Kip the Quick

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***

First Edition, Published May 2016.

Kip the Quick. Copyright © 2016 by Clifton Hill. All rights reserved.

Cover art by Humbert Glaffo

Edited by Julie Mackenzie of FreeRangeEditorial.com

Inquiries should be addressed to:

Mail@CliftonH.com

www.CliftonH.com

V1.1

For K.

Every parent wants their child to look up to them, to find inspiration, and a guiding force. Though you were barely more than a thought, you drove me back toward my creative voice. And one day, I hope you read this book with pride.

CHAPTER ONE

—

Best of Friends

I STROLLED DOWN THE THOROUGHFARE, nodding at a merchant as I tipped my hat, a bright pink feather bobbing at its top, even as I snatched a fresh roll, still steaming, and slipped it into a low pocket.

Misdirection, grab the eye, make them see what you want them to.

A splendid day, miss. I bowed to a fine lady on the right — my very most sophisticated. She turned and touched her veiled cheek.

Charmed, I’m sure. She fluttered eyelashes painted a vibrant blue, the smile as perfectly manicured as she. And false.

But so was I, Kip the Quick, strutting like a spoiled brijold of this piss-poor town. But one had to fit in. And on the Ave of Lords, where jewels were sold, fortunes made and lost, no one watched the food.

My stomach trembled. Shh, in a moment, I muttered. The smell of meat pies and custard delicacies served in real glass bowls was almost enough to make me stagger.

The smile rolled off my face as I adjusted my scarf — the fabric not as fine as it appeared — and locked eyes with one of the ashen brijold. The man had all the jerky motions of one wasted on colaine — his skin an obvious gray beneath the rich clothing. Then there were the dead eyes and a slack jaw that seemed to clench, to create some sort of masquerade of strength, which he had probably lost long ago. The man dismissed me without a flicker of emotion and set down his teacup. The server gave him some lost platitudes as he tilted his hat to the lady entering with all the warmth of a clock striking five. The brijold lifted his pompous blue scarf off his shoulder and with a stiff swing — as if striking a child — swung it across his face and tied it quick.

I turned to admire a porcelain vase with swirls of ochre and obsidian that cost enough to toss me into the peacekeepers’ pits until my teeth fell out. I tried not to stare at the ashen’s half-finished biscuit dripping with apple jam, which the server moved to sweep up as if it were nothing better than a fruit rind picked clean. My hands hovered near the vase. It would make a loud noise, draw attention — enough for me to save the succulent morsel.

But the moment passed, and the wasteful fool went strutting from the building, his polished boots ringing against cobbles that seemed to have never suffered the deluge of a summer duststorm. The server picked up the offending delicacy and into the wooden tub it went.

My eyes lingered as she set it on a side counter at the rear, then she sashayed back by the polished tables, her skirt swishing behind.

It was an awfully clean-looking waste bin. Maybe I could wait for it out back later. Instead, I sighed.

And now — because I had dawdled too long to do otherwise — I turned to the fine-pottery merchant, exclaiming profusely at how lovely the vase was. His eyes practically sparkled with the certainty of a full price sale.

Curse my wanton belly, but now it was time to make a show.

But alas… I swept my hand wide, nearly shaking with the torment of it all. How can I truly do right by this exquisitely crafted piece? By the window is where it should go, I told the merchant, who leaned forward, lips parted, smile dimpling his cheeks, overlooking the garden. I frowned. And yet, the Divandi oil will arrive tomorrow. A terrible tragedy. That is the only place for this piece. You said it was a Gerald? No? Either way, it is a fine piece, tranquil, yet bursting with energy! I’ll send over a friend instead. Yes. He needs this vase. Yes, that is what I will do.

I look forward to it, good sir. He bowed briefly at the waist, finally finding a moment to speak. And who should I—

But I was already sweeping away with all the arrogance of one born to it, waving my hand behind me. A good day, sir.

Walking rapidly, glancing at the sky, absurdly late for a most pressing engagement, I passed by four more stalls, then ducked down an alley. I plucked off my hat and slid one arm from my coat as I reversed it, the inside stained and ripped. With quick motions, I untucked the lining, pulling it around and over the rest, turning the coat into a satchel — dingy and poor as I.

A clever bit of sewing. Little Kay would have been proud.

Except for the stealing part. She would never have condoned that.

Into the lumpy satchel went a pair of polished shoes and the starchy pants, of which I owned entirely one pair. One pair that was starting to smell of rancid butter. But that could be rectified.

The pillage of the day was a smattering of pastries, two apples, a pomegranate and something else I could not name — the smell of it nearly reward enough. But now I couldn’t return to the Ave for a week or more.

Melting into the shadows, I sprinted away, satchel on my shoulder, bare feet barely brushing the cobblestones. Two turns and I climbed a rough stone wall, leapt onto a roof, and a few minutes later I was sitting in the shadow of a little used lane munching happily on my spoils.

I touched a brass ring hung around my neck and pulled it out from under my tunic, admiring the little whorls crafted at the edges. Well tarnished, but the tourmaline stone at its center still sparkled of jade and twilight. I gazed at it as I licked a spot of custard on my lips, remembering my first theft...

***

I was seven, Ma off gallivanting with some fellow or other, and I’d decided that Gorgo had hit me with those meaty little fists of his for the last time. So I had concocted a clever little scheme.

Now, in truth, it hadn’t been the first thing I’d taken, or rather transferred ownership of, as I liked to think, but it had been the first real heist.

The first planned.

All the other trifles had been for survival. A boy on the street couldn’t be bothered with the monetary value of a meat pie or a hunk of bread. It took having some coin first to think past the more important grumbles of the stomach.

Tilting my head, I remembered back to the day…massaging my bruised seven-year-old cheek. The glimmer of something shiny and expensive had caught my eye, snug on Gorgo senior’s hand. So, as soon as I could work out their sleep habits, I snuck in, snatched the ring off his pa’s own pinky, and pinned it on little Gorgo.

Making his pa think it was Gorgo was easy. Any ailment of the day was usually somehow Gorgo’s fault. As to how I wedged it off his pa’s fat finger without waking him up…

Probably something to do with him being passed-out-cold drunk.

Little Gorgo got a mighty little beating for it, all courtesy yours truly, Kip the Sly. I grinned at the memory and the old name. No one had ever taken to calling me that. But Kip the Quick…well, that was a different story.

I traced my finger around the little treasure as I chewed through a sweet apricot. ’Course, when nine-year-old Gorgo had come stumbling by, bloody and bruised and starving from being kicked out of the house for some unknown offense, pity overtook the better nature of my youth.

I’d been high on a find. A whole apple pie. Made with real, steaming apples, not some dried little figs like they usually stuffed in. So, I had shared a slice—

Okay, maybe half the pie.

With a quick twist of my wrist, I stuffed the trinket back under my tunic and turned my biggest smile down the narrow lane. Gorgo! How’s my best pal?

After the incident, Gorgo’s interest in me had changed significantly. Maybe it was a blow to the brain, or maybe it had been the pie. The apples had been exquisite! But either way, that was long ago.

Gorgo grunted and slapped me on the back as I stood up. Like any day. The smell of cheap gin hung on the air as he leaned against the wall of the narrow lane, his great shoulders sagging as he slid down. The quarries weren’t easy work, didn’t pay well either. It was honest work, as some said, but honestly, I didn’t get the point.

Turning in early? The day has yet begun, I proclaimed as I peered around at the descending light of sunset. The potentials of the night to come, cascading all around. In six months, I’d be out of here, but each night could offer a greater take, something bigger and better, something that might shave off a month, maybe just a few days.

But any opportunity was a good one.

I winced at a rumble in my belly that made me bend over. Fine, a bit more to eat first. It was the least I could do.

Some people have to work. Gorgo replied, oblivious to my intestinal trauma. "You go shopping again?"

You say ‘shopping’ as if it were some vile, underhanded thing, fit only for the lowest of the low.

And you’re saying you spent hard-earned coin on that sweet bread? He pointed at the pastry with a thick finger.

He was eyeing the half-eaten piece carefully. I tilted it, letting the lingering light glow amongst the flaky edges, glinting off the buttery crust. All my coin is hard-earned.

But did you spend any on that?

"Spending is such a subjective word."

Hardly. Now, do I have to beg for a piece, or are you going to put me to sleep with your words?

He still had a sweet tooth. This I could count on — a shared affinity. The drink hadn’t dulled that reliable tooth.

I grinned as I handed over the last of it. It was a small portion, really. I had more.

How’s your pa?

Gorgo didn’t exactly scowl, but the taste of the pastry seemed to shift in his mouth. Hired on an iron wain for a trip to Renkir last week.

I nodded. Pay should be good.

Depends on what makes it back.

I didn’t say anything that Gorgo wasn’t already thinking. In addition to a ready fist, well-seasoned by drink, Gorgo senior had about as much career focus as a fickle cat. Always chasing something different, always sure this would be the solution to his problems. And just as quick to declare it not, find fault anywhere but in his own reflection, and drain his wages away.

Ma and him would have gotten on marvelous, and both would have exploded from the synergistic affinity long ago.

If he was going to Renkir, at least it’d keep him out of Kay and Gorgo’s hair for a few more days. Farland would have been better. And Gorgo looked like he wished the same.

Peacekeeper arrested Rujarb today.

Again?

Claimed the fool Dooney stole an iron wain wheel lock dia— He paused on the word.

Diagram?

Yep, that’s it.

I whistled. If that’s true, he’s lucky the guild didn’t get to him first.

That’s what I told ’em. But he still tried to run.

Think it’s true? Rujarb was as blatantly Tandunese as they came, his skin practically dark as pitch from all the sun working in the quarry. And a target for any irate, pink-bellied Farlish peacekeeper with a bone to pick.

Nah. Probably pinned on him.

And I probably knew who. Rujarb had pissed off Foul Florian a couple days past when he’d screwed up a theft. I could have named a dozen reasons why Florian deserved the loss, but Florey was a prickly sort and prone to reprisal.

Slowed up the whole quarry as the fool Dooney dodged ’round rock and boulders. Half the quarry took a break to place bets as he ran, Gorgo grumbled.

Had to work late?

Gorgo nodded as he covered a yawn with the back of a hairy hand; the liquor on his breath threatening to peel my eyelids away, a faint hint of apple underneath. Clearly not late enough to miss those drinks.

I pulled back, trying to find fresh air, when Gorgo tapped me on the shoulder. Oh, almost forgot. A man in a gray coat gave me this.

My heart skipped a beat as I snatched the folded sheet with a circled R scratched in red ink.

What’s that about? Man gave me a whole copper mac to bring this to you. Wanted to ask him if he was dust-for-brains stupid, but he was gone ’fore I could ask.

Ron the— I shut my mouth, not daring to say the rest. A Head of the Stacks had sent me a personal request.

Me. Kip.

I think my heart stopped beating, or perhaps the moon fell out of the sky and crashed.

Kip? Your head spring a leak?

Huh? Oh. It’s nothing, Gorgie. Go get some sleep. Just a note from…Ronna.

Gorgo pried one blood shot eye wide, but I had pulled my face slack, calmed my twitching fingers and slid my weight to one foot as I flicked the parchment open. Scanning it with blank eyes, I yawned wide enough for one of Gorgo’s own. Just a note, none ’a your business.

Girl?

Maybe.

Kip, you running down the Ave ’a Lords again?

I grinned.

Gorgo grunted. "You’re going to lose a finger one day. Maybe a whole hand. Alright, none ’a my business. I get it. But you know Kay will be disappointed. Her little eyes are all full ’a Kip the Wonderful." He drew out the word, looking as if he might spit.

Not my fault. It was an old discussion. Not quite an argument, just a meeting of minds.

You best keep it that way, Gorgo said, looming back up. Chills running down my spine as I remembered back to some of his beatings from before his me-inflicted reform.

Hey, I said, all hurt and affronted, I want better for Kay, too. She’s practically my little sis. And I meant every word. ’Course she was only two years younger, growing up fast, less annoying every day and more…curvy.

I blinked it away.

Wish she thought so. All I know.

Gorgo pushed away from the wall, shaking his head as he passed. A girl from the Ave? A lady? Careful, Kip. They might cut off more than just a hand.

See ya, Gorgie.

He grunted. My best pal in all the world…and he’d barely remember my face outside a week.

Licking the butter from my fingers, I stared at the letter in my other hand, suddenly all business. This was not from some girl — lady, or otherwise.

And I could not have been happier.

A Head of the Stacks had a job. Ron the Con. Like a legend made real. Oh, he was a slovenly legend — I’d known him in my younger days, but he’d managed to rise. Looked like maybe he had a fond memory or two for little fast-fingered Kip the Quick.

With one abrupt change, six months in this dust hole seemed preposterous. I’ll be out of here in a week.

I leapt down the alley and climbed a wall, my stomach suddenly as settled as an iron debt.

CHAPTER TWO

—

Curly

I SLUNK LOW ALONG THE ROOFTOP AS A peacekeeper glanced up. We were near the slums of Trench where they acted extra vigilant. Perhaps it was to make up for other deficiencies, such as never actually going into Trench itself.

The sun was fading fast. Sunset from the ravine floor long done, but the sky bright until the artificial dusk of Tander became real as the sun slipped past the end of the world; the heat from the air flying away as if it had never been. Old Gupjit had kept Kay late again at his shoe shop. I was of half a mind to have a talk with him over it. Kay was too young to be walking the streets of Tander this late; too young to do it safely anyway.

I glanced up from the edge of the roof wall, scanned to a building farther down, and picked Kay out from a tired crowd of workers heading home in their rags, dirty from a day’s work. Kay walked with a spring to her step, as if she hadn’t just spent the last twelve hours in a tight little shop, hammering shoe soles, cutting leather and pulling it tight around curved molds. Her long curls bounced with each stride, her lips forming some soundless tune.

Smiling despite myself, I wished she would knock it off. There were too many other eyes on her besides mine, too many others that might look to take some advantage that her drunk brother — no matter his size or rage — would be powerless to prevent.

Gorgo walked with her from Gupjit's shop most days — most days the alcohol wasn't already seeping from his pores.

But finally, we were near…home.

Yes, I was picky about the term they used for the tenement that Gorgo's pa had somehow managed to keep them in since before I could form an opinion. They deserved better... Kay deserved better. Gorgo was my pal, but there was a lot of his pa in him, something I had tried to cure on many occasions. But a hard life bred a hard man, and working the quarries wasn't exactly leading him anywhere soft.

I crept over a scoured iron rail of an old smithy that had closed up years back, lowered myself to a narrow balcony below, and descended to the dirty cobbles. Stretching my arms, I sauntered up to the alley corner and turned—

Kip! Kay said with an excited jump, as if I hadn't done the same every day her brother was passed out drunk, light still streaming across the ravine walls. I hadn't