“Old Chains, you mean? Poor dear man. Let’s see…you’ll want lavender for cleanliness, and autumn bloodflower for the blessing, and sulfur roses for the Lady Most Fair?”
“Please,” said Locke, pulling out a humble leather purse that jingled with silver. “And some votives without scent. Half a dozen of all four kinds.”
Madam Strollo carefully selected the candles and wrapped them in waxed burlap. (“A gift of the house,” she muttered when Locke began to open his mouth, “and perhaps I put a few more than half a dozen of each in the packet.”) Locke tried to argue with her for form’s sake, but the old woman grew conveniently deaf for a few crucial seconds as she finished wrapping her goods.
Locke paid three solons out of his purse (taking care to let her see that there were a dozen more nestled therein), and wished Madam Strollo a full hundred years of health for herself and her children in the name of the Lord of the Overlooked as he backed away. He set the package of candles on the cart, tucking it just under the blanket beside Antrim’s glassy, staring eyes.
No sooner had he turned around to resume his place next to Galdo when a taller boy dressed in ragged, dirty clothes walked right into him, sending him tumbling onto his back.
“Oh!” said the boy, who happened to be Calo Sanza. “A thousand pardons! I’m so clumsy; here, let me help you up…”
He grabbed Locke’s outstretched hand and yanked the smaller boy back to his feet. “Twelve gods! An initiate. Forgive me, forgive me. I simply did not see you standing there.” Clucking with concern, he brushed dirt from Locke’s white robe. “Are you well?”
“I am, I am.”
“Forgive my clumsiness; I meant no insult.”
“None is taken. Thank you for helping me back up.”
With that, Calo gave a mock bow and ran off into the crowd; in just a few seconds he was lost to sight. Locke made a show of dusting himself off while he slowly counted to thirty inside his head. At thirty-one, he sat down suddenly beside the cart, put his hooded head in his hands, and began to sniffle. Just a few seconds later he was sobbing loudly. Responding to the cue, Galdo came over and knelt beside him, placing one hand on his shoulder.
“Boys,” said Ambrosine Strollo. “Boys! What’s the matter? Are you hurt? Did that oaf jar something?”
Galdo made a show of muttering into Locke’s ear; Locke muttered back, and Galdo fell backward onto his own posterior. He reached up and tugged at his hood in an excellent imitation of frustration, and his eyes were wide. “No, Madam Strollo,” he said, “it’s worse than that.”
“Worse? What do you mean? What’s the trouble?”
“The silver,” Locke burbled, looking up to let her see the tears pouring down his cheeks and the artful curl of his lips. “He took my purse. Picked my p-pocket.”
“It was payment,” said Galdo, “from this man’s widow. Not just for the candles, but for his interment, our blessings, and his funeral. We were to bring it back to Father Chains along with the-”
“-with the b-body,” Locke burst out. “I’ve failed him!”
“Twelve,” the old lady muttered. “That incredible little bastard!” Leaning out over the counter of her shop window, she hollered in a voice of surprising strength: “Thief! Stop, Thief!” As Locke buried his head in his hands once again, she turned her head upward and shouted, “Lucrezia!”
“Yes, gran’mama!” came a voice from an open window. “What’s this about a thief?”
“Rouse your brothers, child. Get them down here now and tell them to bring their sticks!” She turned to regard Locke and Galdo. “Don’t cry, my dear boys. Don’t cry. We’ll make this right somehow.”
“What’s this about a thief?” A lanky sergeant of the watch ran up, truncheon out, mustard-yellow coat flapping behind him and two other yellowjackets at his heels.
“A fine constable you are, Vidrik, to let those little coat-charmer bastards from the Cauldron sneak in and rob customers right in front of my shop!”
“What? Here? Them?” The watch-sergeant took in the distraught boys, the furious old woman, and the covered corpse; his eyebrows attempted to leap straight up off his forehead. “Ah, that…I say, that man is dead…”
“Of course he’s dead, thimblebrains; these boys are taking him to the House of Perelandro for blessings and a funeral! That little cutpurse just stole the bag with his widow’s payment for it all!”
“Someone robbed the initiates of Perelandro? The boys who help that blind priest?” A florid man with an overachieving belly and an entire squad of spare chins wobbled up, with a walking stick in one hand and a wicked-looking hatchet in the other. “Pissant ratfucker bastards! Such an infamy! In the Videnza, in broad light of day!”
“I’m sorry,” Locke sobbed. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize…I should have held it tighter, I just didn’t realize…He was so quick…”
“Nonsense, boy, it was hardly your fault,” said Madam Strollo. The watch-sergeant began blowing his whistle; the fat man with the walking stick continued to spit vitriol, and a pair of young men appeared around the corner of the Strollo house, carrying curved truncheons shod with brass. There was more rapid shouting until they determined that their grandmother was unhurt; when they discovered the reason for her summons, they too began uttering threats and curses and promises of vengeance.
“Here,” said Madam Strollo, “here, boys. The candles will be my gift. This sort of thing doesn’t happen in the Videnza. We won’t stand for it.” She set the three solons Locke had given her back atop her counter. “How much was in the purse?”
“Fifteen solons before we paid you,” said Galdo. “So twelve got stolen. Chains is going to throw us out of the order.”
“Don’t be foolish,” said Madam Strollo. She added two more coins to the pile as the crowd around her shop began to swell.
“Hells yes!” cried the fat man. “We can’t let that little devil dishonor us like this! Madam Strollo, how much are you giving? I’ll give more!”
“Gods take you, you selfish old pig, this isn’t about showing me up-”
“I’ll give you a basket of oranges,” said one of the women in the crowd, “for you and for the Eyeless Priest.”
“I have a solon I can give,” said another merchant, pressing forward with the coin in his hand.
“Vidrik!” Madam Strollo turned from her argument with her florid neighbor. “Vidrik, this is your fault! You owe these initiates some copper, at the very least.”
“My fault? Now look here-”
“No, you look here! When they speak of the Videnza now they’ll say, ‘Ah, that’s where they rob priests, isn’t it?’ For the Twelve’s sake! Just like Catchfire! Or worse!” She spat. “You give something to make amends or I’ll harp on your captain and you’ll end up rowing a shitboat until your hair turns gray and your teeth come out at the roots.”
Grimacing, the watch-sergeant stepped forward and reached for his purse, but there was already a tight press around the two boys; they were helped to their feet, and Locke received too many comforting pats on the back to count. They were plied with coins, fruit, and small gifts; one merchant tossed his more valuable coins into a coat pocket and handed over his purse. Locke and Galdo adopted convincing expressions of bewilderment and surprise. As each gift was handed over to them, they protested as best they could, for form’s sake.
6
IT WAS the fourth hour of the afternoon before the body of Antrim One-Hand was safely stashed in the damp sanctuary of the House of Perelandro. The three white-robed boys (for Calo had rejoined them safely at the edge of the Temple District) padded down the steps and took their seats beside Father Chains, who sat in his usual spot with one burly arm thrown over the rim of his copper kettle.