The smell of his Hell was like nothing the Captain knew in his life before. He despised it, the rot, the offal, the stench of unwashed poor burning lives away in tiny garret rooms and back alleys. As the years passed he thought of it as a ghost, a demon feeding on every inhabitants of the Barrow. A demon that would be banished only when it had finally avenged itself, its insistent tendrils pushing all men out. 

While the hired girls of the Grope dressed in bright cloth and sweet scented powders, and the brutes of the Tannery proudly wore the leathers they made from scraps of their vital work, the Barrowfolk wore the filth as a garment, a dull gray armor that unsettled those who dared to slum, and it was just as they liked it.

He choked down a mealy apple along with a cup of weak wine, watching a one-armed juggler and his child apprentice. Entertainment that didn’t involve beating or murdering each other was rare in the Barrow. Even dogs were too expensive to fight here, though there were some of the well-heeled men of leisure who would spend their coppers wagering on battles between the enormous rats they captured and forced to fight in the alleyways.

His company for his lunch was a woman with the face of a prized rat. Pinched nose, eyes that never seemed to stop taking in the people she had grown to despise. Squab. Her name was Squab Hill, a name unlikely to ever be heard in the halls the Captain once plied his trade in. The folk of the Barrow called their children names of birds, though the Hills were the closest to Barrow royalty as you could find. The Hill family had claimed the old cemetery grounds as their family estate, and rented out the vaults and greens to the poor who wanted to sleep anywhere but the charity houses and alleys the lowest lived in.

“Lady Hill, I have told you a hundred times and will tell you a hundred more. He has a right to be here as much as any.” the Captain hated these meetings, but they helped to keep what little peace the Barrow found. 

“I tell you he’s a thief. He works with the Kings,” she spat on the dirt, rubbing her mess into the muck with one worn leather shoe, “and he steals to make his living.”

And you steal from the poor to buy those earrings you wear and pay the thug you keep as a guard the Captain thought, holding his tongue. “Be that as it may, we will need proof of his theft before we can do old Sparrow in. As you can see he juggles, tells a few bawdy jokes, and the folks who enjoy his little works pay for his time in coppers they earned. If that is thievery, then I have been a thief from the Crown since I took up my club and sword.”

The Lady Hill hissed, the hiss turning into a hard cough. Living with the dead seems to be bad for your health, he thought, then regretted it. Living here was a death sentence, and the Lady looked no worse for wear than any woman her age above the Bridge of Fleas. Hell, he had seen ladies who had poisoned themselves into an early grave with the powders of Kingsbridge or drink who looked terrible in comparison to Squab Hill.

“My family pays well, Captain. For your services, and the services of your men. Roust him from his shed! He rents in the Tannery, and how much must he be making to have such a fine room? On the coppers of a crippled juggler and his bumboy shouter? I don’t think so.” she put a chubby finger to the Captain’s chest, then thought better of herself. 

“Lady Hill, I would love to force men to live in your beautiful estate, but Sparrow may choose whatever nest he and Oriole can fit. The boy is Tannery born, perhaps they rent from the boy’s family? You know that some send their children out to the world, and a cruel place the Barrow can be.” 

“Pah! Upriver folk thinking they know cruel! Now the Warren, those damned gobs and their filth! THAT is cruelty! The things they do to women there…” the Lady paused, her gossiping mouth not allowing her to even think of the crimes the Greens did to the valley people in their hovels. “It would turn your hair white and shrivel your purse as the coins crawled up into ya like a baby boy.”

“As it is, my Lady, but without proof I cannot put the force of the Crown against a man on a simple hunch, no matter how trustworthy.”

“The old Captain would. He and I had certain, arrangements.” Squab leered, and the Captain held down what apple was in his belly. Even in her best days the Lady Hill wasn’t the kind he would be interested in, and he knew the old Captain was probably blind drunk and half dead when he laid his poxy body on top of a young Squab.

The Lady shuffled away from the Captain, her guard taking her by the crook of one flabby arm. As she attempted a dignified saunter away he could barely hold his mirth looking at her. Dressed up in her paste jewel finery. Appearances were all that mattered in the Barrow, and he had his own to keep. A stroll to watch the target of the Hill family’s disgust would do him good, so he went to get a closer look.

Ori loved the crowd. When Sparrow had them lathered up they gave freely, happy to watch the flash of an old man who could tell a story. Sparrow wore his old uniform when they performed in the street, immaculately clean and all arrayed proper. The empty left sleeve was rolled up and pinned shut, and the right showed the bands of his service for the King. On the left breast hung two medals, one the blood red Ribbon of Sacrifice and the golden star of the King’s Honor. It’s real gold, Sparrow had told him once as Ori sat cleaning the various tools of their trade. And in the Barrow it’s the only piece of treasure no sticky finger filch would think of taking. 

The crowd was finishing clapping for the last trick, the Bishop’s Blunder. A clever story about a priest and his proclivities for certain ladies. Everyone knew the old gossip about the high priest of Father Mountain and the Ladies of the Grope, but Sparrow’s telling was funny enough to make them pause. The old man knew how to play to a crowd, and he waited until the murmur began to die before delivering the killing blow to the din. A wave of the hand, fingers splayed with three balls of different sizes and a cage in his fingers, made the crowd go silent. Sparrow cleared his throat and began to tell the tale.

“Ladies and gentlemen, talented and wise, purse your lips and pop your eyes. I hope that I can make you understand a story of three men who, through no fault of their own, ended up in the Trap.” a head twitch and Ori was there, holding water up to the old soldier’s lips as he bent down to the height of the child. “Now, none among you, noble blood and breeding all, would know what it is like to be trapped in a cell…” 

Ori took the crowd’s laughter and shouts of time they had served as his moment to depart from the scene. Sparrow had given him a task, and he planned on completing it while no one was paying attention. Though he had been with Sparrow for five years, this was the first time he had been given the duty of performing the Drop. 

“You see, young Ori, when a boy grows to a man he must learn certain truths about the society we keep.” Sparrow showed his toothless grin, right after their meal of roast squab, cheese, and the small tart grapes the old man loved. “You’re a quick boy, you should pick up this lesson as easy as juggling, maybe easier than picking a pocket.”

“What lessons?” he had asked, eager to learn. Twelve was old enough for a man’s lessons, and hadn’t Ori just started noticing how good the girls looked who used to make him feel scared to touch them?

“First, always play the part. You never know who may be watching, even when you are alone. Second,” Sparrow paused, holding out two fingers, “if you get a tickle in the back of your scalp? Listen. Get out, get gone, and run.” The old man paused, taking a drink of warm cider, lips smacking and a comfortable sigh finding him back in the stuffed chair. They had stolen from a rich carriage with the help of some Kings.

“And the third?”

“Men pay the Mother and Father to look kindly on them. Thieves pay the Watch to look kindly away.”

 “Sir? Sir?” Ori put on the face of the urchin, the poor confused child or grandchild of the funny broken juggler. He tugged on the watchman’s cloak, looking up with bright eyes that appeared to want attention.

 The watchman looked down at him, and for the first time Ori didn’t see disgust on the face of one of the streetbeaters. This man seemed kind enough, tall and straight backed, coal black hair with a neat beard and chops. Bending down to one knee he grabbed Ori’s shoulder and looked the child in the eye.

 “You’re the juggler’s boy, Oriole. Is that right?” the watchman asked, his eyes looking for any onlookers who may observe the scene. “Is there something I may assist you with? Are you in trouble?”

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

 Ori played up his part, shuffling his feet while clutching the beaten leather bag in both hands. “Grandfather saw a man drop this, and we didn’t wish to cause any trouble, though there’s many coins in it. He said we’re not thieves and we needed to find someone to take it andthenirememberedthewatchisourfriendand -” Ori stopped, hitching his chest and letting the false tears roll down his cheeks.

 “Of course, young master Oriole. I will make sure that whoever deserves this receives it if they report to the Roost.” the watchman bent towards the boy’s ear, smiling as he went. “No tears, Oriole. The less people actually see the better.” 

 They separated and Ori was happier than he had been in a long time. A grin fell on his face as he watched Sparrow tell the tale of the fat man, the thin man, the drunk and the flying prison. The old man took his bow and swept up the coins that had not fallen in his battered warhelm. Whistling for his charge to join he walked into the crowd. Sparrow walked among them like a folk hero, touching hands and even taking a kiss on the cheek from a beauty who worked the Grope. 

 “If I was thirty years younger and had both arms to enjoy her…” Sparrow muttered to Ori as they walked through the press of people at the Horsebridge. False grandfather took liar grandson to the Tanner’s Market, keeping up appearances as a doting old man spoiling his kin by buying sweet rolls and candied orange along with a block of chocolate.

 “What’s the occasion, papa?” Ori asked, amazed that the old skinflint would shell out for such finery as a block of chocolate without a good reason.

 “You pinched the nose of the Watch today, my boy. Brazen and bare-assed in the middle of the damned street. You’ll do it again and again in your life, but this time? We celebrate your first move on the man’s board in the big game of hide and chase.” Sparrow replied, tipping his performer’s cap to two rough men sharing a meal of stick meat and unknown bread. “We’ll get you a nice meal, sun ourselves on the Banks, then take you off for coronation.”

 Coronation. The first step in joining Sparrow’s gang. To be introduced to the Four Kings and make a name. Ori had heard Sparrow tell tales of the Kings and their generosity, but had never met anyone other than the occasional thief who needed to hide at the Tannery shack the old man had them living in. It was as good a day as any Ori could imagine, and he hoped it only got better.

     Oriole decided to take a stroll around the Tannery while Sparrow made preparations for his coronation. The sun was going down and he loved to watch the lamplighters come by with their oil cart to keep the night at bay. The folk of the Barrow lived in the dark, and sometimes he missed those nights when Da wasn’t too drunk to take the brood out on what he called the Grand Tour. He didn’t realize over the three years they spent in the Barrow how much he missed the strange chemical smells of the place, the taste of the hard brown bread the bakers made to serve the cartmen and tanners who called the district their home. He even missed the blood and shit of the Stocks, where tanners bought their skins and the knockers and butchers made their coin cutting beef and mutton for the rich over the Riverbridge. 

“Good evening, young master.” the voice was cold, and Ori turned to it just as the stick fell on his shoulder. Pain shot down his arm, fire replaced by numbness as the thug cocked back for the next strike. 

Ori looked at his attacker in disbelief? A robbery. He cursed his luck for deciding to dress up, making himself look like some jumped up son of a trader ripe for the picking. The bastard who had hit him was dressed in a shirt made of sewn leather stripes, dark black and bright white bands across the chest and running finer lines up his forearms to his shoulders. The boy thought to run, but found two other beaters cut from the same cloth as his attacker appear from shadows, each carrying the short sticks the Barrow folk called bashers. Bashers weren’t made to kill, but they could break and bother as well as any guard’s club, and were cheap enough to toss when you bloodied them.

“I’m sorry. I don’t have anything for you. Please don-” Ori was stopped by air rushing out of his lungs. A hit to the stomach, precise, meant to drop him to the ground. It hadn’t done him in, and Ori tried to strike out at the thug just as the thug’s companions came up to grab him by the shoulders. 

“No coin? That is a shame, isn’t it Dirk?” the one on Ori’s left said, the smile on his lips clear in his voice.

“True, Blade. It is a shame for our little lord to be without.” his right side said, pushing forward while wrenching the arm back. “He’s on Black and White land without a toll to pay? Shame what we’ll have to do to him.” 

 “A simple enough lesson to learn, gentlemen. We’ll just have to beat it into him.” He cracked Ori across the chest. His captors held him in place as the beating began, fists to the face, basher to the legs, the chest, the belly. When he threw up they forced him down, making him bow to their leader in his own sick. Ori resigned himself to the beating, hoping they didn’t kill him for refusing to make a sound. Never let them see you hurt, boy. A guard dog will stop when it has you down, but a man will beat you til you’re dead and a few more besides. 

 Ori saw the lamplighters coming. The pump man clucked his donkeys on, passing by the dark lamp to let the business play out as it would. His captors tried to appear less of a threat, and he took his chance. Pushing off from his feet Ori spun, planting a foot in the gut of the one they called Dirk. He felt the numbness of his arm replaced by a screaming pain as he wrenched away, and the fear of further beating drove him into a flat run. 

 He ran through the lamplit streets, feeling bruises coming as a slow rolling of pain. His arm hung limp, pounding a drum of pain through his side, making Ori nearly bite his tongue on one jarring leap to a high walk. They didn’t pursue, and for that Ori was thankful. He was outmatched, outmuscled, and knew that he would probably provoke them to murder if they came across the defiant merchant’s son they thought they had beaten. 

 He lost his wind as he came in sight of the shack. Two lovers walked arm in arm, the man laughing at the drunken lordling as they made a wide berth for the vomit covered young thief. It took everything in him to get Ori to the door, and he slumped against it as he felt the last energy leech away.

#

 Ori found himself stripped naked in the shack, Sparrow scrubbing something one-handed in their wash tub. The pain was distant, hazy, and he stared at the ceiling as motes of light played across his vision. He groaned, and Sparrow came to his bedside with a look of worry on his face.

 “Young man! I see your purse, said the old whore to the prentice. Mountain and river, boy, who did you piss off?” Sparrow clicked his tongue, looking over the boy’s body. “You’ll be black and blue for days, though they didn’t break your coins or spring any vitals.”

 “Mu, muharm.” Ori said through a mouth that tasted like old wine and sounded stuffed with gauze.

“Ish muharm fun?” 

“Fun? No, it looks damn painful. But fine? Ya, your arm’s fine. Dislocated, if I had to say anything. I’ll try to set it back to true for you, but I had to dope you up to keep you under. We’ll be a bit late, but the Kings are always late to a coronation, nobody’ll notice.” 

 “Sthl gung?”

 “Of course. Consider the beating a price to join our illustrious little guild. You’ll need to be tough to be a King, no matter what that asshole who sits a throne may say as he hides behind his wife’s skirts. We’ll get you fixed up, put a loose shirt on you, clean you up. You won’t be the prettiest, but you’ll be among them, and that’s what counts.”

 The pain broke through the drugs as Sparrow fixed his arm. Ori near bit through the old man’s thick belt, feeling the dam break followed by blessed relief. His arm wouldn’t move right, and he would be limited for awhile, but whatever drugs the old man had given Ori let him forget most of the aches. They dressed him in a scratchy white shirt from Sparrow’s wardrobe, then the old man secured a twist of blood red fabric around the boy’s neck that turned into a suitable cravat.

 “In the style of a knight in service. You’ll wear a cloak in, don’t want some guard to question it. I booked us a cart to Fleasbridge gate, and some of them will be waiting.” Sparrow ran through the directions, putting finishing touches on Ori’s outfit. “Keep your mouth shut, your ears open, and do what they ask. Besides that? Enjoy yourself.”

 The bumps of the cart jostled Ori, but what little pain he felt through the haze was manageable. He sucked on a cloth soaked in brandy provided by Sparrow, the fiery liquer burning his throat and quenching his thirst enough to make him comfortable. The cart slowed at the gate, and the driver came to escort them off.

     “Off you go, sirs.” Sparrow tipped the man a silver for his patience and haste at such an hour.

 The Fleasbridge wall enclosed the Barrow on the west bank and the Warren on its east. While the gates of Kingsbridge and even Horsebridge were ornate works of craft, the Barrowgate was a mere formality. The gate, by name, was just a hole punched through the brick, the hinges of the grand door the only reminder of a guard actually caring who came into the district. The gatehouse was in disrepair, with laundry hanging from its elevated posts and the sounds of a moaning woman and a loudly snoring man came down from its windows. 

     “Ahh, two folk enjoying two of the finest things in life. Remember Ori, food, sex, sleep, and dreaming. If you can’t enjoy all four you’re a broken man.”

Ori looked at the hinges with curiosity, the drugs making him trace his fingers along them. Gold wrapping iron, they glinted in the moonlight as Ori heard the soft laughter of a woman. He whirled around to find its source only to bump into a towering man. Fat and balding with a face like an ancient sow, the man kept an oiled braid of the last of his hair along the back of his neck. Ori saw scars running off the man’s arms and a dent in the side of his head the size of an egg.

 “I know a man, says the only reason those pins are still there is the damned things are buried so deep in the stone.” the man smiled, grabbing Ori’s injured shoulder. “That man used all of his strength, no give at all.”

 “Ori,” Sparrow jumped in, “This is Sir Heron the Large, Knight of the Four Kings. And in all of our kind not a better skullsplitter among them.”

 “Sir Sparrow the Lame. Fool and foolish.” Heron bellowed, trading grips with the old man. “Though one must respect a man with a fine eye for meat and murder. Are you excited, son?”

 Terrified, Ori thought. “Yes Sir Heron. I cannot wait to find out what comes next.”