyes carefully studying each person going in or out of the door. The door led to a fight den, and all fights were to the death. As young as he was, he understood that the people going through the door to satisfy their lust for blood and to gamble on the deaths of fellow human beings were not anomalies, but rather the norm, seeking meaning like everybody else. He did not think them evil primarily because he had no concept of good and evil which was something that he had never been taught. He just saw them as they were, without any judgements.

After about thirty minutes, an inebriated man stumbled out of the door. Immediately a gang about three boys aged from 13 to 15 surround the drunk. The gang was led by a well-muscled, tall boy with pale skin, sandy blonde hair and a scar running from his left cheek down to the edge of his mouth giving him a cruel air that was accentuated by the emotionless smile on his lips. This young boy steps towards the drunk and bashes his head in with a cudgel. The gang robs the now dead drunk taking everything down to his underwear and leaving his naked body lying where it fell.

The young child watched all this indifferently. He was no different from the gang, he would have robbed the drunk too if not because the competition was much stronger than him. So rather than robbing drunks, he had to steal from people who were still sober and able to protect themselves. This was much harder to do, and would lead to his death if he was ever caught.

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

He had been a cutpurse for one year and three months, perfecting his methods and sometimes narrowly escaping death. The first thing to do is to pick the perfect mark. Because of his height, it needed to be somebody short, with a purse concealed not on his chest but at his waist. The purse had to be concealed because in these streets a purse carried openly is always empty.

Having found the first mark for the night, the boy slips out of the shadows, and shuffles towards the target. His left leg lagged behind his right giving him the appearance of a lame person, while his wild unruly hair obscured his face. As he is about to walk past the mark’s left side, his right hand faster than the eye could see slips into the narrow slit of the target’s shirt, precise enough not to brush any skin. A small knife slips out from his wrist severing the string holding the purse in one smooth motion, precipitating the purse into his palm which was then fluidly withdrawn. All these actions took place just as he was walking past the target, no wasted or extra motions, nothing to draw the eye towards him.

He unhurriedly withdraws back into the shadows after first making sure that no eyes followed him. After which he left for another door. This was one of his rules, never to rob in the same place more than once on the same night. In order to survive these streets, he could not allow even a moment’s carelessness.

Before he returned home, he took three purses, earning 30 copper coins, and 2 silver coins. It was not a particularly good hurl, but it was not bad either. With careful management, it would purchase enough food for a man and a child to live on for a week.

Even on his way home as he had through the night, no name kept to the shadows. As weak as he was, the only way for him to survive was not to be noticed. When other babies are taught words, he had been taught how to move in the shadows from the moment he could crawl.

No name moved familiarly through the night, comfortable in his element. He finally comes to a stop before a squat hovel with mud walls and a roof of thatch. In front of the house, a stick like man sits in the lotus position, a jar of the local alcohol that smelled like embalming liquid was set out by his side with two bowls. His face was etched with lines, looking far older than his spry figure would suggest. He had pale blue eyes set deep in his face, making him look like a wise frog, pale almost translucent skin and red brown hair.

The man’s name is Behar a former assassin, and even though they look nothing alike, he is no name’s father. No name goes to sit before Behar, also in the lotus position, pouring himself a drink. They do not speak any words, just drink cheap alcohol and watch the stars.