Sandry's Book

Roach’s current visit was his third: the guard had nabbed his entire gang of street rats in a jeweler’s shop. Most of them already had two X tattoos, which meant they got no third release from justice. All of them were thrown into the great holding cell. His moss now covered the entire corner and a good amount of floor as well. It was the most comfortable bed that he’d ever had, with room left over for the rest of his gang-mates to use it for a pillow.

As others scrambled for a share of the slop the guard called supper, Roach whispered to his moss. “I won’t be back,” he explained. “Third time’s cursed. I’ll get the mines, or galleys, or shipyards. ‘Less I break out, it’s for life.” He smiled faintly. Life was a short thing now. No one lived more than two years in those places, and escapes were rare.

For all that, he slept well. When he woke, it was Judging Day in Hajra.

“Weevil,” brayed a guard at the door. Roach’s gang-mates sat up. “Dancer. Alleycat. Viper. Slug.”

Roach hissed angrily. It was Slug that got them all in this fix, watching them steal instead of looking out for street guards. “Cheater. Turtle. Roach.”

Roach hesitated. Should he make them come get him?

A guard cracked a whip, looking at him. Roach decided to avoid the beating he’d get if the man had to drag him. With two X’s on his hands, he’d receive plenty of beatings in the future as it was. “Thank you,” he told the moss, and joined the rest of his gang.

They were quick-marched past other cells, then up a long flight of stairs. On the level floors, the guard began to trot, urging the captives along with their whips. Roach was gasping when they were driven into a huge, echoing chamber.

A woman in the gray robes of a magistrate sat behind a long table. People in street clothes stood in back of her. Clerks sat on each end of the table, scribbling as guards and civilians testified against criminals. Roach ignored the testimony that concerned his gang. These grand folk had already judged him, so why listen to their cackle?

When the testimony was done, a clerk called out, “Weevil.” The gang leader was shoved in front of the judge.

“Hands,” he ordered. The guards slammed Weevil’s hands down on the table, holding them so the X-shaped tattoos were visible. Like Roach, Weevil had two of them.

“Mines,” the judge said. A guard shoved Weevil into a wooden holding pen at the rear of the chamber.

Roach shut out the rest as the law officers worked their way through the gang. Instead he thought of those plants in the cell, how peacefully green the moss showed when even a tiny bit of sun touched it. Give him a green like that from a living plant over the light that danced in emeralds. That was hard color; the moss-glow was soft. The plant didn’t seem to need much earth to grow in, though it liked water. He’d given it part of his water ration when no one was looking. He didn’t mind being good to growing things, but he did object when others made fun of him for doing it.

Twin pairs of rough hands picked him up, then dropped him in front of the magistrate’s table, jarring his ankles. He growled and fought as the guards dragged his hands out in front of him. He knew it was useless, but he didn’t care—they’d remember him, at least!

The judge didn’t look at his face, only his hands. “Docks,” she said, and yawned.

They were dragging Roach to a separate pen from the one that held Weevil and Viper when a light male voice said, “A moment.”

It was not a request, but a command. The guards looked back. Roach did not.

“May I see the boy again?” the man inquired.

“Bring him.” The judge sounded bored.

Roach was hauled back to stand in front of a civilian. This was no lawyer or soldier. His long, loose over-robe was a deep blue, dyed cloth that cost a silver penny the yard on Draper’s Lane. It was worn open over loose gray breeches, a pale gray shirt, and good boots. He carried only a dagger; it hung next to the purse on his belt.

This was a Money-Bag, then, or an officer. Somebody big, for certain. Somebody who wore power like a cloak.

The Bag whispered to the judge, who made a face. He held something before her eyes, a letter with a beribboned seal on it. The judge glared at Roach, but nodded, and the Bag stepped away from her. “Their Majesties are inclined to mercy, as you are but a youth.” The judge rattled it off fast, a speech learned by heart. “You have a choice—the docks, or exile from Sotat and service at the—” She faltered.

The Bag bent down to whisper, long, gray-streaked black hair tumbling forward to hide his face. Roach wondered if he was looking for a cute little servant boy, and grinned. Men who liked play-toys always regretted meeting him.

The man straightened and looked around until his dark eyes caught and held Roach’s gray-green ones. There was something in that black gaze, something that had nothing to do with human play-toys. Roach’s sense of power held in check grew threefold when he met those eyes. They warned—and comforted—at the same time.

Roach looked down.

“You have a choice of the docks, or apprenticeship to the Winding Circle Temple in Emelan,” the judge went on, “until you take formal vows at the temple, or until its governing council rules that you are fit to enter society. Temple or docks, boy. Choose.”

Choose? There were guards on the docks, nasty, wary fellows. What temple could hang onto a smart rat like him? Better yet, Emelan was far to the north of Sotat, fresh territory where no one knew who he was. “Temple,” he replied.