Many Ravens

Chapter 1

“Beacon boys don’t roam the streets at night looking for trouble.”

“I wasn’t looking for trouble,” Daje objected, letting the hall door click shut behind him. And he wasn’t in the mood for a long go-round with his mother; he’d already talked himself out of two gang encounters tonight.

“Beacon boys don’t worry their mothers.”

“Ma,” he complained.

“Mitch came by while you were gone.”

Daje paused by the dilapidated couch where his mother lounged, a terminally unfinished piece of embroidery in hand. A twitchy feeling ran through him, too swift for him to connect to anything. His next breath filled with the smell of last night’s boiled cabbage. “What did he want?”

“He’s your friend, isn’t he?”

“Maybe.” Suddenly restless, he paced the room from couch to shuttered window and back. Street rumor had Mitch spending with Wacom Tishar, who everyone knew dealt serious drugs.

“He’s a good boy. He doesn’t worry his mother.”

“His mother is dead.”

“Beacon Boys don’t sass back.”

Daje blew his breath out, but couldn’t stop from saying viciously, “As if my Beacon born father didn’t just split, leaving his being-born son and new bride to fend for themselves.”

“Delkyn Avaro Jarrel Eiakylansadel, don’t you dare speak of your father that way again! He didn’t just leave, he had an oath to keep.”

And he was a virgin. Daje said nothing, because arguing with his mother was a useless exercise only guaranteed to launch him swiftly into spirals of pyramiding anger. Besides, she would just say, ‘Beacon Boys don’t sass back.’ “What did Mitch want?”

“Maybe he came to see me,” she answered smartly, “because he knows you never stay home any more. It’s not safe running around the city at night by yourself.”

“I am not going to join Mitch’s gang.” He headed for his room to avoid the remainder of the blossoming fight. His door slammed behind him.

“Beacon boys don’t slam doors,” his mother called after him.

In the privacy of his room he swore answers at her that if Beacon Boys were so all-fired perfect and courteous then they wouldn’t have just deserted their family, their son. And, if you asked him, without his mother listening, ready to pounce on his answer, his all-too-perfect-gentleman of a Beacon Boy father was, actually, a ne’er-do-well, lying ragabash.

Which made him just another city brat about to get chewed up in a gang skirmish-gangs wanting him only because they couldn’t stand a hold-out loner, not because they wanted him for any particular thing.
He wasn’t about to be another body for a gang-live body or dead. He felt like enough of a nobody special already, without losing the rest of himself to some half-witted gang leader like Rat or fight-crazy leader like Zagger. Or becoming a drug dealer, like street rumor said everyone in Mitch’s gang, the Strutters, had. Or whores like Kayden’s Sweet Boys.

He paced his floor back and forth once before stripping to skin and falling across his cot in tangle of covers. 

Now what was he going to do? Or, rather, how could he avoid becoming a member of one gang or another? Four of the gangs had been either sweet-talking him or threatening him over the last fortnight. He might have chosen Mitch’s gang by default before hearing the drug rumor. 

If he ever heard that Mitch had been involved in Yancy’s death from taking Sting, he’d kill him.
A twitchiness ran through him, as if urging him to rush out and kill Mitch immediately. Street rumor blamed Wacom Tishar-but only because everyone linked the name Tishar with any strong mirage derivatives. He’d like to see Tishar run out of the country and never let back in. Hyllyn, he’d heard, had made a barrier at its border keeping out any undesirables-probably meaning him as well-but mirage dealers, anyway . . . no matter how much coin they had.

And coin is what he’d heard kept Wacom Tishar out of jail.

Maybe he should just leave town like Jacksam. Not that a Gallimaufry wizard bird would ever likely to land on his shoulder. Strange things had always happened to Jacksam, like fires out of air and lights dancing around him in the dark. Nothing like that ever happened around him-unless one counted never being able to get anywhere on time, even setting out early ... not that he always arrived late; at times he had ended up places impossibly early.

His six-year-old self had imagined a talent of becoming invisible. As if.

Daje sighed and rolled face down, twitchy again. Magic, right. No one sane believed in magic-at least not in Helve, and he definitely lived in the heart of Helve, country of farmers . . . even if those farmers lived in the city, like him.

Besides, he couldn’t just leave his mother to fend for herself. Beacon Boys didn’t, after all. He snorted. As if being a Beacon Boy really meant anything but a way for his Ma to harass him into doing what she wanted him to.

Likely his Pa had really been nothing more than a con man looking for an easy lay and a place to stay a few months. Important vows to keep, his foot.

His mind, having found a familiar groove, even to the alternating cold twitchiness and hot twitchiness the thoughts left behind, let him drift towards sleep.

Morning started as usual, with his mother banging on his door, saying, “Beacon Boys don’t sleep all day.”

They probably didn’t stay up half the night chewing on their minds either. He grumbled unintelligibly at her and rolled towards the edge of the bed.

Once up and moving, he made them both breakfast (slabs of dark bread with melted cheese) without opening his eyes all the way, then sat at the kitchen table with a cup of strong bark tea. They needed more food in; he’d better find a day job. Maybe the green grocer needed help; that way he could get more food for his time than just buying vitals with coin.

“Beacon boys don’t slurp their tea.”

“Ma.”

“Maybe you could bring a bit of meat back tonight.”

“I thought I’d see if Bandy Grocer needs help for the day.”

“Well, that’s better than your usual. I’ve told you enough: Beacon boys don’t steal.”

“Except kisses.”

She snorted and sloshed the last of her tea around in her cup. “There’s leaves left, I’m seeing my fortune.”

“The strainer has a hole in it.”

“It’s a man with a scythe.”

“I did not kill Kayden; he’s still out there making as much trouble as ever.”

“He never comes around any more.”

“Because I told him I would kill him if he tried to twit me again.”

“Beacon boys don’t mess with boys like that.”

“Exactly what this Beacon boy wasn’t interested in doing.” He downed the last of his tea, made a face at the bitter, dirt-taste of the dregs and set his cup in the sink. On his way out the door, he dropped a kiss on his mother’s gray-haired head. “Don’t get into any trouble while I’m gone.”

Instead of her usual laugh, she hunched her shoulders in. “I’m too old for trouble. Too blame old.”
“You’re not as old as the street granny, hang in there.”

“Beacon boys don’t tell their mothers what to do.”

Daje purposely let the door slam on his way out.

“Beacon boys don’t slam doors,” his mother called after him.

A short, dingy hall took him to the street-really a narrow track between two old warehouses. He and his Ma and about a dozen families lived in the east warehouse; rats and import goods in the west.
By the time Daje hit the open streets-meaning wagon-wide-he whistled under his breath. The sun streaked down through tatters of clouds, most of the snow had melted into dirty slush puddles, the family at the end of Warehouse Alley had a handful of spring bulb flowers (not flowers yet, but some green anyway) shooting up in their sawed-off stoop barrel.

Their door opened and a stream of kids tore out, shouting, pushing, and giggling. The children ran past him, headed for passing school, taught by a gold priest this year. Last year it had been a blue priest teaching. His year, green.

As Daje reached Main Street Branching, another tangle of kids swarmed around him. He kicked out at them non-seriously. They shrieked and danced away, running now, as the school bell started tolling. A heart beat later, the city bells joined the clamor.

Two blocks later, Daje came upon all the children gathered round a street wizard doing tricks. Behind the wizard sat a hand cart with a dirty, tattered banner depicting the symbol for a miracle cure. 
“School bell rang,” he intoned as he passed, and a few children broke away. The wizard glanced at him, then ignored him, obviously not deeming him a potential customer.

Bandy Grocer had someone helping him already. Daje passed by the shop, kept going for two blocks, then stopped in the next shop, a fish seller.

Without him having to ask, the fish-gutting girl looked up and pointed south with her knife. “Try Nadweller, he’s got a big shipment of produce coming.”

Going back out, Daje bumped into Wacom Tishar, who, when he moved aside, stepped in front of him.

“I’ve got some new goods in.”

“Why would I care?“ he growled.

“For friends of Mitch, the first sack comes half price.”

“Try another sucker.”

“You’re a small fish, boy; you’d better go with Mitch while you can.”

“I’m not going with anyone.”

“The Pale Fates gang doesn’t ask,” Tishar answered, and stepped aside mockingly.

“They’ve got to catch me first.” He ducked into the next side street rather than let Tishar see where he headed. Not that his words were anything more than sass; one gang or another would finally get tired of using persuasive words and start using persuasive clubs-or knives. Unless he got out of the city first. Or got lucky.

“Yo, Daje!”

“Mitch,” he returned, a bit flatly, then added to recover a scrid, considering they had been friends since passing school, “Ma said you came by looking for me.” 

Mitch, short, wiry, and black-haired pushed from the watering trough in front of the hardware shop and fell into step with him.

“Or looking for her,” Mitch answered with a grin. “You said you’d share, Beacon boy.”

“Don’t you start,” he growled.

Mitch laughed and slapped him on the back. “Where you headed?”

“It’s a working day if I want to eat tomorrow.”

“I ain’t had a working day in more’n a month.”

“Yeah, well, lucky you, huh?” he countered, not wanting to hear street rumor turned true. “See you later.”

“Kayden is looking for you.”

“Well, I ain’t looking for him.”

Mitch smirked. “He just wants to invite you to join his gang. You’re a popular boy lately.”

“I ain’t gonna join any gang, but his is last on my list.”

Mitch laughed, smacked him on the shoulder again, then veered towards the city park, his gang’s roaming territory.

Nadweller didn’t need anyone till the next day, his shipment had gotten delayed. Daje continued down Market Street, asking at each shop not already sporting a day or permanent worker.

Second morning bell found him battling his way down Main Street through swarms of families-and nearly everyone in Helve had or came from a family of a half-dozen kids or more, if they hadn’t just taken in a couple extra families to boot. Mitch’s family encompassed several branches and sidelines, all living in a sprawling house on Lakeside (lake hardly more than sludge and mud now). There had always been only he and his Ma. His mother had never married again-if she’d been mated to his Pa at all. She’d never given him a straight answer, only went on about different priests and lots of flowers.

Next to the miller’s trading booth, Little Piper, the latest recruit in the Music Boys gang, sat on a blanket on the corner of Material Row and Sidewise Street playing a cheap reed flute.

“Yo,” Daje greeted him. Little Piper nodded once and continued his tune.

“Hey, yourself,” Harp said, as the burly, short, blond-haired street minstrel popped up from behind the miller’s counter. “We got this shop covered, try Cloth Street. Big Ryl saw three wagons of goods headed that way a bare quarter bell ago.”

“I’ve been all over already,” he complained. Not that he wouldn’t go. He’d keep walking till he found something or hit the end of the day.

Leaving the miller’s, he bumped into Winter, his second best friend since Yancy had drugged himself to death last spring and Kayden had turned into a boy-kisser. Winter was also one of Mitch’s seconds. The lanky, pale-shoulder-length-haired ganger fell into step with him. “It must be a hungry day. Every place I’ve tried today had someone already.”

“I saw Mitch, he said he hasn’t had to day-hunt in a month.”

“Yeah, but I ain’t Mitch, and I ain’t gonna deal no drugs.”

“If the gang does,” he answered, irritated to hear street rumor proved true, “you do.”

“Or I’m finally gonna get some sense and follow my muse.”

Daje checked to see if Winter looked serious. Yes. “How much coin can you make drawing pictures in water rings on tavern tables.”

“Instead of wasting all my coin on food, I wasted some on two drawing woods last week. The wharf-side ladies paid me a meal a night for a week for their portraits.”

“Whores,” he scoffed.

“It’s a start. Half the city gets to see those portraits. And the girls like to boast to anyone who will listen walking by.”

“Luck then.” He paused at the alley that led to Cloth Street.

Winter gave him a push into the alley. “Go on, if I’d wanted your body, I would have said so long ago.”

“You got a girl.”

“I might have meant for a slab or the gang,” Winter retorted, tone saying all his last words had just been funning.

They got jobs in adjoining stores for the day, with three scheduled wagon-loads of goods for the clothier and lady’s tailor. They carried the chosen bolts into the shops. The lady’s tailor called him a thief and watched him as if he could tuck a whole bolt of cloth in his back pocket, but paid him a few coins extra when she let him go just shy dusk.

He and Winter fell into step together headed back downside of town. When Winter veered into the Golden Brick Tavern for a short ale to get home on, Daje followed. A mix of Mitch’s gang and Music Boys sitting at a corner table hailed them as they came through the swinging half door.

Daje scarfed a short ale from the serving wench on his way over and shoved in next to Little Piper. Big Ryl lifted the slab of bread he had in hand greeting, then continued to eat.

“Hey, Kayden’s looking for you,” Hodge, Mitch’s mouthy cousin, greeted him.

“If he finds me, I’m gonna kill him,” Daje returned.

Winter snorted as he took the bench back-to the wall and facing the door. “You and who else, Beacon Boy?”

Daje growled under his breath and stood.

Hodge smirked at him.

Little Piper paused his single-minded consumption of the stew and said, “That reminds me: I heard a song called Beacon Boys over at Whiteside Tavern last night.”

“Ha-ha.”

“I ain’t lying,” Little Piper sulked, and returned his concentration to his meal and ale.

“Lords, a song about him, he’s got a swelled enough head already,” Winter teased.

“Ho-ho. I can go home and be insulted.”

“Street boy.”

“Ganger.”

“Hey, that’s four against one here,” Little Piper said.

Daje shrugged and settled back to finish his ale. If it never got past four to one, he’d be more than lucky.

“You should head for Gallimaufry,” Big Ryl said, poking Little Piper in the ribs, “so their golem bird doesn’t have so far to fly.”

“I’m not that good.”

“Hey, maybe he could go to Hyllyn instead and play music with their Bird Minstrel.”

“That’s a legend,” Little Piper grumbled.

“Hey, if you don’t want to gang, Daje, you should get a steady job and go straight.”

Daje hunched his shoulders in briefly. He’d tried several steady jobs; his rotten sense of timing never let him arrive close enough on time a week in a row to keep any of them.

“He needs a live-in job so he can get there on time,” Winter said with a laugh and a poke to Daje’s ribs.

“Ha,” he answered, but it was an idea. Tomorrow he’d go looking. A sudden chill shivered through him, startling him to his feet. He slapped Winter on the shoulder. “Your brilliance may have saved my life.”

Winter snorted.

Daje left with a general brief farewell, and headed to late market to spend his day-coins on something decent to eat.

The sun had just tucked behind the town bell tower when he arrived at the edge of the market. The fowl seller finished putting her shade down and started to tie it shut for the night. Daje hurried over. Anything left would be cheap.

“Covey bird,” the woman said, plucking a skinned, medium-sized bird out of her slop bucket and holding it up.

He sniffed, but he’d be cooking it tonight; it wasn’t too gone over. The rest of her remaining birds were still alive and full price. He took the covey bird, scarfed a few vegetables left by the produce seller and headed home the back way, hurrying, until he realized how fast he was going. What was his rush? Nothing he knew of. Beacon Boys aren’t always in such a hurry. Beacon Boys don’t run places for no reason. He stopped. Beacon Boys don’t stop all of a sudden and get in a poor body’s way. He ran his fingers through his hair, settled the sack full of covey bird in the other hand and veered onto East Warehouse Street.

Three Rat Packers lounged, strung across the entrance to his alley. This time they didn’t look inclined to talk. Shit!

“Hey, Beacon Boy, maybe you think you can start your own gang,”

“Hey, Rat Pack, maybe I ain’t interested.”

“Maybe you don’t have a choice.”

He tried just shoving by them. Vek pushed back. Trapper caught him and thrust him towards Paddir. A few rounds and a black eye for Trapper later, the three had him dizzy enough and angry enough to blur his vision. He swung hard anyway. Laughing, Vek danced out of the way. Daje stumbled a few paces, caught himself on the alley wall and spun, ready for a fresh round. Alley and Warehouse Street lay dark and empty. Darker than he’d expected. Where in the blazes had the Rat Pack gotten to? How had it gone so dark all of a sudden? The fight couldn’t have lasted that long. Daje shook his head, pushed scraggles of ink-black hair out of his eyes, waited a heart beat longer, then continued toward his door, back of his neck prickling every step and between.

“Beacon boys don’t stay out half the night worrying their Ma to death.”

“It isn’t that late,” he growled.

His mother looked up from the sway-back couch where she lounged, her ever present embroidery piece in hand. “You’ve been fighting.”

“I ain’t been fighting. Some of the Rat Pack caught me at the alley and wanted to play.”

“You stay away from them boys, they’re no good. You ought to go with Mitch; he’d make sure none of them Rats beat you up.”

“They didn’t beat me up.”

“You got dirt all over you and scratches and blood dripping in your eye, don’t you tell me you ain’t been beat. Beacon boys don’t get in fights over nothing.”

“I got us a covey bird for stew.” He dropped the bird in their one stew pot and tossed the vegetables on the side bench. “Did you drink up all our water?”

“Smart boy, it’s over on the table in plain sight.”

“You got a whole ’nother stitch done on that thing?”

“I been cleaning all day, for all the thanks I get.”
He checked. The dishes had been washed, but not dried; they sat in a puddle of water, part of which had dripped to the floor. Everything else looked the same as when he’d left this morning. Daje dropped rags in both puddles, found the water jug in his mother’s room on the window sill, and poured the balance in the stew pot.

“It’ll be midnight before that’s ready,” his mother complained.

“I love you, too, Ma.”

“Don’t get smart with me after dawdling half the night.”

“I stopped for a short ale with Winter.” That reminded him of what Little Piper had said about hearing a song about Beacon Boys. He didn’t pass the news on to his mother. Pushing the pot with the covey bird over the fire, he went to see how much his mother was exaggerating his wounds. Not by much. He stared in the old tin sheet turned mirror a heart beat, but no, he didn’t remember getting cut over the eye. With a shrug, he splashed water on his face and returned to his cooking.

“Beacon boys wash the grime off their hands before fixing their mother’s covey birds.”

“I just washed about everything off.”

“The covey bird is already in the pot.”

“The covey bird wasn’t that clean to start. A little dirt is good for you, brings you back to earth.” He dug two moonspuds out of the vegetable bin.

“Beacon Boys don’t smart mouth their mothers.”

Something smelled wrong. The back of his neck prickled. Daje cut the worst spots off the moonspuds, listening. No sounds past the usual: his mother muttering to herself about her embroidery-supposedly a depiction of the Beacon crest, mostly, so far, a deep, intense (if, also quite grimy after years of being worked) sapphire blue background. His feeling grew until he had to pace the kitchen so as not to-he wasn’t sure what . . . Maybe run around the kitchen like a crazy person screaming in frustration. Which might be it. 

His next confrontation with the Rat Pack would likely consist of more than a few shoves and taunts. Or he wouldn’t have a next confrontation, he’d be gone. He shook his head. No, if luck found him tomorrow, he’d have a live-in day job and be out of this trap. 

He glanced at his mother, then away. No, she didn’t need him. The rent on the flat had been paid, she said, thirty years ahead by his father. Or she entertained the land lord once a month. He gazed at her a moment. She wasn’t especially pretty any more, but she wasn’t ugly either. He returned his attention to the blossoming stew. She wouldn’t starve, he could send food over.

He glanced at her again. She had finally finished the background and started the outline of the Beacon crest in metallic gold thread. 

Where had she gotten the thread . . . and with what coin?

“I got a horde,” she said, catching him looking. She smirked. “I told you. And I ain’t telling you where it is.” She paused and considered her work. “When I finish this, it’s yours. Then you can go looking for your Pa, like you should have years ago.” She cut her current thread with the clear crystal treachery dirk Mitch had given him as a Winter Well gift last year. So that's where it had gotten to. Good thing he hadn't needed it to fight free of the Rats. “Mind you bring him back so we can be a happy family like everyone else. You need a couple brothers to keep you in line.”

He took a breath, but didn’t say she was too old to even think of having more children. Never mind that he didn’t know all that many families that were happy. They stuck together, yeah, by quarreling, it seemed to him.

Watching her take tiny stitch after stitch of metallic gold seemed to crawl up his spine like a horde of sting-spiders. Something smelled wrong. He twitched and scanned the room, but found nothing out of place. 

Daje paced the kitchen twice, snatched up his treachery dirk on the way by, and dropped face-down on his bed to wait for the stew to smell done.

The good smell of the stew and the sound of his mother puttering in the kitchen woke him. Daje floundered out of nightmares of hunting his children in a creepy, shivering, silver-lit place full of grotesques and yelpers.

“I’m dishing you a bowl full,” his mother warned.

“Umph.” He sat up and ran his fingers through his hair while his heart slowed enough to breathe properly again. Besides, he didn’t have any children.

Rattled by his nightmare, he told his mother his plans for his next day over their meal.

“You’ll make a Beacon boy yet,” she said at the end. “We can go to parties again.”

They never had gone to parties. He eyed her briefly, but didn’t call her on her words. She seemed far away-probably thinking of his father and the good time he’d shown her-or the good time she imagined he’d shown her.

Daje hunched his shoulder briefly, then just finished eating. Tomorrow would be a long day, he’d need his strength-and his rest.

The rest alluded him; nightmares stalked him, faces he didn’t recognize, people he didn’t know: some black-skinned as ebony-wood, some taffy-candy colored, two pale as new snow with blue tattoos, searching halls, buildings, inside a crystal tree, never finding . . . whatever they were looking for. Children usually. Sometimes someone-or something-else. Sometimes they chased him, sometimes he chased them. He woke with a start and a grumble to a dirty-lit morning and his mother hacking in the kitchen.

He grimaced and went to see if the covey bird had made her ill. She looked a bit gray and she hid her embroidery piece behind her back as he came out.

He blinked at her. She tucked her embroidery in the bread box and handed him a thick slab of black bread slathered with honey.

“Where’d we get the honey?”

“I have a stash.”

“What are you doing up so early?”

“I knew you’d want to get a good start on your day. Then we can go partying tonight.”
“I ain’t looking for a day-pay job,” he grumbled.
She patted his cheek. “I’m sure you’ll do fine. Anybody with any sense would want to hire a Beacon boy.”

Right. He pecked her cheek, left, returned and gazed at her.

“Do you think I’m gonna disappear while you’re gone?” she asked sassily.

“You can finish the embroidery.”

“I don’t have any red.”

“I’ll get you some with my riches.”

“If you’re going to see Mitch, tell him to come by and visit-since my own son is always too busy.”
He took a breath and didn’t answer. 

Walking the alley left him twitchy as a virgin in a whorehouse, but no Rat Packer waited for him at the mouth.

Had his Ma been acting stranger than usual? Should he stay home? Could he stand her mouth if he did? What-

Two of Kayden’s boys fell in step with him, one to either side. Now he really felt twitchy. They might not beat him, like the Rat Pack, but he sure would like their method of persuasion a lot less.
Hobe caught his elbow; tow-haired Dagger said, “Kayden wants to see you.”

“Later.”

“Now.”

Story copyright Sara Ryan 2008

All rights reserved. No portion of this chapter may be copied in any manner. Thanks.

Return to Many Ravens home page

Book Studio       Fantasy Book Studio

Home  Top of Page  Index  Say Hi  Studio  Order  FAQ's   More about Tiger