No one had ever told Skate about the semi-mystical status of being able to understand the written word; no one had ever sat her down and pointed out that it was something the powerful and the wise could do, and that it helped them to stay powerful and wise. It was an obvious fact to anyone who bothered to look at the world. The children of the Ink were all aware of literacy’s elevating force; those who could read were above, while everyone else was below.
Once he had cleaned his hands to his satisfaction, Haman placed the papers into a tray on the far end of the desk. “Now, then. You were working on the old man in Old Town, yes?” Not waiting for a response, he pulled a blank sheet of parchment paper toward him. “Let’s begin, then,” he said, dipping his quill into the inkwell.
“Haman, wait,” Skate said, not wanting him to get too far before knowing what had happened.
He raised his head slightly. The angle made his forehead look enormous. “Yes?”
“We didn’t st-steal anything,” Twitch explained. His voice squeaked a bit at the end; whether this was from nerves or part of the change that boys went through with age, Skate didn’t know. Maybe it was both.
“I see.” Haman replaced the quill in its holder after tapping the excess ink back into the well. The paper had only a few indecipherable marks at the top. “Why is that?”
Skate tried to read his hawk-like face; he was more curious than angry. Haman had always been a thoughtful man, not prone to outbursts or rash actions. It must have had something to do with the magic he had studied, she decided. Haman was a noteworthy wizard whose skills made him indispensable to Boss Marshall. Word was that he was not only a passable lock-picker in the traditional sense, but that he also had magic to unlock doors, chests, and windows without even touching them. It was his magic and dutiful attention to detail that had made him Boss Marshall’s number two, and he had managed to hold that position despite numerous thieves vying for it.
“We were p-planning to—”
“I’m aware of the plan; the Boss’s notes were, as always, quite clear. The question at hand is why you didn’t steal anything.”
“Right,” Skate jumped in, seeing Twitch jerk in his seat as he valiantly tried to respond. “That’s me, Haman. I got in and had a few things gathered, but the owner walked in on me.” She relayed the rest of the story, embellishing only the accident of his wounds; she wanted to seem dangerous, so in her retelling she made it deliberate. She also omitted the bargain she’d made for housing.
Haman seemed interested that the old man had a command of magic, and he became even more so when Skate explained that he had not fallen into a heap upon being stabbed. When she finished the story, Haman rubbed his temples.
“Why did you not leave during the night?” he asked.
“He didn’t want me to. He would have prevented it.”
“Hmm. And what occurred when you did finally stir from sleep?”
“I…” She paused and looked to Twitch, but Twitch was transparently trying to avoid eye contact. She plowed ahead anyway. “I agreed to steal books for him in exchange for room and board.”
The proclamation sat heavily in the room. For what felt like minutes, no one said a word. Twitch coughed. Haman leaned forward, looking even more like some sleek and dangerous bird of prey in a nest of paperwork. He pierced Skate with his gaze and asked, “You took a bargain for stealing without checking with either your Boss or his lieutenant?” When she nodded, he settled back into his seat, leaned on the arm of the chair, and rested his palm on the side of his face. “Why?” he asked, in a tone that suggested she had taken leave of her senses. “You could be blacklisted for this, or killed outright. It is bad enough to show back up empty-handed, but that’s just a mistake—jobs go bad sometimes, of course, but—”
“Haman, I ain’t gonna steal any books for him. It’s a con, a way for me to get inside and keep track of all of his stuff so I can pick the best before leaving.”
Haman’s eyes narrowed, and he pursed his lips slightly. “Did he see your mark?”
“No,” she said instantly, though she couldn’t be sure; she had flailed about enough that the old man could have seen the gang’s tattoo between her shoulder blades. Apparently, her answer had been too quick. Under the wizard’s gaze, she backtracked. “I don’t think so.”
“If he did, then he may now be under the impression that he has hired the Ink for an official, contracted job. If he didn’t, then he’s not to know whom you’re associated with. It’s quite possible the man doesn’t even know of the existence of our organization. Probable, even.” Haman was drumming on the other arm of his chair with his fingers. “This might end up working. If he doesn’t know who you are, then he’s still a target instead of a client. We need clarification on this before we decide what to do with you—with both of you,” he added with a glance at Twitch, “regarding your decision to hire out without the Boss’s approval.
“The Boss will have to make that call when he gets back, but I have to tell you: he doesn’t like it when you house-runners take up clients for yourselves without getting his approval first. You can see why,” he said, nodding to the wall behind the kids. The familiar map was there, to the right of the door. It was the entire city, with each district clearly defined and labeled. Different color pins were tacked in at different points: green pins for safe houses, yellow pins for guard towers, and red pins for protected clients. “Don’t write where you eat” was another of the Ink’s mottos. It was forbidden to steal from someone who either had an open contract with the Ink or was paying monthly dues to the organization for protection. There were many red pins in the map, particularly in the docks district where they were now hiding.
“You steal from the wrong person,” Haman went on, “and the Ink’s broken a contract. Clients with broken contracts don’t like to come to us for business and might get the idea that they can go ahead and rat us out to the Guard. Unhappy clients are bad news. Disorder is bad news.”
Haman stood up and replaced his spectacles on his nose, running a hand through his straight black hair and sighing. “You’ve got to figure out what the man knows, Skate. Twitch, you’re on thin ice for failing to get anything out of this last mark. I need ten helms by the end of the week,” he said, referring to the square silver coins that bore the image of Old King Rajian’s war helmet, “or we’ll have to have a very unpleasant conversation about your continued employment and safety. Well, either we will, or you and the Boss will. Understood?” At Twitch’s emphatic nodding, Haman dismissed the boy with, “Better get to work then. Not you,” he added, putting a hand out to stop Skate from leaving. “Close the door on your way out, Twitch.”
The boy looked with discomfort at Skate but did as he was told. When the door clicked shut, Haman leaned forward across the desk. “You need to be careful. Those of us who practice the art of magic are not known to be particularly easy to trick or steal from. I’m not even sure what kind of magic he could have employed to prevent the blade you used from hurting him. Did his skin look strange?”
Skate shook her head. “No different than anyone else’s. Wrinkly, I guess, and he had some spots on him, but all old people get those things.”