Chapter 4
Abell jingles inside the coat hung from the exposed pipe in Isi’s room. She curses in frustration. I cover my mouth to stifle a laugh. Isi rarely curses.
“It’s alright,” I soothe her, still trying to hide my smile. “You’ll get there.”
“No Vay, I won’t.” She puts her hands on her hips. “We’ve practiced nearly every day for over a year now and I still make the stupid bells ring. I’m not getting any better.” She huffs and plops down on her bed, head in her hands. She’s right. She isn’t improving at all.
Otyx doesn’t know we do this. If he ever finds out that I’m trying to take one of his best earning artifacts off the mattress and eventually out of his bordello, there’s no telling what he might do.
He could lock us both away until we wither into nothing, not seeing the irony that he’d be losing her anyway.
He could sell us to a far worse whorehouse, or he could beat us to within an inch of our lives.
It’s his volatility that makes him truly dangerous.
Otyx’s artifacts may be the best in the Rookery, the most desirable, but that doesn’t keep us safe from his impulses, or the impulses of the patrons.
I take in the angry, fresh bruise staining her bicep from the night before and press my lips together.
I shake my head furiously, my waist-length hair spilling around my shoulders.
“No. Nope.” I pop my lips on the p. “You aren’t quitting.
” I grab her hand and drag her back to the suspended coat.
“You’ve got to try to just . . . not move the bell.
” She raises an eyebrow at me. I laugh. “I know. That’s not helpful, but I don’t know how to explain it. ”
“Then why are you the one teaching me?” Isirae laughs. “Who taught you? Feron? Otyx?” She has stopped calling him master in private, thank the gods above and goddesses on earth.
“No one.” I shrug. “It’s more like an instinct for me. I mean, Otyx gave me a few pointers after that first day to help me improve on technicalities, but I just somehow know where the coin purse is and how to grab it without the mark noticing.”
“Well, then I am truly screwed,” she says.
She shakes out her hand, ready to give it another try regardless.
My heart swells for my friend. She’s a fighter.
I was right when I met her over a year ago when I assumed she didn’t like to sell herself.
Not long after I learned that fact from another artifact, I offered to help her learn to pickpocket so we could work together to hopefully gain our freedom from Otyx.
She’s been practicing nearly every day since.
She gives me hope. If she can persevere, so can I.
We hear Otyx’s boots stomping down the hall.
So long sneaking around and doing things he wouldn’t approve of has taught us the sounds of his footsteps.
I rip the coat down from the pipe and stuff it under Isi’s stained mattress.
I settle into the splintering chair in the corner, acting like Isirae and I were just in here talking.
The thundering footsteps stop outside the door; he’s clearly listening.
We both hold our breaths. We hear him grunt, followed by his footsteps moving down the hall toward the stairs. We both let out a puff of relief.
“Want to get out of here?” Isi grins at me.
“By the abysm, yes.” I jump to my feet, dancing to the door.
Isi doesn’t work during the day and has trouble sleeping like the others and I, mercifully, have the day off as Otyx is in and out of meetings all day.
He doesn’t let me pickpocket without some kind of supervision yet.
Something about skimming off the top of his profit.
He’s not wrong to be suspicious. I would absolutely take more than my pathetic allowance given the chance.
His bodyguards are always in these meetings with him, so sneaking out should be a little easier today.
We slink down the stairs to the main floor, keeping our eyes peeled for Otyx or his security.
We can’t go out the front door without having to sneak by his office or risk being caught by one of the other artifacts.
Berttom has spies all over this damn bordello.
Instead, we creep down the hallway toward the kitchen, passing the sitting room where Otyx parades his artifacts for the higher paying clientele, past the green room where Otyx parades his artifacts in front of a very specific clientele, and past the small closet where Otyx puts artifacts that are being punished.
The hearth on the other side of the brick wall in the kitchen makes it unbearably hot inside the closet, and it doesn’t take long for whoever he locks in there to faint or become so overheated they vomit, which makes being in there so much worse.
It’s Otyx’s special brand of torture. The artifacts have no-so-affectionately dubbed it the Abysm, referencing the fiery pit below our feet where Death makes his home.
“Hello ladies,” a nasal voice slurs from behind us.
We spin and come face-to-face with a very drunk, very creepy man.
He looks as though he hasn’t bathed in a year and somehow manages to smell even worse.
He’s leaning on the wall in what I assume he thinks is a flirtatious pose, but he obviously needs it to hold himself vertical.
“Where are you two lady lovelies running off to in such a rush?” His words are so slurred, I have to listen very closely to decipher what he’s saying.
Isi plasters on her most saccharine smile.
“Looking for you, handsome.” She steps up close to him, pressing her body to his.
I groan. Isi shoots me a glare over her shoulder.
“I’ll tell you what.” She reaches up and smooths out his crusty coat, looking up into his hazy, bloodshot, blue eyes.
“Why don’t you head on upstairs and wait for us?
I promise it’ll be worth your while.” She stretches up and kisses him.
I actually gag. She gently pushes his shoulder, turning him toward the stairs, then gives him a light, playful shove, giggling the way she does for patrons.
He stumbles down the hallway, a disgusting grin growing underneath his greasy beard, and disappears up the stairs.
I feel bad for whichever artifact he stumbles across up there.
Isi twirls to face me, smiling.
“Gross,” I say flatly.
“Got rid of him, didn’t it?” She holds her arms out to her sides as she dances around me, practically sprinting for the kitchen. I smirk, following her lead. This side of her is just beginning to grow legs. When I first arrived, she wouldn’t put a toe out of line for fear of Otyx’s temper.
The kitchen is mercifully empty since it’s between lunch and dinner. Meals are more of a reward here, though. We only get fed if Berttom decides we’ve worked hard enough.
Gods and goddesses, he’s a cockhead.
We head straight for the larder, slipping inside, then move a couple sacks of potatoes and a bag of flour, revealing a small door.
I imagine it was once used to pass food from the alley to the larder.
Now, it seems it’s been completely forgotten about.
Isi and I always make sure it’s hidden behind heavier sacks of food to try to prevent anyone from finding it and reporting it to Otyx.
It takes a bit of elbow grease to get it open, but soon it gives way, the hinges screaming.
I cringe at the noise; we really need to grease those.
The doorframe is so small we have to crawl through it as we free ourselves into the warm sun of late summer.
We stroll along the packed streets of the Rookery, stopping only for a quick snack of toast with candied ginger and spiced honeyed wine.
It’s the only treat we can afford with my measly take from yesterday and Isi’s insignificant salary.
We weave our way through the crowds, picking our way toward Feron’s shack, nibbling on our toast, doing our best to ignore the stench and acrid breeze.
Going to see Feron was the only bright spot during my months of starving on the streets.
He would often try to feed me, telling me I was too thin for the workouts I was putting my body through.
I rarely accepted his offer. I knew he couldn’t afford another mouth to feed, and while his herb garden flourished, any vegetables he tried to grow were always stolen while he slept.
One day, I showed up on his doorstep with Isi in tow, hoping he would teach her too.
He actually slammed the door in my face, which I took as a resounding no.
But one morning, after Isi spent the night with a particularly brutal client, I decided I wasn’t going to take no for an answer.
I pushed Feron. I pushed and pushed until he finally caved.
He seemed to momentarily forget how stubborn I am.
At first, Isi did not want to be around Feron either. His surly demeanor, unruly beard, and gruff voice made her nervous. I practically had to drag her to his lessons. Eventually though, she also gave in, and Feron began her training, albeit begrudgingly.
I knock on Feron’s front door, careful not to get a splinter. From inside, we hear a yell then a series of crashes and bangs. I smirk at Isirae, stifling a giggle. The door swings open to a very red-faced Feron.
“What?” he bellows, spit hurtling from his mouth.
“Hello to you too, Feron,” I say, patting him on the shoulder as I squeeze past him, letting myself into his home.
Feron intimidates most people. He’s a large man, and though his beard is gray, his face has a few more wrinkles, and his spine has a curve to it, he is still the single strongest person I’ve ever known.
He doesn’t scare me, though. He never has.
I think he resents me a little for it. I think he loves me for it more.